The Living age ... / Volume 81, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 626 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0081 /moa/livn/livn0081/

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The Living age ... / Volume 81, Note on Digital Production 0081 000
The Living age ... / Volume 81, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 35 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 626 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0081 /moa/livn/livn0081/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 35 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. Apr 2, 1864 0081 035
The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 35, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

IL IT TE I IS, LIVING CONDUCTED BY B. AGE. LITTELL. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preser ed, and the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of chau~e And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. THIRD SERIES, VOLUME XXV. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL LXXXI. APRIL, MAY, JUNE, 1864. BOSTON: LITTELL, SON, AND COMPANY. R. Wheeler, Stereotyper, 13 Washington St. Press of Geo. C. Rand & Avery. E PLUaSEUS UNuM. A? I 139* Id ~ O4~ ~ 0 TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LJVLNG AGE, VOLUME THE TWENTY-FIFTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE ThIRD SERLI~5. APRIL, MAY, JUNE, 1864. LXXXI. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Diaries of a Lady of Quality, Pompeii, 339 387 QUARTERLY REVIEW. NORTH BRITISH REViEW. Thackeray Kilmahoe, a Highland Pastoral, Charles the Bold, NATIONAL REVIEW. CHRISTIAN REMEMBRANCER. Hawthorne on England and the English) LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW. Life and Times of St. Bernard, BLACKWOoDs MAGAZINE. Tony Butler, . Perpetual Curate, 291 435 99 SPECTATOR. Reconstruction of Society in Louisiana, The [louse of Lords, Louis Napoleon and the Papa y, Rouge and Pearl Powder, The Prince and the Fashions, The French in Egypt, The Wire King,~ Mexico, Ancient and Modern, New Drift of English Opinion, The Horizon, . Napoleon and the next Pope, Hamilton and Jefferson, EXAMINER. WinLer Weavings, 195, 243 ECONOMIST. Continental Misunderstandings of England, 116, 317 213, 651 FRAZERS MAGAZINE. Jem Nash, the Dull Boy, 51 VICTORIA MAGAZINE. Lindisfarn Chase, 60, 153, 258, 360, 409, 454 486, 534, 588 Invitation to Rome 238 The Sensation of being a Beauty, . 531 NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. Bonnie Prince Charlie, Lyrists, DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. ECLECTIC REVIEW. Problems in Human Nature, MAcMm~Ns MAGAZINE. A Son of the Soil, Letters from Coleridge to Goodwin, England and the American Union, State Vault of Christ Church, 131 583 170 178, 503 275 483 525 SATUR1AY REVIEW. Professors Foreign Policy of England, America, Den mark,. . . Professional Enthusiasm, Remorse Elizqbeth and Leicester, Madeleine Graham Songs of the Moors and of the Mills, Rock-Cut Temples of India, Dr. Newman and Mr. Kingsley, Jeames in Excelsis Jilting, Nobility Clever Children, . Intellectual Playfulness, READER. Festival of Gallileo, Negro-Anatomy, by Prof. Huxley, LONDON REVIEW (WEEKLY) Christianity in Modern Poetry, Literary Women, . THE PRESS. Lawrence Stern, 38 84 229 230 233 426 428 .4Th) 572 I.,- d~~) 613 611 49 44 89 84 85 147 377 379 475 SB 609 92 92 473 699 430 [III] Iv ALL ThE YEAR ROUND. A Mocking-Bird in London,. PuNcH. The Welcomes of Garibaldi, BOSTON TaLANSCRIPT. To Loyal Ladies CONTENTS. NEW YORK EVENING Post 235 New Jersey and the Right of Transit, Death of Mrs. Kirkland, Devotional Poetry of Dr. Watts, The Currency and the Secretary, 1401 142 237 286 335 INDEX TO V OLUME LXXXI. Bridal Banquet in the Fifteenth Century, Bunyan John, Book by, Bernard, St -, Bryant, W. C., on Dr. Watts, Beauty, A., Sensation of being, CorrespondenceBurial of Colored People, Gold and Mr. Chase, Currency and Loans, Bank-Notes and Greenbacks, Coleridge to Godwin, Letters, Charles the Bold, . Christianity in Modern Poetry, Clever Children, Dull Boy, The Diaries of a Lady of Quality, England, Foreign Policy of,. Elizabeth and Leicester, Englands Interest in America, English Opinion, New Drift of; England Misunderstood, French in Egypt Galileo, Festival of Godwin and Coleridge, Garibaldi, Welcomes of, Hawthorne on England and the English, Horizon, The Hamilton and Jefferson, India, Rock-Cut Temples of, Jeames in Excelsis Jilting, Kingsley, Mr.. and Dr. Newman, Kirkland, Mrs. Kilmahoe, a Highland Pastoral, Louisiana, Reconstruction of Society in, Lindisfarn Chase, 60, 153, 258, 299, 360, 409 454, 486, 534, 588 Lords, the House of 84 42 Loyal People 43 Loyal Ladies of the Land, 243 Loyal Women, Response to the Appeal, 286 Literary Intelligence, 531 Lyrists Literary Women, . 193 194 Microscope, Revelations of the, 335 Madeleine Graham 338 Moors and Mills, Songs of the, 275 Mocking-Bird in London, . 435 Mexico, Ancient and Modern, 473 ~ Negro, Professor Huxley on the, Newman, Dr., and Mr. Kingsley, ~ Napoleon, Louis, and the Papacy, ~ Nobility 40 Professors, . Professional Enthusiasm, 483 Pretender, The Young, 527 Problems in Human Nature, Perpetual Curate, . Papacy and Louis Napoleon, 426 Prince and the Fashions, Pompeii 92 Playfulness, Intellectual, 275 Remorse Rock-Cut Temples of India, 572 Rouge and Pearl Powder, 613 Rome, Invitation to, and Reply, 89 State Righta and New Jersey, Scientific and Literary Notices, Son of the Soil ~ Sterne, Lawrence, 147 Thackeray 237 Tony Butler, . 291 Vault of Christ Church, . 38 Watts, Dr., his Devotional Poetry, Wire-King, Winter Weavings, . . [v] 98 140 141 211 583 609 43 84 85 235 470 94 147 229, 575 475 35 44 1~1 170 213, 551 229, 575 233 ~87 606 77 89 230 238 142 144 178, 508 430 3 116, 317 525 286 428 611 vi INDEX. SHORT ARTICLES. Aikin, Lucy, Death of, 93 Iron in Agriculture 582 Acting, Effects of, 815 Ararat, Mount, 605 Japanese Envoys Diary 32 Australin, Flora of 605 Lamb, Charles, Unpublished Letter of, 130 Brownings New Poems, 91 Brandy, Origin of 274 Mississippi, Discoverer of, 169 Banting on Corpulency, 287 Mutual Friend 169 Brine, Utilization of, 431 Miracle Plays 232 Bees Work in the Dark, 501 Money and Manners 587 Mud fish of Ceylon 616 Comic Journalism, American, 130 Coal Strata, and Internal Heat, 192 Name of Jesus, and other Verses for the Cellar, Out of Door, 232 Lonely, , 93 Coliseum at Rome 287 Nonsense, Book of 334 Corpulency, 287 Clothing, Proper, 315 Our Atmosphere and the Ether of Space, 612 Clock, Astronomical 382 Campanology 524 Proctor, Adelaide, Death of, 93 Clocks, Electric, 549 Plutology 114 Cavities in Precious Stones, 582 Praed, Poems of, 382 Photographs Spurious DutifiA Son, Diary of, 169 Pompeii, Morning at 478 Doctors and Patients 339 Dangerously Well 612 Quinine and its Substitutes, 288 Egg a Miniature Universe, . . . 517 Rome, Disorder of 74 Exercise, Out of Door, . . . 524 Rome, Two Months in, . . . 591 Freedman, Condition of the, . . 143 Stone, Artificial, 382 Frog, He would a-wooing go, . . 211 Singing, Fashionable 453 Sugar-Cane Antiseptic, 472 Greenhows, Mrs., Imprisonment at Washing- ton, 83 Voltaire, Tomb of, 517 Gospel in Ezekiel, . . . . 91 POETRY Arkansas Gentleman, The Fine, 76 4iturnn Nights 432 Affliction 434 Artists Angel 482 Blind Eye, The 88 Blank Paper 146 Boy and the Ring 212 Beginning to Walk 288 Brook and Life, 290 Birds, What they said, 338 Babys Grave, 432 Compensation 212 Church, In, 316 Crowd, One in the 434 Christian Martyr, Moriens Cano, . 550 Disappointment, 288 Dandelot, Bridal of 290 Emigrants, The, 242 Emperors Return 502 Fontaineblean 177 1 Faith, Hope, and Charity, . . . 240 Faith Militant 242 Forsaken 316 GaribaldiTennyson, 338 Welcomes of, 359 To 530 Going Alone, 386 Grandmother~s Snuff 479 How are You, Sanitary? 115 Hereafter 384 Invitation, 288 Infant, To an 4 King, Thos. Starr 2 King Canute 26 Knights Tomb, The 577 Lowest Room, Sit down in the, 47 L.E.L Longest and Shortest 288 Lighthouse Keepers Child, 338 Lines, 577 Men Wanted 2 INDEX. Muff, An Old, . . . . 386 Mist on the Moor, . . . . 408 Nameless Monument, The, . . . 88 Picket Duty, 50 Parliamentary Fire-Works, 152 Paul Jones 383 Return, A Sentinel on Morris Island, . . . 2 Seed Growing Secretly, . . . 48 Sure Estate, The, . . . . 50 Serious Fighting or none, . . . 96 VII Sand-Hills 146 Star and Child, . 146 Sonnets, Three, by Mrs. Butler, 240 Sonnet on Slander 482 Sonnets on Prayer 482 Showers, between, 550 Sketch, A 550 Thourt down, poor heart, 115 Thaw to Frost 530 To-day is a King in Disguise,. . 577 Waiting for the Spring, 9*1 War 115 Wind.Musio and the Child, . . . 577 TALES. Jem Nash, the Dull Boy, . . . 51 Son of the Soil, 178, 503 Lindisfarn Chuse, 60, 153, 258, 299, 860, 409 Tony Butler 116, 317 454, 486, 534, 588 Perpetual Curate, . . . 213, 551

The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 35 1-48

THE LIVING AGE?. No. 1O3~I.2 April, 1864. 00 N TENTS. PAGL 1. Thackei~ay, . . . . . . . North British Review, 3 35 2. Professors, . . . . . . . Saturday Review, 38 3. Reconstruction of Society in Louisiana, . . Spectator, 4. Foreign Policy of England.America, Denmark, Saturday Review, 40 5. A Bridal Banquet in the Fifteenth Century, . Kirks Charles the Bold, 42 6. Revelations of the Microscope, . . . . 43 43 7. Book by John Bunyan, . 8. Professional Enthusiasm. . . . . . & turday Review, 44 PoEvaY.The Sentinel on Moiris Island, 2. Men Wanted, 2. Thomas Starr King, S. Sit Down in the Lowest Room, 46. Seed Growing Secretly, 48. ShORT AarIcLEs.Democratio Convention, 43. The article on Mr. Thackeray is now said not to be by Dr. Brown. With the next number we begin the Story, Lindisfarn Chase, which will be eagerly wel~ comed. It will probably be continued without intermission through this Volume. NEW BII~OKS. THE REBELLION REcORD: A Diary of American Events, 186064. Edited by Frank M7oor~ author of Diary of the American Revolution. New York: G. P. Putnam. Part 41 contains portraits of General James E. Blunt, and Corn. John Rodgers. BIunINo.Immediately after each Volume of The Living Age is completed, we bind a number of copies, to be exchanged at once for the Nos. if in good order; price of binding, sixty-five eeRIE a volume. Where the Nos. are not in good order, we will have them bound as soon as we can. NEW-YEARS PREsENTS TO CLEaovleEu.Our text will be found on the front of several of the late Nos.; but we now ask our readers to apply it to a single class of persons. While the price of every article of food or clothing, and of all the necessaries of life (excepting The Living Ag~4, has been increased, little or nothing has been done to raise proportionally the salaries of clergymen. They are obligedto lessen their comforts, in order to meet this pressure. Reader, if you wish to refresh the mind and the heart of the man who ministers to you in holy things, present him with mental food once a week, and do not give him The Living Age if thei~ be any other work that will do him more good. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & 00., 30 BROMFIELD STREET, BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, renutted dereetly to the Publishers, the LIvING AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series~ in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volume handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes~ and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANY VOLUME may be bad separately, at two dolls~s, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANT NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to com- plete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. THE SENTINEL ON MORRIS ISLAND. MEN WANTED! THE SENTINEL ON MORRIS ISLAND. MEN for to-days hard toil and battle! Knights were well in the feudal days ; Kings, when the people were dumb as cattle ; Priests, when a lie was a means of grace ; Dancing-masters, when morals were manners ; Schemers in ink, when the sword was a pen But now, when God lifts up his banners, And war clangs fierce,send us men! send us men! 0 contemptible tailors dummy, Dupe and noddle and snob and quack, Stale old fossil and breathing mummy, Politician and party hack, Fool of fashion and tool of barter, Living to cheat and be cheated again, Drawler of cant and counterfeit martyr, Out and begone with you! send us some men! Send us men for the desk and the altar, Men who are fearless of councils and bans, Never with righteousness daring to palter, Orthodox, rather in Gods sight than mans; Men who assump no clerical mastership, Being mens ser vants and Gods honest freemen, Knowing that lordship agrees not with pastorship, Men whose first study is always to be men. WITH measured tread along his lonely boat, At twilight, dawn, or in the darksome night, Or when at noon the sun, with growing heat, Lets fall his dazzling light The watchful sentinel, up and down the shore, Paces with weary feet the yielding sand, While the salt waves, with deep and sullen roar, Shout hoarsely to the land. At dawn he sees the glittring morning star Set like a jewel in the roseate sky; And glimmering to the sight, within the bar, The fleet at anchor lie. lie sees the city, distant, dull, and gray, Its quaint old roofs and slender, tapering spires, When darkly painted at the close of day Against the sunsets fires. At might he sees the heavens all spangled oer With shining gems that like bright watch-fires burn; And though far off, and on a hostile shore, His thoughts to home will turn. Or, maybe, in the pitiless, cold storm, While moans the wind like some poor soul in pain, With drooping head and weary, bended form He braves the pelting rain, And in his mind there dwelis a picture fair A cottage-room with walls like purest snow And round the hearthstone friendly faces there Shine in the fires warm glow. An aged man, with locks all silver white; An aged dame, hisahelpmate she through life And still a third, with mild eyes beaming bright, Perhaps the soldiers wife: And rosy children climb upon her knee With smiling face looks on the aged dame They, laughing, clap their little hands in glee, And sweetly lisp his name. Now from the frowning batteries bristling side Peals forth the murderous cannons awful roar, Waking the answering eehoes, far and wide, From shore to farthest shore. So fades the picture ; each loved form is fled That waking vision beautiful yet brief; And up the beach, with solid, steady tread Comes on the brave Relief. Then on his bed, while falls tho chilly rain And other sentinels their vigils keep, Sweet thoughts of home go flitting through his brain, And fill his dreamful sleep. Harpers Weekly. Send us men for the public statious, Leal and honest and brave and wise~ Thoughtful beyond their pay and their rations; Paricying never with traitors and spies Men whose works and promises tally Men who build upon principles grand Learning of Christ, not of Macchiavelli, What to enact, and how to command. Send us men for the private places, Tradesmen and craftsmen and tillers of sod, Men with sympathies large as the race is, Loyal to fatherland, freedom, and God; Loyal in spite of high taxes and prices Lavishing life, kindred, fortune,all these, Rather than sell, in humanitys crisis, Libertys birthribht for pottage and peace !. W. G. Morrisania, Feb. 29, 1864. Tribune. THOMAS STARR KING. av JOHN 0. WHITTIEE. THE great work laid upon his twoscore years Is done, and well done. If we drop our tears Who loved him as few men were ever loved, We mourn no blighted hope nor broken plan With him whose life stands rounded and approved In the full growth and stature of a man. Mingle, 0 bells, along the western slope, With your deep toll a sound of fLith and hope Wave cheerily still, 0 banner, half-way down, From thousand-masted bay and steepled town! Let the strong organ with its loftiest swell Lift the proud sorrow of the land, and tell That the brave sower saw his ripened grain. 0 East and West, 0 morn and sunset, twain No more forever !has he lived in vain Who, priest of Freedom, made ye one, and told Your bridal service from his lips of gold? Independent. 2 T H A C KE 11 A Y. From The North British Review. THACKERAY. THAT Mr. Thackeray was born in India in 1811; that he was educated at Charter House and Cambridge; that he left the university after a few terms residence without a degree; that he devoted himself at first to art; that in pursuit thereof he lived much abroad for study, for sport, for society; that about the age of twenty-five, married, without for- tune, without a profession, he began the ca- reer which has made him an English classic; that he pursued that career steadily till his death,all this has, within the last few weeks, been told again and again. It is a common saying that the lives of men of letters are uneventful. In an obvious sense this is true. They are seldom called on to take part in events which move the world, in politics, in the conflicts of nations; while the exciting incidents of sensation novels are as rare in their lives as in the lives of other men. But men of letters are in no way exempt from the changes and chances of fortune; and the story of these, and of the effects which came from them, must possess an interest for all. Prosperity succeeded by cruel reverses; hap- piness, and the long prospect of it, suddenly clouded; a hard fight, with aims as yet un- certain, and powers unknown; success bravely won; the austerer victory of failure manfully borne,these things make a life truly event- ful, and make the story of that life full of interest and instruction. They will all fall to be narrated when Mr. Thackerays life shall be written; we have only now to do with them so far as they illustrate his literary career, of which we propose to lay before our readers an account as complete as is in our power, and as impartial as our warm admira- tion for the great writer we have lost will allow. Many readers know Mr. Thackeray only as the Thackeray of Vanity Fair, Penden- nis, The Neweomes, and The Virgin- ians, the quadrilateral of his fame, as they were called by the writer of an able and kindly notice in the Illustrated News. The four vol- umes of Miscellanies published in 1857, though his reputation had been then estab- lished, are less known than they should be. But Mr. Thackeray wrote much which does riot appear even in the Miscellanies; and some account of his early labors may not be s~nacceptable to our readers. His first attempt was ambitious. lie be- came connected, as editor, and also, we sus- pect, in some measure, as proprietor, with a weekly literary journal, the fortunes of which were not prosperous. We believe the jour- nal to have been one which bore the imposing title of The National Standard and Journal of Literature, Science, Music, Theatricals, and the Fine Arts. Thackerays editorial reign began about the 19th number, after which he seems to have done a good deal of work ,reviews, letters, criticisms, and verses. As the National Standard is now hardly to be met with out of the British Museum, we give a few specimens of these first efforts. There is a mock sonnet by W. Wordsworth, illus- trative of a drawing, of Braham in stage nau- tical costume, standing by a theatrical sea- shore; in the background an Israelite, with the clothes-bag and triple hat of his ancient race; and in the sky, constellation-wise, appears a Jews-harp, with a chaplet of bays round it. The sonnet runs Say not that Judahs harp bath lost its tone, Or that no bard bath found it where it hung Broken and lonely, voiceless and unstrung, Beside the sluggish streams of Babylon: Slowman * repeats the strain his fathers sung, And Judabs burning lyre is Brabams own! Behold him here Here view the wondrous man, Majestical and lonely, as when first In music on a wondering world be burst, And charmed the ravished ears of Sovreiga Anne.f Mark well the form, 0 reader! nor deride The sacred symbol,---Jews harp glorified, Which, circled with a blooming wreath, is seen, Of verdant bays; and thus are typified The pleasant music, and the baize of green, Whence issues out at eve Braham with front se- rene. We have here the germ of a style in which Thackeray became famous, though the humor of attributing this nonsense to Wordsworth, and of making Braham coeval with Queen Anne, is not now very plain. There is a yet more characteristic touch in a review of Montgomerys Woman the Angel of Life, winding up with a quotation of some dozen lines, the order of which he says has been ~ It is needless to speak of the eminent vocalist and improvisatore. He nightly delights a numer~ous and respectable audience at the Cider Cellar and while on this subject, I cannot refrain from mention- ing the kindness of Mr. Evans, the worthy propri- etor of that establishment. N.B.A table d/zete every Friday.W. Wordsworth. ~ Mr. Braham made his first appearance in England in the reign of Queen Anne.W.W. THACKERAY. reversed by the printer, but as they read quite as well the one way as the other, he does not think it worth while to correct the mistake! A comical tale, called the Devils Wager, afterward reprinted in the Paris Sketch-Book, also appeared in the National Standard, with a capital wood-cut, represent- ing the devil as sailing through the air, drag- ging after him the fat Sir Roger de Rollo by means of his tail, which is wound round Sir Rogers neck. The idea of this tale is char- aeteristic. The venerable knight, already in the other world, has made a foolish bet with the devil involving very seriously his future prospects there, which he can only win by pers~ading some of his relatives on earth to say an ave for him. He fails to obtain this slight boon from a kinsman successor for ob- vious reasons; and from a beloved niece, owing to a musical lover whose serenading quite puts a stop to her devotional exercises; and succeeds at last, only when, giving up all hope compassion or generosity, he appeals by & pious fraud to the selfishness of a brother and a monk. The story ends with t very Thackerean touch: The moral of this story will be given in several successive numbers; the last three words are in the Sketch-Book changed into the second edition. Perhaps best of all is a portrait of Louis Philippe, presenting the Citizen King under the Robert Macaire aspect, the adoption and popularity of which Thackeray so carefully explains and illustrates in his essay on Car- icatures and Lithography in Paris. Below the portrait are these lines, not themselves very remarkable, but in which, especially in th0 allusion to snobs by the destined enemy of the race, we catch glitapses of the fu- ture Like the king in the parlor hesiumhling his money, Like the queen in the kitchen his speech is all honey, Except when he talks it, like Emperor Nap, Of his wonderful feats at Fleurus and Jemappe; But alas! all his zeal for the multitudes gone, And of no numbers thinking except Number One! No huzzas greet his coming, no patriot club licks The hand of the best of created republics: He stands in Paris, as you see him before ye, Little more than a snob. Thats an end of the story. The journal seems to have been an attempt tcibstitute vigorous and honest criticism of books and of art for the partiality and slip- s1op general then, and now not perhaps quite unknown. It failed, however, partly, it may be, from the inexperience of its m& nagers, but doubtless still more from the want of the capital necessary to establish anything of the sort in the face of similar journals of old stand- ing. People get into a habit of taking cer- tain periodicals unconsciously, as they take snuff. The National Standard, etc., etc., came into existence on the 5th January, 1833, and ceased to be on the 1st February, 1834. His subsequent writings contain several al- lusions to this misadventure; from some of which we would infer that the break-down of the journal was attended with circumstances more unpleasant than mere literary failure. Mr. Adolphus Simcoe * (Punch, vol. iii.), when in a bad way from a love of literature and drink, completed his ruin by purchasing and conducting for six months that celebrated miscellany called the Ladys Lute, after which time its chords were rudely snapped asunder, and he who had swept them aside with such joy went forth a wretched and heart-broken man. And in Lovel the Widower, Mr. Batchelor narrates similar experiences I dare say I gave myself airs as editor of that confounded Museum, and proposed to educate the public taste, to diffuse morality and sound literature throughout the nation, and to pocket a liberal salary in return for my services. I dare say I printed my own sonnets, my own tragedy, my own verses (to a being who shall be nameless, but whose conduct has caused a faithful heart to bleed not a little). I dare say I wrote satirical ar- ticles in which I piqued myself on the fine- ness of my wit and criticisms, got up for the nonce, out of encyclop~dias and biographical dictionaries; so that Iwould be actually as- tonished at my own knowledge. I dare say I made a gaby of myself to the world; pray, my good friend, hast thou never done likewise? If thou hast never been a fool, be sure thou wilt never be a wise man Silence for a while seems to have followed upon this failure; but in 1836 his first at- tempt at independent authorship appeared The porfrait of Mr. Adoiphus, stretched out, careless diffused,seedy, hungry, and diabolical, in his fashionable cheap hat, his dirty white duck trousers strapped tightly down, as being the mode, and possibly to conceal his bare legs; a half- smoked, probably unsmokably bad cigar in his hand, which is lying over the arm of a tavern bench, from whence he is casting a greedy and ruf- fian eye upon some unseen fellows, sapping plente- ously and with cheer,is, for powes~ and drawing, not unworthy of Hogarth. THACK~RAY. simultaneously at London and Paris. This publication, at a time when he still hoped to make his bread by art, is, like indeed every- thing he either said or did, so characteristic, and has been so utterly forgotten, that an ac- count of it may not be out of place, perhaps more minute than its absolute merits deserve. It is a small folio, with six lithographs, slightly tinted, entitled F/ore et Zephyr, Ba/- let Mytiwloqique dedie sipar Thdophile Wag- staffe. Between & ~ and par on the cover is the exquisite F/ore herself, all alone in some rosy and bedizened bower. She has the old jaded smirk, and, with eyebrows up and eyelids dropped, she is looking down op- pressed with modesty and glory. Her nose, which is long, and has a ripe droop, gives to the semicircular smirk of the large mouth, down upon the centre of which it comes in the funniest way, an indescribably sentimental absurdity. Her thin, sinewy arms and large hands are crossed on her breast, and her pet- ticoat stands out like an inverted white tulip of muslinout of which come her profes- sional legs, in the only position which human nature nevcz puts its legs into; it is her spe- cial pose. Of course, also, you are aware, by that smirk, that look of being l~xked at, that, though alone in maiden meditation in this her bower, and sighing for her Zephyr, she is in front of some thousand pairs of eyes, and under the fire of many double-barrelled lorgnettes, of which she is the focus. In the first plate, La Dansefait ses offran- des sur lautel de lharrnonie, in the shapes of Flore and Zephyr coming trippingly to the footligbts~and paying no manner of regard to the altar of harmony, represented by a fiddle with an old and dreary face,~ and a laurel wreath on its head, and very great regard to the unseen but perfectly understood house. Next is Triste et ahattu, ics sJductions des Nymphes le (Zephyr) tentent en vain, Zephyr looking theatrically sad. Then F/ore (with one lower extremity at more than a right angle to the other) d6plore lahsence de Zephyr. The man in the orchestra endea~oring to com- bine business with pleasure, so as to play the flageolet and read his score, and at the same time miss nothing of the deploring, is in- tensely comic. Next Zephyr has his turn, and dans un pas seul dcrprime sa supr~rne dd- sespoirthe extremity of despair being ek- pressed hy doubling one leg so as to touch the knee of the other, and then whirling round 5 so as to suggest the regulator of a steam engine run off. Next is the rapturous reconciliation, when the fiuithful creature bounds into his arms, and is held up to the bouse by the waist in the wonted fashion. Then there is La Retraite de F/ore, where we find her with her mother and two admirers, Zephyr, of course, not one. This is in Thackerays strong, ilinflinching line. One lover is a young dandy without forehead or chin, sitting idiotically astride his chair. To him the old lady, who has her slight rouge, too, and is in a homely shawl and muff, hav- ing walked, is making faded love. In the centre is the fair darling herself, still on tip- toe, and wrapped up, but not too much, f~r her fiacre. With hi~ back to the comfort- able fire, and staring wickedly at her, is the other lover, a big, burly, elderly man, j~irob- ably well to do on the Boursc, and with a wife and family at home in their beds. The last exhibits Les delassements de Zephyr. That hard-wdrking and homely personage is resting his arm on the chimney-piece, taking a huge pinch of snuff from the box of a friend, with a refreshing expression of satisfaction, the only bit of nature as yet. A dear little innocent pot-boy, such as only Thackeray knew how to draw, is gazing and waiting upon the two, holding up a tray from the nearest tavern, on which is a great pewter pot of foainin~ porter for Zephyr, and a rum- mer of steaming brandy and water for his friend, who has come in from the cold air. These drawin~s are lithographed by Ed- ward Morton, son of Speed the Plough,- and are done with that delicate strength and. truth for which this excellent but little known artist is always to be praised. in each cor- ncr is the monogram ~ which appears so often afterwards with the M added, and is itself superseded by the well-known pair of spectacles. Thackeray must have been barely five-and-twenty when this was published, by Mitchell in Bond Street. It can hardly be said to have sold. Now it is worth noticing how in this, as always, he ridiculed the ugly and the absurd in truth and pureness. There is, as we may well know, much that is wicked (though not so much as the judging community are apt to think) and miserable in such a life. There is much that a young man and artist might have felt and drawn in depicting it, of which THACKERAY. in after-years he would be ashamed; but Th6opbile Wagstaffe has done nothing of this. The effect of looking over these juveni- liethese first shaft& from that mighty bow, now, alas! unbentis good, is moral; you are sorry for the hard-wrought~ slaves; per- haps a little contemptuous toward the idle people who go to see them; and you feel, moreover, that the Ballet, as thus done, is ugly as well as bad, is stupid as well as de- structive of decency. His dream of editorship being ended, Mr. Thackeray thenceforward contented himself with the more lowly, but less responsible, position of a contributor, especially to Era- sers Magazine. The youth of Fraser was full of vigor and genius. We know no bet- ter reading than its early volumes, unsparing indeed, but brilliant with scholarship and originality and fire. In these days, the staff of that periodical included such men as Ma- giun, Barry Cornwall, Coleridge, Carlyle, Hogg, Galt, Theodore Hook, Delta, Gleig, Edward Irving, and, now foremost of them all, Thackeray. The first of the Yellow- plush Correspondence appeared in Novem- ber, 1837. The world should be grateful to Mr. John Henry Skelton, who in that year wrote a book called My Book, or the Anat- omy of Conduct, for to him is owing the ex- istence of Mr. Charles Yellowplush as a critic, and as a narrator of fashnable fax and polite annygoats. Mr. Yellowplush, on reading Mr. Skeltons book, saw at once that only a gentleman of his distinguished profession could competently criticise the same; and this was soon succeeded by the wider convic- tion that the great subject of fashionable life should not be left ~o any common writin creatures, but that an authentic picture thereof must be supplied by ONE OF US. In the words of a note to the first paper, with the initials C.Y., but which it is easy to rec- ognize as the work of Mr. Charles himself without the plush: Lie who looketh from a tower sees more of the battle than the knights and captains engaged in it; and in like man- ner, he who stands behind a fashionable table knows more of society than the guests who sit at the board. It is from this source that ~ur great novel-writers have drawn their ex- perience, retailing the truth& which they learned. It is not impossible that Mr. Yel- lowplush may continue his communications, when we shall be able to present the reader with the only authentic picture of fashionable life which has been given to the workl in our time. The idea was not carried out very fully. The only pictures sketched by Mr. Yellowplush were the farce of Miss Shu ms IJusband,and the terrible tragedy of Deuce- ace, neither of them exactly pictures of fashionable life. We rather fancy that, in the story of Mr. Deuceace, Mr. Yellowplnsh was carried away from his original plan, a return to which he found impossible a.fter that wonderful medley of rascality, grim hu- mor, and unrelieved bedevilry of all kinds. But in 1838 he reverted to his original criti- cal tendencies, and demolished all that the Quarterly had left of a book which made some noise in its day, called A Diary Illustrative of the Times of George the Fourth; and wrote from his pantry one of the Epistles to the Literati, expressing his views of Sir Edward Lyttons Sea Captain, than which we know of no more good-natured, trenchant, and conclusive piece of criticism. All the Yellowplush papers except the first are repub- lished in the Miscellanies. In 1839, appeared the story of Cather- ine, by Ikey Solomon. This story is little known, and it throws us back upon one still less known. Ia 1832, when Mr. Thackeray was not more than twenty-one, Elisabeth Brownriggc: a tale, was narrated in the August and September numbers of Fraser. This tale is dedicated to the author of Eugene Aram, and the author describes himself as a young man who has for a length of time applied himself to literature, but entirely failed in deriving any emoluments from his exertions. Depressed by failure he sends for the popular novel of Eugene Aram to gain instruction therefrom. He soon discovers his wistake From the frequent perusal of older works of imagination I had learned so to weave the incidents of my story as to interest the feel- ings of the reader in favor of virtue, and to increase his detestation of vice. I have been taught by Eugene Arani to mix vice and virtue up together in such an inextricable confusion as to render it impossible that any preference should be given to either, or that the one, indeed, should be at all distinguish- able from the other. . . . In taking my subject from that walk of life to whsch you bad directed my attention, many motives con- spired to fix my choice on the heroine of the ensuing tale; she is a classic personage,her THACKERAY. name has been already linked to immortal verse by the muse of Canning. Besides, it is extraordinary that, as you had commenced a tragedy under the title of Eugene Aram, I had already sketched a burletta with the title of E~isabeth Brownrigge. I had, in- deed,.-in my dramatic piece, been guilty of an egregious and unpardonable error: I had attempted to excite the sympathies of the au- dience in li~vor of the murdered apprentices; but your novel has disabu~ed me of so vulgar a prejudice, and, in my present version of her case, all the interest of the reader and all the pathetic powers of the author will beengagcd on the side of the murderess. According to this conception the tale pro- ceeds, with incidents and even names taken directly from the Newgate Calendar, but ri- vallingEugene Aram itself, in magnificence of diction, absurdity of sentiment, and pomp of Greek quotation. The trial scene and the speech for the defence are especially well hit off. If Elisabeth Browarigge was written by Thackeray, and the internal evidence seems to us. strong, the following is surprising criti- cism from a youth of twenty-onethe very Byron and Buiwer age I am inclined to regard you (the author of Eugene Aram) as an original discov- erer in the world of literary enterprise, and to reverence you as the father of a new lusus nature school. There is no other title by which your manner could be so aptly desig- nated. I am told, for instance, that in a former work, having to paint an adulterer, you described him as belonging to the class of country curates, among whom, perhaps, such a criminal is not met with once in a huadred years; while, on the contrary, be- ing in search of a tender-hearted, generous, sentimental, high-minded hero of romance, you turned to the pages of the Newgate Calendar, and looked for him in the list of men who t~ave cut throats for money, among whom a person in possession of such qualities could never have been met with at all. Want- inga shre~~d,selfish, worldly, calculatingvalet, you describe him as an old soldier, though he hears not a single trait of the character which might have been moulded by a long course of military service, but, on the contrary, is marked by all the distinguishing features of a bankru~t attorney, or a lame duck from the Stock Exchange. Having to paint a cat, you endow her with the idiosyncrasies of a dog. At the end, the author intimates that he is ready to treat with any liberal publisher for a series of works in the same style, to be called Tales of the Old Bailey, or Romances of Tyburn Tree. The proposed series is represented only by Catherine,. a longer and more elaborate effort in the same direc- tion. It is the narrative of the misdeeds of Mrs. Catherine Iiayes,an allusion to whose criminality in after-days brought down upon the author of Pendennis an amusing outpouring of fury from Irish patriotism, for- getting in its exeitemen~ that the name was borne by a heroine of the Newgate Calen- dar as well as~ by the accomplished singer whom we all regret. The purpose of Cath- erine is the same as that of Elisabeth Browarigge to explode the lusus natural school; but the plan adopted is slightly dif- ferent. Things had got worse than they were in 1832. The public had called for coarse stim- ulantsandbadgotthem. Jack Sheppard had been acquiring great popularity in Bent- leys Miscellany; and the true feeling and pathos of many parts of Oliver Twist had been marred by the unnatural sentimentalism of Nancy. Mr. Ikey Solomon objected utterly to these monstrositiesofliterature, and thought the only cure was a touch of realism ,-an at- tempt to represent blackguards in some meas- ure as they actually are In this, he says, we have consulted nature and history rather than the prevailing taste and the general manner of authors. The amusing novel of Ernest Maltravers, for instance, opens with a seduction; but then it is performed by people of the strictest virtue on both sides; and there is so much religion and philosophy in the heart of the seducer, so much tender innocence in the soul of the seduced, thatbless the little dears! their very peecadilloes make one interested in them; and their naughtiness becomes quite sacred, so deliciously is it described. Now, if we are to be interested by rascally actions, let us have them with plain faces, and let them be performed, not by virtuous phi- losophers, but by rascals. Another clever class of novelists adopt the contrary system, and create interest by making their rascals perform virtuous actions. Against these popular plans we here solemnly appeal. We say, let your rogues in novels act like rogues, and your honest men like honest men; dont let us have any juggling and thirablerigging with virtue and vice, so that, at the end of three volumes, the bewildered reader shall not know which is which; dont let us find ourselves kindling at the generous qualities of thieves and sympathizing with the rascali- ties of noble hearts. For our own part, we know what the public likes, and have chosen 7 8 ~r*ACKERAY. rogues for our characters, and have taken a more ambitious. In it an attempt is made to 8tery from the Newgate Calendar, which construct a storyto delineate character. we hope to follow out toedifleation. Among The rival loves of Mr. Bullock and Mr. hayes, the rogues at least, we will have nothin~ and the adventures of the latter on his mar- that shall be mistaken for virtue. And it ~he British public (after calling for three or riage-day show, to some extent, the future four editions) shall give up, not only our ras- novelist; while ia the pictures of the man- cals, but the rascals of all other authors, ners of the times, slight though they arc, in we shall be content. We shall apply to the characters of Corporal Brock and Cornet Government for a pension, and think that our Galgenstein, and M. lAbbe OFlaherty, we duty is done. can trace, or at least we now fancy we can Again, further on in the same story trace, the author of Barry Lyndon and The public will hear of nothing but Henry Esmond. Catherine herself, in her rogues; and the only way in which poor au- gradual progress from the village jilt to a thors, who must live, can act honestly by the murderess, is the most striking thing in the public and themselves, is to paint such thieves story, and is a sketch of remarkable power. as they are; not dandy, poetical, rose-water notlfn could make a story interesting thieves, hut real downright scoundrels, lead- But ig ing scoundrelly lives, drunken, profligate, which consists of little n~ore than the seduc- dissolute, low, as scoundrels will he. They tion of a girl, the intrigues of a mistress, the dont quote Plato like Eugene Arani, or live discontent of a wife growing into hatred and like gentlemen, and sing the pleasantest bal- ending in murder. At the close, indeed, the lade in the world, like jolly Dick Turpin; or writer resorts to the true way of making such prate eternally about r6 ,caX6r, like that pre- ajeu desprit cious canting Maltravers, whom we all of us attractive,burlesque. He con- have read about and pitied; or die white- eludes, though too late altogether to save the washed saints, like poor Biss Dadsy, in Oh- piece, in a blaze of theatrical blue-fire; and ver Twist. No, my dear madam, you nnd it was this idea of burlesque or extravagant your daughters have no right to admire and caricature which led to the perfected successes sympathize with any such persons, fictitious of George de Barawell and Codliugsby. In or real: you ought to he made cordially to a literary point of view, it is well worth while detest, scorn, loathe, abhor, and abominate all to go hack upon those early efforts; and we people of this kidney. Men ofgenius, like those have dwelt upon them the more willingly that whose works we have abovealluded to, have no business to make these characters interesting their purpose and the literary doctrine they oragrecable, to be feeding your morbid fancies, contend for would be well remembered at this or indulging their own with such monstrous very time. We have given up writing about food. For our parts, young ladies, we beg discovered criminals, only to write more about you to bottle up your tears, and not waste a criminals not yet found out; the lusus naturee single drop of them on any one of the heroes or heroines in this history; they are all ras- school has given place to the sensational; the cals every soul of them, and behave as sich. literature of the Newgate Calendar has Keep your sympathy for those who deserve been supplanted by the literature of the de- it; dont carry it, for preference, to the Old tective officer,a style rather the worse and Bailey, and grow maudlin over the company decidedly the more stupid of the two. The assembled there. republication of Catherine might be a Neither of these tales, though it is very useful, and would be a not napleasing specific curious to look hack at them now, can be in the present diseased state of liter~~ry taste. considered quite successful. And the reason We have said that the hand of the master is of this is not hard to find. It was impossible traceable in the characters of this tale. We that they could be attractive as stories; while, have also a good example of what was always on the other hand, the humor was not broad a marked peculiarity, both in his narrative enough to command attention for itself. They writing, and in his representations (if comnpos- were neither sufficiently interesting nor suf- ite natures, what some one has called his ficiently amusing. They are caricatures with- sudden pathos, ao effect of natural and out the element of caricature. In Elisa- unexpected contrast always deeply poetical beth, we have little but the story of a in feeling, such as the love of Barry Lyndon crime committed by a criminal actuated by for his son, the association of a murderess cy- motives and overflowing with sentiments of ing her victim, with images of beauty and the Eugene Arama type. Catherine is happiness and peace. We quote the passage, although, as is always the case with the hest things of the best writers, it suffers greatly by separation from the context;, the force of the contrast being almost entirely lost Mrs. Hayes sat up in the bed sternly re- garding her husband. There is, be sure, a strong magnetic influence in wakeful eyes so examining a sleeping person; do not you, as a boy, remember waking of bright summer mornings and finding your mother looking over you? had not the gaze of her tender eyes stolen into your senses long before you w~ke, and east over your slumbering spirit a s,veet spell of peace and love and fresh-springing joy ? In 1840, the Shabby Genteel Story ap- peared in Fraser, which broke off sorrowfully enough, as we are told, at a sad period of the writers own life, to be afterward taken up in The Adventures of Philip. The story is not a pleasant one, nor can we read it without pain, although we know that the after for- unes of the Little Sister are not unhappy. But it shows clear indications of growing power and range; Brandon, Tkifthunt, the Gann family, and Lord Cinqbars, can fairly claim the dignity of ancestors. The Great Hoggarty Diamond came in 1841. This tale was always, we are informed in the preface to a separate edition in 1849, a great favorite with the author,a judgment, however, in which at first he stood almost alone. It was refused by one magazine before it found a place in Fraser; and when it did appear, it was little esteemed, or, indeed, noticed in any way. The late Mr. John Sterling took a dif- ferent view, and wrote Mr. Thackeray a letter which at that time gave me great comfort and pleasure. Few will now venture to ex- press doubts of Mr. Sterlings discernment. But in reality we suspect that this story is not very popular. It is said to want humor and power; but, on the other hand, in its beauty of pathos and tenderness of feeling, quite indescribable, it reaches a higher point of art than any of the minor tales; and these qualities have gained for it admirers very en- thusiastic if not numerous. Fraser for June of the same year has a most enjoyable paper called Memorials of Gormandizing, in which occurs the well-known adaptation of the PersicosOdi Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is a paper better than any- thing in the Original, better because sim- pier than Haywards Art of Dining, and 9 which should certainly he restored to a din- ner-eating world. To say nothing of i~ts quiet humor and comical earnestness, it has a real practical value. It would be invaluable to all the hungry Britons in Paris who lower our national character, and, what is a far greater calamity, demoralize even Freneh cooks, by their well-meant but ignorant en- deavors to dine. There is~a description of a dinner at the Caf6 Foy altogether inimitable; so graphic that the reader almost fancies him- self in the actual enjoyment of the felicity de- picted: Several of the Fitz-Boodle papers, which appeared in 1842-43, are omitted in the Miscellanies. But in spite of the judg- ment of the author himself we venture to think that Mr. Fitz-Boodles love experiences as recorded in Miss L6we (October, 1842), Dorothea (January, 1843), and Ottilia (February, 1843), are not unworthy of a place beside the Ravenswing, and should be preserved as a warning to all fervent young men. And during these hard-working years we have also a paper on Dickens in France, containing an amazing description of Niehelas Nickleby as translated and adapted (bless thee, Bottom, thou art translated indeed!) to the Parisian stage, followed by a hearty de- fence of Boz against the criticism of Jules Janin; and Bluebeards Ghost, in its * idea,that of carrying on a well-known story beyond its proper end,the forerunner of Re- becca and Rowena. Little Travels is the title of two papers, in May and October, 1844,sketches from Belgium, closely resem- bling, cert ainly not inferior to, the rounda- bout paper called a Weeks Holiday ; and our enumeration of his contributions to Fra- ser closes with the incomparable Barry Lyn- don. The Hoggarty Diamond is better and purer, and must therefore rank higher but Barry Lyndon in ~s own line stands, we think, unrivalled; immeasurably supe- rior, if we must have comparative criticism, to Count Fathom : superior even to the history of Jonathan Wild. It seems to us to equal the sarcasm ~nd remorseless irony of Fieldings masterpiece, with a wider range and a more lively interest. Mr. Thackerays connection with Punch be- gan very early in the history of that periodi- cal, and he continued a constant contributor at least up to 1850. The acquisition was an invaluable one to Mr. Punch. Without un- due disparagement of that august dignitary, THACKERAY. THACKERAY. it may now be said that at first he was too exciucively metropolitan in his tone, too much devcted to natural histories of medical students and London idlersin fact, some- what Cockney. Mr. Thackeray at once stamped it with a different tone: made ,its satire universal, adapted its fun to the appreci- ation of cultivated men. On the other hand, the connection with Punch must have been of the utmost value to Mr. Thackeray. He had the widest range, could write without restraint, and without the finish and com- pleteness necessary in more formal finublica- tions. The unrestrained practice in Punch, besides the improvement in style and in modes of thought which practice always gives, prob- ably had no small share in teaching him wherein his real strength lay. For it is worthy of notice in Mr. Thackerays literary career that this knowledge did not come ea- sily or soon, hut only after hard work and much experience. his early writings both in Fraser and Punch were as if groping. In these periodicals his happier eflbrts come last, and after many preludessome of them broken off abruptly~ Catherine is lost in George de Barnwell ; Yellowplush sand Fitz-Boodle are the preambles to Barry Lyndon and The Hoggarty Diamond ; Punchs Continental Tour and the Wan- derings of the Far Contributor close un- timely, and arc succeeded by the Snob Pa- pers and the kindly wisdom of the elder Brown. Fame, indeed, was not now far off; but crc it could be reached, there rcmaineQyet repeated effort and frequent disappointment. With peculiar pleasure we now recall the fact that these weary days of struggle and obscu- rity were cheered in no inconsiderable degree by the citizens of Edinburgh. There happened to be placed in the window of an Edinburgh ~weller a silver statuette of Mr. Punch, with his dress en rigueur,his comfortable and tidy paunch, with all its but- tons; his hunch; his knee-breeches, with their ties ; his compact little legs, one foot a little forward; and -the intrepid and honest, kindly little fellow firmly set on his pins, with his customary look of up to and good for any- thing. In his hand was his weapon,a pen; his skull was an inkhorn, and his cap its lid. A passer-bywho had long been grateful to our author, as to a dear unknown and en- riching friend, for his writings in Fraser and in Punch, and had longed for some way of reaching him, and telling him how his work was relished and valuedbethought himself of sending this inkstand to Mr. Thackeray. lie went im~ and asked its price. Ten gum. eas, sir. He said to himself, There are many who feel as I do; why shouldnt we send him up to him? Illget eighty several half-crowns, and that will do. it (he had ascertained that there would be discount for ready money). With the help of a friend, who says he awoke to Thackeray, and divined his great future, when he came, one evening, in Fraser for May, 1844, on the word kino- pium,* the half-crowns were soon forthcom- ing, and it is pleasant to remember, that in the octogint are the names of Lord Jeffrey and Sir William Hamilton, who gave their half-crowns with the heartiest good-will. A short note was written telling the story. The little man in silver was duly packed, and sent with the followiun inscription round the base GULIELMO MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. ARMA VIRUMQUE GRATI NEONON GRATA~ EDINENSES LXXX. D. D. D. To this the following reply was made ~ Here is the passage. It is from Little Travels and Roadside Sketches. Why are they not repub- lished? We must have his Opera Omnie. He is on the top of the Richijuond omnibus. If I were a great prince, and rode outside of coaches (as I should if I were a great prince), I would, whether I smoked or not, have a case of the best Ilavannahs in my pocket, not for my own smoking, but to give them to the snohs on the coach, who smoke the vilest che- roots. They poison the air with the odor of their filthy weeds. A man at all easy in circumstances would spare himself much annoyance jy taking the above simple precaution. A gentleman sitting behind me tapped me on the back, and asked for a li,,,ht. He was a footman, or rather valet. He had no livery, hut the three friends who accompanied him were tall men in pep- per-and-salt undress jackets, with a dukes coronet on their buttons. After tapping me on the back, and when he had finished his cheroot, the gentleman produced another wind instrument, which he called a kinopium, a sort of trumpet, on which he showed a great inclina- tion to play. He began puffing out of the kinopium an abominable air, which he said was the Dukes March. It was played by the particular request of the pepper-and-salt gentry. The noise was so abominable that even the coachman objected, and said it was not allowed to play on his bus. Very well, said the valet, were only of the Duke of Bs establishment, THATS ALL. 10 THACKERAY. KENSINGTON SQUAR~, 13, YOUNG STREET, May ii, 1848. My DEAR SIR,The arms and the man arrived in safety yesterday, and I am glad to know the names of two of the eighty Edin- burgh friends who have taken such a kind method of showing their good-will toward me. If you are grati, I am gratior. Such tokens of regard & sympathy are very precious to a writer like myself, who have some difficulty still in making people understand what you have been good enough to find out in Edin- burgh, that under the mask satirical there walks about a sentimental gentleman who means not unkindly to any mortal person. I can see exactly the same expression under the vizard of my little friend in silver, and hope some day to shake the whole octogint by the hand gratos & gratas, and thank them for their friendliness and regard. I think I had best say no more on the subject lest I should be tempted into some enthusiastic writing of w I am afraid. I assure you these tokens of what I cant help acknowledging as popu- laritymake me humble as well as grateful and make me feel an almost awful sense of the responsibility wh falls upon a man in such a station. Is it deserved or undeserved? Who is this that sets up to preach to man- kind, and to laugh at many things wh men reverence? I hope I may be able to tell the truth always, & to see it aright, according to the eyes w God Almighty gives me. And if, in the exercise of my calling I get friends, and find encouragement and sympathy, I need not tell you how much I feel and am thank- ful for this support.Indeed I cant reply lightly upon this subject or feel otherwise than very grave when people begin to praise me as you do. Wishing you and my Edin- burgh friends all health and happiness, be- lieve me my dear Sir most faithfully yours, W. M. THACKERAY. How like the man is this gentle and seri- ous letter, written these long years ago! He tells us frankly his calling : he is a preacher to mankind. He laughs, he does not sneer. He asks home questions at himself as well as the world: Who is this? Then his feeling not otherwise than very grave when people begin to praise, is true conscientiousness. This ser- vant oPhis Master hoped to be able to tell the truth always, and to see it aright, accord- ing to the eyes which God Almighty gives me His picture by himself will be received as correct now, a sentimental gentleman, meaning not unkindly to any mortal person sentimental in its good old sense, and a gentleman in heart and speech. And that little touch about enthusiastic writing, prov- ing all the more that the enthusiasm itself was there. Of his work in Punch, the Ballads of Pleaceman X, the Snob Papers, Jeames Diary, the Travels and Sketches in London, a Little Dinner at Timmins, are now familiar to most readers. But be- sides these, he wrote much which has found no place in the Miscellanies. M. de Ia Pluche discoursed touching many matters other than his own rise and fall. Our Fat Contrib- utor wandered over the face of the earth, ga.ining and imparting much wisdom and ex- perience, if little information; Dr. Solomon Pacifico prosed on various things besides the pleasures of being a Fogy; and even two of the Novels by Eminent Hands, Crinoline and Stars and Stripes, have been left to forgetfulness. Mrs. Tickleto- bys Lectures on the history of En~landin vol. iii. are especially good reading. Had they been completed, they would have formed a valuable contribution to the philosophy of history. His contributions to Punch became less frequent about 1850; but the connection was not entirely broken off till much later; we remember, in 1854, the Letters from the Seat of War, by our own Bashi-Bazouk, who was, in fact, Major Gahagan again, al- ways foremost in his countrys cause. To the last, as Mr. Punch has himself informed us, he continued to be an adviser and warm friend, and was a constant guest at the weekly symposza. In addition to all this work for periodicals, Mr. Thackeray had ventured on various in- dependent publications. We have already alluded to Flore et Zephyr, his first at- tempt. In 1840, he again tried fortune with The Paris Sketch-Book, which is at least remarkable for a dedication possessing the quite peculiar merit of expressing real feel- ing. It is addressed to M. Aretz, Tailor, 27 Rue Richelieu, Paris; and we quote it the more readily that, owing to the failure of these volumes to attract public attention, the rare virtues of that gentleman have been less widely celebrated than they deserve SIR,It becomes every man in his station to acknowledge and praise virtue whereso- ever he may find it, and to point it out for the admiration and example of his fellow- men. Some months since, when you presented to the writer of these pages a small accoumn 11 12 for coats and pantaloons manufactured by you, and when you were met by a statement from your debtor that an immediate settle- ment of your bill would be extremely incon- venient to him, your reply was, Mon dieu, Sir, let not that annoy you; if you want money, as a gentleman often does in a strange country, I have a thousand-franc note at my house, which is quite at your service. His- tory or experience, Sir, makes us acquainted with so few actions that can be compared to yoursan offer like this from a stranger and a tailor seems to me so astonishingthat you must pardon me for making your virtue public, and acquainting the English nation with your merit and your name. Let me add, Sir, that you live on the first floor; that your cloths and fit are excellent, and your charges moderate and just; and, as a humble tribute of my admiration, peraiit me to lay these volumes at your feet.Your obliged faithful servant, M. A. TITMARSH. Some of the papers in these two volumes were reprints, as Little Poinsinet and Cartouche from Fraser for 1839; Mary Ancel from The New Mont/dy for 1839; others appeared then for the first time. They are, it must be confessed, of unequal merit. A Caution to Travellers is a swindling business, afterwards narrated in Penden- nis by Amory or Altamont as among his own respectal)le adventures; Mary Ancel and The Painters Bargain are amusing stories; while a Gamblers Death is a tale quite awful in the every-day reality of its horror. There is much forcible criticism on the French school of painting and of novel- writing, and two papers especially good called Caricatures and Lithography in Paris, and Meditations at Versailles, the former of which gives a picture of Parisian manners and feeling in the Orleans times in no way calculated to make us desire those days back again; the latter an expression of the thoughts called tip by the splendor of Versailles and the beauty of the Petit Tria- non, in its truth, sarcasm, and half-melan- choly, worthy of his best days. All these the public, we think, would gladly wel~me in a more accessible form. Of the rest of the Sketch-Book the same can hardly be said, and yet we should ourselves much regret never to have seen, for example, the four graceful imitations of Bdranger. The appreciative and acquisitive tendencies of our Yankee friends forced, we are told, rHACKERAY. independent authorship on Lord Macaulay and Sir James Stephen. We owe to the same cause the publication of the Comic Tales and Sketches in 1841; Mr. Yellow- plushs memoirs have been more than once reprinted in America befere that date. The memoirs were accompanied with The Fatal Boots (from the Comic Almanack); the Bedford Row Conspiracy, and the Remi- niscences of that astonishing Major Gahagan (both from the New Monthly Magazine, 183840, a periodical then in great glory, with hood, Marryat, Jerrold, and Laman Blanchard among its contributors); all now so known and so appreciated that the failure of this third effort seems altogether unac- countable. In 1843, however, time Irish Sketch-Book was, we believe, tolerably suc- cessful; and in 1846, the Journey from Comahill to Grand Cairo was still more so; in which year also Vanity Fair began the career which has given him his place and name in English literature. We have gone into these details concerning Mr. Thackerays early literary life, not only because they seem to us interesting and in- structive in themaselve~ not only because we think his severe judgment rejecting so many of his former efforts should in several instances be reversed; but because they give us much aid in arriving at a true estimate of his genius. He began literature as a profession early in lifeabout the age of twenty-five; but even then he was, as he says of Addison, fulland ripe. Yet it was long before he attained the measur~e of his strength, or discovered the true bent of his powers. his was no sudden leap iato fame. On the contrary, it was by slow degrees, and after many and vain endeavors, that he attained to anything like success. Were it only to show how hard these en- deavors were, the above retrospect would be well worth while; not that the retrospect is anything like exhaustive. In addition to all we have mentioned, he wrote for the West- minster, for the Examiner, and the Times; ~vas connected with the Constitutional, and also, it is said, with the Torch and the Par- thenonthese last three being papers which enjoyed a brief existence. No man ever more decidedly refuted the silly notion which dis- associates genius from labor. his industry must have been unremitting, for be worked slowly, rarely retouching, writing always with great thought and habitual correctness THACKERAY. of expression. His writing would of itself show this,always neat and plain, capable of great beauty and minuteness. He used to say that if all trades failed, he would earn sixpences by writing the Lords Prayer and the Creed (not the Athanasian) in the size of one. He considered and practised calligra- phy as one of the fine arts, as did Porson and Dr. Thomas Young. He was continually catching new ideas from passing things, and seems frequently to have carried his work in his pocket, and when a thought, or a turn, or a word struck him, it was a.t once recorded. In the fulness of his experience, he was well pleased when he wrote six pages of Es- mond in a day; and he always worked in the day, not at night. He never threw away his ideas; if at any time they passed un- heeded, or were carelessly expressed, he re- peats them, or works them up more tellingly. In these earlier ~vritings we often stumble upon the germ of an idea; or a story, or a character with which his greater works have made us already familiar; thus the swindling scenes during the sad days of Beckys decline and fall, and the Baden sketches in the New- comes, the Deuceaces and Punters and Lo- ders, are all in the Yellowplush Papers and the Paris Sketch-Book; the univer- sity pictures of Pendennis are sketched, though slightly, in the Shabby-Genteel Story ; the anecdote of the child whose ad- mirer of seven will learn that she has left town from the newspapers is transferred from the Book of Snobs to Ethel New- come; another child, in a different rank of life, whose acquisition of a penny gains for her half a dozen sudden followers and friends, appears, we think, three times; Canute, neglected in Punch, is incorporated in Re- becca and Rowena. And his names, on which he bestowed no ordinary care, and which have a felicity almost deserving an article to themselves, are repeated again and again. He had been tea years engaged in literary work before the conception ot Vanity Fair grew up. Fortunately for him, it was de- clined by at least one magazine3 and, as. we can well believe, not without much anxiety and many misgivings he sent it out to the world alone. Its progress was at first slow; but we cannot think its success was over doubtful. A friendly notice in the Edinburgh, when eleven numbers ha4 appeared, did something, the book itself did the rest; apd before Van ity Fair was completed, the reputation of its aut~hor was established. Mr. Thackerays later literary life is fa- miliar to all. It certainly was not a life of idleness. Vanity Fair, Pendennis, Esmond, The Neweomes, The Vir- ginians, Philip ; the Lectures on the Humorists and the Georges ; and that wonderful series of Christmas stories, Mrs. Perkins Ball, Our Street, Dr. Birch, Rebecca and Rowena;. and the Rose and the Ring, represent no small labor on the part of the writer, no small pleasure and improvement on the part of multitudes of readers. For the sake of the Cornhill Maga- zine he reverted to the editorial avocations of his former days, happily with a very different result both on the fortunes of the periodical and his own, but, we should think, with nearly as much discomfort to himself. The public, however, were the gainers, if only they owe to this editorship the possession of Lovel the Widower. We believe that Lovel was written for the stage, and was re- fused by the management of the Olympic about the year 1854. Doubtless the decision was wise, and Lovel might have failed as a, comedy. But as a tale it is quite unique full of humor, and curious experience of life, and insight; with a condensed vigor and grotesque effects and situations which betray its dramatio origin. The tone of many parts of the book, particularly the description of the emotions of a disappointed lover, shows the full maturity of the authors powers; but there is a daring and freshness about other parts of it which would lead us to refer, the dramatic sketch even to an earlier date than 1854. This imperfect sketch of his literary labors may be closed, not inappropriately, with the description which his faithful old Gold Pen gives us of the various tasks he set it to Since he my faithful service did engage To follow him through his queer pilgrimage, Ive drawn and written many a line and page. Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes, And merry little childrens books at times. Ive writ the foolish fancy of his brain; The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain.; The idle word that hed wish back again. * ,* 5 5 5. * $ Ive helped him to pen many a line for bread; To joke, with sorrow aching in his head And make your laughter when his own heart bled. 13 14 Feasts that were ate a thousand days a~o, Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow, Gay meetin~,s with good fellows long. laid low Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, Tradesmens polite reminders of his small Account due Christmas lastIve answered all. Poor Diddlers tenth petition for a half- Guinea; Miss Bunyans for an autograph; So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, Condole, congratulate; invite, praise, scoff, Day after day still dipping in my trough, And scribbling pages after pages off. * * * * * $ * Nor pass the words as idle phrases by; Stranger I never writ a flattery, Nor signed the page that registered a lie. En rdalit6, says the writer of an inter- esting notice inLe Temps, lauteurde Van- it~y Fair (la Foire aux vanitids) est un sa- tiriste, un moraliste, un humoriste, auquel ii a manqud, pour ~tre tout-h-fait grand, d~tre un artiste. Je dis tout4i-fait grand; car sil est douteux que, comme humoriste, on le puisse comparer soit h Lamb, soit ~ Sterne, ii est bien certain, du inoins, que comme satiriste, ii ne connait pas de sup& ieurs, pas m~me Dryden, pas m~me Swift, pas m~me Pope. Et cc qui le distingue deux, ce qui l6l~ve au dessus deux, ce qui fait de lui un g~nie es- sentiellement original, cest que sa coliire, pour qui est capable den p6ndtrer le secret, n est au fond que Ia rdaction dune nature tendre, furicuse davoir ~td ddsappointde. Beyond doubt the French critic is right in holding Thackerays special powers to have been those of a satirist or humorist. We shall form but a very inadequate conception of his genius if we look at him exclusively, or even chiefly, as a nqvelist. His gifts were not those of a teller of stories, lie made up a story in which his characters played their various parts, because the requirement of in- terest is at the present day imperative, and because stories are well paid for, and also be- cause to do this was to a certain extent an amusement to himself; but it was often, we suspect, a great worry and puzzle to him, and never resulted in any marked success. It is not so much that he is a bad constructor of a plot, as that his stories have no plot at all. We say nothing of such masterpieces of constructive art as Tom Jones; he is far from reaching even the careless power of the stories of Scott. None of his novels end with the orthodox marriage of hero and heroine, THACKERAY. except Pcndennis, which might just as well have ended without it. The stereotyped matrimonial wind-up in novels can of course very easily be made game of; but it has a ra- tional meaning. When a man gets a wife and a certain number of hundreds a year, he grows stout, and his adventures are over. Hence novelists naturally take this as the crisis in a mans life to which all that has gone before leads up. But for Mr. Thacke- rays purposes a man or woman is as good after marriage as before itindeed, rather better. To some extent this is intentional: a character, as he says somewhere, is too val- uable a property to be easily parted with. Besides, he is not quite persuaded that mar- riage concludes all that is interesting in the life of a man: As the hero and heroine pass the matrimonial harrier, the novelist generally drops the curtain, as if the drama were over then, the doubts and struggles of life ended; as if, once landed in the marriage country, all were green and pleasant there, and wife and husband had nothing hut to link each others arms together, and wander gently downward toward old age in happy and perfect fruition. But he demurs to this view; and as he did not look on a mans early life as merely an introduction to matri- mony, so neither did he regard that event as a final conclusion. Rejecting, then, this nat- ural and ordinary catastrophe, he makes no effort to provide another. His stories stop, but they dont come to an end. There seems no reason why they should not go on further, or why they shouldnt have ceased before. Nor does this want of finish result from weariness on the part of the writer, or from that fear of weariness on the part of readers which Mr. Jedediah Cleishbotham expresses to Miss Martha Bnskbody: Really, madam, you must be aware that every volume of a narra- tive turns less and less interesting as the au- thor draws to a conclusion; just like your tea, which, though excellent hyson, is necessarily weaker and more insipid in the last cup. Now, as I think the one is by no means im- proved by the luscious lump of half-dissolved sugar usually found at the bottom of it, so I am of opinion that a history, growing already vapid, is but dully crutched up by a detail of circumstances which every reader must have anticipated, even though the author exhaust on them every flowery epithet in the lan- guage. It arises from the want of a plot T H AC RE RAY. from the want often of any hero or heroine round whom a plot can centre. Most novelists know how to let the life out toward the end, so that the story dies quite naturally, having been wound up for so long. But his airy nothings, if once life is hreathed into them, and they are made to speak and act, and love and hate, will not die: on the contrary, they grow in force and vitality under our very eye the curtain comes sheer down upon them when they are at their best. Hence his trick of re -introducing his characters in sub- sequent works, as fresh and lifelike as ever. lie does not indeed carry this so far as Dumas, w.hose characters are traced with edifying minuteness of detail from boyhood to the grave; Balzac or our own Trollope afford, perhaps, a closer comparison, although nei- ther of these writerscertainly not Mr. Trolloperivals Thackeray in the skill with which such re-appearances are managed. In the way of delineation of character we know of few things more striking in its con- sistency and truth than Beatrix Esmond grown into the Baroness Bernstein the at- tempt was hazardous, the success complete. Yet this deficiency in constructive art was not inconsistent with dramatic power of the highest order. Curiously enough, if his sto- ries for the most part end abruptly, they also for the moBt part open well. Of some of them, as Pendennis and the Neweomes, the beginnings are peculiarly felicitous. But his dramatic power is mainly displayed in his invention and representation of character, in invention his range is perhaps limited, though less so than is commonly said. He has not, of course, the sweep of Scott, and even where a comparison is fairly open, he does not show Scotts creative faculty; thus, good as his high life below stairs may be, he has given us no Jenny Dennison. He does not attempt artisan life like George Eliot, nor, like other writers of the day, affect rural simplicity, or delineate provincial peculiarities (the Mulli- gan and Costigan are national), or represent special views or opinions. But he does none of these things,not so much because his range is limited, as because his art is univer- sal. There are many phases of human life on which he has not touched; few develop- ments of human nature. He has caught those traits which are common to all mankind peer and artisan alike, and he may safely omit minor points of distinction. It is a higher art to draw men than to draw noble- men or working men. If the specimen of our nature be brought hefore us, it. matters little whether it be dressed in a lace coat or a fus- tian jacket. Among novelists he stands, in this particular, hardly second to Scott. his pages are filled with those touches of nature which make the whole world kin. Almost every passion and emotion of the heart of man finds a place in his pictures. These pictures are taken mainly from the upper and middle classes of society, with an occa- sional excursion into Bohemia, sometimes even into depths beyond that pleasant land of lawlessness. In variety, truth, and consist- ency, they are unrivalled. They are not car- icatures, they are not men of humors; they are the men and women whom we daily meet; they are, in the fullest sense of the word, representative; and yet they are drawn so sharply and finely that we never could mis- take or confound them. Pendennis, Clive Neweome, Philip, are all placed in circum- stances very much alike, and yet they are dis- criminated throughout by delicate and certain touches, which we hardly perceive even while we feel their effect. Only one English writer of fiction can he compared to Mr. Thackeray in this power of distinguishing ordinary char- acters,the authoress of Pride and Preju- dice. But with this power he combines, in a very singular manner, the power of seizing humors, or peculiarities, when it so pleases him. Jos. Sedley, Charles Honeyman, Fred Bayham, Major Pendennis, are so marked as to be fairly classed as men of humors; and in what a masterly way the nature in each is caught and held firm throughout? In na- tional peculiarities he is especially happy. The Irish he knows well: the French, per- haps, still better. How wonderfully clever is the sketch of Mary, Queen of Scots, and the blustering Gascon and the rest of her dis- reputable court at Baden! And what can those who ob,ject to Thackerays women say of that gentle lady, Madame de Floraca sketch of ideal beauty, with her early, never- forgotten sorrow, her pure, holy resignation? To her inimitable son no words can do justice. The French-English of his speech would make the fortune of any ordinary novel. It is as unique, and of a more delicate humor, than the orthography of Jeames. Perhaps more remarkable than even his invention is the fidelity with which the conception of his char- 15 THACI~ERAY~ acters is preserved. This never fails. They seem to act, as it were, of themselves. The author, having once projected them, appears to have nothing more t& do with them. They act somehow according to their own natures, unprompted by him, and beyond his control. He tells us this himself in one of those de- lightful and most characteristic Roundabout Papers, which are far too much and too gen- erally undervalued: I have been surprised at the observations made by some of my char- acters. It seems as if an occult power were moving the pen. The personage does or says something, and I ask, How the dickens did he come to think of that? . . . We spake anon of the inflated style of some writers. What also if there is an afflated style; when a writer is like a Pythoness, or her oracle tripod, and mighty wordswords which he cannot help, come blowing and bellowing and whistling and moaning through the speaking pipes of his bodily organ? Take one of his most subtile sketchesthough it is but a sketchElizabeth, in Lovel the Widower. The woman has a character, and a strong one; she shows it, and acts up to it; but it is as great a puzzle to us as the character of 11am- let; the author himself does not understand it. Thi8 is, of course, art; and it is the high- est perfection of art; it is the art of Shak- speare; and hence it is that Thackerays nov- els are interesting irrespective of the plot, or story, or whatever we choose to call it. his characters come often without much purpose: they go often without much reason; but they are always welcome; and for the most part we wish them well. Dumas makes up for the want of a plot by wild incident and spas- modic writing; Thackeray makes us forget a like deficiency by the far higher means of true conceptions, and consistent delineations of human nature. Esinond, alone of all his more important fictions, is artistically con- structed. The marriage indeed of Esmond and Lady Castlewood marks no crisis in their lives; on the contrary, it might have hap- pened at any time, and makes little change in their relations; but the work derives coni- pleteness from the skill with which the events of the time are connected with the fortunes of the chief actors in the storythe historical plot leading up to the catastrophe of Beatrix, the failure of the conspiracy, and the exile of the conspirators. In Esmond, too, Thack- erays truth to nature is especially censpi~u ous. In all his books the dialogue, is surpris ing in its naturalness, in its direct bearingon the subject in hand. Never before, we think, in fiction did characters so uniformly speak exactly like the men and women of real life. In Esmond owing to the distance of the scenethis rare excellence was not easy of attainment, yet it has been attained. Every one not only acts but speaks in accordance certainly with the ways of the time, bat al- ways like a rational human being; there is no trace of that unnaturalness which offends us even in Scotts historical novels, and which substitutes for intelligible converse long ha- rangues in pompous diction, garnished with strange oaths, a style of communicating their ideas never wlopted, we may be very surer by any mortals upon this ~arth. Add to these artistic excellencies a tenderness of feeling and a beauty of style which even Thackeray has not elsewhere equalled, and we come to understand why the best critics look on Esmond as his masterpiece. Nor, in speaking of Thackeray as a novelist, should we forget to mentionthough but in a wordhis command of the element of trag- edy. The parting of George Osborne with Amelia; the stern grief of old Osborne for the loss of his son; the later life of Beatrix Es- mond; the death of Colonel Neweome, are in their various styles perfect, and remarkable for nothing more than for the good taste which controls and subdues them all. But, as we said before, to criticise Mr. Thackeray as a novelist is to criticise what was in him only an accident. He wrote sto- ries because to do so was the mode; his. sto~ ries are natural and naturally sustained be- cause he could do nothing otherwise than naturally; but to be a teller of stories was not his vocation. His great object in writing was to express himself,his notions of life, all the complications and variations which can be played by a master on this one ever- lasting theme. Composite human nature as it is, that sins and suffers, enjoys and does virtuously, that wmis the main haunt and region of his song. To estimate him fairly, we must look at him as taking this wider range; must consider him as a humorist, using the word as. he used it himself. The humorous writer professes to awaken and di- rect your love, your pity, your kindness; your scorn for untruth, pretension, imupos- tore; your tenderncss~for the weak, the poor, 143 TIIACKERAY. 17 the oppressed, the unhappy. To the best of I Heaven to bestow all sorts of its most precious his means and ability, he comments on all the gifts and richest worldly favors. Wilh what ordinary actions and passions of life almost. grace she receives you; with what a frank lie takes upon himself to be the week-day kindness and natural sweetness and dignity 11cr looks, her motions, her words, her preacher, so to speak. Accordingly, as he thoughts, all seem to be beautiful and har- finds and speaks and feels the truth best, we monious quite. See her with her children; regard him, esteem him,sometimes love what woman can be more simple and loving? him. Adopting this point of view, and ap- After you have talked to her for a while, you plying this standard, it seems to us that no very likely find that she is ten times as well one of the great humorists of whom he has read as you are: she has a hundred aecom- spoken is deserving equally with himself of plishments which she is not in the least anx- our respect, esteem, and love ous to show off, and makes no more account ;respect for of them than of her diamonds, or of the splen- intellectual power, placing him on a level dor round about herto all of which she is even with Swift and Pope; esteem for man- born, and has a happy, admirable claim of liness as thorough as the manliness of Field- nature and possessionadmirable and happy ing, and rectitude as unsullied as the recti- for her and for us too; for is it not a happi- tude of Addison; love for a nature as kindly ness for us to admire her? Does anybody as that of Steele. Few will deny the keen grudge her excellence to that paragon? Sir, insight we may be thankful to be admitted to conteni the passion for truth of the week-day plate such consummate goodness and beauty preacher we have lost; few will now deny and as, in looking at a fine landscape or a fine the kindliness of his disposition, but many work of art, every generous heart must he de- will contend that the kindliness was too lightedandimproved,andoughttofeelgrateful much restrained; that the passion for truth afterwards, so one may feel charmed and thank- was allowed to degenerate into a love of de- furforhavingtheopportumnityofknowinganal.. m tecting hidden faults. The sermons on ost perfect ~voman. Madam, if the gout and the custom of the world permitted, I would women have been objected to with especial kneel down and kiss the hem of your ladyships vehemence and especial want of reason. No robe. To see your gracious face is a comfort one who has read Mr. Browns letters to his to see you walk to your carriage is a holi- nephewnext to the Snob Papers and day. Drive her faithfully, 0 thou silver- Sydney Smiths Lectures, the best modern wigged coachman! drive to all sorts of splen- work on moral phllosophywill deny that dors and honors and royal festivals. And for Mr. Thackeray can at least appreciate good us, let us be glad that we should have the women, and describe them privilege to admire her. Sir, I do not mean to tell you that there Now, transport yourself in spirit, my good Bon, into another drawing-room. There are no women in the world vulgar and sits an old lady of more than fourscore years, ill-humored, rancorous and narrow-minded, serene and kind, and as beautiful in her age mean schemers, son-in-law hunters, slaves of now, as in her youth, when 1-Jistory toasted fashion, hypocrites; butl do respect, admire, her. What has she not seen, and is she not and almost worship good women; and I think ready to tell? All the fame and wit, all the there is a very fhir number of such to be rank and beauty, of more than half a century, found in this world, and I have no doubt, in have passed through those rooms where you every educated Englishmans circle of society, have the honor of making your best bow. whether he finds that circle in palaces in She is as simple now as if she had never had Belgravia and May Fair, in snug little sub- any flattery to dazzle her: she is never tired urban villas, in ancient comfortable old of being pleased and being kfnd. Can that Bloomshury, or in back parlors behind the have been anything but a good life which, shop. It. has been my fortune to meet with after more than eighty years of it are spent, excellent English ladies in every one of these is so calm? Could she look to the end of it placeswives graceful and affectionate, ma- so cheerfully, if its long course had not been trons tender and good, daughters happy and pure? Respect her, I say, for being so pure-minded, and I urge the society of ~ueh happy now that she is old. We do not know to you, because I defy you to think evil in what goodness mmd charity, what affections, their company. Walk into the drawing-room what trials, may have gone to make thaE of Lady Z., that great lad5: look at her charming sweetness of temper, and complete charming face, and hear her voice. You I that perfect manner. But if we do not ad- know that she cant but he good, with such mire and reverence such an old age as that, a face and 8uch a voice. She is one of those I and get good from contemplating it, what fortunate beings on whom it has pleased are we to respect and admire? THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxv. 1164) THACTiERAY. Or shall we walk through the shop (while N. is recommending a tall copy to an ama- teur, or folding up a twopennyworth of letter- paper, and bowing to a poor customer in a jacket and apron with just as much respect- ful gravity as he would show while waitin~ upon a duke), and see Mrs. N. playing with thc child in the hack parlor until N. shall come in to tea? They drink tea at five oclock; and are actually as well-bred as those gentle- folks who dine three hours later. Or will you please to step into Mrs. J.s lodgings, is waiting, and at work, until her hus- band comes home from Chambers? She blushes and puts the work away on hearing the knock, hut when she sees who the visitor is, she takes it with a smile from behind the sofa cushion, and behold, it is one of J. s waistcoats on which she is sewing buttons. She might have been a countess blazing in diamonds, had Fate so willed it, and the higher her station the more she would have adorned it. But she looks as charming while plying her needle as the great lady in the palace whose equal she is,in beauty, in goodness, in high-bred grace and simplicity: at least, I cant fancy her better, or any peer- ess being more than her peer. But then he is accused of not having repre- sented this. It is said, to quote a friendly critic in the Edinburgh Review for 1848, that having with great skill put together a creature of which the principal elements are indiscriminating affection, ill-requited devo- tion, ignorant partiality, a weak will, and a narrow intellect, he calls on us to worship his poor idol as the type of female excellence. This is true. Feminine critics enforce sim- ilar changes yet more vehemently. Thus, Miss Bront~ says, As usual, he is unjust to women, quite unjust. There is hardly any punishment he does not deserve for mak- ing Lady Castlewood peep through a key-hole, listen at a door, and be jealous of a boy and a milkmaid. Mrs. Jameson criticises him more elaborately: No woman resents his Rebeccainimitable Becky !no woman but feels and acknowledges with a shiver the completeness of that wonderful and finished artistic creation; but eVery woman resents the selfish, inane Amelia. . . . Laura in Pendennis is a yet more fatal mistake. ~he is drawn with every generous feeling, every good gift. We do not complain that she loves that poor creature Pendennis, for she loved him in her childhood. She grew up with that love in her heart; it came be- tween her ~nd the preception of his faults; it is a necessity indivisible from her nature. Hallowed, through its constancy, therein alone would lie its best excuse, its beauty and its truth. But Laura, faithless to that first affection ,Laura waked up to the apprecia- ti()n of a far more manly and noble nature, in love with Warrington, and then going hack to Pendennis and marryin~ him! Such infirmity might be true of some women, but not of such a woman as Laura; we resent the inconsistency, the indelicacy of the por- trait. And then Lady Castlewood,so evi- dently a favorite of the author,what shall we say of her? The virtuous woman, par excellence, who never sins and never for- gives; who never resents, nor relents, nor repents; the mother who is the rival of her daughter; the mother, who for years is the confidante of a mans delirious passion for her own child, and then consoles him by marrying him herself! 0 Mr. Thackeray! this will never do! Such women may exist, but to hold them up as examples of excellence, and fit objects of our best sympathies, is a fault, and proves a low standard in ethics in art. But all these criticisms, even if sound, go to this only, that Mr. Thackerays represen- tations of women are unjust: they are con- fined solely to his novels. Now, if the view we have taken of Mr. Thackerays genius be the true one, such a limitation is unfair. He is not to be judged only by his novels as a representer of character, he must be judged also by all his writings together as a describar and analyzer of character. In the next place, the said criticisms are based upon wonder- fully hasty generalizations. Miss Brontii knew that she would not have listened at a key-hole, and she jumps at once to the con- clusion that neither would Lady Castlewood. But surely, the character of that lady is throughout represented as marred by many feminine weaknesses falling little short of un- amiability. Is the existence of- a woman greedy of affection, jealous, and unforgiving, an impossibility? -Her early love for Esmond we cannot quite approve; her later marriage with him we heartily disapprove; but neither of these things is the fault of the writer. With such a woman as Lady Castlewood, deprived of her husbands affection, the growth of an attachment toward her dependant into a warmer feeling, was a matter of extreme 18 THACKERAY. probability ; and her subsequent marriage to Esmond, affectionate, somewhat weak, and, above all, disappointed elsewhere, was, in their respective relations, a mere certainty. Not to have married them would have been a mistake in art. Thus, when a friend re- monstrated with him for having made Esmond marry his mother-in-law, he replied, 1 didnt make him do it; they did it them- selves. But as to Lady Castlewoods being a favorite with the author, which is the ~ravamen of the charge, that is a pure as- sumption on the part of Mrs. Jameson. We confess to having always received, in read- ing the hook, a clear impression to the con- trary. Laura, again, we do not admire vehe- mently; but we cannot regard her returning to her first love, after a transient attachment to another, as utterly unnatural. Indeed, we think it the very thing a girl of her somewhat commonplace stamp of character would cer- tainly have done. She never is much in love with Pendennis either first or last; hut she marries him nevertheless. She might have loved Warrington, had the Fates permitted it, very differently; and as his wife, would never have displayed those airs of self-satisthction and moral superiority which make her so te- diously disagreeable. But all this fault-find- ing runs up into the grand objection, that Thackerays good women are denied brains; that he preserves an essential alliance between moral worth and stupidity; and it is curious to see how women themselves dislike this how, in their admiration of intellect they ad- mit the truth of Becky willingly enough, but indignantly deny that of Amelia. On this question Mr. Brown thus expresses himself: A set has been made against clever women from all times. Take all Shakspeares her- oines: they all seem to me pretty much the same affectionate, motherly, tender, that sort of thing. Take Scotts ladies, and other writers, each man seems to draw from one model: an exquisite slave is what we want for the most part,a humble, flattering, smil- ing, child-loving, tea-making, pianoforte- playing being, who laughs at our jokes, how- ever old they may be, coaxes and wheedles us in our humors, and fondly lies to us through life. In the face of Rosalind, Beatrice, and Por- tia,i t is impossible to concur with Mr. Brown in his notions about Shakspeare s women, but otherwise he is right. Yet it is but a poor 19 defence for the deficiencies of a man of genius that others have shown the like short-com- ings. And on Mr. Thackerays behalta much better defence may be pleaded, though it may be one less agreeable to the sex which he is said to have maligned. That defence is a simple plea of not guilty; a denial that his women, as a class, want intellectual power to a greater extent than is consistent with truth. They vary between the extremes of pure good- ness and pure intellect,Beeky and Amelia, just as women do in real life. The moral element is certainly too prominent in Amelia, but not more so than in Colonel Neweome, and we cant see anything much amiss in Helen Pendennis. Laura, as Miss Bell, is clever enough for any man; and, though she afterwards becomes exceedingly tiresome and a prig, she does not become a fool. And what man would be bold enough to disparage the intellectual powers of Ethel Neweome? Her moral nature is at first incomplete, owing to a faulty education; but when this has been perfected through sorrow, wherein is the character deficient? Besides, we must bear in mind that virtue in action is undoubtedly slow. Goodness is not in itself entertain- ing, while ability is; and the novelist, there- fore, whose aim is to entertain, naturally la- bors most with the characters possessing the latter, in which characters the reader, too, is most interested. Hence they acquire greater prominence both as a matter of fact in the story and also in our minds. Becky, Blanche Amory, Trix, are undeniably more interest- ing, and in their points of contrast and re- semblance afford far richer materials for study than Amelia, Helen Pendennis, and Laura. But this is in the nature of things; and the writer must not be blamed for it any more than the readers. Taking, however, the Thackerean gallery as a whole, we cannot admit that either in qualities of heart or head, his women are inferior to the women we gen- erally meet. Perhaps he has nevernot even in Ethelcombined these qualities in their fullest perfection; but then how often do we find them so combined? It seems to us that Thaekeray has drawn women more carefully and more truly than any novelist in the language, except Miss Austen; and it is small reproach to any writer that he has drawn no female character so evenly good as Anne Elliot or Elizabeth Bennet. If this is true of his women, we need not 20 labor in defence of his men. For surely it cannot be questioned that his representations of the ruder sex are true,nay, are, on the whole, an improvement on reality? The ordi- nary actors who crowd his scene are not worse than the people we meet with every day; his heroes, to use a stereotyped expression, are rather better than the average; while one such character as George Warrington is worth a wilderness of commonplace~excellence called into unnatural life. But then it is said his general tone is bitter; he settles at once on the weak points of humanity, and to lay them bare is his congenial occupation. To a cer- tain extent this was his business. Dearly beloved, he says, neither in nor out of this pulpit do I profess to be bigger, or clev- erer, or wiser, or better than any of you. Nevertheless he was a preacher, though an unassuming one; and therefore it lay upon him to point out faults, to correct rather than to flatter. Yet it mnst be confessed that his earlier writings are sometimes too bitter in their tone, and too painful in their theme. This may be ascribed partly to the infectious vehemence of Fraser in those days, partly to the influence of such experiences as are drawn -upon in some parts of the Paris Sketch- Book; but however accounted for, it must be condemned as an error in art. As a dis- positiob to doubt and despond in youth be- trays a narrow intellect, or a perverted edu- cation, so, in the beginning of a literary career, a tendency toward gloom and curious research after hidden evil, reveals artistic error, or an unfortunate experience. Both in morals and art these weaknesses are gen- erally the result of years and sorrow; and thus the common transition is from the joy- ousness of youth to sadness, it may be to moroseness, in old age. But theirs is the higher and truer development, who reverse this process,who, beginning with false tastes or distorted views, shake these off as they advance into a clearer air, in whom knowledge but strengthens the nobler powers of the soul, and whose kindliness and gener- osity, based on a firmer foundation than the buoyancy of mere animal life, are purer and more enduring. Such, as it appears to us, was the history of Thackerays genius. What- ever may have been the severity of his earlier writings, it was latterly laid aside. hi the Neweomes he follows the critical dogma which lays down, that fiction h~s no busi THACKE RAY. ness to exist unless it be more beautiful than reality; and truthful kindliness~marks all his other writings of a later date, from the letters of Mr. Brown and Mr. Spec in Punch down to the pleasant egotism of the Round- about Papers. He became disinclined for severe writing even where deserved: I have militated in former times, and not without glory, but I grow peaceable as I grow old. The only things toward which he never grew peaceable were pretentiousness and false- hood. But he preferred to busy himself with what was innocent and bravo to attacking even these; he forgot the satirist, and loved rather honestly to praise or defend. The Roundabout Papers show this on every page, especially, perhaps, those on Tun- bridge Toys, on Ribbons, on a Joke I heard from the late Thomas Hood, and that entitled Nil nisi bonum. The very last pa- per of all was an angry defence of Lord Clyde against miserable club gossip, unnecessary perhaps, but a thing one likes now to think that Thackeray felt stirred to do. To be tremblingly alive to gentle impressions, says Foster, and yet be able to preserve, when oc- casion requires it, an immovable heart, even amidst the most imperious causes of subduing emotion, is perhaps not an impossible consti- tution of mind, but it is the utmost and rarest condition of humanity. These words do not describe the nature of a man who would pay out of his own pocket for contributions he could not insert in the Corn/mill; but if for heart we substitute intellect, they will perfectly describe his literary genius. He was always tremblingly alive to gentle im- pressions, but his intellect, amidst any emo- tions, remained clear and immovable; so that good taste was never absent, and false senti- ment never came near him. He makes the sorrows of Werther the favorite reading of the executioner atStrasbourg.* ~ Among his ballads we have the following some- what literal analysis of this work Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and btmbhlod, TUACKEILAY. Few men have written so much that ap- peals directly to our emotions, and yet kept so entirely aloof from anything-tawdry, from all falsetto. If my tap, says he, is not genuine, it is naught, and no man should give himself the trouble to drink it. It was at all times thoroughly genuine, and is therefore everything to us. Truthfulness, in fact, eager and uncompromising, was his main characteristic,truthfulness, not only in speech, but, what is a far more uncommon and precious virtue, truth in thought. His entire mental machinery acted under this law of truth. He strove always to find and show things as they really aretrue nobleness apart from trappings, unaffected simplicity, generosity without ostentation; confident that so he would best convince every one that what is truly good pleases most, and lasts longest, and that what is otherwise soon becomes tire- son~e, and, worst of all, ridiculous. A man to whom it has been given consistently to de- vote to such a purpose the highest powers of sarcasm, ridicule, sincere pathos, and, though sparingly used, of exhortation, must be held to have fulfilled a career singularly honorable and useful. To these noble ends he was never unfaithful. True, he made no boast -of this. Disliking cant of all kinds, he made no excep- tion in favor of the cant of his own pro- fession. What the deuce ! he writes to a friend; our twopenny reputations get us at least twopence-hallpenny; and then comes noxfabul~que manes, and the immortais per- ish. The straightforward Mr. Yellowplush stoutly maintains, in a similar strain, that people who write books are no whit better, or actuated by more exalted motives, than their neighbors: Away with this canting about great motifs! Let us not be too prowd, and fansy ourselves marters of the truth, mar- ters or apostels. We are but tradesmen, working for bread, and not for righteousness sake. Lets try and work honestly; but dont let us be prayting pompisly about our sacred calling. And George Warring- ton, in Pendennis, is never weary of preaching the same wholesome doctrine. Thackeray had no sympathy with swagger of any kind. His soul revolted from it; he Till he blew his silly brains out, And no mere was by ib troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. always talked under what he felt. At the same time, indifference had no part in this want of pretence. So far from being indif- ferent, he was peculiarly sensitive to the opinions of others; too much so for his own happiness. He hated to be called a cynical satirist : the letter we have quoted to his Edinburgh friends shows-how he valued any truer appreciation. Mere slander he could despise like a man; he winced under the false estimates and injurious imputations too frequent from people who should have known better. But he saw his profession as it really was, and spoke of it with his innate simplicity and dislike of humbug. And in this matter, as in the ordinary affairs of life, those who profess little, retaining a decent reserve as to their feelings and motives, are far more to be relied orm than those who protest loudly. Whether authors are moved by love of fame, or a necessity for daily bread, does not greatly signify. The world is not concerned with this in the least; it can only require that, as Mr. Yellowplush puts it, they should try to work honestly; and herein he never failed. lie never wrote but in accordance with his convictions; he spared no pains that his convictions should be in accordance with truth. For one quality we cannot give him too great praise; that is the sense of the distinction of right and of wrong. He never puts bitter for sweet, or sweet for bitter; never calls evil things good, or good things evil ; there is no haziness or mud~tie; no topsyturvifications, like Madame Sands, in his moralities :with an immense and acute compassion for all suffering, with a power of going out of himself and into a1- most every human feeling, he vindicates at all times the supremacy of conscience, the sacredness and clearness of the law written in our hearts. His keenness of observation and his entire truthfulness found expression in a style wor- thy of them in its sharpness and distinctness. The specimens we have quoted of his earlier writings show that these qualities marked his style from the first. He labored to improve those natural gifts. He steadily observed Mr. Yellowplushs recommendation touching poet- ical cpmposition: Take my advise, honrabble sirlisten to a humble footmnin: its genrally best in poatry to understand puffickly what you mean yourself, and to ingspress your meaning clearly afterwoodsin the simpler words the 21 better, praps. He always expressed his meaning clearly and in simple words. But as, with increasir ig experience, his meanings deepened and widened, his expression became rieher. The language continued to the last simple and direct, but it became more copious, more appropriate, more susceptible of rhyth- mical combinations: in other words, it rose to be the worthy vehicle of more varied and more poetical ideas. This strange peculiarity of soberness in youth, of fancy coming into being at the command and for the service of the mature judgment, has marked some of the greatest writers. The words in which Lord Macaulay has described it with regard to Bacon may be applied, with little reserva- tion, to Thackeray: He ohs~rved as vigi- lantly, meditated as deeply, and judged as temperately, when he gave his first work to the world, as at the close of his long career. But in eloquence, in sweetness and variety of expression, and in richness of illustration, his later writings are far superior to those of his youth. Confessedly at the last he was the greatest master of pure English in our day. His style is never ornate, on the con- trary is always marked by a certain reserve which surely betokens thought and real feel- ing; is never forced or loaded, only entirely appropriate and entirely beautiful; like crys- tal, at once clear and splendid. We quote two passages, both from books written in his prime, not merely as justifying these remarks, but because they illustrate qualities of his mind second only to his truthfulness his sense .of beauty, and his sense of pathos. And yet neither passage has any trace of what he calls the sin of grandiloquence, or tall- talking. The first is the end of the Kick- leburys on the Rhine: The next morning we had passed by the rocks and towers, the old familiar landscapes, the gleaming towers by the riverside, and the green vineyards combed along the hills; and when I woke up, it was at a great hotel at Cologne, and it was not sunrise yet. Deutz lay opposite, and over Deutz the dusky sky was reddened. The hills were veiled in t.he mist and the gray. Thegray river flowed un- derneath us; the steamers were roosting along the quays, a light keeping watch in the cab- ins here and there, and its reflection quiver- ing in the water. As I look, the sky-line toward the east grows redder and redder. A long troop of gray horsemen winds down the river road, and passes over the bridge of boats. You might take them for ghosts those gray THACKERAY. horsemen, so shadowy do they look; but you hear the trample of their hoofs as they pass over the planks. Every minute the dawn twinkles up into the twilight, and over Deutz the heaven blushes brighter.. The quays be- gin to fill with men; the carts begin to creak and rattle, and wake the sleeping echoes. Ding, ding, dingthe steamers bells begin to ring, the people on board to stir and wake; the lights may he extinguished, and take their turn of sleep; the active boats shake them- selves, and push out into the river; the great bridge opens and gives them passage; the chut~ch-bells of the city begin to clink; the cavalry trumpets blow from the opposite hank; the sailor isat the wheel, the porter at his bur- den, the soldier at his musket, and the priest at his prayers. . . . And lo ! in a flash of crimson splendor, with blazing scarlet clouds running before his chariot, and heralding his niajestic approach, Gods sun rises upon the world, and all nature wakens and bri~htens. 0 glorious spectacle of light and lihm! () beatific symbol of Power, Love, Joy, Beauty! Let us look at thee with humble wonder, and thankfully acknowledge and adore. What gracious forethought is itwhat generous and loving provision, that deigns to prepare for our eyes and to soothe our hearts with such a splendid morning festival! For these magnificent bounties of heaven to us, let us be thankful, even that we can feel thankful (for thanks surely is the noblest effort, as it is the greatest delight, of the gentle soul); and so, a grace for this feast, let all say who partake of it. . . . See! the mist clears off Drachenfels, and it looks out from the dis- tance, and bids us a friendly farewell. Our second quotation describes Esmond at his mothers graveone of the most deeply affecting pieces of writing in the language: Esmond came to this spot in one sunny evening of spring, and saw amidst a thousand black crosses, casting their shadows across the grassy mounds, that particular one which marked his mothers resting-place. Many more of those poor creatures that lay there had adopted that same name with which sor- row had rebaptized her, and which fondly seemed to hint their individual story of love and grief. Lie fancied her, in tears arid darkness, kneeling at the foot of her cross, undea which her cares were buried. Surely, he knelt do~vn, and said his own prayer there, not in sorrow so much as in awe (for even his memory bad no recollection of her), and in pity for the pangs which the ~entle soul in life had been made to sufkr. To this cross she brought them; for this heavenly bride- groom she exchanged the husband who had wooed her, the traitor who had left her. A THACKERAY. thousand such hillocks lay round about, the gentle daisies springing out of the grass over them, and each bearing its cross and requies- cat. A nun, veiled in black, was kneeling hard by, at a sleeping sisters bedside (so fresh made that the spring had scarce had time to spin a coverlid for it) ; beyond the cemetery walls you had glimpses of life and the world, and the spires and gables of the city. A bird came down from a roof oppo- site, and lit first on a cross, and then on the grass below it, whence it flew away presently with a leaf in its mouth; then came a sound of chanting, from the chapel of the sisters hard by; others had long since filled the place which poor Mary Magdalene once had there, were kneeling at the same stall and hearing the same hymns and prayers in which her stricken heart had found consolation. Might she sleep in peacemight she sleep in peace; and we, too, when our struggles and pains are over! But the earth is the Lord~s as the heaven is; we are alike his creatures here and yonder. I took a little flower off the hillock and kissed it, and went my way like the bird that had just lighted on the cross by me, hack into the world again. Silent recep- tacle of death! tranquil depth of calm, 6ut of reach of tempest and trouble. I felt as one who had been walking below the sea, and treading amidst the bones of shipwrecks. Looking at Mr. Thackerays writings as a whole, he would be more truthfully described as a sentimentalist than as a cynic. Even when the necessities of his story compel him to draw bad characters, he gives them as much good as he can. We dont remember in his novels any utterly unredeemed scoun- drel except Sir Francis Clavering. Even Lord Steyne has sornethin~ like genuine sympathy with Major Pendenniss grief at the illness of his nephew. And if reproof is the main burden of his discourse, we must remember that to reprove, not to praise, is the business of the preacher. Still further, if his reproof appears sometimes unduly severe, we must remember that such severity may spring from a belief that better things are possible. Here lies the secret of Thackerays seeming hitterness. His nature was, in the words of the critic in Le Temps; furieuse davoir ete & sappointed. He condemns sternly men as they often are, because he had a high ideal of what they might be. The feeling of this contrast runs through all his writings. He could not have painted Vanity Fair as he has, unless Eden had been shining brightly before his eyes. * And this contrast could never have been felt, the glories of Eden could never have been seen by the mere satirist or by the misanthrope. It has been often urged against him that he does not make us think better of our fellow-men. No, truly. But he does what is far greater than this: he makes us think worse of ourselves. There is no great necessity that we should think well of other people; there is the utmost necessity that we should know ourselves in our every fault and weakness; and sueh knowledge his writings will supply. In Mr. llannays Memoir,f which we have read with admiration and pleasure, a letter from Thackeray is quoted, very illustrative of this view of his character: I hate Ju- venal: I mean I think him a truculent brute, and I love Horace better than you d~, and rate Churchill much lower; and as for Swift, you havent made me alter my opinion. I admire, or rather admit, his power as much as you do; but I dont admire that kind of power so mueh as I did fifteen years ago,or twenty, shall we say? Love is a higher intel- lectual exercise than hatred. We think the terrible Dean has love as well as hate strong within him, and none the worse in that it was more special than general; I like Tom, Dick, and harry, he used to say; I bate the race; but nothing can be more character- istic of Thackeray than this judgment. Love was the central necessity of his understand- ing as well as of his affections; it was hia fulfilling of the law; and unlike the Deam~, he could love Tom, and also like and pity, as well as rebuke the race. Mr. Thackeray has not written any his- tory formally so called. But it is known that he purposed doing so, and in Esmond and the Lectures he has given us much of the real essence of history. The t3aturday Review, however, in a recent article, has an- nounced that this was a mistake; that his- tory was not his line. Such a deeision is rather startling. In one or two instances of historical representatio~n, Mr. Thackeray may have failed. Johnson and Riehardson do not appear in the Virginians with much effect. But surely in the great ma- * Essays by George Brimley. Second edition. Cambridge, 1860. A collection of singularly good critical papers. t A brief Memoir of the late Mr. Thackeray~ By James Hannay. Edinburgh, 1864. 23 THACKERAY. jority of instances, he has been eminently successful. Horace Walpoles letter in the Virginians, the fictitious Spec~atorin Esinond are very felicitous literary imita- tions. Good-natured trooper Steele comfort- ing the boy in the lonely country-house: Addison, serene and dignified, with ever so slight a touch of merum in his voice~~ occa- sionally; Bolingbroke, with a good deal of merum in his voice, talking reckless Jacobit- ism at the dinner at General Wehbes, are wonderful portraits. And, though the esti- mate of Marlboroughs character may be dis- puted, the power with which that character is represented cannot be questioned. But the historical genius displayed in Esmond goes beyond this. We know of no history in which the intrigues and confusion of par- ties at the death of Queen Anne are sketched so firmly as in the third volume of that work; in fact, a more thorough historical novel was never written. It is not loaded with histori- cal learning; and yet it is most truly, though or rather because unpretendingly, a complete representation of the time. It reads like a veritable memoir. And it will hardly he dis- puted that a good historical novel cannot he written, save by one possessed of great histori- cal powers. What are the qualities neces- sary to an historian? Knowledge, love of truth, insight into human nature, imagina- tion to make alive before him the times of which be writes. All these Mr. Thackeray had. his knowledge was accurate and mi- nute,indeed, he could not have written save of what he knew well; a love of truth was his main characteristic; for insight into human nature he ranks second to Shakspeare alone; and while he wanted that highest creative imagination which makes the poet, he had precisely that secondary imagination which serves the historian, which can realize the pnst and make the distant near. Had he been allowed to carry out his cherished design of recording the reign of Queen Anne, a great gap in the history of our country would have been filled up by one of the most remarkable books in the language. We might have had less than is usual of the dignity of history, of battles and statutes and treaties; but we should have had more of human naturethe actors in the drama would have been brought before us living and moving, their passions and hidden motives made clear; the life of England would have been sketched by a sub- tile artist; the literature of England, during a period which this generation often talks about, but of which it knows, we suspect, very little, would have been presented to us lighted up by appreciative and competent criticism. The Saturday Reviewer gives a rea- son forMr. Thackerays failure as an historian, which will seem strange to those who have been accustomed to regard him as a cynic. He was so carried away by worth, says this ingenious critic bent on fault-finding, and so impatient of all moral obliquity, that he could not value fairly the services which had been rendered by bad men. And the in- stance given is that a sense of what we owe to the Hanoverian succession was not allowed to temper the severity of the estimate given of the first two Georges; an unfortunate in- stance, as the critic would have discovered, had he read the following passage in the lect- ure on George the Second But for Sir Robert Walpole, we should have had the Pretender back again. But for his obstinate love of peace, we should have had wars, which the nation was not strong enough nor united enough to endure. But for his resolute counsels and good-humored resist- ance, we might have had German despots at-. tempting a Hanoverian regimen over us; we should have had revolt, commotion, want, and tyrannous misrule, in place of a quarter of a century of peace, freedom, and material pros- perity, such as the country never enjoyed, un- til that corrupter of parliaments, that disso- lute, tipsy cynic, that courageous lover of peace and liberty, that great citizen, patriot, and statesman, governed it. The truth is, that Mr. Thackeray, while fully appreciating the blessings of the Han- overian succession, knew well that the coun- try did not in the least degree owe the sta- bility of that succession to the Hanoverian kings, but, on the contrary, to that great min- ister, whose character is sketched in a power- ful passage, of which the above quotation is a part. In fact, Mr. Thackeray judged no man harshly. No attentive student of his works can fail to see that he understood the duty of making allowance, not less with regard to historical characters, than with re- gard to characters of his own creation. He: does full justice, for example, to the courage and conduct of Marlborough, as to whose moral character the opinion of Colonel Es. mond is in curions accordance with the his- torical judgment given later to the public by Lord Macaulay. 24 T H AC KE RAY. These Lectures on the Georges were made the ground of a charge against Mr. Thackeray of disloyalty. This charge was urged with peculiar offensiveness hy certain journals, which insinuated that the failings of English hings had been selected as a theme grateful to the Am~.rican audiences who first heard the lectures delivered. Mr. Thackeray felt this charge deeply, and repelled it in lan- guage which we think worthy to be remem- bered. At a dinner given to him in Edin- burgh, in 1857, he said, I had thought that in these lectures I had spoken in terms not of disrespect or unkind- ness, and in feelings and in language not Un- English, of Her Majesty, the Queen; and wherever I have had to mention her name, whether it was upon the banks of the Clyde or upon those of the Mississippi; whether it was in New England or in Old England; whether it was in some great hall in London to the artisans of the suburbs of the metrop- olis, or to the pouter audiences of the west- ern end,wherevcr I had to mention her name, it was received with shouts of ap~ plause, and with the most hearty cheers. And why was this? It was not on account of the speaker; it was on account of the truth; it was because the English and the Americans the people of New Orleans a year ago, the people of Aberdeen a week agoall received and acknowledged with due allegiance the great claims to honor which that lady has who worthily holds that great and awful. situation which our Queen occupies. It is my loyalty that is called in question, and it is my loyalty that I am trying to plead to you. Suppose, for example, in Americain Philadelphia or in New Yorkthat I had spoken about George LV. in terms of praise and affected reverence, do you believe they would have hailed his name with cheers, or have heard it with any- thing like respect? They would have laughed in my face if I had so spoken of him. They know what I know and you know, and what numbers of squeamish loyalists who affect to cry out against my lectures know, that that mans life was not a good lifethat that king was not such a king as we ought to love, or regard, or honor. And I believe, for my part, that in speaking the truth, as we hold it, of a bad sovereign, we are paying no dis- respect at all to a good one. Far from it. On the contrary, we degrade our own honor and the soverci ~,n s by unduly and unjustly praising him; and the mere~slaverer and flat- terer is one who comes forward, as it were, with flash notes, and pays with false coin his tribute to Ciesar. I dont disguise that I feel somehow on my trial here for loyalty, for honest English feeling. The judgment pronounced by the accom- plished Scotch judge who presided at this din- ner-trial, a man far removed, both by tastes and position, from any sympathy with vulgar popularity-hunting, will be accepted by every candid person as just I dont, said Lord Neaves, for my part, regret if there are some painful truths told in these lectures to those who had before reposed in the pleasing delusion that every- thing royal was immaculate. I am not sorry that some of the false trappings of royalty or of a court life should be stripped off. We live under a sovereign whose conduct, both public and private, is so unexceptionable, that we can afford to look all the fhcts connected with it in the face; and woe be to the coun- try or to the crown when the voice of truth shall be stifled as to any such matters, or when the only tongue that is allowed to be heard is that of flattery. It was said of Fontenelle that he had as good a heart as could be made out of brains. Adapting the observation, we may say of Thackeray that he was as good a poet as could be made out of brains. The highest gifts of the poet of course he wanted. His imagina- tion, to take Ruskins distinction, was more penetrative than associative or contemplative. His mind was too much occupied with realities for persistent ideal work. But manliness and common sense, combined with a perfect mas- tery of langua,~e, go a long way at least to the making of very excellent verses. More than this, he had the sensibility, the feeling of tune and of numbers essential to versifying; and his mind fulfilled the condition required by our greatest living poet Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river. His verse-making was a sort of pleasaunce a flower-garden in the midst of spacious pol- icies. It was the ornamentation of his intel- lect. His ballads do not, perhaps, show poetic feeling more profound than is possessed by many men; they derive for the most part their charm from the same high qualities as mark his prose, with the attraction of music and rhyme superadded. Writing them seems to have given him real pleasure. The law of self-imposed restraint, of making the thought often wait upon the soundnecessary in rhyth- mical compositionrather than, as in prose, the sound upon the sensethis measuring of feeling and of expression had plainly a great charma for his rich and docile genius. lEe 26 THACEERAY. verses give one the idea of having been a great delight to himself, like humming a fa- vorite air; there is no trace of effort, and yet the trick of the verse is perfect. His rhymes are often as good as Swifts and Hoods. This feeling of enjoyment, as also the abound- ing fertility in strange rhymes, is very marked in the White Squall and hardly less in the ease and gayety of Peg of Lirna- avaddy. Take, for instance the description of the roadside inn where Peg dispenses liquor: Limavaddy inns But a humble baithouse, Where you may procure Whiskey and potatoes Landlord at The door Gives a smiling welcome To the shivering wights Who to his hotel come. Landlady within Sits and knits a stocking, With a wary foot Babys cradle rocking. To the chimney nook Having found admittance, There I watch a pup Playin0 with two kittens (Playing round the fire, Which of blazing turf is, Roaring to the -pot Which bubbles with the murphies); And the cradled babe Fond the mother nursed it, Singing it a song As she twists the worsted! Peg herself and her laugh: Such a silver peal! In the meadows listening, You whove heard the bells Ringing to a christening; You who ever heard Caradori pretty, Smiling like an angel, Singing Giovinetti; Fancy Pe~gys laugh, Sweet and clear and cheerful, At my pautaloons With half a pint of beer full! See her as she moves! S3arce the ground she touches, Airy as a fay, Graceful as a duchess; Bare her rounded arm, Bare her littir leg is, Vestris never showed Ankles like to Peggys; Braided is her hair, Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist Comfortably bodiced. In asimilar light and graceful style are the Cane-Bottomed Chair Piscator and Pis catrix, the Carmen Lilliense, etc. : and all the Lyra Hibernica, ci~pecially the rol- licking Battle of Limerick, are rich in Irish absurdity. That compact little epic, the Chronicle of the Drum, the well-known Bouillabaisse and At the Church Gate the first literary effort of Mr. Arthur Pen- dennisseem to us in their various styles to rise into the region of real poetry. The Chronicle of the Drum is a grand martial composition, and a picture of the feelings of the French soldiery which strikes on us at once as certainly true. The Ballads of Pleaceman are unique in literatureas startlingly originalas Tam OShanter. Jacob Horn- niums Hoss~ is perhaps the most amusing; the Foundling of Shoreditch tile most se- rious; but through them ali there runs a cur- rent of good sense, good feeling, and quaint fun, which makes them most pleasant reading. They remind one somehow of John Gil- pin ;indeed, there is often the same playful fancy and delicate pensiveness in Thackeray as in Cowper. We should like to quote many of these; but we give in preference Miss Tickletobys ballad on King Canute long though it be, because it is riot ineluAed in the collected ballads, and has not, we fear, obtained great popularity by being incorpo- rated into Rebecca and Rowena a render- ing of poetical justice less generally read than it should be KING OANTJTE. King Canute was weary-hearted; he had reigned for years a score; Battling, strugglin~, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbin~ more, And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore. Twixt the chancellor and bishop walked the king with steps sedate, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silver sticks and gold sticks great, Chaplains, aides-dc-camp, and pages,all the officers of state. Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause If a frown his face contracted, straight the court- iers dropped their jaws If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws. But that day a something vexed him ; that was clear to old and young; Thrice his grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleeman sung; Once the queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue. 26 TTIACKERAY. 27 Something ails my gracious master1 cried the Live these fifty years! the bishop roared, keeper of the seal, with actions made to suit Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served at din- Are you mad, my good lord keeper, thus to nec, or the veal! speak of King Canute! Psha! exclaimed the angry monarch; keeper, Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his tis not that Ii feel, majesty will dot. Tie the heart and not the dinner, fool, that Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Canan, Mahaleel, doth my rest impair; Methusela, Can a king be great as L am, prithee, and yet Lived nine hundred years apiece, and maynt the know no care? king as well as they? Oh, Im sick and tired and weary. Some one Fervently, exclaimed the keeper, fervently, I cried, The kings arm-chair! trust he may. Then toward the lackeys turning, quick my He to die, resumed the bishop. He, a mor- lord the keeper nodded, tal like to us? Straight the kings great chair was brought him, Deathwas not for him intended, though conzmuszis by two footmen ablebodied, oJflflJ~bUS; Languidly he sank into it it was comfortably Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil wadded. thus. Leading on my fierce companions, cried he, With his wondrous skill in healing neer a over storm and brine, doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start np I have fought and I have conquered! Where was clean upon their feet; glory like to mine! Surely, he could raise the dead up, did his high- Loudly all the courtiers echoed, Where is glory ness think it meet. like to thine? Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am upon the hill, I now, and old~ And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver Those fair sons I have begotten long to see me moon stand still? dead and cold ; So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the sacred will. silent mould Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent, at my Bishop? Canute cried; bosom tears and bites: Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out heavenly ride? all the lights ; If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can cam- Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my mand the tide. bed, of nights. Will the advancing waves obey me, bishop, if Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sac- Said I niake the sign? rilegious fires the bishop, bowing lowly, Land and sea, Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for my lord, are thine. their slaughtered sires Canute turned toward the ocean Back! he Such a tender conscience, cries the bishop, said, thou foaming brine. every one admires. From the sacred shore I stand on, I command But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my thee to retreat; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy gracious lord, to search, masters seat Theyre forgotten and forgiven by our holy Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer Mother Church; Never, never does she leave her benefactors in to my feet! the lurch. But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, Look ! the land is crowned with minsters, And deeper roar, the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sound- which your graces bounty raised; ing on the shore; Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Back the keeper and the bishop, back the king Heaven are daily praised ; and courtiers bore. You, my lord, to think of dying? on my con- science, Im amazed ! And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, Nay, I feel, replied King Canute, that my But alone to praise and worship that which earth end is drawing near; and seas obey, Dont say so, exclaimed the~ courtiers (striving And his golden crown of empire never wore he each to squeeze a tear); from that day. Sure your grace is strong and lusty, and may King Canute is dead and gone: parasites exist live this fifty year. alway. 28 THA CKE RAY. We must say a few words on his merits as cially, as we have already said, the series by an artist and a critic of art. We can hardly Pleaceman X.; but we are inclined to think agree with those who hold that he failed as that it finds most scope in his drawings. We an artist, and then took to his pen. There is well remember our surprise on e~au1ng upon no proof of failure; his art accomplishes all some of his earlier works for Punch. Uest he sets it to. Had he, instead of being a of all was an impressive series illustrative of gentlemans son, brought up at the Charter the following passage in the Tirncsof Decern- house and Cambridge~ been horn in the par- her 7, 1843 The a~ents of the tract soci- a ish of St. Bartholomew the Great, and ap- etics have lately had recourse to a new method prenticed, let us say, when thirteen years of introducing their tracts into Cailis. The old, to Raimbach, the engraver, we might tracts were put into glass hatd,s securcl~j have had another, and in some ways a subtler corked; and, taking advant:ige of the tide Hogarth. He draws well; his mouths and flowing into the harbor, they were coumitted noses, his feet, his childrens heads, all his ugly to the waves, on whose. surface they floated and queer mugs, are wonderful for ex- toward the town, where the inhabitants en- pression and good drawing. With beauty gerly took theta up on their arriving at the of man or woman he is not so happy; but his shore. The bottles were then uncorked, and fun is, we think, even more abounding and the tracts they contain are supposad to have funnier in his cuts than in his words. The been read with much interest. The purpose love of fun in him was something quite pe- of the series is to hold up to public odium culiar. Some writers have been more witty; the Dissenting tract-smuggler Tractistero a few have had a more delicate humor; but dissentero contrabandistero. The first cut none, we think, have had more of that genial represents a sailor, thirsty as the seaman quality which is described by the homely naturally is, rushing through the surf to word,fun. It lay partly in imitation, as in seize the bottle which has been bobbing the Novels by minent hands. There towards him. Sherry perhaps, he ex- were few things moore singular in his intellec- claims to himself and his friend. Second tual organization than the coincidence of ab- cut: the thirsty expectant has the bottle in solute originality of thought and style with Says guzzling Jack to gorging Jimmy, exquisite mimetic power. But it oftener Im extremely hungaree. showed itself in a pure love of nonsenseonly Says gorging Jim to guzzling Jacky. nonsense of the highest order. He was very We have no provisions, so we roust eat we. fond of abandoning himself to this temper; Says guzzling Jack to ~orging Jimmy, ~imness the Story ~s la mode in the Corn- 0 ~orging Jim, what a fool yon be! kill, some of the reality-giving touches in Theres little Bill is youn~, and tender, which would have done credit to Gulliver. Were old and touch, so lets eat he. Major Gahagan is far funnier than Baron 0 Bill, were going to kill and eat you, Munehausen; and where is there more ex- So undo the collar of your chemie. quisite nonsense than The Rose and the When Bill received this infumation Ring, with the little beggar baby that He used his poeket-handkerehie. laughed and sang as droll as may he? There Oh, let me say roy catechism, ts much of this spirit in his ballads,* espe- As my poor mammy taught to me. ~ We subjoin an astonishing piece of nonsensea Make haste, make haste, tys guzzling Jacky, species of song or dittywhich he chanted, we be- While Jim pulled out his snickersnee. lieve, extemare (in singing, each line to be re- So Bill went up the main-top-gallant mast peated twice) Where down he fell on his hended knee. LITTLE IsILLEE. He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment, There were 3 sailors in Bristol city, When up he jumps, Theres land, I see. Who took a heat and went to sea. Theres Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee. But first with beef and captains biscuit, Theres the British fleet a riding anchor, And pickled pork they loaded she. With Admiral Nelson, K.G.B. There was guzzling Jack and gorging Jimmy So when they came to the admirals vessel, And the youngest he was little Billee. He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee. Now very soon, they were so greedy, But as for little Bill, he made him They didnt leave not one split pea. The captain of a seventy-three. TITACKERAY. 29 position, and is drawing the cork, another and much steadier than with him inside. mariner, and a little wondering boy, capi- The idea and the execution are full of.genius. tally drawn, looking on. Rum, I hope, The frontispiece of the same book contains a is the thought of each. Lastly we have the study of heads, than which Hogarth certainly awful result: our friend holds up on the never did anything better. These explanatory corkscrew to his companion and the uni- lines are below the picture verse a Spanish translation of the Cow-boy Number ls an ancient Carlist, number 8 a of Kensington Common, with an indignant Paris artist; Tracts, by jingo! Then there is John Gloomily there stands between them, number 2, Balliol, in Miss Tickletobys Lectures, a Bonapartist. cutting into England on a ragged sheltie In the middle is King Louis Philip standing at his ease, which is trotting like a maniac over a series Guarded by a loyal grocer, and a serjeant of of boulders, sorely discomposing the rider, police whose kilt is of the shortest. Even better 4s the people in a passion, 6 a priest of pious mien. is the cut illustrative of the ballad of King 5 a gentleman of fashion copied from a mag- Canute, the king and his courtiers on the azine. shore, with bathing-machines and the Union- No words can do justice to the truth and jack in the distance: and a most preposter- power of this group of characters; it gives a ous representation of the non Angli sedAngeli history of France during the Orleans dynasty. story. We wish Mr. Thackerays excellent We give on the opposite page a facsimile friends, the proprietors of Punch, would re- of a drawing* sent by him to a friend, with print all his odds and ends, with their wood- the following note cuts. They will get the laughter and grati- Behold a drawino instead of a letter. Ive tude of mankind if they do. been thinking of wr~ting you a beautiful one He is, as far as we recollect, the only ever so long, but, etc., etc. And instead of great author who illustrated his own works. doing my duty this morning, I began this here This gives a singular completeness to the re- drawing, and will pay your debt some other sult. When his pen has said its say, then dayno, part of your debt. I intend to owe his pencil and adds its own felicity, the rest, and like to owe it, and think Im comes sincerely grateful to you always, my deargood Take the original edition of the Book of friends. W. M. T. Snobs, all those delicious Ch~ristmas little This drawing is a good specimen of his quartos, especially Mrs. Perkins Ball work; it tells its own story, as every drawing and the Rose and the Ring (one of the should. Here is the great lexicographer, most perfectly realized ideas we know of), with his ponderous shuffling tread, his thick and see how complete is the duet between the lips, his head bent down, his book close to eye and the mind, between word and figure. his purblind eyes, himself tolus in i/ia, read- There is an etching in the Paris Sketch- ing, as he fed, greedily and fast. Beside him Book which better deserves to be called simpers the clumsy and inspired Oliver, in his high art than most of the class so called, new plum-colored coat; his eyes bent down in It is Majesty in the person of Le Grand an ecstasy of delight, for is he not far prouder Monarquein and stripped of its externals, of his visageand such a visage !and of his which are there also by themselves. The coat than of his artless genius? We nll lean and shippered old pantaloon is tottering know about that coat, and how Mr. Filby peevishly on his staff, his other hand in his never got paid for it. There he is behind his waistcoat-pocket; his head absolutely bald; window in sartorial posture; his uplifted his whole aspect pitiable and forlorn, quera- goose arrested, his eye following wistfully, bus and absurd. To his left is his royal self, and not without a sense of glory and dread, in all his glory of high-heeled boots, three- that coat and man. His journeyman is grin- storied flowing wig, his orders, and sword, ning at him; he is paid weekly, and has no t~nd all his dread magnificence, as we risk. And then what a genuine bit of Thaek- know him in his pictures; on his right we eray, the street boy and his dear little i~dniir- behold, and somehow feel as if the old crea- ing sister !there they are, stepping out in tL re, too, is in awe of them, his clothes, p~ mimicry of the great two. Observe the care- sethe properties of the great European ful, honest work, and how the turn of the left actor, setingeniously up, and looking as grand ~ Not in the Amerloan Edition. THACKERAY. foot of the light-hearted and heeled gamin whose toes, much innocent of shoes, have a pre- hensile look about them, suggestive of the Huxley grandfatheris corrected, as also Dr. Goldsmiths. He could never let any- thing remain if it were untrue. It would not he easy to imagine better crit- icisms of art than these from Mr. Thackerays hand in Fraser, in Punch, in a kindly and beau- tiful paper on our inimitable John Leech in the Quarterly, in a Roundabout on Ru- bens, and throughout his stories,espe- cially the Newcomcs,wherever art comes in. lie to.uches the matter to the quick; and touches nothing else and while sensitive to all true and great art, he detects and detests all that is falseor mean. Lie isnotso imaginative, not so impassioned and glorious, not so amaz- ing in illustration, and in painting better than pictures, as Mr. Ruskin, who has done more for art and its true interests than all. other writers. But he is more to be trusted because he is more objective, more cool, more critical in the true sense. He sees everything by the lumen siccum, though it by no means follows that he does not feel as well as see; but here, as in everything else, his art has its seat in reason, and is judicious. Here is his description of Turners Old Tdm6raire,? from a paper on the Royal Academy in Fraser. We can give it no higher praise than that it keeps its own with Ruskins 1 must request you to turn your atten- tion to a noble river piece, by J. W. M. Tur- ner, Esq., R.A., The Fighting Thm6raire, as grand a painting as ever figured on the walls of any academy, or came from the easel of any painter. The old Temeraire is dragged to her last home by a little, spiteful, diaboli- cal steamer. A mighty red sun, amidst a host of flaring clouds, sinks to rest on one side of the picture, and illumines a river that seems interminable, and a countless navy that fades away into such a wonderful distance as never was painted before. The little demon of a steamer is belching out a volume (why do I say a volume? not a hundred volumes could express it) of foul, lurid, red-hot, ma- lignant smoke, paddling furiously, and lash- ing up the water round about it: while be- hind it (a cold, gray moon looking down on it), slow, sad, and majestic, follows the brave old ship, with death, as it were, written on her. . . . It is absurd, you will say (and with a great deal of reason), for Titmarsh or any other Briton to grow so politically en- thusiastic about a four-foot canvas, represent- ing a ship, a steamer, a river, and a sunset. But herein surely lies the power of the great artist. He makes you see and thinl~ of a great deal more than the objects before you ; he knows how to soothe or to intoxicate, to fire or to depress, by a few notes, or forms or col- ors, of which we cannot trace the effect to the source, but only acknowled~e the power. I recollect some ycars ago, at the theatre at Weimar, hearing Beethovens Battle of Vit- toria, in which; amidst a storm of glorious music, the air of God save the King was introduced. The very instant it begun, every Englishman in the house was bolt upright, and so stood reverently until the air was played out. Why so? From some such thrill of excitement as makes us glow and re- joice over Mr. Turner and his Fighting T& miraire, which I ani sure, when the art of translating colors into poetry or music shall be discovered, will be found to be a magnifi- cent national ode or piece of music. When speaking of The Slave Ships by the same anmazing artist, he says, with delightful natvete, I dont know whether it is sublime or ridiculous, a characteristic instance of his outspoken truthfulness; and he lays it down that the first quality of an artist is to have a large heart, believing that all art, all imaginative work of the highest order, must originate in and be addresscd to the best pow- ers of the soul, must submit the shows of things to the desires of the mind. Mr. Trollope says, in the Cornhill for this February, that which the world will most want to know of Thackeray is the effect which his writings have produced. In one sense of the word, the world, is not likely ever to find this out; it is a matter which each man must determine for himself. But the world can perhaps ascertain what special services Mr. Thackeray has rendered; and it is this probably which Mr. Trollope means. His great service has been in his exposure of the prevailing faults of his time. Among the fore, most are the faults of affectation and pretence, but there is one yet more grievous than these the sceptical spirit of the age. This he has depicted in the gentlest and saddest of all his books, Pendennis: And it will be. seen that the lamentable ~tage to which his logic at present has brought him (Arthur Pendennis) is one of general scepticism and sneering acquies- cence in the world as it is; or, if you like so to call it, a belief qualified with scorn in all things extant. . . . And to what does thi~ easy and sceptical life lead a man? Friend Arthur was a Sadducee, and the Baptist 30 THACKERAY. might he in the wilderness shouting to toe poor, who were listening with all their might and faith to the preachers awful accents and denunciations of wrath or woe or salvation; and our frieu(1 the Sadducee would turn his sleek mule with a shrug and a smile from the crowd, and ~o honie to the shade of his ter- race, and muse over preacher and audience, and turn to his roll of Plato, or his pleasant Greek song-hook babbling of honey and fly- bla, and nymphs and fountains and love. To what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leads a man to a shameful loneliness and self- i8hness, so to speakthe more shameful, he- cause it is so good-humored and conscienceless and serene. Conscience! What is conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith? Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous tradition. The delineation is not a pleasant one; but it is true. The feeling hardly deserves to he called scepticism; it is rather a calm indiffer- entism,a putting aside of all things sacred. And as the Sadducees of Judea were, on the whole, hctter men than the Pharisees, so this modern Sadducean fesling prevails not only among the cultivated classes, hut among those conspicuously honorable and upright. These men, in fact, want spiritual guides and teach- ers. The clergy do not supply this want; most of them refuse to acknowledge its exist- ence; Mr. Thackeray, with his fearless truth- fulness, sees it, and tells it. To cure it is not within his province. As a lay-preacher, only the secondary principles of morality are at his command. Be each, pray God, a gentle- man, is his lai~hest sanction. But though he cannot tell the afflicted whither to turn, it is no slight thing to have laid hare the disor- der from which so many suffer, and which all, with culpable cowardice, study to con- ceal. And lie does more than lay bare the disorder ; he convinces us how serious it is. He does this by showing us its evil effect on a good and kindly nature. No teaching can be more impressive than the contrast between Pendennis under the influence of this sceptical spirit, and Warrington, over whom, crushed as he is hy hopeless misfortune, it has no power. The minor vices of affectation and preten- sion he assails directly. To do this was his especial mission from the first. What suc- cess may have attended his efforts we cannot certainly tell. It is to be feared, however, that, despite his teaching, snobs, like pov- erty, will never cease out of the land. But 31 all who feel guiltyand every one of us is guilty niore or lessand who desire to amend, should use the means: the Book ofSnobs should be read carefully at least once a year. His was not the liortatory method. He had no notion that much could he done hy telling people to be good. lie found it more telling to show that by heing otherwise they were in danger of becoming unhappy, ridiculous, and contemptible. Yet he dick not altogether neg- lect positive teaching. Many passages might be taken from his workseven from the re- morseless Book of Snobs itselfwhich in- culcate the beauty of goodness; and the whole tendency of his writings, from the first to the last line he penned during a long and active literary life, has invariably been to in- spire reverence for manliness and purity and truth. And to sum up all, in representing after his measure the characteristics of the age, Mr. Thackeray has discharged one of the highest functions of a writer. his keen in- sight into modern life has enabled him to show his readers that life fully; his honesty and high tone of mind has enabled him to do this truly. hence he is the lmetdthiest of writers. in his pages we find no ftdse stim- ulus, no pernicious ideals, no vulgar aims. We ase led to look at things as they really are, and to rest satisfied with our place among them. Each man learns that he can do much if he preserves moderation; that if he goes beyond his proper sphere he is good for noth- ing. He teaches us to find a fitting field for action in our peculiar studies or business, to reap lasting happiness in the affections which are common to all. Our vague long- ings are quieted; our foolish ambitions checked; we are soothed into contentment with obscurityencouraged in an honest de- termination to do our duty. A Roundabout Paper on the theme Nil nisi bonurn concludes thus Here are two literary men gone to their account; and, laus Deo, as far as we know, it is fair and open and clean. here is no need of apologies for short-coamin~,s or expla- nations of vices which would have been vir- tues but for unavoidable, etc. I-here are two examples of men most differently gifted: each pursuing his calling; each speaking his truth as God bade him ; each honest in his life; just and irreproachable in his dealings; dei~r to his friends; honored by his country; be- loved at his fireside. it has been the forto- nate lot of both to give incalculable happiness THACKERAY. and delight to the world, which thanks them in return with an immense kindliness, respect, affection. It may not be our chance, brother scribe, to be endowed with such merit, or re- warded with such fame. But the rewards of these men are rewards paid to our service. We may not win the baton or epaulettes; but God give us strength to guard the honor of the flag! The prayer was granted: he had strength given him always to guard the honor of the flag; and now his name is worthy to be placed beside the names of Washington Irving and Lord Macaulay, as of one no whit less de- serving the praise of these noble words. We have seen no satisfactory portrait of Mr. Thackeray. We like the photojaphs better than the prints; and we have an old daguerreotype of him without his spectacles, which is good; but no photograph can give more of a man than is in any one ordinary often very ordinarylook of him; it is only Sir Joshua and his brethren who can paint a man liker than himself. Laurences Ilrst drawing has much of his thoroughbred look, but the head is too much tossed up and v~f. The photograph from the later drawing by the same hand we like better: he is alone, and reading with his 1)00k close up to his eyes. This gives the prodigious size and solidity of his head, and the sweet mouth. We have notseen that by Mr. Watts; but if it is as full of power and delicacy as his Tennyson, it will be a comfort. Though in no sense a selfish man, he had a wonderful interest in himself as an object of study, and nothing could be more delightful and unlike anything else than to listen to him on himself. He often draws his own likeness in his hooks. In the Fraserians by Mac- use,, in Fraser, is a slight sketch of him in his unknown youth; and there is an exces- sively funny and not unlike extravaganza of him by Doyle or Leech, in the Month, a little short-lived periodical, edited by Albert Smith. lie is represented lecturing, when certainly he looked his best. We give below what is like him in fiice as well as in more. The ~ tired, young, kindly wag is sitting and look- ing into space, his mask and his ~~sters rod lying idly on his knees. The foregoing estimate of his genius must stand instead of any special portraiture of the man. Yet we would mention two leading traits of character, traceable, to a large ex- tent, in his works, though finding no appro- priate place in a literary criticism of them. One was the deep, steady melancholy of his nature. Lie was fond of telling how on one occasion, at Paris, he found himself in a great crowded salon; and looking from the one end across the sea of heads, being in Swifts place of calm in a crowd,* he saw at the other end a strange visage, staring at him with an ex- pression of comical woebegoneness. After a little, he found that this rueful being was himself in the mirror. Lie was not, indeed, morose. He was alive to, and thankful for, every-day blessings, great and small: for the happiness of home, for friendship, for wit and music, for beauty of all kinds, for the pleas- ures of the faithful old gold pen, now running into some felicitous expression, now playing itself into some droll initial letter; nay, even for the creature comforts. But his persistent state, especially for the later half of his life, was profoundly mornethere is no other word for it. This arose in part from temperament, from a quick sense of the little- ness and wretchedness of mankind. His keen perception of the meanness and vulgarity of the realities around him contrasted with the ideal present to his mind could produce no other effect. This feeling, embittered by dis- appointment, acting on a harsh and savage nature, ended in the saeva indignatic of Swift; acting on the kindly and too sensitive nature of Mr. Thackeray, it led only to compassion- ate sadness. in part, too, this melancholy wa~ the result of private calamities. He al- ludes to these often in his writings, and a knowledge that his sorrows were great is ne- cessary to the perfect appreciation of much of his deepest pathos. We allude to them here, painful as the subject is, mainly because they havegiven rise to storiessome quite untrue, some even cruelly injurious. The loss of his second child in infancy was always an abid- ing sorrowdescribed in the iloggarty Dia- mond, in a passage of surpassing tenderness, too sacred to be severed from its context. A yet keener and more cos~stantly present afflie- ~ An inoh or two above it. 32 THACKERAY. tion was the illness of his wife. He mar- ried her in Paris when he was mewing his mighty youth, preparing for the great ca- reer which awaited him. One likes to think on these early days of happiness, when he could draw and write with that loved com- panion by his side: he has himself sketched the picture: The humblest painter, be he ever so poor, may have a friend watching at his easel, or a gentle wife sitting by with her work in her lap, and with fond smiles, or talk, or silence, cheering his labors. After some years of marriage, Mrs. Thackeray caught a fever, brought on by imprudent ex- posure at a time when the effects of such ail- ments are more than usually lasting both on the system and the nerves. She never after- ward recovered so as to be able to be with her husband and children. But she has been from the first intrusted to the good offices of a kind family, tenderly cared for, surrounded with every comfort by his unwearied affec- tion. The beautiful lines in the ballad of the Bouillabais~e are well known Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time thats gone, When here Id sit as now Im sitting, In this same placebut not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me, Theres no one now to share my cup. In one of the latest Roundabouts we have this touching confession: I own for my part that, in reading pages which this hand penned formerly, I often lose sight of the text under my eyes. It is not the words I see; but that past day; that bygone page of lifes his- tory; that tragedy, comedy it may be, which our little home-company was enacting; that merry -making which we shared; that funeral which we followed; that bitter, bitter grief which we buried. But all who knew him know well, and love to recall, how these sor- rows were soothed and his home made a place of happiness by his two daughters and his mother, who were his perpetual companions, delights, and blessings, and whose feeling of inestimable loss now will be best borne and comforted by remembering how they were everything to him, as he was to them. His sense of a higher Power, his reverence and godly fear, is felt more than expressed as indeed it mainly should always bein everything he wrote. It comes out at times quite 8uddenly, and stops at once, in its full THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXV. 1101 strength. We could readily give many in- stances of this. One we give, as ft occurs very early, when he was probably little more than six-and-twenty; it is from the paper, Madame Sand and the New Apocalypse. Referring to Henri Ileines frightful words, Dieu qui se meurt, Dieu est mort, and to the wild godlessness of Spiridion, he thus bursts out: 0 awful, awful name of God! Light unbearable! mystery unfathomable! vastness immeasurable! Who are these who come forward to explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the depths of the light, and measure the immeasurable vastness to a hair? 0 name that Gods people of old did fear to utter! 0 light that Gods prophet would have perished, had he seen! who are these now so familiar with it? In ordinary intercourse the same sudden Te Deum would occur, always brief and intense, like lightning from a cloudless heaven; he seemed almost ashamednot of it, but of his giving it expression. We cannot resist here recalling one Sunday evening in December, when he was walking with two friends along the Dean road, to the west of Edinburghone of the noblest outlets ,to any city. It was a lovely evening, such a s~ nset as one never forgets; a rich dark bar of cloud hovered over the sun, going down behind the Highland hills, lying bathed in amethystine bloom; between this cloud and the hills there was a narrow slip of the pure ether, of a tender cowslip color, lucid, and as if it were the very body of heaven in its clearness; every object standing out as if etched upon the sky. The north-west end of Corstorphine hill, with its trees and rocks, lay in the heart of this pure radiance, and there a wooden crane, used in the quarry be- low, was so placed as to assume the figure of a cross; there it was, unmistakable, lifted up against the crystalline sky. All three gazed at it silently. As they gazed, he gave utterance in a tremulous, gentle, and rapid voice, to what all were feeling, in the word CALVAaY! The friends walked on in si- lence, and then turned to other things. All that evening he was very gentle and serious, spenking, as he seldom did, of divine things, of death, of sin, of eternity, of salvation; expressing his simple faith in God and in his Saviour. There is a passage at the close of the Roundabout Paper No. xxiii., De Finibus, in which a sense of the ebb of life is very marked; the whole paper is like a soliloquy. It opens with a drawing of Mr. Punch, with unusually mild eye, retiring for the night; he is putting out his high-heeled shoes, and before disappearing, gives a wistful look into the passage, as if bidding it and all else good- 33 34 night. lie will he in bed, his candle out, and in darkness, in five minutes, and his shoes found next morning at his door, the little po- tentate all the while in his final sleep. The whole paper is worth the most careful study; it reveals not a little of his real nature, and unfolds very curiously the secret of his work, the vitality and abiding power of his own creations; how he invented a certaiu Gos- figan, out of scraps, heel-taps, odds and ends ot characters, and met the original the other day, without surprise, in a tavern par- br. The following is beautiful Years ago I had a quarrel with a certain well-known person (I believed a statement regarding him which his friends imparted to me, and which turned out to bequite incorrect). Tohisdying day that quarrel was never quite made up. I said to his brother, Why is your brothers soul still dark against me? It is I who ought to he angry and unforgiving, for I was in the wrong. Odisse quern iceseris was never better contravened. But what we chiefly re- for to now is the profound pensiveness of the followin,.~ strain, as if written with a present- iment of what was not very far off: Another Finis written ; another milestone on this jour- ney from birth to the next world. Sure it is a subject for solemn cogitation. Shall we continue this story-telling business, and be voluble to the end of our age? Will it not be presently time, 0 prattler, to hold your tongue? And thus be ends Oh, the sad old pages, the dull old pages! Oh, the cares, the ennui, the squabbles, the repetitions, the old conversations over and over again! But now and again a kind thought is recalled, and now and again a dear memory. Yet a few chapters more, and then the last; after which, behold Finis itself comes to an end, and the Infinite begins. lie sent the proof of this paper to his dear neighbors, in Onslow Square, to whom he owed so much almost daily pleasure, with his corrections, the whole of the last parajaph in manuscript, and above a first sketch of it also in MS., which is fuller and more impas- sioned. his fear of enthusiastic writing bad led him, we think, to sacrifice something of the sacred power of his first words, which we give with its interlineations Another Finis, another slice of life which Tempus edo has devoured! And I may have to write the word once or twice perhaps, and then an end of Ends. Fi~it~ zad ~- ~ Oh,the troubles, the cares, disputes, the ennui, the ~ the repetitions, the old conversations over and over again, and here and there and oh, the delightful pas- sages, the dear, the brief, the forever remem- bered, A ~ A few chapters more, and THACKERAY. then the last, and then behold Finis itself coming to an end and the Infinite begin- ning How like music thislike one trying the same air in different ways ; as it were, search- ing out and sounding all its depths. The dear, the brief, the forever remembered; these are like a bar out of Beethoven, deep, and melancholy as the sea! lie had been suffering on Sunday from an old and cruel enemy. He fixed with his friend and surgeon to come again on Tuesday; but with that dread of anticipated pain, ~hich is a common condition of sensibility and genius, he put him off with a note from yours unfaithfully, W. M. T. He went out on Wednesday for a little, and came home at ten. He went to his room suffering much, but declining his mans offer to sit with him. He hated to make others stiffer. He was heard moving, as if in pain, about twelve, on the eve of That the happy morn, Wherein the Son of heav~ns eternal King, Of wedded maid, and virgin-mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring. Then all was quiet, and then he must have diedin a moment. Next morning his man went in, and opening the windows found his master dead, his arias behind his head, as if he had tried to take one more breath. We think of him as of our Chalmers; found dead in like manner; the same childlike, un- spoiled, open face; the same gentle mouth the same spaciousness and softness of nature; the same look of power. What a thing to think of,his lying there alone in the dark, in the midst of his own mi0hty London; his mother and his daughters asleep, and, it may be, dreaming of his goodness. God help them, and us all! What would become of us, stum- bling along this our path of life, if we could not, at our utmost need, stay ourselves on him? Long years of sorrow, labor, and pain had killed him before his time. It was found af- ter death how little life he had to live, lie looked always fresh with that aboundin~ sil- very hair, and his youn~, almost infantine face, but he was worn to a shadow, and his hands wasted as if by eighty years. With him it is the end of Ends; finite is over, and infinite begun. What we all felt and feel can never be so well expressed as in his own words of snrrow for the early death of Charles Bnl~ 1cr Who knows the inscrutable design? Blest be He who took and ghxe! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darlings grave? We bow to lleavea that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, Thats free to give, or to recall. PROFESSORS. From The Saturday Review. PROFESSORS. TilE Schleswig-llolstein question has raised a good many cries against a great variety of people, and one of the cries it has raised has been against Professors. It has been said face- tiously that only one person ever got to the l)ottom of the question, and he was a German Professor, who immediately went mad. It has also been said more seriously that the whole movement in Germany has been got up by the Prof~ssors, and that it is only because a set of unpractical recluses have poured forth a mass of rubbish in uncouth involved sen- tences amidst the fumes of the tobacco-smoke with which they habitually confuse their nat- urally muddled heads, and have thus bewil- dered their countrymen into an unreal tran- scenclental enthusiasm, that there has been any Schleswig-Holstein question at all. In this country scareely any one has offered an explicit defence and exposition of the German views except Proessor Max Muller; and of him, also, it is said that he isa Professor, anda German Professor, and therefore ipso facto in- capable of understanding any political ques- tioru in the sensible, practical way in ~vhich Englishmen understand it. It may, therefbrc, be not uninteresting to inquire what the value of the opinions of Professors is likely to be on any subject of living and present interest, and it will probably be found by any one who makes the inquiry that, although the (~pinions of Professors are often not much better than the opinions of other people, they are at least not much worse. And, first of all, we may surely get rid of the oh- jection to German Professors that they talk German. To Englishmen and Frenchmen, German seenis a cumbrous and involved fan- guage, and Germans habitually use terms bor- rowed from a different philosophical s,ystem from that which Locke has made familiar to Englishmen. But if a German is to be al- lowed to think at all, he must, it would seem, be expected to put his thoughts in a German way, to frame cumbrous sentences, and to use the philosophical terms familiar to him. It is too readily taken for granted in England that an opinion, stated in the manner natural to any continental nation., is absurd because it is not stated as an Englishman would state it. When a member of ~the ilouse of Com- mons attempted to explain the grounds on which some of the feelings of the Germans about the Duchies might be defended, the Spectator, which is ordinarily above feeble political jokes, thought it a sufficient refu- tation of the argument to clothe it in the form which it might have assumed if its statement had been very literally translated from a Ger- man original. We may also get rid of the great tobacco-fume argument, unless it is se-~ riously meant that true philosophy is only compatible with the consumption of tobacco that has paid duty to the English Govern- ment. What remains is that certain political opinions are held in Germany, just as opin- ions of all sorts are held in England, by a number of educated men who are out of the circle of the official class, who live a life of comparative seclusion, who have plenty of leisure to form and vent their opinions, and whose main attention is given to matters of permanent rather than temporary interest. And the question is, whether the opinions of such persons on passing events are presum- ably foolish. In the first place, it is objected that Pro- fessorsliving out of the world, and in a nar- row and quiet circlehave not got the popu- lar fibre, do not know what the masses around them think and feel, have none of the fervor and enthusiasm of the people, and are, there- fore, incapable of seeing what a nation wants. It is, we think, quite true that, in some in- stances, there is a contrast of this sort between the position of Professors and that of persons in more direct communication with the bulk of half-educated or uneducated people. In some points of view, the contrast is unfavor- able to the Professors, but in others it is fa- vorable. Lord Shaftesbury, for exam~ple, complained of the tyranny of Professors, and he wee evidently right in one way. lie wanted a general, popukar, ardent, unreflecting move- ment toward what he considered right; and, so far as such a movement produces good, it is a hindrance to that good that persons ac- quainted with theology, whom he t~rmed Professors, should interrupt the swing and force of the movement by questioning whether the premises on which the whole line of ac- tion professed to be based were really true. It is most discouraging that, when a zealous and active man has got together a following of Sunday-school teachers and scholars, min- isters, clergymen, beadles, Young Christians, Bands of Hope. members of Parliament, bank- ers, and the little children who figure in traets, 35 PROF~SSOI~S. all ready to sing, preach, rehearse, inculcate, profess, subscribe to, and swear by, a favorite doctrinc, then an educated person with a pestilent knowledge of Greek and Hebrew should start the irrelevant but disheartening inquiry whether this doctrine is true or not. And it must be acknowledged that men pf thought, accustomed to secluded lives, are often bad judges of what can be done in ac- tion, cannot keep steady to a point, and over- rate difficulties. But that Professors are universally, or even generally, on the unpop- ular side, and stand aloof from the nation to which they belong, is a very strong assump- tion. In Germany, it may at least be said for the Professors that the nation is as mad as they are, and that, if all the movement has come from their muddled brains, they have at least managed to stir the popular mind to its depths, and to carry conviction to a great majority of Germans, although they had the disadvantage of addressing their auditors in their native language. Professor Muller, too, used some arguments which were not very satisfactory to Englishmen; but they were not satisfactory for the precise reason that they were thoroughly German arguments and not accommodated to our history. When he spoke of a small sovereign having a sacred and divine right to ascend a ducal throne, like the right of a private heir to occupy his paternal acres, he was addressing in vain a nation that owes its liberty and prosperity to having sent its legitimate sovereigns into poverty and exile; but he was employing an argument that would go straight to German hearts, and his mistake, such as it was, arose from his being too much imbued with the notions popular in his own country. The opinions current in the two English universities afford as good a standard of the opinions of Professors as could be found. For it is impossible to say that Ger- man Professors are more unlike Germans, or French Professors more unlike Frenchmen, than the resident Fellows and Tutors of an English university are unlike Englishmen. Differences exist in all three instances; but they are not differences which erect profes- sorial opinions into a class by themselves. The conversation of Fellows and Tutors of colleges is not generally lively; but then the conversation of all sets of men who meet every day i~ apt to be dull. It must also be re membered that the members of a small circle are naturally jealous and suspicious of each other, and that those who are afraid of their circle are apt to express themselves with un- due timidity, while those who rise superior to this temptation have the air of having won a victory and of knowing that they have won it. The opinions of Professors are therefore apt to be either tame and colorless, or else too positive, fierce, and arbitrary. But then both these errors represent something that is good, and the good they represent makes it- self felt in the opinions of Professors when looked at in a mass. The timidity and hesi- tation of some Professors, although often springing from nothing better than personal weakness, sometimes proceeds from that re- luctance to pronounce decisively, which nil persons feel who have inquired deeply, who have set the complexity of great political and social problems fairly before them, and see how nicely-balanced any expression of opin- ion ought to be. There is one thing which no one can refuse to see in university and professorial society, and that is a proper ap- preciation of the difficulty of things. This has even led to many faults of character and manner, and more especially to that gentle- manly habit of bland whispers, accompanied by a smile, which is so truly excruciating. If, however, we look to general results and not to the manners of individuals, it is a great thing that there should be in English society a centre of thought where the weight and burden of judging is profoundly felt, and where the necessity of reservations, of guarded and tentative judgments, of looking to remote consequences and to indirect modes of action and influence, is thoroughly acknowledged. But Professors are not all of one sort, and when they are not timid, dubitative, and guarded, they are often rash and vehement. They chafe at the bands in which their col- leagues are content to live, and they proclaim their liberty by bold assertions and hazardous opinions. Very often the opinions they utter under the pressure of such feelings are not worth much, are formed on imperfect data, and are wholly unpractical. But at least these opinions come from independent and honest minds, and this is a great thing. There is life and activity, and a general ten- dency to keep moving forward, wherever there is this personal fearlessness and this PROFESSORS. disregard of personal losses and sacrifices in order to promote a cause which has thoroughly enlisted the sympathies of its adherents. Then, again, if the worth of the opinions of Professors is to be rightly valued, it must he clearly understood whose are the opinions that are likely to be better. A Professor may make great mistakes, and be too argumenta- tive or dubitative, or too peremptory and rash in the judgments he passes, but, at the very least, his opinions are as likely to be right as those of his baker or his butcher. And if they are better than the opinions of his local butcher or baker, they are not likely to be inferior to those of bakers and butchers else- where. We may go a step further, and say that they are as likely to be right as the opin- ions of most professional persons. What does a country doctor or attorney know of the Schleswig-Holstein question that a Pro- fessor should not feel the hope of rivalling him? Even in Germany, where Professors are so numerous and of so many different, grades, the Professor is at least as good a man for a political opinion as most of his neighbors. He does not talk more hopeless and confused German than they do, and his pipes are not more numerous or powerful. It is true that there are persons who are more qualified to give a sound opinion on political questions than Professors generally are, but then these persons arc few. Those who have the advantage of being concerned in the actual administration of affairs, who are o.bliged to think carefully before they act, because their mistakes are followed generally by such quick retribution, who have access to the best and most recent information, and who have that appreciation of their position forced upon them which comes from constant intercourse with the leading men of other nations, have special opportunities for judging not only what it is desirable, but what it is possible to do. Those, again, who make it their busi- ness to watchand criticise the conduct of guy- ernments, who are in the constant habit of writing on political questions, and who know that if they arc negligent, or ignorant, or confused, or reckless in their criticism, they will at once fail to satisfy the demands of the educated public for whom they write or to whom they speak, have the advantage over Professors of doing systematically, and as a matter of business, what the Professors do occasionally, by fits and starts, and at their own pure pleasure. Even then it must be allowed that Professorsthat is, educated men living in a society that is not the official and governing society of a capital, and is not immediately connected with such a circle have the superiority which greater freedom and independence, and less necessity of passing some sort of judgment quickly on everything that comes up, cannot fail to give. Profes- sors are at liberty to make ten hazardous shots at truth, where men more closely bound up with the actual course of government are afraid to make any, and of these hazardous shots one in ten may h~t the mark. But as a general rule, and with reference to the great majority of political subjects, the opinion of a leading member of Parliament, or of those enjoying his intimate acquaintance, or of per- sons qualified by position and natural gifts and habit to pass a judgment whether in the field of journalism or elsewhere, have a better and more accurate opinion than Professors ordinarily have. This is saying nothing more than that persons who stick to a trade as professionals are ordinarily superior to ama- teurs. But among amateursamong the out- siders of political lifefew persons have such good pretensions to form opinions worth lis- tening to and seriously discussing as those who approach the consideration of the more important events of the day with education to guide them, with leisure for ample con- sideration, and with no strong personal bias and. no prospect of immediate gain or loss to influence their decisions. 37 c THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY IN LOUISIANA. From The Spectator, 5 March. TUfl RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY IN LOUISIANA. Tuis war, if it lasts much longer, will have one compensation. It will give to North America a generation of statesmen. Nothing has been more remarkable throughout its course than the way in which the somewhat gelatinous intellect of the men of the North- em States, soft because never annealed by irresistible external pressure, has been grad- ually hardeningacquiring, as it were, bone and substance, and sharp, almost an ular, definition. We do not despair, should it last six years, of finding an Acierican who doubts whether the Constitution came down from heaven ready engrossed, who can understand principles as well as the verdicts of the Su- preme Court, who perceives that the argu- ment our people feel is not precisely equivalent to moral law. Abraham Lincolns proclamations, rough- hewn as they still are in thought, and wholly unsha~pen in form, arc beginning to have in them a quality apart from the. sturdy uprightness which was al- ways there, one which, if it were but a httle more polished in expression, all England would recognize as statesnianship. Mr. Sew- ard, of course, is unteachable, fbr opposition though it elicits cannot impart capacity; but Mr. Welles, thou~ h he has not built a War- rior, has organized the blockade of three thou- sand miles of coast, and mosquito fleets which control ten thousand miles of river; Mr. Stanton, though not a Carnot, keeps half a million of soldiers well armed, well fed, and well contented; and Mr. Chase, though not a heaven-born financier, has induced a people impatient of taxes to double their taxation, to contemplate quadrupling it, to bear with an inconvertible paper currency, to run up a national debt equal to that of France, and to distribute that debt in morsels so small that a proposal to repudiate would provoke a civil war. Jn 1858 there was not a man in the Union outside the little circle of Southern leaders who really knew what government meant, who had ever considered for ten min- utes how to hold down a hostile popula~on, or what manner of resources a great war would require, or in what way opinion could he made an armed as well as an executive force. Even Englishmen can now check off a dozen such men upon their fingers, ~nd Eng- lishmuen naturally miss all but those few lead- ers who have enjoyed opportunities of touch- ing the national imagination. The scores of generals, governors, commissioners, and poli- ticians, who are learning in the old States, in the West, in the Border Land, and on the Southern coast, the difficult lesson of admin- istration among a people not all of one mind, who are holding unruly States, levying con~ scripts among men of hostile opiaions;urgan- izing frontier clans.for opinion can create a clan as well as pedi ~ ree ,fecding armies who outnumber the population, arming whole pop- ulations without money, and building fleets witlion t trained artificersthese men escape, of course, English attention. How is nay one of us all, unless he happens to his muisfor- tune to think a black a human being, or to imagine that a Yankee can be saved, or to believe it possible that politics may exist west of long. 11 degs., or to be subject to some fanaticism of tIme same kind, to leave the Times and the share list and Professor ~iux Mililer, and study what General Saxton is doing in the Carolinian swamps, or note what progress has been made in turning the right bank of the Mississippi into a region habita- ble by men who do not wear revolvers? Still a few macn are visible even to English eyes who are becomain~ entitled to rank among statesmemi, and one of the very first among them is the officer in command in Louisiana. We never remember to have readthis generation most certainly has never seena document more remarkable than the order by which General Banks revolutionizes the so- cial arrangements of the great State of Lou isi- ana. It contains one clause of which we most cordially disapprove, as at once futile and ty- rannical, and two or three more theexpedieney of which we seriously doubt, and it is written throughout in that vile semi-literary style, full of talk about the yellow harvest wav- ing over the crimson field, which we ahan- doned when we gave up knee-breeches. ad col- ored raiment. But apart from the one evil clause, and the blemishes which are purely of form, it is an order of which the boldest statesmen in Europe mi~ht well feel proud, an order full, not only of that audacity which only revolutions and aristocracies breed, hut of that constructive capacity; that force which belongs to Founders, which is too apt to he miserably absent from both. Just realize for one moment the task before General Barsks. Ilere was a vast State as large as a Eu- ropean kingdom, barely subdued into a seeming quiescence, occupied and owned by men at heart hostile to his r~yime, tilled by a race who a year since ~vere slaves and arc riot yet freemmien, impatient of labor, burning with new hopes; believing that in some dim way Utopia was for thens about to arrive. The collision between the two sets of idens, between white and black, capital and labor, slave and slave-driver, had ended in ruining both, in the cessation of cultivation, and, ex- cept where troops were detached at emmormous cost to maintain some appearance of order, in the suspension of social life. There was no crop and no revenue, New Orleans was fed by THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIETY IN LOUISIANA. 39 imported supplies, the half-emancipated slaves needed rations nearly as much as the soldiery, the sulI~n planters were eating up the remains of their capital, too prond to beg for the labor they had commanded, too uninventive to dis- pense, as New Englanders mi~ht have done, with its assistance. In their midst was a gen- eral too powerfhl, indeed, to make overt resis- tance safe, hut hampered by a conflict of ideas in his own camp and in the capital from which he had received his instauctions, with unde- fined powers, with daily and exhapsting re- sponsibilities other than social. organization, with endless labor still remaining to be accom- plished, and with unsubdued armies to which the Louisianians are affiliated by a hundred ties hovering upon the outskirts of the State. And then realize for one moment the course which General Banks adopted. Boldly turn- ing upon all his difficulties, at once upon sul- len planters and excited negroes, both pai~ties in Washington and the soldiery under his own command, be set b imself to there-organization of civil society throughout Louisiana; set himself to reconcile an utter social change with perfect social orderthe emancipation of a slave proletariat with continued labor, a state of conquest with the Yankee arrangement of society, the authoiity of a dominant army with freedom of commerce, of manufactures, and of agriculture. We do not say that he has succeeded: success in a task which would tax the most expericnccd of statesmen must re- main to be proved by time ; but we do say that he has securcd the first requisite of suc- cess, has chanted a slave society into one which ,though free, will labor,and can march. In an order of twenty-five paragraphs he has, first of all, without naming the word emancipation, still less splitting hairs about loyal and disloyal owners, totally abol- ished slavery. All its incidents are prohib- ited. The lash on which it is based is abol- ished. No negro can be punished by his master, or divorced from his wifh, or deprived of his children, or sold off the plantation, or forbidden with dne notice to exchange his service, or debarred from education, or de- prived of good food, medical attendance, and a rate of wages fixed for the moment by an impartial though arbitrary power. All that distinguishes the slave from the man who toils because without toil he would starve is abol- ished ,and the slave raised at once to the con- dition of a fairly paid laborer who once a year may hire himself out to the best paying work or kindliest master at his own discretion. The crop is rendered liable for his wages, while, the country being divided into school districts, a Unionist judge called provost-mar- shal and invested with military power is ap- pointed for each, before whom every black can make his complaint of ill-treatment or insuf ficient pay. In return, the newly emancipated man is bound to give ten hours work a day, under penalty of imprisonment, to be as re- spectful as interest makes the white ernplo3,e, to remain one year with one master and not to quit the boundaries of the estatea pro- vision visibly temporary. The soldiery are prob il)ited from inteefering with the laborers or with the planters, and the overseers alone, always the worst class in ~he South, are threat- ened with military law. The planter thus ryaius the command of the tillers and with it the means of making his estote prpf~table, on the single condition of paying fi~ir wages for secure labor, and of so beam ing himself to his hands that they shall not at the end of the year sacrifice their cottages, and their gardens, and their catlike attach- ment to localities, rather than work with him again. lie is changed from a South- em slaveholder into an English proprietor. On the other hand, the black laborer gains all the social rights of citizenshipthat prop- erty in wife and home aa(l child arid income which middle-class Englishmen think such trifics till somebody threatens them among themselves, fur wages, right of choice as to service, education., and, we suspect, i)utdO not know, plitical power, On the single condition of not turning vagrant, or squatter, or (lesert- ing his employer just before the annual crop has to he gathered in. The whole social dis- organized economy is restored, and restored upon the principles which free societies ac- cept,a feat in the time and with the means at General Bankss disposal almuost without a parallel. All the fears expressed by all par- ties, the dread of the negroes wandering on to the wild lands, of capital deserting the State, of the blacks being held to slavery un- der other forms, are all alike dispelled. Paper decrees, however, are one thing, and raising a crop by free labor in a tropical State quite another; will the two classes concerned accept? General Banks thinks they will, and, after much reflection, we agree with him. The ne~ro is enormously benefited, relieved of the three grievances he always when speak- ing openly pleaded first, and which, if unhe- roic, at least appeal to universal workman sympathies. lie cannot be struck, he cannot be sold away South, and he cannot be de- prived of his wages. If the provost-marshals do their duty, he will be by comparison very comfortable; and the provost-mnarslials will be appointed and removed by the gdneral whose reputation depends upon the success of his plan. Our only dread is that the negro will b~ too happy by half, too little disposed to resent small infractions of his rights, too willing to exchange the resp et which the germeral so strictly enjoins for his ancient ser- vility. Then, as to the planter, he has two THE FOREIGN POLICY OF ENGLAND. very grave motives for accepting the new plan. If he does not, he ~vill be exiled, losing his lands under the Confiscation Act; and if he does, the arrangement will pay him excel- lently well. General Banks, with a wise mod- eration, has made the contract at first hear slightly against the negro, fixing wages, for instance, on a scale which will give the ordi- nary field hand food, lodging, clothing, and about four shillings a week, or without clothing seven shillings, and about two-thirds of that amount for his wife. Half of this, again, ticed not be paid till the end of the year, i.e., till the crop can be hypothecated, though precautions are taken that the laborer should not be robbed in the end. Take an estate of five hundred hands. The planter al- ways had to give rations, food, and lodging, and his only loss, therefore, is 5,000 in wages, less than a third of his minimum prof- its in an ordinary year, which third the dif- ference between unwilling and willing labor will more than make up. Possessed of capi- tal and longing for ease, the planter will not hesitate long, or, if he does, for we must look facts in the flice, the esurient New En ~lander, hungering for hands and cotton fields and sugar-canes, will not. In *welve months we believe cultivation will be restored upon a free basis, and the planter once convinced that wages pay him as well as the negro will be careless of a return to a system really pleas- ant only in the household power it left within his hands. It is within doors, where the negro is no lon~er an animal, that the differ- ence will he felt, and within doors that the new system will need most careful surveil- lance. The experiment may fail, but it is one of which General Banks may be proud; but we cannot say as much for the political portion of the deerce. That temptation to over-gov- ern which is the besetting sin of able admin- istrators seems in this matter to have dis- turbed an otherwise statesman-like judgment. His position was, it is true, a difficult one, for in circumstances which admit only of ab- solute power moderated from Washington he is obliged to set up a nominally free State municipality. Still he might have adopted schemes less needlessly tyrannical than the one his order seemsfor one important da- tum is wantingintended to establish. His course, bound as he was in the withes of that hopeless Constitution, was clear, either to ex- act an oath of allegiance from every voter, and so give himself a small but working rep- resentation through which to govern, wait- ing for time to change the sullen acquiescence of the majority into orderly if submissive sup- port, or by admitting negroes to the suffiage to have given himself a clear and permanent, yet not unjust, control of the polla,and we are not absolutely certain that this is not among his plans. At all events, he does not carry it out, but instead imposes oath or ex- ile as the only alternatives, and declares that he will treat indifference, which is his best bridge between hostility and loyalty, as a crime. A moment l)efore, dealing with plan- ters like statesman, he suddenly deals with politicians like a theologian, and actually in- sists on their assum~ag the appearance of men- tal change. This is tyranny simply, of a bad because useless kind, and our appreciation of the first p~art of the order cannot blind us to the injurious impotence of the second. We trust that it may be reconsidered, for if not, General Banks will find that instead of the difficult task of a true statesmanthe change of open foes into lukewarm but quiet friends he will have to commence the fkr easier but inferior work of the mere conquerorto re- place a class whom he has himself made hos4 tile by one which is friendly, but brings him no addition to his strength. lie has the New Englanders already; he should gain the planters, not merely place a New Englander where a planter stood. From The Saturday Iteview. THE FOREIGN POLICY OP ENGLAND. SoME years ago, the Peace Society made its doctrines so odious to the English nation that its agitation became one of the indirect causes of the Russian War. Its leaders probably appreciated, to some extent, the reasons which render peace the first of negative blessings; but, in their enthusiasm for a limited and conditional good, they used arguments which were as unpopular as they were substantially immoral. Peace at any price means the per- petual triumph of wrong, and the sacrifice of the most sacred duties to material interests. Some of the fanatics of the party were not ashamed of follo~ving out to the last extreme the legitimate consequences of their sordid assumptions. One pamphleteer made him- self notorious by calculating that it would be cheaper to submit to a French invasion than to resist it by force. A defensive war would, as he showed, cost so many millions, and it was possible that the enemy, finding the country at his mercy, might bc content with a smaller sum by way of ransota or tribute. More prudent advocatcs dilated on the trifling results which have sometimes been obtained by bloody wars, and they showed to demon- stration that fighting was the most expensive of till human occupations. When particular quarrels threatened international ruptures, the Peace Society was always ready to p rove that, on this occasion at least, England was wholly in the wrong. To a certain extent, 40 THE FOREIGN POLICY OF ENGLAND. the agitators persuaded Europe that their theories were generally accepted by their countrymen, and in the mean time they were provoking a general irritation at home which could not fail to produce a practical confuta- tion of their paradoxes at the earliest oppor- tunity. The promoters of the meeting which was lately held at Manchester to protest against intervention on behalf of Denmark adopted all the obsolete fallacies and irrele- vancies of their almost silenced teachers. There was no use in proving that a war would he costly and dangerous, when the only question was one of national duty and honor; and bad reasons weaken even a right- ful cause, because they imply that it is not convenient to appeal to truth and justice. If the English Government had been bound to resist Austria and Prussia in arms, it would have been no excuse for cowardly inaction that the Americans might probably take oc- casion to resent the injuries which they sup- pose themselves to have suffered in the mat- ter of the Alabama. If, however, the economical evils of war can never furnish conclusive arguments for peace, the levity which would rush inconsiderately into hostilities is not less culpable than the systematic repudiation of a possibly contin- gent duty. A firm resolution to fight in the last resort strengthens the converse deter- mination not to be tempted into a quarrel on insufficient grounds. The strong man armed keeps his house in peace so long as he is exposed to no intolerable molestation. The government of a great country ought to avoid the touchiness of a duellist and the Quixotic rashness of a general redresser of wrongs. As a general rule, it may be said that words can never be a sufficient cause of war, nor should trifling wrongs produce retaliation until all other means of redress are exhausted. Above all things, a statesman ought to distinguish between natural allies and powers which, from character or circumstances, require to be watched with habitual vigilance. A war ought to have a serious object as well as a sufficient provocation, and a statesman will bear much in preference to weakening a friendly state because it has fallen into some temporary error. The more rational advo- cates of the war ~vith Russia in 1854 delib- erately believed that it was expedient to humble a menacing and aggressive despotism, and accordingly the ambitious projects of the Emperor Nicholas were effectually checked; but no similar justification could have been pleaded for the quarrels which have since been prudently avoided. Although the sym- pathies of England were almost wholly on the side of Italy in the struggle with Austria, it was impossible to take part in a war which afterwards included among its consequence the territorial aggrandizement of France. There were stronger reasons of abstract jus- tice, if not of national advantage, for assist- ing the Poles in their present insurrection; but all parties, after forcing the Government to remonstrate, unanimously resolved to ab- stain from any share in a contest which was wholly unconnected with English interests. A year ago, Lord Malmesbury, Lord Ellen- borough, and Mr. Disraeli loudly uttered the indignation which Lord Russell proceeded to express in diplomatic communications. It is not surprising, and it is scarcely unfair, that the minister should beheld responsible for the necessarily abortive result of an impulsive and inconsistent policy, although it was urged upon him alike by friends and by enemies. A war with the United States, though cir- cumstances may possibly arise which would render it unavoidable, would be an unmixed evil. It is impossible to imagine a treaty of peace which, at the end of the contest, could leave England in a better position than at the beginning. The war from its com- mencement would be only an affair of honor, in which one of the principals at least would have come to the ground without any belief in the utility of the proceeding. In the most favorable contingency, Canada would be pre- served, and it is highly probable that the an- cient maritime supremacy of England would be once more vindicated; but no Englishman would wish, if it were practicable, to conquer a square mile of American ground, nor is there any balance of power to defend on the Western Continent. It is annoying that Fed- eral orators should. trade on English unwill- ingness to engage in war, by indulging in safe vituperation and menace, but sensible politicians are not to be talked out of a sys- tem which they have deliberately adopted. It was fortunate that the Trent outrage, oc- curring almost at the beginning of the war, enabled the Government and the nation to show that patience has its limits. Since the restitution of the prisoners, there has never been a time at which it would have been right even to approach to the verge of a rupture. It is probable that the pacific disposition of the country and the conciliatory language of the Government may have encouraged the expression, if not the cultivation, of the ani- mosity which it is the pleasure of the Amer- icans to cherish ; but it is, on the whole, dignified to abstain from threatening demon- strations which are not to be followed by acts. The assailants of the Government, if they had been in office, would probably have pursued a substantially similar course, al- though they now naturally make their adver- saries responsible for all the vexations which a long-suffering neutral endures at the handB of an angry and overbearing belligerent. 41 42 A BRIDAL BANQUET IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. iJowe~e~ ~t~iiable it may be to criticise of war. The decision would, indeed, be the hngu~e of despatches, it would be bet- founded on insufficient grounds, inasmuch as ter to cornuiit mx number of diplomatic blun- Mr. Disraeli himself is incapable of really ders tFin t) cnaige in a monstrous and un- committing the imprudence which he seems natuial xi ~xith Germany at large, as well to recommend. Yet it inictt be worth his as x~ ith Pi s~ i md Austria. in this case, while to remember that Lord Russells sue- also Loict Dubv, or any other responsible cessor would, in addition to nil the rebuffs minister would I ave bad no reasonable choice which he might inherit, be compelled to re- but to remonstrate niore or less loudly, and tract his own ostentatious professions of mag- ultimately to~ ~i(~qoiesee in the partial or total nanimity and daring. failure of his reclamations. No English party _____ is vet so besotted as to give active assistance to the French sp(iliation of the Rhine, al- A BRIDAL BANQUET IN THE FIFTEENTH though journalists arc found to defend the CENTURY. outrage by anticipation, and to assert that THE building designed for this purpose wa~ the population of time Rhine provinces is a temporary structure erected in the tennis- rather French thati German. Neither expe- court behind the palace. It was seventy feet diency nor political tradition has entailed on in width, a hundred and forty in length,and the coertrv tie duty of resis~X~ by force more tha.n sixty feet hi~h TI e eciling was every act of real di seeming injustice which richly painted the projeetmn~ cornices were may be pm p tm atcd on the Continent of Eu- decorated with banners tad 1 em idmi embel rope mel it is m aworthy of a great nation to lishmuents ; and the xvalis were imun~ with the be taunt(d into rash engmmgements by rivals celebrated tapestry represeacmn~ toe adven who affec to believe that no provocation will turesof Jason in qemest of the Golden Fleece, urge modern Lr~Iand into war. In the Dan- and with similar productiQas of Flemish in- ish controversy the French have precisely genuity and art. In the ceutme of time ball the smmae obtmiomtion to interfere, although rose a buffet of enormous dimensions, sup- they affict to r ty the failure of English di- porting a prodigious qumtmty of plate, of plomaex In U ( lomy run , governments arc which the layest, but least costly, articles respected m~ much on miccount of their inde- were piled on the lower shelx es, w bile goblets pendent euntiol of their own policy as for of embossed gold, studded xx ith precious their re~dimm ~ to employ material Ibree. stones, and other articles f inestimable value, Even P 1{ipmmhm exeiteimment were a sufficient were displayed in a conspicuous anner on reason lot xxn the sympathy which is felt the summit. The apartamemit was fiThted by for Dermmml hy no immeans extends to a wish chandeliers in the forimi of castles summounded for partmeil fun in the ciintest. Forty years by forests and mountains with mevolving ago, fain jestei ad stion~em irritation was paths, on which sempents, diagons, mindother caused bx ti c Fm ( n ii mm isi n of Spain but, monstrous anmumal~ secmned to roam in search on calni retie~peetm ~a tI e pm udent neutrality of prey, spouting forth jets of flame that were of Lomd Lixi il (101 xad Mr Cinning has been reflected in huce mirrors so arranged as to universilmv mf1rox(d catch and multiply them mys. The tables cx The SIl 1 thou of Peigmum from Holland tended lengthxx~m~s on either side of the hail, was a amoic toamylete djext of English policy except one mesemud fee the ducal family and than tI ( (ntii e us ram tial fimlure of the inju the guests of highest ank, which crossed it, dieiemus ammmmnoeamuuts of the Gicat Powers in on a raised platform st the upper end, and 1850 x t it xx ould he mmimpossible to find an was overhung by x unnopy with cuitains de historian or politician who now believes that scending to time floor, so as to present the ap- it xx oulli h ix e been might to amaintain the pearance of an open pavilion. The dishes Kingdom of ti e Nethemiands by force. On containing the principal meats represented tIme xxi ole it is it present undesirable to go gayly-painted vessels, seven feet long, com- to wir with ~n rica, with Germany, oreven pletely rigged, the masts and cordmmge gilt, xxich Res~mi wd in the unsettled condition the sails and streamems of silk, each floating of Eurore it immight be well to place some ye- in a silver lake between shores of verdure stramat exen on unofficial language. Mr. and enamelled rocks, and attended by a fleet Dismaclm piofesses his inability to decide of boats laden with lemons, olives, and other whethem it would have been ri~ht to go to condiments. There were thirty of these yes- war with Germany until he knows bow far sels, and as many huge pasties in a castellated the Government may hmsve previously encour- shape, with banners xxaving from their bat- aged the resistance of Denmuark. The coun- thenments and towers; besides tents and pa- try at haige, not partakiming his uncertainty, vilions for the fruit, jelly-dishes of crystal, may perhaps prefer a ministry which has at supported by figures of the same muaterial least preseived the peace to a party which dispensing streams of lavender and rose-water, appears to hold out the possible alternative and an immense profusion of gold and silver REVELATIONS OF TIlE MICROSCOPE. 43 plate. The repast was enlivened by interludes, their warsprosecuting their amoursmul- such as were described in a former chapter; tiplying their species and ending their ca- and it was three hours after midnight when reers; countless hosts at each tick of the the company retired.Kirks ~9harles the clock passing out of existence, and making Bold. way for new hosts that are following in end- less succession. What other field of creation may yet, by some inconceivable methods, be revealed to our knowledge? REVELATIONS OF THE MICROSCOPE. BRUSH a little of the fuzz from the wing of a butterfly, and let it fall upon a piecc of glass. It will be seen on the glass as a fine golden dust. Slide the glass under a micro- scope, and each particle of the dust will re- veal itself as a perfect symmetrical feather. Give your arm a slight prick, so as to draw a small drop of blood ; mix the blood with a drop of vinegar and water, and place it upon the glass slide under the microscope. You will discover that the red matter of the blood is formed of innumerable globules or disks, which, though so small as to be separately invisible to the naked eye, appear under the microscope each larger than the letter of this print. Take a drop of water from a sta~nant pool or ditch, or sluggish brook, dipping it from among the green vegetable matter on the surface. on holding the water to the light, it will look a little milky ; but on plac- ing the smallest drop under the microscope, you will find it swarming with hundreds of strange animals that are swimming about in it with the greatest vivacity. These animal- cules exist in such multitudes that any effort to conceive of their numbers bewilders the imaoination. The invisible universe of created beings is the most wonderful of all the reve- lations of the microscope. During the whole of a mans existence on the earth, while he has been fighting, taming, and studying the lower animals which were visible to his sight, he has been surrounded by these other mul- titudes of the earths inhabitants without any suspicion of their existence! In endless variety of form and structure they are bust- ling through their active livespursuing their preydefending their personswaging BOOR BY JOHN BUNYAN. Ma. W. TURBUTT, of Crambrook, writes as follows to the Athent-eurn: In consequence of a very rare original piece of Mr. Bunyans, entitled Christian Behavior, having re- cently been discovered by me, a literary friend has advised me to send you the first public notice thereof. Neither C. Doe, the personnl friend of Mr. Bunyan, nor Mr. Offor, who in 1855 exercised time greatest care to procure the first copies of the whole of Mr. Bunyans works for republiention, had any knowledge that Christian Behavior made its appear- ance from the pen of Mr. Bunyan until nfter the authors release from prison. Mr. Odor states in 1855 that the earliest known edition has no date, but has always been snppc)secl to have first appeared in 1674. The copy just discovered by me has this remarkable fin- ish to it: From my place of confinement in Bedford, this 17th of the 4th mon th, 1663. This is eleven years earlier thnn we have yet had any knowledge of its appearance. The little volume is quite perfect, and is remark- able for having the authors name on the title- page and again at the end of the Preface. It has also an owners name written in it the very year it was published. It was Printed for F. Smith, at the Elephant and Castle, without Temple Bar. The title-page is more full than in any later edition. It has always been considered the nineteenth piece Mr. Bun- yan wrote, but this proves it to have been the sixth. THE Democratic Convention for the nomina- above everything, an upright ruler, but his se- tion of the next President of the United States lection would avoid the enormous evil of a new will meet at Clii ago on the 4th July next. The change in the permanent service of the govern- Republicans will wait to see the result of their ment,an evir which all thoughtful Americans enemies deliberations before they nominate their are beginning to regard as greater and greater next candidate, but all the best men hope the with every new experience of its resultsSpec- choice will fall upon Lincoln. Not only has he tutor, 27 Fe6. been a sagacious, an impartial, a dovoted, and, 44 PROFESSIONAL ENTHUSIASM. From The Saturday Review, soldier cares for his regiment; a good lawyer PROFESSIONAL ENTHUSIASM. I likes arguin ~ a difficult case of law or mar- shalling the facts in a thrilling prosecution. IN the notice of Mr. Thackeray which he Happily, indeed, men almost always get to has contributed to the C~ornhill, Mr. Dickens like wbat they do tolerabry well~Z~~what oc- tells us that there was one point of difference cupies their whole time, iw~d brings theni in between him and the subject of his memoir. money Even dentists, we may hope, learn Mr. Thackeray could not be brou ~ ht to feel to be~proud of their hideous trade, and ac- that amount of enthusiasm about his art quire a sincere int~rest in other peoples de- which Mr. Dickens thought desirable. Cyn- cayed teeth. No one sets himself to write icism was a word often thrown in Mr. Thack- histories, or novels, or periodical compositions crays teeth while he was alive, and although of the higher kind, and succeeds in it, with- it was often very undeserved, yet it described out this amount of professional enthusiasm; not very unfairly the impression which the and if he once dislikes writing, ~nd tries for want of enthusiasm produces on the enthusi- any reason to escape from it, he is almost astic. There are two ways of looking at the certain to fall off in the execution of the tasks trade or profession of writing, as there are to which he unwittingly sets himself. about every other earthly pursuit which is The productions of a really good writer are not wholly ignoble. The enthusiastic writer of course sure to have some marked al)ility, sees his calling under a perpetual halo. He but it is seldom that a man who wants riot to associates himself with the great spirits of write can continue, for any length of time, earth ; he lives for eternity, so far as mortals to write well. It is true that there are weary may speak of eternity, and not for time; hefbitsof business to he got over in literature is always improving and refining the age. as in every other calling. There is much The cynical writer, as his unfriendly critics routine work which must be done. The his- call him ,or, to use a neutral term, the writer torian has to diverge into such episodes as who is without this enthusiasm.likes writ- the accounts of Irish affairs in Mr. Froudes ing perhaps, but is not very proud or fond of history, which are wholly uninteresting, and it. He knows how hard it is to approach as to which the author probably feels that he those upper regions of genius where the great would have some secret contempt for a reader names of the earth are inscribed, sees th at who did not skip them. The novelist has to much of his time is unavoidably occupied in do his pieces of very heavy work. Mr. Trol- very poor work, observes that the age does lope, for example, has often three heroines on not get refined in any very perceptible degree, his hands at the same time in different works. and is perha.ps disgusted at the airs which lit It is impossible to suppose that even a writer erary enthusiasm tempts very small writers so fem tile and resolute can av(iid all sensation to give themselves. It does not appear to us of weariness when he sits down time after that either view can be said to be wholly right time to go over the well-known ground again, or wholly wrong. It is true that for a man to build up his young woman, and put in her of real literary power to do his hest is a noble hair and eyes, and analyze her moral being, and an elevating effort; hut it is also true that and muxent incidents which shall bring out it may easily induce a wrong view of society her character. lie knows to a certain extent, and of literature to set too high a value on the and cannot help knowing, the triviality of production of the lighter kinds of writing his own creations, and it must be with a But the latter is the unpopular side, and most mixture of amusement and surprise that, persons who read Mr. Dickenss commentary when he makes one of his heroines go up a on his great contemporary novelist would book ladder and throw an inkstand down to think that Mr. Dickens was quite right, and her sister to catch, he finds this great event that the blot on Mr. Thackerays character is thought worthy to be illustrated by an which he notices was one indisputably to be eminent and expensive artist, and a hundred lamented. It may be worth whfle, therefore, thousand pictures of it are printed off and to inquire how far a man in any profession is exposed for sale. In the same way, a pro- bound to have some degree of professional en ducer of periodical literature has his weary thusiasm, ~and ~what are the consequences if bits of ploughed field to grind over. lie has lie is deficient in it. to give up the best hours of a precious day to In one sense, professional enthusiasm is reading and criticising a stupid little novel, necessary to every man in a profession. He or a stupid little book of travels, or he has must like what he has to do, and must stick to write on the Report of the Registrar-Gen- to it. This is as true of literature as of any- eral, or the financial difficulties of the Fed- thing else. No one can go on writing well erals, or the sheep rot, or the German Diet, who does not enjoy the process with at least or the Queens visit to a hospital. There is that amount of sober enjoyment which attends nothing grand or exciting in any of these the successful pursuit of other decent call- compositions; but the historian, or the novel- ings. A good sailor likes his ship; a good ist, or the journalist, if he is a man of sense, PROFESSIONAL ENTHUSISAM. knows that every profession has its irksome and trivial duties, and he may easily console himself by thinking that he is no worse off than his neighbors. The sailor has to pass months on shore, reading in the papers day after day that other people have got the very ships he should like to command; the soldier has to attend to pipeclay and parades; the cler- gyman has to compose afternoon sermons; the barrister has to go through heavy cases about rights of way or breaches of covenant, or through Mint cases and prosecutions for petty larceny. But a professional man treats these evils lightly, for they are a part of his pro- fession, to pursue which may sti~l on the whole give him a solid and sensible satisfaction; and the writer may feel in the same way, and be quite ready to be dull both to himself and his readers, if only this is not to happen too continually. But this was not, we may be sure, the kind of professional enthusiasm in which Mr. Dickens thought Mr. Thackeray deficient. He wanted Mr. Thackeray to believe and feel that he was devoting himself to a great and glorious art, eminently beneficial to man- kind, and raising its votary to the topmost stars of fame. We repeat that, if any nov- elist of genius likes to think in this way of his calling, we can understand that he may do so without affectation or reproach. But it is difficult to say that he is bound to do so. For, in the first place, the majority of writers who have attained a considerable position in hit~erature have not had any conspicuous pro- fessional enthusiasm of this sort. The great- est name in English literature is that of a man who cared surprisingly little about his art. Shakspeare wrote for money, not for the sake of art or mankind; and when he had made his money, he went down to his native town, and lived there in sublime indifference to ev- erything but the homely pleasures and the homely successes of English country life. Scotts view of literature was that it afforded an astonishingly quick method of beeoming a minor Scotch laird, and it would be difficult to go more degrees than that below the zero of professional enthusiasm. Other writers of eminence have felt more interest in their own compositions; but then their pleasure has been that which attends composing, whereas what Mr. Dickens wants is that writers should feel proud of being writers. Gibbon, fbr example, has recorded the cir- cumstances under whioh he began and those under which he finished his great work, and he has conveyed to bis readers the feeling of regret with which he brought so vast an undertaking to a successful elose; but he does not seem to have had any distinct no- tion of looking on writing as an art in which he had had the glory of excelling. In fact, this feeling of the honor and nobleness of being a writer, apart from the interest in parti~cnlar compositions,a feeling which we suppose Mr. Dickens entertained quite as vividly and strongly while he was writing Bleak House as while he waswriting Martin Chuzzlewit, is almost entirely the result of criticism. It is the creation of writers who have written upon writing. It has been suggested by those who have seen a hero in the Man of Letters, and who have spoken of the higher kind of composition as of something godlike and di- vine. This, which originally was the hom- age paid by sympathetic writ~ to genius, and was the supreme flight of laudatory crit- icism, has been applied by writers to them- selves, and they fancy they have fallen short of their own proper standard if they cannot feel as enthusiastic about themselves and their doings as critics have been about the heroes of literature. Then, again, the demand for a professional enthusiasm about writing, not only, as ii seems to us, arises from a confusion between the results of criticism and the feelings nat- ural to a person who may be criticised, but it is manifestly an exaggeration unless it is applied only to writers of the first eminence in their respective lines. If it was a profes- sional enthusiasm that all following the pro- fession ought to have, those who fall short of the highest excellence ought to have it in their own peculiar degree. But we can see in a moment, if we take special instances, that not only would it immediately seem ab- surd to ask for this enthusiasm in writers who, however able, can scarcely be said to show genius in their composition, but that, if they display any symptoms of it, there is a close connection between its appearance and some of their most characteristic defects. Scarcely any novelist of the present day is so successful or so well deserves his success as Mr. Trollope. But it would appear njmost Ludicrous to require that he should believe he is the votary of a high and glorious art, the benefactor of mankind, and an apostle of the modern and velvety sort, because he spends a large portion of his time in th~ do- lineation of countless young ladies and their ways and works in or out of love. There is much that is creditable, and there is very much that is pleasant, in such a way of pass- ing through earthly existence, but there is no thing very great or glorious. And, if we compare Mr. Trollope with other novdists of the day who are confessedly his inferiors, but who have, or seem to have, a persuasion of the grandeur of their calling, one manifest reason of his superiority is that he is more natural and unaffected, and thinks less of him- self as he writes. 45 SIT DOWN IN THE LOWEST ROOM. From Macmillans Ma~azine. SIT DOWN IN THE LOWEST ROOM. Liax flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day I dwindled p~der, whilst my hair Showed the first tinge of gray. Oh, what is life, that we should live? Or what is death, that we must die? A burstin ~ bubble is our life: I also, what am I? What is your grief? now tell me, sweet, That I may grieve, my sister said; And stayed a white embroidering hand And raised a golden head; Her tresses showed a richer mass, Her eyes looked softer than my own, her figure had a statelier height, Her voice a tenderer tone. Some must he second and not first; All cannot be the first of all: Is not this, too, but vanity? I stumble like to fall. So yesterday I read the acts Of Hector and each clangorous king With wrathful great ~acides Old Homer leaves a sting. The comely face looked up again, The deft hand lingered on the thread; Sweet, tell me what is Homers sting, Old Homers sting? she said. He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine, He melts me like the wind of spice, Strong as strong Ajax red right hand, And grand like Junos eyes. I cannot melt the sons of men, I cannot fire and tempest-toss: Besides, thcse days were golden days, Whilst these are days of dross. She laughed a feminine low laugh, Yet did not stay her dexterous hand: Now tell me of those days, she said, When time ran golden sand. Then men were men of might and right, Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords; Then men, in open blood and fire, Bore witness to their words, Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears; But if these shivered in the shock, They wrenched up hundred-rooted trees, Or hurled the effacing rock. Then hand to hand, then foot to foot, Stern to the death-grip grappling then, Who ever thought. of gunpowder Amongst these men of men? They knew whose hand struck home the death, They knew who broke but would not bend, Could venerate an equal foe And scorn a laggard friend. Calm in the utmost stress of doom, Devout toward adverse powers above, They hated with intenser hate, And loved with fuller love. Then heavenly beauty could allay As heavenly beauty stirred the strife; By them a slave was worshipped more Than is by us a wife. She laughed again, my sister laughed, Made answer oer the labored cloth: I rather would he one of us Than wife or slave or both. Oh, better then be slave or wife Than fritter now blank life away; Then night had holiness of night, And day was sacred day. The princess labored at her loom, Mistress and handmaiden alike; Beneath their needles grew the field With warriors armed to strike; Or, look again, dim Thans face Gleamed perfect through the attendant night; Were such not better than those holes Amid that waste of white? A shame it is, our aimless life: I rather from my heart would feed From silver dish in gilded stall With wheat and wine the steed The faithful steed that bore my lord In safety through the hostile land, The faithful steed that arched his neck To fondle with my hand. Her needle erred ; a moments pause, A moments patience, all was well. Then she; But just suppose the horse, Suppose the rider fell? Then captive in an alien house, Hungering on exiles bitter bread, They happy, they who won the lot Of sacrifice, she said. Speaking she faltered, while her look Showed forth her passion like a glass: With hand suspended, kindling eye, Flushed cheek, how fair she was! AG 47 SIT DOWN IN THE LOWEST ROOM. Ah, well, be those the days of dross This, if you will, the age of gold; Yet had those days a spark of warmth, While these are somewhat cold Are somewhat mean and cold and slow, Are stunted from heroic growth; We gain but little when we prove The worthlessness of both. But life is in our bands, she said; In our own hands for gain or loss; Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire Suffice to purge our dross? Too short a century of dreams, One day of work sufficient length: Why should not you, why should not I, Attain heroic strength? Our life is given us as a blank; Ourselves must make it blest or curst; Who dooms me I shall only be The second, not the first? Learn from Old Homer, if you will, Such wisdom as his Books have said, In one the acts of Ajax shine, In one of Diomed. Honored all heroes whose high deeds. Through life till deat.h enlarge their span: Only Achilles in his rage And sloth is less than man. Achilles only less than man? He less than man who, half a god, Discomfited all Greece with rest, Cowed Ilion with a nod? He offered vengeance, lifelong grief To one dear ghost, uncounted price, Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself, Heaped up the sacrifice. Self-immolated to his friend, Shrined in worlds wonder, Homers page, Is this the man, the less than men, Of this degenerate age? Gross from his acorns, tusky boar Does memorable acts like his So for her snared offended young Bleeds the swart lioness. But here she paused; our eyes had met, And Ii was whitening with the jeer; She rose: I went too far, she said Spoke low, Forgiveme, dear. To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant. Homer, though greater than his gods, With rough-hewn virtues was sutficeci And rough-hewn men; but what are su~h To us who learn of Christ? The much-moved pathos of her voice, Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek Grown pale, confessed the strength of love Which only made her speak; For mild she was, of few soft words, Most gentle, easy to be led, Content to listen when I spoke And reverence what I said I, elder sister by six years; Not half so glad or ~vise or good; Her words rebuked my secret self And shamed me where I stood. She never guessed her words reproved A silent envy nursed within, A selfish, souring discontent Pride-born, the devils sin. I smiled, half bitter, half in jest, The wisest man of nil the wise Left for his summary of life Vanity of vanities. Beneath the sun theres nothing new; Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on; If I am wearied of my life, Why, so was Solomon. Vanity of vanities he preached Of all he found, of all he sought; Vanity of vanities, the gist Of all the words he taught. This in the wisdom of the world, In Homers page, in all, we find; As the sea is not filled, so ye~ ms Mans universal mind. This Homer felt, x~ho gave his men With glory but a transient state His very Jove could not reverse Irrevocable fate. Uncertain all their let save this Who wins must lose, who lives roust die; All trodden out into the dark Alike, all vanity. She scarcely answered when I paused, But rather to herself said, One 48 Is here, low-voiced and loving, yea, Greater than Solomon. So both were silent, she and I. She laid her work aside, and went Into the garden-walks, like spring, All gracious with content, A little graver than her wont, Because her words h~ d fretted me Not warbling quite her merriest tune Birdlike from t.ree to tree. I chose a book to read and dream; Yet all the while with furtive eyes Marked how she made her choice of flowers Intuitively wise, And ranged them with instinctive taste Which all my books had failed to teach; Fresh rose herself, and daintier Than blossom of the peach. By birthright higher than myself, Though nestling of the self-same nest; No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest. [watched her, till my book unmarked Slid noiseless to the velvet floor Till all the opulent summer-world Looked poorer than before. Just then her busy fingers ceased, Her fluttered color ~vent and came I knew whose step was on the walk, Whose voice would name her name. * * A * Well, twenty years have passed since then My sister now, a stately wife Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief or fear or fret: She loved, and, loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet. A husband honored, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled; Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been. Yet, though of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love: She thrives, Gods blessed husbandry She like a vine is full of fruit Her passion-flower climbs up toward heaven Though earth still binds its root. I sit and watch my sisters face; How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk. While I? I sat alone and watched My lot in life, to live alone, In mine own world of interests, Much felt but little shown. Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke But, thank God, learned at last. So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here. Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the archangelic trumpet burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first. CnaIsTINA G. RossErrl. SEED GROWING SECRETLY. nv n~aav VAUGUN. IF this worlds friends might see but once What some poor man may often feel, Glory and gold, and crowns and thrones, They soon would quit and learn to kneeL What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself, an outward test? Who breaks his glass to take more light Makes way for storms into his rest. Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life and watch Till the white-winged reapers come. SEED GROWING SECRETLY.

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The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 36 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. Apr 9, 1864 0081 036
The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 36 49-96

AGE. TilE LIVING No. 1036. 9 April, 1864. CONTENTS. PAGE. 51 1. Jem Nash, the Dull Boy, . . Frasers Mauiazine, 60 2. Lindisfarn Chase. Part 1, . . . . Victoria Magazine, 3. Remorse, . . . . . . . Saturday Review, 4. Elizabeth and Leicester, . . . 5. Madeleine Graham, . . . . . 34 6. The House of Lordsrepresenting England,. Spectator, 84 7. Songs of the Moors and of the Mills, . . Saturday Review, 85 8. Rock-Cut Temples of India, . . . 89 9. Festival of Galileo, . . . . Reader, 92 10. Prof. Huxley on Negro Anatomy, . . 94 POETRY.On Picket Duty, 50. The Sure Estate, 50. The Fine Arkansas Gentleman, by Albert Pike, 76. The Blind Eye, 88. The Nameless Monument, 88. L. E. L., 96. Waiting for the Spring, 96. Serious Fighting or None, 96. SHORT AaTrcLss.Mrs. Greenhows Imprisonment at Washington, 83. Correspondence of the Emperor Napoleon I., 83~ The Gospel in Ezekiel, 91. Poems by Mr. Robert Brown- ing, 91. Life of Rev. Edward Irving, 91. Renans Book in Hungary, 91. The Name of Jesus, and other Verses for the Sick and Lonely, 93. Death of Miss Lucy Aikin, 93. Death of Adelaide Procter, 93. Recent French Publications, 95. The Life of the Lord Jesus Christ, 95. NEW BOOKS. REBELLION, SLAVERY, AND PEACE: An Address at Concord. By N. G. Upham. Bixnneo.Immediately after each Volume of The Living Age is completed, we bind a number of copies, to be exchanged at once for the Nos. if in good order; price of binding, sixty-five cents a volume. Where the Nos. are not in good order, we will have them bound as soon as we can. NEw-Ym4Rs PRESENTS TO Ci RGYMEN.Our text will be found on the front of several of the late Nos.; but we now ask our readers to apply it to a single class of persons. While the price of every article of food or clothing, and of all the necessaries of life (excepting The Living Age), has been increased, little or nothing has been done to raise proportionally the salaries of clergymen. They are obliged to lessen their comforts, in order to meet this pressure. Reader, if you wish to refresh the mind and the heart of the man who ministers to you in holy things, present him with mental food once a week, and do not give him The Living Age if there be any other work that will do him more good. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & Co., 30 BRoRFIELD STREET, BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Lrvnee AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. Aiev vonusrz may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to com- plete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. 50 ON PICICET DUTY. [This poem will derive special interest from the fact that it is from the pen of the sister of the late lamented Theodore Wintkrop.] WITHIN a green and shadowy wood, Circled with spring, alone I stood The nook was peaceful, fair, and good. The wild-plum blossoms lured the bees The birds sang madly in the trees; Magnolia-scents were on the breeze. All else was silent; but the ear Caught sounds of distant bugle clear, And beard the bullets whistle near, When from the winding rivers shore The rebel guns began to roar, And ours to answer, thundering 0 Cr; And echoed from the wooded hill, Repeated and repeated still, Through all my soul they seemed to thrill. For, as their rattling storm awoke, And loud and fast the discord broke, In rude and trenchant words they spoke. We hate! boomed fiercely oer the tide; We fear not ! from the other side We strike! the rebel guns replied. Quick roared our answer, We defend! Our rights! the battle-sounds contend; The rights of all ! we answer send. We conquer! roiled across the wave; We persevere! our answer gave; Our chivalry! they wildly rave. Ours are the brave! Beoursthefree! Be ours the slave, the masters we! On us their blood no more shall be! As when some magic word is spoken, By which a wizard spell is broken, There was a silence at that token. The wild birds dared once more to sing, I heard the pineboughs whispering, And trickling of a sliver spring. Then crashing forth with smoke and din, Once more the rattling sounds begin, Our iron lips roll forth, We win! And dull and wavering in the gale That rushed in gusts across the vale Came back the faint reply, We fail! And then a word, both stern and sad, From throat of huge Columbiad, Blind fools and traitors, ye are mad! Again the rebel answer came, Muffled and slow, as if in shame, All, all is lost! in smoke and flame. Now bold and strong and stern as Fate The Union guns sound forth, We wait! Faint comes the distant cry, Too late! ON PICKET DUTY.THE SURE ESTATE. Return, return! . our cannon said And, as the smoke rolled overhead,. We dare not! was the answer dread. Then came a sound, both loud and clear, A godlike word of hope and cheer, Forgiveness! echoed far and near; As when beside some death-bed still We watch, and wajt Gods solemn will, A blue-bird warbles his soft trill. I clinched my teeth at that blest word And angry, muttered, Not so, Lord! The only answer is the sword ! I thought of Shilohs tainted air, Of Richmonds prisons, foul and bare, And murdered heroes, young and fair, Of block and lash and overseer, And dark, mild faces pale with fear, Of baying hell-hounds panting near. But then the gentle story told My childhood, in the days of old, Rang out its lessons manifold. O prodigal, and lost! arise And read tile welcome blest that lies In a kind Fathers patient eyes! Thy elder brother grudges not The lost and found should share his lot, And wrong in concord be forgot. Thus mused I, as the hours went by, Till the relieving guard drew nigh, And then was challenge and reply. And as I hastened back to line, It seemed an omen half divine That Concord was the countersign. Atlantic Monthly. THE SURE ESTATE. WHAT signify the care and pain That I must yet endure, The loss of Lovethe Love in vain, The crime of being poor? Ive an estate of solid earth, Nor broad nor ~ery deep, Where wild winds blow and daisies grow, And moonlight shadows sleep. Tis six feet long and two feet wide, Shut out froni sorrows call It shall he mine some happy day Enough though it be small. Till trump of doom it shall be mine, And make amends for all- Lost health, lost heart, lost love, lost hope! More than amends for all. Charles Mackay. JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. From Frasers Magazine. JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. How I wish my uncle and aunt would un- derstand that Jem is stupid! There they are persuading themselves that he is idle and careless, and unmindful of the sacrifices they have made for his sake; and making them- selves and poor dear Annie (to say nothing of Jem himself) miserable, and all because they wont see that, as nurse says, you cant make a silk purse out of a sow~ s ear.~ Harry~ says he works fearfully hard, and is more pudding-headed than ever. I suppose it is very presumptuous to doubt the wisdom of ones uncle and aunt, and that I ought to believe that all these years of torture have been necessary; but to my mind Jem is more of a martyr than a sinner. People are born to be dull or clever I supposQ, as well as tall or short. What a blessing it would be if their families could take the measure of their intellect, and not expect it to stretch at will! So thought Louisa as she impatiently stretched an elastic band between her fingers until it snapped in two; and then she embarked in a simile between intellect and india-rubber, in which sbe found more amusement than we, I think, should do. Louisa was staying at Ashford Rectory when she indulged in the foregoing soliloquy, with her aunt and her aunts husband, the Rev. James Nash. Her brother Harry was at school with Jem Nash, and they were spending part of their holidays together at Ashford. Ashford was not an ugly place, and the Rectory was a tidy and moderately comfort- able house. Life migbt ~ave been easy and pleasant enough there but for a constant sense of effort and striving. Mr. Nash had in a great measure made his own fortune in life; but hia fortune, such as it was, did not alto- gether satisfy him. He had a good capacity, great industry, had begun early to show a decided predilection for study, had steadily persevered in the pursuit of knowledge under diffleulties, had gained a scholarship, had in consequence been allowed to go to the Uni- versity, had there d4stinguished himself, and taken a fellowship; and when he relinquished that for a living which was given to him ex- pressly on the ground that the patron had the full assurance that he could not make a better use of the power entrusted to him than n securing for Ashford the services of a man 51 so distinguished by his learning, industry, etc., etc.,; and when he married thedaugh- ter of a well-to-do country gentleman, whose family would assuredly have objected to the match, had he not been so distinguished; he saw in these pieces of good fortune, not the legitimate result of his labors and self-denial, but the beginning of a series of rewards, the first steps gained in that ascent that was to lead him at lastCto the most prominent places in his profession. This expectation had also encouraged him in beginning his married life comfortably, i.e., in living fully up to his income. The income was so sure speedily to become larger, and he wished that his wife should feel as little difference as possible be- tween life with him and life in her old home. Time had sped, however, and the income had remained stationary. Many old friends and acquaintances had passed him in the race; many whom he feltto be in every respect his inferiors. He had set himself a hard task. Could he have confessed that he had made a mistake, all would have been well; but this was not his way; irritated and depressed by disappointments, he wished to believe that he never had had any disappointments at all. Of course with society constituted as it was, no man without interest could get on, and no man of common sense could expect it to be otherwise. Poor Mr. Nash! If they might have been all disappointed together, and all admitted that they were poor together, how happy they might have been; but that anything but success and prosperity should ever visit Mr. Nash was a heresy not to be named in the family. And though Mrs. Nash grew worn and faded in her unceasing efforts to make both ends meet, and the whole house- hold wasmade irritable by the constant watch- ing and worrying over the expenditure of a shilling, the subject was never discussed, and shabbiness crept upon them, unnoticed if not unfelt. Their three children were. Annie, a year or two older than Jem; Jem, our hero; and Mary, a year or two his junior. Jem was a stupid fellow. He had been a dull, sleepy baby, a big, awkward child; always spilling, breaking, and tumbling over everything in a heavy, matter-of-fact manner; never profiting by his many experiences in the form of bruises, cuts, or scoldings; never clearly understanding that any one event was the natural consequence of any other; never 9 52 JJ~M NASH, THE DULL BOY. able to take in more than one idea at a might not hear the birds, and worse than that, time. Dashs impatient hark of joy at Mary throw Poor Jem! He might have done very well, ing sticks and dawdling near the house with had he been born heir to some thousands a him, waiting, as Jem well knew, for him; year. In a happy and genial atmosphere his his fingers through his thick, heavy hair, re- self-confidence might have received sufficient peating by rote, but without one ray of com- nurture to enable him to pass muster among prehension, the rule that ought to have made his peers, and be pronounced in the county it all clear to him. Tears at last dropped (even apart from his fine horses and fine wines) slowly one by one on the slate under his nose. a very good fellow. J I think he was occupied in wondering how As it was, he was expected to make his long it would be before the round drops would own way in the world, and his proud but join together and make a stream, and in ja- timid parents watched him with the most ag- diciously guiding their course by tilting the gravating anxiety from his cradle. His sisters slate, when Mary came in. Angry to be dis- were quick little things. Curioushe never covered thus, his tears were dashed away by was; confidinghe never could express him- slaty fingers. in spite of her intense sympa- self; observanthe only understood his fel- thy, she could hardly help laughing at the ef- low-creatures well enough to feel no interest feet of the dirty furrows all across his woe- in their concerns; but he was the hope of the begone countenance. Poor Jem! the rule family. had been explained so often, and was so self- Mr. Nash used to sit and plan all that evident to his father, that his failing to ac- James might accomplish in these days complish his task was put down to obstinacy, of open competition, when James was an in- and it was considered a moral duty to con- nocent infant sucking his large red thumb, quer him. lie never got out all day, had trying the veracity, or rather, perhaps, the bread and water for supper, went early to ingenuity, of every lady visitor to the house, bed, slept like a top, and was quite as stupid so difficult was it to discover where the moth- and almost as imperturbably contented and ers weak point might be in that shapeless, happy as usual next day. At night his mother doughy-looking mass. lingered in his room, spoke to him lovingly, Mr. Nash had not got on in the world as but gravely, told him how his own future and well as he would have wished; but then he that of those who loved him depended mainly had never had the chance that James would on his own exertions, etc., etc.; how he must have. James would easily be able to provide try always to do his very best, and not let a home for the two girls if anything should tempers interfere. Jem found out at last happen to him and Mrs. Nash. He was de- that she alluded to his unfortunate sum of the termined to spare no pains or expense in his day before, and began an emphatic assurance education, and he should be one of that band that he couldnt really . . . but was immedi- who would prove to the world what lights ately implored not 1~ add another fault to that England had hitherto hidden under the bushel of yesterday, kissed, told to pray to be an of aristocratic influence and corruption. honest and truthful boy, to love and obey his Jem certainly took some time to master his father, and left alone, puzzled, but hardly sad. alphabet, and labored under a chronic eonfu- By degrees, however, the sense of being a sion as to B and R up to a very mature age continual source of disappointment and vexa- of childhood; but then to be slow but sure tion to those around him began to tell upon was what Mr. Nash always wished for his him, and he grew morose and rough. It was boy. He would have been quite disap- his own fault, he had no one to blame pointed, had he been as quick and volatile as but himself, as the world says so often and so Mary was. Jems lessons in arithmetic glibly, if he were misunderstood. He chose were long remembered in the family. And to show no feeling, and even his mother be- his little sisters ideal of the acme of human gan to think that he had very little. Of how woe was Jem one lovely summers day, forbid- she sorrowed, and how she prayed, and how den to go out until a certain sum was finished, her husbands bitter tone about the boy smote Lying first on his back, then, as time went On her to her very heart, I mean to say nothing. and his brain grew more hopelessly clouded, His sister Mary, who was clever and young- on his face, his thumbs in his ears, that he er than he was, was quite unconsciously very JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. hard on poor Jem. She found it very easy to do all her lessons, and knew perfectly well that when she failed, it was her own fault; and she had not yet learned that people are not all made alike. Annie, who was older, sus- pected th& truth; hut it would have been such an insult to the family to breathe it that she hardly dare confess her suspicion to her- self. She had once in a daring mood tried the experiment of announcing that she did not believe that Jem could learn as much or as quickly as she could, and was not nearly as clever: but as the only result had been a lecture on vanity and conceit, she now con- tented herself with doing all the lessons they did in common lazily and carelessly, partly for her own sake, but partly, let us hope, for his. One day Mary came running to her. Oh, Annie! poor Jem is so miserable; he says he knows he is a stupid lout, and that he wishes he had never been born. He won- ders if it would be very wicked to drown him- self, or to run away. He is a burden and disappointment to papa and mamma, and never can be anything else. Did he tell you this, Mary? Oh, no; but I was on my seat in the tree by the river, and thought I would hide for fun. He came down talking to Dash, and would not let him go, but lay down with him, and told him all this, and asked him if he loved him. Then I am ahnost sure he cried; so of course I did not dare come out, he would have been so very cross. I was so afraid Dash would discover me; but luckily a large rat came Out and ran along by the hedge, so they both ran after him, and I crept out and came here. But, Annie, what does Jem mean? Will he drown himself? Must I go and tell mamma? Annie affected to be very calm, and supe- rior to Marys fears; told her that she was a foolish child, and that Jem had been talking nonsense; proved quite to Marys satisfaction that as she had overheard by accident What Jem had never meant forother ears than those of old Dash, she ought not to tell any one, or to allude to her guilty knowledge before Jem himself. So she sent Mary away full of the importance of having a secret; openly con- demning Jem very severely for being so wicked, secretly admiring and respecting him more than she had ever done before. He had dared to think and feel as she could nor. Mary looked at his stolid countenance as he 53 devoured his bread and butter that evening with real awe, and went to bed, after cun- ningly getting out of her nurse some infor- mation as to suicides, to imagine Jem being buried at midnight where four roads meet, with a stake through hie heart, and woke in the morning with a horrified sensation at her own want of feeling and hardness of heart, as she recollected that she had at last fallen asleep while calmly wondering whether the four lanes by the pond would do, or whether they would take him all the way to Ashton Cross. It would be a long walk at midnight; but then the roads were so much wider. Annie had been an54hing but really calm when Mary left her, and had pondered and thought and planned, till she had suddenly awoke to the consciousness that it was very late. And where was Jem? She threw her shawl over her head and rushed out, prepared for any catastrophe, and met, within a few yards of the house, Jem and Dash in full glee. They had killed their rat; and any- thing less tragic than their appearance at that moment could not well be imagined. She felt an unusual glow of satisfaction in seeing Jem happy, and was running up to him, feel- ing that she should like immensely to give him a kiss, and show hi.m that some one liked him, by li~tening with the most intelligent interest she could command to the history of the rat-hunt, when Mr. Nashs voice was heard. Who can have left the gate of the field down there open? I had it tied up on pur- pose to keep the calf in: now some idiot has not only untied it, but left it wide open, and no doubt the calf is half a mile off, or in the village by this time. Oh, Jem, was it you? whispersAnnie. Well, how did I know I was to shut the gate? responds Jem. Didnt you hear papa talking about it at breakfast this morning, and afterward in the garden, telling Andrew about it? No, Jem had heard nothing; he never did hear, it seemed to Annie. Annie, said Mr. Nash, do you know how that gate came to be open? Poor Annie ! she always knew or guessed everything, and was well used to he appealed to; but she felt now as though she were aid- ing and abetting suicide as she answered, hesitating, Oh, papaI thinkJem had to open the JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. gate to help Dash to kill a rat. Good old dog, Dash, she went on, hoping to make a diversion in Jems favor by patting and draw- ing attention to the dog. Jem didnt know about the calf, you see. James, said the awful voice, when you found the gate tied up, instead of open as usual, did it never occur to you that this was done foi a reason? No; Jem opened his mouth, looked, it must be confessed, sheepish enough to pro- voke the most indulgent of parents, and held his tongue. Well, sir, go along now. Get the calf hack somehow, tie up the gate and that fool of a dog, and come in to your tea as soon as you can. Annie had meantime matured a plan for saving time for Jem. She knew that his Latin for next day was still unlearned, and that he would never know it if he did not give it an hour or twos study (she had just done it in half an hour), so she ran after him to tell him that she had seen Bob, the gar- deners boy, go into the cottage, and that he had better give him sixpence (she had one ready)~ and make him go for the calf. Jem! she called, Jem! Jem! No, Jem would not come back; he dreaded some new message or order. Oh, if he were only quick enough to see from her face that she wanted to help him! She ran after him; but she knew her father would not let her run past the turning. Sure enough, she is called back; told not to be a goose. What was the good of her going too? Did she want anything? Oh, no, nothing. Well, then, come and take a turn with me. She came, and was less of a companion to her father than usual. She forgot to be sur- prised when she heard that Farmer Barton had sent his boy to school; forgot to be sure, from that fact, that he meant very soon to give way about that path through his fiirm, and be good friends with the parson. The parson, unwittingly, perhaps, had counted upon this assurance, and missed the sympathy he was so used to, and went in depressed, and more than ever convinced that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. He sat down before the quire of blue paper that before the end of the week would be a sermon. Surely, he would be able to write a telling discourse ag~ inst the love of this world. He found it such a wearisome place, he wa& fully con- vinced that he had overcome it. Annie tried in vain to imagine the state of mind that would quietly acquiesce in the certainty of suffering and disgr~tce for the morrow, without making an effort to avert it. She nearly persuaded herself that Jem must have had some better plan than hers when he ran off. Will he never come back? He has had time to go to the village twice over. But he cant well run away or drown himself, with Dash as a companion, that is one comfort. At last he appeared, having, it was hoped, effected all that was required of him, and was gulping down his cold tea in hot haste, when his father stumbled into the room very nearly head foremost, and Dash rushed in, muddy and howling, from between his legs. Of course he jumped up on Jem, who of course dropped his teacup. Mr. Nash could bear most things better than any loss of dig- nity. He felt that he had looked ridiculous, and was very angrywould hardly listen to Jems assurance that he had tied up the dog. Jem had done so; but he had tied him to a ring that every one else in the house knew had been broken a week ago, and had never thought of looking for himself to see that all was right. He never did think, as he was told now roughly enough by the discomposed Mr. Nash, who rang the bell, and desired the servant to tie up the disconsolate dog. Mary tries to give him a pat as he slinks by her; but Dash is too conscience-stricken to be com- forted, and thought that even her hand was raised against him. I wonder if the neigh- bors dog detected the depths of contrition that were stirring within him as he howled to the moon that night? .Annie was too much vexed, for her mothers sake, at the stain that would be so evident on the carpet that had just been remadeat the loss of one of the new dozen of teacups that had been bought at last, after so much con- sideration and consultationtoo much occu- pied in rubbing and putting to rights to feel at the moment keenly for Jem. But she heard her fathers parting allusion t6 his Latin; and the ominous slam of the door up- stairs, as he went off to bed, struck painfully on her heart. Jem had at last been worried enough, and was sulky. Annie doubted and wavered, and put her hand on the lock 54 65 JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. of his door, and took it off again, a dozen times as she passed it an hour later on her way to bed. At last she peeped in ; the light was out, and she was more distressed to see him sleeping peacefully than she would have been to find him crying, as she would have done, had a tenth part of his troubles that day fallen to her lotor painfully toil- ing at his Latin, cross and angry, as she had imagined him. Poor Jem! even Annie did not then do you justice. He had intended to learn his Latin well before going to bed; but he was so tired and sleepy, and his wet leg, where all his tea, poor fellow, had fallen, grew so cold ana stiff. He would just un- dress, and put on another pair of trousers, and sit up till midnight if necessary; but then he could only find his clean white pair for Sunday. He felt he would only get into another scrape if he meddled with them. His room looked very comfortless, and his bed very tempting. If he could only learn it in bed !but then that promise to his mother about putting the candle out. lie might have asked Annie to come and put it out, to be sure; but then he had not done so, and it was too late now. The end of it was, that the candle was blown out suddenly, and that Jem groped his way to bed, fully intending to wake very early, and learn his lessons be- fore any one was up next morning. He said his prayers, and wondered helplessly how he came to be always naughty and in disgrace; for he really would like to be good, and meant evcry day to try hard to be so. Sometimes he felt quite as good as, if not better than, Annie. He never was as angry, wilful, or impatient as she could be, nor hated any one as much as she did; but yet, somehow, she was always praised and liked. Certainly she generally knew about everything, and could help people very nicely, and seldom forgot anything. He supposed that was be- ing good really, and he would try hard next day, and go to sleep now at once, so as to wake early. I dont like to say much about that next day. The Latin was very difficult. He did say it right through to Anniehardly missing one wordjust before going in to his fathers study. Unluckily, his father, meaning to be especially kind, told him he need not say it all, but begin in the middle, giving him the word. This put Jem out: he came out of the study, his hands sore and tingling, his face burning, but his eyes dry, his heart swelling with a sense of injustice, spoke as cruelly as boys only can speak, to Mary who met him in the passage, sent her in crying to Annie with the news, and shut himself up in his own room. I dont know who in the house suffered most that day. Poor Mi~s. Nash! between your compassion for your boy, your yearning desire to comfort him, your mothers instinct4 that made you at timesfeel though you would not acknowledge the truth, and your wifely belief in your husbands wisdom, kindness, and infallibility of judgmentyour desire to excuse the boy, which could only be done at the expense of your husbandto worship your husband, which could only be done at the expense of your boyyou had a hard time of it. That night Mr. Nash resolved to send the boy to school, a resolve that cost him much. It involved the confession of failure, and wa~s a sad end to many, many days and weeks of tedious labor and self-denial on his part, and the result, as he believed, of idle- ness and carelessness on Jems. Both the girls loved their father dearly; and Mrs. Nash had never for a moment doubted that the most fortunate event in her life was her having met Mr. Nash; the most wonderful, his choosing her; the wisest, her having left a very happy and comfortable home to share his poverty and cares; and she was right, I doubt not. Still, with all this, there was a sense of relief when Mr. ~ash left home for a few days to look out for a school for Jem. Mrs: Nash and Annie were less anxious and less observant of Jem, and breathed more freely, now that constant dread of disappointment or misunderstanding for one or other of them was removed. Mary was allowed to talk more nonsense and make more noise; Dash was an hour later than usual of being tied up; Jem seemed brighter and less awkward. Was it only thut less was expected of him? or did he generally move through his daily orbit with a pervading sense of failure that clouded his dull intellect, and damped his not over bright spirits? Saturday arrived, her father came home, and Annie was almost frightened to acknowl- edge to herself what a pleasant three days they had had, and glad to be able to attribute her sinking of spirit to the idea of parting with Jem. She imagined miseries and tortures for JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. him at school, until shc cried herself to sicep. Jem was very glad to go. He had visions of companions, and shirking lessons, and getting free of certain rules and regulations respecting carpets and dirty shoes, shutting and slamming doors, etc., etc., that made his life at home a burden to him ; and Jems was not a nature to foresee sor rows imaginary or real. Mrs. Nash was pleased with the boys spirit, and Annie and Mary both admired and wondered at his courage and stoicism. Mr. Nash was very low; he could ill afford this expense; he had failed in a lon g-eherished plan, and he looked back with fond regret to the long, weary hours he had spent in vain. Jem went off to sch ool with a character for indolence, carelessness, and occasional obstinacy to live downa character given confidentially to the master by his truthful and conscientiou~s parent. I dont mean to attempt to describe his life at school. Annie could not make out as much as she wished either from his letters or from himself in the holidays; but there were still constant disappointments. He never got on as Mr. Nash expected he would, and asserted he ought to do. Mrs. Nash wrote tearful and loving letters, imploring him to work hard and do his very best, the only effect of which was that Jem had to give up all hope of being even with the other boys at cricket or any game,a hope he, poor fellow, had once fond- ly entertained. He did several really heroic things for his mothers sake; but she never knew of them, or at least not in such a way as to be able to appreciate them. Jem was far too dull to make the most of his own good deeds. Younger boys passed him; masters were displeased; he had to bear all sorts of gibes from the boys. He was not a coward; but his slowness of apprehension and his awk- ward, unwieldy figure, made him an irresist- ible object for practical jokes, and his want of quickness allowed the perpetrators nine times out of ten to escape scot free. Jem suf- fered less during his first year than later, when he got into another form. A stricter and less intelligent master ruled here, a man who took the view of Jem that his father had taken. The poor lad was punished every day, and became more and more hopelessly dull. An elderboy was entreated to take him in hand to help him in his tasks, and try what could be done; and very kind and very patient he was, and very carefully and even tenderly did he explain and try to make clear to him some of his most hopeless puzzles. Latin had been bad enough, but this Euclid was too terrible to poor Jem. He plodded on, however, and Lytton told a friend, after a long afternoon with him, that he never before had realized the patience of an ass. Jem tried his best. Day after day he tried and tried again, but all in vain: beyond a certain point he could not go. Lytton felt for him, but for a long time was deceived by the boys hardness, and thought that he at least did not feel his own inferiority. At last, one day, when Jem had seemed more than ordinarily dense, and Lyt- ton was almost tired out, and showed it, the poor lad broke down. He wished he had been born blind, or deaf, or lamewith any deformity that would at least command pity; but only to be a blockheada hopeless, loutish blockheadoh, Lytton, you dont know what it i~. Look at this letter from my father, and this from my mothernogive me that one back. What shall II do? What shall I do?~~ Lytton was touched and immeasurably sorry for the poor fellow. He went to the master and assured him that Jem was not idle, and did try to get on; but I fear the master, although henceforward he took less trouble with Jem, and punished him less, forgot to write the letter he had determined, while under the influence of Lyttons earnest tones, that Mr. Nash should receive next day; and Jem went home, and found himself as usual under a cloud. Before he went back to school, lie went with Annie to their uncle for a week. While there, Annie heard from her cousins certain jokes and allusions to nicknames. etc., etc., that wounded her deeply; and one day she over- ~heard a conversation that she long pondered over. Well, did you ever see such an unfortu- nate specimen of humanity? and he is to gain university honors and make his way in the world by his brains. Dont you think that there might be some hope of discovering the existence of mind if the superabundance of matter could be re- duced? A course of starvation might be useful. Did you ever see such an awkward elephant as it is?~ Why on earth does his father keep him at Rugton? The boy must be wretched there. He had much better send him to an academy 5~6 JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. for the development of muscle, and then off to the back-woods, or Australia; he would make a capital settler. Yes; but you see poor Nash educated himself and knows little of the world, and it is hard after all for a man to confess that his only son is a fool. Well, Im not the man to enlighten him. I wish Nash could have reversed matters, and taken to himself the lads own conviction, of his dulness and incapacity, and given to him some of his confidence. lie would get on twice as well if he had his fathers conceit; but I must go now and take the creature somewhere, for the boys say that he pulls so badly, and steers so stupidly, and is so heavy, they cannot have him in the boat. The animal is good-natured, and one cant quite throw him over, if only for his pretty little 8ister5 sake. So spake Harry, her eldest cousin, to his college friend. They had been discussin~ their cigars together on the balcony, and seemed to have forgotten that every word they uttered was distinctly heard in the room inside, where Annie was writing a letter. As soon as they had gone, she rushed to her room, threw herself on her bed in an agony of grief, bursting in- dignation and hitter humiliation struggling with each other. One moment, with clinched hands and burning cheeks, she hated her cousins with the whole force of heir nature, and wished all sorts of impossibilities that were to grind them to the dust, or hold them up to the unmitigated scorn of all mankind. Then, poor child, returns that hmunting thought, It is true, it is all true. 0 God, why must his life be made miserable? Why must he, why must she, suffer in this way? Where is mercy, where is justice to be found? Then she resolved that she would speak boldly to her father, tell him all she had heard, and mcke him feel the truth, and be just to her poor, dear, dear Jem! Oh, if she could but help hiia! If she could but give him her mind and take his. She would cheerfully at this moment do even this for his sake. Annie, Annie, are you putting on your things? Yes, Lou, answers a voice that betrays no emotion to Louisa, though to Annie her- self it sounds strange and harsh. In another quarter of an hour they all set out, Annie 57 rather rosier and more talkative than usual, surprising her cousins by the sharpn~ss and readiness of her replies, and her almost con- temptuous indifference to her Cousin harrys attentions. harry begins to waver in his al- legiance to his pretty cousin, but Bob never thought there was so much stuff in the girl before. He has the boys natural instinct of liking to see his elder brother snubbed; and Annie makes the most of his rough gallantry, and with his aid manages to make the rest of their visit tolerably pleasant to poor Jem. Jem is now eighteen, big for his age, and Oxford is imminent. Mr. Nash looks graver than ever, Mrs. Nash a shade more faded. Annie and Mary are good girls, teach in the schools, dress very badly, and perform the several duties expected of them cheerfully and well. Everything is dear, and the money ne- cessary for Jems education can ill be spared. Mr. Nash sometimes feels a doubt of his own wisdom in postponing for so long the laying by that is always to be begun for the girls; but Mr. Nash has his hobby, and that hobby is the unfailing power of education. lie has spoken speeches, he has written pam- phlets, on the subject, and how can he after that confess a failure in the person of his own and only son? Besides, Mr. Nash has a pride in always going through with any- thing that he has begun. Jem looks manlier and more hopeful. His cut-away coat suits him better than his jacket did. his manly bass commands more respect than his heretofore childish treble. He is sent fewer messages, has fewer rules to remember, and conse- quently, fewer failures are recorded against him. He has in the course of these five or six years mastered some Latin and a little Greek; and when there is no question of Euclid, and no other lad with whom to com- pare him, as is the case just now, he does well enough. Annie has never found the opportunity she wished for making her contemplated speech to her father, and she feels it wont do now. She did try a feeble protest against Oxford, and wondered if it was necessary to go to the great expense of sending him there, as books did not seem to be quite Jems line; but she felt that she had been misunderstood, when her father and mother returned next day from the town near them, with a new gown for her, and tickets for Jem, Mary, and herself, for a concert to be given there the next week. JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. Annie felt their kindness, and tried to be properly grateful for it; but she was con- seious that her opposition to Oxford had been attributed to a motive which was not the true one. Her parents thought that she longed for the pleasures and enjoyments that she saw her friends and neighbors sharing in, and looked forward with dismay to the poverty to last three years at leastthat Jems uni- versity career would entail on them. They did not blame the poor child, but, as w~ have said, brought her what they could ill afford; and she knew too well how ill they could afford it to have the full and perfect satisfaction they anticipated. Jem, thanks to Annie, was supplied with a pair of white gloves, did not forget the tickets, was not much too late, and they really enjoyed their evening. Next day his father took him up to Ox- ford. His name had been duly put down at St. As. Some months later the news of his having got into St. Zs Hall was thank- fully received at Ashford Rectory. For a term or two, Jem enjoyed his usual content, and had no very vivid sensations. Mr. Nash was rather complacent about my son at Oxford; his dreams resolved them- selves into fellowships and livings with toler- able distinctness. A friend and patron of his, too, spoke in a very encouraging though some- what vague manner of what he would do for the lad if he did well at college. Very little was said of two failures at the first examination; hut another year of Oxford was inevitable, and Mr. Nash grew anxious and irritable. He wrote more strongly to Jem, and urged upon him more and more the necessity for exertion, both for his own and for his sisters sake. He explained to him how large a portion of their means had been expended on his education; how his peace of mind and that of his mother de- pended on his doing well, as every one with proper diligence and steadiness could do;~ as he would then not only repay them for their love and exertions on his behalf, but en- able them to look forward to leaving this world without that anxiety for the future of their girls that now weighed upon them. in these days,so different from his young days, a young mans future was entirely in his own power; and he knew that when once Jem had secured for himself comfort and competency, he might safely trust to him not to forget his sisters, but to share with them what he had gained by means of that educa-~ tion on which their father had spent a per- haps unfair proportion of his fortune; and generally wound up by begging him seriously to consider whether he thought tuition or the ministry of the Church would offer to him the most likely means of distinction tifter taking his degree, and even hinted that it might be well to turn over in his mind the possibility of trying for some lucrative civil appointment, assuring him that in these matters his choice would be left entirely free and unfettered. Jem gazed at the words after taking your degree, and his imagination did not trick him into taking any flights beyond that longed-for period. He had fierce struggles. He was sorely tempted to give himself up to such idleness and enjoyment as many of those around him seemed to live for. He felt as keenly as it was in his nature to feel anything, the hard- ship of toiling and slaving ten times as hard as his companions, and succeeding only in proving more and more incontestably his own inferiority. If it had not been for Annies let- ters and an undefined though deep conviction that one person at least really appreciated his efforts, he must have given in. 11cr sympathy helped and encouraged him even more than she had dared to hope it might do; she could not believe that all this self-denial would be in vain. She, too, wrote of duty; hut her criterion of merit did not seem to be success. She wrote of those who did their best as of the truly great. She reminded him that nothing more could be required than that of him it could with truth be said, he has done what he could. lie was of a stolid, much en- during nature, and doggedly honest, even with himself. If Annie had known how much it took to persuade him that he had done his best, she might have written less graphically of the hopes, the fears, the pray- ers, the tears, of which he was the object. Night after night found him reading; day after day he denied himself all pleasure; nay, even the exercise necessary for his health. He had failed last year; this year he knows that his father has made a great effort to keep him at college. He also knows how completely he has set his heart on his taking his degree. What a terrible grief it will be to them all at home, should he fail! During a short visit paid by Harry and Louisa to Ashford, Harry told Annie that he feared Jem was working too hard, that that sort of thing never answered. It was evident to Annie that the cousins saw very little of each other, and she feared that Jem had not much to cheer him in his intervals of study. Jem was not a very gay companion; his most lively recreation at home was throwing sticks into the water for Dash~ or smoking a cigar and gazing silently into space; she could not wonder at his not being sought out. Mr. Nash questioned his nephew closely, and grew more and more nervous at his account of the ordeal approaching for James. He 68 JEM NASH, THE DULL BOY. 59 heard nothing and answered everything at i ~ grieves me very much to be once more the random that was not connected with St. Z. cause of disappointment, I may alniost say His fingers nearly came through the large disgrace, to you. I have worked hard and black gloves he pulled on and off, patted and done my best. It is plain to me that I have stretched, so incessantly, not the intellect of other men. I have long The day at length arrived. Jem went in. thought this. I hope you will believe it. I He did his best carefully and stupidly as would rather you thought me a fool than usual. How his head throbbed as he came that I had not done my duty. I hope and out. He went home, sat patiently till the believe it will be less painful to you. I will news came. He had not got through. He do us you wish about coming home, and hope sat long immovable, his head between his soon to write to Annie. My love to my dear hands, bitter disappointment# welling up at mother. his heart, striving to feel resigned; but it Your affectionate son, was very difficult, and the old feeling of being JAMES NASH. a burden, a clog, a sorrow, to those he loved St. Z Hall so well and would so fain have helped,the Mrs. Nash soon joined her husband. Mary old feeling, Why was I born? why should I seemed stunned. Annie felt a curious sense not die ?rose up again with its old strength. of relief after first reading Jems letter to her His irna0ination was not vivid, but now his father, through all her sorrow. fevered brain pictured but too clearly the ar- Mr. Nash could not yet make up his mind rival of the post next morning at Ashford. meekly to accept this blow. He alone, per- At last he rouse~l himself and wrote his letter haps, knew how much was involved in Jem s to his father. taking his degree. Something in the boys His Cousin harry came in later. Harry letter touched him; he would not yet write had been ashamed of Jem, ashamed of his kindly, he could not take his usual upbraid- gaucheries, his dulness, his lookshad joined j ing tone. They were all wretched, and in joking and laughing at him; but now he Annie fancied could not be more unhappy. took the cousins privilege of coming to him. Next day she was tried. A letter came from He left him puzzled, as well as saddened. Jem Harry. He had been to see Jem again, and looked perfectly wretched, and, Harry felt sure, found him really illutterly worn out. How was really ill; but there was something about hard Mr. Nash now felt himself to have been, him that almost awed him, and made him feel how thankful that at least he had not written that at least he could not openly pity him, angrily. Mrs. Nash persuaded him to take and that somehow his light words of chaff and her with him, and set out for Oxford at once. comfort were strangely out of place. In spite Poor Annie! she could not doubt that he of all his dulness and his failure, there was would now be tenderly nursed and tended, his that about him that commanded something mother being with him; but it was hard not very like respect. to see him. As she lay awake that night, The next morning was a memorable one at and passed in review all the incidents of his Ashford. None of the family had slept much; life, all the contempt, ridicule, disappoint- none could eat any breakfast; each started at ment; the constant stru~gle, the almost as every bell, at every step. Annie first saw the constant failure and mortification; the rare postman, lingering to talk to the gardener. gentleness, scant sympathy, and grudging Oh, would he never come! Her fathers eyes help, that he had met with, could she pray followed hers. He thought he would go and that he should be kept from that rest to get the letters himself; went as far as the which at times she felt that he was hasten- passage, and came in again pale and irresolute. ing? Mrs. Nash was trembling like an aspen; Mary Well, did Jem die then, and have over his sees it, glides away, and returns with some tomb the words he so constantly repeated in sal volatile, she looks so faint. At last the his illness, Brothers, I have done my best; letters are brought in. Why does the maid I am weary, let me rest, or is be still among linger? Who cares now whether the blind is us? I do not know. I am not sure that he crooked or straight? Mr. Nash does not open will not recover very quickly, that he will his letter till she is fairly gone, reads it twice not try again, and that either by desert or before giving it to his wife, tries to speak, because examiners even sometimes find that fails, and then walks slowly out of the room. there is more justice in mercy than in stick- His wife seizes it, reads it too, says God ing to the letter of the law, he will not take bless him! I knew he would do his duty; what his degree; and who knows but that he may right had we to expect more? and then cries some day be a much respected rector, doing as if her heart would break. Annie and Mary his duties admirably. I cannot tell. I only read the letter together., know that Annie has a patienee with and sympathy for dulness that I humbly hope is Mv DEAR FAmxa,I am plucked again, shared in at this moment by my readers. From The Victoria Magazhre. LINDISFAP~N CHASE. BY T. A. TROLLOPE. CHAP~PER I. SILVERTON AND ITS ENVIRONS. I DOUflT much whether I could invent a fiction that should be more interesting to my readers than the authentic bit of family his- tory I am about to offer them. The facts happened, and the actors in them were, with very little difference, such as they will be represented in the following pages. But al- though nearly half a century has passed since the circumstances occurred, it has been ne- cessary, in order to justify the publication of them, to make such changes in names and localities as should obviate the possibility of causing annoyance or offence to individuals still living. The episcopal city in, and in the neighborhood of, which the events really took place, shall therefore be called Silverton; and it shall be placed in one of our south- westermost counties, where no search among the county families will, it may be safely as- serted, enable any too curious reader to iden- tify the real personages of the history. The ancient and episcopal city of Silverton is one of the most beautifully situated towns in England. Seated in the midst of a wide valley on the banks of a river, which about a mile below the town becomes tidal, and three miles further reaches the sea, its environs comprise almost every variety of English scenery. The flat bottom of the valley is oc- cupied with water-meads, rendered passable to those acquainted with the locality and im- passable to strangers, by a labyrinthine system of streams and paths diversified by an infinity of sluices, miniature locks, and bridges re- movable at pleasure after the fashion of draw- bridges. The town itself, with the exception of the physically and morally low parts of it lying immediately in the vicinity of the bridge over the river Sill, is built on a slight eleva- tion sufficient to raise it above the damp level of the water-meadows. The highest point of this eminence was once entirely occupied by the extensive buildings of Silverton Castle. Now the picturesque ivy-grown keep only re- mains; and the rest of the space backed by 60 the high city wall, which on that side of the city has been l~reserved, forms the admirably kept and much admired garden of Roberb Falconer, Esq., the senior partner of the firm of Falconer and Fishbourne, the wealthy, long established, and much respected hankers of Silverton. On ground immediately below the site of the old castle, and sufficiently lower for the two buildings to group most admirably to- gether, stands the grand old Cathedral~ with its two massive towers, one at either angle of the west front, which looks toward the de- clivitv a~nd the valley. The space between the Cathedral and the site of the castle is oc- cupied by that inmost sanctuary and privi- leged spot of a cathedral city, the Close. The old city is not in any part of it a noisy one. For though it was formerly the seat of a pros- perous cloth trade and manufacture, com- merce and industry have long since deserted it, preferring, for their modern requirements, coal measures to water-meadows. But a still deeper quietude broods over the Close. The beautifully kept gravel walkit is more like a garden walk than a roadwhich wanders among exquisitely shaven lawns, from one rose-covered porch to another of the irregu- larly placed prebendal houses, is rarely cut up by wheels. The Deanery gardens, and those of two or three other of the prebendal residences run up to a remaining fragment of the old city wall to the right hand of the cas- tle-keep, as those of Mr. Falconer, the banker, do on the left-hand side of the ancient tower, supposing the person looking at them to stand facing the west front of the Cathedral. It is a pleasant spot to stand on, and a pleas- ant view to face ;it was so forty years ago, and I suppose it still is so, despite the cut- ting down of canonries, and other mvages of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners. If one stood not quite opposite the centre of the west front of the church, but sufficiently to the left of that point to catch a view of the southern side of the long nave, and the southern tran- sept with its round-headed Saxon windows 3 61 LIINDISFARN CHASE. and archcs,for that part of the building be- longed to an earlier period than the nave ; of the inouldering and ivy-grown, but still sturdy-looking and lofty keep of the old castle on the higher ground behind ;of the frag- ruents of city wall to the right and left, cov- ered with the roses and other creeping plants of the bankers garden on the one side, and of those of the cathedral dignitaries on the other; of the noble woods of Lindisfarn Chase on the gentle swell of the hill, which shut in the ho- rizon in that direction at a distance of some seven or eight miles from the city ;and of the sleepy, quiet Close in the immediate fore- ground, with its low-roofed, but substantial, roomy, and exceedingly comfortable gray stone houses showing with so admirably picturesque an effect on the brilliant green of the shaven lawns, which run close up to the walls of them ;if one stood, I say, so as to command this prospect, one would be apt to linger there awhile. Suppose the hour to be ten A.M. on a Sep- tember morning. The last bell is ringing for morning service. Dr. Lindisfarn, in surplice, hood, and trencher-cap, is placidly sauntering across the Close from his house, next to the Deanery, with a step that seems regulated by the chime of the bell, to take his place as canon in residence at the morning service. Dr. Theophilus Lindisfarn, Senior Canon, is, liter- ally if not ecclesiastically speaking, always in residence. For he loves Silverton Close bet- ter than any other spot of earths surface: and keeps a curate on his living of Chewton in the Moor, some fifteen miles from the city. Dr. Lindisfarn, stepping across to morning service, pauses an instant, as he observes with a slight frown an insolently tall dandelion growing in the Close lawn; and makes a mem. in his mind to tell the gardener that the Chap- ter cannot tolerate such slovenly gardening. A little troop of choristers in surplices and untasselled trencher-caps, headed by old Peter Glenny, the organist, are coming round the northern corner of the west front from the schoolroom. The Rev. Mr. Thorburn, the Minor Canon, who has to chant the service, is not yet in sight; for he was officiating as president of a glee club till not the smallest~ of the small hours last night, and being rather late this morning is now coming up the hill from the lower part of the town, at a speed which will just suffice to bring him to his place in the choir in time to dash off with Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord, at the exact instant that..the bell sounds its last note, and Dr. Lindisfarn at the same moment raises his benignant face from the trencher-cap in which he has for a mo- ment hidden it, on entering his stall, moving as he did so with a sort of suant, mechanical, yet not ungraceful action, which seemed to combine a bow to the assembled congregation with a meditative prayer condensed into the briefest possible time. The rooks are cawing their morning service the while in the high trees behind Mr. Falconers house, a large mansion more modern and less picturesque than the canons houses, a little behind and to the left of the spot where I have supposed the contemplator of this peaceful scene to take his stand. The morning sun is gilding and lighting up the distant Lindisfarn woods; a white mist is lying on the water-meads; and a gentle, drowsy hum ascending from the lower districts of the city. The sights and sounds that caress the eye and ear are all suggestive of peacefulness and beauty; and are poetized by a flavor of association which imparts an infinite charm to the scene. And there were no heretic bishops or free- thinking professors in those days throughout all the land. There was no Broad Church; and earnestness had not been invented. It was a mighty pleasant time; at least, it was so inside Cathedral Closes. Dissenters were comparatively few anywhere, and espe- cially in such places as Silverton. They were understood to be low and noxious persons, with greasy faces and lank hair who, in a general way, preferred evil to good. It was said that there were some few of these Pariahs in the low part of the town; and even that they met for their unhallowed wor- ship in some back lane, under the ministry of a much persecuted and almost outlawed shoemaker. But, of course, none of these persons ever ventured to sully the purity of the Cl~e with their presence. The heresiarch cobbler felt himself to be guilty, and slunk by like a whipped hound, if he met any one of the cathedral dignitaries in the street. The latter, of course, ignored the existence of any such obscure and hateful sectarians; al- though it was said that more than one denizen of the Close had been known to listen, though under protest, to a story that Peter Glenny had of a scapegrace nephew of his having once entered the conventicle in the lower 432 town, and having then found the impious wretches singing hymns to a hornpipe tune The base creatures, who were guilty of such enormities, were too few and too ob- scure to cause any trouhie or scandal in the dignified church-loving Silverton society. If a bishop did endow a favorite son or son-in- law with an accumulation of somewhat in- compatible preferments, if a reverend canon did absent himself for a year or two together from Silverton, or hold preferment with his canonry not strictly tenable with it, leave some of the little churches in the city un- served some Sunday evening, because he was engaged to a dinner-party in the country, or indulge in a hahit of playing whist deep into Sunday morning; or if a Minor Canon were found hearing the chimes at midnight else- where than in his study or his bed, or did chance to get into trouble about sporting without a license, or did stroll into his coun- try church to take some odds or ends of sur- plice duty in his shooting gaiters, while he left his dog and gun in the vestry,why, there was no chiel amang them to take invidi- ous note of these things, much less to dream of printing them ! In short, the time of which I have been speaking. and am about to speak, was that good old time, which nous autres who are stir la retour remember so well; and which was so pleasant that it is quite sad to think that it should have been found out to be so naughty! It would seem nevertheless that there had been still better times at a yet more remote period. For there were, even forty years ago, individuals in the Silverton world, who looked with regret at the march of progress, which had even then commenced. And old Dennis Wyvill, the verger, who was upwards of eighty years old, used to complain much of a new-fangled order of the Chapter that the litany should be chanted, declaring that in good Dane Burders days morning service was over, and all said, and the dooi~ocked afore eleven oclock. But thus it is! K~Etas parentum,~ says the poet in the same mind with old Dennis Wyvill, the verger, Jitas parentum pejor avis tulit nos rtequiores, ma daturos progeniem vitiosiorern. The progress of time has not quite spared either the material beauty of Silverton or its environs. One or two rows of semi-de- tached villa residences, have made their ap- pearence in different parts of the outskirts LINDISFARN CHASE. of the city, which, however charming they may he as residences to the dwellers in them, do not add to the beauty of the place. One of these more especially has caused the de- struction of a clump of elm-trees, which for- merly stood near the spot where the frag- ment of city wall that bounds Mr. Falconer s gardenor, rather, that which was his at the date of this historycomes to an end, and which filled most charmingly to the eye the break in the landscape between that ob- ject and the grass-green water-meads below; and has thus done irreparable injury to dear old Silverton. For the rest, the city and its surrounding country are much as they used to be. The woods of Lindisfarn Chase beyond and, as one may say, behind the town, sup- posing it to face toward the valley of the Sill, are as rich in verdure and as beautiful as ever. The less thickly, but still well-wooded parklike scenery of Wanstrow Manor, the res- idence, forty years ago, of the Dowager Lady Farnleigh, is unchanged on the more gradu- ally rising opposite hank of the river. The quaintly picturesque view of the water-mead- ows up the stream, closed at the turn of it westward about two miles above Silverton bridge by the village and village church of Weston Friary, is unaltered. In the opposite direction below the bridge, the population has somewhat increased; and the houses, most of them of a poor description, are more numerous than of yore. And the new cot- tages, although somewhat more fitted for de- cent human habitation than the old ones, are less picturesque. Modern squalor and pov- erty are especially unsightly. It is as if the ill qualities of the old and the new had been selected and combined to the exclusion of the redeeming qualities of either. Further from the city the aspect of the country is naturally still more unchanged. The rich and brilliantly green meadows and pasture lands in the lower grounds; the coppice-circled fields of tillage of the upland farms, the red soil of which contrasts so beau- tifully with the greenery of t~e woodlands; the gradually increasing wildness and un- evenness of the country, as it recedes from the valley of the Sill, and approaches the higher ground of Lindisfarn Chase on the Silverton side of the stream; and the curi- ously sudden and definitely marked line, which separates the Wanstrow Manor farms from ~the wide eitent of moorland w~ieh stretches away, many a mile to the north- ward and along the coast, on the opposite or left-hand side of the little river ; all this, of course, is as it was. And it was, and is, very beautiful. CHAPTER II. AT WESTON FRIARY. THERE were two roads open to the choice of any one wishing to go from Wanstrow Manor to Lindisfarn Chase. The most direct crossed the Sill by Silverton bridge and passed through that city. The distance by this road was little more than eight miles. But the pleasanter way, either for riding or walking, was to cross the river at Weston Friary, and thus avoiding the city altogether, and reach- ing the wilder and more open district of the Chase, almost immediately after quitting the valley at Weston, so as to make the greatest part of the distmce by the green lanes and unenclosed commons which at that point oc- cupied most of the space between the lowlands of the valley and Lindisfarn woods. The dis- tance by this route wws a good ten miles, how- ever. The highest part of the ground of the Chase, which shut in the horizon to the west- ward behind Silverton, has been mentioned as being about seven or eight miles from the city. But the fine old house, which took its name from the Chase, was not so far. Nor was it visible from the town. A little brawl- ing stream called Lindisfarn Brook ran hiding itself at the bottom of a narrow ravine be- tween Silverton and the Lindisfarn woods, and fell into the Sill a mile or two above Weston Friary. This little valley and its brook were about three miles from the city, and four or five from the wood-covered sum- mit above mentioned. The ground fell from this latter in a gentle slope all the way down to the brook, with the exception of the last two or three hundred feet, the sudden and almost precipitous dip of which gave the val- ley the character of a ravine. The house was situated about half-way down this gentle de- clivity,about two and a half miles from the top, that is,and as much from the brook, which was crossed by a charming little ivy- grown bridge high above the stream, carry- ing the carriage road from Silverton to Lindisfarn. The same little brook had to be crossed by those who took the longer way from Wanstrow, and by those who came from Weston Friary to the Chase; and for foot- 63 passengers, there was a plank and rail across the stream. Those travelling this route on horseback, howeve, had to ford the Lindis- fain Brook; and in sloppy weather the banks were apt to be very soft and rotten, insomuch that many a pound of mud from the Lindis.. fain Brook ford had been brushed from be- draggled riding-habits in the servants halls of the Chase and the Manor; for the in- tercourse between these two mansions was very frequent, and the ride hy Weston Friary, as has been said, was, especially to practised riders, the pleasanter. Indeed, for those who like open country, and have no objection to a little mud and a mod- erate jump or two, there could not be a better country for a ride than all this part of the Lindisfarn Chase property. In the driest weather the turf of the lanes and commons was rarely too hard, but in wet weather it was certainly somewhat too soft. This was most the case on the Weston Friary side of the Lindisfarn Brook. On the other side the ground rose toward the Chase more rapidly, and, as the higher land was reached, became naturally drier. But though there was a slight rise from the ford on the other side, sufficient to cause the brook to seek its way into the river Sill a mile or two further up the stream instead of falling into it at the village of Weston, this elevation of the ground between the valley of Lindisfarn Brook and the water-mead around the village, was not sufficient at that point to prevent all the in- tervening land from being of a very wet and soft description. If I have, succeeded in making the topography of the environs of Silverton at all clear to the reader, it will be understood that this same swell of the ground, which between Weston and the ford over the brook of Lindisfarn was a mere tongue of marshy soil, rose gradually but rather rapidly in the direction down the Sill, till it formed the comparatively high ground, on which Silverton was built, and from which the Lindisfarn woods could be seen on the oppo- site side of the valley of the brook, which had there become a deep ravine, as has been de- scribed. A good country road, coming from the interior of the country along the valley of the Sill, passed through the village of Wes- ton Friary on its course to Silverton, finding its way along the edge of the water-meadows, and making in that direction also a singularly pretty ride. This road, having crossed the LINDISFARN CHASE. LINDISFARN CHASE. mouth of the brook by a bridge called Paul- tons Bridge, nearly two miles above Weston, held its way along the t~ngue of low land which has been described, keeping close to the bank of the river. Just above Weston, this space between the two streams was not above half a mile in width, and it was all open common, divided off from the road however at that point, by a low, timber fence, con- sisting of two rails only, which, traced at a period when such land was of small value, left a wide margin of turf along the road- side. About the same hour of that same beauti- ful September morning, at which the reader has had a glimpse of Dr. Lindisfarn on his way to morning service at the cathedral,a little later perhaps ; but even if it had still been Dane Burders time, the service could not be yet over ,an old laborer paused in his loitering walk along the road toward Silver- ton, to look at two ladies on horseback com- ing at full gallop aci~ss the common, followed at some little distance by a groom. Now for a jump! said the old man, as he stood to look; there hen t another in all the country has such a seat on a horse as my lady have! And Miss Kate, shes just such another! And as he spoke, the two ladies came lightly over the low rail on to the turf by the roadside, the younger of the two giving a playful imitation of a view hallo, as she cleared her fence, in a voice whose silver notes were musical as the tones from a flute; Lady Farnleigh of Wanstrow Manor, gen- tle reader, and Miss Kate Lindisfarn, daugh- ter of Oliver Lindisfarn, Esq., of the Chase. The fence was not much of a jump; and the whole appearance of the ladies betokened that they were accustomed to much severer feats of horsemanship than that. It was a soft morning, and though the Lindisfarn woods above were glistening in the sunshine, and the old castle keep and the tori~rs of the cathedral at Silverton were clearly defined in the bright air, the mist, as has been said, was still lying in the valley, and glistening drops of the moisture had gathered on the brimsand on the somewhat bedraggled feathers of the ladies low-crowned beaver hats, and on the curls of hair, which hung in slightly di- shevelled disarray around their necks. They bore about them, too, still more decided marks of hard riding. Their habits were splashed with mud up to their shoulders, and the lower parts of them were evidently the worse for the passage of Lindisfaru Brook ford. Their whole appearance was such, in short, that had a malicious fairy dropped them just as they were into the midst of the ride in Hyde Park, they would have wished the earth to open and swallow them up. Yet many a fair frequenter of that matchless show of horsewomen, would, more judiciously, have given anything to look exactly, age for age, like either lady. They were both beautiful women, though the elder was the mother of a peer, who had just taken his seat in the House. In fact, the Dowager Lady Farnleigh was only in her forty-fourth year. Her com- panion was twenty-six years younger. But both were in face and figure eminently beau- tiful, and did not look less so for the glow which their exercise had called into their cheeks, and the sparkle in their eyes from the excitement of their gallop. Both sat their horses to perfection, as the old man had said; and both were admirably well mounted, Lady Farnleigh on a magnificent bay, and Kate on a somewhat smaller and slighter black,as indeed they needed to be for the work they had been engaged in. Their horses were splashed from fetlock to shoulder, and from nose to crupper; and the gallop up the rise from the ford, and over the deep turf of the soft common made their flanks heave as their riders pulled up in the road; and ~the breatth from their mobile nostrils was con- densed into little clouds just a shade darker than the white mist that lay on the water- meads. But the eyes in their pretty thorough- bred heads were as bright as those of their mistresses; and as they turned their heads and erect ears up the road and down the road, as if inquiring for further orders, they seemed rather anxious to be off again than distressed by what they had already done. Why, Kate! cried Lady Farnleigh, in a clear, ringing, cheery voice, that would have been good to any amount as a draft for sym- pathy on any one within earshot, why, Kate, as I am a sinner, if there is not Freddy Falconer coming along the road on his cob, looking for all the world, of course, as if he had been just taken out of the bandbox in which the London tailor had sent him down for the enlightenment of us natives! Shall we run, Kate, like naughty girls as we are? shallwe show our Silverton arbiterelegantia 64 LINDISFARN CHASE. rum a clean pair of heels, or boldly stay and abide the ordeal? Oh, I vote for standing our ground, an- swered Kate; I see no reason for running away, she added, laughing, but with a some- what heightened color in her cheek. To be sure! What is Freddy Falconer to you, or you to Freddy Falconer? Thems your sentiments, as old Gaffer Miles says, eh, Kate? Whos afrai& ? I am sure I am not! replied Lady Faraleigh, looking half jestingly, half observantly, into her goddaughters face; for she stood in that relationship to Miss Lindisfarn. Kate laughed, and shook her pretty head, putting up a little slender hand in its neatly fitting gauntlet, as she did so, to make a lit- tle unavowed attempt at restoring her hair to some small appearance or order. In another minute the rider, whom Lady Faruleigh had observed in the road, coming up at a walk, reached the spot where the ladies were. He was a young man of some twenty-seven years of age. It was impossible to deny even Lady Farnlcigh could not have denied that Nature had done her part to qualify him for becoming the arbiter elegantiarum she had sneeringly called him. He was indeed remarkably handsome; fair in complexion, with perhaps a too delicate and unbronzed pink cheek for a man; plenty of light-brown, crisp, curling hair; no mustache or beard, and closely trimmed whiskers (twas forty years ago) ; large light-blue eyes, a well- formed mouth, the lips of which, however, were rather thin, and lacked a little of that color in which his cheek was so rich; and a tall, well-proportioned figure ;a strikingly handsome man unquestionably. Nor had Fortune been behindhand in con- tributing her share to the perfect production in question. For Mr. Frederick Falconer was the only son and heir of the wealthy and prosperous banker, the senior partner of the old established and much respected firm of Falconer and Fishbourne, of Silverton. And as for Art, her contributions to the joint product had been unstinted, and in her best possible style. Every portion of the costume, appointments, and equipments ~f Mr. Freder- ick Faleoner and his horse, from the top of the well-brushed beaver to the tip of the well- polished and faultless boot of the biped, and from the artistically groomed tail to the shin- THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXV. 1163 ing curb-chain of the quadruped, were abso- lutely perfect ; and fully justified theitntici- patory commendation that Lady Faraleigh had bestowed upon them. And in u4lition to all this, it may be said that Falconer was an almost universal favorite in the Silverton societyin the very best Silverton soci- ety, of couree. The young men did. not ad- mire him quite so much as the young ladies. But this was natural enough. Both sexes, however, of the old, professed an equally fa- vorable opinion of him. He was held to be a good son, as attentive to his father b~~iness as could well be expected under the circum- stances, a well-conducted and steady young man, and by pretty well all the Silverton ma- tronoeracy a decidedly desirable wrti. (How naturally we Anglo-Saxon folks speak French whenever we have anything to say of which we are at all ashamed; or any lie to tell!) Good-morning, Lady Faruleigh! Good- morning, Miss Lindisfarn! he said, saluting the ladies with easy grace, as he came up to them. You are not only riding early this morning, but you have been riding some time earlier; for I see you have crossed Lindisfara Brook! Both ladies gave a nod in return for his salutation, Lady Farnlcigh not a distant or supercilious, but rather a dry one (if a nod can be said to be dry, as I think it may), and Kate a good-natured one, accompanied by a good-humored smile. You have been riding early too, which is paying this misty morning a much high- er compliment! returned Lady Farnleigh, for you are already returning to Silver- ton. Yes. I have been to Churton Basset already this morning. My father wanted a letter taken to Quorn and Prideaux there be- fore they opened for the day. Some business of the bank. Well, our ride is not so near its end ae yours. We are going up to the Chase again, as soon as I have visited an old friend of mine in the village here. Will you ride over the common with us? Come up to the Chase; and Miss Imogene shall give you some lun- cheon. And you may ride over with me back again to Wanstrow in the afternoon, if you like. And Kate bowed her backing of the invi-. tation, with a smile that made Mr. Frederick 65 66 feel a strong inclination to accept it; al- though, in fact, Kate had intended only to be courteous, and by no means wished to be, on this occasion, taken at her word, or rather at her bow and smile; for she had not spo- ken. It was true that Fred had Messrs. Quorn and Prideauxs answer to his fathers letter in his pocket; but he had no reason to think that it mattered much whether it reached its des- tination a few hours sooner or later. And in truth it was the consideration of the nature of the ride proposed to him, rather than any anxiety about the letter, that made him plead the necessity of returning to Silverton as an excuse for not accepting the proposal. Well, good-day, then. You are a pearl of a messenger! Give my compliments to your father; and oh, Mr. Falconer! there is a lot of mud in the road by the lock yonder; take care you do not splash yourself. Good- by! He understood the sneer well enough; and would have been riled at it, if Kate had not administered an antidote to the acerbity of her godmothers tongue, by giving him a part- ing nod and a Good-by, Mr. Falconer, in which there was no cerbity at all. Nevertheless, as the young man rode off toward the city, and the ladies turned their horses heads to enter the village of Weston Friary, Kate said, addressing her compan- ion, How could you think of inviting him up to the Chase to-day? As if we had not enough to think of, without having strangers on our hands! Dont be a goose, Kate! answered the elder lady. Do von think I imagined that there was the slightest chance of Master Freddy consenting to ride over Lindisfarn Common with you and me? Catch him at it! But at what time do you think your sister may arrive? We have calculated that she may beat the Chase by two. I wanted to meet her in Sil- verton; but papa thought it best that we should all receive her together at home. We must take care to be back at the Chase by that time. I would not be out when she comes for the world! Oh, no fear! Ive only to say half a dozen words to old Granny Wilkins, poor thing, in Weston here, and then well go up to the Chase best pace. We shant be long, LINDISFARN CHASE. since we have not Master Freddy at our heels. Why, what a~spite you have, godinamma, against poor Mr. Falconer! What has he done to offend you? Nothing in the world, my dear! And I have not the slightest idea of being offended with him. It is true I dont like him quite so much as all the Silverton young ladies do. I dont think you like him at all! Why dont you? asked Kate, with a blunt, straightforward frankness that was peculiar to her. Well, I dont like him at all, thats the truth! But you know the old rhyme, Kate, 1 do not like you, Dr. Fell, etc., etc. Upon second thoughts, however, I think I can tell why I dont like Freddy Faleoner. He is a regular Oh, not a snob, as you said of that super- fine Captain Marnisty, the other day. I dont think Mr. Falconer is asnob! No, I was not going to say a snob. Why should you fancy I was? Only because, when you called Captain Marnisty so, you said a regular snob, just in the same sort of way. Well, this time I am going to say a reg- ular something else. No, it would not be fair, or true, to say that Fred Falconer is a snob. But lican put what he is into four letters too ! Not a fool! expostulated Kate. No, thats not quite it either, though I have known wiser men than Fred. Try again 5 Dandy has five letters, said Kate, med- itatively. Yes, and ~o has scamp; and I do not mean to call Mr. Falconer that either. No, if I must tell you, it is prig. Freddy Fal- coner is a regular prig! And I am not fond of prigs. But I-Leaven help us all! there are worse things than prigs in the world; and 1 have nothing to say against the man. Only, she added, after a pause, to make a clean breast of it, Kate, I have fancied lately that I have seen symptoms of his Suitauship hav- ing taken it into his head to throw the handkerchief in the direction of Lindisfarn Chase 1 am sure he never thought of such a thing! said Kate, with a little toss and a great blush. LINDISFARN CHASE. So much the better! In that case, Freddy and I shall remain very good friends. He may make love to every other girl in the county for aught I care; but if he meddles with my Kate, gare la marraine! thats all! Will you come in with me to see old Granny Wilkins, dear, or sit on your horse till I have done? I shant be a minute. No, no ; let me come in with you. Gran- ny Wilkins is an old acquaintance of mine. So the groom helped both the ladies to dis- mount at the door of the cottage; and it was evident from the unsurprised manner in which the paralytic old inhabitant of it received her visitors that they were neither of them stran- gers to her. The business with Dame Wilkins was soon despatched, as Lady Farnleigh had said that it would be. It consisted only of the adminis- tration of one or two little articles of creature comfort, a trifle of money, and a few of those kind words, more valuable than any of these, when spoken hy the gentle and wealthy to the poor and simple with that tact and heartiness which are both naturally inspired by genuine sympathy, but which are as naturally, and with fatal result, wanting to those charitable ministrations, performed as a matter of duty, according to cut-and-dry rules, even though those rules shall have been adjusted in accord- ance with the most approved maxims of mod- ern social science. - The fact is that there is just the difference between the two things that there is between the workmanship of some old cinque-cento ar- tist, and the product of a Birmingham steam factory. There is much in favor of the latter. Millions of the required article are turned out of hand instead of units. There is infinitely less loss of material. The article produced is, according to every mechanical test, even bet- ter than the handiwork of the old artist. It is more accurate, its rounds are absolutely round, its angles true angles; each individ- ual article of the gross turned out per hour is exactly the same as every other, and all are adapted with scientific forethought to the ex- act requirements they are intended to serve. But the old handicraftsman impressed his in- dividuality on the work of his hands,put his whole soul into it, as we say, more liter- ally than we often think, as we use the phrase. What is the difference between this old six- teenth centuryanything,inkstand, ladys needlecase, or what not, and the article im 67 itated from it by our mechanical science? I am not artist enough to say what the differ- ence is; but I see it and feel it readily enough; and so does everybody else. And the mar- ket value of the ancient artists piece shall be as a thousand to one to that of the mod- ern imitation of it. And I know that this subtle difference, and this superior value is due to that presence of the workmans soul, which the best possible steam-engine (having, up to the date of the latest improvement, no soul) cannot impart to its products. The best possible mechanism, whether ap- plied by dynamic science to the shaping and chasing of metal, or by social science to the cheering of poverty and the relief of suffering, must not be expected to do the work of indi- vidually applied sympathy, heart and soul. But modern civilization needs beautiful ink- stands in millions; and the masses of modern population need ministrations only to be sup- plied by organized social machinery. Very true! Only do not let us suppose that we get the same thing, or a thing nearly as pre- cious. Maybe we get the best we can. But the human brain-directed hand musteome in contact with the material, to produce the higher order of artistic beauty. And indi- vidual human sympathy, unclogged by rules,. must bring one human heart into absolute contact with another, before the best kind of relief can be attained. Dame Wilkins, however, was the fortunate possessor of the real artistic article, in the kind visits of Lady Farnleigh. iBut the few kind words, which were treasured and re- peated and prized, did not take long in say- ing; and the two ladies in a very few minutes were mounting their horses again. Miss Lindisfarn was already in the saddle; and Lady Farnleigh was about to mount, when the groom said, in an under voice, Please, my lady, the tobacco ! To be sure! What a brute lam to have forgotten it! Gix e me the packet, Giles. She took the little parcel Giles produced from his pocket, and returning into the cot- tage said, Here, granny. If it had not been for Giles, I should have forgotten the best of my treat. Heres half a pound of baccy to comfort you as the cold nights come on. Oh, my lady! That is the best! You knowshow to comfort a poor old body as has lost the use of her precious limbs. Thank 68 you, my lady, and God bless you! said the old woman, as a gleam of pleasure came into her watery old eyes at the thought of the gratification contained in that small packet. 1 say, godmamma dear, said Kate, after a pause, as they were riding at a soher pace through the village, do you think it is right to give the poor people tobacco? I have often heard Uncle Theophilus say that the habit of smoking is, next to drinking, the worst thing for the laboring classes; that it pro- motes bad company, encourages idleness, and very often leads to drunkenness. Uncle Theophilus may go to Jericho! I am of another parish ; and dont like his doc- trine! Tell him from me, Kate, the next time he preaches on that text, that the labor- ing classes are of opinion that there is noth- ing worse for their superiors than the habit of drinking port wine; that it makes the tem- per crusty, promotes red noses, and very often leads to the gout! lEa, ha, ha, ha! laughed Kate in sil- very notes, that made the little village street musical; depend upon it, I will give him your :messa~e word for word. And then after a short gallop over the com- mon., they crossed the ford again, not without carrying away with them some additional specimen of the soil of its banks and bottom, and thence made the best of their way, first over the broken open ground which intervened between the brook and the Lindisfarn woods, and then through the leafy lanes which crossed them, gradually reaching the higher ground, till they came out on the carriage road from Silverton to the Chase,a little below the Lodge gates. Here Lady Farnicigh turned her horses head to return to Wanstrow by the road through Silverton, leaving Kate to ride up to the house alone. Good-by, darling! she said; I wont come in. I know how anxious you must all be. But remember that I shall be anxious also to bear all about the new sister, and ride over the day.after to-morrow at the furthest; ther& s a dear. Love to them all! And Kate cantered up the avenue to join the other members of the family, who were, not without some little nervous expectation, awaiting the arrival of a daughter of the house, whom none of them had seen for the last fifteen years. LINDISFARN CHASE. CHAPTER Itt. THE FAMILY IN THE cLosE. LINDISFARN house is a noble old mansion, almost entirely of thn Elizabethan period, with stately, stiff, and trim gardens behind it, embosomed in woods behind and around them, with larger and more modern gardens on one side of it, and a wide open gravel drive, and a piece of tree-dotted parklike pasture-land in front of the house; beyond which it looks down over the wooded slope de- scending to the Lindisfarn Brook, and across it to the cultivated side of the hill on the other side of the top of which stands Silver. ton. The city is not seen from the house. But the old castle keep is just visible as an object on the edge of the not distant horizon. It is so charming an old house, so full of character, so homogeneously expressive in all its parts and all its surroundings, and every detail of it and the scenery around it is so viv- idly impressed on my remembrance, that it is a great temptation to try my power of word- painting by attempting a minute description of the place. But conscious of having often skipped similar descriptions written by others, I do as I would be done by and refrain. After all, the associations to be found in each readers memory and reminiscences have to be called on to supplement the most successful of such descriptions. How can I cause to echo in the memory-chambers of anothers brain as they are echoing in mine the morn- ing concert of the rooks in the humid autumn morning air, or in the dreamy quietude of the sunset hour,the barking of the dogs, and the cheery, ringing tones of old Oliver Lindisfarns voice, which seemed never to con- descend to a lower note than that adapted to a Yoicks! forward! hark forward! and which, as it used to echo through the great ball, or make the windows of the wainscoted parlors ring again, seemed to harmonize so perfeetlyand pleasantly with the other sounds! Why, I swear that even the cry of the peacock seems melodious as it comes wafted across forty years of memory! And as for Katos silVer-toned laugh on the terrace in front of the house, as she played with old Bayard, the great rough mastiff, or enticed her bonny black mare Birdie, to follow her up and down for lumps of sugar purloined out of Miss Imo- genes breakfast basin; ah me! the old Lin- disfarn rooks will never hear that again! LINDISFARN CHASE. 69 Nor shall Ithat, or any other like it! Miss Venafry, who after two yearsof inar- And dear old Miss Jmmy, as she loved to be riage left him a widower for the second time, called, with her little crisp white cap set on and the father of two little twin-born girls, the top of her light crisp silver-white curls, Catherine and Margaret. Catherine had three each side of her head, and her round, been the name of Mr. Lindisfarns first wife, withered. red-apple like cheeks and her bolt- and Margaret that of his second. npright little fi~ure, and her pit-a-pat high- Of course the absence of a male heir was heeled shoes, and her stiff, rustling, lavender- a very heavy and bitter disappointment to colored silk gown, which seemed to go across the twice-widowed father of two unportioned the floor, when she moved, like some Dutch girls. Mr. Lindisfarns daughters were en- toy moved by clockwork, and her basket of tirely so; for on Lady Catherines death her keys, and her volume of Clarissa ilarlowe. fortu~ne returned to her family; and Miss Accidents many of these things may seem to Venafry had been dowered l)y her beauty be ; but they were properties of dear old Miss alone. In another point of view, however, Immy. For they never changed, neither the the case of Mr. Lindisfarn was not so hard snow-white cap nor the lavender-colored as that of many another sonless holder of en- gown, nor the volume of Clarissa Harlowe. tailed property. For the Lindisfarn estates She really did read it! But she faithfully were entailed only on the male heir of Oliver, began it again as soon as she had finished the and failing an heir of the elder brother, on volume. For sixty years I believe Miss Immy the male heir of his younger brother, the had never been seen without her little basket Rev. Theophilus Lindisfarn. If there were of keys and her volume of Clarissa Harlowe. failure of a male heir there also, the daugh- I will not, I say, attempt to describe the ters of Oliver would become co-heiresses. old place. But I must needs give some ac- But Dr. Theophilus Lindisfarn, Canon of count of the inhabitants of it, as they were Silverton, his brothers junior by only one at the period to which this history refers. year, had married Lady Sempronia Balstoek, The Lindisfarn property had belonged to much about the same time that his elder the Lindisfarns of Lindisfara so long that brother had married Lady Catherine Earn- not only the memory of man but the memory of leigh; and of this marriage had been horn a county historians ran not to the contrary, son, Julian, who was about thirteen years as the legal phrase goes. The rental at the pe- old at the time of the birth of Oliver Lin- nod of our history was a well paid four thousand disfarns daughters. They were born, there- a year, and the tenantry were as well-to-do fore, to nothing save such provision as their and respectable a body as any estate in the father might lay by for them out of his in- county could boast. Oliver Lindisfarn, the come; and Julian, when his uncles second son and grandson of other Olivers, and the wife died a year after giving birth to these lord of this eminently desirable property, portionless girls, became the heir fo the es- was in his sixtieth year at the time here tates, barring the unlikely chance of his un- spoken of. He had married early in life a dc contracting a third marriage. sister of his neighbor, Lord Farnleigh ;for Long, however, before the dowerless little the old lord had lived at Wanstrow, which twins were capable of caring for any provision was now the residence of the dowager,, his save that needed for the passing hour, their widow, the young lord having taken his prospects in life became somewhat brightened. young wife to reside on a larger propert~~ When the second Mrs. Lindisfarn died, a in a distant county. The present dowager, sister of hers, a few years her senior, who Lady Farnlcigh, was therefore the sister-in- had been married fir several years to a Baron law of the lady Mr. Lindisfarn had first mar- de Renneville, a Frcnchmnan, and who had ned; but not of the mother of the two young been Margaret Lindisfarns godmother, being ladies, of whom one has already been pre- childless, proposed to adopt her goddaughter. sented to the reader. They were the offspring A pressing and most kind proposal to this ef- of a second marriage. Lady Catherine Lin- feet, warmly hacked by the baron himuself, disfarn had died after a few years of marriage, held out to his child a prospect which the leaving her husband a childless widower. widowed father did not feel justified in re- lic had remained such about eight years, and fusing. The Dc Rennevilles were wealthy, had then at the age of forty-three married a and of good standing in the best Parisian so- 70 LINDISFARN CHASE. ciety. Madame de Renneville had not aban- may perhaps be thought, naturally reserved doned her religion. She remained a ProWs- for those whose worship was rather given to tant, and there was no ohjeetion, therefore, the special patron of good things, Mammon, on that score. So the little Margaret, almost than to any more avowed object of their ado- before she was out of her nurses arms, was ration. But nobody could say that the Sil- sent to Paris, to he hrought up as the recog- verton canons were not gentlemen. Nor can nized heir to the wealth of the prosperous it be said that, with the exception of one, or French financier, perhaps two, of the body, whose love for good The prize which Fortune had in her lottery things went to the extent of hoarding them for the other twin sister, Catherine, was when they had got them, they were other- less brilliant, hut, nevertheless, was sufficient wise than well liked by the Silvertonians of to make a very important difference in her all classes putting out of the question, as of position. Lady Farnicigh, the sister-in-law course they were out of the question, those of Mr. Lindisfarns first wife, had become the few pestilent fellows who sang hymns to horn- attached friend of his second, and the god- pipe tunes down in the hack slums. They mother of little Catherine. And much about were gentlemen; and the Silverton world said that they spent their revenues as such, which was what the Silverton world considered to the same time that Margaret was sent to Paris, it was understood that a sum of six thousand pounds was destined hy Lady Fain- leigh as a legacy to her otherwise wholly un- provided-for goddaughter. This was the position of the Lindisfarn family at the period of Mrs. Lindisfarns death. But events had occurred between that time and the date at which this histo- ry opens which very materially altered the whole state of the case. And in order to ex- plain these, it is necessary to turn ourattention away for a few minutes from the family at the Chase, and give it to that of Dr. Lindis- fain, in the Close at Silverton. The Chapter of Silverton, at the remote pe- riod of which I write, was not noted for the strictly clerical character of its members. Public opinion did not demand much in this respect in those days. The Right Reverend Father, who had presided for many years over the diocese, was a well-horn and courtly pre- late far hetter known in certain distinguished metropolitan circles than at Silverton. He was known to hold very strong opinions on the necessity of filling the ranks of the estab-. lished church with geatlemen. And though I cannot assert that he required candidates for ordination to forward, together with their other papers, an heraldic certificate of the quarterings they were entitled to, after the fashion of a noble German Chapter, yet it was perfectly well understood that no awkward highlow-shod son of the soil, how- ever competent to mouth out Homers Greek like thunder, would do well to ap- ply to the Bishop of Silverton for ordination. The Silverton canonries were very good things; and good things of this sort were, it he the main point. Only theworst of it was that Messrs. Falconer and Fishbourne might have had reason to think that some among them pushed this good quality to excess. Dr. Lindisfarn, it is fair to state at once, to prevent the reader of these improved days from conceiving an unfounded prejudice against him, was perhaps the most clerical of the body in question. Not that it is to he understood by this that any High Church- man or Low Churchman or Broad Churchman of the present day would have deemed poor Dr. Lindisfarn anything like up to the mark of their different requirements and theories. He would have been sorely perplexed to com- prehend what anybody was driving at, who should have talked to him of the duty of earnestness. He found the world a very fairly satisfactory world, as it was, and had never conceived the remotest idea, good, easy man, that he was in any wise called on to do anything toward leaving it at all better than he found it. Nevertheless, he was fairly en- titled to be considered as the most respectably clerical of his Chapter, because his tastes and pursuits were of a nature that was not in any degree in overt disaccordance with the cleri- cal character, even according to our modern conception of it. Whereas the same could hardly be said of the majority of his fellow- canons. One was a very notorious joker of jokes,of very good jokes, too, occasionally, for he was a man of real wit. (N.B. Though a very clever fellow in his way, he was not capable of writing some of the best articles in the Edinburgh Review.) But nothing in the shape of a joke came amiss to him, be the LINDISFARN CHAS1~. subject or tendency of it what it might. He preferred good society; but the profanum vuigus was not the portion of the vulgar, which he most hated and kept at a distance. Another was known to be an accomplished musical critic, but was thought to prefer Mozart and Cimarosa to Boyce and Purcell, and to have a not uninfluential voice in the counsels of the lessee of His i\Jajestys Thea- tre in the Haymarket. Another had been seen on more than one occasion to wave above his head a hat that looked very like a full- l)lOWn shovel in the excitement of a hardly contested race at Newmarket. A fourth was universally allowed to he one of the best whist-players in England, and was thought to be in no danger of losing his skill for want of practice, while a fifth was believed to be a far deeper student of the mysteries of the stock-exchange than of any other sort of lore. Dr. Theophilus Lindisfarn meddled with none of these anti-clerical pursuits. His heart, as well as his corporeal presence, was in Silverton Close, and Silverton Cathedral Church. But his love for the Church fixed itself rather on the material structures which are as the outward and visible signs of its in- ward and spiritual existence, than on the ab- stract ideas of a Church invisible. He was a man of considerable learning and of yet greater zeal for antiquarian and especially. ecelesiological pursuits. lit is in the nature and destiny of hobbies to he hard ridden. This was Dr. Lindisfarns hobby; and he did ride it very hard. He was far from a value- less man, as a member of the Silverton Chap- ter. The dean was not untinctured with similar tastes ; and with his assistance and support Dr. Lindisfarn had accomplished much for the restoration and repair of Silver- ton cathedral, at a time when such things were less thought of than they are in these days. lIe had fought many a hard fight in the Chapter with his brother dignitaries, who fain would have expended no shilling of the Church revenues for such a purpose; and not content with the niggard grants which it had been possible to induce that body to allocate for the purpose, had spent much of his own money on his beloved church. In fact, it was very well known, that the whole of a considerable sum which he had received from an unexpected leg- acy by a relative of Lady Sempronia, had 71 gone towards the new panelled ceiling in painted coffer-work of the trausept of the ca- thedral. And indeed it was whispered at Silverton tea-tables that old Mr. Falconer had been heard to say, with a mysterious nod of his head, that the legacy in question had by no means covered all that the canon had made himself liable for. Mr. Falconer, no doubt, knew what he was talking about, for, besides being Dr. Lindis- farn~s banker, he was a brother arebmolo- gist. The votaries of that seducing pursuit were far less numerous in those days than in our own ; and the erudite canon of Silverton was fortunate in finding a fellow-laborer and supporter where, it might have been sup- posed, little likely to meet with it~in the leading banker of the little city. The dean was the only member of the Chapter, besides Dr. Lindisfarn, who cared for such pursuits. But a few recruits were found among the clergy and gentry of the country; and the banker and the canon together bad succeeded in getting up a little county archa~ologica1 society and publishing club. Dr. Lindisfarns tastes and pursuits there- fore may fairly be said to have been clerical, or at least not anti-clerical, as well as gentle- man-like. Nevertheless, the Lady Sempro- nia, his wife, did not look on them with an altogether favorable eye. And perhaps she can hardly be blamed for her feeling on the subject. The canons hobby was a very ex- pensive one. The cost of it, indeed, would have done far more than amply maintain the handsome pair of carriage-horses, which Lady Sempronia hopelessly sighed for, and which would have spared her the bitter mortification of going to visit the county members wives, or Lady Faruleigh at Wanstrow, in a hybrid sort of conveyance drawn by one stout clumsy horse in the shafts, whereas Mrs. Dean drove a handsome pair of grays. Many other of the small troubles and mortifications, which helped to make Lady Sempronia a querulous and disappointed woman, were traceable, and were very accurately as well as very frequently traced by her, to the same source. Upon the whole, therefore, it was hardly to be won- dered at that the poor lady should abhor all archamology in general, and the Silverton so- ciety and printing club in particular; and that she should have regarded the discovery of a whitewash-covered moulding, or half- defaced inscription as a bitter misfortune, LINDISFARN CHASE. boding evil to the comforts of her hearth and home. Lady Sen1r~ronias soul ~vas moreover daily vexed by -another peculiarity of her 1weoaul~s idiosyncrasy, which she put down with scarcely sufficient warrant, perhaps, from the principles of psychological scienceall to the account of the detested archa~ology. Dr. Lindisfarn was afflicted by habitual absence of mind to a degree which occasionally ex- posed him and those connected with him to considerable inconvenience. His wife held that the evil was occasioned wholly by his continual meditations on his favorite pursuit when his wits should have been occupied with other matters. But the evil had doubt- less a deeper root. It is an infirmity gener- ally regarded with a compassionate smile by those who are witnesses of its manifestations. But to a narrow little mind, soured and irri- tated by other annoyances, and at best plac- ing its highest conception of human perfec- tion in the due and accurate performance of the thousand little duties and proprieties of every-day life in proper manner, place, and ,time~ the eccentricities of a thoroughly ab- sent man were sources of anger and exacerba- tion, that contributed far more to make the life of the lady who felt them unhappy than they did to affect in any way the placid object of them. Upon one occasion, for instance, her indignation knew no bounds, when, hav- ing with some difficulty driven the canon from his study up-stairs to dress for a dinner-party, to which they were engaged, the doctor, on finding himself in his bedroom, had forgotten all about the business in hand, and had quietly undressed himself and gone to bed, where he was found fast asleep, shortly afterward, by the servant sent to look after him. Of course all Silverton soon knew the story, and the ill- used lady poured her lamentations into the ears of her special friends. But Lady Scm- pronia was not popular at Silverton, even among her special friends; and it may be feared that the Silverton public accorded her on this, as well as on other occasions, less of their sympathy than her sorrows deserved. For in truth the poor lady had been sorely tried, and her life embittered by far more se- rious sorrow and severer tronble,a sorrow that had left its mark indelibly on her heart, and which produced in her mind another source of half-latent irritation against her husband because he did not seem to be equally affected by it; yet it was the greatest common misfortune a man and wife can h~e to share, the loss of an only child. And Lady Scm- pronia wronged her husband in supposing that he did not feel, or rather had not felt, the blow acutely. But some natures are so constituted, that sorrow sinks into them, as water into a spongy cloth ; while from others it as natu- rally runs off, as from a waterproof surface. And it would be a mistake to pronounce on this ground alone that either of these natures is necessarily superior to the other. And then again in this matter the doctor no doubt owed much to his hobby. Serious hard work, it has been said, is the most efficacious allevi- ation for sorrow, and the next best probably is hard riding on a favorite hobby. But poor Lady Sempronia had no help in bearing her grief from either one of these; and it was a very heavy burden to hear. There were circumstances that made it a very specially and exceptionally sore sorrow to the bereaved parents; and these circum- stances must be as briefly as may be related. The two brothers, Oliver and Theophilus Lindisfarn, had married, as has been said, nearly about the same time. The marriage of the elder brother remained childless. But to the younger, a son, Julian, was born about (I think, in) the year 1793. Of course the childless wife of the squire was a little envi- ous, and the happy wife of the Churchman a little exultant,pardonably in either case. As the years slipped away, the probability that the little Julian would be the heir to the Lindisfarn property grew greater. When, he being at the time about five years old, his aunt, the squires wife, died, his chance was somewhat diminished, for there was the prob- ability that his uncle would marry again. He was about thirteen years old when that event did happen. But when, some two years later, his uncles second wife died, leaving him, as the reader knows, only two twin daughters, the probability that Julian must be the heir had become all but a certainty. Under these circumstances, with a silly, adoring, fine lady mother, and an indulgent, placid, absent, arch~ological father, it is per- haps not surprising that Julian, kept at home in compliance with his mothers urgent de- sire, to read ~ with a tutor at Silverton, wentas the common saying expressively phrases itto the bad. Of course that down- ward journey to the bad took some lit- 72 LINDISFARN CHASE. 73 tie time in making. And Julian was just a thing as being too steedy; that young as over twenty-one when he reached the had al- Freddy Falconer ~as,three or four years together. There were cavalry barracks at Julians junior,it was on the cards that Silverton, and there was always a cavalry young Lindisfarn might get more harm from regiment stationed there. The younger of young Falconer than the reverse. But of the officers were naturally enough among the cxirsc the prudent old gentlemen, whose ob- most habitual associates of the young heir of servation suggested to them such remarks, Lindisfarn. And though it may very well were too prudent to make them out, loud. be that no one of those young men went al- I Certain it was, that young Lindisfarn did together to the had himself, yet there can be , not imitate his steady friends prudence in little douht that they helped to forward Ju- the matter of his expenses. Julian, on the han on his road thither. contrary, always exceeded his more than lib- His most intimate friend and associate, eral allowance, and was always importuning however, at that timewhen he was ahout his father for money. Aud the easy, absent from twenty to one-and-twenty, that is to old canon, careless in moocy matters and saywas Frederick Falconer. And all those culpably extravagant on his own account, his parents among the restwho had seen did, without much resistance, and without with some alarm, that Julian was becoming any such inquiries as he ought in common very wild, considered that his intimacy prudence to have made, supply his son with with so steady and well-conducted a young sums, which at the end of the year very sen- mau as the bankers son was, at all events, a ously increased the balance against him in good sign. The careful old banker, on the Messrs. Falconer and Fishhournes books. other hand, was by no means equally well And then my brother Noll had to be ap- pleased with the intimacy between the two plied to for assistance. And the jolly old young men. It was difficult, however to in squireafter roaring his indignation in the terfere to put a stop to it, without takin hank parlor, in tones which made every pane unpleasantly strong measures, which would in the windows vibrate, and caused Mr. Fish- have caused much scandal and heartbu~ning bourne to, shake in unison with them in his and enmity in the small social code of a shoes, and Mr. Falconer to jump from his little country town. Old Mr Falconen had, chair with the momentary idea of clapping moreover, much confidence in the steadiness his hand on Mr. Lindisfarns mouth, before and good principles of his son. Some of the it had made known the business in hand to young cavalry officers, whose society the two half Silvertonlent the money out of funds Silventon youths frequented, were men of laid aside for the provision of his daughters, large means ; and stories were rife in Silver- and forgot the transaction before the end of ton of orgies and escapades which, in varied the week. ways, involved expenditure on no inconsid- And then it was the same thing all over again, enable scale. There were eaminsions to dis- on rather a similar thing on a much extended tant race-courses; and more uncertain and scale. Major rerum nascitur ordo, as is cautiously whispered rumors of nights spent ever the case in such careers as Juhian Lin- in rooms of the barracks, when suppers and disfarn was running; for the march to the champagne, in whatever abundance, were the devil always has to be played with a rapidly least dangerous and objectionable portion of crescendo movement. the nights amusement. Frederick Falconer, And thenand then,to make a very however, never exceeded his liberal, but not sad story as short a one as may bc,oue unreasonably large, allowance, and never ap- fine morning, in the year 1814, Julian Lindis- peared in want of money; and the old banker fain was missing from his fathers house, and considered that to be out of debt was to be the bed in which he was supposed to have out of danger, and that a young man who slept was found not to have been occupied. lived strictly xvithin his means, and always And it did come to the ears of some of those made his quarters allowance supply his prudent old observers of their neighbors af- quarterly expenditure, could not be going fan fairs, of whom I spoke heflire, that Mr Thor- wrong. There were not wanting in Silventon, burn, the Minor Canon, had told Peter Glenny, however, one or two shrewd old fellows, who the organist, that, returning home through observed to one another, that there was such the Close late that night, he had seen young 74 LINDISFARN CHASE. Falconer in close confabulation with Julian of possibility that Julian s Aght was acci- in the shade of the wall of his fathers house dentally well timed; but it appeared hardly just under the young mans bedroom window, credible that such was the cas. Mr. Frederick, however, was known by his, It was a black day in Silvertonthat which family to have gone to bed in his own room brought this sad catastrophe to light; for old at a much earlier hour; and everybody in Dr. Lindisfarn, despite his faults and eccen- Silverton knew that poor Ned Thorburn, tricities, was a popular man in Silverton, and though always perfectly good for a catch or a the old squire at the Chase was more than glee till any hour you please in the morning, popular,he was exceedingly beloved, not was apt to be good for little else after twelve only in Silverton, but throughout the county. oclock at night; and certainly not good as a The poor, sorely-stricken mother, too, though witness to the identity of a person seen in Lady Sempronia was not much liked, could dark shadow by him, when coming home not but be deeply pitied on this sad occasion. from a remarkably pleasant meeting of good It was indeed a heavy blow on all on whom fellows. And when the facts, which the next atiy part of the reflected disgrace fell. And day brought to li aht, were known in Silver- the partner of the London boise came down ton, neither Thorburn, nor Glenny, nor any of to Silverton; and there were long, mysteri- those few persons whose ears the report of ous sittings with lawyers in the back parlor, the Minor Canons vision t~ad reached, cared at Falconer and Fishbournes; and the down- to recur to the circumstances. stricken father, with bowed white head, had The terrible facts were shortly these to be there; and the hearty old squire, of The London mail, which reached Silverton whom men remarked that he looked suddenly on the very morning on which Julian disap- ten years older, had to be there. And it was peared thence, brought letters to Messrs. said, that the London firm behaved forbear- Falconer and Fishbourne, which made it cvi- ingly and well; and that the Silverton banker dent that the signature of their firm had been had behaved equally well; and though no- forged to drafts for very Xeavy amounts on body knew what arrangements had been come their London correspondents. The execution to respecting the loss of the money, it was of the forgery was so admirable that it was known that there would be no prosecution, no wonder that the fraud had been successful. and that the lamentable facts would be hushed It is not necessary to detail the circumstances up, as far as possible. which, even if Julians flight had not imme- Before long it became known, too, that the diately pointed him out as the criminal, abun- miserable young man, who had caused all this dantly sufficed to bring the guilt home to him. wide-spreading sorrow and suffering, had suc- It is sufficient to state that there was no ceeded in making good his escape to the oppo- possibility of doubt upon the subject. But site coast of France, in a fishingvessel be- it was at the time thought very extraordi- longing to the small fishing-town at the mouth nary, even supposing that Julian Lindisfarn of the estuary of the Sill, about five or six was gifted with that faculty of imitation, miles from Silverton. Under the miserable which might have enabled him to counterfeit circumstances of the case, it ~vas a relief to successfully the sP~nature of the Silverton his family to know that he was out of the 50 a firm, that he should have possessed not only country. For those were days in which such a general acquaintance with the nature death was the penalty of forgery, and it was of banking business, as should have taught one of the crimes to which it was deemed ne- him how to perpetrate the fraud he contem- cessary to show no mercy. plated, but such a knowledge of the relations A little later, news reached Silverton, that between Messrs. Falconer and Fishbourne and the lost one bad left France for America: and the London house as must have guided him it was known that the heir to the respected in his operations, and above all, the informa- old name and fine estate of Liudisfarn was an tion, which it seemed impossible to doubt exiled wanderer, none knew where, in the that he must have possessed, of the exact time New World. For if Julian had never scru- when the course of business communication pled before his fall to importune his father between the Si,lverton bankers and their Lon- for money, shame, or some other feeling, pre- don correspondents must bring the fraud to vented him from ever making any application detection. It was certainly within the limits to him afterward. Had it been possible to 75 LINDiSFARN CHASE. obtain such information as might have made interior of the country, there was a very ex- it practicable to communicate with him, he tensive district of wild moorland, which ran would not have been left without the means up to within about ten miles from Silverton. of support. But from the day of his escape Sill Moor, as this tract of land is called, no word came from him; nor, beyond the fact wasand is still in a smaller degreea pe- of his landing in America, could any trace culiar district in many respects: and the few of him be discovered, small villages, which are scattered at great And so the little girl at Lindisfarn Chase, distances from each other over its wide sur- Julians Cousin Kate, then between eight and face, are inhabited or were so forty years ago, nine years old, had to he taught that she by a peculiar and singularly wild population. must forget all about Cousin Julian, and name In one of those moor villages, about fifteen his name no more. To the child this was of miles from Silverton, which it will be neces- course not difficult. The Silverton public, sary hereafter to speak of more at length, also, ~vhen they had had their talk; when there was a somewhat better house than most some had declared that they never could of the others around it. In that house there have believed such a thing possible, while lived an old widowed man, whose name was others less loudly but more pertinaciously as- Jared Mallory, and who was, and for many serted that they had all along foreseen that years had heen, the clerk of the neighboring Julian Lindisfarns career must needs lead to ancient churc~h, which was the parish church some such catastrophe; and when Mr. Fred- of an immense district of moorland. The crick Falconer had expressed to a sufficient village was called Chewton-in-the-Moor; and number of persons the shock and astonish- the living was held by Dr. Lindisfarn with ment which this unha~~y business had been his Canonry. And in Jared Mallorys lone to him; had admitted that he knew poor Ju- house lived with him Barbara Mallory, his han to be more dissip~.ted than he could have daughter. And there was no girl in Silver- wished, but had always deemed him the soul ton, or in all the country-side, so beautiful as of honor and integrity, and had sufficiently Barbara Mallory, the wild moor-flower. And often prayed Cod that it might be a warn- on that fatal morning of Julians flight, he ing to him for life of the necessity of care in did not make straight for the fishing village the choice of nssociates,then Julian Lin- on the coast at which he embarked, but went disfarn was forgotten in Silverton, and his round by ChewtonintheMOor. And there place knew him no more. in the gray moor mist, a little before the dawn, Of course, it was not so up at the Chase; under the shelter of one of the huge gray and still less so in the now still and quiet old boulder-stones that stud the moor, there was house in the Close. But, save when the in- one of those partings that leave a scar upon corrijhle canon would now and then throw the heart which no after-time can heal. And poor Lady Sempronia into a fit of hysterics, beautiful Barbara Mallory, as she clung half which scnt her to bed for eight-and-forty frantically with one arm to the man, whom hours, by speaking of his son in total obliv- the fear at his heels was compelling to tear ion of all the misery which had fallen on himself & way from her, preseed a child six him, his name was never heard. months old to her breast with the other. But There was one other house, not in but near though she was a mother, the villagers still Silverton, where the fugitive was not forgot- called her Bab Mallory. And the desolation ten, nor the sound of his name unheard. in that lone moorland house was even worse There was another chapter in the little cdi- than the desolation in the childless house in fying story of Julian Lindisfarns Silverton the Close. life, of which very little was known ~at that No more was heard in Silverton of Juhian time to his friends or to any one in Silverton; Lindisfarn for three years after the date of and which may here be touched on as lightly, his flight. Then came a report of his death, and got over as quickly, as possible; though vague and unaccompanied by any particulars; subsequent events make it absolutely neces- but referring to persons and places, which en- sary to the understanding of the sequel of abled an agent sent out to America by his the history to give a succinct statement of the family, to ascertain the follo~ving facts. Af- facts. ter having been about a twelvemouth in the Stretching along the coast and far into the United States, he passed into Canada, and 76 LINDISFARN CHASE. there, it appeared, became associated with a vivors of the fray with the Indians ,who had small hand of independent adventurers, some seen him slain by them. twenty in number, bound on a journey into These facts became known to his family in the fur regions of the far north-west. The 1817. The unfortunate young man must party made, it seemed, one tolerably fortunate have been about four-and-twenty at the time journey, and returned for a second venture i,n of his death. This was the event that so ma- the following year. But having been sur- terially changed, as has been remarked, the prised one night in their camp, on the fur- state of things at Lindisfarn Chase. Mr. Oh- thor side of the Rocky Mountains, by a small ver Lindisfarns twin daughters became the band of marauding Indians, not much exceed- coheiresses of Lindisfarn. ing their own in number, they had had to en- It cannot be supposed that under the cir- gage in a desperate struggle in which several cumstances, Julian Lindisfarns death should of both parties were slain. Among these was have been felt to be otherwise than a fortunate Julian Lindisfarn. Of course as large mate- event by most of the members of his family. rial interests depended on the fact of his death, The Silverton public naturally felt, and said, it was desirable that the evidence of it should that it was the best thing that could have be satisfactory. And that which the agent, happened in every point of view. Some ad- who had been sent to America for the pur- ditional tears wetted poor Lady Sempronia s pose, was enabled to obtain, was perfectly so. pillow. But it was in the lone house in the Re had spoken with, and brought l~ack with moor that Julian Lindisfarns death caused him the authenticated testimony of three sur- the sharpest pang. THE FINE ARKANSAS GENTLEMAN. Now, all good fellows, listen, and a story I will tell, Of a mighty clever gentleman, who lives ex- tremely well, In the western part of Arkansas, close to the In- dian line, Where he gets drunk once a week on whiskey, and immediately sobers himself completely on the very best of wine; A fine Arkansas gentleman, close to the Choc- taw line This fine Arkansas gentleman has a mighty fine estate Of five or six thousand acres or more of land, that will be worth, a great deal some day or other, if he dont kill himself too soon, and will only condescend to wait; And four or five dozen negroes that had rather work th~ n not, And such quantities of horses and cattle and pigs and other poultry that he never pretends to know how many he has got; This fine Arkansas gentleman, close to the Choctaw line! This fine Arkansas gentleman makes several hun- dred bales, Unless from drought, or worm, a bad stand, or some other dd contingency, his crop is short, or fails And when its picked and ginned and baled,, he puts it in a boat, And gets aboard himself likewise, and charters the bar, and has a devil of a spree, while down to New Orleans he and his cotton float This fine Arkansas gentleman, close to the Choctaw line! And when he gets to New Orleans he sacks a clothing-store, And puts up at the City Hotel, the St. Louis, the St. Charles, the Verandah, and all the other hotels in the city, if he succeeds in finding any more; Then he draws upon his merchant, and goes about and treats Every man from Kentucky and Arkansas and Alabama and Virginia and the Choctaw nation, and every other dd vagabond he meets This fine Arkansas gentleman, close to the Choctaw line! The last time he went down there, when be thought of going back, After staying about fifteen days, or less, he dis- covered that by lending, and by spending, and bein~ a orey in general to gamblers, hackmen, loafers, brokers, hosiors, tailors, servants, and many other individuals, white and black, Hed distributed his assets, and got rid of all his means, And had nothing to show for them, barring two or three headaches, an invincible thirst, and an extremely general and promiscu- ous acquaintance in the aforesaid New Or- leans; This fine Arkansas gentleman, close to the Choctaw line .,ll6ert Pike. REMORSE. From The Saturday Review. REMORSE. Tuxax is no feeling of the reality of which we are more sure than of remorse. We may only half believe in, or merely guess at, love, jealousy, hatred, revenge; hut we know in ourselves that there is such a thing as remorse. We are certain, as of something open to the senses, that pain Ibilows guilt. Our won- der on hearing of any great crime is that the perpetrator was not deterred by dread of remorse. Life, we think, would he a hurden too horrible to he endured, exposed to the stings that must follow. There are people who regard remorse as so inevitable and so terrible a consequence of crime that they would leave the criminal to he dealt with hy his own conscience as the most exquisite of all punishments. And this inhorn conviction is stren~thened and confirmed by m~sters in the science of human nature. They, too, have no doubt that remorse follows crime, and have delineated its workings in scenes and by ex- amples which take a lasting hold on the mind. Nien believe in remorse, such as is portrayed in Lady Macbeth, as they believe in a record of inspiration. And yet who has seen remorse? Whohas witnessed for himself the pain of guilt follow- ing the commission of crime? Who knows of it from any private trustworthy source? We suspect that remorse, pure and. unalloyed, rational remorse for moral wrong-doing and commensurate with the occasion, is an ex- ceedingly rare emotion, and that mistaken ideas on this point lead to much confusion, much misapprehension of history, much sen- timental injustice in our own time. If we could realize the fact that men can commit great crimes and never to human eye or judg- ment betray sorrow for them, we should not be so ready to call every remorseless sinner who refuses to see his atrocities with our eyes a madman. Many would almost go so far as to exact remorse, as the French law exacts confession, as indispensable evidence of guilt. They cannot satisfy themselves of its reality unless the criminal not only commits the crime, but suffers certain pangs of soul con- sequent upon it. They quite forget to take into account the very slight personal obser- vation on which these expectations are found- ed. In truth, while our own conscience tells us that remorse belongs to erring humanity, all experience convinces us that it does not as a matter of course belong to the individual man. It would seem, indeed, that, from the time people have speculated on man and his ways at all, this difference of view has per- plexed them and set them at odds. It forms one main ground of the gi~eat argument be- tween Job and his friends. They generalized, andappealing to the universal belief of all agesdisputed the prosperity of the wicked man, because this worm gnawed at the root of his seeming happiness. Though wick- edness be sweet in his mouth, yet. . . it is the all of asps within him. A dreadful sound is in his ears; trouble and anguish shall make him afraid. The Patriarch, and the Psalmist after him, argue from per- sonal experience ; they haye seen the pros- perous wicked man unvisited by compunc- tions, and dying as he has lived. And this is the more common witness of all time, though marked by great and startling excep- tions sufficient to awe the world, and to con- vince men, through their senses, of that retri- bution which every conscience in the abstract believes in. As far as we see, men sustain the heroic standard of this essentially heman passion through their imagination, as it were vicari- ously realizing the burden and horror of other mens sins. But, in fact, people who commit crimes arc never in the position of the respectable people who do not commit them. Crime is led up to bya train of thought and action which makes each step natural to the perpetrator, and almost justifiablesome- thing that must be done or he would not do it. The arguments of selfishness are very convincing arguments, and have a great air of necessity about them, not only at the time, but in looking back. It is only where crime is committed on a sudden temptation or pas- sion that we can reasonably look for remorse, where there is but a temporary congeniality between the man and the deed; and even here it needs a more than ordinary sensitiveness to be pricked to the quick by memory, when the world smiles in ignorance and every external circumstance lulls to forgetfulness. Many impulsive persons feel very poignantly the iri~ convenient consequences of their errors, wh~ yet have not strength or nobleness in them to maintain this vulture as a terrible secret between themselves and their conscience. Nemesis, it has been well said, can sel- dom forge a sword for herself out of our con~ 78 REMORSE. sciences, out of the suffering we feel for the suffering we have caused; there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective wea- pon. With even the better sort, remorse comes only with dark, threatening days, earthly terrors minglin with divine. For our part, we doubt if the thorough appre- hension of remorse entertained by respectable people is always derived from their worst ac- tionsfrom the twinges consequent on such lapses into injustice, falsehood, tergiversa- tion, sharp practice, or evil speaking, as even they deviate into when left to themselves. We suspect it to be rather due to faults of a less moral enormity which risk the loss of their neighbors respect, and which partake as much of the nature of blunders as of crimes. Is it riot rare enough to be a grand trait in any mans character that he stands more in awe of conscience than of human opinion? The majority have a strange power of thinking of themselves as other men think of them; and just as the criminal in the sight of men has a hang-dog look, as the proud hearing of conscious innocence can hardly be sustained by ordinary men under the eyes of a suspect- ing and condemning multitude, and for the life of them they cannot help looking the rogue men think them, so a man in favor with his fellows and trusted by themwhatever he may have done beyond their coguizaneeis apt to respond in air and deportment to the good opinion entertained of him. The man universally respected looks the character to ordinary observers; we say nothing of the wiser few. xvho; when awkward facts come to light, will tell you they have always seen something in him they did not like. In minds of the ordinary type, remorse is inextricably mixed up with fear of men fear of consequences, fear of discovery. It is when the usurper betrays a terror of his sub- jects and surrounds himself with defences that he is reminded But no guard can oppose assaulting fears 0. undermining tears, No more than doors or close-drawn curtains keep The swarming dreams out when we sleep. If it were not so, if the sense of guilt brought adequate pain to all minds, would not those who have the charge of criminals see remorse at its worst? But the experience of this class confirms our view. An able writer on female prisons, who has lived for years amidst the worst of women, affirms that she has never herself seen an instance of remorse. All the culprits she L s had to do with took their crimes easily, regarding their sentences as full absolution, and indeed scarcely think- ing so much of the matter as this implies. Murder made no exce tion to this comfortable view of things. The deed is done was a potent argument for thinking no more about it. Thus, Elizabeth harris, who had de- liberately drowned her two children, was ever a cheerful woman. xvii a brisk step and a bright smile; and Sarah Baker, who had thrown her baby down a pit-shaft, did not allow the crime to press on her conscience. Indeed, the writer adds, it is a remarkable fact that these serious acts seldom do; with all the prisoners, the crime is of little ac- count, and the sentence ~or it the only thing to be deplored. This evidence is given of women; but there is no reason to think that in this respect sex makes a difference. Even vicarious remorse does not assert itself in those penal regions; people are judged by what they are, not by what they have done. In close connection with this sui~ject is the assumed effect upon all minds of imminent contact with death. It belongs to the same class of assumptions toat the near certainty of death makes men true, as that crime in- evitabl~ brings remorse. We believe men on their death-beds as though they were con- strained to speak the truth, as necessarily seeing things by a new light and at their real value. A schemer is then supposed to see the worthlessness of his schemes, a worldly man to see the fallacy of bis desires, the crim- inal to realize what his sin has been. It is as- sumed that, if they have been false hitherto, a new stage is opening upon them; they can deceive no longer either others or themselves. But, in fact, it is a very great effort both to heart and reason to take up new ideas at this period. Earth may be slipping away from the dying man, but yet it may be the solidest footing he has. He is seeing the last of his fellow-men, but it may be the most earnest wish he is capable of to stand well with them. In fact, habit holds its sway here as elsewhere. History tells of not a few great criminals who, with courage and a certain loyalty to their past, die in the treacheries and fhisehoods in which they have lived. Just as remorse, though there is no necessary touch of salva- tion in it, argues faith in the unseen and a perception of justice, so clearer views in the prospect of death imply certain spiritual qualities in the mind whkh are by no means REMORSE. universal. In both cases, over-mastering selfishness hi t~at thickness of the blood which Stops up the access and passage to remorse. Experience shows us that men may die as they have lived, obstinate in the same errors, bent on the same ends, possessed by the same objects and desires. Especially where they have been in their lives secret, seeking no counsel, and with strength of will always to have kept true to this fatal trust, does habit sustain its role to the last, not only in their conduct toward others, but in their inmost self. The interests in which they have lived and labored have a tighter grip down to the last moment than anything beyond; they may feel life at its shortest, and yet value the few remaining sands more than an eternity that lies beyond. But let us turn to a less serious view of our subject, and see how it is we are so familiar with it in the abstract. All people are in the habit of invoking Remorse as an avenging deity, and turning it into a~ mild (and shall we say Christian?) vengeance. When we think that others ill-use us, are unjust toward us, or neglect us, it is a pretty universal in- stinct to anticipate the time when they will be sorry for it. It is consolatory to reflect that so injurious a state of things cannot pass unpunished, and it is wonderful what a wei~ ht, what a concentration of bitterness, what a heart-wringing, is ascribed to this con- templated regret. So that, if we can but as- sure ourselves that remorse will inflict its sting some day, this conviction soothes away the ache of present resentment, modifies our feeling toward the aggravating cause, and puts us in a sort of charity with our enemy. Yet these secret gloomy maledictions really base themselves on a wonderfully small foun- dation of fact and observation. From whose experience do we expect compunctious visit- ings to follow neglect or contempt of our merits? how seldom do we see people troub- ling themselves about their treatment of their friends and neighbors; how seldom have we done so ourselves; and then what a mere mo- mentary twinge, what a trifling puncture where there is such admission or amende at all- is thought sufficient for the offence! We have said, He will repent it some day, and per- haps he does in some moment of dejection or ennui; but how trivial the infliction, what a mere scourge of feathers performs the awful business of retribution This may be so, but the imagination will never take experience into account. There is, in the action of a sting or pang of self-re- proach, something that ignores time. It may be momentary, but even then it satisfies our querulous demand; and one feels a certain complacency in the notion of a stab of remorse 79 thaf shall, though but for a point of time, make a man feel degraded and confounded, that shall confront him with his sin and make hii~ hate himself~ recoil from the past, and know what it is to be without hope, defence- less, and unmasked. Something of this sort, an instants hating of the veil, atones to hu- man fancy, or rather p0k s the scale against untold atrocities. For instance, in some Ital- ian novels of a past date, written by men who had brooded over public and private injustice till they believed in the universal triumph of wrong, the readers hatred of the more fiend- ish characters has to slake itself on a fbw seconds of this vengeance. The wretch is held, perhaps for a minute at farthest, face to Ihee with his crimes, knows what they will bring him to, and looks livid and uncomfortable in the prospect; and it is surprising how ou~ sense of justice is satisfied, and how after this insight, we can be~ r to leave the villain at the last page in bloated prosperity, it all tells a tale, and preaches a moral which we can only hint at here. We have asked our rca 1ers, in perhaps a scep- tical spirit, whether they have ever witnessed a case of real tragic remorse; but there is a kind which it does now and then fall in ones way to seea remorse at once comic and ag- gravating, if we know our man and his his- tory sufficiently yell to be aware of real errors and follies in abundance that merit regrets of a poignant quality. We mean extrava- gant, hysterical contrition for trifling pecca- dilloes, or perhaps for no error at all, but simply for a line of conduct which is only wished otherwise because the penitent would fain have the event otherwise. While gen- uine remorse confesses, in a rude, often an irreligious, way, the existence of a Judge of the world, this spurious thing, this mere parody, approaches, as far as we can see, to that practical atheism of which we hear so much from angry men, as being based on a disbelief in any Divinity that shapes our ends. Readers of good childrens hooks will recall the great part remorse is made to play in them. Young authoresses make their little people endure agonies for sli~ht offences, and whether these sensitive examples produce much practical effect or not, they give a form and force to natures teaching. Christopher North, on the contrary, who did not write for children, and never got beyond Edie Ochil- trees mixture of glee and compunction in the utmost candor of his personal recollections, claims for boys an immunity from this scourge. Nature, he says, allows to growing lads a certain range of wickedness, sans peur et sans reproclie. We suspect it is quite possible for men to act on the one sys- tem, and to have their belief and sympathies engaged through life for the other. ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. From The Saturday Review. ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. THE publication of Mr. Froudes last two vol- umes has awakened again some of the old ques- tions about the character of the great princess to whose history they are devoted,and a certain amount of scandal about Queen Elizabeth has arisen along with them. What was the exact relation between Elizabeth and Robert Dudley? This is quite as much a question of the facts of human nature as it is of the facts of history. That Queen Elizabeth never married, when many political motives would have induced her to marry; that she treated Dudley xvith a degree of favor which was very marked in those days, and which would be ehought indecorous in these; that she was nevertheless ready to listen to any man, prince or subject, native or foreigner, who addressed her in the language of love, are all facts plain upon the surhee. How Lady Robert Dud- ley came by her end is a more difficult mat- ter; but, as nobody that we know of ever charged Queen Elizabeth with having a hand in her death, the question has only an indi- rect bearing on the character of the queen. The facts of Elizabeths conduct come within the province of the historian; their explana- tion comes rather within the province of the moral philosopher. If we will look some of the facts of human nature full in the face, it does not seem that the explanation is very difficult. Her conduct, inconsistent, vacillat- ing, sometimes personally degrading as it was, seems to follow naturally from her pe- culiar character combined with her peculiar position. In looking at the conduct of Elizabeth we must always bear in mind the different stand- ards of her age and of ours. Without decid- ing whether our morals are really purer than those of the sixteenth century, there is no doubt that our language and our manners are much more decorous, or prudish, or whatever we are to call it. Words and actions which would prove a great deal now would prove very little then. Elizabeth, moreover, was at once of a temper and in a position to disre- gard even such conventionalities as then ex- isted. But no sort of evidence has ever been produced to show that she ever went beyond disregard of conventionalities, it is a mere calumny, to which such a writer as Lingard should never have lent his sanction, to assert ~r insinuate that she ever lost her right to her favorite title of the Virgin Queen. But her very delight in such a title marks a dif- ference of feeling between that age and this. No virtuous woman, wife or virgin, would now-a-days sound a trumpet before her in this way to announce her own virtue. The thing is so completely taken for granted that it is not to be spoken of. If a woman now were to assert her own purity, it would at once imply that suspicion had fallen upon it. To praise a woman for her chastity would now be taken, not as a compliment, but as an in- sult, as implying the possibility of her un- chastity. This was certainly not the feeling of the sixteenth century. It was then no more an offence to praise a woman for her chastity than to praise a man for his courage and good faith. And besides all this, the medi~val notions about virginity had by no means died out in Elizabeths time, least of all in Eliza- beths own peculiar theology. The feeling which made her dislike marriage in those about her was not mere spite, or caprice,~or the feeling of the dog in the manger. Her strong dislike to the marriage of the clergy never legalized, be it always remembered, through her whole reigncould not spring from any personal feeling. Amy Dudley might be a rival, Katharine Grey might he an object of envy; but it surely was neither feeling which led to her majestys imperti- nence to the wife of Archbishop Parker. The public talk about the queens virgin estate, so strange to us now, sprang from a difference partly in social and partly in religious feeling. The Virgin Queen, glorified as such, was al- ready half-canonized in her lifetime. While virginity implied special sanctity, it was a thing to be boasted of; now that it is simply respectable conduct in a particular condition of life, it is a thing about which people hold their tongues. Elizabeth was a woman, with all a womans feelings and passions, but in many respects with the mind of a man, and placed altogether in a mans position. The marriage of a queen- regnant is a different matter from the mar- riage even of an ordinary princess. It is a matter of high political importance; but at the same time the will of the person most deeply concerned must be consulted. Eliza- beth could not be handed over as a chattel to some husband picked out for her by others, as so many unlucky kings daughters have been before and since. But that she should 80 81 ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. marry somebody was the earnest wish of her subjects. Her life alone stood between them and another disputed succession; it was be- fore all things to he wished that Elizabeth should become the mother of a direct heir. But whom should she marry? It is clear that she was a thorough coquette, that she delighted in admiration from whatever quar- ter it came, and that she carried into these purely personal matters the same habit of vacillation which she unfortunately so often displayed in the greatest public affairs. The habit of listening to lovers of all kinds grew upon her and lasted to old age. But this en- couragement given to many does not at all exclude a serious passion for one. Elizabeth, in her peculiar position, must be judged by a mans rather than a womans standard. Now in the case of a man, infidelities of this sort, even distinct infidelities of act, are certainly not inconsistent with one ruling and very sin- cere affection. When we reach the time of the courtship of Anjou, Leicester may have had a serious rival; but there is no sign of any such real rivalry during the time treated of by Mr. Froude. Several competitors, na- tive and foreign, flit across the scene; but the serious question all along is whether she shall marry Robert Dudley for love, or Charles of Austria for policy. They are the two whose competing claims Cecil so methodically sums upin parallel columns. The question through- out was whether she could bring herself to sacrifice her personal inclinations for the real or supposed advantage of her kingdom. Mr. Froude, in dealing with this matter, seems only gradually to awaken to the mani- fest fact that Elizabeth was, in the technical sense of the words, in love with Robert Dud- ley. At first he rather pooh-poohs the no- tion; but he gradually comes round to it as he goes on. It is by no means unlikely that Elizabeth may herself have gone through much the same mental process as her historian, and may have only gradually awakened to the real state of her own feelings. Something of the sort doubtless goes on in the most regular and even in the shortest love-making. But there were special reasons why this process should have assumed a special development in the case of Elizabeth. When she came to the throne, Lord Robert Dudley was a married man. There was something obscure and mys- terior& s about his marriage, and some notion may have been entertained that it might prove THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXV. 11O~ to be invalid; still he was married; there was a living Lady Robert in flesh and blood. If we look facts boldly in the face, there is really nothing very wonderful in an attach- ment between a married man and an unmar- ried woman; but it is also clear that in such a case, both parties, the woman especially, might long remain in ignorance of their own real feelings. Now we are not concerned for Dudley; he may have looked forward to get- ting rid of his wife either by divorce or by murder; he may have thought that, in any case, married or unmarried, the queens at- tachment must turn somehow to his advan- tage; the really interesting point is the posi- tion of Elizabeth. In truth, the fact that Dudley was married made it more likely than otherwise that a real passion should grow up on her side. Elizabeths name had been al- ready coupled with those of Seymour and Courtenay, and, with regard to Seymour, her reputation had actually, for a while, suffered, though doubtless very unjustly. We see no evidence of any real affection on her part toward Seymour, but, if there was, it only strengthens our position. When Seymour and Elizabeth were first brought together, Seymour was a married man, much older than herself, the husband of the royal lady who acted as her guardian. Now it seems quite possible, especially when we remember the manners of the time, that a young girl might, at first without thought of any kind, allow of liberties on the part of such a man, ~which might afterward grow into something serious. So with Dudley; when they were brought iiito contact, with the special tie of common misfortunes endured at the same hands, the fact of his being married might lead the solitary princess to lean upon him with greater confidence. No one, she might think, could couple his name with hers, as they had done Courtenays. No one could refuse her, in a position stranger than almost any woman ever was in, the help of a friend and brother. But a real passion might easily grow up under the shadow of the very rela~ tion which was looked to as a proteetion. Such cas~ are certainly not unknown in every- day life. And she might not awake to her own feelings till the necessary discussion of her marriage as a political necessity 1*rced her to look deeper into her own heart. She might then find, for the first time, that it wae really love for Robert Dudley which mad~ the 82 ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. proposals of Spain and Austria and Sweden Leicester, therefore her passion must have unacceptable to her. been gratified in some form or ano,ther. She Then of course came that conflict between never married him ; therefore she must have inclination and duty on which Mr. Froude been his mistress. Nevertheless it is quite enlarges. Love for Dudley hindered her from possible for men and women, whom some ob- marrying Charles of Austria; a crowd of mo- stacle hinders from marrying, to go on for tives hindered her from marrying Dudley him- years and years on terms of very close inti- self. She could neither bring herself to sac- macy, sometimes, it may be, going to the very riflee her wishes to her policy nor yet to edge of criminality, but never actually pass- sacrifice her policy to her wishes. And be- ing it. Sharon Turner, in his zeal for Eliza- sides this natural vacillation, there were a beth, and Lingard, in his zeal against her, number of good reasons against the elevation seem unable to take in this plain fact. Yet of Dudley, even if there had been no question one would have thought that the one as a of policy in the matter. During his wifes lawyer, and the other as a priest, must have lifetime she could not marry him, and, when come across some cases of the kind. Lady Robert was dead, matters were almost Elizabeths parentage, again, is not to be worse. Infamed as Dudley was for the forgotten in considering the matter. It must death of his wife, the dead Amy was as im- be remembered that she was the daughter of passable a hindrance as the living Amy. The Henry the Ei~hth. Mr. Froude, with his Queen of England could not stoop to a man usual way of getting hold of half a truth, has who was even suspected of having put his half brought out and half obscured an impor wife out of the way in order to obtain her. tant point in Henrys real character. The And, enamored as she was, she must have early life of Henry the Eighth was not per- felt, in calmer moments, how really unworthy feetly pure; it was perhaps not so near to Dudley was of the honor, and how utterly perfect purity as Mr. Froude makes out; but unpopular such a match would be among all it was very different from the life of Francis classes of her subjects. And with her love the First or even of Charles the Fifth. In of power, her strong will, her sense of her his latter days, when the pee liarities of his royal dignity, she may naturally have been character had fully developed themselves, the unwilling to raise any one whomsoever to any prince for whom Mr. Froude would fhin have sort of share in it. She may have loved Dud- created a world without women played, as ley well, but the crown of England better. usual, a part of his own in the world in which This last feeling was probably strengthened women unhappily did exist. Where another as time wore on, and as she grew, if not tired tyrant would have simply taken to himself a of her old lover, at least willing to admit oth- mistress, Henry divorced or beheaded his wife ers tu seine share of his privileges. This may and married the object of his fancy. This is. have been the mere passion for admiration de- of course simply of a piece with the other veloping itself by habit, or her thoughts may features of a despotism which always veiled have really strayed from Dudley to other oh- itself under constitutional forms. Had Henry jects. But, throughout the period with which been in the position of Francis, the heads of Mr. Froude deals, one can hardly doubt that his own queen and of the Count of Chateau- a genuine love for Robert Dudley was bal- briand wohld have strewed his path to the anced hy a genuine conviction that a marriage possession of the countess. We believe that with him would not be for her own honor or Henry the Eighth, while not scrupling at for the welfare of her people. murder and robbery, altogether scrupled at She therefore did not marry Dudley, but adultery, because adu4tery could not be com- neither did she marry anybody else. Yet she mitted under any legal form. Something of continued to keep him about her in a position the same kind may be seen in the strange of close, and what might well seem danger- and rather disreputable career of his sister ous, intimacy. But the slanderous inferences Margaret. Her life was a series of marriages which her enemies have drawn from this fact and divorces, some of them of rather doubtful might he passed by in silence, did they not validity, but she never dispensed with the imply ignorance of an undoubted fact in hu- outward form of marriage. Elizabeth had no man nature. The calumniators of Elizabeth need to divorce or to behead anybodypoor always argue as if, because Elizabeth loved Amy was hardly worth beheading; but her ELIZABETH AND LEICESTER. Tudor blood alone was almost sufficient safe- guard against her sinkin~ to any merely un- lawful and degrading relation with any man. There is one curious fact which at first sight may seem to tell the other way, hut which strikes us as completely falling in with our view of the relation between the great queen and her favorite. Elizabeths ex- pressed wish at one time to marry Leicester to the Queen of Scots is a strange episode in the business. But no one should infer from it that Elizabeth was indifferent to Leicester. In truth, it proves the exact contrary. What could be the motive for such a suggestion? There was no reason, either per~onal or po- litical, why Mary should marry Leicester; they had never seen one another, and a mar- riage with him could have been no support to her throne in any possible way. We can- not doubt that Elizabeth wishedor fancied that she wishedto bestow Robert Dudley on Mary, for the very reason that he was her own cherished lover. In such cases as we believe that of Elizabeth to have beenwhere love exists, but where its existence is not yet fully acknowledged, or where, if acknowl- edged, it is struggled againsttht notion of bestowing the beloved object on some one in whom an interst is taken is one really not Un- likely to occur. It is a purpose which is not likely to be persisted in, if it comes to~ the point; but it is one very likely to cross the mind as a passing fancy. At one stage it would present itself in the form of self-delu- sion, as a proof that a passion felt but not fully acknowledged did not really exist. At a later stage it would present itself as an act of self-sacrifice, as a noble triumph over a temptation which was felt to be almost too much to endure. We do not in the least be- lieve that Elizabeth would ever have really surrendered Leicester to Mary; but we do be- lieve that, in one of her tossings to and fro between contending motives, she made the offer of him to Mary in perfect good faith. Mr. Froude is then, we think, quite right in the general view of the relation between Elizabeth and Dudley, to which be seems to have felt his way with some difficulty. But he has hardly brought it out so clearly as he might have done, as a study of human nature in a department in which he generally shows himself much interested. We have here con- fined ourselves mainly to the relation be- tween Elizabeth and her first great favorite, and have merely hinted at the later stories of Anjou, Hatton, and others. We wait to see what Mr. Froude says about them. My Imprisonment at Washington. By Mrs. Greenhow. Richard Bentley. Tuis book would be Qffensive if it were not so very absurd. Its author was, during the presi- dency of Mr. Buchanan, one of the leaders of Washington fashion, and though violently South- ern in her sympathies, she chose to remain at Washington to act as a spy. Others of her Southern accomplices kept their offices under Mr. Lincoln, in order to betray hi~counsels, and Mrs. Greenhow, under cover of the immunities al- lowed to women in America, forwarded the infor- mation they gave her to General Beauregard. Throughout the book she boasts of her success that the government engineers sent her their plans, and that President Davis has confessed that without her there would have been no Bulls Run. Yet she considers herself a mar- tyr because she was summarily arrested, confined first in her own house under strict surveillance, afterward in the capitol, and was finally sent South in safety. What on earth did she expect? That the prisons of America are a disgrace to the country we do not doubt. In a country so little used to bear taxation, it is natural they should be, and ol course this was aggravated by the sud den increase of the number of prisoners. Every complaint, however, which Mrs. Greenhow made seems to have been attended to by the superior authorities, though the intolerable insolence of her letters might well have excused a different course. The same unwomanly violence of tongue accounts for much of the misconduct of the under- lings, and much is clearly exaggeration. When actually in the custody of the police, she made signals to some of her confederates, and in the attempt to prevent this a Captain Dennis seized her by the arm. A strong effort, says the lady, was afterward made to drive this from my mind, as ~f aught I ~t the lifeblood of the das- tard could efface it! Some three hundred and fifty pages of this bombast, mingled with all the slanderous gossip of Richmond, respecting the Northern statesmen, are what readers will find here.Spectator. Thz fourteenth volume of the Correspondence of the Emperor Napoleon I., published by order of Napoleon III., has just appeared at Paris, in quarto. The fifteenth volume is in the press. 83 84 MADELEINE GRAHAM.THE HOUSE OF LORDS. Part of An article in the Saturday Review. MADELEINE GRAHAM.a PEOPLE used to think the novels of Paul de Kook objectionable, until M. Feydeau and the younger Dumas began to write. We have now discovered that there are depths considerably lower than the robust coarseness and rollicking indecency which marked the comparatively old-fashioned French novel. A hero who rushes through the world in search of forbidden pleasures, with youth; wit, and boundless vigor, may not supply a very edif& - ing pattern of life, yet he has nothing mor- bid or unnatural about him. Sickly sinners are intolerable and they are far more pollut- ing. The wickedness of Paul de Kooks mus- cular pagans offends ngainst propriety ten thousand times, but, unlike the puny whining wretches of Feydean and Dumas Fils, he never revolts our sense of physical delicacy. A writer who makes all his men mere healthy animals does not teach a very exalted or en- larged view of human nature, to be sure, still we may be thankful to him that his ani- inals are healthy and wholesome. The inde- oency of the new school is like the nightmare of a morbid medical student. The men are still mere animals, but they are animals out of sorts. We are told that these books are studies in mental pathology, whatever such jargon maymean. Now, in thefirst place, the only excuse for analyzing the state of diseased minds is that the analysis is a step toward their cure. But we do not suppose that M. Feydeau proposes to set up as a mad doctor, or keep a lunatic asylum. In the second place, these particular forms of mental disease did not exist until the studies in mental pathology sneceeded in breeding them. It is well known among doctors that men of a certain temperament may fancy themselves afflicted with the symptoms of any disorder under the sun, simply from reading a medical treatise izpon it. And so it has been with the weak minds of Young France. They have read Feydeaus etudes until they have become sickly as the sickliest and nasti- est of his heroes. Then, finally, there is the grand apology for this kind of literature. Their scenes are from life And life, they say, is worthy of the Muse. This is the pretext on which the author of Madeleine Graham justifies one of the most nauseous books we ever read; and just as a Frenchman may sigh for the times when Paul de Kook was the most objectionable writer whom parents had to keep out of the hands of their daughters, even so we shall soon begin to wish that a little harmless bigamy were the worst feature in our three- volume novel. ~Madeleine Graham. Bytheauthorof White- fria.rs. 8 vols. London: Maxwell k Co. 1864. TIlE ROUSE OF LORDS. Ir is remarkable enough that in great crises, when the opinion of the country is only just crystallizing, the House of Lords is usually a better gauge of that opinion than the House of Commons. The reason is obvious. There is a greater naturalness and spontaneousness in the Upper House than in the Lower ; their opinions are their own, and not subjected to the tension of conjecture as to what their constituents may or may not approve. There are many special occasions when this solicitude impairs instead of facilitating the formation of a true representative opinion, and when an equal company of average and independent English gentlemen, thinking for themselves and not for others, will gauge better the real and natural conviction of the country than the same number of men anxious to meet the unknown or half-known views of a constitu- ency. Lord Shaftesbury, for instance, is on very many questions a far better representa- tive of the average orthodox Evangelical than Sir Morton Peto or Mr. Remington Mills. He is Jess anxious to think with others, and therefore follows with more ease and assurance the mental clue which is common to his mind and theirs. Before the Crimean War, it may be remembered that the Lords struck the key- note of the nations feeling in the same way; were lectured in the same way by the organs of the aifrighted commercial interests; and yet were followed slowly and reluctantly by the Commons. It is a good thing for England that we still have the second security for a true representative opinion which is given us by an assembly that is not afraid to think and express naturally its own plain English thoughts on reading such a correspondence as has been recently presented to Parliament,. and this, too, before the more elaborate ma- chinery for distilling the nations wishes lisa had sufficient time to come into good working operation. While the hesitating magnetic needle which is supposed to indicate the fixed convictions of the average Englishman is still vibrating doubtfully between opposite points of the compass, the Lords, who are averstge Englishmen themselves, raised above the dis- turbing influences of poverty and commerce and fluctuating incomes and class predilee.. tions, show n~ the latent current of publie feeling better than the more delicate and sits- ceptible instrument expressly provided for that purpose.S~pectator. C SONGS OF THE MOORS AND OF THE MILLS. 85 From The Satnrday Review, circumstances in which that existence re- SONGS OF THE MOORS AND OF THE MJLLS.~ volves. The best proof that verses m~rked Tux two volumes now before us belong to with the sterling homely strength of Mr. schools of verse so different as to form a strong Laycocks Lancashire Rhymes do find contrast. Kilmahoeis a Highland pas- their way to the heart of the Lancashire toral, redolent of the warm, soft air of the weaver is to be found in the fact that forty western bobs and moors, sketched out with re- thousand copies of these particul r poems had been sold in single sheets before the author collected them into a volume: The audiences to which Mr. Shairp and Laycock respectively appeal are as distinct as the dialects and rhythm of their verses. Kilmahoc is written in a narrative form, in lyrical cantos of various metre. It embraces the history of the last genuine high- land laird and lady of an estate somewhere on the coast of Kintyre, and that of their children. Narrow and isolated as the topic may. seem, nobody who has ever witnessed an instance of the singular and touching loyalty with whicb the Highlander even now olings to the names or faces of those whom he still holds to be the true owners of the soil which has been sold to the grasping Southron or Lowlander, will say that it is a topic incapa- ble of being treated with strong pathos and originality. It is easy to laugh at the blatant absurdity of the grievances of the Scottish lion, when they are put forward by Professor Blackie in a plaint of which the climax is that a London brewer shoots the grouse, a lordling stalks the deer. But although the rule that poor landowners make way for rich capitalists runs, and must run, its course in the highlands as elsewhere, and though the change will in time work out or render arti- ficial the old sentiment of clanship and local affection, it would be a loss if no record were kept of the gradually vanishing state of so- ciety and feeling. Mr. Shairp points to the plan of his poem in a graceful dedication, as intended to illustrate a manner of life which prevailed in the Lower Highlands dur- ing the youth of his own father, but which has now passed away. The scene opens in the declining age of the old laird of Kilma- hoe who remembered 45, when, though his heart was rather with Prince Charlie than King George, he had been out under Argyle, and markable grace and picturesqueness, and peo- pled with a few human personages which, like the figures ma painted landscape, are drawn with no more force or prominence than will leave them subordinate to the general pictorial effect of the whole. Lancashire Rhymes are songs or stories of the life of factory hands, clothed in the homeliest dialect, and in verse of which the only beauty is its rugged truth and simplicity. Mr. Campbell Shairp isgiftedwith high poetical qualities, and writes as an edu- cated man for the ears of a cMtivated audience. Great sensibility to the charms of Highland life and scenery, careful and choice neatness of expression, combined with a fervidly pa- triotic appreciation of the musical merits of the Scotch Done as a vehicle for poetical thought, mark every page of Kilmahoe. And it is clear that the sympathies of the writer are not confined to the Highland life of the present moment alone. He displays a strong attachment to the poetry and history of his own land, and obviously delights to feed a vivid and enthusiastic imagination upon the memories of the past. It is hardly to be doubted that, whatever his political judgment may be, Mr. Shairp is, in artistic sentiment and sympathy, more of a Jacobite than a Whig, and more of a clansman than either. Mr. Laycock busies himself and his readers with the circumstances and work of the Manchester to-day. What is nearest to the thoughts of a striving mill-hand, in or out of work, is the home and the daily life of himself and his family. His history is bound up, not with the deeds or the habits of his forefathers, but with the machinery and materials which provide him labor and maintenance, and with the masses of similarly situated human beings who are laboring along- side of him. Whatever poetry is to exercise any influence over his character, or to lighten up the ways of his existence, must be drawn from something in or close to the circle of ~ Kiimahoe, and other Poems. By John Camp- bell Shairp. London and Cambridge: Macmillan. 1864. Lancashire Rhymes. By Samuel Laycock. London : Simpkin & Marshall. True to clanships laws, His chieftaia followed, not the cause. Since then, he had lived a quiet life on his own lands among the cotters and fishermen of Kintyre, doing patriarchal justice and giving 86 SONGS OF TH~ MOORS AND OF TUE MILLS. friendly help, constant at kirk and at market, overlooking and guiding the material and spiritual life of Kilmahoe. Two pretty little figures of children, Moira and Marion, his two youngest daughters, are seen playing round him as his strength ebhs day by day; and when his widow is left alone to guide the farm and the household, the same two little figures are with her early and late, on the plough-lands by the sea, on the hill among the herd and the flock, watching the kelp gathered in on the shore, moving through dairy, barn, and byre, and at night learning the use of spindle and spinning-wheel. Their brothers are away seeking their fortune in the world, with the vain hope of some day paying off all incumbrances and leaving the estate clear to the eldest. The poem follows the two girls from their childhood to their full growth, through scenes in which, as we have said, they are rather subordinate idyllic figures than substantial personages. The real strength of the work lies in the truth of its landscape, and in the clearness of detail and high purity of feeling with which Mr. Shairps imagination has shadowed forth the daily life and occasional adventures of the two High- land maidens. As time goes on, Moira leaves Kilmahoe for the East, as the bride of an In- dian officer who had made himself a name at Laswarry and Bhurtpore. Years later, she returns to settle in a Lowland home, where she is joined by her sister and old playmate. Kilrnahoe has passed into strangers hands, and their years are henceforth to be spent elsewhere than upon the highland bracs. The last canto, marked by a grave and graceful sweetness, tells under the title of Jagath- ering the close of both lives. Moira dies in the Scotch Lowlands. Marion, the last of her family, exiles herself still further on the call of some duty, and comes south to Eng- land. There when the fifth ripe autumn had come round, Beside aaother than her childhoods sea, Mid English graves a peaceful place she found Neath the churchyard elm tree. So, sundered wide, yet one in heart, they take Their quiet rest, till dawn that blessed hour, Whea lifes long-gathering result shall break Into immortal flower. Such, in brief, is the scheme of Kilmahoe a scheme which perhaps hardly gives suffi- cient indication of the abundance of singu- larly graceful pictures with which it is filled. Highland landscapes, however beautifully con- ceived and drawn, are too exteisaive to be re- produced in our pages; hut whoever reads Kilmahoe for himself can hardly fail to recognize Mr. Shairps accuracy and force in painting the scenes he loves so well. Every sharp stroke of outline, every delicate touch of color, is given with the truth of a mind which has concentrated its imagination and its enjoyments upon the particular life and landscape of the Scotch hills. Mr. Shairp is well known apart from his volume of High- land poems, as a man of wide and cultivated talents and sympathies; but it is clear that the Highlands are his passion, as much as they ever were of the Scot whose heart was there in the old song. We should be sorry to trust Mr. Shairp in a foreign country within the hearing of Lochaber no more. Even the Border airs affect him powerfully, if we may judge from a charming little song on. the theme of The Bush aboon Tra- quair: Will ye gang wi me and fare To the bush aboon Traquair? Owre the high Minebmuir well up and awa, This bonny summer noon, While the sun shines fair aboon, And the licht sklents saftly doun on helm and ha. And what would ye do there, At the bush aboon Traquair? A lang driech road, ye had better let be, Save some auld skrunts o birk I the hillside lirk, Theres nocht i the warld for man to see. But the blithe lilt o that air, The Bush aboon Traquair, I need nae mair, its eneuch for me; Owre my cradle its sweet chime Cam sughin frae auld time, Sac tide what may, Ill awa and see. And what saw ye there At the bush aboon Traquair? Or what did ye hear that was worth your heed? I heard the cushies croon Through the gowden afternoon, And the Quair burn singing doun to the Vale o Tweed. And birks saw I three or four, Wi gray moss bearded owre, The last that are left o the birken shaw, Whar mony a simmer e en Fond lovers did convene, Thae bonny, bonny gloamins that are lang awa. Frae mony a but and ben, By muirland, holm, and glen, They cam ane hour to spen on the greenwood sward; SONG OF THE MOORS AND OF THE MILLS. But lang hae lad an lass Been lying neth the grass, The green, green grass o Traqunir kirkyard. They were blest beyond compare, When they held their trysting there, Amang thae greenest hills shone on by the sun And then they wan a rest, The lownest and the best, P Traquair kirkyard when a was dune. Now the birks to dust may rot, Names o luvers be forgot, Nee lads and lasses there ony mair convene; Bu~ the blithe lilt o yon air Keeps the bush aboon Traquair, And the kive that ance was there, aye fresh and green. In plain English, if there are any skrunts of birk or remnant of an old birchwood upon the moor over Traquuir, which by an intelligent antiquarian may he plausibly iden- tified with the bush of the song, there is nothing to see there. Mr. Shairps descrip- tion will prohahly not persuade many less en- thusiastic pedestrians to try the lang driech road over the Minchmuir. Yet his senti- ments and his song are justified nevertheless. Even where the blithe lilt of the air is not known, its indefinitely mystical and musical title throws a halo of romance over the spot which it would be difficult to interpret in a truer or simpler form than that in which it is clothed in these lines. Mr. Laycock, as we said, takes his subjects from the life of crowded Lancashire towns and like Mr. Edwin Waugh, whose Lanca- shire songs are very similar in style and char- acter, he finds a sympathizing public among those of and for whom he writes. Lads and lasses do convene in his pages, but they are the rough and wide-awake Lancashire lads and the sharp, neat-handed, busy Lancashire lasses, very different in their manners and their ideal of comfrirt from the frequenters of the bush aboon Traqnair. The griefs of life are not the separations from the scenes or friends of childhood, but the difficulties of betting on through life at all. Nobody in Kilmahoe need have cared, except for the sake of humanity, if an internecine war had raged over half the continent of North Amer- ica for twenty years; hut the personages of Mr. Laycocks rhymes are welly o knockd eawt o tune by the stoppage in the supply of the raw material for their looms. You Yankees may think it rare fun, Kickin up sich a shindy o th globe, 87 Confound em, aw wish theyd get done, For theyd weary eawt th patience o Job! are words which express the sentiments of a good many of his readers as they bungle among the unaccustomed fibre of middling Surats, or wait and starve without even Surats to fin- ger. The following lines are clearly drawn from the life Confound it! aw neer were so woven afore, Mi backs welly broken, ml fingers are sore; Awve been starin an rootin among this Shurat, Till awm very near getten as bloint as a bat. Every toime aw go in wi ml cuts to owd Joe, He gies mi a cursin, an bates mi an~ o; Awve a warp i one loom wi boath selvedges marrd An th others as bad for hes drest it to hard. Aw wish aw wur fur enuff off, eawt o th road, For o weavin this rubbitch awm getten reet stowd; Awve nowt i this world to lie deawn on but straw, For awve only eight shillin this fortnit to draw. Neaw aw havent ml family under ml hat, Awve a wolfe an six childer to keep eawt o that; So awm rayther among it at present yo see, Lv ever a fellow wur puzzled, its me! Mony a toime I mi loife awve seen things lookia feaw, ]3ut never as awkard as what they are neaw Lv there isnt some help for us factory folk soon, m sure we shall o be knockd reet eawt o tune. Come give us a lift, yo at han owt to give,. An help yore poor brothers an sisters to live; Be kind, an be tender to th needy an poor, An well promise when th toimes mend well ax yo no moor. The Sewing Class Song is a glimpse at the brighter side of the web Come, lasses, lets cheer up,. an sing, its no use lookin sad, Well mak eawr sewin choo to ring, an stitch away bike mad, Well try an mak th best job we con, o owt we han to do, We read an write, an spell an kest, while here at th sewia schoo. Then, lasses, lets cheer up, an sing, Its no use lookin sad. Ewar Queen, th Lord Mayor o London too, they send us lots o brass, An neaw, at welly every schoo, weve got a sew- in class Wen superintendents, cutters ewart, an visitors an 0; Wen parsons, cotton mesturs, too, come in to watch us sew. Then, lasses, etc. 88 SONGS OF TH~ MOOkS AND OF TH~ MILLS. God bless these kind, good-natured folk, at sends us o this stuff, We conno tell em o we feel, nor thank em hawve enuff; They help to find us meat an clooas, an eddica.. shun, too, An what creawns o, they gien us wage for goin to th sewin schoo. Then, lasses, etc. here are some stanzas from a new form of the old contrast between Lazarus and Dives, written in a manly and good-natured tone, but without ostentatious magnanimity Thart livin at thi country seat, Among o th gents an nobs; Thas sarvant girls to cook thi mcat, An do thi othi jobs. Awm lodgin here wi Bridget Yates, At th hut near th ceaw-lone well; Aw mend ml stockins, pill th potates, An wesh ml shurts misel. If tha should dee, theres lots o folk Would fret an cry no deawt; When aw shut up theyll only joket An say, Hes just gone eawt, Well, never heed him, let him go, An find another port; Were never to a chap or two, Wen plenty moor o th sort. The moral is not a hope for the reversal of the relative positions ~f the two, merely for their being equalized in a future state Wi o eawr fauts forgiven, Prhaps thee an me may meet again,~ An boath shake honds I heaven. Throughout the volume there is nothing unwholesome or of questionable tendency. None of Mr. LaSlcocks rhymes would irritate class-prejudice, or turn the thoughts of his readers to narrowness or bitterness. If their local popularity is genuine, it says a good deal for the kindly and manly character of the Lancashire weaver. THE BLIND EYE. The Marquis of Clanricarde called the attention of the government to the open recruiting for the army of the United States which was going on in Ireland. Lord Russell felt obliged to wait for some case in which proof was fortheoming.House of Lords, Tuesday, March 1. I nour see the signal, Lord Nelson exclaimed, With his telescope glued to the eye that was maimed, Let us close with the fee, follow hard on their track, For I dont see the signal that orders us back. From his admirals mainmast it fluttered and flew., Displayed to the glances of c pt~ in and crew; But that sign of recall all unnoticed might fly, For the glass was put up to the heros blind eye. If an Englishman sells in the course of his trade A ship for which President Davis has paid, Twenty ~overnineot spies the transaction behold, And by twenty glib 5onaues to our rulers its told. All cause of ofibuce they are keen to deteet, Since Federal boasting has had its effect, They will fbilow the trail of the ci irtiest spy, And nothing is hid from Lord Russells lynx eye. see no recruiting, Lord Russell replied, When to call his attention to Ireland they tried No, an old proverb tells us that no one can be So blind as the people who dont want to see. And as peace with the North its expedient to keep, They may lead British subjects to slaughter like sheep, May send them by plague or by famine to die, For the glass is put up to Lord Russells blind eye. H.G. TIlE NAMELESS MONUMENT. A LEVEL stone that Time hath fretted, Bitten often, and ground away, Till how there is left but a dark, damp slab, To catch sometimes a wandering ray. No name, no effigy, date, or badge; No smear of gilding, or bloom of paint; No chevron, or foss, or shred of mail No mournful angel, or watchful saint. All, all gone! The pride and pomp, The dead mans vanity, all defaced. Time, like a cruel, envious churl ~ Both title and epitaph bath erased And now the poor corpse, abbot or knight, Martyr or king, hath a nameless tomb, A mere flat slab of refuse stone, To guard his bones till the day of doom. Chamberss Journal. THE ROCK-GUT TEMPLRS OF INDIA. From The Saturday Review. THE ROCK~CTJT TEMPLES OF INDTA.~ Tuis is a most beautiful book, and if its let- terpress were but equal, iu elegance and schol- arship, to the perfection of Messrs. Cls~ys typography and the interest of Major Gills photographs, there would be nothing left to be desired. But Mr. Fergusson must pardon us for remarking that his share of the work is disfigured by the frequent occurrence of grammatical inaccuracies which might easily have been avoided. The volume contains more than seventy photographs, of which about a quarter are taken from the caves of Ellora, the remainder being devoted to the less known but still more curious caves of Ajunta. Each view has a brief explanatory description, and there is an introductory notice on the char- acteristics of Indian speluncar architecture. Mr. Fergusson had already published an es- say on the Rock-Cut Architecture of India, embodying his own personal explorations of the Temples of Cuttack, those of Western In dia, and those of Mahaveflipore, in the Ma- dras Presidency. It was in consequence of this publication that Major Gill was appointed to copy the perishing frescoes of A~juntaa ravine opening into the south sideof the great valey of the Tapty, near Assaye, in the Dcc- can. A series of his drawings may be seen in the Indian Court of the Sydenham Crystal Palace. The stereoscopic views which are now given to the public have recently been sent home by that accomplished officer. In his Introduction, Mr. Fergusson gives an interesting sketch of the present state of our knowledge as to the religions of ancient India. He reminds us that the rock-cut tem- ples were a complete enigma until Prinseps discovery of a key to the Buddhist Inscriptions which abound through the northern parts of the peninsula of Hindostan. This led to the conclusion that Sakya Muni, the f6under of Buddhism, must have lived between 623 and 543 nc., but that his religion did not be- come established till about three centuries later. Hence we get an approximate date for the earliest rock-temples, which are undoubt- edly of Buddhist origin. It is supposed that the most ancient one as yet known to exist is what is called the Milkmaids Cave, at 5~ The Rock-Cut Temples of India. Illustrated by seventy-four photographs taken on the spot by Major Gill. Described by James Fergusson, F.R.S., M.R.A.S. London: Murray. 1864. 89 Behar, excavated about 200 B.C., aud that the latest is the Indra Subha at Ellora, which was finished in the twelfth century of the Christian era. Of the whole series, that at Ajuntaranging from the first century B.c. to the tenth or eleventh AD., and exhibiting every style of Buddhist artis the most im- portant and instructive. Altogether, includ- ing the caves of Behar and Cuttack, that at Karli, those at Ellora, Salsette, Elephanta, Juneer, and Mahavellipore, there are about one thousand rock-cut temples known to ex- ist in India, nine-tenths of which are Budd- hist, the remainder being either Brabmani- cal or belonging to the Jaina religion. These excavations may almost he said to be the only surviving monuments of the arts or history of India during the centuries that preceded the Mahometan conquest. Mr. Fergusson points out with great truth that this excavated architecture is nothing but an imitation of buildings of a wooden construction. He adds, that the Lycian tombs in like manner are a reproduction in stone of a wooden method of building. In both instances, he says, it appears that it was the Greeks who taught the na- tives how to use the more permanent mate- rials. At all events, the earliest monuments we know in India, the kits of Asoka, are adorned with Greek ornaments evidently bor- rowed from the Bactrian Greeks of Central Asia, and in the earlier caves there is not one single form that sug~ests lithic architecture; every form is essentially wooden, and fre- quently interchanging with wood itself. Of the Buddhist excavations there are two classes. The most numerous are the Viha- ras, or monasteries,a kind of hermitages, with one or more cells for the cloistered in- mates; the others are Chaitya caves, or tem- ples used for purposes of worship. It has often been remarked that Buddhism, in its doctrines and its organization, is a kind of parody of Christianity. So it is in what may, perhaps, be called its ecelesiology. The ground-plans which Mr. Fergusson gives of these monasteries and temples might really be taken for those of Christian buildings. As a typical example we may take the great cave at Karli. Here there is a very long nave, exactly like a Christian basilica, ending in a circular apse, and having an ambulatory, or aisle, running all round, separated from the central part by a continuous range of col 90 THE ROCK-CUT TEMPLES OF INDIA. umns. At the west endas we should say gloom. It is, perhaps, the most artistic mode of a Christian churchis always a kind of of lighting a building of this class that has atrium, from which three doors open into the ever been invented; certainly superior to nave and aisles of the interior. The sole anything that was done by the Romans, or light is admitted through a large window over during the Middle Ages. It might require the brilliant climate of India to admit of its the doors. The range of columns supports a application to any large hall; but for a small continuous entablature, above which is a chapel, or room, the one great, light behind triforium belt, not pierced but ornamented and above the worshippers is the most per- either by painting or sculpture. The roof feet arrangement which has yet been at- resembles a barrel-vault of stone, andin all tempted. the earlier examplesribs, resembling the rafters of a wooden framework, are generally As to the reason why the natives of India excavated out of the solid rock. Still more betook themselves in the first instance to curiously, the apse is occupied by a counter- hewing cells and temples out of the rock, feit of the Christian altar and its baldachin. Mr. Fergusson speculates that Asoka, who is This is the dagopa, or stone-altar, a sim- known to have formed an alliance with Ptol- ulated tomb, containing, or supposed to con- emy, may have borrowed the idea directly tam, a relic of Buddha, or of some of his from Egypt. The caves of Behar are exca- saints. Over this is always a large super- vated in a hard granite, and those of Cuttack structure, exactly like a tabernacle or hal- in a coarse sandstone. But the great facili- dachin, with a large image of Buddha, ties offered by the horizontally stratified trap- surmounted by an nmbrella. An exquisite rocks of Western India conduced, no doubt, photograph of a Chaitya cave (No. 19) at to the rapid multiplication of caves and tem- Ajunta brings out this resemblance in a most ples in that region. We are surprised that startling manner. The picture might be Mr. Fergusson has not insisted on the great taken for an interior view of a Lombardic or advantages, in a tropical climate, of such cx- Sicilian basilica. Massive columns surround cavations, in which the temperature is always the apse, with their capitals carved in delicate equable, and the air dry, and the fierceness imagery. Above the entablature runs a of the suns rays excluded. Major Gill seems quasi-triforium, enriched with a series of alti- to have lived for nearly twenty years in one relievi in deeply sunken panels, the intersti- of these Ajunta caves, and to have found it tial spaces being beautifully fretted. The a most agreeable residence. It might be well barrel-vaulted roof, with its stone ribs, com- worth while to compare with these excava- pletes the resemblance, while the towering tions the usual style of constructive archi- dagopa until its details are examined tecture in India. We should expect to find might well pass muster for an altar. This that thick walls and the fewest possible win- photograph also shows, in the most beautiful dows would be the chief characteristics of a manner, the admirable effect of th& single building adapted to the peculiarities of a window, which we mentioned above. The tropical climate. We believe that the most full glare of light is thrown on the dagopa, successful modern churches in British India the roof, the floor, and the surrounding am- have been designed on this principle, for bulatory being thrown into shadow of vary- which, indeed, the appropriate epithet of ing intensity. The effects of these gradations speluncar architecture has been invented. of light are most exquisitely given in the sun- The caves of Ajunta are situated in the picture. We may quote Mr. Fergussons outer sweep of a bend of the river, on a nar description row ledge, in the middle of the three plat- forms of trap-rock through which the ravine The whole light being introduced through is pierced. They are almost contiguous; the one great opening in the centre of the fa9ade whole vertical surface of the rock being honey- throws a brilliant light on the altar,the combed with the verandahs of the Viharas, principal object,and also on the triforium- belt and the capitals of the pillars, being or the entrance-porches and single windows exactly where it is most wanted for artistic of the Chaitya caves. They must always effect. The spectator himself stands in the have been most difficult of access. The use shade. The light on the floor is subdued, of a thin coating of chunam, or cement, is and the roof and aisles fade into comparative very common in the interiors, and there are 91 THE ROCK-CUT TEMPLES OF INDIA. innumerable remains of polycliromatic deco- rations, chiefly formed of geometrical patterns and borders. When figures are introduced representing Buddhistic legends, it is re- marked that, while the men are of all shades of complexion, the women are always en- dowed with a European fairness. The sculp- tured ornaments are generally most delicate and graceful and elaborate. We may re- mark that some very characteristic specimens of early Indian sculpture are to be seen in the collection of the Architectural Museum at South Kensington. They were sent home, we believe, by Sir Bartle Frere, from the Punjab. Major Gills photographs would give the data for a complete treatise on Budd- hist architecture. Nothing can be more beau- tiful, in its way, than the delicate fretwork which surrounds the massive fluted columns in parallel belts. The capitals, too, are gen- erally covered with minute sculptures in deep relief, and there are many friezes highly en- riched with sculptured ornaments. Of the Ellora caves, which are illustrated toward the close of this volume, the date and style and history are less easily understood. They are thirty in number, of which ten are Buddhist, fourteen Brahmanical, aPd the rest doubtful. The only temple among them is called the Viswakarma. It is remarkable for a fine cloistral atrium before its entrance, and its earliest possible date is supposed to be the seventh or eighth century. In some of these, of later date and Brahmanieal origin, the original idea of a mere excavated interior has been departed from; and, by an absurd anom- aly, after the interior was finished, the sur- rounding rock has been hew~i out so as to represent the exterior of a non-speluncar tem- ple. The Kylas Temple at Ellora, which is of comparatively late date, and is supposed to be the most curious Brahmanical excava- tion in existence, is largely illustrated, with a ground-plan as well as numerous stereo- scopes. We have said enough to show the extraordinary value of this volume. The photographs alone, apart from their historical and artistic importance, are perfectly charm- ing from the picturesqueness of their sub- ject and the fine effects of light and shade which form a chief merit of speluncar archi- tecture. The Gospel in Ezekiel. By Thomas Guthrie, D.D. Fortieth Thousand. Adam and Charles Black. THE leading idea of these sermonsthat the thirty-sixth chapter of Ezekiel, verses 16 to 37, present an epitome or outline of the Gospelis certainly a little fanciful, though not, we think, unfairly so ; and the great success which the xolume has met with is no more than is merited by the eloquence with which it sets forth the car- dinal doctrines of Scotch theology. This issue consists of a neat, handy duodecimo, very clearly and handsomely printed. pect of delight? There are rumors also of a new volume from Mr. Tennyson as soon forthcoming. Reader. Mzssns. HURsT AND BLACKETT will publish on the 4th of March a cheap edition of Mrs. 011- phants Life of the Rev. Edward Irving com- plete in one volume; a cheaper edition of The Memoirs of Queen Horterise, Mother of Napoleon III.,~ in one volume, will be issued immediately by them. NOTWITHSTANDING the constant anathemas Tnss announcement is going about among our hurled from all the Hungarian pulpits against contemporaries: A new volume of poems by Renans book, no less than three different trans- Mr. Robert Browning is in the press. We hope lations in Magyar are circulating in many edi- they may be more intelligible than his Men and tions throughout the length and the breadth of Women, and that, as years go on, he may not, Hungary. Nor is the anti-Renan literature neg- like Turner, become more and more hazy. Is lected. Pesth, Pressburg, Gross-Wardein, and it not lamentable that this should be the sort of other cities have produced speelal refutations of public expression respecting one of the great- the work, independently of those which have been est and most original poets of our time, the very translated from the French, like the one of Mgr. notion of a work from whom ought to be a pros- Parssus,~AsOp of Arras, and others.Reader. THE FESTIVAL O~ GALILEO. THE FESTIVAL OF GALILEO. To the Editor of the Reader. PIsA, Feb. 18th, 1864. SIR,We seem all just now to be proceed- ing on some idea like that of the old Egyp- tians, that souls return to take possession of their mummies after three thousand years. Only after three hundred, however, we con- ceive great men to have the privilege of revi- val. While you in England are debating how to celebrate the Tercentenary of Shak- speare, we are~here in Pisa doing our utmost to honor the three hundredth anniversary of the birth of him who Descried new worlds At evening from the top of Fiesole. Galileo Gahilei . has been the curious street cry echoed for days past through the quiet old town by the hawkers of broadsheets; and this morning seven rounds of artillery at ear- liest dawn startled the slumbering Pisans from their dreams. The sun, who has been chary of his smiles of late, shone out for a few hours, as he was in courtesy bound to do, in honor of the sage who underwent the torture to give him his proper place in the universe; and very soon the windows of the Lung Arno effloresced, after the manner of Italian houses, with hangingsblue, red, crimson, and green,while banners of the bright tricolor waved from every available bridge and balcony. With the broad swollen Arno below, and the Pisan mountains tipped with snow for a background, and crowds of men and women in gala array from Leghorn and Florence thronging the streets, the scene was gay and pretty in no common degree. The first centre of attraction was the little church of San Andrea in Fortezza, where Galileo was baptized. Over the door was the inscription Grazie immortali Al Supremo Datore d ogni kene perch~ in questo giorno or sono tre secoli ii natale Di Galileo Galilel illustrd Pisa d insperata chiarissimo luce. (Immortal thanks to the Supreme Giver of all Good that on this day, three centuries ago, the birth of Galileo Galilei illumined Pisa with un- hoped-for and resplendent light.) To this church the prefect, with all the mag- istrates, professors, etc., of the city, repaired in full state to hear a Te Deum. It is said that it was a fortunate circumstance that the baptism of Galileo in this little chapel afforded such good reason for fizing on it as the scene of the good prefects very just thanksgiving, for, had he desired to celebrate it in the iluomo, the Archbisop of Pisa would by no means have given his consent, much less his presence, to such a service. Be this as it may, the good feeling of such an act is surely worthy of remark. My knowledge of modern history is small enough to leave me at a loss to remember another occasion wherein St. Ambroses grand old hymn, so often raised for bloody battles or the coronation of worth- less despots, has been used to thank the Giver of all Good for illuminating the world by sending into it a greatly-gifted soul to dispel the darkness of ignorance and super- stition! Will any one think of thanking God for Shakspeare? Close to the little chapel of San Andrea is the house wherein Galileo was born. It consists of a range of chambers, of no great pretensions, surmount- ing offices, and apparently forming part of the great fortezza containing the palace and gardens of the Scota family, whose present representative (an old countess of eighty) be- qucathes her estate to the Corsini of Florence. The room in which Galileo was born is a large square one, with rudely-built walls and a single window. The furniture is modern. Beneath the room is (and probably always was) a stable. Over the door of the house is a white marble slab, lately erected, hearing the inscription, qui nacque Galileo Galilei, Febb. 15, 1564. The Te Deum being over, the next affair was a great public dinner at two oclock; then speechifying at the university, then a boat- race on the Arno, then illuminations, a con- cert, and a ballassuredly enough amuse- ments for our days festival! The illumina- tions were beautiful, the broad winding river reflecting the thousands of lights in the pal- aces on either side, and the four fine obelisks of lamps erected at each end of the principal bridge. The Leaning Tower was, of course, the chief object; and those who have never seen Pisan Luminara would, I think, find it difficult to imagine how beautiful this strange building can become. The six lower stories are each surrounded by a fringe of fire, while, behind each tier of columns, large stars of lamps are placed so as to produce the effect 92 THE FESTIVAL OF GALILEO. 93 of the whole being actually transparent. in receiving all the honors his.native city Round the summit there is another crown of could offer to the day of his birth. Nor is glory. The sky this evening was cloudy, the celebration of such an anniversary with- with a half-moon only occasionally breaking out serious interest. The Pisans are per- forth; and the appearance of the tower thus fectly aware of the meaning of their act, and beheld was indescribably lovely, like nothing that they have been holding a festival to I have ever seen before. Least of all did it commemorate the victory of Science over Su- resemble a solid edifice reared by human perstition, of Truth over all the power which hands, from whose summit three centuries the church could bring to crush and silence ago the great philosopher performed his cx- it. The archbishops palace, standing black periment of the velocity of falling bodies. A arid unilluminated beside the blazing Cam- fragile lamp of white paper, to be over- panile, witness of Galileos experiment, was thrown by a breath, seemed more like its like an allegory of the war bctween Darkness Bubstanceso exquisitely, delicate and trans- and Light, and among the gay voices of the parent. people more than once I caught the phrase On the whole, the festival has been very ominous to ecclesiastical ears San Gal- successful. The Starry Galileo might ileo! F. P. C. have found some compensation for his woes The Xanie of Jesus, and Other Verses for the why it should not awaken in the healthy and the Sick and Lonely. By C. M. N. Third social that Ileiia-weh which spoils no lower en- edition. Mackintosh, and J. H. Parker, Strand, joyment, though it craves for an infinite rest. 1863. Spectator. THE newspapers which are called religious are generally allowed to take exclusive cognizance of poems bearing such a title as this. It ought not DIED at Hampstead, on the 29th of January, at to he so. When the poetry is insincere, the the age of 81, Miss Lucy Aikin, known not only writer should not be left to party fiatterers, who as an authoress herself, but also as one of a family will cultivate the falsehood and check the good noted in British authorship. She was the daugh- which may lie beneath it; when the poetry is ter of that Dr. John Aikin, and niece of that and graceful, when it expresses strong Miss Aikin, afterwards Mrs. Barbauld, whose genuine joint work, Evenings at home, is still so pop- convictions, and deep human experience, it should ular, and some of whose separate productions are be claimed as public property; no technical also remembered and read. Dr. Aikin died in monopoly should be tolerated. These poems 1822, aged 75, and Mrs. Barbauld in 1825, aged for the sick and lonely are, beyond all question, 81. A son of Dr. Aikin, Dr. Arthur Aikin, dis- of the latter class. They do not owe their three tinguished as a chemist and geologist, died in editions to any mere phraseology, far rather to 1854, at the same age of 81his sister Lucy the sympathy which they must have excited in having survived him just ten years. Lucy sufferers sated with phraseology, and eager for Aikins last published work was a Life of Ad- some fellowship with a living spirit. There are dison, which appeared some twenty years ago. passages in them to which we might take excep- tion; but, on the whole, they are remarkable for grace in those two senses which ought not to be separated, and the union of which must consti- tute the real charm of Christian poetry. The THEY are many who will still hear with re- verses which have been added to this edition in.. gret of the death of Miss Adelaide Procter, the dicate a growth in the autLors powers of expres- daughter of Mr. Bryan Waller Procter (Barry sion, He laid His hand upon me, Upbraideth Cornwall), and herself already of distinct rank not, The Love of God, The Cross, and among our poets by her publications of late especially those on Thou remainest, are re- years. Her lyrics had a cast of their own, and fined compositions, and, we need scarcely say, seem to have seL the example of a style in which not less true expressions of the heart or less con- other lady-poets have followed. A large circle solatory for being so. The book has been, and of friends much attached to Miss Procter and to will be, we doubt not, atreasure to many of those her family have been prepared for some time for - for whom it was written, and there is no reason the sad event of her loss. 94 PROFESSOR HUXLEY ON THE NEGRO. From The Reader. to a scientific body of this country which has PROFESSOR HUXLEY ON THE NEGRO. recently been published,* and has,I doubt U~ to this moment, Mr. President and gen- not, been read by many as an authoritntive tiemen, I have treated of this question of the expression of the results of scientific investi- differences between the various modifications gation: and you shall judge for yourselves of the human species as if it were a matter of whether it does or does not merit the stigma pure science. But you must have felt, as J of public condemnation, which I think it lay have felt, that there loomed behind this veil duty to take this opportunity of affixing to of abstract argumentation the shadow of the it irrepressible ne~ro and of that great prob- The skeleton of the negro can never be 1cm which is being fought out on the other placed upright. There is always a slight side of the Atlantic. I have no desire, and, angle in the leg, a greater in the thigh hones, indeed, no right, to discuss the vast and diffi- and still more in the body, until in some in- cult question of slavery here; but, to set my- stances it curves backwards. self free from the suspicion of unreasoning The blood is vastly dissimilarthe mole- partisanship, I may be permitted to say this cular movement within the discs differs in much: that I am unable to understand how every respect, and, when tried with a soin- any man of warm heart can fail to sympathize tion of potass, the protrusions from the cell- with the indomitable courage, the warlike walls take every intermediate form, reverting skill, the self-denying persistence of the South- with great rapidity to the normal condition. erner; woile I can as little comprehend how The hair is very peculiar,three hairs, any man of clear head can doubt that the springing from different orifices, will unite South is p1ayin~ a losing~ame, and that the into one. North is justified in any expenditure of blood, Many among you are histologists, and will or of money, which shall eradicate a system appreciate the value and practical applicahil- hopelessly inconsistent with the moral eleva- ity of the test of species described in the two tion, the political freedom, or the economical last paragraphs I have cited. A male negro progress of the American people. As a man skeleton is before you, aiid all can see how of science, however, my concern is not with far it is or is not capable of the erect posture: the merits or demerits of slavery, but with the and yet the author of the address in question scientific arguments by which both sides have can write thus striven to support their cause. The above intelligent remarks, although The fanatical abolitionists do not scruple they contain nothing new, are chiefly vala- to affirm that the negro is the equal of the able from the fact that ladies in the Confed- white man ,nay, some go so far as to tell us erate States seem to he better informed on the that the American stock would be the better sul~ject than many men of science in this for the infusion of a little black blood; while country the milder sort maintain, at least, the indefi- This quotation is from the preface; gems nite modifiability of the negro, urge that he of a purer water are to be found in the body is capable of being improved into such equal- of the address: Vrolik has asserted that ity, or something like it, and therefore con- the pelvis of the male negro bears a great elude that the attempt to improve him is a resemblance to that of the lower mamma- great duty. The two former propositions are ha. so hopelessly absurd as to be unworthy of se- Vrolik was far too truthful a man and too rious discussion. The third is fairly open to good an anatornist to say anything of the kind. discussion; but anything like good evidence What he really says in speaking of the male of its truth seems to me to be a wanting negro is: The pelvis also presents many while, if it be true, the conclusion drawn indications of the greater animality of the from it is not indisputable. But I must negroes; and, further: Had this pelvis freely admit that the aberrations from scien been taken from a wild beast, its substance tific fact, or fair speculatior~, on the anti slav could not have been denser, nor its bones ery side are as nothing compared with the stronger. preposterous ignorance, exaggeration and These remarks refer to a paper entitled The misstatement in which the slaveholding inter Negros Place in Nature, by James hunt, Ph.D., est indulges. I hold in my hand an address President of the Anthropological Society of London~ PROFESSOR HUXLEY ON THE NEGRO. 95 Again, the author of the address affirms breaking the rule. A normal human lower that in the negro, The pia mater contains jaw, with the first and second molar devoid of brown spots, which are never found in the five tubercles, would be a rare and interesting brain of a European. This is in the teeth anomaly. of M. Gublers paper, published in the me- But the author of the address is far sur- moirs of the French Anthropological Society passed by an American ~riter, whom he three years ago, and distinctly proving the quotes apparently with entire approbation: existence of a similar coloration in Europeans The negro, says this wonderful An- Not only, says this thropologist, is incapable of an erect and of dark complexion. direct perpendicular posture. The general writcr, does the brain, enveloped in its mem- structure of his limbs, the form of the pelvis, branes, present a bistre tint, bu* a layer of the spine, the way the head is set on the black matter, altogether comparable to that shoulders,in short, the tout ensemble of the of the negro, covers the pons varolii, the me- anatomical formation forbids an erect posi- dulla oblon~,ata, and some other parts of the tion. I need only refer you to the excellent cast nervous centres. What makes the matter of a negro in our museum to enable you to worse is, that M. Gublers paper is mentioned judge of the veraciousness of this statement. in a note of the address to which I refer, as Nothing, indeed, can surpass its scandalous if it confirmed, instead of diametrically con- absurdity, except the reasoning by which it tradicting, the statement in the text. is supported. With the broad forehead Again ~e are told : The inferior molars and.small cerebellum of the white man, it is sometimes present in the negro race five tu- perfectly obvious that the nejo would no bereles; and t~iris anomaly is sporadically longer possess a centre of gravity! This brief paragraph contains the most re- found in other races. It has been noticed in markable result of a modification of anatomi- the European and the Esquimaux, but is af- cal structure I have ever beard of. And the firmed by my friend Mr. Carter Blake to be faculty for evolving nonsense displayed by its more frequent in the negro and Australian author will prepare you fbr m~ final citation, than any other race. which I forbear to characterize, because the onl Truly, this is a notable discovery. We beck appropriate phraseology wonld not be oming for me to utter or you to hear. shall hear next that the scapula and the fe- Thus, an anatomist, with the negro and mur are more frequent in the negro and our ng-outang before him,, after a careful Australian than any other race. In my comparison, would say, perhaps, that Nature previous lecture, when speaking of the denti- herself had been pozzled where to place them, tion of man, I demonstrated to you the ele- and had finally compromised the matter by mentary fact, of which, up to this time ~ did giving them an exactly equal inclination to not imagine the merest tyro could igno- the form and attitude of each other. And be this is put before the unsuspectin~ public, rant, that the lower molars of man-are always without comment or qualification, as the ver- typically five tubercled; the hindermost alone, diet of science touching The Negros Place fronv its imperfect development, occasionally in Nature! Or French works on political and other ques.. itiques, par un Polonais (General Zamoyski) ; tions of the day we have: La Civilisation M. E. Renan trahissant le Christ par un Re- Universelle, Union des Peuples, des Pontifes, et man, par lAbb~ H. J. Crelier. Reader. des Rois: Congr~s Permanent ; Recueil com- plet des Traitds, Conventions, Capitulations, et EARLY in March Messrs. T. and T. Clark of autres Actes diplomatiques de tous les Etats de Edinburgh are to publish Vols. 1 to 3 of The lAmdrique latine compris entre le golf de Mex- Life of the Lord Jesus Christ: a Complete Criti ique et le cap de Horn, depuis lannde 1493 cal Examination of the Origin, Contents, and Con- jnsqua nos jours, prdcdd6 dun Mdmoire sur nection of the Gospels: Translated from the Ger- ldtat actuel de lAmdrique, etc., par C. Calvo, man of J. P. Lange, D.D., Professor of Divinity in vols. 2-6; LEspagne en 1863, par E. Du- the University of Bonn; and edited, with Addi- rand; Le Conflit dano-allemand jugd par tional Notes, by the Rev. Marcus Dods, A.M. lhistoire, par E. Grdgoire; Les Cachots du The work, which is to be in six volumes, aims at Pape, par J. B. C. Paya; Les Etats Confd- refuting the views of recent negative criticism, ddrds et lEsclavage, par F. W. Sargent; and at substituting a consistent and positive hi& . Lettre a MM. les Rddacteurs des journaux pol- tory for them. L. E. L.~~WAITING FOR THE SPRING. L. E. L. Whose heart was breaking for a little love. E. B. l3reuning. DowxsvAras witW friends I laugh, I sport and jest But in my solitary room above I turn my face in silence to the wall My heart is breaking for a little love. Though winter frosts are done, And birds mate one by one, And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun. I feel no spring, while spring is bursting forth; I find no nest, while nests are in the grove Woes me for mine own heart that dwells alone, My heart that breaketh for a little love. Whilst golden in the sun Rivulets rise and run, Whilst lilies bud, for springtide is begun. All love, are loved, save only I ; their hearts Beat warm with love and joy, beat full there- of: They cannot guess, whose hearts are filled indeed, My heart is breaking for a little love. Whilst beehives wake and whirr, And rabbit thins his fur, In living spring that sets the world astir. I deck myself with silks and jewelry, I plume myself as any mated dove: They praise my rustling show, and never think My heart is breaking for a little love. While sproutsgreen lavender With rosemary and myrrh, For in quick spring the sap is all astir. Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth, Perhaps some angels read it as they move, And cry one to another piteously, Herheart is breaking for a little love. Though other things have birth, They leap and sing for mirth, When springtime wakes and clothes and feeds the earth. Yet saith a saint, Take patience for thy hurt Yet saith an angel, Wait, for thou shalt prove True best is last, true life is born of death, 0 thou heart, broken for a little love. Then love shall fill thy girth, And love make fat thy dearth, When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth. Victoria Magazine. CIsaIsTINA G. Rossa~vz.. WAITING FOR THE SPRDTG. As breezes stir the morning, A silence reigns in air; ~.toel blue the heavens above me, Moveless the trees and bare: Yet unto me the stillness This burden seems to bring, Patience! the earth is waiting, Waiting for the spring. Strong ash, and sturdy chestnut, Rough oak, and poplar high, Stretch out their sapless branches Against the wintry sky. Even the guilty aspen Hath ceased her quivering, As th9ugh she, too, were waituig, Waiting for the spring. I strain mine ears to listen, If haply where I stand, But one stray note of music May sound in all the land. Why art thou mute, 0 blackbird? O thrush, why dost not sing? Ah ! surely they are waiting, Waiting for t.he spring. 0 heart! thy days are darksome o heart! thy nights are drear But soon shall streams of sunshine Proclaim the turning year. Soon shall the trees be leafy, Soon every bird shall sing; Like them, be silent, waiting, Waiting for the spring. Once .a Week. SERIOUS FIGHTING OR NONE. Mv Christian friends, I trust it is our firm deter- mination Never to go to war on sentimental provocation But meekl$ to endure all taunts and insults and offences, Which break no bones, no money cost, or less than wars expenses. And if we are compelled to fight by some act of hostility More grievous than a trial of our patience and humility, Since fight we must, I do hope we shall 4lit de~. termined, steadily Peace. to restore that they who broke shall u4t again break readily. Vengeanee, my friends, we couldnt think of t& k- lag, as professors, That execution we may do, to terrify aggressoa~s; Fereed to wage war, oh, let us, then, wage it as if we meant it! Not evil t6 return, but make our enemies repent it. Pt& iwk. 943

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The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 37 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. Apr 16, 1864 0081 037
The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 37 97-144

THE LIVING AGE. No. 1037. ~16 April, 1864. CO N TENTS. PAGE. Duty of Loyal People, . . Editorial, 98 1. Hawthorne on England and the English, Christian Remembrancer, 9t~ 2. Tony Butler. Part 6, . . Blackwoods Magazine, 116 3. Bonnie Prince Charlie New Monthly Magazine, 131 4. To Loyal Ladies, . Boston Transcript, 140 5. New Jersey and the Right of Transit, N. Y. Evening Post, 142 6. Scientific and Literary Notices, . Reader, 144 POETRY.War, 115. How are you, Sanitary? 115. SHORT ARTIcLEs.Plutology, 114. English Theatre in Paris, 114. Unpublished Letter of Charles Lamb, 130. American Comic Journalism, 130. Condition of Freedmen at Oswego, 143. ~ We were obliged to postpone the Second Part of Lindisfarn Chase, as it was too long for the space. It will be found in the next number. NEW BOOKS. A LwrrEn from John Jay to the A~. Y. Evening Post, on Dawsons Federalist. We hope that the appearance of the Federalist, so annotated, will cause Mr. Jay to reprint the Life and LeLers of his great ancestor, by William Jay, to which we have several times called the attention of our readers. To every one competent to understand and rejoice in the noble character of the man in whom General Washington had absolute reliance, we again commend The Life and Letters of John Jay, by his son, William Jay. BnenlNo.Immediately after each Volume of The Living ./lge is completed, we bind a number of copies, to be exchanged at once for the Nos. if in good order; price of binding, sixty-five cents a volume. Where the Nos. are not in good order, we will have them bound as soon as we can. NEW-YEARS PRESENTS TO CIxROYMEN.OUr text will be found on the front of several of the late Nos.; but we now ask our readers to apply it to a single class of persons. While the price of every article of food or clothing, and of all the necessaries of life (excepting The Living .dge), has been increased, little or nothing has been done to raise proportionally the salaries of clergymen. They are obliged to lessen their comforts, in order to meet this pressure. Reader, if you wish to refresh the mind and the heart of the man who ministers to you in holy things, present him with mental food once a week, and do not give him The Living .flge if there be any other work that will do him more good. PUBMSILED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., 30 BROMFIELD STREET, BosToN. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remztted dzrectly to the PubliAers, the LIVING AcE will be punctually forwarded free o~f postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANy NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to com- plete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. 98 DUTY OF LOYAL PEOPLE. THE mind and heart of the loyal people of the North is not, in one important point, what it ought to be. We pride ourselves on wealth and strength, and on our determination to lay out everything, necessary, to sustain the nation against the terrible assault of its enemies. We have been glad to show, in a boastful spirit, that the com- mercial prosperity of the North ha~ not been les- sened by the war which has ruined our antag- onists. But it would better become us to speak lowly, and to walk humbly, under the great chastise- ment which God lays upon us. The land ought to be in mourning; for we are not guiltless of the great sin which, in its strife for supremacy, is shaking the whole world. We abased ourselves before the Slave Power for so muny years, and made the interests of peace and quiet (that is to say, of business) so abso- lute ;we fed the Monster so long,that it is not to be wondered that when grown great, he thought himself our Master. Instead of mourning in sackcloth and ashes for the miseries which we have thus helped to draw down upon this people, we have gone deeper and deeper into luxury and ostentation. Lu another part of this number is printed a deserved rebuke from the editor of the Boston Transcript. We see very clearly that Divine Providence is preparing the way for the deliveranqe of the op- pressed by the plagues which their own wicked- ness has brought upon the oppressors. And we rejoice in the confident anticipation that the great curse will be cast out, and that wealth and labor shall soon cover the South with a fertility and prosperity which it has never before had; and that this will react upon the North by all the changes from scowling pride and indolent envy to mutual industry and brotherly love. But before this can come to pass, we must offer to God the sacrifice of repentance; we must deny ourselves, and devote our time and our wealth to his service, by using them for the good of our fellow-creatures now in suffering and sorrow. If we could rise to the great opportunities which are before us, we should not only preserve and strengthen the land We so much love, but should regenerate it. At the North we have not burning cities, or devastating armies: so much the more ought to press upon us the wants of the soldiers in camps and in hospitals; the care of the maimed and the widows and orphans ; the relief of the pov- erty which the war has caused; the sustenance of the meek and helpless blacks till this tyranny be overpast; the conversion and education of the mean whitess who have been so long taught~ DUTY OF LOYAL PEOPLE. to hate and despise that honest labor of the North which longs to receive them ~s brethren. What nation has ever had such power of good within its reach? Bead a few extracts upon the condition of the negroes who came into Vicksburg with General Shermans army, as described by Mr. N. M. Mann, Agent of the Western Sanitary Comutis sion, in a letter dated at Vicksburg, on the 7th of March The return of Shermans expedition had been anticipated by us all as sure to bring ilong a crowd of blacks ; but no one, I think, had formed any idea of the utter destitution, the squalid misery in which they would come. All the way from Meridian this black river flowed in the wake of the army, increased by constant accessions until sullen and slow it wound its way into Vicksburg with 4,500 souls. Followiug through a country twice ravaged by a devouring host, they had literally nothing left them for suhsistence but the remnants left by our troops. Foraging parties scoured the country on either hand to obtain supplies for the soldiers; but no one brought these people food, and houses and barns pillaged and burnt left nothing for them, sive What the hungry soldier could spare. The expedition returned here on the 3d inst. Just at dusk the train of contrabands came in. Slowly and sadly they dragged along through the streets. Mules and oxen gaunt and fain ished, w~ gons loaded with children whose weary, despairing look will haunt me, I believe, as long as I live, with a mother or two in a ch trying to soothe the little ones crying with hunger and fatigue, all clothed in the dirt-colored homespun they always wear, worn to rags and tntters, leaving them in many cases almost naked. I saw one boy, about ten years old, lying in a wagon, apparently dead, stark naked, save a part of what might once have been a waistcoat wrapped about his abdomen! Hundreds of them had not rags enough to be decent. As if nature sympathized with them in their misfortunes, the sh~des of night came on as they passed through the city, and partially screened from the crowd of gazers this saddening, sickening sight. The little I could do for these poor people that night I did. Anticipating a need, I had drawn on the commissary heavily for bread, and had a large amount on hand. I had the ambulance of the Western Sanitary Commission loaded with this bread, and taking along half a dozen kind- hearted soldiers, we went the whole length of this wagon train and gave to each family a loaf or two. It was but a little thing to do; but the eagerness with which they took and ate it told how grateful it was to them. I assure you I never was more happy than that night, amid all that wretchedness, giving bread to those hungry creatures. That night they lay on the levee in their wagons and on the ground. HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGL!SH. 99 From The Christian Remembraneer. Our Old Home. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Vols. Smith and Elder. ThE wish to know what others think of us and say about us brings to the individual as little satisfaction in its indulgence as any of our natural desires can possibly do. By chance and unsought-for, we may now and then hear something pleasant and gratifying to our self- love; but an honest opinion, which we lay ourselves out to hear, is perfectly certain to have some bitterness in it, some qualification, turning the sweet of even seeming commen - dation to sour. The praise is not the praise we care for, while the blame or disparage- ment is quite certain to hit some peculiarly sensitive place and to rankle in the memory. This experience is so universal that a very moderate degree of sense, judgment, and man- ners, suffices to suppress displays of this cu- riosity in the individual, while a further moral advance really quenches it: we. know that there is no happiness or even untainted amusement to be got in that direction. But the wisest amongst us still shows his sympa- thy with this inherent curiosity of our nature by the desire he evinces to learn what is thought of the family, the circle, the class, the nation, of which he is a member, and by the excitement which any new declaration of opinion always awakes in him. No doubt this interest in what others say and think of our country may be explained on quite other grounds than vanity or egotism; hut apart from any idea of improvement, of profiting by the remarks of foreigners or strangers, he wants to know what they have said; and this,. with ~ touch of the same motives which prompt the inexperienced individual to lis- ten to tales of a directly personal interest. When the opinion is favorable, something in each particular unit that makes up the whole is flattered; when it is adverse or contempt- uous, a sense of personal injury pervades every member of the community. The work before us has, in a very particular degree, excited this aggregate of personal feeling. We have been flattered now and then, and insulted very often, by Mr. Hawthornes im- pressions of England and the English, and each time our individuality has been touched. In one sense, the particular frame of mind of the reader is a great advantage to an author; it invests what he says with more point and ~eaning than a perfectly disinterested, Un- concerned reader might see in it, and makes epithets stick, and contract force half through the quick perception and irvitahle conscious- ness of the reader. There is, for instance, the epithet bulbous. We might easily pass it over if applied td Frenchmen or Ger- mans; but when affixed to the ideal Eng- lishman it makes an impression. It may be repelled and disowned, but there it is: some- body has called us bulbous, and we shall re~ member it, and see an appropriate rotundity in the word, whether fairly or not applied to the typical British form. As a rule, the E%- lish readers quarrel with Mr. Hawthorne will not be with his wording. lie has, in litet, a very happy vocabulary; and the pleasure in his pages is often derivable, not from n~,ree- inent with his sentiments, but from the neat turn with which they are given, and that fulness and expressiveness of diction which makes him one of the most agreeable of Amer- ican writers on whatever subject he chooses to dilate. Mr. Hawthorne stigmatizes the English s a one-eyed generation. He attributes our success to this quality; we never see both sides, and are, therefore, the more ready for action. Dr. Johnson was an essentially Eng- lish moralist for this reason; his very sense and, sagacity were but a one-eyed clear-sight- edness; and we are to suppose that this de- fect assisted his efforts at good. For it is but one-eyed people who love to advise. When a man opens both his eyes, he generally sees about as many reasons for acting in one way as in any other, and quite as many for acting in neither. For himself and his countrymen Mr. Hawthorne claims two eyes, in opposi- tion to the blinking Old World; and in his case, at any rate, we will not dispute it; though it is the mere truth, without a grain of spite in it, that these eyes have a knack of obliquity, and are always undoing one an- others conclusion. Thus, we are constantly left to our own judgment, to decide which is his real opinion between two opposite ones, set down with an equal air of conviction, in defi- ance or forgetfulness of the other. For our- selves, we do not dislike this, and would rather have an observers impressions as they arise, however absolutely conflicting, than mere con- clusions of the mature judgment. Nobody can be keenly, sensitively observant amid new scenes, and always consistent, especially if his fancy is an active part of himself. The 100 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. more faculties his observation represents, the more unlikely it is that they should uniformly act in harmony,the more certain, in fact, that they should show themselves at odds. In the case before us, the conclusions are con- stantly at direct variance with immediate im- pressions, and we deliberately prefer the im- pressions, and find ourselves clways more of- fended when Mr. hawthorne generalizes than when he gives us the actual effect upon his mind of any particular incident, or scene, or English characteristic. When he sets himself to record what he sees, and what he thinks of what he sees at the very time of seeing it, he takes pains to be exact. He feels all the delight of perpetuating a momentary or, at least, a temporary posture of his own mind. He aims at being fairas seeing with his own eyes. lie is upon honor with himself not to let other mens judgments obscure his own clearness of vision. In all this he is the prac- tised writer whose business it is, whose duty and credit alike, to convey effects in the very likeness in which he receives them. But away from this immediate contact, he is the American and the patriot; and it is in these characters that he draws his conclusions. His own impressions, whether favorable or unfavorable, have a reality about them, and a personal character which the others want: they are the real thoughts of a man of talent, and as such deserve our patient and candid attention, the rather, because he is more eare~ ful to be faithful to his own idea than to seem consistentan appearance which very often cannot be maintained but at the cost of truth. In his conclusions we seem to see a relapse into predjudice and foregone trains of thought, not only in indulgence to his own nationality, but from willingness to please and propitiate his countrymen, whose self-love may now and then have been wounded by the candor with vhich certain good things in England are pro- nounced to be good, and beyond the reach of the New Country. In one point, the position of first impres- sions and conclusions has been reversed; and that point is one most certain to excite the curiosity, and stimulateshall we call it the passions ofthe English reader. We mean that question which has evoked by far the greater amount of comment from our press and universal quotation,the good looks of the English people. Mr. Hawthorne found us, on first landing, so very far short of those good looks assumed amongst ourselves as a national characteristic that his opinion can scarcely be expressed by other terms than as the very reverse of our own. He seems to have really thought us ill-looking; unpleasant objects for the eye to rest upon. Not only bulbous, as we have already said, but other- wise misformed ,long-bodied, short-legged, with faces red and mottled, and with double chins; our heavy-wittedness expressed in our stolid, earthy, material aspect and deport- ment ; the tout ensemble heavy, homely, rough, coarse-grained, and abominably ill- dressed. Ever since his ancestors, the Puri- tan Fathers, carried off the spirit and adven- ture and genius of the nation, these gross qualities have had the asccndant,an ascen- dency that grows with the ages,so that in course of time the Eu~,lishman will be the earthiest creature on the worlds surface. And as if this was not enough,which would, in fact, be endurable nlone,he descends with a heavier sledge-hammer; he exercises him- self in viler terms of disparagement ; he in- sults with more elaborate and deliberate vitu- peration the exterior of the Englishwoman. We use figuratively the expression to cut up when we would describe a merciless on- slaught; but this man, when he cuts up the British female, means what he says. It irks him to see her with whole skin and bones compact; he owns that he cannot contem- plate, without sanguinary ideas and horrible suggestions of his fancy, the calm, weighty face and form of an English dowager. Even when he would be civil, or, at least, free from extremes, he is full of offensive phrases, ex- pressive of unwieldiness, homeliness, and large physical endowments. The white skin has a heavy substratum of clay beneath. The English girl is comely rather than pretty, and her roses are too damask. Even if a violet in her youth, she develops too surely into a peony. The charms of the humbler class are few indeed, and the female Bull, as it is elegantly put, though not ill-suited to John Bull himself, comes below him in all physi- cal advantages. Now, when we read all this. we are at first of course indignant; but be- neath all is a consciousnessan awkward consciousnessthat while we would stand up for English beauty asa national quality, which we have a just right to assert, because it has hitherto been pretty invariably granted, we have perhaps taken it more on faith than we HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 101 knew we had till we come to face the matter. the same occasion, which occurs at the end If every loan, or the majority of men, in New of the second volume, he attributes ~to our York or Boston are tall and well-formed, man-kind a certain something-an air, a intelligent and spiritual-looking; if every manner, a distinction, a sign of dominant race young woman there is beautiful, and every and noble progenitorswhich he had not met middle-aged and old one retains unmistaka- with in his own country, and evidently has ble traces of that heauty, in an ethereal cast not much expectation of ever meeting. Let of features, we own we must give it up. us give a few of these retractations Truth to tell, we do not very often see an ab- solutely beautiful womannot many men of Be that as it mi~ht, while straying hither the Antinous type. We may walk through and thither, throu h those crowded apart- long streets and busy thoroughfares, and, es- ments, I saw much reason fbr modifying cer- tain heterodox opinions which I had imbibed pecially if the wind be at east, be forced to in my transatlantic newness and rawness, as admit that a cold, unexcited crowd, intent on regarded the delicate character and frequent homely cares, has, just on the surface of it, occurrence of English beauty. To state the not much beauty to boast of. We are entire truth (being at this period some years ashamed to say as much; hut we have ,just old in English life), my taste, I fear, had been commending Mr. Hawthorne~ s honesty long siuce begun to be deteriorated by ac- of what he sees, and we would quaintance with other models of feminine when bespeaks loveliness than it was my happiness to know not come short of it. And yet we shall find in America. I often found, or seemed to. we have seen in the human forms and faces find, if I may dare to confess it, in the per- our eyes have rested on, in the impressions sons of such of my de~ r countrywomen asl they have left on us, an idea of beauty. We now occasionally met, a certain meagreness know from them, as a whole, what man and (Heaven forbid that I should call it scrawni- woman ought to look like, and how the nobler rmes~I), a deficiency of physical development, nature should show itself through feature and a scantiness, so to speak, in the pattern of their material make, a paleness of complex- expression, and we firmly believe that no ion, a thinness of voice,all of which char- other country will furnish us with a higher acteristics, nevertheless, only made me resolve ideanot only in its higher ranks, but taking so much .the more steadily to uphold these the people throughof what beauty is in fair creatures as angels, because I was some- form, color, and expression, in the perfect times driven to a half-aeknowled~mnent that tI type. We have no desire to aven0e ourselves me English ladies, looked at from a lower on American writers by a retort. Strangers point of view, were, perhaps, a little finer animals than they. Our Old Home, vol. in America are very ready to allow beauty ~ ii. p. 280. American women, though its duration, from all accounts, is even more short-lived than While of the men, who at first gave him the Old World has always owned it to be; the impression of a heavy, homely people, but we still believe that we have glimpses of not, indeed, repulsive, but in whom it re- a nobler beauty here, from effects we catch quired more familiarity with the national and put togetherseen in less regular feat- character than he then possessed always to ures perhaps than are common in New Eng- detect the good breeding of a gentleman, with land, but related to some grander, more cx- whose animal bulk he complacently contrasted pressive, form of grace. And we may also American paleness and leanness of flesh,he claim the possession among ourselves of a now writes higher perfection of form and absolute beauty, I state these results of my earliest glimpses forand here comes that conclusion which at Englishmen, not for what they are worth, contradicts Mr. Hawthornes first impressions but because I ultimately gave them up as he himself allows it us. It was in England worth little or nothing. In course of time I he saw that young lady in white, of such came to the conclusion that Englishmen, of supereminence of beauty that he hardly ~ll ages, are rather good-looking people, dress thought there existed such outside a picture~ in admirable taste froma their own point of view, and, under a surface never silken to the frame or the covers of a romance an appa- touch, have a refinement of manners too thor- rition distinct and singular, but which ful- ough and genuine to be thought of as a sepa- filled his ideas of the perfect woman. While, rate endowment; that is to say, if the individ- to descend from these romantic heights, on nal himself be a man of station, and has had 102 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. a gentleman for his father and grandfather. the individual character; and that had he The sturdy Anglo-Saxon nature does not re- been En~lish-born, he would ha~c allowed fine itself short of the third generation. himself more rein; as it is he is always pull- Ibid. vol. i. p 257. ing himself up, and is never really carried Of clowns, male and female, perhaps we away or fairly possessed by his own senti- have not to record such a change of feeling, ment of ~nthusiasm. JIi~ plan unifcffmly is except where he notes a sort of witehery, to express frankly and simply what he feels, a robe of simple beauty and suitable be-, as an, observer, unprejudiced and open to all baylor in some of the younger women among natural impressions and influences, and he the poor and low-born, a manner with its own will finish his picture in this spirit. But proper grace, neither affected nor imitative then always interposes the American, the of something higher, which he believes to New Englander, the Northerner, to undo and be vanishing out of the earth altogether, defeat its effect upon the reader. We see and which he deems impossible in America, that he has, after all, only half felt, or mo- where all, from the upper-tendom to the mentarily felt, what he has eloquently de- kennel, aim at the same standard. scribed. Perhaps education makes this teth- yre ought, perhaps, to apologize for giving ered appreciation all that is possible; a rest- so much space in these pages to the subject of less analysis of every sensation may induce mere personal good looks or otherwise. There the same habit in all mimtds that indulge in it. are persons, perhaps, who could regard Mr. .Certain it is that Mr. Hawthones enthusi- Hawthorne with precisely the same degree of asm, though very expressive and not hard to favor, whether he appreciates or disparages, evoke, and bestowed on worthy objects, stops extols or mnaligns us in these immaterial par- short of effects. Thus nothing can be more ticulars; but he himself is not one of this satisfactory than the impression an English complexion. What he thinks of one outside, cathedral makes on him. We take him to with his mithetic leanings, determines every- our heart in cordial sympathy as he records thi-ng else. When he thinks us plain, mot- the effect produced by that of Lichfleld, the tled, and bulbous, so are our natures and our first he had seen. To my uninstructed vi- institutions in his eyes; when his eyes take sion, it seemed the objeetbest worth looking a fairer, less prejudiced survey, his judgment at in the whole world, which is clearly the is simultaneously at work rectifying his mis- impression ~m noble cathedral ought to make takes. We consider that by beginning in on inexperienced eyes. It ought to overpower this order we attain to the truest understand- with a weight of undistinguishable awe and ing of our mutual position; for Mr. Haw- admiration, and this Mr. Hawthorne very thorne is one of those lovers of the beautiful well expresses. But these effects have not who naturally begin from the outside of their 4egitimnate influence upon him. The things, and thence make their way to heart whole man is not carried away; his fancy, and kernel, if they ever make way to them. not his heart, is warmed, and he finds a And, indeed, this is the plan unavoidable to pleasure in disenchanting both himself and a traveller who comes to judge for himself, his reader. We find the religiousness and Among the one-eyed men we have said that the use of our great churches have never got Mr. hawthorne does not class himself, nor hold of him; lie is too busy analyzing sensa- does he deserve to he so classed. Those tions and using both his eyes to take them in. qualities of the fancy and imagination which This we mention as a characteristic, and have made his reputation, and on which the often a provoking and disappointing one. interest of what he says mainly depends, are There would be more power in his writings in him strangely crossed by a spirit of disbe- if his imagination took undisputed pqssessipn, lief and mistrust. He is aware of this in a though, after all, we gain by this insight into degree, and alludes complacently to the one what we fully believe to be a necessary char- little grain of hard New En m,land sense, oddly acteristic of new nationsnations, we mean, enough thrown in amon~ the fiim~ier com- whatever their race, which grow up without a losition of his character. The effect of this material antiquity about them. There is, no one little grain upon his other qualities is doubt, in our author a great yearning after not always felicitous. We believe it to be, these antiquities ; they affect his sensibilities as he says, the national character acting upon so keenly, and raise such demonstration and HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 103 naturalexcitement, that he conceitedly enough live play a great part in making us English- believes himself and his countrymen alone men, while the want of this sohering and properly interested and alone worthy to look yet stimulating influence has not a ffttlc to on them. While he pictures himself engrossed, do with American character. Sometimes Mr. given up to the suhtle poetical influences of the Hawthorne shows this very frankly, as in the occasion, or in the next stage, noting sensa- following reflections on the old yew-tree in tions, we use the huilding for the purpose for Whitnash churchyard, where he evidently which it was designed, walk into the church, has taken pains to express national senti- or under the arch, or past the gate, and make ruent no sign. Thus, steaming hy the Tower and ~ disqiiet myself in vain with the effort Traitors Gate, he writes, to hit upon some characteristic feature, or Passing it many times, I never ohserved assemhlage of features, that shall convey to that anybody glanced at this shadowy and the reader the influence of hoar antiquity, ominous trap-door save myself. It is ~~11 lingering into the present da5hight, as I ~o that America exists, if it were only that her often felt it in these old English scenes. It vagrant children may he impre~scd and af- is only an American who can feel it; and fected hy the historical monuments of En- e~en he begins to find himself growing in ~ sensible to its effect after a long residence in land, in a degree of which the native inhabi- En~ghand. But while you are still new to the tants are evidently incapable. There matters Old Country, it thrills you with strange emo- are too familiar, too real, and too hopelessly tion to think that this little church of Whit- built in amongst and mixed up with the corn- mon objects and affairs of life, to be easily nash, humble as it seems, stood for ages susceptible of imaginative coloring in their under the Catholic faith, and has not mate- minds; and even their poets and romancers rially changed since Wickhiffes days, and that it looked as gray as now in Bloody feel it a toil and almost a delusion to extract Marys time, and that Cromwells troopers poetic material out of what seems embodied broke off the stone noses of these same gar- poetry itself to an American. An English- that a man cares nothing about the Tower which to goyles re now grinning in your face. us is a haunted castle in dreamland. That So, too, with the immemorial yew-tree; you honest and excellent gentleman, the late 1\Ir. see its great roots grasping hold of the earth G. P. R. James (whose mechanical ability, no gigantic claws, clinging so sturdily that effort of time can wrench them away; and one might have supposed, would nourish it~ there being life in the old tree, you feel all self by devouring every old stone of such a the more as if a contemporary witness were structure), once assured me that he had never telling you of the things that ihave been. It in his life set eyes upon the Tower, though for has lived among men, and been a familiar years an historic novelist in London. Ibid. object to them, and seen them brought to be vol. ii. p. 145. christened and married and buried in the If Mr. G. P. R. James were not for once neighboring church and churchyard, through romancing in real earnest, this may pass for so many centuries, that it knows all about the race, so far as fifty generations of the a trait of individual, but not of English, char- Whitnash people can supply such knowl- acter. The Tower is an established lion, edge. Of course Mr. Hawthornes observation tells And after all, what a weary life it must nothing except that people in a crowded have been for the oldtree! Tedious beyond steamer are intent on making their way, full imagination! Such, I think, is the final im- of the bustle and business of life. It was pression on the mind of an American visitor, when his delight at finding anything perma- his business to look for objects of interest. nent begins to yield to his Western love of Still, no doubt, as lions, strangers feel our change, and he becomes sensible of the heavy antiquities more than we who live amongst air of a spot where the forefathers and fore- them can do; but this does not prevent our mothers have grown up together, intermar- being infinitely more really influenced by ned, and died, through a long succession, of \hem, and loving them with a more filial re- lives, without any intermixture of new ele- gard. It would be unreal and sentimental to ments, till family features and character are all run in the same inevitable mould. Life be always showing external impressionable- is there fossilized in its greenest leat~ . . ness; for what so natural as that our forefa- Rather than such monotony of sluggish ages, thers labors should be still about us? But loitering on a village green, toiling in hered- any one who reads Mr. Hawthornes book itary fields, listening to the parsons drone, will feel that the antiquities among which we lengthened through centuries in the griiy 104 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. Norman church, let us welcome whatever change may come,change of place, social customs, political institutions, modes of wor- ship,trusting that if all present things shall vanish, they will but make room for better systems, and for a higher type of man to clothe his life in them, and to fling them off in turn. Nevertheless, while the American will- ingly accepts growth and change as the law of his own national and private existence, he has a singular tenderness for the stone-en- crusted institutions of the mother-country. The reason may he (though I should prefer a more generous explanation) that he recoo- nizes the tendency of these hardened forms to stiffen the joints and fetter the ankles in the race and rivalry of improvement. I hated to see so much as a twig of ivy wrenched away from an old wall in Englaad.Jbid. vol. i. p. 91. Thus the American only values our antiq- uities on his own account, while they are nov- elties to him, while they minister to his love of change; and he esteems reverence for them as a token of hondage. We need not, there- fore, further dispute as to dejees of appre- ciation. We must not, however, take any- thing that Mr. Hawthorne says too literally. lie often does justice to English feelings on points which hear upon this question. Thus, in a pleasant passa~e on English footpaths, he shows the privileges which association tending to make vested rights inalienable confers on a people; and as he follows the shaded, retired, hut emphatically public path (of older tenure than the highway), cannot but favorably contrast our customs with those of his own country, where the farmer would certainly ohliterate any such by-way with his potatoes and Indian corn, knowing noth- ing of the sacredness that springs up on English soil along the well-defined footpaths of centuries: adding regretfully, Old as- sociations are ~ure to he fragrant herbs in English nostrils; we pull them up as weeds. After, as we have seen, showing up American sentiment as disguised selfishness, he elsewhere reverses his line and represents mere blind cupidity as the working of true feeling; so that he would have us believe that the way the ignorant folks of his own country have, of laying claim to English estates on the most weak and silly pretences, is hut a sign of their lingering yearning after the land of their forefathers; actually deducing from this pro- pensity a proof of our own mismanagement in having let a people slip whose heart-strings are even now entangled with our ov~n. Many claims of this sort came to his knowledge in his capacity of consul at Liverpool ,one of which was made by two countrywomen, who professed to want only a vast cst~ te in Chesh- ire, but whom he, upon his honor, imagined to have an ultimate eye upon the British Crown. It is noteworthy, by the way, that when his countrywomen came to plague him, Mr. Hawthorne is not more civil to their per- sonal attractions than we find him toward our own ladies; and the women who want him to get them English estates by virtue of great bundles of documents, are described as of sour aspect, exceedingly homely, but yet decidedly New Englandish in fi6ure and man- ners: while the men bent on similar de- signs on his peace were not at all more wel- come to him for being embodiments of their national characteristics, tones, sentiments, and behavior, figure and cast of counte- nance, all chiselled in sharper angles than at home he had ever imagined Yankees to~be. In spite of Mr. hawthornes patriotism, there is no doubt a good deal in England that suits him better than his own land of transi- tion and progress; and we read with pleas- ure and interest the impressions our scenes of highest finish, cultivation, and achievement make upon him. his is a temperament very capable of enjoyment, and he candidly admits that i~e finds in England very much to enjoy. It adds a touch to our own appreciation as he makes us realize how ab~oIutely singular and literally isolated our distinctive English beauties are. And, first to speak of our weather, the skies under which these good thin0s are to be felt and seen; he begins by the usual sneers on this subject, our winds, fogs, rain, and damp, the barometer never pointing at fair, and so on. But it is the case here as elsewhere: we can at least show the best models. And here, too, as elsewhere, Mr. hawthorne thinks he has to show us wherein we are fortunate, and to put us in the way of valuing our privileges One chief condition of my enjoyment was the weather. Italy has nothing like it, nor America. There never was such weather ex- cept in England, where, in requital of a vast amount of horrible east wind between Feb- ruary and June, and a brown October and black November, and a wet, chilI, sunless winter, there are a few weeks of incomparable summer, scattered through July and Augueb HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 105 and the~ earlier portion of September, small in quantit, l)ut exquisite enough to atone for the whole years atmospherical delinquen- cies. After all, the prevalent sombreness may have brought out those sunny intervals in such high relief that I see them in my recollection brighter than they really were: a little light makes a glory for people who live habitually in a gray gloom. The English, however, do not seem to know how enjoyable the momentary gleams of their summer are: they call it broiling weather, and hurry to the sea-side with red, perspiring faces, in a state of combustion and deliquescence; and I have observed that even their cattle have similar susceptibilities, seeking the deepest shade, or standing mid-leg deep in pools and streams to cool themselves, at temperatures which our own cows would deem little more than barely comfortable. To myself, after the summer heats of my native land had somewhat effervesced out of my blood and memory, it was the weather of paradise it- self. It might be a little too warm but it was that modest and inestimable superabun- pance which constitutes a bounty of Provi- dence, instead ofjusta niggardly enough. Ibid. vol. ii. p. 88. Nor does he tire of the theme It was again a delightful day; and, in truth, every day of late had been so pleasant that it seemed as if each must be the very last of such perfect weather; and yet the long succession had riven us confidence in as many more to come. The climate of England has been shamefully maligned. Its sulkiness and asperities are not nearly so offensive as Englishmen tell us (their climate being the only attribute of their country which they never overvalue), and the really good summer weather is the very kindest and sweetest that the world knows.Ibid. vol. ii. p. 20. And he enlarges on the length of these beautiful days, a feature which must, indeed, he delightful, with a new charm to those who have not before experienced this duration of what is so enjoyable there be any such season, hangs down a trans- parent veil, through which the hy~ne day beholds its successor; or not quite true of the latitude of London, it may be soberly af- firmed of the more northern parts of the isl- and, that To-morrow is born befbre its Yes- terday is dead. They exist to~ether in the golden twilight, where the decrepit old day dimly dL ems the face of the ominous infant; and you, though a macre mortal, may simul- taneously touch them both with one finger of recollection and another of prophecy. Ibid. vol. ii. p. 88. Nor is he less lavish of his praise of the scenes our English summer days revealed to him: Positively, the garden of Eden cannot have been more beautiful than this private garden of Blenheim. It contains three hun- dred acres; and, by the artful circumlocution of the paths and the undulations and the skil- fully interposed clumps of trees, is made to appear limitless. The sylvan delights of a whole country are compressed into this space, as whole fields of Persian roses go to the con- coction of an ounce of precious attar. The world within that garden-fence is not the same weary, dusty world with which we outside mortals are conversant; it is a finer, lovelier, more harmonious Nature; and the Great Mother lends herself kindly to the gardeners will, knowing that he will make evident the halfobliterated traits of her pristine and ideal beauty, and allow her to take all the credit and praise to herself. I doubt whether there is ever any winter within that precinct,any clouds except the fleecy ones of summer. The sunshine that I saw there rests npon my recollection of it as if it were eternal. The lawns and glades are like the memory of places where one has wandered when first in love.Ibid. ii. p. 17. And the same charm hangs about our he- reditary mansions as something perfectly dis- tinct and unattainable elsewhere, lie writes, after a visit to Nuneham Courtney As we here cross a private threshold, it For each day seemed endless, though is not allowable to pursue my feeble narrative never weninisome. As tar as your actual cx- of this delightful day with the same freedom perience is concerned, the English summer as heretofore; so, perhaps, I may as xvell day has positively no beginning and no end. bring it to a close. I may mention, however, When you awake, at any reasonable hour, that I saw a library,a fine, large apartment, the sun is already shining through the cur- hung around with portraits of literary men, tains; you live through unnumbered hours principally of the last century, most of whom of Sabbath quietude with a calm variety of were familiar guests of the Harcourts. The incident softly etched upon their tranquil house itself is about eighty years old, and is lapse: and at len~th you become conscious built in the classic style, as if the family had that it is bedtime again, while there is still been anxious to diverge as far as possible from emmough daylight in the sky to make the pages tIme Gothic picturesqueness of their old abode of your book distinctly legible. Night, if j at Stanton IJarcourt. The grounds were laid 106 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. out, in fact, by Capability Brown, and seemed to me even more beautiful than those of Blen- heim. Mason, the poet. a friend of the house, gave the desi~n of a portion of the garden. Of the whole place I will not be niggardly of my rude transatlantic praise, but he bold to say that it appeared to me as perfect as any- thing earthly can be, utterly and entirely finished, and as if the years and generations had done all that the hearts and minds of the successive owners could contrive for a spot they dearly loved. Such homes as Nuneham Courtney are among the splendid results of long hereditary possession ; and we republi- cans, whose households melt away like new- fallen snow in a spring morning, must con- tent ourselves with our many counter-balan- cing advantages; for this one, so apparently desirable to the far-projecting selfishness of our nature, we are certain never to attain. It must not be supposed, nevertheless, that Nuneham Courtney is one of the great show-places of England. It is merely a fair specimen of the hetter class of country-seats, and has a hundred rivals, and many superi- ors, in the features of beauty, and expansive, manifold, redundant comfort, which most im- pressed me. A moderate man might be con- tent with such a home, that is all.Ibid. vol. ii. v. 40. Nor are the gifts and benignant influences of a long maturing civilization confined to the aristocracy. Mr. Ha~ thorne is willing to allow that the English people to its lowest grades have their share in them. From a villa in Blackheath, lent by an English friend, he had constant opportunities of observing the En~lish people, and sometimes the Eng- lish populace, in their own domain of Green- wich Park. We have an account of Green- wich Fair, of which he witnessed the last celebration. It was, no doubt, a scene which we should not have chosen a refined and dis- cernin~ traveller to witness, being as repug- nant to British right feeling as to his own,~ or it would not have been the last. But he descrihes the Park under fairer aspects, and speculates on our peculiarities with a min- gled cynicism and tenderness, which has, at least, the merit of bringing an observers, real state of mind before us. There are occasions when, toa thoughtful, imaginative American, our English ways may very well seem linked with the antique times, so different are we of the Old World from them of the New-so wide the separation which our association with the past must sometimes create. The allusions to Arcadia from the author of Transforma tion are not wholly satire. He has a habit of tracing back all the gambols of unrestrained animal spirits to the primitive ages, before the weight of thought and speculation had settled on mankind. It added a point to his reflections, and gave them a dignity, that they were made in what he calls the centre of time. and space the neighborhood of the Observatory There are lovelier parks than this in the neighborhood of London, richer scenes of greensward and cultivated trees; and Ken- sington, especially, on a summer afternoon, has seemed to me as delightful as any place can or ought to be, in a world which, some time or other, we must quit. But Green- wich, too, is heautiful,a spot where the art of maxi has conspired with nature, as if he and the great Mother had taken counsel together how to make a pleasant scene, and the longer liver of the two had faithfully carried out their nutual design. It has likewise an ad- ditional charm of its own; because, to all appearance, it is the peoples property and playground in a much more genuine way than the aristocratic rcsorts in closer vicinity to the metropolis. It affords one of the instances in which the monarchs property is actually the peoples and shows how much more nat- ural is their relation to the sovereign than to the nobility, which pretends to hold the in- tervening space between the two: for a no- bleman makes a paradise only for himself, and fills it with his own pomp and pride; whereas the people are, sooner or later, the legitimate inheritors of whatever beauty kings and queens create,as now of Greenwich Park. On Sundays, when the sun shone4 and even on those grim and sombre days wheh, if it do not actually rain, the English persist in calling it line weather, it. was, too, good to see how sturdily the plebeians trod under their own oaks, and what fulness of simple enjoyment they evidently found there. They were the people, not the populace,speci- mens of a class whose Sunday clothes are a distinct kind of garb from their week-day ones; and this in England implies wholesome habits of life, daily thrift, and a rank above the lowest. I longed to be acquainted with them, in order to inyestigate what manner of folks they were, what sort of households they kept, their politics, their i~eligion, their tastes, and whether they were as narrow-minded as their betters. There can be very little doubt of it, an Englishman is English, in whatever rank of life, though no more intensely so, I should imagine, as an artisan or petty shop- keeper, than as a member of Parliament. The English character, as I conceive it, is by no means a very lofty one; they seem HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 107 to have a great deal of earth and grimy dust clinging about them, as was prol)ably the case with the stalwart and quarrelsome peo- ple who sprouted up out of the soil after Cadmus h~d sown the dragons teeth. And yet, though the individual Englishman is sometimes preternaturally disagreeable, an observer standing aloof has a sense of natural kindness toward. them in the lump. They adhere closer to the original simplicity in which mankind was created than we our- selves do. They love, quarrel, laugh, cry, and turn their actual selves inside out, with greater freedom than any class of Americans would consider decorous. It was often so with these holiday folks in Greenwich Park; and, ridiculous as it may sound, I fancy my- self to have caught very satisfactory glimpses of arcadian life among the Cockneys there, hardly beyond the sound of Bow Bells, pic- nicking on the grass, uncouthly gambolling on the broad slopes, or straying in motley groups or by single pairs of love-making youths and maidens along the sun-streaked avenue.Ihid. vol. ii. p. 98. We are glad to find him owning London as the capital of the Anglo-Saxon race, which we take to be admitted when he says, the world has nothing better to show, and that whatever we fait to find of intellectual or merely material good in London, we may as well content ourselves to seek that unat- tainable thing no farther on this earth. What Frenchman or what Italian, or even what German, would say this ? I already knew London wellthat is to say, I had long ago satisfied (as far as it was capable of satisfaction) that mysterious yearn- ing,the magnetism of millions of hearts op- erating upon one,which impels every mans individuality to mingle itself with the im- mensest mass of human life within its scope. Day after day, at an early period, Ihad trod- den th.e thronged thoroughfares, the broad, lonely squares, the lanes, the alleys, and strange labyrinthine courts; the parks, the garden and enclosures of ancient studious so- cieties, so retired and silent amid the city up- roar, the markets, the foggy streets along the riverside, the bridges, I had sought all parts of the metropolis, in short, with an unweariable and indiscriminating curiosity, until few of the native inhabitants, I fancy, had turned so many of its corners as myself. These aimless wanderings (in which my chief purpose and achievement was to lose my way, and so to find it more surely) had brought me at one time or another to the sight and aetual presence of all the renowned localities that I had read about, and that had made London the dream-city of my youth. I had found it better than my dream, for there is nothing else in life comparable (in that species of enjoyment I mean) to the thick, heavy, oppressive, sombre deligh~ which an American is sensible of, hardly. knowing whether to call it a pleasure or a pain, in the atmosphere of London. The result was, that I acquired a home-feeling there, as nowhere else in the world, though afterward I came to have a somewhat similar sentiment in re- gard to Rome; and, as long as either of those two great cities shall exist, the cities of the Past and of the Present, a mans native soil may crumble beneath his feet without leaving him altogether homeless upon earth.Ibid. vol. ii. p. 81. It is pleasant to follow our author in his tender appreciation of what is again a pecul- iarly English characteristic,the soft antique mossiness, the garment of minute greenery with which Nature clothes every scene where she may have her sw4y. We should send them photographs, he says, of the trunks of old trees, the tangled products of a hedge~ or a square foot of old wall with its lichens, tufts of grass, little twigs of ivy, and branches of fern. Their dry climate and hot suns keep such fences bare and unsympathizing to the end of time, so that this universal cover- ing is altogether a new idea of finish and snugness. Our parasites, too, charm him. The term ought not here to imply any re- proach, which it would be unkind to be- stow on the beautiful, the affectionate rela- tionship which exists in England between one order of plants and another. Nature clearly manages these things differently in America, in the. North leaving things bare, as it would seem; and in the Southern regions developing in the inferior plant a horrible selfishness. We find in Mr. Batess hook on the Amazons a curious confirmation of this view, where he quotes a similar testimony to the amiable character of European vegeta- bles: A German traveller, Burmeister, has said that the contemplation of a Brazilian forest produced in him a painful impression, on ac- count of the vegetation displaying a spirit of restless selfishne s, eager emulation, and craft- iness. He thought the softness, earnestness, and repose of European woodland scenery were far more pleasing, and that these formed one of the causes of the superior moral char- acter of European nations. In these tropical forests each plant and tree seems to be striving to outvic its fellow, struggling upward toward light and air, 108 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. branch and leaf and stem,regardless of its whispered deeply of immortality. After all, nei hbors. Parasitic plants are seen fasten- this was probably the best lesson that it could ing with firm grip on others, making use of bestow; and taking it as thorou~hIy as pos- them with reckless indifference as instruments sible home to my heart, I was fain to be cdn- for their own advancement. Live and let tent. If the truth must be told, my ill- live is clearly not the maxim taught in these trained enthusiasm soon flagged, and I began wildernesses. Batess Naturalist on the to lose the vision of a spiritual or ideal cdi- Amazons, vol. i. p. 53. flee behind the time-worn and weather-stained front of the actual structure. Our Old Home, vol. i. p. 203. The wildest things in England, says our author, are more than half tame: even our trees have nothing wild about them; they arc never ragged, but grow with a decorous restraint, and, as it were, with a sense of be- having themselves. If American trees had fair play, he believes they would be the more picturesque of the two, standing less in awe of man. He is positively disrespectful to the British oak: looking at it with jaundiced and patriotic prejudice, he compares it to a gigan- tic cauliflower. Still, as a whole, our wood- land scenery has its due influence, and stirs sympathies of kindred, as do all our more di- rectly human monuments, if they are old enough to be the work of his ancestors as well as ours. Mr. Hawthorne disavows all knowledge of Gothic architecture; but he ex- presses extremely well the effect it produces oa an excitable imagination, perhaps all the better for a freedom from technical terms A Gothic cathedral is surely the most wonderful work which mortal man has yet achieved,so vast, so intricate, and so pro- foundly simple, with such strange, delightful, recesses in its grand figure, so difficult to comprehend in one idea, and yet all so con- sonant, that it ultimately, draws the beholder and his universe into its harmony. It is the only thin~ in the world that is vast enough and rich enough. Not that I felt, or was worthy to feel, an unmingled enjoyment in gazing at this won- der. I could not elevate myself to its spirit- ual height any more than I could have climbed from the ground to the summit of one of its pinnacles. Ascending but a little way, I continually fell back and lay in a kind of de- spair, conscious that a flood of uncompre- hended beauty was pouring down upon me, of which I could appropriate only the minut- est portion. After a hundred years, incal- culably as my higher sympathies might be invigorated by so divine an employment, I should still be a gazer from below and at an awful distance, as yet remotely excluded from the interior mystery. But it was something gained evea to have that painful sense of my own limitations and that half-smothered yearning to soar beyond them. The cathe- dral showed me how earthy I was, but yet This weather-stained front at Lichfield is not really time.worn, but we can very well excuse a stranger for not detecting the sham. his remarks on Lincoln Minster are in the same enthusiastic spirit, and very pleasant to read; and to Westminster Abbey he devotes a chapter which does eredit to both taste and heart. He rejoices to see it in consummate repair, and to trace the care bestowed in its preservation; and he ac- cepts itbuilding, monuments, historyas a whole which he would not have altered. Intelligent strangers are, indeed, certain to take a lenient view of even the worst mistakes in taste, so long as they tell a tale and add detail to a great idea. After allowing him- self to smile at some perpetrations old and new, which the warmest English patriotism will excuse, he says, Nevertheless, these grotesque carvings of marble, that break out in dingy white blotches on the old freestone of the interior walls, have come there by as natural aprocess as might cause mosses and ivy to cluster about the exter- nal edifice; for they are the historical and bio- graphical record of each successive age, writ- ten with its own hand, all the truer for the inevitable mistakes, and none the less solemn for the occasional absurdity.Ibid. vol. ii. p. 165. When Mr. Hawthorne took the notes from which these volumesare compiled, he intended to incorporate them into a romance, after the plan of Transformation, which our read- cr5 probably know as an excellent guide-book to Rome, as well as an ingenious and prettily executed pieee of fancy; but, among the many good schemes put an end to by his countrys civij war, he gives us to understand that this was one. lIe therefore put his material to- gether in its present form, being, as he frankly says, guided in his selection by what he found best expressed and readiest to his hands. The readers of Transformation will know the kind of religion to be expected from its au- thor in this contribution to ~csthetic litera HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THEENGLISIT. 109 ture, as he terms it. He is a warm admirer of everything beautiful in itself, or suggestive of beautiful i~ileas; be is eclectic, and ot~jects to no compound of opposing systems which embraces tbe attractive features of each, how- ever heterogeneous and contradictory the pre- tended union; and, especially, he likes to see women moved to these combinations of differ- ent religious systems by an unreasoning faith, which appropriates every practice or observ- ance which pleases the taste or feelings of the moment regardless of its congruity or otherwise with what was previously and con- currently held as truth. Thus his Hilda, who represents the advanced thought and intellect of American womanhood, goes to confession, and feeds the lamp of the Virgin for many months together, with religious regularity, and remains a stout Puritan through it all: the romancers tone seeming to vary and al- ternate between Why should we believe any- thing? and Why should not we believe every- thing? This eclectic and speculative posture of mind is never very exacting of practice and strict rule; and thus we see that the writer can admire a great deal without going fur- ther, because his critical tondencies step in whenever fine appreciation of the beautiful should lead to some results. We should not make these comments but that Mr. Hawthorne is careful to let us know that, much as he ad- mired and reverenced our cathedrals, he found it did not suit his temperament to put them to their legitimate use; or rather, that he could always put them to a better purpose than that which our services supply. We are sorry to say that he has never anything civil to say of our preachers; indeed, he con- siders it an act of presumption for any one to preach in Westminster Abbey, to be punished on his part by a careful and deliberate with- drawal of his attention. Nor do we gather that our services pleased him much better: and this not from any Puritan leanings, which certainly were not inspired at Salem, the frozen purgatory of his childhood; for he alludes with a shudder to the severe and sunless remembrance of the Sabbaths of childhood, and the long sermons which he had then to listen to, or rather to sit under. People who cast off the form of the religion of their childhood are too apt to renounce all forms as binding on themselves individually. Mr. Hawthorne is never irreverent, and often talks religiously, but his tone is that of a looker-on, not of one himself personally con- cerned. lie hovers about our sanctuaries, and fgels their influence, and personates the swallow and the sparrow of sacred song, where he envies the jackdaws their airy haunts among pinnacles and buttresses; but to go to church, after the pattern of ordinary Christians, he owns to be beyond him Occasionally, I tried to take out the long-hoarded sting of these compunctious smarts, by attending divine service in the open air. On a cart outside of the Park wall (and, if I mistake not, at two or three corners and secluded spots within the Park itself) a Meth- odist preacher uplifts his voice, and speedily gathers a congregation, his zeal for whose welfare impels the good man to such earnest vociferation and toilsome gesture that his perspiring face is quickly in a stew. If I smile at him, be it understood it is not in scorn; he performs his sacred office more acceptably than many a prelate. . . . The miscellaneous congregation listen with every appearance of heartfelt interest; and, for my own part, I must frankly acknowledge that I never found it possible to give five minutes attention to any other English preaching; so cold and commonplace are the homilies that pass for such under the aged roofs of churches; and as for cathedrals, the sermon is an ex- ceedingly diminutive and unimportant part of the religious servicesif, indeed, it be con- sidered a partamong the pompous ceremo- nies, the intonations, the resounding and lofty strains of the choristers.Ibid. vol. ii. p. 101. Such passages as these have their use. As for his preference for the Methodists per- spiring effusions, his commendation is prob- ably owing to the sense of patronage and to the power of escape at any moment, that fa- cility of getting away, and lounging off, that easy attention while standing, which at oncE make out-of-door preaching popular, and gen- erally valueless to the listener. But the les- son we derive from Mr. Hawthornes contrast between the out-door and the authorized preacher, and the line of his preference, is, that the fastidiously refined, the professed judges and critics,those bugbears to the preacher,must never be considered or al- lowed to weigh one moment on th~ freedom of pen or tongue. At best, they are the most hopeless of a congregation; and if they are to be ~von at all, it is by disregarding them, and forgetting their possible presence. Thereis a perversity in superfine people which 110 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. makes them often prefer those who boldly or ignorantly act in defiance of every rule, to such as respect proprieties, without attaining to absolute elegance and finish. Our own taste, and not the supposed refinement of other people, should be the one and only arbiter of style, and by this means a greater ardor and force of manner may be sustained than is possible to one afraid, or too conscious, of his hearers, as preachers to cultivated con- gregations are so often tempted to be. Not that Mr. Hawthorne notes in the manner of our clergy any consciousness of the failings he sees inthem; on the contrary, they man- ifest a self-assertion to which he is evidently not accustomed; and bespeaks of their be- ing assured of their position, as clergymen of the Established Church invariably are. It must console us that Mr. Hawthorne did not find the services of the Kirk during his tour in Scotland any more congenial than our own, or more successful in receiving his attention. He thus congratulates himself on having been saved an infliction which would certainly have been severe The next forenoon my companion put me to shame by attending church, after vainly exhorting me to do the like; and it being Sac- rament Sunday, and my poor friend being wedged into the further end of a closely-filled pew, he was forced to stay through the preach- in of four several sermons, and came back perfectly exhausted and desperate.Ibid. vol. i. p. 57. We said at starting that our author was soon disenchanted. So soon as our churches and cathedrals were removed from dreamland, and applied to a definite purpose, the charm lost effect; and no doubt the shook, whew ever imagination has to give way to reality, is apt to be great. We have thought it good to note these changes whether ~\Ir. Hawthorne praises or blames us, and the sum and con- clusion ought to make us satisfied with our place in the world, He, at any rate, agrees with the second Charless decision, that Eng- land, is the best country for a gentleman to live in. Even in physical comforts, he gives us the palm: he praises our beef, our ale even our dinners, where pains are lavished upon them. America could not supply the Presidents table with such r~utton-chops as were served up to him at Uttoxeter, in a dinner charged cighteenpence. Even our flowers have a grace and a richness of color to which he is not accustomed; but perh~ ps here his cornmcnda~ion ends; for, passing from flowers to fruit, he ridicules onr sour plums and abortive pears and apples, and declares he has never eaten an English fruit raised in the open air that could compare in flavor with a Yankee turnip. And this satire we write with a certain consciousness and re- gret, for it sometimes seems to ourselves that our apples and pears are deteriorating, and that some of the more exquisite kinds are disappearing from our orchards. The conclusions of travellers must depend mainly on what they lay themselves out to see. Thus, M. Esquiros, taking our fortunate geological formations as his guide, passes from one scene of industry and prosperity to another, and then from one scene of natural amusement to another, and, seeing the cream of all, draws a flattering picture, satisfying to our self-love. M. Kohl, in like manner, comes to be pleased, and is pleased accord- ingly. He is even struck with the grace and dignity of manners of our maid-servants, and draws favorable conclusions from them of the class to which they belong. Mr. hawthorne, too, gives our bright side, but with a jealousy, and perhaps also an insight, which foreigners can scarcely have. For Americans are not foreigners, and have none of the easy candor of mere acquaintances. They are jealous relatives: they, perhaps, know us better from sharing family peculiarities, but they own even ourgood points with a cavilling grudg- ing and half-grasping spirit, as though our good things were more theirs than ours. Thus, whatever belonged to our joint ances- tors excites Mr. Hawthornes sentiment and kindlier emotions: our subsequent use of these possessions, and our own growth since the separation, he regards with now and then a captious ingenuity of fault-finding. For instance, he is so determined that all English- men shall have suffered for the absence of their fiery element that he decides on his own arbitrary judgment what are our present char- acteristics, and nobody, however purely Brit- ish in descent and training, is an Englishman who detracts from his standard, which is a very simple way of proving his point. It has suited very well with the temper we indicate, that he should have penetrated to our dis- sights and degradations, and made his way to purlieus of vice and wretchedness, which are, no doubt, a grievous blot and reproach, bat HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 111 which we have little doubt may exist in equal and the swarms of children that people the force in New York or Boston, for anything Mr. streets, we read, hawthorne knows, because he could not there take pains to ascertain their existence. We are not complaining: we do not desire dis- creditable secrets. Let who will know them; hut we think *e detect in Mr. Hawthornes style the tone of a man unused to such inves- tigations. lie professes no active philan- thropy or readiness of resource, and when he sees dirt and squalor in absolute, undisputed ascendeney, can only propose another Deluge as a remedy. However, one reason for our supremacy in these evils we see to be just The dirt of a poverty-stricken English street is a monstrosity unknown on our side, the Atlantic. It reigns supreme within its own limits, and is inconceivable everywhere beyond them. We enjoy the great advantage that the brightness and dryness of our atmos- phere keep everything clean that the sun shines upon, converting the larger portion of our impurities into transitory dust, which the next wind can sweep away, in contrast with the damp, adhesive grime that incorpo- rates itself with all surfaces (unless continu- ally and painfully cleansed) in the chill moist- ure of the English air. . . It is beyond the resources of wealth to keep the smut away from its premises or its own fingers ends; and as for Poverty, it surrenders itself to the dark influence without a struggle. Along with disastrous circumstances, pinching need, adversity so lengthened out as to constitute the rule of life, there comes a certain chill depression of the spirits, which seems espe- cially to shudder at cold water. In view of so wretched a state of things, we accept the an- cient Deluge, not merely as an insulated phenomenon, but as a periodical necessity, and acknowledge that nothing less than, a general washing-day could suffice to cleanse the slovenly Old World of its moral and ma- terial dirt.Ibid. vol. ii. p. 186. Then follow gin-shops, pawnbrokers estab- lishments, and the sordid, unwholesome shops of the destitute, and scenes of low life in the streets, given by one to whom such scenes came as more absolutely a feature of the Old World than some of our travellers in New England would be willing to allow; Still, it is well to learn and ponder over the impres- sion the abject life that haunts so many a locality in London and our great cities makes upon a stranger, and the sinking heart it brings. After hinting at the miserable lodg- ing in garrets and cellars of this population, It might almost make a man doubt the existence of his own soul to observe how Na- ture has flung these little wretches into the street, and left them there, so evidently re- garding them as nothing worth, and how all mankind acquiesce in the great Mothers es- titnate of her offspring. For, if they are to have no immortality, what superior claim can I assert for mine? And how difficult to be- lieve that anything so precious as a germ of immortalgrowth can have been buried under this dirt-heapplunged into this cesspool of misery and vice! As often as I beheld the scene, it affected me with surprise and loath- some interest much resembling, though in a far intenser degree, the feeling with which, when a boy, I used to turn over a plank or an, old log that had long lain on the damp ground, and found a vivacious multitude of unclean an~1 devilish-looking insects scampering to and fro beneath it. Without an infinite faith, there seemed as, much prospect of a blessed futurity for those hideous bugs and many- footed worms as for these brethren of our hu- manity, and co-heirs of all our heavenly in- heritance. Ah! what a mystery! Ibid. vol. ii. p. 193. This is an expressive passage: but the mystery is, not confined to the Old World. Wherever man collects in ~sufficient numbers, there is room for the same sad wonder, the same trial of faith. The ready recourse to blows, the fendency to batter one anothers persons, which h~ sees in these dismal re- gions, more especially in the women, con- firms Mr. Hawthornes view of a radical dif- ference between his country and ours in this particular. He thinks he sees in the Eng- lish people an honest tendency, in case of disagreement, to use their hands,a charge which, however disgraceful in some of its re- sults, we are not disposed to resent, as hav- ing something primitive and natural in it. We like the morale of that people better where the women (supposing it to be so) have recourse to their hands when provoked than another where the men under similar trials stick with the bowie-knife or shoot with the pistol, though thisargues a step further in, shall we say, civilization, or further from the rude simplicity of instinct. For no doubt it is civilization which teaches us to discard our natural weapons for artificial ones. Our author confirms his view by an example, which we adduce as a warning. Let the 112 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. English ladies learn what they cnn from their enemies Whoever has seen a crowd of English ladies (for instance, at the door of the Sistine Chapel in holy Week) will be satisfied that their belligerent propensities are kept in abeyance only by a merciless rigor on the part of society. It requires a vast deal of refinement to spiritualize their large physical endowments.Jbid. vol. ii. p. 197. His researches in this direction lead him to go over a union workhouse, in which he does justice to the cleanliness and general manage- ment. There the children, in spite of the care bestowed on them, again painfully affect his sensibilities, as workhouse children, how- ever physically well-cared for, are very apt to do. After surveying a hundred poor, dis- eased little wretches, almost all foundlings, he owns that he can only have recourse to his former suggestion (being as he owns un- inventive of remedies for the evils that force themselves on his perception) ,a new Deluge. If only every one of them could be drowned to-night instead of being put tenderly to bed! In connection with this desolate pic- ture of humanity is a little scene, which we give as a specimen of our authors manner; and that no douht would have mingled itself in the plot of the unwritten romance By and by, we came to the ward where the children were kept, and on entering which we saw, in the first place, several unlovely and unwholesome little people, lazily playkig together in a courtyard. And here a singular incommodity befell one member of our party. Among the children was a wretched, pale, half-torpid little thing (about six years old, perhaps, but I know not whether boy or girl), with a humor in its eyes and face, which, the governor said, was the scurvy, and which ap- peared to bedim its powers of vision; so that it toddled about gropingly, as if in quest of it did not precisely know what. This child this sickly, wretched, humor-eaten infant, the offspring of unspeakable sin and sorrow, whom it must have required several genera- tions of guilty progenitors to render so pitia- ble an object as we beheld itimmediately took an unaccountable fancy to the gentleman just hinted at. It prowled about him like a pet kitten, rubbing against his legs, follow- ing everywhere at his heels, pulling at his coat-tails, and, at last, exerting all the speed that its poor limbs were capable of, got di- rectly before him, and held forth its arms, mutely insisting on being taken up. It said not a word, being, perhaps, under-witted and incapable of prattle. But it smiled up in his face,a sort of woful gleam was that smile, through the sickly blotches that covered its features,and found means to express such a perfect confidence that it was going to he fondled and made much of, that there was no possibility in a human heart disappointing its expectation. It was as if God had promised the poor child this favor on behalf of that in- dividual, and he was hound to fulfil the con- tract, or else no longer call himself a man among men. Nevertheless, it could be no easy thing for him to do, he being a person burdened with more than a.n Englishman s customary reserve,shy of actual contact with human beings, afflicted with a peculiar dis- taste for whatever was ugly, and, further- more, accustomed to that habit of observation from an insulated standpoint which is said (hut, I hope, erroneously) to have the ten- dency of putting ice into the blood. So I watched the struggle in his mind with a good deal of interest, and am seriously of opinion that he did an heroic act, and ef- fected more than he dreamed of toward his final salvation when he took up the loathsome child and caressed it as tenderly as if be had been its father. To be sure, we all smiled at him at the time, but, doubtless, would have acted pretty much the same in a similar stress of circumstances. The child, at any rate, appeared to be satisfied with his behavior; for, when he had held it a considerable time and set it down, it still fkvored him with its company, keeping fast hold of his forefinger till we reached the confines of the place. And, on our return through the courtyard, after visiting another part of the establish- ment, here again was this little Wretched- ness waiting for its victim, with a smile of joyful and yet dull recognition about its seabby mouth and its rhemftny eyes. No doubt the childs mission in reference to our friend was to remind him that he was responsible in his degree for all the sufferings and misde- meanors of the world in which he lived, and was not entitled to look upon a particle of its dark calamity as if it were none of hi~ concern: the offspring of a brothers iniquity being his own blood-relation, and the guilt likewise a burden on him, unless he expiated it by better deeds.Ibid. vol. ii. p. 224. All this is very fairly to be made out of the incident; yet we recognize a ~gift not lav- ishly bestowed upon men, in tl~is combined insight into all there was to see and all there was to feel. The Americans have a reputation for smooth, fluent oratory, and Mr. hawthorne, in his remarks, grants them, rather than claims for them, this distinction. In contrast with his HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. 113 eountryma& s periods, he is astonished at the ragged and shapeless utterances of English- men, but does not seem to care much for the fluency with which he contrasts it. We ci~n well believe that the turbid oratory to which their political institutions reduce them may be distasteful to a fastidious mind, honestly careful to express its real sentiments. With regard to his experience of our powers in this held, it is curious to contrast it with that of M. Esquiros, who attributes to debating-clubs the gift of facile execution among the Eng- lish. We side with Mr. Hawthorne. We have a few orators; but most Englishmen whose opinions are worth hearing have a touch of the roughness attributed to the na- tion It is inconceivable, indeed, what ragged and shapeless utterances most Englishmen are satisfied to give vent to, without attempting anything like artistic shape, but clapping a patch here and another there, and ultimately getting out what they want to say, and gener- ally with a result of sufficiency of good sense, but in some such disorganized mass, as if they had thrown it up rather than spoken it. It seemed to me that this was almost as much by choice as necessity. An Englishman, ambi- tious of public favor, should not be too smooth. If an orator is glib, his countrymen distrust him. They dislike smartness. The stronger and heavier his thoughts the better, provided there be an element of commonplace running through them; and any rough yet never vul- gar force of expression, such as would knock an opponent down if it hit him, only it must not be too personal, is alto~ether to their taste; but a ~tudied neatness of lan- guage, or other such superficial graces, they cannot abide. . . . On the whole, I partly agree with them, and, if I eared for any oratory whatever, should be as likely to applaud theirs as our own. When an English speaker site down, you feel that you have been listening to a real man, and not to an actor; his sentiments have a wholesome earth-smell in them; though very likely this apparent nat- uralness is as much an art as what we expend in rounding a sentence or elaborating a pero- ration.lbid. vol. ii. p. 268. We are surprised at his next observation, which certainly would not answer to many a private experience It is one good effect of this inartificial style, that nobody in England seems to feel any shyness about shovelling the untrimmed and untrimmable ideas out of his mind for t~ie benefit of an audienceIdem. ThiRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxy. 1160 Then follows more than one amusing de- scription of the authors own state ~f mind when compelled, as representative of the American nation, to respond to sonic health or sentiment. At the lord mayors table he was called upon, in contempt, as he avers, of solemnn promises to be left in peace, to ac- knowledge a compliment to his own literary and commercial attainments. The mode in which he received and responded to the sum- muons closes the volume with startling and ef- fective abruptness, and is safe to secure an amount of sympathy from his English read- ers As soon as the lord mayor began to speak, I rapped upon my m4ind, nn(l it gavti forth a hollow sound, being absolutely empty of appropriate ideas. I never thougimt of li~ tening to the speech, because I kne~ it alt beforehand in twenty repetitions from other lips, and was aware that it would not offer a single suggestive point. In this dilemma I te~ned to one of my three friends, a gentle- man whom I knew to possess an enviable flow of silver speech, and obtested him, by what- ever he deemed holiest, to give me at least an available thought or two to start with, and, once afloat, I would trust to my guardian an- gel fhr enabling me to flounder ashore again. He advised me to begin with some remarks complimentary to the lord mayor, arid ex- pressive (if the hereditary reverence in which his office was held at least, my friend thought there would be no harm in giving his lordship this little sugar-plum, whether quite the fact or nowas held by the descend- ants of the Puritan forefathers. Thence, if I liked, getting flexible with the oil of my own eloquence, I mi~ht easily slide off into the momentous subject of the relations be- tveen England and America, to which his lordship had made such weighty allusion. Seizin~ this handful of straw with a death-grip, and bidding m~ three friends bury me honorably; I got upon my legs to save both countries, or perish in the attempt. The tables roared and thu ndered at me, and suddenly were silent again. But as 1 have never happened to stand in a position of greater dignity and peril, I deem it a strata- gem of sage policy here to close these sketches, leaving myself still erect in so heroic an atti- tude.lbid. vol. ii. p. 298. We have not dwelt upon some inaccura- cies, and conclusions with no ground for them, because these are n~ matter of course in every cursory survey of a new country. In every travellers observations, a fair proportion must be owing to the merest accident, or to the 114 HAWTHORNE ON ENGLAND AND THE ENGLISH. chance humor of the relater. Thus, we do not imagine that the next American sojourn- ing at Lichfleld will notice that all the old women courtesy to him, even without hope of that sixpence for which Mr. hawthorne says the whole population of England is craving, or that he will feel himself more stared at in Uttoxeter than it had ever befallen him to he English hospitality, English integrity, Eng- lish friendship, and English feelibg, which en ~a.nein deed, compelour kindly feeling toward our author. Yet we suspect he does not mean to tread again on British ground: this hook is a farewell, lie dare not again face the ladies; and knowing it to he human naturemans as well as woman sto retain before. There is a chance of a passing im- satire and vituperation longer in the memory pression having truth in it; and therefore it than the more ordinary language of civility is not unfair to note it down, adding, as such and compliment, he might doubt his general ventures do, so much spirit to the narrative, reception on a second visit. But the work is, Taking our own view of Mr. Hawthornes as every genuine record of impressions on im- mpressions, we can scarcely call ourselves dis- porta~it subjects and vast scenes of action must satisfied. There are, no doubt, many unplcas- be, a useful and suggestive book. It tells us ant things to digest as we can; and he often something even of ourselves, as reflected in a talks of the English people with a positive mind trained under influences opposite in alienation. But the more these passages many respects to our own, and it is a valuable evince an ineradicable prejudice, the more the lesson in habits of American thought, as cx- admissions of our good points extracted from pressed with much versatility and many graces his candor gain in value; and there are be- of style by one of New Englands model sides many warm volnntary testimonies to men. Plutology; or, the Theory of the Efforts to Sat- pare the works in question, the one is strongly i.~fy Human Wants: W. B. Hearn, LL.D., marked by that ingenuity and wildness which Professor of History and Political Economy in can only be described as French, while the other, the University of Melbourne. 1864. Mac- though called a theory, is yet distinguished by millan & Co. the careful adherence to facts. The spirits of Descartes and Bacon still rule the two leadlaig nations of the world.Spectator. IT is interesting to notice the contributions which our colonies are beginning to make. Not long since Dr. Woolley, of the Sydney University, sent home a collection of scholarly essays. Now we have a sound and solid treatise on Political Economy from the Melbourne University. This is not only a well-written work, but seems to us in many respects in advance of the treatises of the day, including on certain points even Mr. J. S. Mills great work. The second title exactly ex- presses Dr. Hearns view of economy as the bal- ancing of effort against want. He begins with a review of the kinds and degrees of human wants, a subject which John Mill professedly, but not really, banishes from the science. Labor and its aidssuch as capital, invention, co-operation are then considered in due order, and he treats with great insight the general subject of the or- ganization of society. It is curious that one of the ablest theories of economy we had previously seennamely, the Traitd Thdorique et Pra- tique,. by iM. Courcelle de Leneuilw~ also a eolonial production, the writer being a professor in the ~Chilian University. Perhaps there is something in the development of a colony that ~ourishesstudies of the kind. But if we oem- AMoSG the most striking projects that have recently challenged attention in France is the erection of an English theatre. It is proposed that a theatre of great architectural beauty should be built in Paris, for the performance, more especially, of the masterpieces of the Bug- lish drama, but also, at various periods of the year, of the most eIl~etive plays in the German, Italian, and Spanish repertoryall, of course, by cQmpanies selected from the various codntries named. The prospectus asserts that there is fair prospect, in what it terms the modern Baby- lon, for the success of such an enterprise ; and reckons confidently on ample patronage, from the emperor downward. If the project should ever be realized, Paris will have one of the most magnificent, luxurious, and comfortable theatres, half play, half club house, that the world has ever seen. Up to this moment, however, we have only the gorgeous project wherewith to be dazzled. WAR. HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY? WAR. BY ~ICH0LA5 MIOflELL. o WAR, howeer we gild thee, foulest form That walks our beautiful and favored world Ay, blacker made for glory, that around thee Dirts brilliant beams to veil thy hideousness, And places on thy head a crown that looks Of laurel formed; but, ah! of poison-leaves, Weeping more venom than the upas-bough A funeral wreath, and dabbThd all with blood. But thou must live, 0 hydra-headed War Despite our maledictions ; Virtue rears The trenchant sword ; but, less than Hercules, She cannot lop thy hundred heads away; Love cannot charm thee, deadly monster, War, To trance that long endures ; calm Wisdom fails To smooth the horrors of thy stormy front And een Religion may not drive thee back To thy primeval hell. While Crime stalks here, Thou, her grim offspring, wilt be rampant too. Thou livst on human passions, hence thy food, Since p ssions still must rage, shall never fail: So long as man doth scheme to rise oer loan, And restless Avarice grasps what is not his, Thy rei~n will last, earths fiery spirits doomed Thy sport, thy victims, and, like Indian priests, Following, well-pleased, to death, thy blood- stained car. The deadly struggle on that Southern plain Had ceased its terrors; lines of furious men No longer clashed with lines; the sword no more Hewed crimson rents through which mens souls might pass, Before their time, into eternity. No longer to the shaken, answering hills, The fire-mouthed cannon roared; the smokes dun veil, Drawn oer the field by Havocs joyous hand, To hide the bleeding hecatombs of death, Had melted off, like some black nightmare-dream. Now came the sight more horrible, more dread, Than cen the battles tumult. Now white Pain Lay writhing on the soil, where late in pride The victim struck for glory ; now the groans Of dying men, called heroes, murmured low, Broken anon by some sharp, sudden shriek Of agony, no effort might control ; With fruitless cries for help, and cries of thirst From men in bleeding torture. Looks from some Harrowed een more than sight of bodys pang Looks that betrayed the souls intense despair. here mourned the stripling, who would never now The dear-loved maiden to the altar lead There wept the son, who never more should see The aged sire, or kiss the mothers cheek; And there the father, never more to clasp The babes that would be orphans. Livid heaps Of what that morn were bounding, joyous frames, With hearts brisk beating to the voice of hope, Lay stark and coldpoor hands and icy brows, Dabbled with blood, and eyes, so glassy-still, ~?iied by the thought in which the sufferer died. 115 Thou moon, uprising with calm, silvery ray, Pause on thy course, withhold thy gentle light Tis not for thee, sweet vestal, with thy brow Of meekness, peace, and purity, to view Such scene of fear and horror. Veil your eyes, Ye wakening stars! nor let your holy beams, Meet to illume Elysium, tremble here. Come, saddest spectres from Cimmerian realms! Come, blackest clouds that curtain Hades gulf! And pall the scene that deadly War hath made. .New .Monthly Magazine. HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY? DOWN the picket-guarded lane Rolled the comfort-laden wain, Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, Soldier-like and merry Phrases such as camps may teach, Sabre cuts of Saxon speech, Such as Bully! Thems the peach ! Wade in, Sanitary ! Right and left the caissons drew As the car went lumbering through, Quick succeeding in review Squadrons military Sunburnt men, with beards like frieze, Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, U. S. San. Coin. Thats the cheese! Pass in, Sanitary. In such cheer it struggled on, Till the battle-front was won; Then the car, its journey done, Lo! was stationary. And where bullets whistling fly, Came the sadder, fainter cry, Help us, brothers, ere we die; Save us, Sanitary. Such the work. The phantom flies, Wrapped in battle-clouds that rise; But the heros dying eyes, Veiled and visionary, See the jasper gates swung wide; See the parted throng outside; Hear a voice to those that ride, Pass in, Sanitary. F. B. HAnTE. San Francisco. THOURT down, low down, poor heart At bottom of the hill; The prudent friends who knew thee When Fortune seemed to woo thee Are true to Fortune still. So deeply art thou fallen, Who once did soar so high, That beggars of thy bounty Look proud and pass thee by; And former boon companions Whisper thy name and frown The ways of heaven are righteous- Sokick himhe is down! CHARLES MACKAY. 116 TONY BUTLER. PART VI.CUAPTER xx. down her dress with dignity, we ~havc yen- THE MINISTERS VISIT. tured to take this step without consulting WHILE Tony was absent that morning from Sir Arthur, or any of his family. home, Mrs. Butler had a visit from Dr. Stew- A somewhat long silence ensued. At last art; he came over, he said, to sec Tony, and she said, If Tony was at home, doctor, hed ask the news of what he had done in England. tell you how kindly his fathers old friend I hope, maam, said he,and there was received himtaking up stories of long ago, something dry and reserved in his manner, and calling him Wgitty, just as he used to do. I hope, maam, your son has brought you And so if they did not give my poor boy a good tidings of his late journey. A big city better place, it was hecause there was noth- Is a big temptation, and we dinna want temp- ing just ready at the moment, perhaps, or tations in this world of ours. nothing to fit him; for, as Sir harry said, I know it well, doctor, said she, with Iau~,hingly, We cant make you a bishop, I a sigh, ahd if it had been any other than fear. Tony Ah, doctor! why do you shake your I diana see anything against it, mut- head ?you make me think youve heard tered the old minister, not sorry for the something or other. What is it, sir? chance of a shot against Episcopacy. Its just nothing at all, Mrs. Butler, but Im thinking, Dr. Stewart,said she, tart- your own fears, and very proper fears, too, ly, that your rheumatism must be troub- they are, for a young lad that goes away from ling you to-day; and indeed, Im ashamed to home for the first time in his life, and to such say I never asked you how the pains were! a place too. Ab, me! cried he, in a sort I might be better and I might be worse, of apostrophe; its not so easy to he in grace ma am, was the qualified reply, and again down about Charing Cross and the Haymar- ,came a pause. ket. Tony was saying the other day, doctor, Youre just frightening me, Dr. Stewart, resumed she, that if you will try a touch of thats what it is you are doin,,. what he calls the white oils. And I say it again, maam, its yourself Im very much obliged to him, Mrs. But. is the cause o it all. But tell me what sue- icr; he put a touch of the same white oils on cess he has had; has he seen Sir Harry El- my pony one day, and the beast that was al- phinstone? ways a lamb before just kicked me over his That he has, and seen a greater than Sir head when I got into the saddle. Harry; he has come back with a fine place, You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of doctor; hes to be one of the QueensI for- burden yourself. get whether they call them couriers or mes- Were all beasts of burden, rnaamall sengersthat bring the State despatches all of useven the best, if there be any best! over the world ; and as poor dear Tony says, heavy laden wi our sins, and bent down wi its a place that was made for him, for they our transgressions. No, no, added he, wish a dont want~Greek or Latin, or any more book- slight asperity, Ill have none of his white learning than a country gentleman should oils. have. What are you sighing about, Dr. Well, you know the proverb, doctor, Stewart? Theres nothing to sigh over get- I-Ic that wiuna use the means must bear the ting five, maybe six, hundred a year. moans.~~~ I was not sighing; I was only thinkin. Tis a saying that hasna much sense in And when is he to begin this new life? it, said the doctor, crankily; for whos to If you are sighing over the fall it is for a say when the means is blessed? Butler, one of his kith and kin, taking a very Here was a point that offered so wide a field humble place, you may just spare your feel- for discussion that the old lady did not dare ings, doctor; for there are others as good as to make a re~joinder. himself in the same employ. Ill be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. And what does Sir Arthur say to it, Butler, resumed he, if I can be of any maam? asked he, as it were to divert her service to you. thoughts into another course. i Going to Derry, doctor? thats a long Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart, road for you! said she, drawing herself up and smoothing So it is, maam; but Im going to fetch TONY BUTLER. back ray docht& r Dolly; shes to come by the packet to-morrow evening. Dully coming borne! how is that? You did not expect ber; did you? Not till I got her letter this morning; and thats what made me come over to ask if Tony had maybe told you something about how she was looking, and what sort of spirits she seemed in ; for her letters very short only says, Ive got a kind of longing to be back again, dear father ; as the song says, Its hame, and its hame, and its hame I fain wad be; and as I know well there will be an open heart and an open door to greet me, Im off to-night for Liverpool. Shes a~ood girl, and whatever she does, it will he surely for the best, said the old lady. I know it well; and be wiped his eyes as he spoke. But Im sore troubled to think its mayhe her health is breaking, and I want- ed to ask Tony about her. D~ye remember, maam, how he said she was looking? Now, if there was anything thoroughly re- pugnant to the old ladys habits, it was un- truthfulness; and yet, as Tony had not men- tioned Dolly since his return, her only escape was by a little evasion, saying, When he wrote to me his first letter from London, doc- tor, he said, I was sorry te find Dolly look- ing pa14 and I thought thin also; besides, added he, they have cut off her pretty brown hair. Yes, she told me of that, sighed the doc- tor. And in her last note she says again, Diana think me a fri~ht father dear, for its growing again, and Im not half so ugly as I was three weeks ago; for the lassie knows it was always a snare to me, and I was ever pleased xvi her bright, cheery face. And a bright, cheery face it was ! Ye mind her smile, Mrs. Butler. It was like hearing good news to see it. Her moth- er had the same. And the old mans lip trembled, and his eheek, too, as a heavy tear rolled slowly down it. Did it ever strike you, maam, added he, in a calmer tone, that theres natures in this world gien to us just to heal the affections, as there are herbs and plants sent to cure our bodily ail- ments? Its a blessed thought, doetor. Eh, ruaatn, its more than a thought; its a solemn truth. ButIm staying ower long; Ive to ~) over to John Blacks and see his sister before I leave; and Id like, too, to say a word o comfort to auld Matty MClin- tock. Youll be back for the Sabbath, doc- tor? asked she. Wi His help and blessing, maam. I was thinking if maybe you and dear Dolly would come and take dinner here Saturdaythere will he nothing ready for you at home ; and it would he such a pleas- ure to Tony before he goes away. I thank you heartily, Mrs. Butler; but our first evening under the auld roof we must een have it by ourselves. Youll no think the worse o us for this, I am sure, maam. Certainly not: then shall we say Mon- day? Dolly will be rested by that time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon. Ill just, wi your good leaveIll just wait till I see Dolly; for maybe shell no he ower strong when she comes. Theres noth- ing I can do for you in Derry; is there? Nothing, sirnothing that I think of at this moment, said she, coldly; for the doe- tors refusal of her second invitation had piqued her pride; and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the doc- tor himself seemed less cordial than was his went, and took his leave with more ceremony than usual. The old lady watched him till be was out of sight, sorely perplexed to divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he bad to say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature, how- ever, in the end mastered all other thoughts; and, as she sat down once more to her knit- ting, she muttered, Poor man ! its a sore stroke of poverty ~vhen the sight of ones only child coining back to them brings the sense of distress and want with it. The words were not well uttered when she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he wa4 strid- ing along at his own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and he neither looked right nor left as he went. Did you meet the doctor, Tony? said she, as she opened the door for him. No; how should I meet him? Ive not been to the Buraside. But he has only left the house this min- ute; you must have passed each other. I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut, said he, as he threw himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary. lie has been here to say that hes off 117 TONY BUTLER. for Derry to-night with the mail, to meet Dolly. To meet Dolly! Yes; shes coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for shes over that fever she bad, and getting stronger every day; and vet she writes, You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for Im coming home to von. And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether shes ill again, or whats the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it was just possible you could tell him something. What could I tell him? Why should he imagine I could tell him? said Tony, as a deep crimson flush covered his face. Only how she was looking, Tony, and whether you thought she seemed happy where she was livin ~, and if the folk looked kind to her. I thought she looked very sickly, and the people about herthe woman at least not over kind. Im not very sure, too, that Dolly herself wasnt of my mind, though she didnt say so. Poor girl! Its the poor old father I pity the most, Tony ; hes not far off seventy, if hes, not over it; and sore work he finds it keeping l)ody and soul together; and now he has the poor sick lassie come back to him, wanting many a little comfort, belike, that he cant afford her. Ah, dear! isnt there a deal of misery in this life? Except for the rich, said Tony, with an almost savage energy. They certainly have fine times of it. I saw that fellow Maitland, about an hour ago, lolling beside Alice Lyle Trafford, I meanin her carriage, as if he owned the ec~uipage and all it contained; and why? just because he is rich. Hes a fine handsome man, Tony, and has fine manners, and I would not call him a fellow. I would, then; and if he only gives me the chance, Ill call him a harder name to his face. Tony, Tony, how can you speak so of one that wanted to befriend you? Befriend me, mother! You make me ashamed to hear you say such a word. Be- friend me! Whats the matter with you ,Tony? You are not talking, no, nor looking like your- self. Whats befallen you, my dear Tony? You went out this morning so gay and light- hearted, it made me cheery to see you. Ay, and I did what Ive not done for maiy a day, I sung to myself over my work without knowing it, and now youre come back as dark as night. Whats in it, my boy? tell your poor old mother. Whats in it? Theres nothing in it, my own little moth- er, except that Im a good-for-nothin6, discon- tented dog, that sees himself in a very shabby condition, without having the pluck to try and get out of it. I say, mother, when are we to hegin our lessons? That confounded river Danube goes between me and my rest. Whether it rises in the Black Sea or the Black Forest, is just as great a puzzle to me as whether the word is spelt peo or poe in peo- ple. Oh, Tony! Its all very well saying, Oh, Tony; but I tell you, mother, a stupid fellow ought never to be told two ways for anything: never say to him, You can do it in this fash- ion or in that; hut, Theres the road straight before you; take care you never go off it. Mr. Maitland made that same remark to me last week. Then dont tell it to me, for I hate him! By the way, theres that gun of his. I for- got to take it hack to Lyle Abbey. I think it was precious cool in him to suppose a strangera perfect stranger, as I amwould accept a present from him. If you are going to the Abbey, Tony, I wish youd leave these books there, and thank my lady for all her kind attentions to mc; and say a word to Sir Arthur, too, to excuse my not seeing him when he called. Tell Gregg, the gardener, not to send me any more venctables now; its the scarce season, and theyll be wanting them for themselves: and if you should chance to see Mr. Loekyer, the steward, just mention to him that the new sluice is just no good at all, and when the rain comes heavy, and the mill is not work- ingthe water comes up to the kitchen- door. Are you minding me, Tony? Im not sure that I am, said he, mood- ily, as he stood examining the lock of the well-finished rifle. I was to tell Lady Lyle something about cabbages, or the mill-race which was it? You are not to make a fool of yourself, Tony, said she, half vexed and half amused. Ill keep my message for another day. And youll do well, said he; besides, 118 TONY BUTLER. Im not very sure that Ill go farther than the gate-lodge; arid so saying, he took his hat, and, with the rifle on his shoulder, strolled out of the room. Ah ! hes more like his father every day ! sighed she, as she looked after him; and if there was pride in the memory, there was some pain also. CHAPTER XXI. A COMFORTABLE COUNTRY-HOUSE. IF a cordial host and a graceful hostess can throw a wondrous charm over the hospitali- ties of a house, there is a feature in those houses where neither host nor hostess is felt which contributes largely to the enjoyment of the assembled company. I suspect, in- deed, that republics work more smoothly do- mestically than nationally. Tilney was cer- tainly a ease in point. Mrs. Maxwell was indeed the ownerthe demesne, the stables, the horses, the gardens, the fish-ponds, were all hers; but somehow, none of the persons under her roof felt themselves her guests. It was an establishment where each lived as he liked, gave his own orders, and felt, very possi- bly, more at home, in the pleasant sense of the phrase, than in his own house. Dinner alone was a fixture;~ everything else was at the caprice of each. The old lady herself was believed to take great pride in the per- fect freedom her guests enjoyed; and there was a story current of a whole family, who partook of her hospitalities for three weeks, meeting her once afterward in a watering- place, and only recognizing her as an old wo- man they saw at Tilney. Other tales there were of free comments of strangers made upon the household, the dinners, and such-like, to herself, in ignorance of who she was, which she enjoyed vastly, and was fond of relating, in strict confidence, to her few intimates. If there were a number of pleasant feat- ures in such a household, there were occa- sionally little trifling drawbacks that detract- ed slightly from its perfect workingmere specks in the sun, it is true, and, after all, only such defects as are inseparable from all things where humanity enters and influences. One of theseperhaps the most marked one was the presumption of certain hahituds to install themselves in certain rooms, which, from long usage, they had conic to regard as their own. These prescriptive rights were so well understood that the frequenters of Tilney no more thought of disturbing them than they would of contesting their neigh- hors title-deeds, or appropriating to them- selves some portions of their wardrobes. Oc- casionally, however, it did happen that some guest of more than ordinary pretension ar- rivedsome individual whose rank or station placed him above these conventionalitiesand in such cases some deviations from ordinary routine would occur, but so quietly and peacefully withal, as never to disturb the uniform working of the domestic machinery, I find my rooms always ready for me here, said Mrs. Trafford; and I have no doubt that i\Irs. Maxwell has given orders about yours, Mr. Maitland ; but its your own fault, remember, if youre not lodged to your liking. Maitland was not long in making his choice. A little garden pavilion, which was connected with the house by a glass corridor, suited him perfectly; it combined comfort and quiet and isolation; who could ask for more ?within an easy access of society when it was wanted~ There was the vast old garden, as much or- chard and shrubbery as garden, to stroll in unobserved; and a little bathroom, into which the water trickled all day long with a pleas- ant drip, drip, that sounded most soothingly. Its the commodores favorite place, sir, this garden-house, said the butler, who did the honors to 1\laitland, and its only a chance that hes not here to claim it. There was some mistake about his invitation, and I suppose hes not coming. Yes; I passed him a couple of miles off; hell be here almost immediately. Well put him up on the second floor, sir; the rooms are all newly done up, and very handsome. I am sorry if I inconvenience him, Mr. Raikes, said Maitland, languidly; but Ive got here now, and Im tired, and my traps are half taken out; and, in fact, I should be sor- rier still to have to change. You understand me; dont~you? Perfectly, sir; and my mistress, too, gave orders that you were to have any room you pleased; and your own hours, too, for every- thin~. She is most kii~d. When can I pay my respects to her? Before dinner, sir, is the usual time. All the new company meet her in the draw- ing-room. Oh, theres the commodore now; 119 120 I hear his voice, and I declare theyre bring- ing his trunks here, after all I said. The old sailor was now heard, in tones that might have roused a maindeek, calling to the servants to l)ring down all his bao~a~e to the pavilion, to heat the bath, and send him some sherry and a sandwieh. I seeyou re gettin~ ready for me, Raikes, said he, as the somewhat nervous functionary appeared at the door. Well, indeed, Commodore Graham, these rooms are just taken. Taken! and by whom? Dont you know, and havent you explained, that they are al- ways mine? We thought up to this morning, commo- dore, that you were not coming. Who are we you and the housemaids, eh? Tell me who are we, sir? My mistress was greatly distressed, sir, at Georges mistake, and she sent him back late last night. Dont bother me about that. Whos here who has got my quarters? and where is he? I suppose its a man? Jts a Mr. Norman Maitland. By George, Id have sworn it! cried t~e corniuodore, getting purple with passion. I knew it before you spoke. Go in and say that Commodore Graham would wish to speak with him. He has just lain down, sir: he said he didnt feel quite well, and desired he mightnt be disturbed. Hes not too ill to hear a message. Go in and say that Con~modore Graham wishes to have oue word with him. Do you hear me, sir? A flash of the old mans eye, and a ti~hter grasp of his eane,very significant in their way,sent Mr. Raikes on his errand, from which, after a few minutes, he came back, saying in a low whisper, lies asleep, sir at least, I think so; for the bedroom-do or is locked, and his breathing comes very long. This is about the most barefacedthe most outrageously impudent lie stopped, checked by the presence of the servant, which he had totally forgotten. Take my traps back into the halldo you hear me ?the hall! If youd allow me, sir, to show the yel- low rooms up-stairs, with the bow-window In the attics, I hope? TONY BUTLER. No, sirjust over the mistresss own room on the second fioor.~~ ill save you that trouble, Mr. Raikes. Send Corrie here, my coachmansend him here at once! While Mr. Raikes went, or affected to go, toward the stables,a mission which his dig- nity secretly seorned,the commodore called out after him, And tell him to give the mare a double feed, and put on the harness againdo you hear me?to put the harness on her. Mr. Raikes touched his hat respectfully; but had the commodore only seen his face, he would have seen a look that said, What I now do must not he taken as a precedenti do it, as the lawyers say, without preju- dice. In a glow of hot temper, to which the as- cent of two pairs of stairs contributed some- thing, the old commodore burst into the room where his daughters were engaged unpack- ing. Soths, tables, and chairs were already covered with articles of dress, rendering his progress a matter of very nice steering through the midst of them. Cram them in again stow them all away! cried he; were going back. Back where? asked the elder, in that tone of dignified resistance years of stron~ op- position had taught her. Back to Port Graham, if you know such a place. Ive ordered the car round to the door, and I mean to be off in a quarter of an hour. ~ But why? What has happened? Whats the reason for this? The reason is, that Im not going to be packed up in the t6p story, or given a bed in a barrack4ooma. That fellow Raikesill re- member it to him next Christmasthat fel- low has gone and given the garden-house to that Mr. Maitland. Oh, is that all? broke in Miss Graham. All, all! Why, what more would you have? Did you expect that he had told me to brush his coat, or fetch his hot water? What the dl do you mean by all? Then why dont you take Mrs. Chetwyns rooms? they are on this floor. Shes going now. They are most comfortable, and have a south aspect: by the way, she was just talk- ing of Maitlamfd; she knows all about him, and he is the celebrated Norman Maitland. Ab, let us hear that. I want to unearth TONY BUTLER. the fellow if I only knew how, said he, tak- ing a chair. Theres nothing to nnearth, papa, said the younger daughter. Mrs. Chetwyn says that theres not a man in England so courted and lgtcd as he is; that people positively fight for hha at country-houses; and its a regular hait to ones company to say, Were to have Maitland with us. And who is he? She doesnt know. Whats his fhrtune? She doesnt know. Where is it? shes not sure. It must be somewhere al)roadin India, perhaps. So that this old woman knows just as much as we do ourselves, which is simply nothing ; hut that people go on asking this man about to this dinner and that shootin~ just because they met him somewhere else, and he amused them! us pretty clear that he has money, wherever it comes from, said Miss Gra- ham, authoritatively. He came to Hamil- ton Court with tour hunters and three hack- neys, the like of which were never seen in the county. lkdl papa about his yacht, broke in the younger. I dont want to hear about his yacht; id rather learn why he turned me out of my old quarters. In all probability he never heard they were yours. Dont you know well what sort of house this ishow everybody does what he likes? ~V hy didnt Alice LyleMrs. Trafford, i weantell him that I always took these rooms? Because prohably she was thinking of something else, said Miss Graham, signifi- cantlv. Mrs. Chetwyn watched them as they drove up, and she declares that, if Mait- land hadnt his hand in her mull, her eyes have greatly deceived her. And what if ho had U SImply that it means they are on very excellent terms. Not that Alice will make any real conquest there; for, as Mrs. Chet- wyn said, he has seen far too many of these fine-lady airs and graces to be taken by them: and she added, a frank, outspoken, natural girl, like your sister there, always at- tracts men of this stamp~ Why didnt ~m come over on Wedn~sdav, then? It was h~ own appointment, ~nd we waited dinner till seven oclock, and have not had so much as one lineno, not one line of apology.~ Perhaps he was ill ; perhaps he was ab- sent ; his note aught have miscarried. At all events, Id wait till we meet him, and see what explanation hell make. Yes, papa, chimed in Beck, just leave things alone. A strange hand on the r0d never hooked the salmon, is a saying of your own. Theres that stupid fsllo\v brought the car round to the doom, just as if our splendid equipage hadnt attracted criticism enough on our arrival ! said Miss Graham, as she opened the window, and hy a gesture, more eloquent. than graceful, motioned to the ser- vant to return to the stable .yard ; and there come the post-horses, added she, for the Chetwyns. Go now and secure her rooms be- fore youre too late, and mather forcibly aid- ing her counsel, she bundled the old coma- modore out of the chamber, and resumed the unpacking of the wardrobe. I declare I dont know what hell inter- ferb in next, said Miss Graham. Yes, said Beck, with a weary sigh, I wish hed go back to the Amnerica.n War, and what we did or did not do at Ticonderoga. Leaving these young ladies to discuss, in a spirit more critical than affectionate, the old commodores ways and habits, let us for a moment return to Maitland, who had admit- ted young Lyle after two unsuccessful at- tempts to see him. Its no easy matter to get an audience of you, said Mark. I have been here I cant say how many times, always to hear Fenton lisp out, In the bath, sir. Yes, I usually take my siesta that way. With plenty of eau-dc-Cologne in it, theres no weakening effect. Well, and what is no- ing on here? any people that 1 know? I sup- pose not. I dont think it very likely; they are all country families, except a few refmeshe~s from the garrison at Newry and Dundalk. And what do they do? Pretty much the same sort of thing youd find in an English country-house. Theres some not very ood shooting. Phey make riding-parties. They have archery when its fine, and billiards when it rains; but they 121 TONY BUTLER. always dine very well at seven; that much I can promise you. Not such a cook as your fathers, Lyle, Im certain. Perhaps not, said Mark, evidently flat- tered by the compliment. But the cellar here is unequalled. Do you know that in the mere shadowy possibility of being one day her heir, I groan every time I see that glori- ous Madeira placed on the table before a set of fellows that smack their lips and say, Its good sherry, but a trifle too sweet for my taste And this same heritagehow do the chances look? I shall want your power of penetration to say that. One day the old woman will take me aside and consult me about fifty things; and the next shell say, Perhaps we d hotter make no changes, Mark. Heaven knows what ideas they may have wholl come after me. She drives me half-distracted with these capricious turns~ It is provoking, no doubt of it. Id not care so much if I thought it was to fall to Bella; though, to be sure, no good- looking girl needs such a fortune as this. Do. you know that the timber thrown down by the late ~ des is worth ei~ht thousand pounds? and Harris, the steward, tells me its not one- fourth of what ought to be felled for the sake of the young wood. And she has the whole and sole disposal of all this? Every stick of it and some six thousand acres besides! Id marry her, if I were you. I declare I would. Nonsense! this is a little too absurd. Amram married his aunt, and I never heard that she had such a dower; not to say that the relationship in the present case is only a myth. Please to remember that she is about thirty years older than my mother. I bear it most fully in mind,and I scout the vulgar impertinences of those who ridi- cule these marriages. I think there is some- thing actually touching in the watchful care and solicitude of a youthful husband for the venerable object of his affections. Well, you shall not point the moral by my case, I promise you, said Mark, an- grily. That sublime spectacle that the gods are said o lovea great man struggling with ad- versityis so beautifully depicted in these unions. Then why not lie was going to say, Why not marry her yourself? but the fear of taking such a liberty with his distin- guished friend just caught him in time and stopped him. Ill tell you why not, said Maitland, replying to the unuttered question. If you have ever dined at a civic frte, youll have re- marked that there is some one dish or other the most gluttonous alderman will suffer to pass untasteda sort of sacrifice offered to public opinion. And so it is, an intensely worldly man, as people are polite enough to regard me, must show, every now and then, that there are temptations which he is able to resist. Marrying for money is one of these. I might speculate in a bubble company; I might traffic in cotton shares, or even walk into my best friend at faro; but I mustnt marry for moneythats positive. But apparently 1 might, said Mark, sulkily. You might, replied Maitland with calm dignity of manner. It is a privilege of which I do not mean to avail myself, said Mark, while his face was flushed with temper. Do you know that your friends, the Grahams, are here? Yes; I caught a glimpse of the fair Re- becca slipping sideways through life on a jaunting-car. And theres the old commodore tramping over the house, and worrying every one with his complaints that you have turned him out of his rooms here,rooms dedicated to his comfort for the last thirty years. Re~son enough to surrender them now. Men quit even the Treasury benches to give the Opposition a turn of office. lies a quarrelsome old bl~de too, said Mark, particularly if he suspects hes been put upon. No blame to him for that. A word or two, said as you well know how to say it, will set all right; or a line perhaps, saying that having accidentally heard from me No, no, Mark. Written excuses are like undated acceptances, and they may be pre- sented unexpectedly to you years after youve forgotten them. Ill tell the commodore that 1 shall not inconvenience him beyond a 122 TONY BUTLER. day or two, for I mean to start by the end of the week. They expect you to come back with us. Alice told me you had promised. Lhomme propose, said he, sighing. By the way, I saw that young fellow you told ~e about,Butler; a good-looking fellow, too, well limbed and well set up, but not a marvel of good-breeding or tact.? Did he attempt any impertinence with you? asked Mark, in a tone of amazement. Not exactly; he was not, perhaps, as courteous as men are who care to make a favorable impression; but he is not, as you suspectedhe is not a snob. Indeed! said Mark, reddening; for though provoked and angry, he did not like to contest the judgment of Norman Maitland on such a point. Youll delight my sisters by this expression of your opinion; for my own part, I can only say I dont agree with it. The more reason not to avow it, Lyle. Whenever you dont mean very well by a man, never abuse him, since after that, all your judgments of him become suspect. Remember that where you praise you ca~i de- tract; nobody has such unlimited opportu- nities to poison as the doctor. There now theres a bit of Machiavelism to think over as you dress for dinner, and I see its almost time to do so. CHAPTER xxii. THE DINNER AT TILNEY. WHEN Maitland entered the drawing-room before dinner, the commodore was standing in the window-recess, pondering over in what way he should receive him, while Sally and Beck sat somewhat demurely watching the various presentations to which Mrs. Maxwell was submitting her much-valued guest. At last Maitland caught sight of where they sat, and hurried across the room to shake hands with them, and declare the delight he felt at meeting them. And the commodore, is he here? Yes; Ill find him for you, said Beck, not sorry to display before her country ac- quaintance the familiar terms she stood on with the great Mr. Maitland. With what a frank cordiality did he shake the old sailors hand, and how naturally came that laugh about nothing, or something very close to nothing, that Graham said, in allu 123 sion to the warm quarters they found them- selves in. Such Madeira! whispered he, and some old 34 claret. By the way, you forgot your promise to taste mine. Ill tell you how that occurred when weve a quiet moment together, said Mait- land, in a tone of such confidential meaning that the old man was re-assured at once. Ive a good deal to say to you; but well have a morning together. You know every one here? Who is that with all the medals on his coat? General Carnwroth; and that old woman with the blue turban is his wife; and these are the Grimsbys; and that short man with the bald head is Holmes of Narrow Bank, and the good-looking girl there is his niece an heiress too. What red arms she has! whispered Maitland. So they are, b~ Jove! said Graham, laughing; and I never noticed it before. Take me in to dinner, said Mrs. Traf- ford, in a low voice, as she swept past Mait- land. I cant. Mrs. Maxwell has ordered me to give her my arm, said he, following her, and they went along for some paces convers- in~ Have you made your peace with the Gra- hams? asked she, smiling half maliciously. In a fashion; at least, I have put off the settling-day. If you take to those morning rambles again with the fair Rebecca, I warn you it will not be so easy to escape an explanation. Heres Mrs. Maxwell come to claim you. Heaving with fat and velvet and bugles and vulgar good-humor, the old lady leaned heavily on Maitlands arm, really proud of her guest, and honestly disposed to show him that she deemed his presence an honor. It seems like a dream to me, said she, to see you here after reading of your name so often in the papers at all the great houses in Eng- land. I never fancied that old Tilney would be so honored. It was not easy to acknowledge such a speech, and even Maitlands sclt~possession was pushed to its last limits by it; but this awkward feeling soon passed away under the genial influence of the pleasant dinner. And it was as pleasant a dinner as good fare and good wine and a well-disposed company could make it. 124 At first a slight sense of reserve, a shade of restraint, seemed to hold conversation in check, and more particularly toward where Maitland sat, showing that a certain dread of him could be detected amongst those who would have fiercely denied if charged with such a sentifuent. The perfect urbanity, tinctured, perhaps, with a sort of racy humor, with which Meit- land acknowledged the old commodores in- vitation to take wine with him, did much to allay this sense of distrust. I say, Mait- land, cried he from the foot of the table, are you too great a dandy to drink a glass of wine with me? Avery faint flush colored Maitlands cheek, but a most pleasant smile played on his mouth as he said, I am delighted my dear commo- doredelir,hted to repudiate the dandyism and enjoy the cir~et at the same time. They tell me its vulgar and old-tkshioned, and I dont know what else, to take wine with .a man, resumed the old sailor, encour- aged by his success to engage a wider atten- tion. I only object to the custom when pihe- tised at a royal table, said Maitland, and where it obliges you to rise and drink your wine standing. As some of the company were frank enough to own that they heard of the etiquette for the first time,and others, who affected to be conversant with it, ingen- iously shrouded their ignorance, the conver- sation turned upon the various traits which characterize different courtly circles: and it was a theme Maitland knew how to make amusingnot vaingloriously displayirg him- self as a foreground figure, or even detailing the experiences as his own, but relating his anecdotes with all the modest diffidence of one who was giving his knowledge at second- hand. The old general was alone able to cap sto- ries with Maitland on this theme, and told with some gusto an incident of his first ex- periences at Lisbon. We had, said he, a young attache to our Legation thereI am talking of, I regret to say, almost fifty years ago. He was a very good-looking youn.. fellow, quite fresh from England, and not very long, I believe, from Eton. In pass- ing through the crowd of the ball-room, a long streamer of lace which one of the prin- cesses wore in her hair caught in the at- iaches epaulette. He tried in vain to extri TONY BUTLER. cate himselg but, fearing to tear the lace, he was obliged to follow the Infanta.about, his confusion making bis efforts only the more hopeless. Where are you going, sir? What do you mean by this persistence? asked a sour-faced old lady-of-honor, as she perceived him still after them. I am at- tached to her Royal Highness, said he, in broken French, and I cannot tear myself away. The Infanta turned and stared at him, and then instantly burst out a-laughing, but so good-humoredly withal, and with such an evident forgiveness, that the duenna be- came alarmed, reported the incident to the queen, and the next morning our young countryman got his orders to leave Lisbon at once. While the company commented on the in- cident, the old general sighed sorrowfully, over the long past, perhaps,and then said, He did not always get out of his entangle- ments so easily. - You knew him, then? asked some one. Slightly; but I served for many years with his brother, Wat Butler, as good a sol- dier as ever wore the cloth. Are you aware that his widow and son are in this neighborhood? asked Mrs. Traf- ford. No; but it would give me great pleasure to see them. Wat and I were in the same regiment in India. I commanded the com- pany when he joined us. And how did he leave them? On short rations, broke in old Graham. Indeed, if it wasnt for Lyle Abbey, I sus- pect very hard up at times. Nothino~ of thekind, commodore, broke in Mrs. Trafford. You have been quite misinformed. Mrs. Butler is, without afflu- ence, perfectly independent; and more so even in spirit than in fortune. A very significant smile from Maitland seemed to say that he recognized and enjoyed her generous advocacy of her friend. Perhaps you could do something, general, for his son? cried Mrs. Maxwell. What sort of lad is he? Dont ask me, for I dont like him; and dont ask my sisters, for they like him too well, said Mark. have you met him, Mr. Maitland? asked the general. Yes, but passingly. I was struck, how ever, by his good looks and manly bearing. TONY BUTLER. The country rings with stories of his courage and intrepidity. And they are all true, said Isabella Lyle. He is the best and bravest creature breathing. Theres praisethats what I call real praise, said the general. Ill certainly go over and see him after that. Ill do better, general, said Mrs. Max- well; Ill send over and ask him here to- morrow. Why do you shake your head, Bella? Hell not come? No, said she, calmly. Not if you and Alice were to back my request? I fear not, said Alice. He has es- tranged himself of late from every one; he has not heen even once to see us since he came back from England. Then Mark will go and fetch him for us, said Mrs. Maxwell, the most unOl)Servant of all old ladies. Not I, madam; nor would that be the way to secure him. Well, have him we must, said Mrs. Maxwell; while she added in a whisper to Mrs. Traffi)rd, It would never do to lose the poor boy such a chance. Beck says, if some one will drive her over to the Causeway, cried the commodore, she~ll vouch for success, and hring young Tony back with her. Mr. Maitland offers himself, said Alice, whose eyes sparkled with fun, while her lips showed no trace of a smile. Take the phaeton, then, said Mrs. Max- well, only there will be no place for young Butler; hut take a britscha, and order post- horses at Gremes Mill. And now a sharp discussion ensued which road was the shorter, and whether the long hill or the new cut was the more severe on the cattle. This was most unfair of you, said Mait- land to Mrs. Trafford, as they rose from table; hut it shall not succeed. How will you .prevent it? said she, laughing. What can you do? Rather than go I~d say anything. As, how, for instance? lie leaned forward and whispered a few words in her ear, and suddenly her face be- caine sc~ rlet, her eyes flashed passionately, as she said, This passes the limit of jest, Mr. Maitland. Not more than the other would pass the 125 limit of patience, said he; and now, instead of entering the drawing-room, he turned short round and sought his own room. CHAPTER XXIII. THE FIRST NIGHT AT TILNEY. MAITLAND was not in the best of tempers when he retired to his room. Whatever the words he had whispered in Alices ear,and this history will not record them ,they were a failure. They were even worse than a failure, for they produced an effect directly the oppo- site to that intended. have I gone too fast? muttered he; have I deceived Inyself? She certainly understood me well in what I said yesterday. She, if anything, gave me a sort of encourage- ment to speak. She drew away her hand, it is true, hut without any show of resentment or anger; a sort of protest rather, that im- plied We have not yet come to this. These home-bred women are hard riddles to read. Had she heen French, Spanish, or Italian ay, or even one of our own, long conversant with the world of EuropeI never should have blundered. Such thoughts as these he now threw on paper, in a letter to his friend Caffarelli. What a Fiasco! I have made, Carlo inio, said he, and all from not understand- ing the nature of these creatures who have never seen a sunset south of the Alps. I know how little sympathy any fellow meets with from you if he be only unlucky. I have your face before meyour eyebrows on the top of your forehead, and your nether lip quiver- ing with malie ions drollery, as you cry out, Ma perche? perehe? perche? And Ill tell you why because I believed that she had hauled down her colors, and there was no need to con~inue firing. Of course youll say, Meno male, re- sume the action. But it wont do, Signor Conte; it wont do. She is not like one of your hardened coquettes on the banks of the Acao, or the slopes of Castellamare, who think no more of a declaration of love than an invitation to dinner; nor have the slightest difficulty in making the same excuse to either, a pre-engagement. She is English, or worse again, far worseIrish. Id giveI dont know what I wouldnt givethat I could recall that stupid speech. I declare I think it is this fearful language has done it all. One can no more employ the 126 TONY BUTLER. Anglo-Saxon tongue for a matter of delicate It is no small prize to learn. the experi- treatment than one could paint a miniature ences of a man like yourself on such a theme. with a hearth-brush. What a pleasant coin- Well, Ill not deny it, said he, with a ~e for cajolery are the liquid lies of the sweet short sigh. I had my share, some would South, where you can lisp duplicity, and seem say a little more than my share, of that sort never to hurt the Decalogue. of thing. Youll not believe it, perhaps, but As he had written so far, a noisy summons I was a devilish good-looking fellow when I at his door aroused him, while the old corn- waslet me seeabout six or eight years modores voice called out Maitland! Mait- younger than you are now. land! I want a word with you. Maitland I am prepared to credit it, said Mait- opened the door and, without speaking, re- land, dryly. turned to the fire, standing with his back to There was no make-np about me; no it, and his hands carelessly stuck in his lacquering, no paint, no paddingall honest pockets: I thought Id come over and have scantling from keel to taifrail. I wasnt tall, a cigar with you here, and a glass of brandy. its true. I never, with my best heels on, and water, said Graham. Theyre hard passed five feet seven and half. at it yonder, with harp and piano, and, ex- The height of Julius Ca~sar, said Mait- cept holystoning a deck, I dont know its land, calmly. equal. I know nothing about Julius Cmsar; Im the more sorry for your misfortune, but Ill say this : it was a good height for a commodore, that I am unable to alleviate it. sailor in the old gun-brig days, when they Im deep in correspondence just now, as you never gave you much head-room tween decks. see there, and have a quantity more to do be- It dont matter so much no~v if every fellow fore bedtime. in the ward-room was as tall as yourself. Put it aside; put it aside. Never write Whats in this jar here? by candle-light ; it ruins the eyes: and Selzer. yours are not so young as they were ten years And this short one; is it gin? ago. No; its Vichy. The observation is undeniable, said I Why, what sort of stomach do you cx Maitland, stiffly. pect to have with all these confounded slops? Youre six-and thirty? well, five-and- I never tasted any of these vile compounds thirty, I take it ? but oncewhat they called Carlsbadand, Im ashamed to say I cannot satisfy your by Jove, it was bad, and no mistake. lt curiosity on so natural a subject of in- took three-fourths of a bottle of stron~ brandy quiry. to bring back the heat into my vitals a~a~n - Sally says forty, said he, in a whis- Why dont you tell Raikes to send you in per, as thou~h the remark required caution. some sherry? That old brown sherry is very her notion is that you dye your whiskers ; pleasant, and it must be very wholesome too, but Becks idea is that you look older than for the doctor here always sticks to it. you are. I never drink wine, except at my dinner, I scarcely know to which of the young was the cold and measured reply. ladies I owe my deeper acknowledgments, Youll come to it later on,youll come said Maitland, bowing. to it later on, said the commodore with a Youre a favorite with both; and if it chuckle; when youll not be careful about hadnt been for the very decided preference the color of your nose or the width of your you shoWed, I tell you frankly theyd have waistcoat. Theres a deal of vanity wrapped been tearing caps about you ere this. up in abstemiousness, and a deal of vexation This flattery overwhelms me; and all of spirit too. And he laughed at his own the more that it is quite unexpected. drollery till his eyes ran over. Youre say- None of your mock modesty with me, ing to yourself, Maitland, What a queer old you doa! cried the commodore, with a cove that is! aint you? Out with it, man. chuckling laugh. No fellow had ever any Imthe best-tempered fellow thatever breathed success of that kind that he didnt know it; with the men, likes mind you ; not with and, upon my life, I believe the very coaceit every one. No, 110; old G. G., as they used it breeds goes half-way with women. to call me on board the hannibal, is an ugly TONY BUTLER. 127 craft, if you board him on the wrong quarter. I am not a lawyer, nor a lawyers clcrkIj~ II dont know how it would be now, with all a sailor. the new-fangled tackle; hut in the old days And a very distinguished sailor. of flint-locks and wide bores I was a dead Thats as it may he. They passed me shot. Ive heard you can do something that over about the good-service pension, and kept way? hacking and filling about that coast-guard A little, said he, dryly. appointment till I lost temper, and told them Every gentleman ought ; Ive always to give it to the devil, for he never had been maintained it: as poor old Thwes used to out of the Admiralty since 71 remembered it; say, with a strong head for port, and a steady and I said, Gazette him at once, and dont hand for a pistol, a man may go a long way let him say, Youre forgetting an old friend in this world. There, I think its your turn and supporter. now at the pump. Ive had all the talk to Did you write that? myself since I came in, and the most youve Beck did, and I signed it, for Ive got done has been to grunt out Indeed! or the gout or the rheumatism in these knuckles, Really! that makes writing tough work for me, and I have listened, commodore,listened toagher for the man its meant for. What most attentively. It has been my great priv- servants they are in this house !-~-~-no answer ilege to have heard your opinions on three to the bell. most interesting topics,women and wine And what reply did they make you! and the duel; and, I assure you, not unprof- asked Maitland. itably. They shoved me on the retired list, and Im not blown, not ahit run off my wind, Curtis, the secretary, said, I had to suppress for all that, if I wasnt so dry; but my mouth your letter, or my lords would cer-tainly have is like a lime-burners hat. Would you just struck your name off tbe Navy List a thing touch that bell, and order a little sherry or I defy them to doa thing the Queen couldnt Madeira? You dont seem to know the ways do! of the house here; but every one does exactly Will you try one of these? said Mait. as he pleases. land, opening his cigar-case; these are I have a faint inkling of the practice, stronger than the pale ones. said Maitland, with a very peculiar smile. No; I cant smoke without something Whats the matter with you this even- to drink, which I foresee I shall not have ing? Youre not like yourself one bit. No here. life, no animation about you. Ring again; I deplore my inhospitality. pull it stron~. There, theyll hear that, I Inhospitality! why, youve nothing to hope! cried he, as, impatient at Maitlands say to it. It is old Mother Maxwell receives indolence, he gave such a jerk to the bell-rope us all here. You can be neither hospitable that it came away from the wire. nor inhospitable, so far as I see, excepting7 I didnt exactly come in here for a gos- perhaps, letting me see a little more of that sip, said the commodore, as he resumed his fire than you have done hitherto, pencocking seat. I wanted to have a little serious talk out the tail of your dressing-gown in front with you, and perhaps you are impatient that of me. I havent begun it, eh? Pray draw closer, said Maitland, mov- It would be unpardonable to feel impa- ing to one side; make yourself perfectly at tience in such company, said Maitland, with home here. a bow. ~So I used to be scores of times, in these Yes, yes; I know all that. Thats what very rooms. Its more than five-and-twenty Yankees call soft sawder; but Im too old a years that I ever occupied any others. bird, Master Maitland, to be caught with I was thinking of going back to the draw- chaff, and I think as clever a fellow as you ing-room for a cup of tea before I resumed are might suspect as much. my work here. You are very unjust to both of us, if you Tea! dont destroy your stomach with imply that I have not a high opinion of your tea. Get a little gintheyve wonderful gin acuteness. here; I take a glass of it every night. Beck I dont want to be thought acute, sir: mixes it, and puts in a sprig of, not mint, but 128 TONY BUTLER. marjoram, I think they call it. Ill make her Could we defer it till to-morrow, my dear mix a brew for you; and, by the way, that I commodore? said Maitland, coa~iugly. 1 briu~s me to what I came about. have not the slightest notion what it is, but Was it to recommend me to take gin? surely we could talk it over after breakfast. asked Maitland, with a well-assumed inno- But youll be off by that tiiue. Beck cence. said that there would be no use starting later No, sirnot to i~.commend you to take than seven oclock. gin, said the old commodore, sternly. I Off! and where to? told you when I came in that I had come on To the Burnsideto the Widow Butle?s an errand of some importance. where else? You beard it all arranged at If you did, it has escaped me. dinner ; didnt you? Well, you shant escape methats all. I heard something suggested l~ ughingly I hope I misunderstand you. I trust sin- and lightly; but nothing serious, far less set- ecrely that it is to the dryness of your throat tled positively. and the state of your tonsils that I must at- Will you please to tell me, sir, how inuc~h tribute this speech. Will you do me the very of your life is serious, and how much is to be great favor to recall it? accepted as levity? For I suppose the inquir7 The old man fidgeted ih his chair, but- I have to make of you amounts just to that, toned his coat and unbuttoned it, and then and no more. blurted out in an abrupt, spasmodic way, Commodore Graham, it would distress All right 1 didnt mean offenceI in- me much if I were to misunderstand you once tended to iy, that as we were here now again to-night; and you will oblige inc deeply that as we had tbi& opportunity of explaining if you will put any question you expect me to otx~ivcs answer in its very simplest form. Thats quite sufficient, commodore. I That I will, sir; that I will! Now, then, ask for nothing beyond your simple assurance what arc your intentions? that nothing offensive was intended. What are my intentions? Ill he han ~cd if I ever suffered s much Yes, sirexactly so; what are your in from thirst in all my life. I was eighteen tentions? days on a gill of water a day in the tropics, I declare I have so many, on such var%ed and didn~t feel it worse than this. I must subjects, and of such different hues, that it drink some of that stuff if I die for it. Which would be a sore infliction on your patience, is the least nauseous? were I only to open the budget; and as to I think youll find the Vichy pleasant; either of us exha sting it, it is totally out of there is a little fixed air in it too. the question. Take your chance of a sub- I wish there was a little cognac in it. ject, then, and Ill do my best to enlighten Ugh ! its detestable Lets try the other. you. Worse ! I vow and declareworse. Well, This is fencingr sir ; and it doesirt siit Maitland, whatever be your skill in other me. matters, Ill be shot if Ill back yoafor your If you knew how very little the whole taste in liquors. conversation suits me, youd not undervalue Maitland smiled, and was silent, my patience. I shall have a feverI know I shallif I ask you once-again, what are yo r in- I dont take som~Thing. There~ s a singin~ tentions as regards my youngest daughtee, in my head no like a chime of bells, and the Miss Rebecca Graham? Thats plain speak- back of my throat f As lie a coal-bunker in in~ I believe.~~ a one of those vile steamers. How you stand Nothing plainer; nd my reply shall he it I dont know; but to be sure youve not equally so. I have nonenone whatever. lx.sn talking as I have. The old commodore Do you mean to say you tiever paid her rose, but, when he reached the door, seemed any particular attentions? suddenly to have remembered somethin~ for Never. he placed his hand to his forehead, and said, That you never took long walks with hc~ What a brain I have! here was I walking when at Lyle Abbey, quite alone and unac- away without ever so much as saying one I companied? word ahuot it. I We walked together repeatedly. I ant TONY BUTLER. 129 no~ so ungrateful as to forget her charming the red whiskersthat major who dined one companionship. day at the Abbey Confound your gratitude, sir! its not Maitlands pale cheek grew scarlet, his eyes that Im talking of. You made advances, flashed with passion, and all the consummate Youyou told heryou saidin fact, you calm of his manner gave way as he said, made her believeay, and you made me be- With the choice of my friend, sir, you have lievethat you meant to ask her to marry nothing to do, and I decline to confer further you. with you. Impossible! said Maitland; impossi- Eh, eh! that shell broke in the magazine, hie! did it? I thought it would. Ill be shot but And why impossible? Is it that our re- I thought it would! Mid with a hearty spective conditions are such as to make the laugh, hut bitter withal, the old commodore matter impossible? seized his hat and departed. I never thought of such an impertinence, Maitland was much tempted to hasten after commodore. When I said impossible, it was the commodore and demandimperiously de entirely with respect to the construction that mandfrom him an explanation of his last could he placed on all my intercourse with words, whose taunt was even more in the Miss Graham. manner than the matter. Was it a mere And 1 didnt go up to your room on the chance hit, or did the old sailor really know morning I left, and ask you to come over to something about the relations between him- Port Graham and talk the matter over with self and MCaskey? A second or two of me? thought re-assured him, and he laughed at his You invited me to your house; but I had own fears, and turned once more to the table not the fhintest notion that it was to this end. to finish his letter to his friend. Dont shake your head as if you doubted me; You have often, my dear Carlo, heard me I pledge you my word on it. boast, that amidst all the shifting chances and How often have you done this sort of accidents of my life, I had ever escaped one thing? for no fellow is as cool as you are signal misfortunein my mind, about the thats not an old hand at it. greatest that ever befalls a man. I have I can forgive a good deal never been ridiculous. This can be my tri- Forgive! I should think you could for- umph no longer. The charm is broken! I give the people youve injured. The ques- suppose, if I had never come to this blessed tion is, Can I forgive? Yes, sir, can I for- country, I might have preserved my immu- give? nity to the last; but you might as well try I declare, it never occurred to me to in- to keep your gravity at one of the Policinello quire. combats at Nnples as preserve your dignity Thats enoughquite enough; you shall in a land where life is a perpetual joke, and hear from me. It may take me twenty-four where the few serious people are so illogical hours to find a friend; but before this time in their gravity, they are the best fun of all. to-morrow evening, sir, Ill have him. Into this strange society I plunged as fearlessly Maitland shrugged his shoulders carelessly, as a man does who has seen a large share of and said, As you please, sir. life, and believes that the human crystal has It shall be as I please, sir; Ill take care no side he has not noticed; and the upshot of that. Are you able to say at present to is, I am supposed to have made warm Live to whom my friend can address himself? a young woman that 1 scarcely flirted If your friend will first do me the favor and am going to be shot at to-morro~4e 09- to call upon me, Ill be able by that time to father for not being serious in my int# spirit inform him. You may laugh,you may~scream, shE, who All right. If its to be Mark Lyle kick with laughter,and I almost thu have Certainly not; it could never occur tome hear you; but its a very embarrasS seize to make choice of your friend and neighbors tion, and the absurdity of it is n son for such an office. can face. jinew fear. Well, I thought notI hoped not; and Why did I ever come he,~r that over- I suspected, besides, that the little fellow with duced me ever to put foot :not ended by ThiRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXV. 1167 130 TONY BtTTLER. the very natives do not know their own cus- eye, to handle me on the grouxid. Mean- toins, and where all is permitted, and noth- while order dinner for two on Satuiday week, ing is tolerated? It is too late to ask you to for I mean to be with you; and therefore say come and see me through this troublesome af- nothing of those affaIrs which interest us, ul- fair; and indeed my present vaeillation is tra montani. I write by this post to MC. whether to marry the young lady or run to meet me as I pass through Dublin; and, of away bodily; for 1 own to you I am afraid course, the fellow will want money. I shall heartily afraidto flght a man that might be therefore draw on Cipriani for whatever is my grandfather; and I eant bear to give the neeessary, and you must be prepared to tell mettlesome old fellow the fun of shooting at him the outlay was indispensable. I have me for nothing. And worsea thousand done nothing, absolutely nothing, herenex- times worse than all thisAlice will have ther seduced man nor woman, and am bring- such a laugh at me! Ay, Carlo, here is the lug back to the cause nothing greater or more 6um of my affliction, telling than I must close this, as I shall have to look Noa~~ MAITLAND. out for some one, long of stride and quick of WE are indebted to a friend for the following F. and you. Can you throw B. C. in ?Why Unpublished Letter, written many years ago by tarry the wheels of my Hogartli ? ~1thea~um.. Charles Lamb to a bookseller, on receipt of two books of verse,L~oae being The Maid of El- var, by Allan Cunningham, the other Barry TuE Round Table of New York, in an article Cornwalls Songs and Dramatic Fragments: entitled American Comic Journalism, makes Thank you for the books. I am ash~ med to the following remarks : lit seanis strange that take tythe thus of your press. I am worse to a publisher than the two Universities and the Brit. a country which has produced a Holmes, a Lowell, I and a Derby should be without a fit journalistic Mus.A. C. I will forthwith read. B. C. (I ~xponeat of its sense emor. No people in cant get out of the A. B. C.) I have more than and hr tis too Loveybut the world have a larger perception of the ludi read. Taken alitogether crons than the Americans et nowhere else is it what delicacies! I like most King Death so difficult to obtain permanent support for a Glorious hove all The ~l~ady with the Hundred Rings The Owl Epistle, to whats his strictly humorous illostrated paper. The cause name (Here maybe Im partial) Sit down, of this apparent paradox is somewhat obscur __The Paupers Jobillee (but thats Doubtless, the scarcity of genuinely-humorous sad soul artists is one strong reason. Our writers are old, and yet tis never old) The Falcon ahead of our draughtsmen in the way of fun. Felons Wife Damn Madme Pasty but The article then gives an account of ditfrrcnt that is borrowed attempts to establish an American analogue to Apple pie is very good our Punch. There was first the Lantern, edited And so is apple pasty, by Mr. John Brougham, and contrib~~ted to by But Captain Fitzjames OBrien ; next there was the 0 Lard! tis very nasty. .JV~ew York Picayune, written in by Mr. Robert II. Levison, and illustrated by Frank Bellow less g~ lefly the Dramatic Fragmentsscarce then there was Young dmerica, which lived for I ans which should have escaped my Speci- a year; and the last and best venture of the unable an antique name been prefixed. They kind was Vanity Fair, begun in January, 1860, trouble ~rst.So much for the nonsense of but defunct since July, 1863. On the staff of to the serious business of life. Up Vanity Fair, as writers or artists, were Frank Is it tdford Court) in Pall Mall (exactly Ward, Henry L. Stephens, Ed. F. Mullen, Frank past thou Maribro House, with iron gate in Bellew, John MeLenan, Sol Eytinge, and Messrs. gods? ask~ning 2 houses, at No. 2, did lately OBrien, House, Winter, Congdon, Clapp, Stod- At Rome,V taylor. He is moved some- dard, Arnold, Shanly, Gardette, Artenxu~ honored publ~borh%ddevil knows where. Ward. Aldrich, Nicholson, and Leland. Of id give him the oppositeI I how many of these wits and humorists of ~mer- in~orted new tho my hand shakes in lea have our readers heard before? Such L~ had exhauSted ext Sunday, I can well see fameReader. BONNIE PRINCE CHAflLIE, From The New Monthly Magazine. BONNIE PRINCJ~ CHARLIE. THE Young Chevalier, Bonnie Prince Char- lie w~is distinctively called in his heyday of enterprise and youthful bloom and adven- turous romance, in contradistinction to the Old Pretender, his less enei~etic and far less fascinating sire. But the days came for Charles Edward himself to be known as an old Pretender. And they who had known and hailed him a~ the Young Chevalier, could hardly believe their eyes, or trust their mem- ory, as to the seemingly mistaken identity. Look on this picture, and on that. Not the counterfeit presentment of two brothers, but of one and the same man, at no very great interval of years. Look on a portrait of Prince Charles, in the flush of earliest manhood, fi~ hting his way to the throne of his fathers; and then of His Royal highness, a refugee on Italian soil, a middle-aged tip- pler, bloated and blustering,or an elderly driveller, unregarded, unrespected, and, even by them of his own household, unbeloved. This picture first,of Charle as he looked when he made his joyous entry into Edin- burgha day on which You would have thounht the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage. And on that day, and inspirited by such a wel- come, oh, but the prince was fair to see! John Home, the clerical author of Doug- las, saw him on this occasion, and has left the world a copy of his lineaments and mien. From that, and other contemporane- ous copy, we can feed the press. Tall and handsome was Prince Charlie, we are told, as straight as a lance, and as rdund as an egg; of a fair complexion, delicate but ruddy, and slightly freckled. He wore a light-colored peruke, the ringlets of which descended back in graceful masses, and over the front of which his own p,ale hair was neatly combed. His visage is described as a perfect ovalhis brow as marked with all the intellectual but melancholy lofti- ness so remarkable in the portraits of his an- cestors. His neck which was lon6, but not ungracefully so, had, according to the fashion of the time, no other covering or incumbrance than a slender stock buckled behind. His ~ King Richard II., Act V. Sc. 2. eyeswe quote from Mr. Chamberss, .physi- ognomical catalogue raisonnJwere large, and rolling, and of a light bide. The fair, but not ill-marked eyebrows which sur- mounted these features were beautifully arched. His nose was ronnd and high, and his mouth small in proportion to the rest of his features. He was about five feet ten in stature, and his body was of that straight and round description which is said to indicate, not only perfect symmetry, but also the val- uable requisites of agility and health. * He excelled, says Lord Mahon (for, in literature at least, we stickle for giving Earl Stanbope his pro-peerage title of honor), in all manly exercises, and was inured to every kind of toil, especially long marches on foot, having applied himself to field-sports in Italy, and become a firstrate walker.f His goodly person was enhanced by his graceful man- ners: frequently condescending to the most familiar kindness, yet always shielded by a regal dignity, he had a peculiar talent to please and to persuade, and never failed to adapt his conversation to the taste oi3 to the station of those whom he addressed. f His demeanor might seem to warrant the appli- cation to him of what Bacha (in Beaumont and Fletcher) testifies of Leucippus That in his youth and noble forw~ rdness All things are bound together that are kingly, A fltftess to bear ruleand sovereignty Not made to know command. In that agile, lissom form were fascinated damsels fain to see one like the herald Mer- cury, new-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill and altogether a combination, and a form, indeed, where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man. Or, to resume that Mercurial similitude, and eke it out from another classical source Omnia Mercurio similis, vocemque, coloremque, Et crines fiavos, et membra decora juveutm. Cautious Dr. John Byrom witnessed II R Hs entry into Manchester, in March, 1746, and reports that, to do justice to his. person, whatever his pretensions may be,** ~ R. Chambers, list. Reb., oh. ix. t Boswells Tour to the Hebrides. ~ Mahon, list. EngL, oh. xxvi. Cupids Revenbe, Act III. Sc. 1. II Hamlet, Act JEt. Sc. 4. Virgil, neid, IV. 559. ~ And who better qualified to appraise tbe pre- tensions of a pretender than Dr. Byrom himself, the author ef an immortal epigram on that very sub- ject? 131 132 he makes a very graceful and amiable ap- pearance; he is fair complexioned, well shaped, has a sensible and comely aspect. To account for the beauty of the man beyond that of his father, his enemies said here that he was the son of a very handsome pastry- cook, some say bread-baker, at Paris; but the ladies, smitten with the charms of the young gentleman, say that he takes after his mother. * Not, however, to turn too abruptly to a con- trasted portraiture of the prince, in his deg- radation and decay, let us glance at him in a sort of middle passage, as sketched by Sir Walter, at the age of about forty or upward. But either care, or fatigue, or indulgence, had brought on the appearance of peemature old age, and given to his fine features a cast of seriousness or even sadness. A noble countenance, however, still remained; and though his complexion was altered, and wrinkles stamped upon his brow in many a melancholy fold, still the lofty forehead, the full and well-opened eye, and the well-formed nose, showed how handsome in better days he must have been. He was tall, but lost the ad- vantage of his heightby stooping; and the cane which he wore always in his hand, and occa- sionally used,as well as his slow though majes- tic gait, seemed to intimate that his form and limbs felt already some touch of infirmity. f Bishop Forbes tries to refute gainsayers and depreciators, by stoutly averring of the princ& s looks in 1769, that not a blot, nor so much as a pimple, was in his face, though maliciously given out by some as if it were all overblotted; but heisjollyandplump, though not to excess, being still agile, and fit for un- dergoing toil. ~ One is apt to suspect that the animus of the phrase jolly and plunip, though not to excess is akin to that which animated Wilkess apologist, when contend- ing that, although Mr. Wilkes did squint, it was not more than a gentleman ought to squint. A year later, the princes person is thus portrayed by a more impartial eye-wit- ness, though of the more partial sex. He is naturally above the middle size, but stoops excessively: he appears bloated and red in the face, his countenance heavy and sleepy, which is attributed to his having given in to excess of drinking. This observer, Mrs. ~ Remains of John Byrom, II. 412. (Chetha.m Society, 1857.) t Redgauntlet, vol. ii. ch. x. 4: Forbess Manuscript collections, etc. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. Miller,* does justice to his noble presence and graceful manner, as well as to the rel- iquary tokens isnprinted on his face of for- mer beauty; and depicts the poor exile as presenting, upon the whole, a melancholic, mortified appearance. The Italian corre- spondents of the English newspapers, at the time of his ill-assorted marriage,he being then a morose sot of fifty-two, and his bride (Louisa Princess of Stolberg) a radiant girl of twenty,describe him ~ as extremely cor- pulent, owing to a total disuse of exercise, and much pimpled in the face,t in conse- quence of drinking. So looked in his latter days he that had once enthralled the hearta of gentle and simple, by his looks and bear- ing,the hearts alike of whole galaxies of high-born beauties in the halls of Holyrood, and of whole clans of wild Highlandmen on their own bleak mountains and moors. There is a noteworthy little sort of o6iter dictum, trivially introduced in the Mdmoires of Saint-Simon, Duke and Peer : , I had al- most forgotten to say, that on the last day of this year, 1720, a Prince of Wales was born at Rome. One might almost suppose from the casual style of the illustration, that St. Simon, like Mr. Toots, accounted it not of the least consequence. The duke does, however, go on to report progress, as regards the public reception and welcome ac- corded to the little stranger whose birth he almost forgot to put on record. He re- lates how the prince was immediately bap- tized by the Bishop of Montefiascone, and named Charlesand what a great stir the event caused in the Holy Cityand how the pope sent his compliments to their Britannic Majesties (not meaning the Hanover make- believe), and forwarded to the King of Eng- land (not meaning George Guelph) ten thou- sand Roman crowns,and how, as soon as the Queen of England (not meaning any of that German squad) was able to see com- pany, Cardinal Tanora came in state, as rep- resentative of the Sacred College, to con- gratulate her.~ St. Simon also declares the birth of Bonnie Prince Charlie to have made much stir at the Court of England, and among the priests and Jacobites of that country; adding that, for very different reasons, not ~ Letters from Italy, by a Lady, 1776. t See Chambers, lust., Reb., cli. xxxii. 4: See, too, an anecdote in the Second Series of Dean Ramsays Reminiscences, p. 194. Memoires do Saint-Simon. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. only the Catholics and Protestants among His (pseudo) Majestys Opposition were in raptures at it, but that nearly all the three realms showed as much joy as they dared; not from any attachment to the dethroned house, or from actual preference of Stuarts to Guelphs, but for the satisfaction of seeing the continuance of a royal lineage, with which, as a constant quantity to fall hack upon and appeal to, they could always menace and oppose their de fccto constitu- tional kings. As for the exiled Court ofSaint-Germain, it, too, had within itself its Opposition party. It had its e ailss and its modcres.* There were those who would concede nothing to constitutionalism, who would not hate a tittle of divine right, and would rather continue to see the royal family in exile than purchase the crown by concession and compromise. And there were those, on the other hand, who desired to see James yield to the spirit of the times, and make terms with the party of toleration, freedom, and progress. Into such a divided court was Charles Edward born, and amid such jarring strifes was he bred. The narrative of his youth is curieu remarks M. St. Marc Girardin, et pr~pare habilement lentr~e en sedne du h6ros. One is interested in the ardor and vivacity of cejeune liomme, whose conscious destiny makes the blood boil in his veins, as his excited im- agination, panting and tumultuous, urges and spurs him on to a future of adventure and romance. Dans cette effervescence de jeune homme, Ic h~ros de roman semble per- ocr d6jh. Les hiros de lhistoire ont quelque chose de plus calme et do plus s~r. In Charles Edward~ M. Girardin sees a man bet- ter fitted for adventure than for business, rash, brilliant, sure of a brief lease of showy splendor, but not made for. lasting success.j- The President des Brosses, Voltaires lively but dignified and not unequally-matched cor- respondent, writing in 1740, describes Charles as of far higher worth, and much more be- loved by his friends, than his younger brother, the Duke of York, whose hand- some face and pretty manners made him so popular with the many; and M. le President can testify, on the best authority, that Prince ~ Ilistoire de Charles-Eclonard, dernier prince de Ia maison de Stuart, par M. Amedee Pichot. 1 Essais de Litterature et de Morals, par St. Marc Girardin, t. ii. Charles has a kind heart and a high courage ;* that he feels warmly for his family misfor- tunes; and that if some day he does not re- trieve them, it will not be for want of intre- pidity. T~ey tell me that, having been taken, when quite a stripling, to the siege of Gacta by the Spaniards, one day during the voyage his hat blew off into the sea. The people round him wished to recover it. No, cried be, do not take that trouble: I .wiil some day go the same way my hat has gone, if things remain as they are. j- One short sustre added to his ~c would see the prince making his entry in triumph into Edinburgh, when and where All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry, While she chats him : the kitchen malkin pins Herrichest lockram bout her reechy neck, Clanibering the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smothered up, leads filled, and ridges horsed With variable complexions: all agreeing In earnestness to see him. .Veiled dames Commit the war of white and damask, in Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil Of Ph~bus burning kisses: such a pother, As if that whatsoever god, who leads him, Were slyly crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture4 One historian of the Rebellion, who notes that Charles approached Holyrood Ilouse by the same path over which George IV., sev- enty-seven years later, was drawn, in his daily progresses from Dalkeith, remarks that the modern sovereign, as he went over the same ground in his splendid chariot, was be- held with respect, as the chief magistrate of the nation; but the boot of Charles was dimmed, as he passed along, with kisses and tears.~, For an excited crowd sawin him the commander and object of an extraordinary enterprisea young prince unfortunate in his birth and (hitherto) in his prospects, but making apparently one manly effort to re- trieve what was lost,the descendant of those time-honored persons by whose sides the an ~ His courage was called in question after Cullo- den, mainly on the evidence of Chevalier Johustone; which evidence was well sifted, if not shaken to pieces, by Sir Walter Scott, both in his review of Homes Life, and in his Annotations appended to Waverley. j~ Des Brosses, LJltalic ii y a Cent Ans. ~ Coriolanus, Act. II. Sc. 1. H. Chambers, Ilist. Itch., ch. ix. 133 134 cestors of those who saw him had fought at Bannockburn and Flodden; the representa- five of a family peculiarly Scottish, but which seemed to have been deprived of its birthright by the machinations of the hat~d English.* Hinc ilkr lcchrymx on his well-kissed boot. But though Scotland might seem won, there was England to subduethere was all Eagland not to he subdued. The battle of P~eston was gained; but there was a hattle of Culloden to follow. And then would come the long romance of hair-breadth escapes and extremest privationsand then the longer desolation of life without hope, without sym- pathy, without respect, without self-respect, ~vithout all that should accompany old age, and soothe the pangs of an embittered mera- orv. It took a long time to reconcile him to the conviction that all was lost now, for the Stuarts and their cause. Reconciled to it, indeed, he never was; but as years rolled hy, and friends died away, or dropped off, the conviction became a presence which was not to 1)e put byan ever-lengthening and dark- ening shadow to overshade the evening of his life. So long as the faintest chance remained of aid from France, Charles Edward was all en- ergy and importunity in his appeals to her intervention. Many and deep were the mor- tifications he had to endure at the hands of the French Court, from cold obstruction, and hope deferred, and promises broken, and per- emptory repulses, and degrading dismissal. It is at Versailles that Scotlands living laureate of the Cavaliers pictures the refugee prince, absorbed in dismal reverie on the an- niversary of Culloden Suppliant-like forarms depending ones false and forei5,a court, Jostled by the flouting nobles, half their pity, half their sport. Forced to hold a place in pageant, like a royal prize of war, XValkin, with dejected features close behind his victors car, Styled an equaldeemed a servantfed with hopes of future gain Worse by far is fancied freedom than the captives clanking chain. his final arrest and imprisonment, at the instance of the English Govern meat, made a great noise in Paris in particular, and there ~ Ibid., pp. 88 sq., od. 1847. t Aytoun, Charles Edward at Versailles. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. fore throunhout Christendom at large. Vol- taire writes with marked sympathy toward le prince Edouard on this occasionrelating of II. R. II., that, having taken refuge in France, and finding himself at last compelled to leave that country, for the satisfaction of the English, who insisted upon it as a condi- tion of the treaty of peacehis courage, aigri par tant de secousses, ne voulut pas plier sons la nccessitd. He resisted remon- strances, entreaties, commands, and claimed the performance of the French Courts prom- ise not to abandon him. At length it became, or seemed to become, necessary to interfere with the personal liberty and tongue-license of this fractious guest. On so crut oblig6 do se saisir de sa porsonno. So he was ar- rested, garret/c, clapped into prison, and anon hurried out of France. Ce fut 1k, is Voltaires pitying commentary, inspired by a ho;t sigh for the Stuarts, cc fut 1k Ic dernier coup dont la destinde accabla une gdn- dration de rois pendant trois cent nandes. * Paris was all in commotion, by Jacobite ac- counts, when the arrest was accomplished. It would appear that amob was feared, for there were guards all from the princes house to the Pont Royal, and above two thousand men in arms there and about the Opera I-louse,-. on alighting at which the prince was seized, with six regiments ready at call. A great many Freneb gentlemen, we are told, were put into the Bastillo that night and next d y for speaking of the arrest; the people got all up in the opera to come out, but the doors were shut; everybody high and low was in tears, and I could not imagine the Freneb were so fond of anything but their own king. The Count do Biron went from the Palais Royal to Court that night, and when the news was told, the queen, the danphin~ the dauphiness, and all the madams, threw down their knives, and there was not one word spoke. j According to this narrator, Charles was humiliated by circumstances of great indignity in the process of arrestthe guards breaking his sword in the scabbard, snatch- ing the little pistols from his sido-pockqts, and not only carrying him off without his feet touching the ground, but, when they got him to the Palais Royal, binding him with a rope like a common criminal, and transfer ~ Voltaire, Siecle de Louis XV., oh. xxv. j Account of the Arrest of Prince Charles, in Re- mains of John Byrom (Chetham Society, 1857), II. 400 sq. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. ring him to a little dark hole in tl~e high tower at Vincennes, which, he said, was not quite SQ good as his bothies in the Highland glens. You may depend i~pon the truth of this paper, because I had it from the Governor of Vincennes and others of absolute credit, though it is treason now to say that he was tied or ill-used. * It was a great sensation scene altogether, and the sensation had a run of many days, not on the French stage alone. For example, midway in December, 1748, we have Horace Walpole writing to his namesake, the mioistcr at Florence~ I con- clude your Italy talks of nothing but the Youn~ Pretenders imprisonment at Yin- cennes. 1 dont know whether he be a Stuart, but I am sure by his extravagance he has proved himself of English extraction ! What a mercy that we had him not here! with a temper so impetuous and obstinate as to pro- voke a French government when in their power, what would he have done with an English government in his power? t horace found a deal to tell about the prince in the sequel of his checkered career, espe- cially in connection with his nuptials and their untoward result. horace retails every rumor with relish as it flies. In 1765 he writes, We believe past all doubt that the Pretenders eldest son is turned Protestant, in earnest so; and in truth I think he could have no other reason now. What is more wonderful, and yet believed, is, that he caine over and abjured in St. Martins Church, in London. . . . He declares he will never marry, and his reason does him honor: that he may not leave England embroiled. t Next year, Walpole congratulates Mann on the success of his interposition (by order of the English~ Court) to prevent the Pope from ac- knowledging Charles Edward, on the decease of the Chevalier de St. George, as King of England. With hi~ congratulations, how- ever, Horace is free to own that, as an Eng- lishman, he is very indifferent about the mat- terconsidering it below such a nation as England to trouble its head whether an old mumper at Rome calls a wretched fugitive Rd d inyhilterra or Principe di Galles. For the poor lads followers, it is important, and anything is lucky for them that prevents their going to Tyhurn for him. To himself, in- * Account of the Arrest of Prince Charles, p. 469. j Walpoles Complete Correspondence, vol. ii. p. 136. ~ XValpole to Mann, Aug. 12, 1765. 135 deed, it is cruel to he refused an empty title by an old Dervish for whom he lost the real- ity. Rome is the only spot on earth where he can exist decently, as at least he would take the pas of many saints. To call him Prince of Wales, and refuse him the kingship, is an absurdity worthy of an Irish patriarch. * First and last, the experiences of Charles Ed- ward in the Holy City are pitiful enough. Less sad, to those who cared for his credit, or were loyal to his house, was his aspect at Culloden itself than at this stage of his de- cline and fall. Less sad when at Culloden itself his features wore the same Pallid cast of deep foreboding as the First one of his name; Ay, as gloomy as his sunset, though no Scot his life betrayed Better plunge in blood-stained glory, than go doxin in shame and shade. But now, in his retirement within the do- mains and under the protection of the Holy See, He is sunk in wines oblivion for whom High- land blood was shed, Whom the wretched cateran shelterd, with a price upon his head. t Seen at Rome in the decline of life eheu quantum mutatus is Charles Edward cb jib who was Bonnie Prince Charlie once, the Young Chevalier that took all hearts by storm. The extent of the change, the gradual coin- pletion of the contrast, is a theme in the phi- losophy of human nature for a Crabbe to mor- alize upon Minutely trace mans life; year after year, Through all his days let all his deeds appear. And then, tho some may in that life be strange, Yet there appears no vast or sudden change: The links that hind those various deeds are seen, And no mysterious void is left between. But let these binding links be all destroyed, All that through years he suffered or enjoyed; Let that vast gap he made, and thea behold This was the youth, and lie is thus when old Thea we at once the work of Time survey, And in an instant see a lifes decay; Pain mixed with pity in our bosoms rise; And sorrow takes new sadness from surprise. 4 Mr. Buckle stigmatizes the elderly prince as a slave to vices which seemed hereditary in that family, and consuming his life in an un * Walpole to Mann, Feb. 9, 1766. t Oglihy, IJi~,hland Minstrelsy. 4 Crabbes Tales, The Parting Hour. BONNIE PRINCE CHAIILIE. itied and i~,nomiuious obscurity. After he death of his father in 1766, this abject creature, who called himself King of Eng- land, went to Rome, and took to drinking. In 1779, Swinburne saw him at Florence, where he used to appear every night at the opera, perfectly drunk ; * and in 1787, only the year before he died, he continued the same de~rading practice. j- Sir Nathaniel Wraxall describes him in 1779 as exhibiting to the world a very humiliating spectacle led in every night by domestics to the back part of his box at the theatre, where he lay concealed, on account of his infirmities; rarely coming forward to view. Sir Nathaniel took his station, howex Cr, at the head of a private staircase, to secure a good view of the prince as he left the house: I could not help, as I looked at him, recollecting the series of dan- gers and escapes which he underwent, or ef- fected for successive months, among the Heb- rides, after his defeat at Culloden. . . . His whole figure, paralytic and debilitated, pre- sented the appearance of great bodily de- cay. Were all his wanderings to end here, and to end thus? Was the Wanderer of the Heb- rides to collapse at last into this inert mass of degraded imbecility? Gloomy enou~h may have been his endurances as a highland out- cast and starving fugitive; but the gloom had more than a tinge of romance about it, of chivalric feeling, a~nd generous sacrifice. But in his retirement in Italy, thirty years later, we see,to apply a line of Wordsworths, glasses over their water decanters~,~ and wore tartan hunting-coats, but actually went so far as to dress their hounds also in tartan, and to ride hurrahing after a red fox,, were yet void of the generous loyalty of the old Cava- liers, and are contemptuously dismissed as these last despicable supporters of heredi- tary right of these men and times it is that Mr. Macknight is treating when he writes of Charles Edw~ rd, the poor deluded prince, who there is good evidence for believ- ing to have been in the September of this year in London, might well, c~n seeing with his own eyes that all was lost, fly from the king- dom of his ancestors in deep despair, and drink himself to death in his Italian retreat.* A long trace of darkness, in Sir Walter Scotts. words, overshadowed the subsequent life of a man, who, in hisyouth, showed him- self so capable of great undertakings; the latter pursuits and habits of this unhappy prince being those painfully evincing a broken heart, which seeks refuge from its own thoughts in sordid enjoyments. f Do we not read of Cicero himself, in the decline of life and hope and influence, that ~ in this uneasy state, when he had nothing to rouse his virtue or excite his ambition, it is not strange that he sunk into a life of indolence and pleasaire, and the intemperate love of wine ? ~ Jam vino qutorens, jam somno fallere curam. Family discordto recur to Scotts apologetic prefacecame, in Charles Edwards case, to TheWanderer lost in more determined gloom. add its sting to those of disappointed ambi- tion; and the adventurous, the gallant, the His character had darkened with his fortunes, handsome prince, the leader of a race of as Lord Mahon says: a long train of disap- pristine valor, whose romantic qualities may pointments and humiliations working ona fiery be said to have died along with him, notori- mind, spurred it almost into frenzy, and de- ously yielded, in his latter days, to those graded it. Edmund Burkes latest biographer, humiliating habits of intoxication, in which describing the year 175Q, and the then vanish- the meanest mortals seek to drown the recol- ing quantity of Jacobitism in ~n~land, whose lection of their disappointments and miseries. country gentlemen were ready enough to Under such circumstances, the unhappy prince drink and hunt for the Stuarts, but had no lost the friendship even of those faithful fol- inclination to die for the unfortunate race, lowers who had most devoted themselves to his and who, though they not only passed their misfortunes, and was surrounded, with some % Swinburnes Courts ef Europe, i. 253 sq. honorable exceptions, by men of a lower de- t See a letter from Sir J. E. Smith, written from Naples in March, 1787, in Smiths Correspondence, scription, regardless of the character which vol. i. p. 208. Another letter written as early as ~ Macknights Life and Times of Burke, L 47. 1761 (Grenville Papers, vol. i. p. 366), describes f Introduction to Redgauntlet. the Youn~ Pretender always drunk. Buckle, ~ Middleton, Life of Cicero, final section. list, of Civilization in Eng., vol. i. p. 404. brat. Serm. ~ Historical Memoirs of My Own Time, by Sir It was not till the death of his father in 1766 N. IV. Wraxall, vol. i. p. 298 (1815). 1 that he returned to Rome, and became reconciled to Evening Voluntaries. j hi brother.Mabon, list, of Eng., eh. xxx. 10,: 1~M) BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. he was himself no longer able to protect. * As the reluctance of the French Court to be- friend him actively became more apparent to Charles, he lost, as Mr. Chambers remarks, his former tone of moderation: every high passion, on beinn thwarted in its object, raises irritation, and it is from this disappointment that the historian just named dates a revolu- tion in Charless character which has made it almost impossible to recognize, in his mid- dle life and age, the manly, clement, and heroic youth who led the Highland army in 1745, f Lord Mahon justly traces his habit of drinking to the period of his Highland ad- ventures and escapes, when a drain of whis- key might sometimes supply the want of food and of rest :thus was the habit acquired, and, once acquired, it continued, after the cause of it had ceased, and even grew amidst the encouragement of his exiled friends. The earliest hint Lord Mahon finds of this vice in Charles, is in a letter of April, 1747, addressed to Lord Dunbar, but only signed by the initial of the writer. It alleges that an Irish Cordelier, named Kelly, has of late been much in the princes society and confi- dence; that Kelly loves good wine with all the fervor of a monk, and that by this means, His Royal Highnesss character in point of sobriety has been a little blemished. A cen- tury before, Lord Clarendon reproaches the banished loyalists with intemperance,t at all times the fatal resource of poverty and sor- row ; but the prince ~vho could not relieve them by his bounty should at least have for- borne from degrading them by his example.~ There is sosnethiun of interest in noting from time to time, as they casually occur, some of the occasions on which, during Charless pri- vations in the highlands, he sought or ob- tained relief from the bottle or the bowl ,and so unconsciously formed a habit that was eventually ruinous to his peace and to his reputation. For instance, in Balshairs nar- rative of his sojourn in the Long Island, we read, He called a dram, being the first ar- ticle of a highland entertainment; which be- inn over, he called for meat. The Young Gentleman advises Edward Burke to fill the bowl hen we benan with our bowl, ~ Introduction to Red~ auntlet. f Chambers Riot, of the Rebellion of 17456, ch. xxx. ~ Life of the Earl of (Jiareadon, by himself, vol. i. p. 353, ed. 1827. See Mahon, vol. iii. pp. 351 sq., and Appendices, ed. 1853. 137 frank and free. . . . We continu~ed this drinking for three days and three nights. He still had the better of us, and even of Boisdale himself, notwithstanding his being as able a bowlsman, I dare say, as any in Scot- land.* As Kingsburghs ~ucst, in Skye, he expressed himself highly delighted with the toddy his host brewed for him in a small china punch-bowl, which was emptied over and over again, until Kingsburgh felt it his ungracious duty to urge a withdrawal to-bed, to-bed, to-bed, which Charles opposed, moving as amendment another bowl. Kingsburgh re- sisted. Charles insisted. And at last they came, if not to blows, at least to breakage, for a tussle about the bowl ensued, which- caused the fracture of t~iat little vessel, Charles retaining one fragment of it in his hands, and Kingsburgh the other. In which admired disorder the good meeting was per- force broken up. On resorting to Lochiels hovel, at Mella- neuir, on the mainland, where an anker of whiskey awaited him, the prince, upon his entry, took a hearty dram, which he pretty often called for thereafter, to drink his friends healths. In an old boat on the river Lochy at night, six bottles of brandy were produced by Clunes Cameron. Will your Royal Highness take a dram? asked Lochiel. Oh, said the prince, can you have a dram here? . . . Come let us have it. Whereupon three bottles were drunk. Be- fore the prince next called for a dram the three remaining bottles were broken, in the hurry of ferrying the crazy boat over the rivera loss that Charles laid to heart sin- cerely enough. During his sojourn in the forest-house of Glencorldale in South Uist, the prince would often step into a by-chamber, which served as a pantry, and, when he stood in need of it, put the bottle of brandy to his head with- out ceremony. Parson Forbes relates how Charles made a plentiful supper (washed down ad interim by twa bottles of sma beer ) with Kingsburgh and his wifeand how supper over, his Royal Highness, accord- ing to the orthodox fomula, for such occasions made and provided (and acted up to, as well), called for a dr~ in, and upon the bottle of brandy being duly produced, he said he would fill the glass for himself, for, said he, I have learned in my skulking to take a ~Lyon in mourning, MS, ,V.192. Quoted in Chambers, 291, ed. 1847. 138 hearty dram. He filled up a bumper, and drank it off to the happiness and prosperity of his landlord and landlady.* Theseand~ other like circumstances, as Mr. RoberiCham- bers remarks, arc mentioned by the reporters without apparently the remotest idea that the habits of the prince were in danger of heing permanently affected; but their value as testimony is not the less on that account. Charles had previously, like most natives of Southern Europe, been unaccustomed to liquor. On such a person the drinking. cus- toms of the people amon~,st whom he fell were calculated to have a fatal effect. It would also appear, from what we every day see amongst the miserably poor, that there is a condition of defcctive physical comfort in which alcohol presents itself as a remedy and compensation, and in that character is scarcely to be resisted by human weakness. This law is of course as ready to operate upon a prince, suddenly reduced to personal misery, as upon a wretch who has lon~ known it, and perhaps even more so. Probably the habits ori~inally contracted under physical discomfort were, in the princes case, revived and confirmed afterward.s under the anguish of a disap- pointed and exasperated spirit, which had un- fortunately not been trained to look for supe- rior consolations. f The testimonies to his weakness for the bot- tle and the bowl multiply portentously with advancing years. In 1755 the Jacobite par- ty in England received from one Dawkins a very unfavorable account of the princes man- ner of life, as that of a systematic debauchee, whose excesses imperilled not only his health but his very existence. In 1769, he caused prodigious scandal, and dealt the Stuart cause a heavy blow and great discouragement, by dismissing all his Scotch attendants while himself in a drunken fit, and supplying their place with Italians. Extenuating reports are extant of this and similar incidents in the life of a confirmed sot; but the most favora- ble of them, that by Bishop Forbes, for exam- ple, allow it to be true, indeed, that the k has been in use, for some time past, to call frequently for tother glass of wine a,t dinner and supper though, as the loyal alle~ators maintain, not from any likina to liquor, but like one absent in mind, when he met with things that vexed him, as too often ~ Lyon in Mourning, iii. 589, ii. 209 (Clanran- aids Journal, Forbess MS. collections, etc.). j Chamberss lust, of Rebel, of 45, p. 403. BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. was the case. Too often by some seven days in the week, one is constrained to fear. For the answer Charles practically gave to the song-book query, Which is the properest day to drink? w~ s identical with the comprehen- sive conclusions of that clmanson itself, lie abhorred invidious distinctions in such a case, and anything like undue preference of one day over another. Let all the days of the week share and share alike, and let none be left out; no, not one. Women, as well as wine, marred the wel- fare and hampered the movements of the prince. His perverse adherence to his ob- noxious mistress, the Walkinshaw,not, he strenuously declared, out of any violent pas- sion for her, but because he would not be dic- tated to,cost him some of his best friends, when days were dark and friends were few. As to matters matrimonial, Charles had, in his youth, formed the resolution of marrying onl3T a Protestant princess. But in 1772, at the age of fifty-two, he wedded a Roman Cath- olic bride, o~twenty; and for a few years the Count and Countess of Albany, as they were called, managed to rub along together at Florence, a harsh husband and a faithless wife; until at length, in 1780, tired out by the princes peculiarities, and attracted from another quarter, the lady eloped. Alfieri received her with, rather too literally, open arams. M. Villemain remarks on the some- thing singular in Alfieris destiny, in con- nection with this elopement business. Get ardent ami de la liberte found himself bound by ties to one who had been wife of the Pre- tender to Englands cro~n; of that Prince Edward who so bravely uplifted the doomed banner of the Stuarts, in the plains of Scot- land ;who was conquered,wandered al5out Europe,marriedand came to Florence to die in obscurity, betrayed by the wife of his choice. Singular enough! Alfieri, that ar- dent enemy to arbitrary power, in order to indulge a passion that morality rebukes, in- voked against the last of the Stuarts a sort of coup detat by which the unhappy prince was deprived of the society of a companion, his conduct toward whom is charged with guilt. * On the last day of the year 1780, Horace Walpole thanked Sir horace Mann much for what he calls thecurious history of time Count and Countess of Albany ;appending to his much thanks, this ethical annex: What a wretched conclusion of a wretched family! Surely no royal race was ever so drawn W the dr~gs! t And that miscellaneous reaJ- ers of Walpoles by no means private and confidential correspondence might be at no ~ Villemain, Tableau da XVIIIme Siecle, t. iii. t Walpoic to Mann, Dec. 31, 1780. 139 BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE. loss to understand the historical allusion, and appreciate the moral reflection, Horace sub- joined a foot-note explanatory, which runs thus: The Pretenders wife complaining to the Great Duke [of Florence] of her h~us- ban& s beastly behavior to her, that prince contrived her escape into a convent, and thence sent her to Rome, where she was pro- tected hy the Cardinal of York, her husbands brother. On the second day of the new year, horace is regaling my Lady Ossory with this bonne bouche of scandal, fresh as im- ported from the manufactory, at Florence it- self. The ancient sovereigns of this isle are come to a non plus too. The Countess of Albany is retired into a convent. You know they live at Florence. Last St. Andrews Day, who is the favorite saint there too, the count got ~o beastly drunk, that at night every filthy consequence ensued. The count- ess complaining, he tore her hair, and endeav- ored to strangle her. Her screams alarmed the family, and saved her. She privately ac- quainted the Great Duke, and by his author- ity and connivance, she contrived to take shelter in a convent, declaring she will never return to her husband again, who has in vain reclaimed her from the Great Duke. * More than three years afterwards the same pink of polite letter-writers tells the same news- loving countess his latest from Florence: Florence is the nearest spot whence I hear any news. The dying Pretender has acknowl- edged his natural daughter [by Miss Walk- inshaw] Lady Cl~arlotte Stuart, and created her Du& hess of Alhany, and declared her his heiress. I heard a report sometime a~o in town, that his queen, as soon as she is dowa- ger, intends to come to England, and marry Alfieri, who is or was here, being sent out of Rome at the instance of the Cardinal of York. t Subsequent epistles abound in references to dowager and natural daughter, after the decease of cc dernier des Stuart. But it is only with any casual reference to Charles himself that our further citations from Wal- pole are concerned. As where he tells Lady Ossory that the King of Sweden, when last in Florence, found the Count of Albany in a wretched condition, destitute even of an ex- chequer to pay his household and that his ~1~jcstyimparted his sympathy at the op- erato whom think you, madam? only to the minister of the counts rival ; tthat is, to Sir Horace Mann, envoy to the Cout of Florence, of his Britannic Majesty, George the Third, Defender of the Faith, and other good things, in the Stuarts room and stead. Or where mention is made of the validity ac- corded to Charles Edwards testamentary dis ~ Walpole to the Countess of Ossory. Jan. 2, 1781. i Walpolo to Lady Ossory, Aug. 19, 1784. ~ Ibid., Nov. 12, 1784. positions, by papal authority: The pan- tomime c~ rrying on at Florence asia Rome is entertaining. So the pope, who would not grant the title of king to the Pretender, al- lows his no-Majesty to have created a Duch- ess ; and the Cardinal of York, who is but a rag of the Papacy, and who must think his brother a king, will not allow her title! Nell! it is well they have not power to do worse, nor can spill the blood of others in their foolish squabhles. * The creating his daughter Duchess of Al- 1)any, which Lord Mahon calls the last ex- ercise of an expiring prerogative, was con- sequent upon the secession of his wife, and his reception of that daughter into the de- serted home. The young lady was about twenty at the time, and survived her father only one year. 11cr presence in the house was the one consolation of his sexagenarian solitude, unless we take account of his doting interest in the prophecies of Nostradamus. To the last he cherished a flickering hope in the possibility of a summons to England, to accomplish in the eighteenth century a not less Glorious Restoration than his namesake and great-uncle enjoyed in the seventeenth. That he mi~ht obey the summons at an hours notice, nay, without half an hours delay, the poor old prince kept a strong box, containing twelve thousand sequins, under his bed. When he returned to Rome with his daugh- ter in 1785, it was as a confirmed invalid, who had already, and more than once, been given over as a dead man. But he dragged on the lengthening chain of existence some- how, until the opening month of 1788, when a paralytic stroke removed him from the land of the living. It was a centenary of mourn- ful import to the Stuarts, that of 88. And the day of his death was a tragical anniver- sary in the annals of that housethe thirtieth of January. So averse, indeed, were the dead princes attendants from recognizing the om- inous identity of date with that of his great- grandfather~s execution at Whitehall, that the thirty-first of January was publicly an- nounced to have been the actual day of Charles Edwards death. His brother, the cardinal,who afterward lived and died a pensioner of the house of Hanover,performed the funeral rites at Fras- cati, whence the coffin was afterward removed to St.Peters at Rome. And there a monu- ment was erectedat the charges,. it is said, of the same safely-enthroned house of han- over and from the chisel of Canova, in me- moriem, not only of Charles the Third, but of his father James the Third, and (if his brother henry the Ninth, all three of them titular (though ~meither by act of men, nor by grace of God) kings of England. .~ Walpolo to Mann, Jan. 4, 1785. 140 From The Boston Transcript. TO THE LOYAL LADIES OF THE LAND. WE are in the fourth year of a civil war unexampled in history, not only for the great prineiples at stake, but for the magnitude of its expenditures and for the sacrifices it has demanded or will demand, sooner or later, from the people. After the precious blood that has been poured out for the great idea of national integrity and honor, in this stupen- dous struggle,after the substantial successes that have been achieved, over and above all drawbacks,with the Border States and the whole western hank of the Mississippi secured to freedom, and the great river itself com~ manded at all points by our gunboats,it will not be supposed that any loyal man or woman would have the country bate one jot of its high resolve and indomitable effort, un- til over every inch of national territory the flag of the Union shall once more peacefully float. To live to see this is the hope and the prayer of all generous and patriotic hearts. But there isone consideration that brings to the thoughtful and forecasting friends of the republic the deepest anxiety and regret. At a time when thelives of nearly half a million of our best and bravest young men are jeoparded in the field or in the camp,when many thou- sands of the wounded are languishing or dying in hospitals, and thousands of gallant soldiers, crippled or disabled in previous campaigns, are limping through our streets, frequently destitute and poorly elad,wc see such a spectacle of extravagance, expense, and osten- tation exhibited in the attire of many of~the ladies of the land as seems to mock with its heartless parade the bereaved affections and the mutilated persons of those to whom the war, instead of bringing prosperity and wealth, has brought only sacrifice and disaster. To eater to this unseasonable appetite for show,to enable the frivolous, the inconsid- erate, and the self-seeking to go clad in silks and eriaines,our foreign importations are stimulated to an unhealthy and unparalleled extent, and millions in gold are needlessly sent out of the country, at a time when all the sinews of war are wanted to help our suc- cess in the field, and to fortify the Govern- ment against that financial embarrassment which always eventually brings in its train political and military debility and demorali- zation. The present immediate consequence is an enormous rise in all the necessaries of TO THE LOYAL LADIES OF THE LAND. life, distressing to the poor, and visiting with alarm and anxiety thousands of h6useholds. Material results still more pernicious are in all probability pending. But worse than any merely material dam- age or disaster is the lowering of the tone of the public morals, the withdrawing of the at- tention of the active and the enterprising from the urgent needs of the war to the poor am- bitions which wealth enables them to gratify, and the introduction of a spirit of emulation, not as to who shall do most to help save the country, but who shall get rich the fastest, and enable wife and daughter to make the most astounding display. Let it not be thought that we would insin- uate that the gentler sex are alone culpable for this state of things, or that we regard them exclusively as guilty of extravagance. But in their ease we can see and measure the evil. It is on the outside, palpable, glaring, obvious. It meets us in the street, and flaunts itself even in the house of prayer. Its exam- ple is constantly operating to aggravate the consequences that are flowing and must con- tinue to flow, in ever-increasing volume, from the acts of that reckless folly which in time of war makes the luxurious importations of a people exceed threefold their exports. Probably there are twenty thousand wo- men in our large cities who could, by the ef- fect of their example, and by an organized combination in favor of an economical reform in respect to dress, bring down the price of gold twenty per cent. within three months. Surely there are good women and true, numer- ous enough, and bold enough, to defy all the sneers of interested or apathetic parties, to brave all imputations of Quixotism or any other ism, and at least by the experiment of discountenancing both by example and pre- cept that pitiless and short-sighted selfishness which would eagerly lavish hundreds of dol- lars on a new spring wardrobe, but would grudge a poor ten-dollar bill to help save from starvation our suffering co-patriots of East Tennessee. The time has come when not only our countrys peril, but every consideration of interest and humanity, calls upon the la- dies of the land to exert themselves, and that speedily, to arrest the tendency that is leading to so much suffering and sapping the energies and very life-blood of the nation. When Germany, wasted by Napoleons inva RESPONSE TO THE APPEAL TO LOYAL WOMEN. 141 RESPONSE TO THE APPEAL TO LOYAL WOMEN. sbus, called out in her anguish for help, the women nolSly came forward and gave up, not only their jeweiB, hut every luxury and every adornment inconsistent with the strictest econ- omy. At the South, already, women bred to affluence have encountered privation and des- titution, nay, gone shoeless and meanly clad, in order that their armies might be supplied with food and raiment. Shall they do so much for rebellion and slavery, and shall our Northern women shrink from equal sacrifices in the great cause of country, humanity, and freedom? Surely no. They only require that some practicable way should be pointed out, through which they may accomplish, or strive to accomplish, the end desired. The way is by organizing a grand Loyal Ladies League, composed of women who, braving all ridicule and misconstruction, are willing to pled~e themselves to maintain, while this war lasts, a decent economy in their attire ;to discourage the importation of those expensive foreign fabrics for. dress and furniture, the use of which sends gold out of the country with no corresponding benefit to the people ;to discountenance by all the means in their power that extravagance which grumbles at the calls for aid to sanitary commissions, recruiting funds, and sufferers from the war, but thinks little of brushing our sidewalks with its expensive silks, or of spending on a single dress an amount that would support for a whole year the family of a soldier slain in battle. The way is simple and feasible, calling for no other sacrifice than that of personal vanity and of that fem- inine fondness for dress, to which, under proper circumstances and restraint, no seri- ous objection would he made. A movement of the kind here recommended, if entered upon with spirit, promises to do much toward effecting a remedy and a reform. On all loyal, intelligent, and patriotic women on thetrue ladies of the land, whether ex- empt from toil hy their wealth, or doomed to it by their necessitieswe call, to do what they obviously have it in their power to do; namely, to form an organization, and to issue a pledge and sign it, abjuring the purchase of certain expensive articles of dress, etc., while this war lasts, and leaving it to those whose title to true gentility is questionable, to exhibit, in this crisis of the nations efforts, the extravagance we deplore. To the Editor of the Transcript I thank you a thousand times for that stir- ring appeal to the Loyal~ women of the land, in your paper of the 24th March. As soon as I had read it, I went, spectacles n hand, just a few steps over to the house of my niece. As I expected, she was sitting in the midst of dressmakers, who were working with might and main, that Belinda might appear out in all her glory on Easter Sunday. See, aunt, cried she, I didnt show you this yesterdayisnt it a lovely shade? and she held up a Gros de something, very rich ard handsome, of course. American? said I, taking hold of the texture. American! cried my niece, with a voice and gesture expressive of extreme con- tempt no, indeedits importedwhy, a nut, that cost me forty dollars, just the ma- terial. I Oh! ayit did, said I: well, Ive been reading something about that very About this dress? and she stopped the flying motion of her fingers a full minute. Certainly, I said, and Ill read it to you; so down I satturning my back to the imported Gros de somethingand with all the emphasis and spirit I could command, I read the article ia the Transcript. As 1 proceeded, I fancied the motion of the needle became slower and slower, and once or twice, lifting my eyes, I perceived that Belindas cheeks were fast assuming a color deeper than their usually faint crimson. There! I exclaimed, when I had fin- ished, what do you think of that? I sup- pose you call yourself a loyal woman. Of course I do, was her reply; and andwhy, I dont knowits rather sharp, to be surebut thenI declareI don i know as I ever thought of it in that light beibre. It has put me quite out of conceit of my new dresses, aunt. That was just what I meant it should do; for Belinda is in the main a sensible woman, or was till her husband got to making money so lust. It is reasonable and right, I said, and after this I shall blush for any American woman who appears in the street in her for- eign hedizenments and finery. Just then I noticed the dressmaker, a young girl in cheap black mourning, brush a tear from her eye. Another fell, and yet another. She looked up, saw my pitying gazegrew pale and gasped out, Oh! madamI cannot help itmy brother died of starvation in Richmond. NEW JERSEY AND STATE RIGHTS. I cant tell how that simple speech af- fected me. I wanted to take all that finery and huddle it into the stove; I wanted to stamp on it. Our good soldiers! I cried, our good, precious, noble sons, brothers, and husbands, dying of horrible wounds, of fevers, of starva- tionand we spending our hundreds on spring fashions, each one striving to outdo her nei bor. My old father used to say this was an ungodly woild, and I never realized it as I do now. I wish, said Belinda, half crying, I wish I had seen that before I went shopping. I wish the money had gone to some poor, wasted patriot, or his poorer family. I never can wear it now with a clear conscience. In my heart I hoped not. As for me, I should not dare to have a crippled soldier touch such garments. I could not bear that the half-blind eyes of some poor, suffering patriot should be dazzled as I passed him with that which should have been some sub- stantial reward for perilling his life for me and mine. Women of Boston, will you form the League, and make it appear, as it really is, a disgrace for which a loyal woman should blush, to wear that which enriches the ene- mies of our country, and impoverishes and discourages the noble men who go forth to sacaifioc their lives for our country? A MATRON. [The following important article is not confined in its application to New Jersey encroachments. We copy from the N Y. Evening Pest of 29 March.] NEW JERSEY AND STATE RIGHTS. TIlE question which hta just been raised by the Governor and Legislature of New Jersey and which amounts virtually to a clajia of right on the part of the State to iinposc a transit duty on the passagc of men or the transportation of merchandise across its terri- tory, is one of thd most momentous that has ever been presented to the people of the United States; and if the principle involved in it be allowed to pass without resistance and bc- come established, it will essentially channe the character of the Union and make way for the destruction of the Constitution. Nullifi- cation proposed to arrest the action of the general governmentSecession to throw it off. The claim of New Jersey equally invali- dates the Union, though in a more insidious way. The action of New Jersey in behalf of mo- nopoly is bad enough. The ease is simply this: New York, being the chief place of im- portation for the whole country on this side the Rocky Mountains, and being, moreover, the channel of communication for all the New England States, with the South. and Southwest, cannot forward a single bale of goods to Philadelphia, on their way to the South, Southwest, or West, by any railroad except the Camden and Amboy; and in win- ter, when the Delaware is frozen, the monop- oly becomes absolute. The effect of this mo- nopoly is to raise the cost of transportation on any bale of goods that is forwarded by way of New York, through Philadelphia to Balti- more, or Wheeling, or Cincinnati, or St. Louis, or Chicago; in a word, it raises the cost of transportation on the commerce of the coun- try. Nor is this all. It impedes the commerce of the country and imposes a limit on what would otherwise be the ever-increasing inter- course, alike of merchandise and of travel, between New York and Philadelphia. This is the plain English of the monopoly. The subject has not any better look if con- sidered in relation to the Raritan and Dela- ware Bay Railroad. That railroad, with its connections, crosses New Jersey and forms a line for travel and transportation between New York and Philadelphia. Why should it~ not carry travellers and merchandise from the one city to the other? It has the undisputed right to carry them from New York to Cam- den, to the very edge of the Delaware; but the law and the courts of New Jersey say it shall not deliver them on the western bank of the Delaware, where the law and the courts of New Jersey have no jurisdiction whatever. A mechanic living at Manchester, New Jer- sey, may, by the laws and decisions of that State, send his manufactures over the Dela- ware and Raritan road to New York or Phil- adelphia, as he pleases; the manufacturer in Philadelphia is forbidden to send his mnano- factures over that road to New York; the merchant or manufacturer. of New York is, in like manner, allowed to send bis goods over that road to any place on the line in New Jer- sey, but he is forbidden to send by it to Phil- adelphia. This is strange; but here is some- thing with a worse aspect; if civil war breaks out, it is.necessary by all possible ways to hasten forward troops and munitions of war to the scene of insurrection; Washington it- self is menaced; the President may use the road to transport regiments and cannon from New York to the waters edge of the Dela- ware in New Jersey, but when he has got them thus far on their way, the law of New Jersey and ~he decision of the courts of New Jersey forbid him to ferry them across the river. The enormity of this prohibition is too plain for direct apology; so it is answered, the Delaware and Raritan Bay Railroad is now of little value; if, when it has carried goods to Camden, it might ferry them across the river, the railroad would have a great value. 142 NEW JERSEY AND STATE RIGHTS. 143 The objection proves too much; it proves tInt touches the Lakes and the Ohio River; the the railroad is suffering from oppression; and commerce of the West must pass over her what is of still more importance, it proves that soil; Utah is on the line 6f the railroad to tbe transmission of goods fmm New York to the Pacific. Does the control of domestic Philadelphia is not sufficiently provided for; commerce helong to New Jersey, to Ohio, to that an intercourse now prohibited for want Utah, to the separate States; or is it granted of a channel would instantly rise up; that the to tIme United States? To concede it to the public, the merchants of New York, the roan- separate States is to allow a dry rot to con- ufireturers of New England, the producers of sume the beams of our political edifice, while the West and Southwest and South, have an we are lavishing the trea~ure and the best urgent need of the new route. blood of the country to resist 5eeesSion. The Ah! but it is said, Do not interfere with like of this claim of New Jersey was never the rights of the State of New Jersey. And made by the separate members of any of the tlmis is the imnportant question: Is it the most rickety Zollvereins ever formed in Eu- right of a State to tax at will the travel and rope. No State among them all ever thought transportation across its territory? or is such of raising a separate revenue by a tax on tramms- a tax an encroachment on the Constitution of portation. Admuit that right on the part of the United States? The monopoly in New a separate State, and we are thrown back into Jersey is established to secure a revenue out the anarchy with which Germany was cursed of tlme transit of goods and passengers over forty years ago. her soil. The State of New Jersey has not The case of New Jersey presents a criterion only thus taxed the intercourse between New to judge between the true doctrine of State York and Philadelphia, which is virtually rights and that exaggerated claim which jus- taxing the commerce between North mmnd tifies secession. The claim, having been made South, but it asserts the right of taxing trans- by New Jersey, must be met as the claim of portation on any railroad. Now, to-day, if nullification in South Carolina was met,by the New York merchant sends goods to Buf- the unanimous action of every branch of the fib over the Erie Ramlroad, the law of New Federal Government, whose duty it is to pro- Jersey taxes the transportation. It not only tect the rights of the several States by resist- assesses taxes on the property of the railroad ing the encroachments of any one of them on in New Jersey, but puts a special tax on every the common rights enjoyed under the Consti- ton of goods carried by theErieRailroadacross tution. the State. If this right is conceded to the It seems admitted by the energy with which State of New Jersey, farewell to the Union. the passing of the declaratory hill before Con- A right to tax is a right to prohibit. One of gress respecting the Raritan and Delaware the primary objects of the Union was freedom Bay Railroad is resisted, that the success of of commacree between the States. Admit the that measure will be the death-blow to the power of a State to tax the transit of merchan- New Jersey encroachment on the Constitu- disc, and you destroy one of the main objects tion. Let it be done, and it will pass s of the Union; you utterly subvert the Con- quietly as declaring the railroad tlmrommgh stitution. New Jersey has a position won- Erie a post-road, or nationalizin6 the bridg- derfully favorable to the exercise of such a ing over the Ohio at Wheeling and at Stcu- power; she borders on the Iludson and on benville. No new franchises will be granted; the Delaware; but she is not alone in a posi- an unconstitutional encroachment on the tion favorable for this encroachment. Ohio Union will be met and overthrown. I went to Oswego with a quantity of old could have witnessed the distribution. I do not clothing furnished by the National Freedmens know where on the face of the globe, out of the Relief Association of New York, for distribution. Southern Confederacy, a thousand people couhl Here I could not but mark the change that had be got together that would present to charity so already come over these people. They had been strong an appeal as these. I wish I could sen(I fed, and although their destitute, filthy, tattered to every Northern home of plenty a photograph and homeless condition was enough to draw of these barefooted, ragged, half-naked creatures, tears from a heart of stone, many were cheerful as they appeared to me that day. Then to think and gave evidence that with a very little comfort of their lying on the ground at night without they would be happy. The endurance of the bedding, or blankets, or cabin to skelter them negro has always been a marvel. It was never from the wind or storm. A long shed, open on so much so as now. It is his difference from the all sides, affords the only protection from the white man in this respect that is to save him, if weather. I suppose they are not to remain there be is saved in this great trial, a long timecertain it is they will rmot, for if the To all the most destitute, or rather the most planters do not take them away, death will, and torn and naked, for all are destitute, we gave that, too, before many days.JIfr. .Mctnns Re- some of the more necessary articles of clothing. port on the Emegitire Blacks. I only wish that time donors of those articles SCIENTIFIC AND LITERARY NOTICES. ACCORDING to the researches and experi- inents of Messrs. Pdcholier and Saintpierre, the results of which have been presentcd to the Imperial Academy of France, it appears that there is a great difference in the action of verdigris according as it is taken in large or small doses. Mcssrs. Pdcholier and Saint- pierre investigated its effects on workmen, dogs, sheep, fowls, etc., and have always noted that in large doses it acts as an ener- getic poison, and in small doses, continued over long periods, the effects are of a totally opposite character. The lower animals, when fed exclusively on the must of the grape, used in the manufacture of verdigris, contain- ing a considerable amount of the salts of cop- per, throve on the diet and rapidly fattened. In like manner the health of the work-people was good; and, though the absorption of the salt was manifest in the secretions of their bodies, not one simple case of colic was dis- covered. Among the female workers there was a total freedom from eblorosis; and Messrs. Pdcholier and Saintpierre suggest that the salts of copper should be tried as medicine in such cases, believing that these salts possess properties similar to those of gold, manga- nese, and iron. But, though copper, thus absorbed slowly into the system, may be ad- vantageous, yet its local application produces sores and purulent discharges. The dust ir- ritates the eyes and the respiratory organs, bringing on slight ophthalmic attacks, sore throats, coughs, etc. These effects, though ordinarily of an unimportant ch racter, may become dan 6erous in irritable or nervous per- sons, or persons predisposed to pulmonary phthisis, asthma, or chronic diseases of the respiratory organs. It is therefore important that work-people subject to these latter dis- eases should not be permitted to enter on such work, and that medical men should recom- mend young women liahle to eblorotic dis- eases to engage in this employment. In every case, though the inconvenience arising from the dust may be slight, these gentlemen rec- ominend the work-people to wear a handker- chief over the face or nose and mouth, so that the air may, as it were, be sifted before being breathed; and they came to the conclusion that, in a public sanitary point of view, this manufacture is absolutely harmless. of the atmosphere. M. Quetelet has assumed that I do not share his views as to the height of the atmosphere being greater than is gen- erally supposed. I may, however, say that I take the same view of the case as he does, both with regard to the greater height of the atmosphere, 4nd also as to the superposition of two layers of a different nature. The lower of these, the unstable atmosphere, partakes of the rotatory motion of the earth, and is sub- ject to the influence of currents and to other variations, whilst the upper layerthe stable atmosphereis of much less density and is relatively at rest. There is no doubt that the latter follows the earth in its annual rev- olution, but whether it partakes of its diur- nal motion is a point which for the present remains undecided. Ma. NEWBY announces: On Change of Climate: a Guide for Travellers in Search of Health, by Thomas More Madden, M.D.; Englands Premiers, from Sir Robert Wal- pole t~o Sir Robert Peel: with a Sketch of the Political History of England under the House of Hanover, by W. H. Davenport Adams; English America; or, Pictures of Canadian Places and People, exhibiting our Colonial Possessions on the American Continent in their Moral, Social, Religious, and Industrial Aspects, by Samuel Phillips Day, author of Down South; also a novel by Miss Julia Corner, author of School Histories of France, Spain, etc., under the title of No Rela- tions. AMONG the readers of the Times must be ranked the King of Dahomey. It will he recollected that M. Jules Gdrard wrote a let- ter to the Times some months ago, comment- ing on the atrocities of the King of Dohomey, and dated from his capital. Whether his Majesty has a regular Foreign Secretary who translates to him the more interesting pas- sates of that ubiquitous journal is more than we can say; but this much appears to be cer- tain ; that the contents of M. Jules Gdrards letter became known in due course to his Ne- gro Majesty, who forthwith ejected the writer of it from his dominions. ________ A NEW mineral, we learn from the Society of Arts Journal, has been discovered in the IN a letter, On the Mutual Relations be- neighborhood of the Upper Yarra. It resem- tween Shooting Stars, Meteorites, and Star- bles that well known as sapphirine, and it is showers, M. Haidinger gives a succinct ac- harder than topaz which it scratches. It will count of the progress of this department of be principally valuable for the lapidary, pol- science. The identity of the three kinds ishing other stones, etc. Althou~h it has as of fiery-meteorsviz., shooting-stars, meteor- yet only been found in the portion of Aus- ites, and star-showers, be says, seems to tralia above referred to, it is likely to be met me undoubted; but I do not feel justified in with wherever the granite formation predom- expressing any decided opinion on the height mates. 144

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The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 38 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. Apr 23, 1864 0081 038
The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 38 145-192

THE LIVING No. 1038.. 23 April, 1864. CONTENTS. 1. Dr. Newman and Mr. Kingsley, 2. Lindisfarn Chase, 3. Problems in human Nature, 4. A Son of the Soil. Part 5, Saturday Review, Victoria Magazine, Eclectic Review, Macmillans Magazine, PoETRY.Among the Sand-Hills, 146. Blank Paper, 146. The Star and the Child, 146. Directions for making Parliamentary Fireworks (a la Disraeli), 152. Fontainehleau, 177. SHORT ARTIcLEs.Beltrami, the Discoverer of the Northern Source of the Mississippi, 169. The Diary of a Dutiful Son, 169. Our Mutual Friend, 169. The Coal Strata and Internal Heat of the Earth, 192. BuenmG.Immediately after each Volume of The Living .flge is completed, we bind a number of copies, to be exchanged at once for the Nos. if in good order; price of binding, sixty-five cents a volume. Where the Nos. are not in good order, we will have them bound as soon as we can. NEW-YEARS PRESENTS TO Cnsa~oYnxN.Our text will be found on the front of several of the late Nos.; but we now ask our readers to apply it to a single class of persons. While the price of every article of food or clothing, and of all the necessaries of life (excepting The Living .flge), has been increased, little or nothing has been done to raise proportionally the salaries of clergymen. They are obliged to lessen their comforts, in order to meet this pressure. Reader, if you wish to refresh the mind and the heart of the man who ministers to you in holy things, present him with mental food once a week, and do not give him The Living .Iige if there be any other work that will do him more good. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & Co. 30 BROMFIELD STREET, BOSTON. I For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remttted dzrecely to the Publishers, the LIviNG AGE will be punctually forwarded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes handsomely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. ANY VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBER may be bad for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to corn. plete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. AGE. PAGE. 147 153 170 178 AMONG THE SAND-HILLS. AMONG THE SAND-hILLS. Exon the ocean half a rood To the sand-hills long and low Ever and anon I go Hide from me the gleaming flood, Only listen to his flow. To those billowy eurls of sand Little of delight ic lent, As it were a yellow tent Here and there by some wild hand Pitehed, and overgrown with bent Some few buds, like golden beads, Cut iu stars on leaves that shine Greenly, and a fragranee flue Of the oceans delicate weeds, Of his foamed and silver wine. But the place is music-haunted, Let there blow what wind soever Now as by a stately river A monotonous requiems chanted, Now you hear great pine-woods shiver. Frequent when the tides are low, Creep for hours, sweet sleepy hums But when in the spring-tide comes, Then the silver trumpets blow, And the waters beat like drums And the Atlantics roll full often, Muffled by the sand-hills round, Seems a mighty city s sound, Which the night-time serves to soften, By tha wakers pillow drowned; Seems a salvostate, or battles Through the purple mountain gaps, Heard by peasants; or, perhaps, Seems a wheel that rolls or rattles Seems an eagle-wing that flaps; Seems a clap of thunder, caught By the mountain pines, and tuned To a marvellous gentle sound, Wailings, where despair is not, Quieting the hearts deep wound. Still, what winds there hiow soever, Wet or shine, by sun or star, When white horses plunge afar, When the pallid ~oth-lines shiver, When the waters quiet are, On the sand-hills when waves boom, Or with ripples scarce at all Tumble, nor so much as crawl, Ever do we know of whom Cometh up the rise and fall. Need is none to see the ships, None to mark the mid-sea jet Softening into violet, While those old pre-Adamite lips To the heaps beyond are set. Ah we see not the great foam - That beyond us strangely rolls, Whose white wingdd ships are souls, Sailing from the port called Home, When the signal bell, Death, tolls. Ah we see no silver shimmer, And we catch no hue divine, Of the purpling hyaline, Froni the heaving and the glimmer, Lifes sands bound us with their line. But by sounds unearthly driven Thronab lifes sand-hills, we may be Sore that a (liviner sea Floweth to our hearts from heaven, Ebbeth to eternity. W. A. BouJ2gge. S~pectetor. BLANK PAPER. Tis but a blank end worthlessleaf; No writing there we find; Tis only fit to be destroyed, And scattered to the wind. Yet pause awhile, and brin,, it near Where the warm firelight glows; Look nowbehold, by chemic art, The writing slowly grows Clear and distinct; thus aye twill be Exposed to heat and light; Removed from thence, and cold again, It vanishes from sight. Thus many a heart a blank appears, Where hidden, unconfessed, Unknown to all, Gods writing there Indelibly impressed, Waits but the Spirits heat and light, In his good time revealed, To show what wondrous power and love Were for a while concealed. Chamt~erss Journ~il. THE STAR AND THE CHILD. A MAIDEN walked at eventide Beside a clear and placid stream, And smiled as in its depths she saw A trembling stars reflected beam. She smiled until the beam was lost, As cross the sky a cloud was driven, And then she sighed, and then forgot The star was shining still in heaven. A mother sat beside lifes stream, Watching a dying chikt at dawn, And smiled, as in its eye she saw A hope that it might still live on. She smiled until the eyelids closed, But watched for breath until the even; And then she wept, and then forgot The child was living stiU in heaven. 146 DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. Fiom The Saturday Review. DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. SINCE the days of Bentley and Boyle there has not appeared so lively a controversy as that contained in the piquant Correspond- ence on the Question whether Dr. Newman teaches that Truth is no Virtue? Nor is the resemblance confined to the mere artistic power and mastership of literary swordrnan- ship which the victor displays. There is on either side enough to make the parallel suf- ficient. The shrewd. sound, logical precision of him who was once the leading mind of Oxford bears about the same relation to the ponderous thrust and accurate poise with which the old Master of Trinity delivered his weighty spear, as the helter-skelter dashing feint of KiAgsley do~ to the hasty and Ilashy sciolism of the pet of Aldrich and Atterbury. In the January number of Macmillans Mag- azine, Mr. Kingsley, under the initials of C. K., and cpropo~ of a review of Froudes History of England, delivered himself of a very brilliant passage, directed, and not at all too strongly, against the corruption in religion and morals encouraged or instigated by certain papal dogmas current at the time of the Reformation. But, not content~ with a general remark on the low state of moral- ity traceable to the doctrine of papal infialli- bility, Mr Kingsley went on to fortify his argument by a particular illustration, and said, So, again, of the virtue of truth. Truth, for its own sake, had never been a virtue with the Roman clergy. Father Newman infbrms us that it need not, and on the whole ought not to be; that cunning is the weapon which Heaven has given to the saints wherewith to withstand the brute male force of the wicked world which marries and is given in mar- riage. Passing over the somewhat extravagant and certainly rather sweeping allegation that truth had neverthat is, for sixteen hundred yearsbeen admitted to be a virtue by, as it seems, any of the clergy who formed during that time the majority of the Christian world, and who were the only teachers of morality in the whole of European Christendom, here was a distinct and positive assertion. Fa- ther Newman informs us that Truth need not, and on the whole ought not to be a vir- tue with the Roman clergy; or, as the phrase is capable of being read, Father 147 Newman informs us that Truth need not, and on the whole ought not to be a virtue, i.e., generally with anybody, with all Christians. And further, Father Newman informs us that cunning is the weapon which Heaven has given to the saints wherewith to with- stand the brute male force of the wicked world which marries and is given in mar- riage. Whether this notion be doctrinally correct or not, it is at least so. And then Mr. Kingsley proceeds to give, as an histor- ical proof, the instancea very pertinent oneof the Forged Decretals. Upon this, and very immediately indeed upon this, the old lion rouses himself in his den. Somebody had addressed to Dr. New- man, at the Oratory, Birmingham, as early as the 30th of December, the January num- ber of Macmillan, the above passage being duly pencilled. And, on the very same day, Dr. Newman writes a brief but very signifi- cant note to Messrs. Macmillan, not of com- plaint, nor of remonstrance, nor even request- ing an answer, but simply wishing to draw the attention of Messrs. Macmillan, as gen- tlemen, to a grave and gratuitous slander, with which I (Dr. Newman) feel confident you will be sorry to find associated a name so eminent as yours. To this note Mr. Kings- ley replies in a letter to Dr. Newman, avow- ing the article, and specifying, as the doc- ument to which he expressly referred, the sermon entitled, Wisdom and Innocence, from Sermons on Subjects of the Day, pub- lished in 1844. Dr. Newmans reply is not much more than a simple acknowledgment; but it concludes with a very piercing sting. The article was signed C. K.; but, says Dr. Newman, when I wrote to Mr. Macmillan, no person whatever whom I had seen or heard of occurred to me as the author of the statement in question. When I received your letter taking upon yourself the author- ship, I was amazcd. Here steps in a mys- terious personage, X. Y., Esq., a gentle- man who interposed between Mr. Kingsley and Dr. Newman, as Dr. Newman informs us. Who invoked his interposition does not appear, nor when or why lie interfered at all. X. Y. is. we suppose, a friend of Mr. Kings- ley, for it comes out incidentally that he confesses plainly that he had read the pas- sage, and did not even think that I(Dr. New- man) or any of my communion would think it unjust. X. Y., however, must have been 148 DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. consulted either by Mr. Kingsley or Mr. cally and said makes ) that my opinion Macmillan very shortly after Dr. Newmans of the meaning of your words was a mistaken first letter of December 30; for X. Y. writes one, I shall send at once to Macmillans Mag.. to Dr. Newman on January 5, and Mr. azine a few lines, which I enclose. In re Kingsleys letter admitting the authorship is dated January 6. To Mr. Kingsley Dr. Newman replies, as we have said, curtly on the 7th, but on the 8th he delivers himself at full to X. Y. The substance of it is this: Who the writer was had never crossed my mind; had any one said it was Mr. Kings- ley, I should have laughed in his face. The initials I saw; but I live out of the world; and if Messrs. Macmillan will not think the confession rude, I never saw the outside of their magazine before. I seldom notice per- sonal attacks; there is a call upon me to answer this, especially as you, an educated man, breathing English air and walking in the light of the nineteenth century, think that neither I nor any of my communion feel any difficulty in allowing that Truth for its own sake need not, and on the whole ought not to be a virtue with the Roman clergy. For a writer to go out of his way to have a fling at an unpopular name, living hut down, and boldly to say to those who know no better, who do not know meto say of me, Father Newman informs us that Truth, etc., and to be thus brilliant and antitheti- cal in the very cause of Truth, is a proceed- ing of so special a nature as to lead me to ex- claim, 0 Truth, how many lies are told in thy name. . . . I ask for no explanation that concerns the author and editor. If they set about proving their point, or, should they find that impossible, if they say so, in either case I shall call them men. But if they only propose to say that I have complained, and that they yield to my explanations, or that they are quite ready to be convinced if I will convince them, and so on . . . that is, if they ignore the fact that the onus pro- bandi of a very definite accusation lies upon themthen, I say, they had better let it all alone. Thus warned, Mr. Kingsley falls into the meshes which had been spread around every avenue of retreat. On the 14th of January, after having seen Dr. Newmans letter of the 8th of January to X. Y., Mr. Kingsley re- plies: As the tone of your letters (even more than their language) make me feel (if Mr. Kingsley had not written in a hurry he would probably have written gr~mmati ply, Dr. Newman observes upon these few lines: I gravely disapprove of the letter as a whole, and the grounds of this dissat- isfaction will be best understood if I place in parallel columns its paragraphs and what I conceive will be the popular reading of them Mr. Kingsleys [proposed] Lettcr [to Macmil- lans Magazine]. 1. Sir,In your last number I made cer- tain allegations against the teaching of the Rev. Dr. Newman, which were founded on a Sermon of his, entitled Wisdom and Inno- cence, preached by him as Vicar of St. Mary, and published in 1844. 2. Dr. JNewman has, by letter, expressed in the strongest terms his denial of the mean- ing which I have put upon his words. 3. No man knows the use of words better than Dr. Newman; no man, therefore, has a better right to define what he does, or does not, mean by them. 4. It only remains, therefore, for me to express my hearty regret at having so seri- ously mistaken him, and my hearty pleasure at finding him on the side of truth, in this or any other matter. Unjust, but too probable, popular rendering of it. 2. I have set before Dr. Newman, as he challenged me to do, extracts from his writ- ings, and he has affixed to them what he con- ceives to be their legitimate sense, to the de- nial of that in which I understood them. 3. He has done this with the skill of a great master of verbal fence, who knows, as well as any man living, how to insinuate a doctrine without committing himself to it. 4. However, while I heartily regret that I have so seriously mistaken the sense which he assures me his words were meant to bear, I cannot but feel a hearty pleasure also, at having brought him, for once in a way, to confess that after all truth is a Christian virtue. Mr. Kingsley, upon the receipt of this let- ter, withdrew two of the paragraphs, and published his explanation in the follow- ing terms (Macmillans Magazine, February, 1864) To the Editor of Macmillans Magazine Sia,In your last number I made certain allegations against the teaching of Dr. John DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. Henry Newman, which I thought were justi- fied by a sermon of his, entitled Wisdom and Innocence (Sermon 20 of Sermons bearing on subjects of the Day). Dr. New- man has by letter expressed, in the stron ~,est terms, his denial of the meaning which I have put upon his words. It only remains, therefore, lhr me to express my hearty regret at having so seriously mistaken him. Yours faithfully, Eversicy, January 14, 1864. (Signed) CIIAaLES KINGSLEY. Dr. Newman, however, was not satisfied. He writes to Messrs. Macmillan Mr. Kingsley did not remove that por- tion of his letter to which lay my main ob- jection. My objection to the sentence Dr. Newman has, by letter, expressed in the strongest terms his denial of the mean- ing which 1 have put upon his words ~ I thus explained Its main fault is, that, quite contrary to your intention, it will be understood by the general reader to intimate that I have been confronted with definite extracts from my works, and have laid before you my own in- terpretation of them. Such a proceeding I have indeed challenged, and have not been so fortunate as to bring about. In answer to this representation, Mr. Kingsley wrote to me as follows It seems to me, that, by referring pub- licly to the sermon, on which my allegations are founded, I have given, not only you, but every one an opportunity of judging of their injustice. Having done this, and having frankly accepted your assertion that I was mistaken, I have done as much as one Eng- lish gentleman can expect Irom another. 1 bring the matter before you, with- out requiring from you any reply. The conclusion of the whole matter is con- tained in Dr. Newmans reflections on the above, which, as a mere piece of effective w4ting, is too good to be abridged Reflections on the above. I shall attempt a brief analysis of the foregoing correspondence; and I trust that the wording which 1 shall adopt will not o$. fend against the gravity due both to myself and to the occasion. It is hupossible to do justice to the course of thought evolved in it without some Idmiliarity of expression. Mr. Kingsley begins them by exclaiming, Oh, the chicanery, the wholesale fraud, the vile hypocrisy, the conscience-killing tyranny of Rome! We have not far to seek for an evidence of it. Theres Father New- inan to wit; one living specimeu is worth a 149 hundred dead ones. He, a priest writing of Priests, tells us that lying is never, any harm. I interposed: You are taking a most ex- traordinary liberty with my name. II I have said this, tell inc when and where. Mr. Kingsley replies: You said it, Rev- erend Sir, in a sermon which you preached, when a Protestant, as Vicar of St. Marys, and published in 1844; andi could read you a very salutary lecture on the efihets which that sermon had at the time on my opinion ofyou. I made answer ; Oh . . . Not, it seems, as a priest speaking of priests ;but let us have the passane. Mr. Kingsley relaxes: Do you know I like your tone. From your tone I rejoice, greatly rejoice, to be able to believe that you did not mean what you said. I rejoin: Mean it! I maintain I never said it, whether as a Protestant or as a Catho- lie. Mr. Kingsley replies: I waive that point. I object: Is it possible! What? waive the main question! I either said it, or I didnt. You have made a monstrous charge against me ; direct, distinct, public. You are bound to prove it as directly, as distinctly, as publicly ;or to own you cant. Well, says Mr. Kingsley, if you are quite sure you did not say it, 11 take your word for it; I really will. My word! lam dumb. Somehow Ithought that it was my word that happened to be on trial. The word of a professor of lying, that he does not lie! But Mr. Kingsley reassures me: We are both gentlemen, he says; I have dane as much as one English gentleman can expect from another. I begin to see: he thought me a gentleman at the very time that he said I taught lying on system. After all, it is not 1, but it is Mr~ Kingsley who did not mean what he said. ilabemus confitenteni reum. So we have confessedly come round to this, preaching without prmictising; the common theme of satirists from Juvtnal to Walter Scott! I left Baby Charles and Steenie lay- ing his duty before him, says King James of the reprobate Dalgarno: 0 Ceordie, jingling Geordie, it was grand to hear Baby Charles laying down the guilt of dissiujula- tion, and St~enie lecturing on the turpitude of incontinence. While I feel then that Mr. Kingsleys Feb- ruary explanation is miserably iiisufficient in itself for his January enormity, still I feel also that the correspondence~ which lies be- tween these two acts of his, constitutes a real satisf~etion to those principles of historical DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. and literary justice to which he has given so rude a shock. Accordingly, I have put it into print, and make no further criticism on Mr. Kingsley. J. H.N. Of course there is a ludicrous side to this little passage of arms, if fight that can be ealled uhi tu pulses ego vapulo tantum. The notion of a conflict between Dr. Newman and Mr. Charles Kingsley is only funny. But it illustrates the two men. Mr. Kingsleys habit of mind is a very unfortunate one for a serious investigator of truth. He is only de- ficient in the accomplishments of accuracy and gravity. To weigh his words is not so im- portant as to calculate their force. Lively, impetuous, vigorous, hasty, too quick in form- ing judgments, and too vehement in express- ing them, he is a brilliant partisan, but a very unsafe teacher. It is not that he would in- tentionally disregard truth, but he is so anx- ious to get at a conclusion, and so very heed- less in impressing his conclusions strongly upon others, that he is apt to be careless in investigating the grounds of what ought to be his judgments, but which are his preju- dices. He is the most sensational writer of history who ever disdained the labor of read- ing. We think that, substantially, what he really meant to say about the Roman Church was right, and that even what he meant to say about a certain aspect of Dr. Newmans teaching in a particular sermon had some justification; but then what he meant to say was what he did not say. What he did say about Dr. Newman is entirely unjustifiable, inaccurate, and indeed untrue; and he bad much better have said so. Dr. Newman sim- ply pins him to definite words, confines him to the record, holds him in a hard, biting, grammatical, and logical vice. And there is an end of what Mr. Kingsley did say. A Pro- fussor of History, criticising a work of history, is hound to speak strictly or to hold his tongue. Mr. Kin~s1ey uttered very nearly as many inaccuracies, and indeed positive misstate- mentsDr. Newman gives them a plainer nameas words in his now famous sentence, Truth for its own sake had never been a virtue with the Roman clergy. Father New- man informs us that it need not, and on the whole ou~ht not to be; that cunning is the weapon which Heaven has given to the saints wherewithto withstand the brute male force of the wicked world which marries and is given in marriage. In fact, Father Newman never wrote the sermon on Wisdom and In- nocence at all. It was not Father Newman, but Mr. Newman, an Anglican vicar, who preached and published it. Next, the word Truth only occurs once in the se~mon at all, and quite in another connection, when the preacher observes that the truth has in it- self the gift of spreading without instru- ments. Neither does the sermon contain one single word about the moral obligations of the clergy, whether Roman, Greek, or An- glical. Neither of the words Roman or Clergy occurs in the whole sermon. Nor is there any discussion whatever about truth or its claims, general or partial, seeing that truth is not named in the sermon. Nor again does Dr. Newman inform us that cunning is the weapon given to the saints, seeing that he says Christians were allowed the armsthat is, the artsof the defenceless. Even the inferior animals will teach us how the Creator has compensated to the weak their want of strength by giving them other qualities which may avail with the strong. They have the gift of fleetness . . . or some natural cunning which enables them to elude their enemies. . . . Brute force is countervailed by flight, brute passion by prudence and arti- fice. And then he goes on to argue from this illustration, as his text suggested The servants of Christ are forbidden to de- fend themselves by violence, but they are not forbidden other means. For instance, fore- sight. . . avoidance. . . prudence and skill, as in the text, Be ye wise as serpents. And, lastly, as to the somewhat offensive lan- guage attributed to Dr. Newman cunning is given to the saints wherewith to withstand the brute male force of the wicked world which marries and is given in marriage there is not one single word in the sermon, from end to end, about males or marriage or giving in marriage. The explanation of the whole matter is this: Mr. Kingsley had some vague and indistinct recollections of a sermon of Mr. Newmans which, when he read it, made a great impression upon himan im- pression so deep that it shook off the strong influence which Dr. Newmans writings had excited in him, and which sermon seemed to Mr. Kingsleys mind to convey a sort of apology for unmanliness and unstraightfor- warduess, and to suggest a theory and Chris- tian philosophy of slyness andartifice and in- 150 DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. sincerity. if Mr. Kingsley had said this, he would have been perfectly justified in saying it; but what he was not justified morally in doing was deliberately to assign to Dr. New- man express language and plain words which Dr. Newman never used, without any refer- ence or quotation. And what he was not justified merely as a literary man in doing was to imagine for a moment that Dr. New- manof all men in the world, so consummate a master of lan~,uage, so subtile, so indirect and suggestive, so pregnant with qualifica- tions, so refined, and so judicious, not to say so crafty, in statementshould ever deliver himself of such a coarse, vulgar, stupid say- ing as, Truth need not, and on the whole ought not, to be a virtue, and cunning is the virtue which Heaven has given to the saints to withstand the brute male force of the wicked world. But, after all, the interesting and impor- tant question remains What was it that Mr. John Henry Newman really did teach in his sermon, Wisdom and Innocence? Does it contain anything which would justify Mr. Kingsley or anybody else in drawing from it, as the fair and natural or even probable sense, something like his interpretation of its pur- pose and meaning? What is the general drift of this very remarkable sermonor, in other words, what is, on this point, the broad scope of Mr. Newmans ethical teaching? To discuss these questions in this place would be impossible, were it proper; but a line or two of thought may be indicated. There are two classes of mii~ds which never can he brought to understand each other, and Dr. Newman and Mr. Kingsley represent to some extent either type. The one is the im- petuous, thoughtless, unscientific man, whose conclusions are often right, but who is singu- larly unpractical, impatient, honest, hut use- less. lie gets hold of a great broad, moral truth, and, careless of distinctions, limita- tions, and qualifications, tries, or thinks that he tries, to hold to it, come what may of con- sequences. He is the consistent manthe man who always says what he thinks, and thinks it a duty never to hold his tongue who tells you Fiat justitia ruat cadumwho, if he sees truth, right, duty, and honesty, follows truth, right, duty, and honesty, as he says, at all costs. He does not believe that prudence is a virtue at all; he scorns the very notion of management; he cannot believe it 151 to be right ever to furl all sails and lie to till. the tyranny be overpast. This character is a high ideal; its only defect is that it gener- ally ends in disastrous failure. The other character is that of wisdom, prudence, and far-sightedness, of skill and management, and what looks very like intrigue, It accepts the world, and tries to make the best of it. It affects compromises, weighs consequences, cal- culates chances, makes the best of a bad bar- gain, trims, thinks that a retreat has its value, and that nothing is worse than a crushing de- feat. In morals, such a man helieveA in the duty of balancing conflicting motives, giving up one apparent good in favor of another ap- parent good which has a sli~,ht, and perhaps only an apparent, preponderance. . The one is said to be the political mind, the other the moral minda foolish distinction, since pol- itics is only the highest form of ethics. The two minds cannot do justice to each other. The politician thinks the moralist to be gen- erally a fool; the moralist retorts by his con- viction that the politician must he a knave. If it is a matter of regret that the idealist in practice seldoms reaches his own lofty stand- ard, it must be admitted that the practical man of the world generally acts in advance of his looser code of moral obligations. Now, Dr. Newmans is eminently the po- litical mind; or at least he recognizes it, and tries to do it justice. He wants to see whether there is in the gospel morality that eternal opposition between plain sailing and tacking which is said to existwhether eternal mo- rality is compatible with prudence, discre- tion, and the political mind. Undoubtedly, the question is worth raising, for it is one of the most serious things to settle whether, for example, the economical and commercial and practical virtues of modern times are totally irreconcilable with Christian ethics. If they are irreconcilable,and the language of most preachers, when they discuss what they would call the world, would tend to this conclu- sion,then it is quite plain that the whole framework and most of the motives of society are absolutely anti-Christian. This, less ex- panded of course, is the problem to which Dr. Newman addresses himself. He sees, or thinks he sees, in the Bible, indications of the obliga- tion of such a duty as prudence, and that it is distinctly recognized as a Christian virtue, and that somehow or other it is indicated by the combination of the wisdom of the serpent 152 and the innocence of the dove. How far Dr. Newman succeeds in his argument is not the present question. Whether some of his illus- trations-are not wifortunate, whether in the sermon he introduces sufficient safeguards in a very subtile discussion, or whether he may not he justly chargeable with at least an ap- parent apology for all the ecclesiastical chicane and fraud and double-dealing of which head- Inits the existence, we shall not pronounce. It is quite enough to believe that the very dis- cussion of such a subject would be repulsive to an impetuous character like Mr. Kings- icys. From his cast of thought, and habit- ual precipitancy and looseness of judgment, he is disqualified from doing justice to a question of this nature. The very thought of it sweeps away such little calmness as he possesses. We repeat, there is no wonder that two such minds fail to understand each other. And, by way of illustration, there is at the present moment a ease in the ecclesiastical world which is much to the point. The promoters of the prosecu- tion against Essays and Reviews could have no sympathy with that serpentine wisdom which would have counselled inaction; and, on the other hand, the event has proved that bringing an old house about your ears can be managed by the most dovelike innocence and dovelike weakness of judgment. So, again, in the present political crisis, the honest peo- ple who cry out for an immediate and active DR. NEWMAN AND MR. KINGSLEY. interference on behalf of little Denmark have not a word to say for politicians aY~d states- men except that the whole thing is sheer cow- ardice and immorality. Let us add a word on the main question as to the wise and artificial temper which Mr. Newman finds inculcated in the Bible. That the combination is possible, Dr. Newman himself presents at least an approximating proof. Perhaps the actual compatibility of the serpent with the dove is not a matter of choice in his own case. But, unconsciously it may be, he somehow does seem to illustrate the great original he draws. Were it neces- sary to show what prudent simplicity really is, and to point to the serpentine and colum- bine natures united in actual life, one might fancy them impersonated in some grave re- cluse, brooding turtle-like for the most part in serene solitude and peaceful nest, apart from the world, uninterested in its petty wrangles, carelessperhaps, as he humbly suggests, careless from indolence of at- tacks on himself and on his own co-religionists, especially if they were such as it were incon- venient to meet; hut springing out now and then with the lithe and supple crash- of the serpent, erect, defiant, and pitiless, and hiss- ing with scorn, when the hour of vengeance arrived and a helpless victim wore within reach of his cruel fangs. DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING PARLIAMEN TARY FIREWORKS (a la DISRAELI). WOULD you know what the stuff is made of Thats used by the undertaker Of the unsavory trade of Opposition firework-maker? Mix inferences and fictions, With imputations enough; Add sarcasms and contradictions You neednt mind weighing the stuff. Steel-filings epigraromatic And salt for burning blue The best, if you have it, s Attic; But any salt will do. Any paper a case will make, And any stick a handle; Een a Farrand fact you may take, Or a Hennessy Roman-scandal. If youd damp the stuff in your mortar Wet powder smokes more than dry Abundance of cold water, Your party will supply. Take a lucifer out of your pocket, Set a light to your firework quick, It will go up like a rocket, And come down like the stick. If the House of Commons admire works Of this kind, theyll not charm less, Since such parliamentary fireworks Are warranted perfectly harmless. Twas Darby the fireworks displayed In the d ays when Vauxhall was busy; But now hes turned over the trade, And his successor is Dizzy. Punch. LINDISFARN CHASE. CHAPTER IY. THE FAHILY AT THE CHASE. IN consequence of the circumstances of the family history narrated in the preceding chap- ter, Margaret Lindisfarn was about to return to the home of her ancestors in the recognized position of co-heiress to the family estates, a sufficiently brilliant destiny, considering that the property was a good and well-paid four thousand a year, unencumbered hy mort- gage, debt, or other claims of any sort. Had those circumstances not occurred,had Ju- han Lindisfarn been still living, Margarets position, instead of being a brighter one than that of her sister, as it had appeared to he at the time when she had been adopted hy the Dc Rennevilles, and Kate had only her god- mothers six thousand pounds to look to, would have now heen a far less splendid one. For shortly before the time at which she was returning from Paris to Silverton, all the magnificent Dc Renneville prospects had sud- denly made themselves wings and flown away. The large fortune of the Baron de Renne- yule had been, like that of many another Frenchman bearing a name indicative of for- mer territorial greatness, entirely a financial and not a territorial one. And that inca- pacity for leaving well alone, which is gener- ated by the habitual excitement of a life spent in speculation, and which has wrecked so many a colossal fabric of commercial great- ness, was fatal to that of M. de Renneville. A series of unfortunate operations on the Paris Bourse had ended by leaving him an utterly ruined man. And there was an end of all expectations from Margarets Parisian relatives. Of course the shock of this calamity was very differently felt from what it would have been, had it occurred during the lifetime of Julian Liudisfarn. It was very materially modified to the young lady herself, and doubt- less also to the kind relatives who had stood in the position of parents to her from her in- fancy, by the knowledge that there was a very substantial English inheritance to fall back on, now that the more splendid but less se- cure French visions had faded away. Never- theless, the calamity had been felt very dis- tinetly to be a calamity by Margaret. In the first place, she was, of course, laudably grieved to be obliged to part with those who had been as parents to her. In the next place, she very naturally looked forward with anything but 153 pleasure to a migration from Paris to Silver- ton, and from the home of an adoptive father and mother, whom she knew, to that of a real father of whom she knew nothing. And in the third place, she estimated with very prac- tical accuracy the difference between an heir- ess-ship to some six or seven thousand a year, and an heiress-ship to two thousand only. For somehow or other it happens, that this is a point on which the most beautifully candide French girls are generally found to possess a singularly sound and business-like knowledge. We are all aware how cautiously and scrupulously the French system of edu- cating dernoiselles comme ilfaut labors to fence in the snow-like mental purity of its pupils from all such contact or acquaintance with the world as might involve the slightest risk of producing a thought or a sentiment which might by possibility lead to something calcu- lated to blemish the perfection of that inge- nuite, which is so eloquently expressed by every well-schooled feature of these carefully trained and jealously guarded maidens. Nev- ertheless, a due appreciation of the intimate connection between cash and social position is not among the tabooed subjects of any French female schoolroom, whether it be under the paternal roof or that of some Sacrd Cceur, or other such first-rate conventual es- tablishment. For various reasons, therefore, it was a black day for poor Margaret when she had to leave her Parisian home for an exile au fond du province, as she expressed it, in foggy England. At the bottom of the province, Silverton certaiily was, if the top of it is to be supposed to be the part nearest London. But the Silvertonians had no notion that the sun yoked his horses so far from their western city as to justify the sort of idea. which Margaret had formed to herself of its remoteness. And least of all had the warm hearts who on that bright September after- noon were expecting the arrival of the recov- ered daughter of the house at Lindisf~rn Chase the remotest idea that the home to which they were eager to welcome her was other than on the whole about the happiest and most highly favored spot of earths sur- face. Kate was, as Lady Faraleigh had promised her she should be, in very good time to join the assembled members of the family before the hour at which Margaret was expected. LINDISFARN CHASE. They were all in the long low drawing-room, lined with white panelling somewhat yellow with years, and gilt mouldings, the four win- dows of which looked out on the terrace in front of the house. It was very evident, at a glance, that something out of the ordinary routine of the family life was about to take place. None of those there assembled would have been in the room at that hour in the ordinary course of things. And there was an unmistakable air of expectancy, and even of a certain degree of nervousness, about them all. The old squire had caused an immense fire to he made in the ample grate; and was very evidently suffering from the effects of it. It was a beautifully warm afternoon; but the squire bad an idea that his daughter was coming from a southern clime where it was always very hot,and besides, the making of a big fire seemed to his imagination to he in some sort symbolical of welcome. He was walking up and down the long room, looking out of the windows, as he passed them, wip- ing his massive broad forehead and florid face with his silk handkerchief, and consulting his watch every two minutes. He was dressed in a blue coat with metal buttons, yellow ker- seymere waistcoat, drab breeches, top-boots, and a white neckeloth. His head was bald in front, and the long locks of silver hair hung over his coat-collar behind. It is worth while to specify these particulars of his toi- let, for he never appeared otherwise before dinner. I am glad you are come, Kate; I began to think you would have been late! And I should not have been pleased at that. I sup- pose her ladyship would not come in to- day? No. She thought she had better not to- day; I took good care about the time. Its not near two yet. It wants: thirteen minutes, said the squire, again looking at his watch: she can hardly be here before two. Go and listen if you can hear wheels, Mat; you have an ear like a hare. The Mat thus addressed was to every other human being in Sillshire, from the Earl of Silverton at Sillhead Park to the hustlers at the Lindisfarn Arms, Mr. Mat. It would have altogether discomposed him to address him as Mr. Matthew Lindisfarn; but he would not have liked anybody save the squire to call him plain Mat. He was Mr. Mat; and only recognized himself under that name and title. Mr. Mat wets a second cousin of the squire; and had been received into the house by the squires father, when he had been left an orphan at twelve years old, wholly unprovided for. Since that time he had lived, boy and man, at Lindisfarn Chase; and was considered by himself and by everybody else, as much and as inseparably a part of tbe place as the old elms and the rooks in them. lIe was about ten years the squires junior, that is to say he was about fifty at the time of which I am speaking. Mr. Mat, looked at from one point of view, was a very good-for-nothing sort of fellow; but looked at from another, he was good for a great many things, and by no means value- less in his place in the world. He was es- sentially good-for-nothing at the prime and generally absolutely paramount business of earning his own living. If kind fate had not popped him into the special niche which suited him so well, he must have starved or lived in the poorhouse. He was perfectly well fitted, as far as knowledge went, to be a game-keeper, and a first-rate one. But he never would have kept to his duties. The very fact that they were his duties, and the means of earning his bread, would have made them distasteful to him. Not that Mr. Mat was a lazy, or in some sort even an idle, man. He was capable of great exertion upon occa- sions. But then the occasions must be ir- regular ones. His good qualities again were many. He was the best farrier and veterinary surgeon in the country side though totally without any science on the subject. He had a fine bass voice, a good ear, and sung a good song, or took a part in a glee in a first-rate style. He was a main support, accordingly, of the Silverton Glee-club, of which the Rev. Minor Canon Thorburn was president. But unlike that reverend votary of Apollo, Mr. Mat, though he liked his glass, was as sober as a judge. Mr. Mat, though perfectly able to speak quite correct and unprovincial Eng~ lish, when he saw fit to do so, was apt to af- fect the Sillshire dialect, to a certain degree; and if there chanced to be any person present whom Mr. Mat suspected of finery or Lon- don-bred airs, he was ~ure to infuse a doubl& dose of his beloved provincial Done into his speech. He had a special grudge against any Sillshire man whom he suspected of being ashamed of his own country dialect. And 154 155 LINDISFARN CHASE. Freddy Falconer was the object of his strong found Mr. Mats ugliness repulsi e after a dislike mainly on this ground; and the butt weeks acquaintance. His dress, lik~ that of of many a shaft from Mr. Mat purposely the squire, never varied. Before dinner he aimed at this weakness. Often and often always wore a green coat with metal buttons, when Mr. Fred was doing the superfine, es- bearing on them a foxs head, or some such pecially before ladies or Londoners, Mr. Mat adornment, a scarlet cloth waistcoat, a col- would come across him with a We Zillshire ored neckerchief, drab breeches and long buff yolk, muster Vreddy! to that elegant young leather gaiters. At dinner, Mr. Mat always gentlemans intense disgust. There was ac- appeared in black coat and trousers, white cordiogly but little love lost between him waistcoat and neck-cloth; and, curiously and Mr. Mat. And upon one occasion Freddy enough,unless Fred Falconer led him spe- had attempted to come over Mr. Mat by doing cially into temptation,with perfectly cor- the distant and di~.,nified, and calling him rect and unprovincial English. Mr. Matthew Lindisfarn; but he brought There was one other member of the family down upon himself such a roasting on every party present, who, though the reader has occasion when he and i\Ir. Mat met for the already heard of her, merits being presented next month afterwards that he was fain not to him a little more formally. This was Miss to repeat the offence. Kate, who was a prime Imogene Lindisfarn. She was, to a yet greater favorite with Mr. Mat, and who could hardly degree than Mr. Mat, an inseparable part and do wrong in his eyes, had once ventured to parcel of the Lindisfarn establishment. She remonstrate with him on these provincial was, at the time in question, in her seventy- proclivities, upon which he had at once eighth year, and was the squires aunt. As avowed and justified his partiality, long as he could recollect,and much longer, Tothink, he said, ofa Lindisfarn lass therefore, than anybody else about the place, (he always spoke of the young ladies of the except old Brian Wyvill, the keeper, a brother family, whether of the present or of former of the verger at the cathedral, could recollect generations, as Lindisfarn lasses; ) to Miss Imogene had kept the keys, made the think of a Lindisfarn lass having no ear vor tea for breakfast, and superintended the fe- Zillshire! Vor my part, I zem to taste all the male part of the establishment. She was pleasant time Ive known, Zillshire man and rather short, and still hale, active, and as boy for vivty years in the zound of it, and I upright as a ramrod. She always wore a dii love it. I zem its so homely and friendly- rich lavender-colored silk dress, which as she like. And, Miss Kate, yew du love it your- walked rustled an accompaniment to the pit- self, yexi#dont talk like their vulgar London a-pat of her high-heeled shoes. A spotless minced-up gibberish. white crape cap, and equally spotless cambric Mr. Mat in appearance was a great con- handkerchief, pinned cornerwise over her trast to the squire. He was a shorter and shoulders, completed her attire. A very slight smaller man, though by no means undersized. touch of palsy gave a little vibratory motion The squire was six feet one, and broad in pro- to her head, which seemed, when she was portion. 1\Jr. Mats head was as black as the ktying down the law, as on domestic matters squires was white, and whereas the latter she was rather apt to do, to impart a sort of allowed his silver locks to fall almost on his defiant expression to her bearing. She never shoulders, Mr. Mat cropped his coal-black appeared without a little basket full of keys hair so short that it stood up bristling like a in her hand, and the perpetual never-changed scrubbing-brush. He had a specially bright volume of Clarissa Harlow, already mentioned, black eye under a large and bushy black eye- She was the only member of the family who brow; a remarkably brilliant set of regular addressed the squire as Mr. Lindisfarn. teeth; and would probably have been a de- Mr. Mat always called him squire; and cidedly good-looking man, if he had not been I~iate, somewhat irreverently, but to her la- deeply marked with the small-pox. As it thers great delight, was wont to call him was, it must be admitted that Mr. Mat was Noll. As for Miss Imogene, she had far from good-looking. Yet there was a mm- never been called anything but Miss Immy gled shrewdness and kindly good-humor in by any human being for the last sixty years. his face that made it decidedly an agreeable Miss Immy had cake and wine, and a most one to those who knew him; and few ever delicately cut plate of sandwiches, on a tray 156 near at hand, prepared ready to be adminis- tered to the traveller on the instant of her ar- rival. She had also a reserve of tea and ex- quisite Silishire eream, in ease that kind of refreshment should be preferred; and she had thrice, in the last quarter of an hour, ascer- tained by personal inspection that the kettle was boiling. Miss Immy had meditated much on the question what kind of refection would probably be most in accordance with the habits of the Parisian-bred stranger; and she had brought all that she could remember to have ever heard on the subject of French modes of life to bear on the subject. But soupe maiqre and frogs were the only things that had presented themselves to her mind as adapted by any special propriety for the oc- casion, and as both these were for different reasons out of her reach, she had been forced to fall back on English ideas. But she was not without uncomfortable misgivings that very possibly the foreign-bred young lady might have requirements of some wholly un- expected and unimagined kind. It was evident, indeed, that they were all a little nervous in their different ways; and very naturally so. Mr. Mat was least troub- led hy any feeling of the kind; being saved from it by the entirety of his conviction that no human being could do otherwise than bet- ter their condition and increase their happi- ness, by coming from any other part of the world to Sillshire. At length, Mr. Mat cried, Hark! There is the carriage! Yes, there it is. Theyve just passed the lodge. And all of them hurried out to the porch in the centre of the terrace in front of the house, where they were joined by three or four fine dogs, all proving their participation in the excitement of the moment by barking vociferously. Old Brian Wyvill, the octogenarian keeper, came hob- bling up after them. Mr. Banting, the old butler, followed by a couple of rustics still struggling with the scarcely completed oper- ation of getting their arms into their old-fash- ioned liveries, came running out at the door. Coachman and groom had gone with the car- riage to meet Miss Margaret at Silverton, and were now coming up the drive from the lodge. The female portion of the establishment had assembled just inside the hall-door, grouping themselves in attitudes which suggested a strong contest in their minds between curios- ity and fear, and readiness to take to flight LINDISFARN CHASE. at the shortest notice, on the first appearance of danger. Crunch went the gravel! Pit-a-pat went most of the hearts there at a somewhat accel- erated pace! The dogs barked more furiously than ever. The rooks began flying in circles around their ancient city up in the elm-clump on the left side of the house, and holding a very tumultuous meeting to inquire into the nature of the unusual circumstances taking place beneath them. The squire hallooed to the dogs to be quiet, in a great mellow, mu- sical voice, producing a larger volume of sound than all the rest of the noises put together. The peacocks on the wall of the garden be- hind the elm-clump, stimulated by emulation, screamed their utmost. And in the midst of all this uproar, Thomas Tibbs, the coachman, pulled up his horses exactly at the door, with a profound consciousness that Paris could do no better in that department at all events. CHAPTER Y. MARGA~RETS FIRST DAY AT HOME. IN the next instant, half a dozen eager hands had pulled open the .varriage-door ; and an exceedingly elegant and admirably dressed fig- ure sprang from it, and with one bound, as it seemed, executed with such marvellous skill that the process involved no awkward move- ment, and no derangement of the elegant cos- tume, threw itself on its knees at the feet of the astonished squire. Mon pire! cried Miss Margaret, in an accent so admirably fitted for the occasion that it seemed to include an exhaustive expo- sition of all the sentiments that a jeune per- sonne bien elevee might, could, should, would, and ought to feel on returning after long ab- sence to the parental roof. 11cr attitude was admirable. The heavy folds of her rich silk dress fell down behind, sloping out on the stone step as artistically as if they had been arranged by skilful hands after her position had been assumed. Her clasped hands were raised toward the squire s face with an expression that would have ar- rested the fall of the axe in the hands of an executioner. And her upturned head showed to all present a very beautiful face, in which the most striking feature, as it was then seen, was a magnificent pair of large, dark, liquid eyes. My dear child! cried the squire in a stentorian voice, that made the fair girl at LINDISFARN CHASE. his feet start just a little(but she recovered herself instantly) My dear child! Glad to see thee ! Welcome to Lindisfarn. Wel- come home, lass! he continued, evidently desirous of getting her up, if possible, but much puzzled about the proper way of han- dling her, if indeed there were any proper way. Mon p& e! reiterated his daughter, with a yet more heart-rending filial intonation on the word. Old B& ian Wyvill was affected by it (like the audience recorded as having been melted to tears by a great tragedians pronunciation of the word Mesopotamia), and drew the back of his rough, hand across his eyes. The ladys-maid whispered to the housekeeper that it was beautiful ! But Miss Immy, greatly startled, trotted up to the still kneel- ing young lady, with that peculiar little short-stepping amble of hers, holding a bot- tle of salts in her tremulous hand, which she poked under Margarets nose, saying, as she did so, Poor thing, the journey! It has been too much for her! Margaret winked and caught her breath, and the tears came into her fine eyes. Hu- man nature could not have done less, with Miss Immys salts under her nose; but she did not belie her training, and showed herself equal to the occasion. De grdce, madame! she said, putting aside Miss Immys bottle with one exquisitely gloved hand. It is my father I see! she added, with a very slight foreign accent. To be zure, Miss Margy! struck in Mr. Mat. To be zure its your vather! And he wouldnt hurt ye on on~account. Dont you be afraid of the squire. He has no more vice in him than a lan~b! Dont be a fool, Mat! My girl afraid of me! shouted the squire. My opinion is, the lass is frighted! re- turned Mr. Mat, in an undertone to the squire, looking at Margaret shrewdly as he spoke, with the sort of observant look with which he would have examined a sick ani- mal. Mayhap, he continued in the same aside tone, its the dogs. Ill take em off. Im right glad to hear you speak Eng- lish, and speak it very well too, my dear. I was beginning to be afraid you could speak nothing but French, said the squire. Oh, yes, sir, 8aid his daughter. She 157 had now risen to her feet, rather disappointed that her father had not raised her from the ground, and pressed her to his bosom, as he probably would have done if he had not been too much afraid of injuring her toilet, Oh, yes, sir, thanks to my kind instructors, I have cultivated my native language.~~ Thats a comfort, said the squire; for 1 am ashamed to say that I have cultivated no other! But Kate there, and Lady Fain- leigh, will talk to you in French as long as you like. Upon this, Kate, who had hitherto hung back, looking on the scene which has been described with a sort of dismayed surprise, that had the effect of making her feel all of a sudden shy toward her sister, came for- ward, and putting her arm round Margarets waist, gave her a kiss, saying as she did so, Shall we go in, dear? You must be tired. And Miss Immy will not be contented till you have had something to eat and drink. Ma sceur! exclaimed the new-coiner; again compressing into that word a whole homily for the benefit of the bystanders on all the beauty and sanctity of that sweet re- lationship, and returning Kates kiss first on one cheek and then on the other. And then they all went into the drawing- room, the two sisters. walking with their arms round each others waists. They were singularly alike, and yet sin- gularly contrasted, those twin Lind isfarn lasses,to use Mr. Mats mode of speech. Kate was a little the taller of the two; a very little; but till one saw the sisters side by side, as they were then walking across the hall to the drawing-room, the difference of height in Kates favor might have been sup.- posed to be greater than it really was. Both had a magnificent abundance of that dark, chestnut hair, the rich brown gloss of which really does imitate the color of a ripe horse- chestnut fresh from its husk. But Kate wore hers in large heavy curls on either side of her face and neck, while Margarets was arranged in exquisitely neat bands bound closely round the small and classically shaped head. Both had fine eyes; but with respect to that difficultly described feature, it was much less easy to say in what the two sisters differed, and in what they were alike, than in the more simple matter of the hair. At first sight one was inclined to say that the eyes were totally different in the two. Then LINDISFARN CHASE. a closer examination convinced the observer pressed decision, energy, vigor, elasticity,.- that in both girls they were large, well- frankness, if one may predicate such a qual- opened, and marked by that speckdly limpid ity of a step. Margarets gait, on the con- appearance which suggests the same idea of trary, seemed perfectly adapted to express great depth which is given by an unruffled timidity, languor, and graceful softness in its and perfectly pellucid pool of still water. In every movement. On the whole, the differ- both girls they were of that beautiful brown ences between the two sisters would he what color, which is so frequently found in con- junction with the above-noted appearance. And yet, notwithstanding all these points of similarity, the eyes of the two sisters,or perhaps it would be more accurate to say the expression of them,were remarkably differ- ent. Those who saw them both, when no particular emotion was affecting the expres- sion of their features, would have said that Margarets eyes were the more tender and loving. But those who knew Kate well would have said, Wait till the eyes have some special message of tenderness from the heart, and then look at them. Kates eyes were the more mobile and changeful in ex- pression; Margarets, the more languishing. There was perhaps more of intellect in the former, more of sentiment in the latter. In complexion the difference was most complete and decided Kates complexion was a brill- iant one. Though the skin was as perfectly transparent as the purest crystal, and even the most transient emotion betrayed itself in the heightened or diminished color of the cheek, its own proper hue was of a somewhat richer tint than that of the hedge-rose. The whole of Margarets face, on the contrary, was perfectly pale. The skin was of that beautiful satiny texture, and alabaster-like purity of white, which is felt by many men to be more beautiful than any the most ex- quisite coloring. Perhaps this absolute ab- sence of color helped to impart to the eyes of Margaret Lindisfarn that peculiar depth and languishing appearance of tenderness which so remarkably characterized them. Both girls had specially beautiful and slen- der figures; but that of Kate had more of elasticity and vi~,or; that of her sister more of lithe yieldingness and flexibility. Both had lone.,, slender, gracetully-formed hands; but those of Margaret were the whiter and more satiny of the two. Both had in equal per- fection the beauty of ankle, instep, and foot, which insures a clean, race-horse like action and graceful gait. Yet the carriage of the two sisters was as remarkably different as anything about them. Kates every step ex would first strike a stranger on seeing them for the first time. The points of similarity between them would be iioted afterward, or might never be discovered at all unless by the intelligent eye of some particularly inter- ested or habitually accurate observer. And then the somewhat up-hill process of making acquaintance with the stranger had to he gone through. And Margaret did not appear to be one of those who are gifted with the special tact and facilities which make such processes rapid and easy. The cake and wine were administered, Miss Immy standing over the patient the while, with one hand on her hip, filled to overflowing with the kind- liest thoughts and intentions, but having very much the air of a severe hospital nurse en- forcing some very disagreeable discipline. But Miss Margaret nibbled a morsel of cake, and having put into a tumbler of water just enou,h wine to slightly color it, she sipped a little of the uninviting mixture. Bless me, my dear! cried the old lady, whose speech was, like that of most of her con- temporaries in a similar rank of life at that period, tinctured with a very unmistakable flavor of provincialism, Du let me pit a lit- tle drop more wine into your glass; zems to me, it aint fit drink for either man or beast in that fashion. Merci, madame! Thank you! I always water my wine so much. I am used to it. said Margaret. Well, if you are used to it, my dear; but to my mind it seems like spoiling tew good things. Better drink clean water than wa- ter bewitched that fashion! The Lindisfarn water is celebrated. ~~It is very good, thank you, madame. Are they well off for water in Paris? asked the squire, catching at the subject in his difficulty of finding anything to say to his new daughter. Oh, we had always exquisite water, sir; replied Margaret with more of warmth in her tone than she had yet put into it. Madame de R-rwenneville (this strange orthography is intended, however inadequately, to repre 158 LINDISFARN CHASE. sent the most perfectly executed Parisian asseyement) Madame de R-rwenneville was always very particular about the filtering of the water. Filtering! cried Mr. Mat in a tone of the profoundest contempt. You cant make bad water into good by filtering, filter as much as you will. Well do better than that for you here ,Miss Marty! Im very particular about my filtering tool my dear: said Mr. Lindisfarn ; the Sill- shire gravel does it for me. Theres my fil- tering machine up above the house there, all covered over with forest trees for ornament. And the squire laughed at his conceit, a huge hut not unmusical laugh, which set every pa~ol in the wainscotin b on the wall vibrat- incr Margaret opened her fine eyes to their ut- most extent, and gazed on her father with as- tonishment, very near akin to dismay. We had very fine forest trees at Paris, she said, after a little pause, in the garden of the Tuileries and the Champs Elysdes. Ah! I am longing for you to tell me all about Paris, said Kate; I should so like to see it. And all about aunt, and poor M. de Renneville. It is very sad. We shall never get to the end of all we have to say to each other! Well! I shall go and heat the turpips in the copse-side twelve acres, said the squire, rising. Come along, Mat. Call the dogs. Good-by till dinner-time, my dear; Miss Immy and Kate are longing to show you all the old place. You will soon feel yourself at home among us. But I dare say it will seem dull at first after Paris. And so saying, the squire and Mr. Mat left the room. Now, Miss Immy, said Kate, I shall take possession of Margaret till dinner-time. Fm sure you must have a thousand things to do; andI mean to have her all to myself. good-by, dears; Im all behind-hand to- day. Phoebe brought in the mornings eggs hours ago; and I have not had time to mruk em yet. Kate will show you your room, Margy dear. I hope you will find all to your diking. But its to be thought that our Sill- shire ways may be different to your French fashion; but if there is anything we can get, youve only to speak. I did go into Silverton myself yesterday, to see if I could find any French-fashioned things. But I could only find a bit of Paris soap at Pipers, the perfum- ers. I got that. You will find it in your room, dear. And so Miss Immy bustled off on her avo- cations, leaving the two sisters together. Dont let us stay here, said Kate; come up-stairs and see your room and mine. They are close togethcr, with a door between thorn. Is not that chaining? That is the door of the library, she continued, as they crossed the hall; we must not go in now. Is it kept locked? said Margaret. Good gracious, no! Locked! What should it be locked for? rejoined Kate with much surprise. I thought it might be, as you said we must not go in. Besides, if it is left open, we might get at the books, you know; all sorts of books. Not that I should ever dream of doing anything so wrong, of course. Get at the books! Why, Margy dear, what are books made for, but to be got at? I get at them, I can tell you! Oh, Kate! I have never been used to do anything without the knowledge of my dear aunt. What would papa think of you, if he found you out? Good heavens, Margaret, what are you dreaming of?~ cried Kate, in extreme aston- ishment, and coloring up at someof the unpleas- ant ideas her sister had called up in her mind. Found me out! found me out in using the books in the library! I dont understand you. I used to he afraid sometimes, some ten years ago, of being found out in not using them! But you said we must not go in, re- joined Margaret. Because if we once went in, it would take up all the time till dinner; because I want to take you up-stairs first. There are so many things to show you. The library must wait till to-morrow morning. We will ask papa, at dinner-time, if I may go there. Ask papa! Why, Noll will think you crazy. And pray who is Noll? asked her sis- ter. Noll! why, papa to be sure! Dont you know the name of your own father, Oliver Lindisfarn, Esquire, of Lindisfarn Chase? But that is too long for every-day use; so I call him Noll for short. Oh, my sister! Respect for our parents I have always been taught to consider one of 159 160 our most sacred duties. What would papa say, if he knew that you called him Noll? Kate stared at her sister in absolutely speechless astonishment and dismay ;dismay at the wide gulf which she seemed to be dis- covering hetween her sister and herself, and the long path which would have to he trav- elled over hy one or other of them before she and her sister could meet in that sisterly union of mind and heart which she had been looking forward to with such pleasurable an- ticipation ;and speechlessness from the dif- ficulty she felt in choosing at which point, of all those suggested by Margarets last speech, she shoul& begin her explanations. If papa were to hear me! she said at length; why he never hears anything else. Its as natural to him to hear me say Noll, as to hear the rooks in the rookery say caw! I never do anything,we none of us here do anything, that the others dont know of. (Here Margaret shot a glance half shrewdly observant and half knowingly con- fidential at her sister; but withdrew her eyes in the next instant.) But perha~ps things may be different in France, contin- ued Kate, endeavoring to make the unknown quantity of this difference accountable for all that she found perplexing and strange to her in the manifestations of her sisters modes of thinking; but you will soon get used to our ways, dearest; and to begin with, you must take to calling papa Noll at once. He is such a dear, darling old Noll! I! I could never, never dare to do such a thing. Beside, do you know, Kate, con- tinued Margaret, with no little solemnity in her manner, I think, indeed I am almost sure, that Madame de R-rwenneville would say that it was vu~yar to do so. Oh! then of course we must give it up, said Kate. She could not resist at the mo- ment the temptation of so far resenting the impertinence involved in her sisters remark; but she repented of the implied sneer in the next moment. But she need hardly have taken herself to task, for Margaret replied with all gravity, I think indeed that it would be better to do so, my sister! Nonsense! youre joking. Margy dear. I would not call darling old Noll by any other name, and he would not have me call him by any other name, for all the world. What Madame de Renneville says may be very right LINDISFARN CHASE. for Paris, but we are in Silishire here, and have other ways. Youll soon get used to us. See, dear, this is your room! It was a charming room, with one large bow-window looking out on the trim and pretty, though rather old-fashioned, garden, on the east side of the house. Oh, what an immense room! cried Margaret. This my chamber! Why one might give a ball in it. It must be very cold. If you find it so, you shall have a fire; but I hardly think you will, our Sillshire climate is so mild,much milder than Lon- don. See, this is my room; just such another as yours, with the same look out on the gar- den. I hardly ever have a fire. Used you to have one in your bedroom in Paris? No; but then my chamber was a small one, not a third the size of this; and very well closed,very pretty,a love of a little chamber. I like a large room, said Kate, a little disappointed at the small measure of appro- bation the accommodationwhich she had flattered hemelf was perfect, and which was in fact all that any lady could possibly de- sireelicited from her Parisian-bred sister. See, here are all my books, and my writ- ing-table. I keep my drawing-table and all my drawing things on this side because of the light; and that leaves plenty of room for the toilet-table in front here. I should never have room for all these things in a small room. It seems very nice, certainly. Are you allowed to have a light at night? Whyhow do you mean, dear? We dont go to bed in the dark! But I mean, are you allowed to keep your candle as long as you like? Of course I keep it till I go to bed! Dont you do so too? But if you are as long as you like about go- ing to bed, you may do anything you please, read any books you like, after they a~e all in bed and asleep. But I suppose, added she thoughtfully, that the old woman down- stairs sees how much candle you have burned. What strange notions you have, Marga- ret, said Kate, almost sadly, as she began to perceive that the distance that separated her from her sister was greater than she had at first seen it to be. I am as long as ever I like about going to bedwhich generally LINDISFARN CHASE. is as short as I can make it ;and I do read any books I like after they are all in bed and asleep ;or rather I wish I did, and should do so, were it not that I am always a great deal too sleepy myself. Are you good at keeping awake? I wish I was! And as to the old woman down-stairs, as you call her, that is Miss Immy; and I dont think she looks much after the candle-ends ;though it must be, by the way, about the only thing that she dont look after, for she looks after everything. Dear Miss Immy! I dont know what Noll and I should do without Miss Immy. And you must learn to love her as much as we do. Who is she? Your gouvernante, I sup- pose. What a queer name, Miss Immy! Miss Immy, Margy dear, is Miss Jmogene Lindisfarn, the sister of our grandfather, Oliver Lindisfarn, and therefore our fathers aunt. She has lived at th~ Chase all her life, and nothing would go on without her. What a strange old woman she seems! I dont think she likes me by the way she spoke to me. And who is that extraordinary looking man, who looked at me as if I had been some strange thing out of the Jardin des Plant es? The extraordinary looking man, said Kate, laughing heartily, is Matthew Lin- disf~~ in. E~qoire. commonly called Mr. Mat; a cosim of Nolis, also inseparable from and very necessary to the Chase. We could not get on without Mr. Mat. You will see him looking rather less extraordinary at dinner presently. And you will very soon get to like him too, as well as Miss Immy. Is he a gentleman? asked the stranger. Margaret! cried Kate, and her eyes flashed and her color mounted to her cheeks as she spoke, did I not tell you that his name is Lindisfarn? Ask Lady Farnleigh, or the dean, or old Brian Wyvill, or Dick Cox, the ploughboy, whether he is a gentle- man. But as I said before, she continued, putting her arm round her sisters waist and kissing her cheek, you must get to know us all and our ways, and then you will un- derstand it all better, and come to be one of us. Of course it must all be very different from life at Paris, and all very strange to you. Oh, so different! said Margaret. And then there will be so many other people for you to know and to like ;Uncle THIRD SERIES. IJVXTNG AGE. VOL. XXV. 1159 Theophilus and Lady Sempronia ;a~nd first and foremost my own darling Lady Farnleigh. And then I must introduce you to all our beaux! We have some very presentable ones, I assure you. And we shall have such lots to do. And now we must be thinking of dressing for dinner. You have to unpack your things. Are there people coming to dine.here to- day? asked Margaret. No, nobody. There will not be a soul but ourselves, replied Kate. But must we dress then? asked her sister; why should we do so? Oh, we always dress for dinner ;that is, put on an evening dress, you know. Noll likes it. I think I had better ring for Sim- mons. She is our maid between us two, you know. If you dont like setting to work to unpack, now,and we should hardly have time before dinner,I can lend you any- thing. And so a partial unpacking was done; and amid perpetual running to and fro between the two bedrooms by the door of commu- nication ; repeated declarations that they should not be dressed in time for dinner, and warnings from Simmons to the same effect, followed by fresh interruptions for admira- tion, criticism, and comparison, the dressing was at last done, and the two girls hurried down the great staircase, just as the last bell was ringing, leaving both their rooms strewed with a chaos of feminine properties, which Simmons declared it would be a weeks work to reduce to order. Of course during the entirety of the couple of hours thus delightfully spent by the two sisters, the tongues of both of them were run- ning a well-contested race ; but it is hardly to be expected that a masculine pen should undertake to report even any disjecta membra of such a conversation. Simmons, however, though her tongue was not altogether idle, employed her eyes and ears the while with more activity. And a brief statement of her report, as made that evening to the assembled areopagus in the servants hall, may perhaps afford the judicious reader as much insight into the character of the newly arrived Miss Lindisfarn as could be drawn from a more detailed account of the enormous mass of chatter that had passed between the two girls. Miss Simmons then ann4unced it as her 161 162 LINDISFARN CHASE. opinion that Miss Margaret was a deep lent dinner on a slice of roast-beef, only re- one. Twere plain enough to see, she questing her papa to cut it from the most added, that her maxim was, Whats yours underdone part, and rather shocking all pres- is mine; and whats mines my own. ent by observing that she loved it bleed- Anyways shes a dewtiful daater! said ing. old Brian Wyvill; I never zeed in all my Hannah, the cook, gave the untouched vol- life and thats not zaying a littleany- au-vent entire to Dick, the ploughboy, and thing so hewtiful as when she ~vere a zuppli- drew the most favorable auguries as to Mar- cating the squoire like on the stone steps. garets rapid physical, moral, and intellectual Twere as good as any play; and Ive zeed a improvement, when she heard of the manner many of em in my time. in which that young lady had preferred to For my part, said rosy Betty house- dine. maid, I dont like the color of her! Nevertheless, the dinner, as has been said, I tell you all, rejoined Simmons, speak- passed rather heavily. The squire himself ing with the authority of a somewhat superior was not without anxiety as to the possibility position, she is no more tu be compared tu of making his Parisian-bred daughter com- our Miss Kate than Lindisfarn church is tu fortable, happy, and contented with all at the cathedral of Silverton. Lindisfarn. And Mr. Mat was tormented by Twould be very unreasonable, and very suspicions that the new member of the fain- unfair on her to expect she should be, ily might turn out to be fine, and that said Mr. Banting; Miss Kates Lindisfarn Paris airs might be even worse than London bred! ones. And Margaret herself was laboring Ay, said the cook, and Lindisfarn fed! under the influence of that undeflnable sense What can you expect from poor creatures of uneasiness which the Italians well call that live on bread-and-water supe, and vrogs, subjection. She had that unpleasant feel- with a bit of cabbage on Zundays? ing toward Mr. Mat which arises from the The self-evident truth of this proposition consciousness of having greatly erred in ones was recognized by a chorus of Ay, in- estimate of the social position of anybody, deed! and perhaps, for aught one can tell, maui- Shes a sweet pretty lass, anyway, said fested ones mistake. It would have given Thomas Tibbs, th~ coachman; and she were me a very favorable opinion of the young Lindisfarn born, if she werent Lindisfarn ladys gentle breeding, if she lied at onee dis- bred. And theres a deal in blood. covered that Mr. Mat, as seen in his green Ay! there be, said Dick Wyvill, the coat and buff gaiters, was to all intents and groom, a son of old Brian. But pretty purposes a gentleman. But it would be hard much depends on the way they are broke. to blame hertoo severely for having mistaken Meanwhile the dinner in the parlor had him for a gamekeeper. As to her father, she passed a little heavily. Notwithstanding the seemed to feel more strongly than ever the near relationship of the new-coiner, all the utter impossibility of calling him KNoll. party were conscious of a certain slight de- It appeared to her that she had never seen so gree of restraint. Miss Immy was nervously striking an impersonation of aristocratic and afraid that her domestic arrangements might respect-compelling dignity; and she was not fail in some way or other to satisfy the re- far wrong. quirements and tastes of her Parisian niece. The evening, too, passed slowly; and at a She had held a long consultation with the very early hour it was voted nem. con. that cook respecting the production of some sam- the traveller must be tired, and must be ple of presumed French cookery; and no wanting to go to bed. But there was one pains had been spared in the preparation of matter which had already given Margaret a squat-looking lump of imperfectly baked much pain two or three times during this her dough, which appeared on the table under first afternoon in her fathers house; and the appellation of a vol-au-vent. And Miss when, as they were all taking their candle- Immy was rather disappointed, though at sticks to go to bed, an opportunity occurred the same time re-assured and comforted as to of adverting to the subject, she was deter- the future, when Miss Margaret, utterly de- mined to attempt a remedy for the evil while curing t~ try the vol-au-vent, made an excel- it might yet be not incurable. LINDISFARN CHASE. Good-night, Margy, my darling, and God bless thee! said her father, putting one hand fondly on her head, and kissing her on the forehead. Good-night, Miss Margy. If you over- sleep yourself, ill give you a rouse in the morning with the dogs underyour window, said Mr. Mat. Good-night, Margy dear. I trust your bed and all will be as you like it, and that you will sleep well, said Miss Immy. And, Come along, Margy dear! We shant get to bed before we have had some more talk, Ill be bound, said Kate. The utterers of all these kindly good- nights had little notion that they were in- ificting so many stabs in the heart of the object of them. But so it was; and the re- iterated blows were more than she could bear. Was her migration au fond du pro- vince to involve a transformation of herself into a dairymaid, that she should be called Margy? It was too odious. It would be Meg next! She could not bear it. And then before strangers too: they would no doubt do the same! Before des jeunes gens! She should sink into the earth. So, while the tears gathered in her fine eyes, tears from the depth of some divine de- spair, she looked round on the blank faces of the little circle gathered about her, and clasping her ha~ds in an attitude of unex- ceptionable elegance, exclaimed in tones of the most touching entreaty, Oh! call me Marxgu~rrwite; not that horrid name. My father! my sister! dear friends! call me Marrgu~rrwite! she said, uttering the word in a manner wholly unat- tainable by insular organs. The little party looked at each other in blank dismay, while the suppliant continued to hold her hands clasped in a sort of circular appeal. My love, said the squire, you shall be called any way you like best. Let it be Mar- garet; but Ill be shot if I can say it as you do, not if twas to save my life. To my thinking, Margy is quite a pretty name, said Mr. Mat, more confirmed than ever in his suspicions of latent finery. But, sissy darling, said Kate, laughing and putting her arm caressingly round her sisters waist, I am as bad as Noll. I could not say the name as you say it, not if I were to put a hot chestnut in my mouth every time! 163 But Ill never say Margy again. Let me say Margaret! I think that people ought to be called as they like best, said Miss Immy. Ive been called Miss Irnmy nearly fourscore years; and I should not like to bc called anything else. So I shall always call her Margy sweet, since that is what she likes best! And Miss Immy toddled off, h6lding her fiat candlestick at arms length in front of her, and shaking her head in a manner that seemed to be intended to express the most ir- revocable determination. CHAPTER VI. WALTER ELLINGHAM. LADY FARNLEIGIT had asked Kate, as the reader may possibly remember, to be sure to ride over to Wanstrow not later than the next day but one after the arrival of her sister. But on the morrow of the evening spoken of in the last chapter, Kate heard her godmoth- ers cheery ringing voice in the hall, asking for her before she had left her bedroom. She was just about doing so, and hurrying down-stairs to be in time to tell the servants not to ring the breakfast-bell; for her sister was still sleeping and she would not have her wakened, when she found Lady Farnleigh in the ball in her~riding-habit. What, Kate turned sluggard! you too? We shall have the larks lying abed till the sun has aired the world for them next. I doubted whether I should be in time for break- fast; has the bell rung? No. And I want to prevent them from ringing it this morning. Margaret is still fast asleep, and I wont let her be waked. She had a very fatiguing journey of it, you know.~~ But its past nine oclock, child. Our new sister must have a finely cultivated tal- ent for sleeping. You were not late, I sup- pose? To tell you the truth, we were rather late,that is, she and I were. We had so much to talk of to each other, you know. how good of you to ride over this morning, you good fairy of a godmamma! And like the fairies I get the bloom of the day for my pains. Such a ride! It is the loveliest morning. I must send to tell Noll and the others that there is to be no bell this morning, or else theyll be waiting for it. And then well LINDISFARN CHASE. go to breakfast. You must be ready for yours. - Shant be sorry to get it. I had no thought of riding over to-day, you know; but last night I made up my mind to do so, for a whole chapter of reasons. Of which any one would have been suffi- cient, I should hope. Nevertheless, you shall have them all. In the first place, 1 could not restrain my im- patient curiosity to see what our new sister is like. In the next place, I thought that per- haps she might ride over with you to-morrow. And in that case, it would be more selon les convenancesand we must be upon our Ps and Qs with our visitor from Paris, you knowthat I should call first upon her. It is not the usual hour for a morning call, it is true; but no doubt she will consider that the mode dupays. She will consider that you are the kindest and best of fairy godmothers! But I am no godmother of hers, you know, fairy or mortal. But ~ou have not heard all my reasons for coming yet; I am come to ask permission to introduce to you an old and valued friend. You are joking! As if there was any need of your asking permission to bring any- body here! Nevertheless, I choose upon this occasion to ask permission ; your fathers, at all events, Miss Kate, even if I am to take yours as a matter of course. As if Noll would not be just as much sur- prised at your asking as I can be! Nevertheless, I say again, I choose in this case to let you all know who and what the person is that I propose to bring to you, before I do so. Is he something so very terrible then?~ I had not said that it was a he at all, Miss Kate. However, you are right. It is a hey And as for the terribleness of him, that you must judge for yourself. I have told you that it is one in whom I am greatly interested. And surely that makes all other infor- mation on the subject unnecessary. Thanks, Kate, for thinking so. But I dont think so. Did you ever hear of Lord Ellingham? I have seen the name in the debates in the House of Lords; but that is all. Lord Ellingham has been a widower many years; and it is a long time since I have seen him. But his wife was the deaiest friend I ever hadnot dearer, perhaps, than your mother, Kate; but at all events an older friend. She was the friend of my girlhood, and I lost her before I came to live in this part of the country. She left her husband with four young sons. The gentleman I pur- pose asking your fathers permission to bring here is the third of these. Lord Ellingham, I should tell you, is very far from being a wealthy man ,and his third son is a very poor one, pretty nearly as dependent on his own exertions for his daily bread as any one of your fathers laborers. You see, therefore, that my friend, Walter Elliugham, is by no means what match-making mammas call an eligible young man. He has not been found eligible for much either, poor fellow, by his masters, my Lords of the Admiralty. His father is a leading member of the Oppo- sition,though of course that can have noth- ing to do with it. The fact is, however, that, at thirty years of age, Walter Elliugham honorable though he beis but a lieuten- ant in His Majestys navy; and thinks him- self fortunate in having obtained the com- mand of a revenue cutter, stationed on our coast here. I found a letter when I got home yesterday evening, telling me all about it. He hopes to be able to come up to Wanstrow the day after to-morrow; and as I dare say we shall frequently see him during the time he is stationed here, I purpose bringing him over to you. And that is the third reason for my morning ride. But you havent said a word, you myste- rious fairy godmother, to explain why you thought it necessary to ask a special per- mission to make us this present. Of course you will send him up to Lindisfarn in a pumpkin drawn by eight white mice, with a grasshopper for coachman. And I do hope hell have a very tall feather in his cap! Suffice it that in the plenitude of my fairy wisdom I did choose to ask permission before starting the pumpkin. As for the feather in his cap, I have little doubt that it will come in due time. It is some years since I have seen Walter, but from my re- membrance of him, I should be inclined to prefer some other trade to that of a smuggler on the Sillshire coast just at present. But what about this breakfast, Kate? I must go and look after Miss Immy. 164 LINDISFARN CHASE. 165 The event of yesterday has put us all out of ship would be half an hour behind time at our usual clockwork order, I think. I da.re least, said Mr. Mat. say Miss Immy is deep in speculation as to ~ should get you to calculate fhe differ- the modes and times at which French people ence, and work Out the mean time accord- get up and get their breakfasts. ingly, Mr. Mat; will you be my astrono- I shall go and speak to the sc~uire by my- mer? self; I suppose I shall find him in the study? You mean gastronomer, godmamma! Yes, do. And tell him he may come to That would be more what would be needed breakfast without waiting for the bell this for the business in hand, said Kate. morninc~ I wonder when Margy will be dpwn. No, So Lady Farnleigh made her way to the I mustnt say that, cried the squire, correct- sanctum which. country gentlemen will per- ing himself. Poor lass, I wouldnt vex her sist in calling their study, for the purpose for the world. of having five minutes conversation with the Vex her! What should vex her? in- squire, on the subject which was uppermost. quired Lady Farnleigh. in her mind, in a rather graver tone than She dont like being called Margy, cx- that which she had used in speaking to Kate; plained Kate; we quite annoyed her, all and the latter went to discover the cause of of us, by calling her Margy. She has been such an unprecedented event as the non-ap- us~d to be called Margu~rite. And I am pearance of Miss Immy in the breakfast-room afraid I hurt her last night by laughing at exactly as the clock over the stables struck her French pronunciation of itwhich was nine. very silly of me. But we put it all right It was very nearly a quarter past that hour, afterward. when the family party, with the exception of And you were half the night in doing it, the new-coiner, met in the breakfast-room. Ill bet a wager, said the squire; and Why, Miss Immy! its near quarter past thats why she cant get up this morning. nine, as I am a living man! cried the squire. Yes, we were rather late. Just think We shall begin to think that you are get- how much we have to talk about ! said Kate. ting old, if you break rules in this way! ~ And no time except last night to do it Not so old by a quarter of an hour as you in, laughed the squire. make me out, Mr. Lindisfarn! said Miss And she must be tired after her journey, Immy, rattling the teacups about. The poor lass, said Mr. Mat. clock is ever so much too fast. I dare say she is stirring by this time, I dare say the sun got up a little before said Kate; I will go and look for her. his time when he saw it was such a lovely I am going into Silverton; has anybody morning. any commands? said Mr. Mat. You know I am always in the room by Of course you.will call in the Close, and nine o clock, Mr. Lindisfarn~ reiterated tell them she is come. Say that we shall come Miss Immy, who would have gone to the in to-morrow, answered Kate. stake rather than admit that she was late. Ill take the dogs and go with you as far Always! It shall be always nine oclock as the brook, said the squire. when you come into the breakfast-room; as So the gentlemen took themselves off; Miss its always one oclock in Parson Mayfords Immy toddled off to her usual domestic avo- parish out on the moor when the parson is cations, and Lady Farnleigh was left alone in hungry. The clerk sets the church clock the breakfast-room, while Kate ran up-stairs every day by his Reverences appetite; and to look for her sister. they say there~s no parish in the moor keeps In a very few minutes she returned, bring- such good time. ing down Miss Margaret with her into the I think I must get Mr. Mayford to come j breakfast-room, where she was presented in and stay with me while at Wanstrow, said due form to Lady Farnleigh. Margaret cxc- Lady Farnleigh, for our Wanstrow locks cuted a courtesy, with proper eyelid mane~e are always at sixes and sevens. to match, to which Mr. Turveydrop, or any Ah! but the Wanstrow air is not so keen other equally competent master of deport- as it is on the moor. Parsons appetite would ment, would have awarded a crown of lau- be slower in getting its edge; and your lady- j rel on the spot. LINDISFARN CHASE. You have had plenty of warm-hearted welcoming to Lindisfarn; but you must let me say welcome to Sillshire, Margu6rite; for we Zilishire yolk, as Mr. Mat loves to say, look upon Sillshirc as a common possession, of which we are all uncommonly proud. It is a nice country; I am sure of it, madame,my lady, said Margaret, correct- ing herself and blushing painfully. Oh, you must not my lady me; Kate here, calls me all sorts of names,very bad ones, sometimes! said Lady Farnleigh, with mock gravity. Margaret threw her fine eyes, eloquent with surprised and sorrowful reproachfulness, on her sister. But then, continued Lady Farnleigh, as she shot, on her side, a glance of shrewd ob- servation on Margaret, Kate has a sad halit of calling names. Madame de Renneville strictly forbade me ever to do such a thing, rejoined Marga- ret: she always said that there was noth- ing more vulgar. We must send Kate to the school where them as learns manners pays twopence ex- tra,and pay the twopence for her, said Lady Farnlcigh, with a queer look at Kate, while Margaret opened her magnificent large eyes to their utmost extent, in utterly mysti- fied astonishment. But however we call one another, con- tinued Lady Farnleigh, changing her tone, we must learn, my dear Miss Lindisfarn, to be very great friends; for your poor dear mother loved me, and I loved her very dearly. Love between you and m~ is a matter of in- heritance. You are very good, madame. I never had the happiness to know my sainted mother, said Margaret, with a sigh, the profundity of which was measured with the most skilful ac- curacy to the exact requirement of the nicest propriety on the occasion. Here comes some hot coffee for you, Mar- garet dear, said Kate. We all take tea; but Miss Jmmy thought that you probably took coffee; and here is some of our famous Sillshire cream. Now what will you have to eat? A fresh egg, warranted under Miss Im- mys own sign-manual to have been laid this morning? See, there is the dear old souls mark! If the egg were to be taken from the nest to be put into the saucepan the next in- stant, Miss Immy would insist on marking it with the day of the month, b~fore it was boiled. Only a bit of bread, if you please, re- plied the Parisian-bred girl. And I should like to have a little hot milk with my coffee, if I might. Instead of our Sillshire cream? You shall have what you like, darling; but we must keep it a close secret. What will Sillshire say? I am afraid the cream is too rich. I al- ways take coffee and milk and a bit of bread; nothing else. Ah! Sillshire air will soon avenge your neglect of our good things, said Lady Fain- leigh. Do you ride, Marguerite? I have never been on a horse. Madame de Renneville did not consider mounting on horseback in all respects desirable. Lady Farnleigh and Kate exchanged glances involuntarily, and the former said, I dare say Madame de Renneville may have been right, as regards Paris; but you can under- stand, my dear, that it is of course a very dif- ferent thing here. Kate and I ride a great deal; and I hope you will ride with us. You must learn at once. Mr. Mat will be an ex- cellent riding-master for you. It would give me great pleasure to ride with you, Lady Farnleigh, replied Marga- ret, with just the slightest perceptible accent on the you; but I am afraid I should be very stupid at it. Oh, you would soon learn, with Mr. Mat for your master, rejoined Kate. Kate was to have ridden over to see me to-morrow, pursued Lady Farnleigh, and I hoped that you would have come with her; but now it seems yo~i are to go into Silverton to-morrow; and the day afterhas Kate told you ?I am going to bring an old friend of mine to make acquaintance with you all here. No, I have not told her yet, said Kate. An accession to our rather limited assort- ment of beaux, Margaret !Mr.or Captain should I say? Captain, by courtesy, said Lady Fain- leigh, though that is not his real rank in the navy. But he is called Captainthe Honorable Captain Ellingham. The Honorable Captain Ellingham. Is he the son of a lord, then? asked Marga- ret who seemed remarkably well versed in such niceties of English social distinctions, for a 166 167 LINDISFARN CHASE. young lady whose entire life had been spent Renneville, said Lady Farnleigh grasseyarit in France. But it is to be presumed that in the most perfect Parisian style, how viii- Madame de Renneville had given her person- gar it is to do so. But I am afraid you are al care to that branch of her nieces educa- incorri~,ible. What can we do to improve tion. her manners, my dear? Yes, Walter Ellingham is the son of Lord I am sure I shall always be very happy, Ellingham; but for all that he is a very poor began poor Margaret, dropping her eyelids, and man, Margaret, replied Lady Farnleigh. speaking with a sort of purring consciousness Are lords ever poor? asked Margaret, of superiority. with a surprised and somewhat disappointed But Kate, who, as she had very truly said, expression of face. knew the ways of her godmother, and per- Yes, my dear; a poor lord is unfortu- ceived with dismay that she was beginning nately a by no means unprecedented phenom- already to conceive a prejudice against Mar- enon, replied Lady Farnleigh. And what garet, hurried to rescue her from the damag- is still more lamentable, and still more to the ing and dangerous position which she saw purpose, when a lord is poor, his third son is was being prepared for her. apt to be still poorer. Now, you malicious fairy godmother, And the Honorable Captain Ellingham dont be hypocritical. It was you who told is Lord Elliughams third son? asked Mar- Margaret that I was in the habit of calling garet. ~ you bad names. What could she think? Even so, said Lady Farnleigh. And her remark thereon was very natural. Is the Mr. Falconer you were telling me Now I wont let you turn yourself all of a of last night, Kate, a poor man too? asked sudden into the shape o.f a great white cat, Margaret, after a pause. and hunt her, poor little mouse, all round I should think not, said Kate; I dont the room. I can see by the look of you that know at all. I never remember to have heard that is what youre bent on. the subject alluded to. But he is old Mr. What would Madame de Renneville say to Falconers only child, and I should suppose that? exclaimed Lady Farnleigh, turning that he must be rich. to Margaret with a look of appeal. Oh, yes! there is no mistake about that Never mind Madame de Renneville at all, said Lady Farnleigh; Mr. Falconer, began Kate. the banker, is well known to be a very warm Kate! cried Margaret, in a tone deeply man, and if you are not English enough yet, laden with reproach, but skilfully modulated Margaret, my dear, to understand the mean- so as to seem uttered more in sorrow than in ing of that phrase, you will at least have no anger, and casting her eyes on her sister with difficulty in comprehending what I mean when an appealing look of warning, reproof, and I say that Mr. Freddy Falconer is an ex- tenderness combined. tremely desirable parti. You will find And Kate! re-echoed Lady Farnleigh, that all the young ladies at Silverton, includ- in a similar tone, and with a similar look. ing your sister, continued Lady Farnleigh, It became very evident to Kates experi- with an archly malicious look at Kate, con- enced perception that her godmamma was sider him such, and all the old ladies, too, getting dangerous, and was bent on mischief. except one. But she was fully determined to prevent, or You are always to pay implicit attention at all events not to contribute to her sisters to all Lady Farnicigh says, sister dear, when becoming the victim of it. It was as much she talks common sense, said Kate; but as she could do to prevent herself from laugh- you are never to pay the slightest attention ing at Lady Farnieighs last bit of parody. to a word she utters when she has got her But biting her lips to preserve her gravity, nonsense-cap on. And if you are in any she continued, doubt upon the subject, you have only to ask What I wanted to say was, to ask on me; for I am her goddaughter, and know the what aathority you include me among the ways of her. young ladies who are so enthusiastic on the That is calling me a fool, by implication; subject of Mr. Falconers eligibility. and you have been told, Kate, once this morn- Kate! said her incorrigible ladyship ing already, on the authority of Madame de again, in the same accent and manner as be- LINDISFARN CHASE. fore. But having been admonished by a look of entreaty from her goddaughter, administered aside, which she perfectly well understood, she said. Why, do you not think so? Does any- body not think so? Is he not very undenia- biy an eligible peru? Margaret very ju- diciously asked, before making up her mind on the subject, whether he, too, was as poor as Walter Elliugham. But we, who are well informed on that point can have no doubts on the subject. Why, old Mr. Falconer must be made of gold; whereas my poor friend Walter has but one bit of gold belonging to him, to the best of my belief. There can be no doubt, I think, which is the eligible and which is the ineligible man. It is clear enough ; is it not, Margaret? But Kate, who was very anxious that her sister should not put her foot into the spring- trap thus laid for her, but who nevertheless feared, in a manner which she unquestionably would not have feared a few hours ago, that Margaret might, if left to herself, run a dan- ger of doing so, once again hurried to the rescue, by saying, One bit of gold! What can you mean, you enigmatical fairy? What is the one bit of gold that Captain Ellingham possesses, and how did he comeby it? Really I do not know how he came by it; but I never knew him without it. He always carries it inside his waistcoat. What, a gold watch? asked Margaret, innocently. To be sure, a gold watch, replied Lady Farnleigh; what in the world else of gold could a man have thereabouts? How dull you are, Kate, this morning! I always am dull at riddles; but we all know that a man carries a heart inside his waistcoat; and I suppose that is the article that your friend has of gold, as you say. I see, at all events, that he is a favorite of yours, godmamma. lIe is, said Lady Farnleigh, briefly; and you will all of you have an opportunity of judging, she continued, whether he de- serves to be so; for your father has very kindly bidden me to bring him to dine here the day after to-morrow. And now, girls, I shall leave you; for of course you Want to be alone together. May I ask if Giles is there? Yes. But come down with us to the stables, and mount there; I want to show Birdieto Margaret. Birdie was a beautiful black mare, nearly thorough-bred, which had been a present from Lady Farnicigh to her goddaughter; and of all her treasures it was the one which Kate valued the most, and was the most proud of. A competent judge would have found a long list of good points to rtdmire in Birdie; but even the most unskilled eye could not fail to be struck by the exceeding beauty ~f the coat, glossier than satin; by the fineness of the skin, as evidenced by the great veins in the neck showing through it; by the dainty elegance of the legs and pasterns; and above all, by the beauty of the small head, with itS eyes, as keen, Kate used to say, as a hawks, and as gentle as a doves. Margaret was accordingly much struck by ~rdies beauty, as the groom walked her about the stable-yard for the ladies to look at. Oh, what a lovely creature! she ex- claimed; I do not wonder that you are fond of riding on such a horse as that. But it would be a very different thing to ride on any one of these great clumsy-looking beasts. I can never expect to have such a horse as that to ride! lamented Margaret, as she vezy ac- curately figured to herself the charming pic- ture she would make, mounted in a becoming amazon costume upon so showily beautiful a steed. You shall ride Birdie, sister dear, and welcome, as soon as you have made some lit- tle progress under Mr. Mats tuition; but I think you must begin with something a little steadier; for my darling Birdie, though she is as gentle as a lamb, is apt to be a littSlc lively, the pretty creature. But I dont like the look of the something steadier, pouted Margaret. Nevertheless, it is my advice, my dear, said Lady Faruleigh, that you do not at- tempt to mount Birdie till Mr. Mat is ready to give you a certificate of competency. Birdie is not for every ones riding. But Kate can ride her, returned Marga- ret, somewhat discontentedly. Ay! but Kate, let me tell you, said Lady Farnleigh, is about the best lady rider in the country. Good-by, girls. You must give me an early day at Wanstrow, my dear. When shall it be? why not Wednes 168 LINDISFARN CHASE. day? I am to dine here on Friday, the day after to-morrow. Will you say Wednesday, Kate? Make your father come, if you can. If not, get Mr. Mat to come over with you. And come early. I do not think papa will come, said Kate; but we shall be delighted. Mr. Mat shall drive Margaret in the gig, and I will ride. Thats agreed then. Good-by. Now, shall I show you the garden? said Kate, after the two girls had watched Lady Farnleigh as she rode down toward the lodge till she was out of sight. No, not now, I think. Let us go and finish unpacking and putting away my things. I have ever so many more things to show you. And hesides, I want you to tell me all about this Mr. Falconer. The all is soon told, said Kate; but first you tell me what you think of my god- mother; is she not a darling? 169 I hardly know whether I like her or not, said Margaret. I feel somehow not safe with her; and I cant quite make her out. One thing was quite clear, that she was not well pleased with your calling~her a fairy, and making fun of her in that way. Tell me, added she, musingly, after a pause, during which Kate had been pondering whether it would be better to attempt making her sister understand Lady Farnleigh a little better at once, or to have it to time to do so, tell me whether the six thousand pounds that you are to have from herthat is a hundred and fifty thousand francs, is it not ?are settled on you, or only given you by her will? I declare I dont know, returned Kate, surprised; I had never thought about it. No doubt papa knows all about it. Why do you ask? Oh! only that the one is certain, and the other uncertain; that is all, answered Mar- garet. BELTILAMI, TIlE DI5coVEREa or TIlE NORTH- ERN SouacE or THE Mzsszssiprr.On the morn- ing of the 28th of August, 1823, Beltrami, an ardent Italian, with only an Indian guide, and bois-brule voyageur, by way of the Red River of the north, boldly penetrated to the extreme northern sources of the Mississippi, which he designated as the Julian sources, in com- pliment to the esteemed Countess of Albany. In the journal of his tour, he also describes Lac La Biche, or Elk Lake, now poetically, rather than accurately, designated Itasca, and says, It is here, in my opinion, we shall fix the western sources of the Mississippi. This discoverer, so little known to Americans, was born in Bergamo, and in 1807 was chancel- lor in one of the districts of Italy. In 1812, he went to Florence and became one of an interest- ing literary circle in that city, of which the Countess of Albany was a prominent member. Suspected of Carbonarism, he became an exile, and visited France, Germany, England, the United States, and Mexico. Later in life, he resided, for several years, near Heidelberg, but at length returned to his beloved Italia, and died at Filotranto, in 1855, aged seventy-five years. Prominent in the public library of Bergamo, there is a finely-executed painting representing Beltrami in a canoe, pushing toward the sources of the Mississippi. A letter just received from l3ergamo, dated February 11, and addressed to a gentleman who has given great attention to the topography of the upper Mississippi, and now on duty at the headquarters of the army, states that the city of Bergamo is about to publish a bio- graphical notice of Beltrami, with a portrait, and that the work will be dedicated to the His- torical Society of Minnesota. This society, of themost northern State in the valley of the Mississippi, has become favorably known in Europe, through the labors of its mem- bers, who have given to the world the Dakota Grammar and Lexicon, issued by the Smith- sonian Institution, and the largest work on the language of the Aborigines of North America ever published, and also by various additions to the topography and history of the region west of Lake Superior, printed in its own Annals, and other historical magazines. N. Washington Chronicle. SOME years ago, whilst the late Mr. Lockhart was editor of the Quarterly Review, he noticed nt length in its pages a little, strictly privately- printed volume, The Diary of a Dutiful Son, by the late Mr. Thomas George Fonnereau, a charming volume of table-talk. The book, which since then has always been eagerly sought for, has just been reprinted and published by Mr. Murray. Oua Mutual Friend is the name by which Mr. Dickens introduces his new serial tale, the first part of which is to appear on the 30th of ApriL 170 From The Eclectic Review. PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE.~ IT is a very comforting discovery, perhaps more so now than ever, to find any one tak- ing a virtuously moderate view of human na- ture. We say virtuously moderate, because the moderation of too many has consisted rather in the doctrine that we ought not to expect men to be very good (as Gibbon takes pains to show us in the case of statesmen) than in the acknowledgment that most men are not very good. We have hcre a writer who neither thinks that every one is utterly bad, nor that, after all, sin is only a negative kind of goodness. The author of Problems in Human Na- ture is already known to the reading pub- lie; and we think that those who remember any of her books will be glad to hear of an- other from the same pen. They will find the same breadth, the same simplicity, and the same quiet earnestness in this latest and, per- haps, best. The book is written on the principle that, as we have been told that God made man in his own image, and have not been told that man was created anew after the fall, it is probable that some tra~ce of that image may still remain; the more so as we have good authority for believing that even those pagan nations who were before Christ came had some law of God written on their hearts, something that excused or accused them, all along; to whom, as in greater measure to the Hebrews, God sent wise men and proph- ets and preachers of righteousness. The book is divided into three parts, in the form of essays. The first, on The Source of Yanity, is founded on these two thoughts: that vanity of some kind or other is so uni- versal as to seem a radical part of human character; and that (in accordance with the principle already referred to), therefore, it csn hardly be intrinsically wrong. Careful obser- vations have led the author to believe that van- ity may be traced to a desire to take effect on others; and that most human thoughts and words and actions have this end. This may re- mind some of Hobbess love-of-power theory; but it is really as different from, and as su- perior to, it as the general tone of our phi- losophy differs from, and is superior to, that ~ Problems in Human Nature. By the au- thor of Morning Clouds, The Afternoon of Life, The Romance of a Dull Life, etc. Long- mans. 1863. PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE. of the seventeenth century. We have here thetruth whichHobbes turned irithalie. Our author sees that the passive side of this de- sire to take effect balances the active; that there is in human nature an almost equaL. ly strong delight in being impressed. We agrce with the author that the latter i~ of- ten a higher delight than the formerchiefly so, we think, to the loftier class of minds. The highest delight of all is found in the combination of the active and passive impres- sion. What words move us like those which the speaker is saying to himself, while he seems, perhaps, to say them only to us? And the songs which stir the depths of our passion are those which the poet first sang to him- self, and then let the world in to hear. Words, however fine, uttered from happy seats above the thunder, and exciting no emotion in the speakers heart, fall dead on our ears. And, as the author observes, a discovered attempt upon our feelings al- ways rouses indignation. We feel ourselves wronged, deprived by anothers vanity or coldness of a great delight; and, as we must have excitement, we obtain it from the blame we bestow. The speaker has indeed produced an effect on us, but not of the sort he intended. How willingly we yield ourselves to be moved by one who is himself moved, who has for- gotten himself in his subject, and so cam make us forget ourselves too. Seeking not yours but you, not your excited feelings, your as- tonished admiration; not that we should give so much as that you should receive; this is the secret of power. When we allow our love of taking effect to overstep our truth- fulness and respect for others, the natural desire is fast merging into vanity, proper4y so-called, into self-exhibition; and the bro- ken law, as always, becomes its own avenger. here, as everywhere, self-seeking is self-los- ing. Such a view of human nature as this has a twofold excellence: it agrees with fact and rcason, and it is practically useful. How much better it would be if, instead of teach- ing that everything human is bad in itself, and that to be good one must get as far away as possible from nature and humanity, we would believe and teach that only God can create, and that what he has created must be good if we will let it ; if we would believe that here, too, we can only conquer Nature 1y obeying her. We cannot dry up the mighty 171 PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE. river of human passion; and if we could, we make this the least romantic of all ages, should be worse off than ever: not more like hardly excepting the dreary Georgiaiii period, God, but only less like man; but we can, by which, with all its unsublimity, had senti- Gods grace, turn the waters back into their inentenough,true or false,the author touch- true channel. es on education, and justly laments that the The coolness of the affection grown-up re- present system cultivates the head so much lations often feel for one another is here ex- more carefully than the heart~ Indeed, judg- plained much more reasonably, and in a way ing from the means employed, and very es- much less dishonorable to human nature pecially from the manner of their employ- than the base motive by which it is usually ment, one could almost imagine that the accounted for. Members of the same family express end of education was to do away with are cast too much in the same mould to suffice the feelings as much as possible. We shorten each other. Positive electricity seeks to coni- our childrens infancy by every method in our bine itself with negative. We do not want power. There is no room for the development our friends to be merely modified repetitions of original character; we put our own upon of ourselves, though most friendships have a them, and ruthlessly expect them to act up broad common basis. The strongest races to a standard of perfection which they nei- are those which receive the greatest infusion ther can nor ought to comprehend. Entirely of new blood; and mind obeys, in this in- reversing the favorite maxim of great physi- stance, the same law as matter. Brothers cians, that artificial means should be only and sisters arc all in all to each other for the aids to nature, we carefully thwart nature at first few years of their lives; but they forget every turn. Like many others of our insti- that their capacity for love grows with the tutions, our education is rather negative than growth of their other powers, and sometimes positive. And we are in great danger of expect the same share of the same kind of thinking that he who knows a great many love at thirty years old as was given at ten; things is well educated; whereas, unless the forgetting that natural affection does not mind itself be greater than its knowledge, it imply friendship. When relations are also had better have known less. We often meet friends, their elder love is deeper and steadier with people who know plenty of facts, but do than the unreasoning love of their childhood. not seem to know (how far higher a knowl- But when brothers or sisters are aggrieved edge!) what to do with them, and flounder that any one else should be preferred to them, helplessly in the harness they have not proved. and put the chance tie of blood (strong and The chief end of education is to teach people sacred as that tie is) before the bond of mu- how to learn, and how to use what they may tual fitness and love, independent of habit, learn. It is a drawing out of undevel- endless jealousies are kindled. Jealousy is oped powers. As the gymnast does not give said to prove love; it may do so; it certainly his pupils more limbs and muscles, but only weakens it, and as certainly shows its want- teaches them to use to the best advantage inguess in loves strongest pillar,trust. If those they already possess, so the mental in- we loved a little more, we should not hejeal- structor only exercises and improves already ous. lndeed, jealousy is only a polite word existing powers. But we will not trust na- for the most subtle selfishness. If we believe ture; we pull our buds open too soon, and our friends are as good as we say, how dare drag them out into the full daylight, while we wish to keep all their love for ourselves? they still need twilight. We fill the tender Is it that we fear they are, after all, not by- little minds with hard, grown-up ideas, till ing enough to love many people? And if there is very little room left for the original love is the virtue of virtues, how can true self. We are properly shocked to hear how love show itself by seeking to circumscribe the Red Indians strap their babies heads be- our friends exercise of it? Do we grudge tween two boards to give them a fashionable them their lovingness? Or can we venture shape; but we think nothing of cramping to deprive others of some share of the love the impressible minds of our babies in our which blesses us? stiff, neatly-defined opinions, which we hold The second essay (on The Decline of Sen- because most people hold them too. And we timent) takes a still wider range. Enu- are so hasty that, before the little wondering merating the many causes which unite to eyes can see anything clearly for themselves, 172 PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE. we show them, through our spectacles, as less also a time to be ignorant. They whc~ many things in heaven and earth as we see have never been ignorant can only be wise at ourselves, with the plain intimation that second-hand; and a little wisdom that one there is nothing else worth looking at, and earns ones self is better than a great deal no other way of looking. We expose the merely borrowed. weak points of everything, lest our children It is possible to be superstitiously afraid of should expect too much from the world; superstition. Our love of excitement and we check vehemence of every kind, lest they carelessness, whether it be a wholesome ex- should ever be carried away by their feelings; citement or not, weakens the whole mind, we dread fancifulness, and, above all, the keeping it constantly on the strain, and dead- least approach to superstition (which we have ening its sense of enjoyment by unnaturally learnt to confound with reverence), far more stimulating it. As our author well says than cold-heartedness and successful selfish- Too much excitement in play is nearly as ness. We force the intellect and starve the injurious as too much toil in study. You emotions. In confirmation of this, we need may laugh at the suggestion; but, believe only appeal to ordinary conversation. Who me, had the little girl been allowed to attach dares to show enthusiasm in any cause? or, herself to the ugliest wooden shape ever hugged rather, who really cares enough about any- in your childhood, had you not ruined her thing to feel it? The miserable remarks constancy by such a succession of gay rivals, with which people try to praise or blame you would be better loved by her-yourself in must occur to every ones memory. Which after-years. While you plied those little of us, who has been deeply moved by music, hands with new playthings, you were doing or poetry, or painting, has not winced under all you could to paralyze the sentiment of easy commendations of what we loved far too wonder,the source of keenest pleasure, and well for praise? But people may be found the inseparable associate of genius; for the who would patronize Shakspeare, and think young, who have not enough rest from new him their debtor,and what wonder, when impressions, cannot enjoy that quietness of their education has, from first to last, fos- mind, which is as necessary to the intellect as tered irreverence and shallowness of thought sleep is to the body, and are never so long at and feeling? a pause as to be able to feel with vivacity the We are soon~ disenchanted now; even the delightful thrill of surprise.Pp. 512. children are too well instructed to think any- It is too true that the sense of wonder Ian- thing mysterious. It is painful to see the guishes, and with it reverence. We are all old look,the look of premature enlighten- excellent critics, but, unfortunately, not in ment on so many little faces. Few children the native sense of the word,not good dis- are childlike now. They have no time for cerners, only keen blamers and ingenious day-dreams; and if they had, every knowable dissectors. We have well-nigh lost the trick mystery was explained, and made look insig- of praising; we admire sometimes; but nificant enough, and all the sweet fruits of modern admiration is by no means the sen- wonder nipped in~he bud. timent which the ancients understood by the And with all our dread of superstition, and expression. We never for a moment forget love of that very unpractical thing, practi- the flaws in our diamonds, and we are careful calness, we have no dread whatever of ex- to point them out to prove our acuteness. We citement; we have even a new word, or an are very much afraid of praising too highly. old word in a new sense, which from a noun We are content to lzke people and things; and becomes an adjective, to describe startling when we do now and then see some illustrious things withal; and sensation novels and result of love, we are puzzled by it, and ac- plays and sermons interest the enlightened count for it by any reason but the simple one generation, which will not believe (if it can of love. We are so anxious not to believe too help it) what it cannot understand. We much (especially if it is beautiful) that we have religion made funny, and knowledge explain away with infinite pains any unusual made easy and everything made quite compre- excellence in either the living or the dead. hensible. Our zeal against ignorance would It is miserable to see the shifts we put our- be praiseworthy, if we did not know the wise selves to, to explain the generous deeds we ignorance from the foolish, for there is doubt- read of; we say it was policy, or fear, or love PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE. of admiration; but we find no diffleulty at all in receiving verbatim any tale of wickedness, however unaccountable. We carry this into private life, and are very careful not to love beyond measure. The way in which some people talk of their friends is enough to drive an enthusiastic young spirit to despair. I used to like is a too common speech. But these remarks were only made for the sake of the following quotation on the sub- ject Having felt the discrepancy of human desire, and the fullest attainment of what is hoped for, we are ready to smile assent when Emerson likens all human ambition to the kittens pursuit of its own tail; it is our own notion of things, and not that which tht~y really are, that we pant after so eagerly. The dust of the earth we stamp with the impression of our own wishes before we make it an idol; and now and then the disquieting thou~ht flashes through the mind, that all we seek for here so ardently is but as a tip of the kittens tail,the extreme point of our own imaginations; apart from imagination worth- less, or nowhere existing in reality. Then comes the check, the change, the fall, and from these the unspeakable ennui and life- weariness that is so deplorably common; for it is in a decisiveness offeeling, even more than in a determinate line of action, that the heart finds the best earthly element of peace, and cruelly does it suffer if shaken even for an hour in its allegiance to the old objects of af- fection. But we are so shaken, we know now that we are liable with fantastic admiration to overrate the merit of our dearest friend. Alas! some of us may know it from our own bitter experience; and looking at another per- son with a bundle of letters, hoarded as the most precious treasure, our ghastly4rick of dissecting joy at once brings to mind some cold maxim with regard to the short-lived value of those relics. Involuntarily we think how commonplace and dull those letters would seem to any but a friend nnder the spell of love! What is thy beloved, we might be tempted to say, more than any other be- loved? whose letters have been grasped with eager longing, read and reread, wetted, it may be, with tears of joy or griefand then? laid by, not read, not so much loved, and on some grim day, when relentless reacon held a session on such prisoners, coldly eyed, looked at with a bitter pain from an enlarged wis- dom, and tossed into the stifling fire with all the precipitance of self-contempt. What is thy beloved?~ Ours were inconceivably lov- able till we left off loving.Pp. 645. We do not think that the Decline of Sea- 173 timent in average minds (for love is not dead and out of the world, though few love illustriously) is much, if at all, to be wondered at, if we consider that the long-protracted ex- citement which began with the War of Inde- pendence, and continued, with little abate- ment till the 18th of June, 1815, and was soon again reawakened by a series of discov- eries and inventions that has no parallel since the fifteenth century and hardly then. The terrible and perilous exhaustion which followed the Peace of Paris gave place to a restless energy, a quickening of the wheels of life, such as had not been since the world began. Steam and electricity are fit emblems of their own effects on the whole tenor of life. For once the sensation unmistakably resembles the cause. Killing time will soon be an obsolete expression. The wear and tear of life nowthe efforts we must make, so strong is the stream we are sailing down, to overtake time, are so absorbing that all the strength which formerly enriched the emotional and contemplative side of human nature is needed for that; and even supposing (which does not seem the fact) that the emotions and the intellect have preserved a constant relation to each other, there would be no chance of equal manifestations of sentiment. It is only those of larger and wider natures than ordinary that can now afford so to spend their energies. But though our author deeply feels the over-hurry of life, and the exhausting (lelnand on every part of our nature, speaking thus of it: I sometimes fancy that the rush from the provinces to London causes so much stim- ulus to imagination and feeling that both succumb, unequal to the demand made upon both. London, with its almost miraculous activities, is enough to overwork the most vivid feelings. Would you pity? The heart faints under the load of miserymisery both manifest and obscurein the near neighbor- hood of its luxurious home. Would you ad- mire? What ever-growing astonishments of mans achieving are here continually surpass- ing all that was previously known,Though she feels and speaks thus, she is no foolish calumniator of our wondrous mother-age. She looks back, indeed, with a tenderness not unmingled with regret, on the childhood of man; but there is not a trace of that narrow- ness which hates new things because they are new, there is not a single unfair sentence in the bookno slight praise; for how few of 174 PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE. us can be very earnest and yet quite just. at the whole, nor to undervalue those small But we do think that she hardly appreciates opportunities of doing good whiclf all who our own times as they deserve. Will not seek may find, because our utmost efforts are this century show nobly in the eyes of future but as a drop in the ocean. We must often generations, if this frame of things last long remind ourselves that the world is made up enough, as, in spite of prophetical calcula- of units. No doubt the newly-awakened in- tions, seems not unlikely? Surely, all men terest in, and realization of, humanity, is a should love their own age best, as the time great cause of the Decline of Sentiment in which they are called to do Gods will; and amoug us; we have no feelin~s left for any- we, especially, on whom the days of awaken- thing else. Those who live in large towns ing. and refreshing are come. We have lost have enough to do to keep any sensibility at ease, it is true, and we do not yet quite know all alive. We are very much in danger of what to do with the manifold new and in- getting used to the misery we see so often. creased forces we have, by Gods grace, made The world cannot any longer be a vague ours ; but doubtless our restlessness, greater, sound to us. We have all seen something probably, than any of any other age, will lead and heard more of its sin and misery, and we at last to a better rest than the rest of igno- know that the worst we know is better than rance and soul slothfulness we had before,a the whole truth. The newspapers are chiefly better rest if not for ourselves, at least for records of crime, public or private. A week those who will come after us. It is harder in the streets of London is more wearying to live (comfortably) now than it was in the to the heart than refreshing to the body. last century; but who would go hack to that And we know that every instance of degra- time? And even the noblest of past ages dation and suffering we see is but one of ten would, if we could try them for ourselves, thousand others that we do not see. A sort seem quite as faulty as ours seem to us now. of spiritual paralysis comes over us in think- There is a natural tendency to lament former ing of these things. Hope is the anchor of times; it may be a beautiful and reverent our souls; but how hardly can one keep i~eeling, which makes us love the present all hopeful in London! Sometimes, indeed, the the better for loving the past so well; or it very depth of our despair drives us to hope. may be only a fair-seeming treachery to the We must hope or die. We know that be- age, which, like our native country, we ought hind our wealthy thoroughfares and stately to love best, whether we do or no. It is possi- squares are dens where children, who might ble to inquire Why the old times were better have been like those we shelter so tenderly, than the new?~ till we miss the good in both. are taught to lie and steal more carefully Our author, in tracing the Decline of than we teach our dear little ones the holiest Sentiment through all the passions, makes truths. Long acquaintance with such things one smgnal exception, remarking thereon so as these deadens the sympathies too often, wisely that we should like to quote the pas- till those who began by driving away the un- sage entire, but for its length. The exception comfortable thoughts suggested by an impor- is, of course, the benevolence which springs tunate beggar, end by reading of a nations from pity. This has so strengthened of late death-struggle with no more emotion than that it sometimes threatens to absorb the they would read an advertisement; in self- whole nature, and so to end by overreaching defence they have shut up their hearts. It itself; for we were made no more to be the is not the noblest way,in the end not even creatures of one passion than of one idea. But the happiest; but those who only half enjoy it is upon another aspect of this question that their good things, for thinking of their breth- our author seems to us so peculiarly admi- ren who have need, will perceive much ex- rable. While thankfully recognizing the great cuse for it, and chiefly pity, knowing that, and blessed work so many are now helping as our author says, if the sufferings which in, she suggests a fear lest the very largeness accompany want of feeling could be known of our charity should virtually narrow it to any one, who, with a warmer tempera- lest the contemplation of the Field of the ment, was ready to blame severely the hard- World should make us careless of the single ness of a cold heart, censure would be hushed ears we may glean here and there. We are by the most profound pity. She quotes, warned not to forget the part while looking in illustration, Nathaniel Hawthornes story PROBLEMS iN HUMAN NATURE. of the man who bad no feeling,that story whose words fall like slowly-gathering snow in a December twilight. But our space warns us to leave the rest of this essay (which needs neither praise nor explanation of ours), and briefly to notice the last article, oa Disappointment in the Re- li~ious World. It begins by noticing the dearth of epic poetry, from which we so contentedly suffer. Many reasons for this are excellently set forth at too great length for quotation, but which may be briefly summed up in this: that in the nineteenth century all the world are falcons, or think they are, and so eagles are less run after than formerly. Of course, the same causes which have led to the undue predominance of the intellect over the emotions operate here. Man was constituted for action and passion; but the tendency now is to divorce action from pas- sion, in the vain hope of giving the former greater liberty. Another reason for the mod- ern neglect of epic poetry may be found in the many vents for every impulse and feeling in a bookmaking age. The hero-worship which produced an epic when concentrated in a single mind is now disburdened in the hundreds of memoirs of little-great people, which crowd our libraries and advertising columns. We venture to think that our au- thor overlooks the fact that epic poetry, wor- thy the name, has been rare in every age; none has produced more than two or three. Nor are we utterly destitute even of an epic: not to mention our earliest national story, told at last, and in the spirit, if not quite in the form, of an epic, we have Aurora Leigh, which may surely be called a domes- tic epic. We do not agree with our author in calling this last a failure. We imag- ine that those who speak thus would be puz- zled to tell what difference of treatment would have made it a success; and we think, too, that such cavillers often take just that disproportionate view of things that Romney Leigh took before he knew better. If it be replied that the subject, being impossible, should never have been attempted at all, we must deny that conclusion also, conceiving it to be the particular business of poets to lead such forlorn hopes in all ages; for by a poet we understand, not one who can elegantly discourse of things that nobody thought of before, but one who feels and can say what other men feel but cannot say. Perceiving a connection between this de- clining interest in individuals, and the ten- dency to generalize which is taking its place, and the not always truly stated duty of re- nouncing the world, the author proceeds to the immediate subject of the essay. Her protest against the unnaturalness of too much of both our theory and practice in religion can hardly be overrated. When religion is so often represented as a mysterious engraft- nrc on life and character, and as by ncture entirely repugnant to man, when it is talked of as though it were an isolated principle, whose operation is chiefly restrictive, instead of as the natural basis of all true character and all true love, it is pleasant to find .such sentences as these A neglect or contempt of this transient existence is quite as nagocllike as it is in- human. Can it be the will of God that the per- fecting of earthly things should be set aside in anticipation of the heavenly, or because this beautiful world is transit6ry, compared to the world to come, are we to renounce all delight in it as a deceitful snare? It ceems to me impossible that, when human nature is already so marred with sin, we should render it a more acceptable offer- ing to the Maker by perverting its blameless instincts and crushing its natural powers. How can desolation and ruin be pleasing iu his sight? Pp. 1089. How indeed? It is considered pious by a large class of good people to say that ~ there is nothing worth living for in this world ; that all its pleasures are empty, and its beauty unreal. We even complain in our prayers of the vileness of those bodies which God has been pleased to give us, and of the unfitness for immortal souls of that life he has appointed for us here. Yet we think we believe in a God who is Maker of all things, visible and invisible, though we are thus attributing the works of his hands to the devil. And yet no one of us can live this life, all unworthy of us as it is, even according to our own thoughts of perfection. But it cannot be that a world where Gods will may be done is too humble an arena for immortal energies; and the world which he has made, and the life, so rich in possible joys, and still more blessed sorrows, may possess more realities than we imagine, if we will condescend to look for them. There are many other points which we might notice. The book is full of innumera 175 1)76 ble suggestions; but more than enough has been said to show the kind of hook we have here. The whole tenor of this third essay tends to show that religion should possess all our nature, and not excite one part into mor- bid action while it cripples the rest. It should be a positive principle, not a mere code of restrictions. Let usnot forge Christs liberty into fetters for our souls. One chief source of our religious mistake is, our invet- erate belief that we can somehow or other save ourselves, or, at least, have a share in our salvation. This persuasion has been hunted through all religions, but in each successive one it comes to life again; its deadly wound is healed again and again, and we are cau~ht by it unawares. We are fond of saying that the Church of Rome teaches justification by works,a charge only true in part; we teach justification by faith, and re- move Christ away from us into the heavens by our Protestant doctrinal mediators, as far as ever Romanists can by the Virgin and the Saints. Christ, not faith, is the Redeemer of the world. Our favorite Protestant doc- trine is fast becoming that very heresy we left the communion of Rome to escape from. its consequences may be seen in the tone of our religious memoirs; and especially in the private diaries often so sbamelessly exposed in them. These consequences are a morbid self-observation, as far removed from humble self-distrust as can well be, and a perpetual restlessness and uncertainty. We are al- ways talking and singing about the coldness of our love to God; always afraid we do not feel enough, believe enough, to be Christians. If we would but leave off considering our- selves, and turn to Christ instead; if we would think most that Christ loves us, we should find his love a surer foundation than ours. Until then we shall always be trying to bribe God with artificial feelings, exactly as our Roman Catholic ancestors bribe him with penances and good works. Then we shall not need the false humility, which con- sists in not knowing its own mind, and which gains a reputation far more than ordinary piety, by saying it is not sure that it loves God at all. There is much talk now of apos- tolic precedent; we have no example of such uncertain affection there; even Saint Peter dared to say he loved, without the least ap- pearance of modern misgivingsand, unless the love we owe to God differ entirely from the love we owe to man, it is probable, from analogy, that if we do not know, upon con- sideration, whether we love God, we do in- deed not love him much. It must have struck most reflecting per- sons, that the religion very often set forth in sermons and religious (particularly in devo- tional) works will not do for such a world as PROBLEMS IN HUMAN NATURE. this. It is founded on the merest idolum ros- in, the theological idea of a wicked world, very different from this actual world of spirit- ual and physical wickedness. Who has not felt the tremendous inadequacy and inconse- quency of much religious talk? We ask fbr bread, and receive what was once a living truth, but is now only a dead doctrine. To those who have felt this, this book will be like the opening of a window to one shut in a musty room. Life is here looked at by eyes which desire the truth, by one who has felt the things she speaks of. She has also learnt that most difficult art,how to blame with discriminating justice. She can under- stand how people came to believe the absur- dities and commit the sins which only aston- ish dabblers in human life, and she freely recognizes the every-day violated law, that no one who cannot thus transport himself to anothers point of view,and, seeing how he sees, perceive the origin of his error, has any ri~ht to judge the wrong-doer. The author is not of those who begin a fierce condemnation by confessing that they do not understand the thing they are going to condemn. A sino~u- lar conscientiousness marks every page of the book; and the author is evidently afraid of being too partial to her own views,as uffi- ciently uncommon fear. There is no preju- dice, no one-sidedness, no inferring what may not be from what is. Truth is looked for through a singularly undistorted medium. Full allowance is made for all; and there is a wonderful avoidance of extremes. The folly of teaching that it does not matter what a man believes, is as much shunned as the worse folly of teaching that pure deeds are worth- less, unless the doer hold the right creed. It is a wise book, sober and self-restrained, but not passionless; there is, here and there, a sudden and noiseless overflow of emotion, like the sudden rise and fall of waters in a spring. Nor is humor wanting: a delicate half-smile gleams now and then through the graver moods. More than enough has been said of the matter of these essay; sit is not easy to characterize their manner. Perhaps trans- parent is the best word to qualify both the thoughts and the style, though the latter would be still better described as no style at all. The three essays, amidst all their differ- ence, are bound together by a unity of pur- pose, like that which holds the three parts of a sonata. The length of this review is a proof of the suggestiveness of the book. We ear- nestly recommend all persons considering what they shall read next to discover for themselves whether we have praised it too highly, assuring those who (commendably) dread dry books, that this one will inter- est them a great deal more than the very dry light literature they try to think interesting. FONTAINEBLEAU. As I walked in the grass-green alleys Where fringes of beech-trees grow, I thought of the close-cut lindens, And the fishes of Fontainebleau, The lazy fins of the old gray carp, Almost too idle to eat their bread, And the turreted roofs, so fine and sharp, Cutting into the blue sky overhead. The suites of rooms, both large and small, And the lofty gloom of St. Louiss Hall, Mirrored again in the shining floor; And the thick walls pierced for the crusted door, With traceried panels and ponderdus lock, Which opens heavily, shuts with shock, If the hand unwarily lets it fall. The great square courts are still as the grave, Once so joyous with hunting horn, When the princely hunter, eager and brave, Rode to the chase at the first of morn. The grand old courts of Francis the First, Neither the ugliest nor the worst Of that kingly race who hunted the deer All day long in the forest wide, Which stretches for miles on every side. Music and feasting closed the day, When the king was tired w{th his hunting play, And had chased the deer to his hearts desire, Where the sunshine glows, like soft green fire, Under the trees in the month of May. We were there in the month of May, When the quaint inn garden was filled with flowers Roses and lilies are passed away, And I write in the dark December hours. But I will not believe (and a woman, you know, Will never believe against her will !) That there ever is snow at Fontaineblean. I fancied then, I will hold to it still, That place of the ancient kings doth wear A sort of enchanted fairy-tale air; And that roses blossom the whole year through, And soft green sunshine glows on the dew That the breath of the forest is soft and sweet; That dulcimers play in the open street, And the people actually waltz to the sound, Like the queer little folks that turn round and round In the travelling organs you chance to meet. At Fontaineblean, in the month of May, You just might fancy some amiable gnome, Or intelligent fairy, had whisked you away~ A thousand miles from your northern home, And planted you safe on the hills near Rome. It only wanted the olive-trees, And the purple breadth of the southern seas, Only a few little things of the kind, To make you doubly sure in your mind. For there were the roses and there the skies, And the wonderful brightness to fill your eyes, And the people singing and dancing away, As if constantly making a scene in a play. And there was the moon when the sun went down, And in silver and black she clothed the town, As if half masked for a holiday! Then the Royal Chapel of Fontaineblean Is Roman quite in its taste, you know; THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxv. 1170 177 Exceedingly white and gold and red, With a legion of cherubim overhead. But there the innermost heart is moved, Not by sculptured or painted frieze, But by thoughts of a life perfumed with prayer Of a saintly woman who worshipped there, The wife of Louis the Well-beloved, And mother of Madame Louise. And then the Forest! What pen shall paint The gates of brickwork, solid and quaint, Which open on it from every side; And the sweeping circles whose vistas wide Narrow away to a point of space, Like the rays of a st.ar from its central place. Wherever you turn, it is just the same, Whither you go or whence you came, To the right, to the left, behind, before, An ocean of trees for six leagues and more. From the brow of the rocks (all purple and green, Or damply shining with silver sheen) You see what looks like a mystical floor, A glorious level of green and gray, Till the uttermost distance melts away, Where satyrs and fauns might nimbly play, Swinging along by the tops of the trees, Like dolphins out on the crested seas. And where the Forest is melting away, And drops to the brink of the winding Seine, A vine-clad villaae, open and gay, Tempted our feet,but our quest was vain. We eagerly knocked,but polite despair Opened the gate of the porte-cochere, And a chorus of quadruped, white and brown, Barked affirmative, Gone to town, With affable bursts of French bow-wow (As part of the family they knew how !); So we gazed at the house through that porte- cochere, With its tall new tower so straight and fair, Its mouldings of brickwork quaint and free, And under the date, a firm R. B. Oh, royal Forest of Fontainebleau, Be kind, be kind to this artist dear; And if (which I dont believe!) youve snow, Be silver-fretted, be crystal clear. Be tender, 0 Spring, to her gentle kine, To her lambs with coats so close and fine, To the king of the herd, with horn~d brow, Toherrough-haired dogs, withtheir wisebow-wow; Nurture them, comfort them, give your best To the family friends of your famous guest. Thou, rose-clad Summer, temper your beams With leaping fountains and gurgling streams. Autumn, ripen your largest grapes, Of richest color and moulded shapes. Rain, fall soft on her garden bower; Sunshine, melt on the bricks of her tower; Nature and art, alike bestow Blessing and beauty on Fontaineblean! Good Words. BEssIE R. PARKES. Mademoiselle Rosa Bonheur has established herself in a charming village on the outskirts of the Forest of Fontaineblean. Her house is old, but she has built on to it a handsome tower, of which we are told that the upper story contains her studio, and the lower affords a home for various favorite animals. FONTAINEBLEAU. A SON OF THE SOIL. PART V.CIIAPTER XIII. THE question is, will ye go or will ye stay? said big Cohn of Ramore; but for this, you and me might have had a mair seri- ous question to discuss. I see a providence in it for my part. Youre but a callant; it will do you nae harm to wait; and youll be in the way of seeing the world atwhat do they call the place? If your mother has nae objections, and ye see your am way to ac- cepting, Ill be very well content. Its awfu kind o Sir Thomas after the way yeve re- jected a his advances; but, no doubt hes heard that you got on gey wed, on the whole, at your am college, said the farmer, with a little complacency. They were sitting late over the breakfast-table, the younger boys looking on with eager eyes, wondering over Cohns wonderful chances, and feeling se- verely the contrast of their own lot, who had to take up the ready satchel and the piece, which was to occupy their healthful appetites till the evening, and hurry off three miles down the loch to school. As for Archie, he had been long gone to his hard labor on the farm, and the mother and father and the vis- itor were now sittinga little committoe-~ upon Cohns prospects, which the lad himself contemplated with a mixture of delight and defiance wonderful to see. Its time for the school, bairns, said the farmers wife; be good laddies, and dinna linger on the road eThher coming or going. Yell get apples apiece in the press. I couldna give ony advice, if you ask me, said the mistress, looking at her son with her tender eyes: Cohn, my man, its no for me nor your father either to say one thing or another its you that must decideits your am well-being and comfort and happiness. Here the mistress stopped short with an emo- tion which nobody could explain; and at which even Cohn, who had the only clew to it, looked up out of his own thoughts, with a momentary surprise. Hoot, said the farmer; youre aye thinking of happiness, you women. I hope the laddies happiness doesna lie in the power of a years change one way or another. I canna see that it will do him any harm especially ~tfter what he was saying last night to pause awhile and take a little thought; and heres tbe best opportunity he could well have. But he doesna say anything himself and if youre against it, Cohn, speak out. It~s your concern, most of all, as your mother says. The callants in a terrible swither, said Lauderdale, with a smile, hell have it, and hell no have it. For one thing, its an awfu disappointment to get your am way just after youve made up your mind that youre an injured man; and hes but a cal- lant after all, and kens no better. For my part, said the philosopher, Im no fond of changing when youve once laid your plans. No man can tell what terrible differ- ence a turn in the path may lead to. its aye best to go straight on. But theres aye exceptions, continued Lauderdale, laying his hand on Cohns shoulder. So far as I can see, theres no reason in this world why the callant should not stand still a moment and taste the sweetness of his lot, lies come to mans estate, and the heavens have never gloomed on him yet. Theres no evil in him, that I can see, said Cohns friend, with an unusual trembling in his voice; but for human weakness, it might have been the lad Michael or Gabriel, out of heaven, thats been my companion these gladiome years. It may be but sweetness and blessing thats in store for him. I know no reason why he shouldna pause while the suns shining, and see Gods meaning. It cannot be but good. The lads friend who understood him best stopped short, like his mother, with some- thing in his throat that marred his utterance. Why was it? Cohn looked up with the sun- shine in his eyes, and laughed witb a little an- noyance, a little impatience. He was no more afraid of his lot, nor of what the next turn in the path would bring, thanachild is who knows no evil. Life was not solemn, but glorious; a thing to be conquered and made beautiful, to his eyes. He did not understand what they meant by their faltering and their fears. I feel, on the whole, disposed to accept Sir Thomass offer, said the young prince. It is no favor, for I am quite able to be his boys tutor, as he says; and I see nothing particularly serious in it either, the young man went on ; most Scotch students stop short sometime and have a spell of teaching. I have been tutor at Ardmartin; I dont mind being tutor at Wodenshourne. I would not be dependent on Sir Thomas Frankland or any man, said Cohn; but Lam glad to la- bor for myself, and free you, father. I know 178 A SON OF THE SOIL. 179 you have been willing to keep me at college; The mistress occupied herself in putting but you have plenty to do for Archie and the things to rights in the parlor long after her rest; and now it is my turn; I may help myself husband had gone to the fields. She thought and them too, cried the youth, glad to dis- Lauderdale, too, wanted to be alone with Cohn; guise in that view of the matter the thrill Qf and, with natural jealousy, could not permit delight at his new prospects, which came the first word of counsel to come from any from a very different source. It will give lips but her own. The mistress had no baby us a little time, as you say, to think it all to occupy her in these days; the little one over, he continued, after a momentary pause, whom she had on her bosom at the opening and turned upon his mother with a smile. of this history, who bore her own name and Is there anything to look melancholy her own smile, and was the one maiden bIos- about? said Cohn, turning back from his som of her life, had gone back to God who forehead the clouds of his brown hair. gave her; and, when her boys were at school, Oh, no, no, God forbid! said the mis- the gentle woman was alone. There was lit- tress, nothing but hope and the blessing of the doing in the dairy just then, and Mrs. God; but she turned aside from the table, Campbell had planned her occupations so as and began to put away some of the things by to have all the time that was possible to en- way of concealing the tears that welled up to joy her sons society. So she had no special her tender eyes, though neither she nor any call upon her time this morning, and lingered one for her could have told why. over her little businesses, till Lauderdale, Never mind your mother, said the who would fain have said his say, strayed out farmer, though its out of the common to in despair, finding no room for him. When see a cloud on her face when theres no cloud youve finished your letter, Cohn, youll find to speak of on the sky. But women are aye me on the hill, he said as he went out; and having freits and fancies. I think its the could not refrain from a murmur in his own wisest thing ye can do to close with Sir mind at the troublesome, cares of thae wo- Thomass proposal, mysel. I wouldna say men. Theyre sweet to see about a house, but youll see a good deal o the world, said and the place is hame where they are, said the farmer, shrewd but ignorant; not that the philosopher to himself with a sigh~ but Im so simple as to suppose that an English oh, such fykes as they ware their hearts on! gentlemans country-seat will bring you to The mistresss fykes, however, were over onything very extraordinary in the way of when the stranger heft the house. She came company; but still, that class of folk is won- softly to Cohns table, where he was writing, derfully connected, and ye might see mair and sat down beside him. As for Cohn, he there in a season than you could here in a was so mueb absorbed in his letter that he lifetime. Its time I were looking after Archie did not observe his mother; and it was only and the men, said big Cohn ; its no often when he hifted his head to consider a sentence, Im so late in the morning. I suppose youll and found her before him, that he woke up, write to Sir Thomas yourself, and make a with a little start, out of that more agreeable the arrangements. Ye can say were quite occupation, and asked, Do you want me? content, and pleased at his thoughtfulness. with a hook of annoyance which went to the If thats no to your mind, Cohn, Im sorry mistresss heart. for it; for a man should be aye man enough Yes, Cohn, I want you just for a mo- to give thanks when thanks are due. With ment, said his niother. I want to speak this last admonition big Cohn of Ramore took to you of this new change in your life. Your up his hat and went off to his fields. I father thinks nothing but its Sir Thomas wish the callant didna keep a grudge, he Frankhand youre going to, to be tutor to his said to himself, as he went upon his cheerful boy; but, oh, Cohn, I ken better! Its no way. If he were to set up in rivalry wi the fine house and the new life that lights young Frankland! but with the thought a such light in my haddies eye. Cohn, listen certain smile came upon the fathers face. to me. Shes far above you in this world, ile, too, could not refrain from a certain con- though its no to be hooked for that I could tempt of the baronets dainty son; and there think ony woman was above you; but shes was scarcely any limit to his pride and confi- a lady with mony wooers, and youre but a dence in his boy. poor mans son. Oh, Cohn, my man! dinna 180 A SON OF THE SOIL. gang near that place, nor put yourself in the that was above his reach, and that mightna way of evil, if you havena some confidence be worthy said the mistress, with her either in her or yoursel. Do you think you eyes full of tears. She could not say any can see her day by day and no break your more, partly because she had exhausted her- heart; or do you think shes worthy of a self, partly because Cohn rose from the table heart to be thrown away under her feet? with a flush of exeitement, which made his Or, oh, my laddie! tell me this first of a,do mother tremble. you think you could ask her, or she could Worthy of me! said the young man, conBent, to lose fortune and grandeur for with a kind of groan, worthy of me! your sake? Cohn, Im no joking; its awfu Mother, I dont think you know what you earnest, whatever you may think. Tell me are saying. I am going to Wodensbourne, if youve ony regard for your mother, or wish whatever happens. It may be for good or her ony kind of comfort the time youre for evil; I eant tell; but I am going, and away? you must ask me no further questions,nOt This Mrs. Campbell said with tears shin- on this point. I am to be tutor to Sir ing in her eyes, and a look of entreaty in her Thomas Franklands boy, said Cohn, com- faee, which Cohn had hard ado to meet. ing back with the smile in his eyes. Noth- But the lad was full of his own thoughts, ing moreand what could happen better to and impatient of the interruption which de- a poor Scotch student? He might have had tamed him. a Cambridge man, and he ehooses me. Let I wish I knew what you meant, he me finish my letter, mother, dear. said, pottishly. I wish you would not talk He wouldna get many Cambridge men, ofpeople who have nothing to do with my or ony other men, like my boy, said the poor little concerns. Surely, I may be suf- mother, half reassured; and she rearranged fered to engage in ordinary work like other with her hands, that trembled a little, the people, said Cohn. As for the lady you writing-desk, which Cohns hasty movements speak had thrust out of the way. And here the youth paused, with a natural Ah, mother, but a Scotch university smile lurking at the corners of his lips,a does not count for the same as an English smile of youthful confidence and self~gratu- one, said Cohn, with a smile and a sigh; lation. Not for a kingdom would the young it is not for my gifts Sir Thomas has chosen hero have boasted of any look or word that me, he added, a little impatiently taking up had inspired him; but he would not deny his pen again. What was it for? That old himself the delicious consciousness that she obligation of Harry Franklands life saved, must have had something to do with this which Cohn had always treated as a fiction? proposalthat it must have been her sug- or the sweet influence of some one who knew gestion, or at least supported, seconded by that Cohn loved her? Which was it? If her. Only through her intimation could her the youth determined it should be the last, uncle have known that he was tutor at Ard- could anybody wonder? He bent his head martin, and the thought that it was she her- again over his paper, and wrote, with his self who was taking what maidenly means heart beating high, that acceptance which she could for their speedy reunion was too was to restore him to her society. As for the sweet to Cohns heart to be breathed in mistress, she left her son, and went about her words, even if he could have done it with- homely business, wiping some tears from her out a betrayal of his hopes. eyes. I kenna what woman could close Ay, Cohn, the lady, said his mother; her heart, she said to herself, with a little you say no more in words, but your eye sob, in her ignorance and innocence. Oh, smiles and your mouth, and I see the flush if shes only worthy! but, for all that, the on your cheek. Shes bonnie and sweet and mothers heart was heavy within her, though fair-spoken, and I canna think she means ony she could not have told why. harm; but, oh, Cohn, my man, mind what a The letter was finished and sealed upbefore difference in this world! Youve nothing to Cohn joined his friend on the hillside, where offer her like what shes been used to, said Lauderdale was straying about with his hands the innocent woman, and if I was to see in his pockets, breathing long sighs into the my son come back breaking his heart for ane fresh air, and unable to restrain, or account A SON OF THE SOIL. for, his own restlessness and uneasiness. One of those great dramas of sunshine and shadow, which were familiar to the Holy Loch, was going on just then among the hills, and the philosopher had made various at- tempts to interest himself in those wonderful alternations of gloom and light, hut without avail. Nature, which is so full of interest when the heart is unoccupied, dwindles and grows pale in presence of the poorest human creature who throws a shadow into her sun- shine. Not all those wonderful gleams of lightnot all those clouds, driven wildly like so many gigantic phantoms into the sol- emn hollows, could touch the heart of the man who was trembling for his friend. Lau- derdale roused himself up when Cohn came to him, and met him cheerfully. So youve written your letter? he said, and ac- cepted the new turn in your fortune? I thought as much by your eye.~~ You did not need to consult my eye, said Cohn, gayly. I said as much. But I must walk down to the loch a mile or two to meet the postman. Will you come? Let us take the good of the hills, said the youth, with his heart running over. Who can tell when we maybe here again together? I like this autumn weather, with its stormy colors; and I suppose now my fortune, as you call it, will lead me to a flat country that is, for a year or two at least. Ay, said Lauderdald, with a kind of groan; that is how the world appears at your years. Wh can tell when we may be here again together? Who can tell, laddie, what thoughts may be in our hearts when we are here again? I never have any security myself, when I leave a place, that Ill ever dare to come back, said the meditative man. The innocent fields might have a cruel aspect, as if God had cursed them, and, for anything I know, I might hate the flowers that could bloom, and the sun that could shine, and had no heart for my trouble. No that you understand what Im meaning, but thats the way it affects a man like me. What are you thinking of? cried Cohn, with a little dismay. One would fancyyou saw some terrible evil approaching. Of course the future is uncertain, but I am not particularly alarmed by anything that ap- pears to me. What are you thinking of, Lauderdale? Your own career? Oh, ay, just my am career, said Lauder- dale, with a smile; such a career to make a work about! though I am just as ebntent as most men. I mind when my am spirit was whiles uplifted as yours is, laddie; its that that makes a man think. It comes natural to the time of life, like the bright eye and the bloom on the cheek, said Cohns friend; and theres no sentence of death in it either, if you come to that, he went on to himself af- ter a pause. Life holds onit aye holds ona hope mair or less makes little count. And without the agony and the strug,le, never man that was worth calling man came to his full stature. All this Lauderdale kept say- ing to himself as he descended the hillside, leaping here and there over a half-concealed streamlet, and making his way through the withered ferns and the long, tanc,led streamers of the bramble, which caught at him as he passed. He was not so skilful in overcoming these obstacles as Cohn, who was to the man- ner born; and he got a little out of breath as he followed the lad, who, catching his monologue by intervals in the descent, looked at the melancholy philosopher with his young eyes, which laughed, and did not understand. I wonder what you are thinking of, said Cohn. Not of me, certainly; but I see you are afraid of something, as if I were go- ing to en counter a great danger. Lauder- dale, said the lad stopping and laying his head on his friends arm for one confidential moment, whatever danger there is, I have encountered it. Dont be afraid for me. I was saying nothing about you, callant, said Lauderdale, pettishly. Why should I aye be thinking of you? A man has more things to consider in this life than the vagaries of a slip of a laddie, that doesna see where hes bound for. Im thinking of things far out of your way, said the philosopher; of disappointments and heart-breaks, and a the eclipses that are invisible to common e en. Ive seen many in my day. Ive seen a trifling change that made no difference to the world quench a the light and a the com- fort out of life. Theres more things in heaven or earth than were ever dreamed of at your years. And whiles a man wonders how, for very pity, God can stay still in his heavens and look on Cohn could not say anything to the groan with which his friend broke off. lie was troubled and puzzled, and could not make it out. They went on together along the white 181 182 line of road, on which, far off in the distance, the youth already saw the postman whom he was hastening to meet; and, busy as he was with his own thoughts, Cohn had already forgotten to inquire what his companion re- ferred to, when his attention, which had wan- dered completely away from this perplexing tale, was suddenly recalled again by the voice at his side. Im speaking like a man that cannot see the end, said Lauderdale, which is clear to Him if theres any meaning in life. Youre for taking your chance and posting your let- ter, laddie? and you ken nothing about any nonsense that an old fool like me may be maundering? For one thing theres aye plenty to divert the mind in this country, said the philosopher, with a sigh, and stood still at the foot of the long slope they had just descended, looking with a wistful, abstract look upon the loch and the hills; at which change of mood Cohn could not restrain him- self, but with ready boyish mirth laughed aloud. What has this country to do with it all? You are in a very queer mood to-day, Lauder- dale,one moment as solemn and mysterious as if you knew of some great calamity, and the next talking of the country. What do you mean, I wonder? said the lad. His wonder was not very deep, but stirred lightly in the heart which was full of so many wishes and ambitions of its own. With that letter in his hand, and that new life before him, how could he help but look at the lonely man by his side with a half-divine cdmpassion ? a man to whom life offered no prizes, and scarcely any hopes. He was aware in his heart that Lauderdale was anxious about him- self, and the thought of that unnecessary so- licitude moved Cohn half to laughter. Poor Lauderdale,upon whom he looked down from the elevation of his young life with the ten- derest pity. He smiled upon his friend in his exaltation and superiority. You are more inexplicable than usual to-day. I won- der what you mean? said Cohn with all the sunshine of youth and joy, defying evil forebodings, in his eyes. It would take a wise man to tell, said Lauderdale; I would not pretend, for my own part, to fathom what any fool might meanmuch less what I mean myself, that have glimmerings of sense at times. Yon sunshines awfu prying about~ the hills. Lights aye inquisitive, and would fain be at the bottom of every mystery, which is, maybe, the reason, said the spcculative observer, why theres nae grandeur to speak of, nor meaning, according to mortal notions, with- out clouds and darkness. Yonders your postman, callant. Give him the letter and be done with it. I whiles find myself won- dering how it is that we take so little thought to Gods meanings,what ye might call his lighter meanings,his easy verses and such- like, that are thrown about the world, in the winds and the sky. To be sure, I ken just as well as you do that its currents of air, and masses of vapor and electricity, and all the rest of it. Its awfu easy learning the words, bu will you tell me theres no mean- ing to a mans heart and soul in the like of that? said Cohns companion stopping suddenly with a sigh of impatience and vexa- tion, which had to do with something more vital than the clouds. Just then, nature truly seemed to have come to a pause, and to be standing still, like themselves, looking on. The sky that was so blue and broad a mo- ment since had contracted to a black vault over the Holy Loch. Blackness that was positive and not a mere negative frowned out of all the half-disclosed mysterious hollows of the hills. The leaves that remained on the trees thrilled with a spasmodic shiver, and the little ripples came crowding up on the beach with a sighing suppressed moan of sus- pense and apprehension. So, at least, it seemed to one if not both of the spectators standing by. It means a thunder-storm, in the first place, said Cohn; look how it begins to come down in a torrent of gloom over Loch Goil. We have just time to get under shel- ter. It is very well for us we are so near Ha- more. Ay said Lauderdale. He repeated the syllable over again and again as they hur~ ned back. But the time will come when well no be near Ramore, he said to himself as the storm reached him and dashed in his face not twenty yards from the open door. Cohns laugh, as he reached with a bound the kindly portal, was all the answer which youth and hope gave to experience. The boy was not to be discouraged on that sweet thresh- old of his life. -Th A SON OF THE SOIL. A SON OF THE SOIL. CHAPTER XIV. WODENSHOURNE was as different from any house that Cohn had ever seen before as the low, flat country, rich and damp and monot- onou~, was unlike the infinitely varied land- scape to which his eye had been accustomed all his life. The florid upholstery of Ardmar- tin contrasted almost strangely with the sober magnificence of the old family house in which the Franklands had lived and died for gener- ations, as did the simple little rooms to which Cohn had been accustomed in his fathers house. Perhaps, on the whole, Ramore, where everything was for use and nothing for show, was less unharmonious with all he saw about him than the equipments of the brand- new castle, all built out of new money, and gilde~i and lackered to a climax of domestic finery. Cohns pupil was the invalid of the family,a boy of twelve, who could not go to Eton like his brothers, but whom the good- natured baronet thought, as was natural, the cleverest of his family. Thats why I wanted you so much, Campbell, Sir Thomas said, by way of setting Cohn at ease in his new occu- pation; hes not a boy to be kept to clas- sics, isnt Charleytheres nothing that boy wouldnt masterand shut up, as he has to be, with his wretched health, he wants a lit- tle variety. Ive always heard you took a wider range in Scotland; thats what I want for my boy. It was with this that the new tutor was introduced to his duties at Wodens- bourne. But a terrible disappointment await- ed the young man,a disappointment utterly unforeseen. There was nobody there but Sir Thomas himself and Charley and some little ones still in the nursery. Were all by our- selves; but you wont mind, said the baronet, who seemed to think it all the better for Co- lin; my lady and Miss Matty will be home before Christmas, and you can get yourself settled comfortably in the mean time. Lady Frankland is with her sister, who is in very bad health. I dont know what people mean by getting into bad healthwomen, too, that cant go in for free living and that sort of thing, said Sir Thomas. The place looks dreary without the ladies; but theyll be back before Christmas; and he went to sleep after dinner as usual, and left the young tutor at the other side of the table sitting in a kind of stupefied amazement and mortification in the silence, wondering what he came here for, and where his hopes and brilliant auguries 183 had gone to. Perhaps Cohn did not know what he himself meant when he accejted Sir Thomas Franklands proposal. lie thought he was coming to live in Mattys society; to be her companion; to walk with her and talk with her, as he had done at Ardmartin; hut, when he arrived to find Wodensbourne de- serted, with nothing to be seen but Sir Thom- as and a nursery governess, who sometimes emerged with her little pupils from the un- known regions up-stairs, and was very civil to the new tutor, Cohns disappointment was overwhelming. He despised himself with a bitterness only to be equalled by the brilliancy of those vain expectations over which he laughed in youthful rage and scorn. It was not to be Mattys companion he had come; it was not to see, however far off, any portion of the great world which he could not help imagining sometimes must be visible from such an elevation. It was only to train Char- leys precocious intellect, and amuse the bar- onet a little at dinner. After dinner, Sir Thomas went to sleep, and even Charley was out of the way, and the short, winter days closed down early over the great house, on the damp woods and silent park, which kept repeating themselves, day by day, upon Co- uns wearied brain. There was not even an undulation within sight, nothing higher than the dull line of trees, which after a while it made him sick to look at. To be sure, the sunshine now and then caught upon the lofty Ian tern of Earie Cathedral, and by that means woke up a gleam of light on the flat country; but that, and the daily conflict with Charleys sharp invalid understanding, and the sight of Sir Thomas sleeping after dinner, conveyed no exhilaration to speak of to lighten the dismal revulsion of poor Cohns thoughts. His heart rose indignant sometimes, which did him more good. This was the gulf of dismay he tum- bled into without defence or preparation after the burst of hope and foolish youthful delight with which he left Rainore. As for the society at Wodenshourne, it was at the present moment of the most limited description. Cohn, who was inexperienced, roused up out of his dulness a little when he heard that two of the canons of Earie were coming to dinner one evening. The innocent Scotch lad woke himself up, with a little cu- riosity about the clerical dignitaries, of whom he knew nothing, and a good deal of anxiety to comport himself as became the representa 184 A SON OF THE SOIL. tive of a Scotch university, about whom he gest possible; for, being Scotch, he could not did not doubt the visitors would he a little help listening-to the sermon aecording to the curious. It struck Cohn with the oddest stir- usage of his nation. The curate, after he prise and disappointment, to find that the had said those passages which arc all hut di- canons of Earie were perfectly indifferent vine in their comprehension of the wants of about the Scotch student. The curate of the humanity, told his people how wonderfully parish, indeed, who was also dining at Wo- their beloved Church had provided for all their densbourne that day, was wonderfully eivil wants; how sweet it was to recollect that this~ to the new tutor. He told him that he un- was the day which had been appointed the derstood the Scotch mountains were very near Twentieth Sunday after Trinity, and how it as fine as Switzerland, and that he hoped to was their duty to meditate a fact so touching see them some day, though the curious preju- and so important. Cohn thought of the Holy dices about Sunday and the whiskey-drinking Loch, and the ministers critics there, and must come very much in the way of closer in- laughed to himself, perhaps a little bitterly. tercourse; at which speech Cohns indigna- He felt as if he had given up his own career, tion and amusement would have been wonder- the natural life to which he was horn ,and ful to see, had any one been there who cared at this distance the usual enchautments of to notice how the lad was looking. On the nature began to work, and in his heart he Sundays, Cohn and his pupil went along the asked himself what he was to gain by trans- level ways to the quaint old mossy church, ferring his heart and hopes to this wealthier to which this same curate was devoting all country, where so many things were fairer, his time and thoughts by way of restoration. and after which he had been hankering so The Scotch youth had -never seen anything long. The curates sermons struck him as a at once so homely and so noble as this little kind of comical climax to his disappointments, church in the fen-country. He thought it the curate who looked at himself much as nothing less than a poem in stone, a pathetic he might have looked at a South-Sea Islander, old psalm of human life and death, uttering and spoke of the Scotch whiskey and Scotch itself for ever and ever, in the tenderest, sad Sabbaths. Poor curate He knew a great responses, to the worship of heaven. Never deal more than Cohn did about some things, anywhere had he felt so clearly how -the dead and if he did not understand how to preach, were waiting for the great Easter to come, that was not the fault of his college; neither nor seen Christianity standing so plainly be- did they convey much information at that seat tween the two comings; but when Cohn, of learning about the northern half of the with his Scotch ideas, heard the curious little British islandno more than they did at sermons to which his curate gave utterance Glasgow about the curious specimen of hu- under that roof, all consecrated and holy with inanity which is known as a curate on the the sorrows and hopes of ages, it made the brighter side of the Tweed. strangest anti-climax in the youths thoughts. All these things went through Cohns mind He laughed to himself when he came out, not as he sat in the dining-room after dinner, con- because he was disposed to laughter, but be- templating Sir Thomass nap, which was not cause it was the only alternative he had; and of itself an elevating spectacle. He thought- Sir Thomas, who had a glimmering perception to himself at that moment that he was but that this must be something new to his inex- fulfilling the office of a drudge at Wodens- perienced guest, gave a doubtful sort of smile, bourne, which anybody could fill. it did not not knowing how to take Cohns strange require those abilities which had won with looks. acclamation the prize in the philosophy class You dont believe in saints days, and to teach Charley Frankland the elements of such-like, in Scotland? said the perplexed science; and all the emulations and glories- baronet; and of course the sermon does not of his college career came back to Cohns count for so much with us. mind. The little public of the university No, said Cohn; and they did not enter had begun to think of him; to predict what further into the subject. he would do, and anticipate his success at: As for the young man himself, who had home; but here, who knew anything about: still upon his mind the feeling that he was to him? All these thoughts caine to rapid con~. be a Scotch minister, the lesson was the stran- chusions as the ytmng man, sat watching th~ A SON OF THE SOIL. 185 fire gleam in the wainscot, and calculating the moon or the stars, and who no doubt had for- recurrence of that next great snore which gotten his very name. would wake Sir Thomas, and make him sit These were not pleasant thoughts to season up of a s.dden and look fiercely at his corn- the solitude; and he eat hugging them for panion before he murmured out a Beg your a great many evenings before Sir Thomas pardon, and went to sleep again. Not an awoke, and addressed, as he generally did, a interesting prospect certainly. Should he go few good-humored, stupid observations to home? Should he represent to the haronet, the lad whom, to he sure, the haronet found a when he woke up for the night, that it had considerahle hore, and did not know what to all been a mistake, and that his present office do with. Sir Thomas could not forget his was perfectly unsuited to his amhition and obligations to the young man who saved his hopes? But then what could he say? for Harrys life; and thus it was, from pure after all, it was as Chancy Franklands tutor gratitude, that he made Cohn miserable, simply, and with his eyes open, that he came though there was no gratitude at all, nor to Wodenshourne, and Sir Thomas had said even much respect, in the summary judgment nothing about the society of his niece, or any which the youth formed of the heavy squire. other society, to tempt him thither. Cohn This was how matters were going on when sat in a bitterness of discontent, which would Wodensbourne and the world, and everything have been incredible to him a few weeks be- human, suddenly, all at once, sustained again fore, pondering these questions. There was a change to Cohn. He had been thus, for not a sound to be heard, but the dropping of six weary weeks,during which time he felt the ashes on the hearth, and Sir Thomass himself getting morose, ill-tempered, and heavy breathing as he slept. Life went on miserable, writing sharp letters home, in velvet slippers in the great house from which which he would not confess to any special Cohn would gladly have escaped (he thought) disappointment, but expressed himself in gen- to the poorest cottage on the Holy Loch. He eral terms of bitterness like a young misan- could not help recalling his shabby little room thrope, and in every respect making himself in Glasgow, and Lauderdales long comments and those who cared for him unhappy. Even upon life, and all the talk and the thoughts the verses, which did very well to express the that made existence bright in that miserable tender griefs of sentiment, had been thrown little place, which Sir Thomas Franklands aside at this crisis ; for there was nothing grooms would not have condescended to live melodious in his feelings, and he could not say in, but which the unfortunate young tutor in sweet rhymes and musical cadences how thought of with longings as he sat dreary in angry and wretched he was. lie was sitting the great dining-room. What did it matter so one dreary December evening when it was to him that the floor was soft with Turkey raining fast outside and everything was silent carpets, that the wine on the table was of the withinas was natural in a well-regulated most renowned vintages, and that his slum- household where the servants knew their bering companion in the great easy-chair was duty, and the nursery was half a mile away the head of one of the oldest commoner fami- through worlds of complicated passages. Sir lies in England ,a baronet and a county Thomas was asleep as usual, and, with his member? Cohn, after all, was only a son of eyes shut and his mouth open, the excellent the soil; he longed for his Glasgow attic, and baronet was not, as we have already said, an his ~companions who spoke the dialect of that elevating spectacle; and at the other end of remarkable but unlovely city, and felt bit- the table, sat Cohn, chafing out his young terly in his heart that he had been cheated. soul with such thoughts of what was not, Yet it was hard to say to any onehard even but might have been, as youth does not know to put in words to himselfwhat the cheat how to avoid. It was just then, when he was was. It was a deception he had practised on going over his long succession of miseries himself, and in the bitterness of his disap- and thinking of his natural career cut short piintrncnt the youth refused to say to him- for this dreary penance of which nothing self that anybodys absence was the secret could ever comethat Cohn was startled by of his mortification. What was she to him? the sound of wheels coming up the wintry a great lady as far out of his reach as the avenue. He could not venture to imagine 186 A SON OF THE SOIL. to himself what it might be, though he us- (which was sad enough, being an unexpected tened as if for life and death, and heard the death in the house: but that did not make sounds of an arrival and the indistinct hum much difference to the two women who were of voices which he could not distinguish, coming home); Matty kept coming and go- without feeling that he had any right to stir ing between the tea-table and the fire, send- from the table to inquire what it meant; and ing Cohn on all sorts of errands, and making there he sat accordingly, with his hair thrust comments to him aside on what her aunt was back from his forehead and his great eyes saying. gleaming out from the noiseless atmosphere, Only fancy thb long, dreary drive we when the door opened and a pretty figure, have had, and my uncle and Mr. Campbell all eager and glowing with life, looked into making themselves so cosy, the little siren the room. Cohn was too much absorbed, said, kneeling down before the fire with still too anxious, and felt too deeply how much one drop of rain sparkling on her bright was involved for himself to be capable even locks. And the effect was such that Cohn of rising up to greet her as an indifferent lost himself altogether, and could not have man would have done. He sat and gazed at affirmed had he been questioned on his oath, her as she darted in like a fairy creature, that he had not enjoyed himself greatly all bringing every kind of radiance in her train, the evening. He took Lady Frankland her Here they are, aunty!~ cried Miss Matty; tea, and listened to all the domestic chatter and she came in flying in her cloak, with the as if it had been the talk of angels; and was hood still over her head and great mAn-drops as pleased, when the mistress of the house on it, which she had caught as she jumped thanked him for his kindness to Charley, as out of the carriage. While Cohn sat gazing if he had not thought Charley a wretched at her, wondering if it were some deluding little nuisance a few hours ago. He did not apparition, or, in reality, the new revelation in the least know who the people were about of life and love that it seemed to be, Matty whom the two ladies kept up such an unceas- had thrown herself upon Sir Thomas and ing talk, and, perhaps, under other circum- woke the worthy baronet by kissing him, stances would have laughed at this sweet- which was a pretty sight to behold. Here coined gossip; with all its lively comments we are, uncle; wake up! ~ cried Matty; upon nothing and incessant personalities; my lady ran to the nursery first, but I came but, at the present moment, Cohn had said to you, as I always do. And the little witch good-by to reason, and could not anyhow looked up with a gleam at Cohn, under which defend himself against the sudden happincss heaven and earth changed to the lad. He which seized upon him without any notice. stumbled to his feet, while Sir Thomas rubbed While Sir Thomas and his wife sat on either his astonished eyes. What could Cohn say? side of the great fire, and Matty kept darting He stood waiting for a word, seeing the little in and out between them, Cohn sat behind figure in a halo of light and fanciful glory, near the impromptu tea-table, and listened how do you do? I knew you were and felt that the world was changed. If he here, said Miss Matty, putting out two fin- could have had time to think, he might have gers to him while she still hung over her been ashamed of himself, but then he had no uncle. And presently Lady Frankland came time to think, and in the mean time he was in, and the room became full of pleasant din happy, a sensation not to be gainsaid or re- and commotion, as was inevitable. When jected; and so fled the few blessed hours of Cohn made a move as if to leave them, fear- the first evening of Mattys return. ful of being in the way, as the sensitive lad When he had gone up-stairs, and had heard naturally was, Miss Matty called to him, at a distance the sound of the last good-night, Oh, dont go, please; we are going to have and was fairly shut up again in the silence tea, and my lady must be served without of his own room, the youth, for the first time, oiving her any trouble, and I want you to began to realize what he was doing. He help me, said Matty; and so the evening paused, with a little consternation, a little that had begun in gloom ended in a kind of fright, to question himsclf. For the first subdued glory too sweet to be real. Lady time, he saw clearly, without any possibility Frankland sat talking to her husband of of self-delusion, what it was which had their reason for coming back so suddenly brought him here, and which made all the A SON OF THE SOIL. 187 difference to him between happiness and existence at Wodenabourne became at all misery. It was hard to realize now the what it had been at Ardmartin. This differ- state of mind he had been in a few hours be- ence was in the atmosphere, which was now fore; but he did it, by dint of a great exer- bright with all kinds of gladsome charms, tion, and saw, with a distinctness which and pervaded by anticipationsa charm alarmed him, how it was thiit everything which, at Cohns age, was more than reality. had altered in his eyes. It was Mattys He never knew what moment of delight presence that made all the difference between might come to him any daywhat words this subdued thrill of happiness and that might be said, or smiles shed upon him. blank of impatient and mortified misery. Such an enchantment could not, indeed, have The young man tried to stand still and con- lasted very long, but, in the mean time, was aider the reality of his position. He had infinitely sweet, and made his life like a ro- stopped in his career, arrested himself in his mance to the young man. There was no- life; entered upon a species of existence body at Wodenshourne to occupy Miss Matty, which he felt in his heart was not more, but or withdraw her attention from her young less, noble (for him) than his previous course. worshipper; and Cohn, with his poetic tern- And what was it for? All for the uncer- perament and his youthful genius, and all tam smile, for the societywhich might fail the simplicities and inexperience which ren- him any timeof a woman so far out of his dered him so different from the other clever way, so utterly removed from his reach, as young men who had been seen or heard of in Matilda Frankland? For a moment, the that region, was very delightful company, youth was dismayed, and stopped short, even when he was not engaged in any acts Wisdom and Truth whispering in his ear. of worship. Lady Frankland herself ac- Love might be fair, but he knew enough to knowledged that Mr. Campbell was a great know that life must not be subservient to acquisition. He is not the least like other that witchery; and Cohns good angel spoke people, said the lady of the house; but to him in the silence, and bade him flee, you must take care not to let him fall in love Better to go back, and at once, to the gray with you, Matty;~ and both the ladies and sombre world, where all his duties laughed softly as they sat over their cups of awaited him, than to stay here in this fools tea. As for Matty, when she went to dress paradise. As he thought so, he got up, and for dinner, after that admonition, she put on began to pace about his room, as though it tartan ribbons over her white dress, partly, had been a cage. Best to flee; it might hide to be sure, because they were in the fashion; all the light out of his life and break his but chiefly to please Cohn, who knew rather heart; but what else had he to look for sooner less about tartan than she did, and had not or later? He sat up half the night, still the remotest idea that the many-colored sash pacing about his room, hesitating upon his had any reference to himself. fate, while the IDece~aber storm raged out- I love Scotland, the little witch said to side. What was he to do? When he dropped him when he came into the drawing-room, to to sleep at last, his heart betrayed him, and which he was now admitted during Sir strayed away into celestial worlds of dream- Thomass nap,and, to tell the truth, Lady ing. He woke, still undecided, as he thought, Frankland herself had just closed her eyes to see the earliest wintry gleam of sunshine in a gentle doze, in her easy-chair, but, stealing in through his shutters. What was though you are a Scotchman, you dont take he to do? But already the daylight made the least notice of my ribbons; I am very him feel his terrors as so many shadows. fond of Scotland, said Matty. and the His heart was a traitor, and he was glad to Scotch, the wicked little girl added, with a find it so, and the moment of indecision set- glance at him, which made Cohns heart tied more surely than ever the bondage in leap in his deluded breast. which he seemed to have entangled his life. Then I am very glad to be Scotch, said the youth, and stooped down over the end of CHAPTER XV. the sash till Matty thought he meant to kiss Faox that day life flew upon celestial wings it, which was a more decided act of homage for Chancy Franklands tutor. It was not than it would be expedient, under the cm- that any love-making proved possible, or that cumstances, to permit. A SON OF THE SOIL. Dont talk like everybody else, said Miss Matty; that does not make any dif- ference; you were always glad to be Scotch. I know you all think you are so much better and cleverer than we are in England. But, tell me, do you still mean to be aScotch min- ister? I wish you would not, said Matty, with a little pout. And then Cohn laughed, half with pleasure at what he thought her interest in him, and half with a sense of the ludicrous which he could not restrain. I dont think I could preach about the Twentieth Sunday after Trinity, he said with a smile; which was a speech Miss Matty did not understand. People here dont preach as you do in Scotland, said the English girl, with a little offence. You are always preaching, and that is what renders it so dull. But what is the good of being a minister? There are plenty of dull people to be ministers; you are so clever Am I clever? said Cohn. ~ I am Charleys tutor; it does not require a great deal of genius hut while he spoke, the eyeswhich Matty did not comprehend, which always went leagues further than one could seekindled up a little. He looked a long way past her, and no doubt he saw something; but it piqued her a little not to be able to follow him, nnr to search out what he meant. If you had done what I wished, and gone to Oxford, Campbell, said Sir Thomas, whose repose had been interrupted earlier than usual; I cant say much about what I could have done myself, for I have heaps of boys of my own to provide for; but, if youre bent on going into the Church, something would certainly have turned up for you. I dont say theres much of a course in the Church for an ambitious young fellow, but still, if you do work well and have a few friends As for your Scotch Church, I dont know very much about it, said the baronet, candidly. I never knew any one who did. What a bore it used to be a dozen years ago, when there was all that row; and now, I suppose, youre all at sixes and sevens; aint you? asked the ingenuous legislator. I suppose ~vhiskey and controversy go together somehow. Sir Thomas got himself perched into the corner of a sofa very comfortably, as he spoke, and took no notice of the lightning itt Cohns eyes. Oh, uncle! dont! said Miss Matty; didnt you know that the Presbyterians are all going to give up and join the Church? and its all to be the same both in England and Scotland? You need not laugh. I assure you I know quite well what I am saying, said the little beauty, with a look of dignity. I have seen it in the paperssuch funny papers !with little paragraphs about acci- dents, and about people getting silver snuff- boxes !but all the same, they say what I tell you. Theres to be no Presbyterians and no precentors, and none of their wicked ways, coming into church with their hats on, and star- ing all round instead of saying their prayers; and all the ministers are to be made into cler- gymen,priests and deacons, you know; and they are going to have bishops and proper service like other people. Mr. Campbell, said Matty, looking up at him with a little emphasis, to mark that, for once, she was call- ing him formally by his name, knows it is quite true. Humph, said Sir Thomas. I know better; I know how Campbell, there, looked the other day when he came out of church. I know the Scotch and their ways of think- ing. Go and make the tea and dont talk of what you dont understand. But as for you, Campbell, if you have a mind for the university and to go in for the Church But this was more than Cohn, being twenty and a Scotebman, could bear. I am going in for the Church, said the lad, doing all he could to keep down the ex- citement at which Sir Thomas would have laughed; but it did not in the least touch my heart the other day to know that it was the Twentieth Sunday after Trinity. Devo- tion is a great matter, said the young Scotch- man. I grant you have the advantage over us there; but it would not do in Scotland to preach about the Churchs goodness, and what she had appointed for such or such a day. We preach very stupid sermons, I dare say; but at least we mean to teach somebody somethingwhat God looks for at their hands, or what they may look for at his. It is more an occupation for a man, cried the young revolutionary, than reading the subhimest of prayers. I am going in for the Church; but it is the Church of Scotland, said Cohn. He drew himself up with a grand youthful dignity, which was much lost on Sir Thomas, who, for his part, looked at his new tutor 188 189 A SON OF THE SOIL. with eyes of sober wonderment, and did not to make our own way in the world said understand what this emotion meant. the young man, with a touch of gi~andenr, There is no occasion for excitement, but was stopped by Miss Maftys sudden said the baronet; nobody nowadays med- laughter. dies with a mans convictions; indeed, Harry Oh, how simple you are! As if ricn would say, its a great thing to have any con- squires and great people, as you say, could victions. That is how the young men talk marry when they pleasedas if nny man nowadays, said Sir Thomas; and he moved could marry when he pleased! cried Miss off the sofa again, and yawned, though not j Matty, scornfully. After all, we do count uncivilly. As for Miss Matty, she came steal- for something, we poor women; now and ing up when she had made the tea, with her then, we can put even an eldest son out in his en p in her hand. calculations. It is great fun too, said the So you do mean to be a minister? she young lady, and she laughed,and so did Cohn, said, in a half-whisper, with a deprecating who could not help wonderin~, what special look. Lady Frankland had roused up, like case she might have in her eye, and listened her husband~and the two were talking, and with all the eagerness of a lover. There is did not take any notice of Mattys proceedings poor Harry, said Miss Matty under her with the harmless tutor. The young lady breath, and stopped short and laughed to her- was quite free to play with her mouse a little, self and sipped her tea, while Cohn lent an and entered upon the amusement with zest, anxious ear. But nothing further followed as was natural. You mean to shut your- that soft laughter. Cohn sat on thorns, gaz- self up in a square house, with five windows, ing at her with a world of questions in his like the poor gentleman who has such red hair, face; but the siren looked at him no more. and never see anybody but the old women in Poor Harry! Harrys natural rival was son- the parish, and have your life made misera- sible of a thrill of jealous curiosity mingled ble every Sunday by that precentor. with anxiety. What had she done to Harry? I hope I have a soul above precentors, this witch who had beguiled Cohnor was said Cohn, with a little laugh, which was un- it, not she who had done anything to him, steady still, however, with a little excitement; but some other as pretty and as mischievous? and one might mend all that, he added a Cohn had no clew to the puzzle; but it gave minute after, looking at her with a kind of him a new access of half-conscious enmity to wistful inquiry which he could not have put the heir of Wodenshourne. into words. What was it he meant to ask After that talk, there elapsed a few days with his anxious eye? But he did not him- during which Cohn saw but little of Matty, self know. who had visits to pay, and some solemn din- Oh, yes, said Matty~, I know what you ner-parties to attend in Lady Franklands would do: you would marry somebody who train. He had to spend the evenings by was musical, and get a little organ and teach himself on these occasions after dining with the people better ; I know exactly what you Charley, who was not a very agreeable com- would do, said the younglady,with a piquant panion; and when this invalid went to his little touch of spite, and a look that startled room, as he did early, the young tutor found Cohn; and then she paused, and hung her himself desolate enough in the great house, head for a moment and blushed, or looked as where no human bond existed between him if she blushed. But you would not? said and the little community within its walls. Matty, softly, with a sidelong glance at her He was not in a state of mind to take kindly victim. Dont marry anybody; no one is to abstract study at that moment of his ex- any good after that. I dont approve of mar- istence; for Cohn had passed out of that un- rying, for my part, especially for a priest, conscious stage in which he had been at Ard- Priests should always be detached, you know, martin. Then, however much he had wished from the world. to he out of temptation, he could not help Why? said Cohn. He was quite con- himself, which was a wonderful consolation; tent to go on talking on such a subject for but now he had come wilfully and know- any length of time. As for marrying, it is ingly into the danger, and had become only your rich squires and great people who aware of the fact and, far more distinctly can marry when they please; we who have than ever before, of the difference between A SON OF THE SOIL. himself and the object of his thoughts. I wonder if they all think it is ~t spell, Though he found it very possible at times to said Cohn to himself; but he was rebuked comfort himself with the thought that this and was silent when he heard the responses was a very ordinary interruption of a Scotch which the cottage folk made on their knees. students work, and noways represented the When the curate had read his prayer, he got Armidas garden in which the knight lost up and said good-night, and went back to both his vocation and his life, there were Cohn; and this visitation of the sick was a other moments and moods which were less very strange experience to the young Scotch easily manageable; and, on the whole, he observer, who stood revolving everything, wanted the stimulus of perpetual excitement with an eye to Scotland, at the cottage-door. to keep him from feeling the false position he You dont make use of cur Common was in, and the expediency of continuing Prayer in Scotland? said the curate. Par- here. Though the feeling haunted him all don me for referring to it. One cannot help day, at night, in the drawing-room,--.-which being sorry for people who shut themselves out was brightened and made sweet by the fair from such an inestimable advantage. How English matron who was kind to Cohn, and did it come about? the fairer maiden who was the centre of all I dont know, said Cohn. I suppose his thoughts,it vanished like an evil spirit, because Laud was a fool, and King Charles and left him with a sense that nowhere in the a world could he have been so well; but when this mighty stimulus was withdrawn, the youth was left in a very woful plight, con- scious, to the bottom of his heart, that he ought to be elsewhere, and here was consum- ing his strength and life. He strayed ~ut in the darkness of the December nights through the gloomy silent park into the little village with its feeble lights, where everybody and everything was unknown to him; and all the time his demon sat on his shoulders and asked what he did there. While he strayed through the broken, irregular village street, to all ap- pearance looking at the dim cottage-windows and listening to the rude songs from the little ale-house, the curate encountered the tutor. Most probably the young priest, who was not remarkable for wisdom, imagined the Scotch lad to be in some danger; for he laid a kindly hand upon his arm and turned him away from the vociferous little tavern, which was a vexation to the curates soul. I should like you to go up to the Parson- age with me, if you will only wait till I have seen this sick woman, said the curate; and Cohn went in very willingly within the cot- tage-porch to wait for his acquaintance, who had his prayer-book under his arm. The young Scotebman looked on with wondering eyes, while the village priest knelt down by his parishioners bedside and opened his book. Naturally there was a comparison always go- ing on in Cohns mind. He was like a pas- sive experimentalist, seeing all kinds of trials made before his eyes, and watching the result. Hush, for goodness sake, said the cu- rate, with a shiver. What do you mean? Such language is painful to listen to. The saints and martyrs should be spoken of in a different tone. You think that was the rea- son? Oh, no; it was your horrible Calvin- ism and John Knox and the mad influences of that unfortunate Reformation which has done us all so much harm, though I suppose you think differently in Scotland, he said, with a little sigh, steering his young compan- ion, of whose morality he felt uncertain, past the alehouse-door. Did you never hear of John Knoxs lit- urgy? said the indignant Cohn; the sad- dest, passionate service! You always had time to say your prayers in England, but we had to snatch them as we could. And your prayers would not do for us now, said the Scotch experimentahist; I wish they could; but it would be impossible. A Scotch peas- ant would have thought that an .incantation you were reading. When you go to see a sick man, shouldnt you like to say, God save him, God forgive him, straight out of your heart without a book? said the eager lad; at which question the curate looked up with wonder in the young mans face. I hope I do say it out of my heart, said the English priest, and stopped short, with a gravity that had a great effect upon Cohn; but in words more sound than any words of mine, the curate added a moment after, which dispersed the reverential impression from the Scotch mind of the eager boy. I cant see that, said Cohn, quickly, 190 A SON OF THE SOIL. 191 in the church for common prayer, yes; at on a kind of moral platform, as the emblem a bedside in a cotta~,e, no. At least I mean of Doubt and that pious unbelief which is that~s how we feel in Scotland, though I sup- the favorite of modern theology. Now, to pose you dont oare much for our opinion, tell the truth, (John, though it may lower he added, with some heat, thinking he saw a him in the opinion of many readers of his smile on his companions face. history, was not by nature given to doubt- Oh, yes, certainly; I have always un- ing. He had, to be sure, followed the fash- derstood that there is a great deal of intelhi- ion of the time enough to be aware, of a won- gence in Scutdand, said the curate, cour- derful amount of unsettled questions, and teous as to a South-Sea Islander. But questions which it did not appear possible people who have never known this inestima- ever to settle. But somehow these elements ble advantage? 1 believe preaching is con- of scepticism did not give him much trouble. sidered the great thing in the North? he His heart was full of natural piety, and his said, with a little curiosity. I wish so- instincts all fresh and strong as a childs. ciety were a little more impressed by it He could not help believing, any more than among ourselves; but mere information even he could help breathing, his nature being about spiritual matters is of so much less such; and be was half amused and half irri- importance! though that, I dare say, is an- tated by the position in which he found him- other point on which we dont agree? the self notwithstanding the curates respect for curate continued, pleasantly. He was just the ideal sceptic, whom he had thus pounced opening the gate into his own garden, which upon. The commonplace character of Cohns was quite invisible in the darkness, but which mind was such that he was very glad when enclosed and surrounded a homely house with his new friend relaxed into gossip, and asked some lights in the windows, which, it was a him who was expected at the hall for Christ- little comfort to Cohn to perceive, was not mas; to which the tutor answered by such much handsomer, nor more imposing in ap- names as he had heard in the ladies talk, pearance than the familiar manse on the bor- and remembered with friendliness or with ders of the Holy Loch. jealousy, according to the feeling with which It depends on what you call spiritual Miss Matty pronounced themwhich was matters, said the polemical youth. I Cohns only guide amid this crowd of the dont think a man can possibly get too much unknown. information about his relations with God, if I wonder if it is to be a match, said the only anybody could tell him anything; but curate, who, recovering from his dread con- certainly about ecclesiastical arrangements cerning the possible habits of his Scotch and the Christian year, said the irreverent guest, had taken heart to share his scholarly young Scotchman, a little might suffice; potations of beer with his new friend4. It and Cohin spoke with the slightest inflection was said Lady Frankland did not hike it, but of contempt, always thinking of the Twen- I never believed that. After all it was such tieth Sunday after Trinity, and scorning a natural arrangement. I wonder if it is to what he did not understand, as was natural be a match?~ to his years. Is what to be a match? said Cohn, Ah, you dont know what you are say- who all at once felt his heart stand still and ing, said the devout curate. After you grow cold, though he sat by the cheerful fire have spent a Christian year, you will see which threw its light even into the dark gar- what comfort and beauty there is in it. den outside. I have heard nothing about You say, if anybody could tell him any- any match, he added, with a little effort. thing. I hope you have not got into a It dawned upon him instantly what it must sceptical way of thinking. I should like he, andy his impulse was to rush out of the very much to have a long talk with you, house, or do anything rash and sudden that said the village priest, who was very good would prevent him from hearing it said in and very much in earnest, though the ear- words. nestness was after a pattern different from Between Henry Frankland and his cous- anything known to Cohn; and, before the in, said the calm. curate; they looked as youth perceived what was going to happen, if they were perfectly devoted to each other he found himself in the curates study, placed at one time. That has died off, for she is 192 rather a flirt, I fear; but all the people here- abouts had made up their minds on the sub- ject. It would be a very suitable match on the whole. But why do you get up? You are not going away? Yes; I have something to do when I go home, saidColin, something to prepare, which he said out of habit, thinking of his old work at home, without remembering what he was saying, or whether it meant anything. The curate put down the poker which he had lifted to 2oke the fire, and looked at Cohn with a touch of envy. Ah, something literary, I suppose? said the young priest, and went xvith his new friend to the door, thinking how clever he was, and how lucky, at his age, to have a literary connection ; a thought very natural to a young priest in a country curacy with a very small endowment. The curate wrote verses, as Cohn himself did, though on very different subjects, and took some of them out of his desk, and looked at them, after he had shut the door, with affectionate eyes, and a half intention ef asking the tutor what was the best way to get admission to the maga- zines, and on the whole he thought he liked what he had seen of the young Scotchman, though he was so ignorant of Church matters an opinion which Culin perfectly recipro- cated, with a more distinct sentiment of com- passion for the Englich curate, who knew A SON OF THE SOIL. about as much of Scotland as if it had lain in the South Seas. Meanwhile Cohn walked home to Wodens- bourne with fire and passion in his heart. It would be a very suitable match on the whole, he kept saying to himself, and then tried to take a little comfort from Mattys sweet laughter over Poor harry! Poor Harry was rich and fortunate and indepen- dent, and Cohn was only the tutor. Wer these two to meet this Christmas-time, and contend over again on this new ground? He went along past the black trees as if he were walking for a wager; but, quick as he walked, a dog-cart dashed past him with lighted lamp gleaming up the avenue. When he reached the hall-door, one of the servants was disappearing up-stairs with a portman- teau, and a heap of coats and wrappers lay in the hall. Mr. Harry just come, sira week sooner than was expected, said the butler, who was an old servant, and shared in the joys of the family. Cohn went to his room without a word; shut himself up there with feelings which he would not have explained to any one. He had not seen harry Frankland since they were both boys; but he had never got over the youthful sense of rivalry and opposition which had sent him skimming over the waters of the Holy Loch to save the boy who was his born rival and antagonist. Was this the day of their encounter and con- flict which had come at last? THE COAL STRATA AND INTERNAL HEAT or THE EARTHMr. MCiean, the new president of the Institution of Civil Engineers, in his address, says on this subject: We may consider our coal mines to be practically inexhaustible, and that we have not to fear any deficiency in quan- tity arising from the exhaustion of the mineral, but rather the practical difficulty of obtaining it from a great depth below the surface, in conse- quence of the central heat of our globe, which, it is alleged, will ultimately, and within a defined and not distant period, reduce the production to a limited supply. Much may be said in support of the theory of central heat, but I think undue importance has been given to it, as a difficulty in mining operations. A comparatively thin coat- ing of clay, or fire-bricks, surrounding a blast furnace filled with molten iron, affords such pro- tection that the hand may be placed without in- convenience on the outer surface of the brick- work and it is difficult to understand how any internal heat can penetrate through the crust of the earthestimated to be thirty-four miles in thicknessso as to interfere with the tempera- ture at the comparatively small depth from the surface at which mining operations are carried on. I am of opinion that the heat, which un- doubtedly exists in some mines, arises, not from central heat, but from superincumbent pressure, and defective ventilation. The gases in the coal are highly compressed, and, when liberated by mining operations, are at a high temperature; but we know that with large shafts air may be conveyed to any depth that has yet been reached in mining operations, without, in the slightest degree, altering its temperature. I therefore think that the time when we shall experience a want of coal, arising from exhaustion, or from difficulties occasioned by the depth of the mines, or an excess of temperature, need not at present in any way influence our conduct in the devel- opment and use of that important mineral. Builder.

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The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 39 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. Apr 30, 1864 0081 039
The Living age ... / Volume 81, Issue 39 193-240

THE LIVING AGE. No. 1039. 30 April, 1864. CONTENTS. PAGE. Correspondence.Burial of Colored People, . 193 Gold and Mr. Chase, . . . . . Editorial, 194 1. Life and Times of St. Bernard, . . . . London Quarterly Review, 195 2. Perpetual Curate. Part 10, . . . Blackwoods Magazine, 213 3. Louis Napoleon and the Papacy, - . . . Spectator, 229 4. Rouge and Pearl Powder, . . . . 230 5. The Prince and the Fashions, . . . . 233 6. A Mocking-Bird in London, . . . . All the Year Round, 235 7. The Death of Mrs. Kirkland, . . . . N. Y. Evening Post, 237 8. An Invitation to Rome and the Reply, . . Victoria Magazine, 238 PoETRYCompensation, 212. The Boy and the Ring, 212. Three Sonnets, 240. Faith, Hope, and Charity, 240. SHORT ARTICLES.FrOg he would a writing go, 211. Mr. Palgraves ~fravels in Arabia, 211. Fran~ois Hugos French Translation of Shakspeares Works, 211. An out-door Cel- lar, 232. Diary of the Japanese Envoys~ 232. Miracle Plays, 232. CORRESPONDENe :BURIAL OF COLORED PEOPLE.A colored woman whose mother was a slave to lay wifes mother died at my house. I proposed to bury her in our own lot in the cemetery, but was refused by the trustees, who asserted that no other cemetery allows it. Please ascertain the fact as relates to Mount Auburn Cemetery. THE note from your friend, Mr. Parsons, astonished me. I am happy to state that there are at least two colored persons who own lots in Mount Auburn. Several have been buried in the public lots there side by side with whites ; and recently a favorite black servant was buried with the family she had served. In no case have I ever known an objection to be suggested. Darby Vassal was a highly respected and intelligent negro, in his childhood a slave in the Vassal family, and at the time of his death, the oldest member of the church in Brattle Square; his re- mains were deposited in the tomb of the Vassal family, under the Episcopal Church in Cambridge. A short time since there were some who so hated the negro that they were unwilling they should fight and die for us. Most have overcome their scruples as to this, and I supposed all were willing that they should be decently buried. No animosity so hard to conquer as that toward those we have wren ned. GEORGE WILLIAM BOND, Treasurer of .AIount ./luburn Cemetery. NEW BOOKS. THE CEDAR CHRISTIAN, AND OTHER PRACTICAL PAPERS AND PERSONAL SHETeILES. By Theodore L. Cayler, Pastor of the La-fayette Avenue Church, Brooklyn. New York: Robert Carter & Bros. We antleipate pleasure and profit from this attractive little volume. TILE PuILAxTaPOrIc REsvLTs OF THE WAR IN ASIERIcA. Collected from official and other au- thentic sources. New York: Sheldon & Co. Boston: Gould & Lincoln. London: Trubner & Co. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & Co., 30 Bao. FIELD STREET, BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Livnse AGE will be punctually fiwarded free of pestage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes handsomely bound, packed in neat boxet, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. Axv VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. A NY NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to oem- plete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. GOLD AND MR. CHASE. Goan running up ten per cent. in a single day! Nobody has been niore favorable to Mr. Chase than we. Rejoicing in his clear views as to the real adversary in the field, we have also believed that he felt the necessity of liberating us from the tyranny of Corporation Currency. The St~e Banks mt~le sio opposition. The course was clear before the Secretary. He had nothing to do, but to continue his popular loan till it had absorbed the redundance of the Legal- Tender Notes ; to use his influence with the Country and with Congress to hasten a large Taxation, which should first lay hold on Imports, and extend to Direct Taxation as rapidly as it could be organized and at once to introduce Specie payments, by issuing in payments of Inter- est, Gold drafts on the Treasury payable in New York. Of such notes there would have been a gradual extension and an ultimate substitution for the legal-tender notes, and a Sinking Fund (as we have heretofore shown), which would in a generation or two, have paid off the National Debt. Instead of this, he has spent his own time and that of Congress in elaborating an intricate, com- plicated system of Pet Banks, far worse than their predecessors. It is a scheme for giving up eighteen millions of Interest. Eighteen millions a year for nothing! Unable to find any rational solution of such a course, the commercial world has lost confidence in the Secretary himself. The Pet Banks cannot have credit with the country. Their notes will be current because the Government endorses them. The notes of Tom, Dick, and Ilarry would do just as well with the same endorsement. When a man re- ceives one of these notes, he does not look to see whether it was issued through No. 1, or No. 999 of the National Banks. Tom, Dick, and Harry have not even their individual credit to money necessary to defend the life of the nation, and to do this directly or indirectly as may most expedient. Perhaps it is now ne~ rly as clear that the Gov- ernment has a right, and that it is its duty, to take into its own hands that important power of making paper money, which it has for so many years, by non-user, suffered to be usurped by corporations, State or national. And here let us stop to pay a deserved tribute to the intelligent patriotism of the banks, which have done all that was in their power to support the Government, not only by large loans at short notice, but by upholding the national currency, even though it were likely to supplant their own notes. It was not unreasonable to fear the up- rising of selfish antagonism on this point. But in this case capital has wisely acknowledged its strength to consist in maintaining that govern- ment which stands between capital and ruin. The true question which we have to consider is this Shall the Government really take this power into its own hands, or shall it repeat General Jacksons scheme of pet banks, and inflate the currency by stimulating their issues of notes? The Treasury Department has happily suc- ceeded in making its own notes the currency of the country, so that, as Mr. Gallatin shows, the le~al-tender notes last May were four hundred millions and the bank notes less than one hun- dred and seventy millions. In this state of things the true policy of the Secretary was to reduce the currency as rapidly as it was possible, by causing the withdrawal of the bank-notes. If this could be done, the premium on gold would lessen, and with it, and in full proportion, the expenses of the war. How can this be brought about without in- creasing the national currency? By raising money in two ways: First, by as high and prompt taxation as can be had out of Con~ress; and second, by borrowing enough to meet the deficiency at whatever rate of interest shall be necessary to bring it in season. having made use of the experience of England as to currency, and havin~ successfully followed take care of. the example of France as to popular loans, all The only objection which we know the Secre- that was necessary was to ~o cii with our fortu- tary to have made to his best offspring, the Na- nate experience, which had gained for the Sec- tional currency, is to suggest the probability of retary so much reputation abroad as well as at another Howell Cobb in office. This objection home. applies equally to all Paper Currency, and espe- The six per cent. loan, called five-twenties, cially to that of the Pet Banks, which is covered would bring in (if anything could) enou~li by an impenetrable cloud, defying all responsi- nioney when added to the taxes. Perhaps it bihity. would be better to continue that system, which With all the tender reticence of the press and proved to be so efficient. The whole of the sax- of the commercial community, it is evident that ings of the people, from the banker down to the the country is opposed to the new scheme, and chamber-maid, would freely have continued to that the sense of Congress rises against it. It be invested in that loan. may possibly be legalized notwiths uding, and To borrow money at a reduced rate of interest if so, xviii furnish a sure ground of success to the (if that should be found practicable) is of little Opposition, importance compared with keeping down the We ask attention to an article sent to the ~ principal of the debt and the premium on gold, Y. Evening Post on the 7th of March : by a prompt reduction of the currency. Having endeavored, as briefly as possible, to cUaRENcv AND FINANCE. indicate the true points of this great controversy, To the Editors of the Evening Post: I shall be glad to see it further discussed by It can hardly be necessary to prove that the New York statesmen. Bosxox. Government has a right to tax us for all the 195 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. From The London Quarterly Review. [Methodist.] The Life and Times of Saint Bernard, Abbot of Clairraux, AD. 10911153. By James Cotter Morison, M. A., Lincoln College, Oxford. London: Chapman and Hall. 1863. THE name of Bernard, stripped of all ap- penda0es that might challenge controversy, l)elon~s to the company of those Christians of an obscurer day whose characters have passed the severe ordeal of the common in- stinct of Christendom. Such a catholic roll t~iere is, composed of men the divine virtues of whose religion plead irresistibly against the judgment which would remember their human errors, and the fragrance of whose memory still lingers in the house of God long after the stained earthen vessel that held the precious ointment has been broken and for- gotten. To this genuine hagiology all ages, even the darkest, have contributed; it has been reinforced from the most arid regions of Christs allegiance. Some have entered it in virtue of a sanctity the lustre of which no dogmatic offence, no tincture of superstition, no alloy of infirmity, could avail effectually to dim; some in virtue of writings which have solidly enriched Christian theology, not- withstanding many abatements of error; some in virtue of services rendered to their own generation, which have made all future gener- ations their debtors; while a few, with Au- gustin at their head, base their claims upon these three testimonies combined. This com- pany, forming a line of light from apostolic times to our own, has received a canonization truer and more ~uthoritative than any mere ecclesiastical conclave could confer; and, thus sanctioncd, they command the reverence of all whose judgment is just. To the reader of the Churchs mingled history the consciousness of their existence, diffused through the centuries, is an unspeakable re- lief.~ It gives unity and consistency to what otherwise would be an all but ii~explieable chaos. It sheds radiance on what would otherwise be all but hopelessly dark. It gives the thoughtful Christian strength to traverse the wearisome annals, and to encounter with- out dismay all their perils to his faith. The roll which, spread before every other reader, is written within and without with lamenta- tions and mourning and woe, is seen in the light of this consciousness to be nowhere with- out its records of true religion; so read, it becomes, like Ezekiels book, as honey in the mouth for sweetness. This simple confidence makes all Christian antiquity in a very pre- cious and peculiar sense its own. Bernard of Clairvaux has an undeniable right to take high rank amongst these elect names of Catholic Christendom. His piety, his writings, and his acts form in his favor a triple plea, which has been admitted to be sufficient by men in all Christian communions. Perhaps no one of these three claims would of itself have sufficed Co raise him to a very high position, or to anything approaching the rank which he now holds in general estima- tion. His religion was undoubtedly real, his devotion fervent and sustained; but his piety never disengaged itself from some of the de- fects which clung to the typical sanctity of his times. Moreover, in an age which pro- duced Anselm, Bruno, Malachy, Norbert, Peter the Venerable, and some others, Ber- nard was not pre-eminent. His sanctity alone would not have marked him out for such con- spicuous honor. Nor are the writings which won him the title of the Last of the Father. of such a character, on the whole, as to place him among the first Cbristian names, or in any position of superiority to several other medhe- val divines that might be mentioned. His literary remains alone would not havo won him his peculiar celebrity. The same may he ~asd of his influence upon his times. It was indeed that of a master-spirit, and generally, though not always, exerted for good. But had his fame rested solely on his public achievements, it would have been only that of the most commanding mind in the degen- erate intervals between Hildebrand and Inno- cent. Hemmed in by these two greater names, his own would have been far less conspicuous than it is. But Bernards claims to the re- spect of the general Christian world rest upon the combination of three elements which have very rarely co-existed. Such a personal char- acter, such a life of unwearied energy, and such a legacy of Christian writings, form a union in his historical person which few other names present. This variety of interest has made the life and times of Bernard a very favorite subject of biography. Besides the original memoirs which always accompany his works, French, German ,and English monographs, have in suc- cession, made him their hero. Of the French, the Abbd Rattisbonnes and M. Montalem LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. berts are the best known, and the most com- plete. Singularly different in treatment, but very much more exhaustive and, to the hard student, satisfactory, is Neanders volume, which the English reader may find ably re- produced in the translation published by Miss Wrench some twenty years ago. Mr. Mon- son is the latest writer whose pen has been attracted to the subject. He has given us a clear, straightforward, and scholarly narrative, which he has made very interesting and valu- able by carefully selected extracts illustrative of the development of Bernards character and worth. These Mr. Morison has thought more valuable than a crowd of historical de- tails or philosophical disquisitions. Much that a more ambitious writer would have at- tempted to do for the reader, Mr. Morison has left the reader to do for himself. He has, however, some rather vigorous philosophizing here and there, as will appear in the sequel. Bernard was born A.D., 1091; he took the vows in the Monastery of Citeaux at the age of twenty-three; two years afterward he founded Clairvaux; and Abbot of Clairvaux he re- mained, declining all pref~erments, for thirty- eight years, until his death A.D. 1153. His father, Tesselin, was a Burgundian knight, who honestly, though in a rough fashion, strove to serve God in arms. It is enough to say of him that he never failed to make himself terrible to the enemies of his liege lord, the Duke of Bui~gundy, and that he had enough of self-command and the fear of God to decline a duel,in those days no slight test of both. His mother, Alith, made Fontaines Castle a monastic institution in all but the name; she dedicated her seven sons and her one daughter to God when they were born; but Bernard, her third son, she seems to have devoted in a special manner. Her sedulous training, which never lost sight of his probable future vocation, was followed up by a course of instruction in a college of secu- lar priests at Chatillon. They sent him back in his nineteenth year thoroughly equipped in the Trivium,grammar, rhetoric, dialec- tics,with a good grounding in theology, and with a strong passion for literature generally. But his good mother died at this juncture, before she could see the fruit of the seed she had sown. Bernard was brought under other influences. He did not enter passively upon the career for which his mothers instruction and his subsequent education had prepared him; temptations arose that m4de his voca- tion the result of personal and resolute choice. Three paths opened invitingly before him. The first led into the world of arms. To the martial excitement kindled by the victories of the first Crusadethe news of which flying through Europe was amongst his earliest re- membrancesbe was by no means insensible. The man who wrote so much about war, and sent so many scores of thousands out to fi~h in the East, must have had within him as a youth something that would respond to tUe voice from the camp. That camp, too, was very near; his father and all his brothers, were, with the duke, engaged in besieging the4 Castle of Grancy at the time of his return from the cloister school. Young Bernard was, like David, the exception in his fathers house to the law of military service; but his broth. ers, unlike Davids, urged him by every ar- gument to join them in their career of glory. Failing in this, they strove to kindle his liter- ary ardor. Paris, not far off, was at that time the scene of dialectical contests scarcely less exciting than the Crusades. Crowds were pouring from all parts of Europe to wit- ness the encounters of William of Champeaux and the wonderful Peter Abelard. This most accomplished of all lecturers and disputants was then, at the age of thirty, in the full flush of his renown: he had overcome the first dia- lectician of the age in open court, and was fast gathering round him, by an unexampled fascination, all the younn spirits who were not abroad in the wars. This to Bernard, fresh from his studies, and filled with irre- pressible yearnings for action, was a stronger temptation than the camp. But the tempta- tionfor such he deemed itwas overcome; and the meeting of Bernard and Abelard was reserved for another crisis. Meanwhile, the image of his mother, the memory of her prayers, was never absent from his thoughts. The bells of the neighboring convent perjjetu- ally pleaded in her name on behalf of the third course which lay before him. The conflict was severe, and all the more so as his passions were beginning to require a stern repression. But one day, when he was going, irresolute and deeply troubled, to his brothers in the camp, he entered a church by the wayside; there he prayed earnestly for pardon, peace, and direction, and came out with an unalter- able resolution to take the monastic vows. The language in which he describes his 196 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. conversion would scarcely sound unfamil- iar even to a Methodist ear. And the sure: result of a true conversion followed. He be- gan at once to labor zealously for the salva- tion of. all around him. It was now his turn to be the a~~ressor: and such was the vigor of his attack, such the ascendency he began already to exercise over men, that in a very short time he had a little band of thirty, in- cluding all his brothers, at his disposal, whom he led to a retreat at Chatillon, in order to a six months probation for monastic life. Apart from the fundamental error, that re- ligious perfection implied the monastic vows, and that in no other way could God be fully served and the world fully forsaken, this was a notable triumph, and a noble earnest of a spiritual influence that scarcely ever met with disappointment. That triumph was com- plete when, in due time, his father and his only sister succumbed, and the whole gener- ation of his kindred were safe within monas- tic walls. A monastery was chosen which at that time most strictly maintained the Benedictine rule. Citeaux was in its first love, being only in the fifteenth year from its founda- tion; and Stephen Harding, its third abbot, had everything in his character to attract an earnest spirit like Bernards. His singular administrative abilities, however, and his sin- cere piety had not proved sufficient to keep the monastery from sinking; its excessive austerities had kept out recruits, death had thinned the original company, and scarcity and disease bade fair to bring it down to ex- tinction. Just then Bernard and his thirty arrived: the decline of: Citeaux was arrested, and its prosperity soon became the wonder of Christendom. During his novitiate, the young monk practised austerities which all but ruined his constitution ,austerities which were af- terwards matter of regret to himself. He set out with the intention of testing the vir- tue of asceticism to the uttermost. With what ardor he was likely to pursue the task of keeping under, or rather outraging, his body, we may judge from the fact, recorded by himself, that he once in earlier years pun- ished a single forbidden glance by instantly plunging himself up to the neck in a pool of water crusted with ice. For any ordinary devotee the Benedictine rule, as restored at Citeaux, might have been rigid enough. It 197 exacted the utmost amount of service that body and soul could render, from the two odock matins to the eight oclock complines. It re- duced the gratification of the appetite to the lowest point consistent with active life. It cut off all the superfluities, all the amenities, and many of the necessaries of daily exist- ence. It filled the day, and most of the night, with work and prayer. But all was not enough for this young aspirant after per- fection. Bernard! why art thou here? why art thou here? was the question that always ~rung in his ears; and the answer was, To subdue the flesh. He determined to get the victory at once and forever over every incli- nation of sense. lIe would settle the dispute at once and forever between the flesh and the spirit. He gradually lost all relish for food, having learned the art of swallowing without tasting what the necessity of living obliged him to eat. The fear of fainting was usually his sole monition totake nourish- ment, which seemed rather to defer death than sustain life. To night and sleep his rash religion was a woful enemy : sleepers he regarded as dead; sleep, as time lost; and his vigils commonly lasted nearly through the night. All the time that was not occu- pied in labor was spent in ecstatic contein- plation. The occasional company of his worldly friends was to him a source of great disquiet. Finding that these visits dulled the ardor of his morning prayers, he filled his ears with little wads of flax: and thus was able to speak tQ the edification of his visitors without bearing their idle words. All this was part of a wonderful experiment, an experiment which, had it succeeded, would have won its perfection at the expense of life and all lifes usefulness. But the ex~ periment failed; not through any diminution in the young monks vigor of will, but be- cause he was saved by others from consum- mating the ruin which such a perversion of the laws both of nature and of grace would have involved. But we are anticipating. It is pleasant to turn from this sad picture to two redeem- ing circumstances in the account of Bernards early monastic life,his constant communion with external nature, and his profound study of the Scriptures. For, strange as it may ap- pear, this daily, hourly, perpetual sacrifice of the flesh was offered up amidst all the love- liness of the most beautiful of sequestered 198 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. valleys. Whcncver he was not engaged in rougher sanctuary they could not have; and the choir, he was alone under the trees, with their early trials were very severe. They the Bible in his hands. Trust, he said to were often reduced to the greatest extremity, one of his pupils, one who has had great cx- to heech-nuts and roots, and almost to star- perience. You will find something far greater vation. The new abbot, moreover, was at in the woods than you will in books. Stones first very severe, until the despondency of and trees will teach you what you will never his company warned him to avoid excess. learn from masters. Do not the mountains But his courageous faith overcame all obsta- drop sweetness? the hills run with milk and des; and, after the bitterness of the first win- honey, and the valleys stand thick with ter, Clairvaux became famous, and was corn? He was accustomed to say, that thronged with occupants of nev cells. Ber- whatever knowled~e he had of the Scriptures nard was ordained abbot by William of Chain- he had acquired chiefly in meditation and peaux, now Bishop of Cb~Uons. prayer in the woods and fields; and that The good bishop conceived a regard for the beeches and oaks had ever been his best young enthusiast, which ripened into the cbs- teachers on the word of God. It is not diffi- est friendship, and helped to heal the woun~l cult to understand this unconscious infidelity inmeted by his former treacherous pupil, to his ascetic principles; and it is not easy Abelard. He was deeply impressed by the to exaggerate the curative and redeeming in- sincerity, fervor, and talents of the new ab- fluence of this fervent communion with the bot; but his fears were excited by the eama- word of God amidst his most beautiful ciation of his frame, bearing testimony as it works. did to the desperation of his aseeticism. lie Citeaux soon became famous. The exam- took a sudden and wise resolution, He went pie of Bernards family was followed by such to the next chapter at Citeaux, obtained per- numbers, that in the course of two years two mission to govern Bernard for one year as his successive offshoots had established themselves superior, and returned to Clairvaux with the elsewhere, and a third became necessary. signs of authority in his hands. The young Stephen i1ardin~ had seen from the beginning ruler must needs submit. lie was lodged in what kiud of a youth Providence had sent a separate dwelling, put in charge of a phy- him. lie never forgot the day when a young sician, and returned at the end of the year a man of twenty-three, with his earnest spirit healthierandwiserman. Herenewed,indeed, gleaming thron~h his emaeiated frame, had his seventies; but there was in them from this brought thirty powerful recruits with him time more of reason and less of fanaticism. to the cloister gates, all of them tIme fruits And to this enforced year of common sense of his single labors. To the rest of the breth- we may, perhaps, attribute the saner tone ~f men Bernard did not appear a likely man to Bernards mind during tIme remainder of his be the head of a new community,a post life. which would require gifts that none but At this point Bernards highest earthly Stephen discerned in him; they felt, too, tlmat preferment was attained. No persuasion they could badly spare their young saint; ever availed to make him change his abode, but the abbot sent him forth with nothing or seek any higher dignity. The way to the but a cross in his hand, and twelve mnonks, highest ecclesiastical honor was open to him; to pitch their tent on a spot of ground given hmmt he had none of that kind of ambition. for the purpose by the Earl of Troycs. On- lie resisted the still stronger temptation to ward these thirteen went, till at the distance associate his own namue with a new order. of some hundred miles they Imalted in. a spot He submitted to the jurisdiction of the head which had formerly been notorious as the of the Cistercians thronab life; and, what- haunt of robbers; but which from this day ever aseendency he acquired over kings, em- exchanged the name of the Valley of Absin- perors, and popes, he remaimmed to the last a the, or Wormwood, for that of Pleasant Val- man under authority. For nearly forty Icy, Claravallis, or Clairvaux. There, with years he was Abbot of Clairvaux; during the the help of the people around, they con- latter half of that time he was confessedly structed their rude fahnic,chapel, dormi- the master spirit of Christendom; and dur- tory, refectory, all in one.to be replaced in ing the earlier twelve or fifteen years he was due time by much grander buildings. A intently acquiring influence, and gradtmhly LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. B1~RNARD. making that influence felt in always widen- in~ circle8. It will be seen that he found out in due time the secret of his power, and was neither slow nor very scrupulous in us- ing it. But the government of his little flock, correspondence with the outer world, and the composition of a few of his works, fill up the record of these earlier and less puhlic years. The annals of the monastic orders furnish no example of monkhood which can he spoken of with more respect than Clairvaux, while under Bernards government. Many reasons conspired to make it a favorahle and, perhaps, almost an exceptional specimen of cloister life. In the rst place, it was a new establishment, and founded at a time when the monastic institute was renewing its youth in Germany and France, throwing off some of its worst abuses, and reverting to the origi- nal principles of its constitution. These new establishments were indeed doomed hy an in- evitable law to pass through all the cycles of wealth, luxury, corruption, and degradation; but the Cistercian order was as yet pure, and during Bernards days showed no very evi- dent signs of decay. The personal ehara~er of the yo~ing abbot contributed largely to this. After inakin~ every allowance for the enthusiastic extrava~ance of his admirers, we cannot but acknowled~e the wonderful charm of a devotion which at this period fas- cinated every one who caine within its influ- ence, and those most who marked it most closely. Habitual communion with the word of God, and the almost ceaseless contempla- tion of the Saviour, in a retirement ~hieh the turmoils of Christendom had not yet dis- turbed, invested his daily life with a sacred- ness and dignity that none could resist. The interior economy, also, of the monastery was healthy in its tone. Work agricultural without and literary withinalternated with devotion ; while hard fare and little sleep gave every advantage to such as were bent on an earnest, religious life. It is true that we seek in vain for the external charities toward man which are, after all, the very best assist- ances to private devotion,indeed, the es- sential complement of a perfect piety toward Cud. It is equally true that the picture thus presented leaves on the mind the im- 1ression of an introverted, self-involved, and nueessarily morbid religion, which, profess- elly aiming at the annihilation of self, is too much alone with self, too much occupied with 199 self, to attain to the perfect realization of that glorious idea. This is the essential vice of the system, the ineradicable root of bitter- ness which has always baffled the husbandry of the most sincere and earnest monk who ever cultivated the monastic soil. Against this, it may be regarded as hopeless to ap- peal to many undeniable advantages to so- ciety which flowed from the institute, espe- cially in the Middle A~es. But, certain it is that whatever advantages may be pleaded on its behalf were to be found, and in their least objectionable form, in the monastery of Clair- vaux: It was a refuge for many turbulent spirits, whom perhaps no other form of re- ligion would have attracted ; it was a school of the best religious education and discipline the age could afford; and it was the centre of observation from which the world without might be watched by a reformer always ready to send forth his vigorous protests. A few remarks on each of these particulars will lead us onward in our narrative. The fundamental idea of the monastic in- stitute was that of providing for earnest Christians a rerreat where God could be served in what was thought to be the perfect ideal of the Christian life. The common fold of the church was not sufficiently secluded, or sufficiently sacred, to satisfy the unnatural and exaggerated ambition of the early as- cetics. They therefore invented a sanctuary within the sanctuary; they enclosed a gar- den which the Scripture never enclosed; and thought they found there a fountain sealed from the mass even of their fellow-Christians. In short, the cloister became to the society what his cell had been to the anchorite,a church within the church, a refuge for the seekers of perfection which should be to the baptized community what the baptized com- munity was to the world. hence the assump- tion of the monkish vows was actually termed a second baptism; and we find Bernard him- self thus explaining the term The mo- nastic discipline has earned this prerogative, to be called a second baptism, as I think, be- cause of the perfect renunciation of the world, and the singular excellence of the spiritual life, which, exalted above all other kinds of human life, makes its professors and lovers like angels, and unlike men; and as in bap- tism, so in the second regeneration, as it were, of this resolution, we emerge from darkness into light. So rooted was the notion of LIFB AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. the meritorious virtue of this interior Chris- tendom that many who would not enter it at once enrolled themselves as fratres adscripti in the most celebrated orders, thus obtaining a special interest in their prayers; reserving to themselves the ri~ht of assuming the monk- ish habit at death, and so passing into eter- nity through the straitest gate. But when the successive monastic orders degenerated from their ur~worldly spirit, as they invariably did, and the Regulars con- formed to the luxurious habits and hierarchi- cal grandeur of the Seculars, new foundations were established as a protest against them. And these new and more earnest institutes would, as they successively arose, naturally attract the far greater part of those whose consciences were disturbed by their sins, or whose spirits were fired with more than or- dinary enthusiasm. Sharp discipline was the obvious refuge of those who were arrested in their career of wickedness by any alarming providence of God, or by any terrifying dis- course of man. Thus only, they were taught to believe, they might perfect their repent- ance and find absolution. In multitudes of cases the process would simply end in a mor- bid and ceremonial Pharisaism. But in others, and especially in the hands of such men as Bernard and Norbert, no doubt a true conversion was the result. Many a tur- bulent spirit was drawn from the confusion and distractions of feudal warfare. Urged by the sting of conscience, finding no conso- lation in the worldly church, alienated by the dissolute lives of the secular eIerg~, they would throw themselves into the care of such men with perfect submission, and with a sense of infinite relief. The monastery was ordinarily recruited in two ways,by the negative attraction of its own fame, and by the positive results of the preaching of its missionaries. But, in the case of Clairvaux, the former source of supply was soon found amply sufficient. There was a perpetual stream of applicants for probation, flowing from all parts of Europe, and without any intermission, at least during the forty years of Bernards rule. But some of the most highly prized of his converts were such as may be said to bave been won by accident. For instance, we read more than once of reck- less knights seeking the always ready hospi- tality of the monastery, and being made cap- tives for life by the solemn influence of what they saw and heard. Sometimes a stray pen- itent, on his way to a pilgrimage.,the one great rival of the cloister,would come seek- ing the abbots blessing, and be persuaded of a better way to heaven than that which led to the East. Of one such captive Bernard writes, Your Philip would have travelled to Jerusalem; but he hath discovered a nearer way, and a shorter passage over the great sea; he bath already, through dexterous seaman- ship, reached the desired haven; he doth not only contemplate Jerusalem with his bodily eye, but is becomea spiritual inhabitantthere; not of that earthly Jerusalem which is in bond- age with her children; but of that which is free, even our heavenly mother. Nor were instances wanting in which notorious crimi- nals were, at the special intercession of the abbot, reprieved from death, and transferred to the cloister as a reformatory. So Bernard once met a criminal near the gates, on his way to execution seizing the halter, he led the prisoner to the Count of Champagne. Alas! venerable father, said that noble- man, how should you believe it possible to serve one who h~ s already made himself a very devil? Bernard replied, Think not that I would allow so great a crime to remain unpunished. You were about to make him taste the pains of death for an instant; but I will crucify him, and keep him in continual chastisement for many years. The count yielded the prisoner, Bernard threw his own cowl over him, and he spent thirty years of wholesome penance at Clairvaux. Although Bernard was emphatically a fish- er of men, and could not be insensibleto the glory of presiding over a thronged commu- nity,the mother of other flourishing com- munities,yet we do not find that he organ- ized any system of itinerant preaching. He did not, like Norbert and some others of his contemporaries, travel as a missionary, or an- ticipate the preaching friars of the next age. Considering the ardor of his zeal, and the never-failing power of his oratory over all classes and on every subject, it is probable that he would have achieved great results, had he entered on this course. To us the absence of the missionary spirit, whether as regards his own influence personally, or the action of Christendom at large, indicates a striking de- fect or obliquity in his character. A remark- able example of what he might have effected in this way was furnished by the result of a 200 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. 201 visit which he paid to Paris soon aft~,r he be- externals, which verily profit little, he fore- came abbot. He went to this metropolis of goes not one tittle; hut, while he is str~aining letters on other business, hut the journey gave at a gnat, he swalloweth a camel. And we him a glorious opportunity of trying the ef- may hope that for the attainment of forgive- feet of his preaching upon audiences which ness and peace, his penitents would be di- had been accustomed to the high stimulant rected to him of whora he thus speaks: It is of controversial dialectics. Bernard did not fit thou shouldst believe that thy sins can be neglect it. But the first days lecturing was blotted out only by him against whom alone without any apparent fruit. After a night thou hast sinned, and who is exalted above all of prayer, he renewed the attack; the schools evil; but yet to this thou must add the spe- listened again to his fervent unworldly elo- cial belief that tliine own particular sins are quence. This time his earnest appeals as- forgiven through him, and that is the witness serted their power, and he had the satisfac- of the Holy Ghost in thine heart, and thou tion of carrying back with him many trophies must also have the testimony of the holy of his victory. But such aggressions were Ghost within thee, touching eternal life; that not continued: Bernards errands up and thou shalt through God~s grace attain the down Europe were not of this kind. He same. And, as it regards the practice of might not think them needful. For Clair- godliness, Bernards teaching at Clairvaux, vaux never failed of recruits, without any and his extant writings, must have been sin- mission agency; so much so that the migra- gularly discordant, if the love of God was not tions of her daughter communities soon be- the supreme actuating principle in his doe-. came periodical seasons of exultation. Be- trine of Christian ethics. fore his death, he had in his own charge seven Over the whole community Bernard kept hundred monks, and one hundred and sixty holy and vigilant watch. Whatever other monasteries elsewhere owed their foundation relations the abbot sustained as ruler, the to his zeal. pastoral was with him supreme. Many of But what was the kind of discipline to the multifarious concerns of the establish- which these monks were subjected when they ment he might commit, to Godfrey and Ge- were won? In answering this question, we rard; but the souls of the brethren he re- have mainly to do with the personal influence garded as committed to his own responsibility. of the abbot himself. And here we must be- In his sequestered cell,a retreat within a gin to call in the evidence of his writings. retreat,he was always engaged in prepar- They give us assurance that, amidst a multi- ing his daily homily; for this was one of tude of errors which pervaded the doctrine Bernards peculiar charaeteristics,that he and discipline of Clairvaux, in common with was eminently a preaching abbot. The the whole of Christendom, the staple of its Cistercian chapter early imposed on him the religious instruction was the gospel. Ber- duty of preaching more frequently than the nard had a firm hold of the doctrine of the general custom of the Order: their object inward corruption of human nature, and of being either to rescue him from himself, or, its only remedy. And we may suppose that mere probably, to give employment to the the penitential observances of his cloister extraordinary talent which they discerned in would not he glaringly inconsisten twi th the him. Hence, the religious instruction of following words of his: The, superficial Clairvaux was, year after year, with occa- transparency of an outwardly pious course sional interruptions, no other than the daily cannot co-exist with the Spirit of Gd~ whichl outpourings of Bernards deepest meditations penetrates and dwells in the depths of the on the only book lie much cared for,the heart. Is it anything but the most monstrous I Holy Scripture. At a certain hour the bell hypocrisy, to remove the sin from the surface suspended all other avocations: the river, instead of eradicating it from the heart? the mill, the field, the kitchen, the scripto- Wouldst thou behold a dwelling swept and rium were all deserted; the cowled frater- garnished, and yet empty, look at the man nity silently gathered together in the andito- who bath confessed and forsaken his notori- rium, and became a congregation of children, ous sins, and who now moveth only with his listening, with folded arms and unquestion- hands to fulfil the law, with a mechanical ac- ing simplicity, to a father whom their super- tivity in which the heart takes no part. Of stition invested with supernatural authority, LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. whom their love reverenced as their best friend, and whose words (it is their own tes- timony) had become better to them than their necessary food. To realize the sccne, and to gain an ade- quate idea of the worth of this daily instruc- tion, we must imagine ourselves in this audi- toriem listenin to some of these medimval (fThSiOflS. Bet we must be careful to time ~ur imaginary visit rightly. It must riot be paid on any of those festivals, in honor of the Virgin and the saints, for which our calendar has no room. On such occasions we should Lear much unsound theology, much laborious trifling and worse than triflina, many a long serm~~n,in short, which must 1)0 placed in our Protestant Inde Expurgatorius, and which the preacher himself from his present clearer light would gladly disavow. f}ut, if we enter during the solemnities of the Pas- sion Week, or en any occasion which made the simple cross of Christ the prominent theme,or, still better, if we enter during the delivery of those wonderful sermons on the Canticleswe shall bear much thatwill make religion lovely, and stir the pulses of our aspiration after a higher life. It may be observed, generally, that wherever Bernard follows the instincts of his own better nat- ure, and draws his inspiration directly from communion with the Scripture and the di- vine Spirit, the almost perfect oratory of his heart and lips leaves little to be desired. On the fundamental doctrines of salvation ,the sinfulness of human nature, the one atone- ment, the operations of divine grace, the sin- ner s justification by faith, the sanctification of the saint by the Holy Ghost through the supreme influence of the love of God,his daily teaching was, if not perfectly sound, if still infected with that uncertainty which Anselm had left around the great question Cur Dens Homo, yet greatly in advance of his times, and not insufficient to neutralize the effect of his other less scriptural and more subordinate teaching. We may charitably hope that the divine Spirits overruling grace would bless with a doubly effectual l)lessing that measure of the bread of finest wheat which was distributed to these poor monks, and prevent the less wholesome pro- vision frora doing them mortal harm. Bernard himself was persuaded of his dis- ciples regeneration, and taught thens as spiritual men. Different things, we hear him tellijig them, ought to be said to you from those whieh are said to the men yet in the world, lie who adheres to the apostles rule feeds the latter with milk, and not with meat. But the spiritual require a stronner fare, as the same apostle teaches by his own example: Howbeit, we speak wisdom among them that are perfect. Such I firmly trust you are. One or two specimens of this stronger fare we will present, availing our- selves of Mr. Morisons apt selection and accurate translation. The following strain is from a sermon on the Canticles, and en- forces on the brethren the necessity of repos- ing confidently on the mercy of God in Christ. Let us enter and hear it. Listen how God soften~ the bitterness of a contrite heart, how he recalls the faint- hearted from the pit of despair, how throu~, Ii the honey of pleasant and faithful promises he consoles the sorrowful and establishes the weak. He says by the prophet, 1 will bridle thp mouth with my praises, lest thou perish. With the bridle, he says, of my indulgence 1 will restrain thee, and will raiae thee tip with my praises; thou who art confounded with tliine own evil shalt breathe again in my good, and shalt surely find my mercy is greater than thy sin. If Cain had been ~o restrained, he would never have said in de- spair, My sin is too great for me to beforgiven! [Vuig.] God fbrhid! br his loving-kindness is greater than any iniquity. Follow ye the example of the just. lf ye think of your- selves in humility, think also of the Lord in his mercy and goodness. But, seeing that the good which the kind and merciful Lord ceases not to shower on mortals cannot all be remembered by man ,for who can utter the mighty acts of the Lord? who can show forth all his praise ?let that which is chief and greatest, the work, namely, of our re- demption, never fade from the memory of the redeemed. In this work there are two points which I will offer to your attention, the manner and the fruit of our redemption. Now, the manner is the emptying out or the humbling of God; the fruit thereof is our being filled with him. . . . But who can grasp the magnitude of delight comprehended in these short words, God will be all in all? Not to speak of the body, I perceive three things in the soul,reason, will, memory; and these three make up the soul. How much each of these in this present world lacks of perfection is felt by every one who walketh in the Spirit. Wherefore is this, except because God is not yet all in all? Iherefore it is that our reason falters in judgment, that our will is feeble and dis 202 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. tracted, that our memory confoixnds us by its forgetfulness. We are subject unwill- ingly to this threefold weakness, but hope abides. For He who fills with good things the desire of the soul, he himself will be to the reason the fulness of light, to the will the abundance of peace, to the memory the unbroken smoothness of eternity. 0 truth O charity! 0 eternity! 0 blessed and bless- ing Trinity! to thee my miserable trinity miserably groans, while it is in exile from thee. Alas, for what a trinity have we ex- changed thee away! My heart is disturbed, and hence my grief; my strength has for- saken me, and hence my fear; the light of my eyes is not with me, and hence my error. O trinity of my soul, what a changed Trinity dost thou show me in my exile! . . . But why art thou cast down, 0 my soul! and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him; that is, when error shall have left my mind, sor- i)W my will, f~ars my memory; and serenity, sweetness, and eternal peace shall have come in their stead. The first of these things will be done by the God of truth, the second, by tie God of chnrity, the third, by the God of omnipotence, that God may be all in all: the reason receiving light inextinguishable, the will peace imperishable, the memory cleav- irig to a fountain which shall never fail. As rerar(l5 our redemption, which, if you re- nie~nber, we defined as the humbling or emptying out of God, there are three points 1 commend to your notice. It was not a simple or moderate humbling; but he hum- lAed himself even to taking flesheven to deatheven to death on the cross. Who can measure the humility, gentleness, and condescension which moved the Lord of maj- esty to put on flesh, to be punished with death, to be disgraced by the cross?~ But instead of hearing out this sermon, let us take our place among the monks some fif. teen years afterward, when Bernard is a more experienced preacher, with a theology con- cerning the atonement still more explicit, and perhaps taught by Abelard to be less specu- lative. Another strain falls upon our ears, and reaches our hearts, after listening to which we must take our leave of the audito- rium. It is toward the close of a sermon on the Passion. And eanst thou doubt the sufficiency of His obedience, which absolved every one who was under the curse of the first offence? Truly, not as the offence, so also is the gift. ~or sin came from one sin for condemnation, but grace for justification from many sins. And grievous beyond question was that orig- inal sin which infected, not only the perst~n, but the nature itself. Yet, every ones per- sonal sin is the more grievous, when, the reins being let loose, we give up on every hand our members as servants to unright- cousness, being enchained, not only by an- others, but by our own sin also. But most grievous was that especial one,. which was committed against the Lord of glory, when wicked men unjustly killed the just Man, and wretched homicides, or rather (if one may so speak) Deicides, laid their accursed hands upon the very Son of God. What connection is there between the two preced- ing and the third? At this, the whole of this worlds frame grated and trembled, and all things were well-nigh resolved into pri- meval chaos. Let us suppose that one of tLe nobles of a kingdom had laid waste the kings lands in a hostile inroad; let us suppose an- other, who, being a guest and counsellor of the king, strangled, with traitorous hands, the latters only son; would not the first be held innocent and free from blame in respect of the second? So stands all sin in relation to this sin; and yet this sin He took upon himself, that he who made himself to be sin might condemn sin by means of sin. For, through this, all sin, perso~a~ as well as original, was destroyed, and even this very especial one was removed by himself. God forbid, that flies about to die should do away with the sweetness of the ointment which flows from thy body! The miseries, the blasphemies, and insults which a wicked and perverse generation heaps on thee are but as flies about to die. But what didst thou do? In the very uplifting of thine hands, when the morning sacrifice was now being changed into the evening offering,on the very strength, I say, of that incense which ascended into the heavens, covered the earth, and bestrewed even hell itself, worthy to be heard for thy reverence, thou criedst, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Oh, how great is the multi- tude of thy mercy, 0 Lord! Oh, how different are thy thoughts to our thoughts! Oh, how strong is thy holy arm to the wicked! A wonderful thing! He cries, Forgive them, and the Jews, Cruc~y him. His words are as soft as oil, and theirs are very spears. Patient charity puts off, waits, bears with the offender; but kind charity draws, al- lures, would have him converted from the error of his way, and, in short, covers a mul- titude of sins. 0 Jews! ye are stones; but ye strike a softer stone, from which resounds the ring of mercy, and the oil of charity bursts forth! How wilt thou, 0 Lord, over- flood with the torrent of thy bliss those who 203 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. long for thee, when thou thus .pourest out the oil of thy mercy upon those who are cru- cifying thee! Bernard as a preacherto speak of him now more generallyowed everything to his early and devout communion with Scripture. In his cell, with the strife of Europe shut out, or not yet heard, he was a man of one book. Augustine, Ambrose, perhaps the first Gregory, and a few others, were familiar to him, and exerted some influence on his style of thought. Their writings were in his memory, but the Bible was in his heart: perhaps no preacher ever made a more com- prehensive use of the Scriptures than he. In his interpretation of their words the dia- lectician always strove with the mystic, the scholastic theologian with the spiritualizing expositor. The latter for the most part pre- vailed; and we find, consequently, much straining of the letter, which, while always devout, is sometimes mystical in the bad sense, and sometimes merely fanciful or trifling. His extant and genuine sermons of which those on the Canticles are the truest reflection of his genius and devotion are not so much sermons as impassioned meditations, the soliloquies of a full heart poured out in the midst of men over whose souls be hail supreme dominion. They are never without a staple of solid doctrine; but the doctrine is seldom dogmatically laid down. The heart of the preacher dictates, and it is evidently seeking communion with other hearts. The imagination, or rather the fancy, is generally in full vigor; and no puritan divine ever abounded with more happy or unhappy conceits. But always it is meditation which gives a cast to the whole, and meditation that not only derives its nourishment from Scripture, but instinct- ively weaves for itself a scriptural vesture. The readeror hearer, for these are sermons which, beyond most others, have the faculty of making the reader a hearer alsocan trace every working of the preachers mind, as it passes from doctrine to exhortation, and from exhortation to doctrine, mingling ap- peals to heaven with meditative soliloquy and direct address in a blessed confusion that defies criticism, inspires love, and makes us wish that we had been there to hear. The way in which Scripture is used in the ser- mons is remarkable. Not only is their gen- eral strain moulded by the sacred text, but the lights and shadows of every picturesque page arc thrown in by the apt use or fanciful abuse of recondite sayings which could occur only to one who was intimately at home in every part of the Bible. Sometimes the in- troduction of an unfamiliar passage throws a wonderful vigor into the paragraph; while sometimes, too often indeed, a doubtful ren- dering of the Vulgate is seized upon and pursued, sentence after sentence, and even page after page, with a pious enthusiasm that knew no fear of the Lkbrew critic. After every deduction, however, the sermons of Bernard (and the same may be said of his letters) bear everywhere testimony to the good effect of his early and supreme devotion to the word of God. But Bernard among his monks was not only a preacher. He was the head and soul of the entire institution. He directed and superintended the daily labors of the breth- ren, in the fields and mills abroad, and in the scriptorium within. He kept indefatigable watch over the labor and the rest, the disci- pline and the devotion, of the whole estab- lishment, lie was alWays at hand for coun- sel, for warning, for instruction. He set the example of an industry that was never weary, and of a singleness of purpose that never swerved. His monastery was, in his view, a place where men might best use their bodies and their souls for the glory of God and in preparation for heaven. The great business of his life was to make Clairvaux the home of perfect men, and the mother of similar establishments as perfect as herself. And whatever error there was in this was in the system, and not in the man. This was his notion of hia duty, and he did it. We have now to regard Clairvaux as a re- treat from which a master spiritthe spirit of a true though imperfect and one-sided re- formerwatched the outer world. Into that outer world Bernard soon went, with sudden, swift, and all-compelling vigor; but that time was not yet come; and in the interim he practised his powers and enlarged his in- formation by an enormous correspondence. The letters of Bernard form the first volume of his writings; and it would not be too much to say that they are the most valuable volume which the twelfth century has be- queathed to us. They range over an inex- haustible variety of subjects, from the most elevated mysteries of the divine life to the , 204 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. 205 commonest triviality that concerned his own Occasionally the scandal of incontinep~cy came or his neighbors convent. It is impossible to his ears; and nothing can exceed the horror to read these four or five hundred epi~t1es, with which he assails that vice, and warns all or even to glance at their subjects, without monks against the occasions of it. I con- perceivin~, that Bernard, long before the jure you, he writes to a certain abbot, by schism in the Papacy made him the foremost that blood which was shed for souls, not to man in Europe, was early regarded as a kind think lightly of the danger of this vice to those of common arbiter, or general referee, whose who are bent upon struggling in Gods school combined wisdom and sanctity gave him the against all these temptations, and who from prerogative of decision on every subject. their own experience can say with the apostle, And in these letters his genius appears in We are not ignorant of his devices. The its most graceful aspect. Those of them letters of this class are few, as Bernards fra- which are undoubtedly genuine (the far ternities were kept by riis vigilance compara- greater part of the whole), and those which tively pure. But, in these, as in all his writ- he wrote with his own hand (a very consider- ings,if we accept those which are tinctured able portion), are exceedingly fascinating: with the overstrained and unscriptural notions they abound in happy antithetical points; of his time on virginity and celibacy,the they sparkle with lively and occasionally tone of morality is of the healthiest kind, and humorous sallies of the man, the Burgun- the eternal war between the light of the Holy dian, in a word, the Frenchman; they derive Spirit and the darkness of secret or open sen- a charm also from a certain characteristic al- suality is dwelt upon With the delicacy of a lusive quotation of the words of Scripture, pure and discreet mind, but with all the ye- the result of long and affectionate familiarity, bement energy that its supreme importance sometimes almost startling in its playfulness, required. but never irreverent; while they are invari- Our first extract will serve as a brief speci- ably occupied with matters of practical in- men of those letters which were occupied solely terest, and aim steadily at correcting what with divine things; and it is given as fur- the writer thought evil, and promoting what nishing the clearest insight into the principle he thought good. It need hardly be said of Bernards mysticism, with its essential dif- that as a commentary on the times, and as a ference from that of later times. It is ad- contribution to the internal history of the dressed to Hugh, a Carthusian friar. century, they are intensely interesting and Love is that eternal, creating, and ruling of the last importance. law by which all things were made in their One of the first interpositions of Bernards appointed measure, number, and weight; and pen gives a remarkable view of the ferocious. there is nothing without law. Whereas we cruelty of the times. A certain vassal of the are first fleshly, our desires and our love Count of Champagne, Humbert by name, was must be brought out of the flesh; and, when condemned to prove his innocence of a crime they have taken the right direction, they shall, by the aid of grace, ascending by certain and charged against him, by judicial combat. He sure degrees, at last be perfected in the Spirit. failed in this ordeal; his lord confiscated his At first, man loves himself for his own sake; goods, drove his family out into the world, but, when he becomes conscious that he can- imprisoned him and put out his eyes. Ber- not exist by himself, he begins to seek after nard took up the cause of the homeless wife and to love God, as necessary to the support and children. Letter after letter of sharp re- of his existence. At this second step man loves God indeed; but it is for his own sake, monstrance to the proud baron, and of ap- and not in obedience to the will of God. But peal to his bishop, at last procured the rever- when he hath once begun to raise his thoughts sal of the sentence. This is but one of many to God, to pray to him, to obey him, though instances. It is to the lasting honor of Ber- it be from selfishness, God reveals himself to nards heart that in the cause of justice he him by degrees in this confidential intercourse. never shrank from encountering any despot; He wins his love, and so, having tasted the and it is a powerful tribute to his ability that good will of the Lord, man passes to the third step, to love God for Gods sake, and on this he never undertook such a cause in vain, step he remaineth; for I know not whether It might be expected that questions touch- any man bath in this life ever reached the ing the morality of the convents under his fourth step altocrether; namely, to love him- rule would frequently emerge in these letters. self only for Gods sake. But this shall come LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. to pass when the faithful servants shall have entered into the joy of their Lord ; then, sa- tiated with the riches of the house of God, and forgetful of themselves, they shall in a wonderful manner he wholly merged in God, and united with him in one Spirit.~ Very many of these epistles are dedicated to the correction of abuses. All ranks and all dignities were alike to the rebuking spirit of this Tishhite of the twelfth century: wherever the guilty favorer of corruption might be,whether in the Vatican, or on the throne of France, or in the abbatial chair of the rival convent,he was not long unvisited by the fiery shafts of Bernards remonstrance. But these letters belong to a somewhat later period of the abbots life; we must therefore postpone any further allusion to them. The following is an illustration of his manner of dealing with young men in ecclesiastical office, or the cure of souls. In this class of commu- nications he appears to very great advantage. He thus writes to young Baldwin abideth speech, example, prayer, these three; hut the greatest of these is prayer. Our last quotations exhibit Bernard in a more familiar character, as a literary work- man. lie early began the practice of occu- pying his leisure in writing books; and the following letter was written soon after the publication (as we should call it~ of his first little treatise. But the note had been de- layed on account of Lent I ask you, where are peace and quietness if I am writing and dictating and despatching you letters? All this, you say, can be done in silence. But this is a strange notion of yours. What a tumult invades the mind when in the act of composition,what a rush- ing multitude of words,what variety of language and diversity of impressions come upon one, so that what occurs is often re- jected, and what escapes one is eagerly sought for ! Now the harmony of the words; now the clearness of the expression; now the depth of the doctrine; now the ordering of the diction, and what shall follow, aud what shall precede, are subjects necessarily of most intense study, besidesmany other th4ngs which the learned take note of in matters of this sort. As regards the book you ask for at the present moment, I have not got it. For there is a certain friend of ours who has kept it a long time now, with the same eagerness with which you desire it. Still, lest your kind request should seem to be sli~,hted by me, I send you another book of mine which I have lately brought out; and, inasmuch~as I have not another copy, I beg you will re- turn it as soon as you can, or, if you are likely to be coming this way tolerably soon, bring it yourself. And now be careful to be found a wise and faithful servant, and communicate the heavenly bread to your fellow-servants, with- out envy or idleness. Do not take up the vain excuse of your rawness or in experience, which you may imagine or assume. For, sterile modesty is never pleasing nor that hu- mility laudable which passes the bounds of reason. Attend to your work: drive out bashfulness by a sense of duty, and act as a master. He that is unjust in the least is un- just also in much. Give all, as assuredly you shall pay to the uttermost farthing. Take heed to give your words the voice of power. What is that? do you ask? It is The follow that your works harmonize with your words, ing contains one of those touches or rather your words with your works, that of nature which make the whole world of you be careful to do before you teach. It is young authors kin. Bernard writes to Peter, a most beautiful and salutary order of things, cardinal legate and deacon, thus that you should first bear the burden you place on others, and learn from yourself how As regards those works of mine which men should be ruled. That speech which is you ask for, they are few in number, and full of life and power is an example of work, contain nothing which I consider worthy to ns it makes easy what it speaks persuasively, interest you. Still, as I would rather you while it shows that what it advises can be thought ill of my genius than of my desire to done. Understand, therefore, to the quieting oblige you, please send a line by the bearer of your conscience, that in these two com- of this, to signify which of my writings you mandmentsi.e., of precept and example would like, and also whither I am to send the whole of your duty resides. You, how- them. I make this request that I may be ever, if y~u be xvise, will add yet a third,viz., able to recover any that are lent, which I a zeal for prayer, to complete that triple will then forward to any place you name. repetition of the Gospel concerning feeding But that you may know what your choice is, the sheep. You will then know that no sac-; here is a list rament of that Trinity is in any wise broken (1.) A little book on Homilies. by you, if you feed them by word, by exam- { (2.) Four Homilies on the Praises of the ple, and by the fruit of holy prayers. Now Virgin. 206 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. 207 (3.) An Apology to a certain friend of only to Rome, Cluny had fallen into the mine, in which I have discoursed concerning hands of a dissolute abbot, and hegaif to cx- the Cloniac and Cistercian observances of the hibit some of the worst scandals and disorders Rule. (4.) A few Ltters to various friends of a corrupt monastery. The original sever- (5.) Sermons: which some of the ity of its discipline was relaxed; the elabo- brethren here have taken down as I delive& ~ed rate and mechanical system of monkish devo- them, and still keep by them. tion was exchanged for cultivated luxury and Would that t might venture to hope sensuality. At length the disorder reached that my rustic productions may prove of the such a point that the pope interfered; Porm least service to you. tius, the licentious abbot, was deposed, and I?hree missives sent from the seclusion of Peter the Venerable chosen in his stead. Pc- Citeaux at this period are of more public in- ter was one of the best men of his time,a man terest, and belong to the history of the times. the gentleness of whose spirit, and the general Ihey ame rema kable also as being connected amiableness of whose character, would have with those leadina events in Bernards career made him the foremost example of the piety which prepared him for the more public arena of the twelfth century, had not his bigoted & Christendom. persecution of the Jews at a later period The first was a document sent from the stained a life otherwise governed by charity. Cistercian abbots to Louis VI. of France. lie was also a devoted admirer of Bernard, Ibis king, having enforced some exactions on and the controversy between them, although the property of the church, roused the re- very painful to both, did not interrupt a sentment of the Bishop of Paris and the friendship which lasted to the end. The Archbishop of Sens. After much recrimina- Apologyof Bernard, and the letters between tion, these ecclesiastics resorted to their last him and Peter which ensued, are very inter- expedient, placed the kingdom under inter- esting, as containing the best and the worst diet, and fled to Bernard and the abbots of that could be said of the monastic institute in Citeaux to wait the result. A letter soon is- the twelfth century. The controversy was, sued from Citeauxin the name of Stephen in fact, one between a new and severe order, and the other abbots, but probably written conscious of its purity, and a corrupt order by Bernard, and in such a style as Ilildebrand trying to make the best case for itself. The might have dictatedwhich must have made censures of the Cistercians having given um- the pious Louis tremble. But Bernards brage to the Cluniacs, William of St. Thierry power had not reached its culminating point; urged Bernard to vindicate himself and his the pope, unawed as yet, was induced to monks. To him the celebratedApology was raise the interdict; and thus the abbots, sid- addressed. It was very carefully composed, ing with the bishops, were obliged to succumb and revised by others before it Was finally is- to the king and the pope. This was a kind sued. of check which Bernard never afterward sus- Bernard sets out with a general statement tamed, lie took his leave of the question in of the principles on which the variety of a letter to Rome, which showed that the pon- orders in the church is based. And his tiffs high station was no protection against words are very important as showing with the young abbots anger and wit. Great what unquestioning simplicity the necessity is the uccessmty which withdraws us from of the monastic institute was at that time the cloister into the world. We speak it taken for granted. . As the circumstances of with sadness, that the honor of the church mankind were various, and the dispensations has been not a little blemished in the name of grace various, so within the church, ac- ~fllonorius. . cording to Bernards theory, there must be [he next letter opens up the celebrated monasteries governed by various rules. Af- controversy between the maonks of Cluny and ter proceeding to show that the ascetic life Citeaux, represented by the Cluniac Peter had no inherent merit, and that it was and the Cistercian Bernard. After a brill- more than a divine medicine f a peculiar dis- iant century of power and cclebrity,dur- eases, he at once assumes the place which ing which it had been able to summon a from this time forward seemed to be always chapter of three thousand monks, and had and everywhere conceded to himthat of su- attained a position in Christendom second preme arbiter or judge. He deals out to Cis 208 tercians and Cluniacs alike the sharp invec- tires that suited the case of each. To his own monks, who condemned the others for neglecting parts of the great common Rule, he reads a lesson of charity and here the true instincts of the student of Scripture soon warm his feelings and melt his unnatural monastic theories away, he tells them to remember Gods rule, which Benedicts must not differ from. He reminds them that the true monk is the inner man, and that the heavenly virtues are his true garments; and asks the mif hu- mility in rich furs is not a better thing than pride in a monks cowl. Nothing can be finer than the sentences which close the appeal to the Pharisees among his own company What would it avail us that our mode of life is austere, our dress simple, our fastings and watchings continual, if we indulge a pharisaical vanity in despising others? The Saviour has declared they have their re- ward in this world; and, oh, if in this life only we had hope in Christ, we s.euld indeed be of all men most miserable, as saith Sr. Paul. Surely, we might have found a pleasanter way to hell. Woe, woe to the poor who are proud; to those who bear the cross of Christ, and yet refuse to follow Christ; who partake of his sufferings, hut do not imitate his humility This~ healthy and vigorous onslaught on all pharisaical monkery is followed by the real matter of the Apology. Nowhere in Bernards writings is his wit more keen, his pen more lively, than in the description which he gives of the luxury of his Cluniac breth- ren. He describes their modes of life, their subtle inventions of luxury, their furniture, meals, and all the grotesque varieties of their corruption, with the minuteness of an eye- witness, and the particularity of one who is not disposed to lose his chance. The sketch must he reduced to the size of one of our own pages for the sake of the light it throws on the monastic life of the twelfth century. After a general attack upon the whole brotherhood, who perverted every principle of the monastic institute, he descends unspar- jagl y to particulars, some of which seem more like a picture drawn by Bernard~s dramatic genius than the sober truth. Beginning with their meals, he denounces the absence of con- versation about the Bible and the salvation of souls, while small talk, laughter, and idle words fill the air,the palate being tickled with dainties, and the ear with gossip and LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. news. He shows the poor Cluniacs how, like a spy, he had seen the multitude of their dishes, the double supply of full-grown fish when the measure of meat was interdicted, the cooks exquisite skill in keeping off sati- ety~1rom the palates of the monks as long as possible, with the numberless inventions for diversifying eggs which tasked the kitchen. He satirizes the drinking habits of the monks with still more vigor: the weak stomachs which praiseworthily took the apostles ad- vice to drink wine, but forgot the condition of a little; the tact of the experienced wine- bibbers in selecting the most potent of the many sorts brought to be sipped, and their cunning method of drugging the wine on saintsdays, that more might be drunk and thus more honor done to the saint. But with his veins swelling and throbbing in his head, under the influence of wine, what can a man do on rising from table but sleep? And if you force a man thus gorged to rise to vig- ils, you must get from him rather a sigh than a song. The dress comes next: What was of old the sign of humility is turned by the monks of our day into a source of pride. We cari hardly find in a whole province where- withal we condescend to be clothed; the monk and the knight cut their garments from the same piece. Then the lordly abbot struts about with all his luxurious appendages in the pages of his satire. But the severest di- atribe of all is expended on the Cluniac archi- tecture and art decorations, from which we shall quote a few passages, as showing how irrepressible was Bernards instinct for the spiritual reality of religion But these are small matters. I pass on to greater ones, which seem less only because they are more common. I will not speak of the immense height of the churches, of their immoderate len~,th, of their superfluous breadth, costly polishing, and strange designs, which, while they attract the eyes of the wor- shipper, hinder the souls devotion, and some- how remind me of the old Jewish ritual. Tiowever, let all this pass; we will suppose it is done, as we are told, for the glory of God. But, a monk myself, I do ask other monks (the question and reproach were ad- dressed by a pagan to pagans), Tell me, 0 ye professors of poverty, what does gold do in a holy place? The case of bishops and monks is not the same. We know that they, as debt- ors to the wise and foolish, when they cannot rouse the sense of religion in the carnal mul- titude by spiritual means, must do so by or- LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. naments that appeal to the senses. But among us who have gone out from the people, among us who have forsaken whatever things are fair and costly for Christs sake, who have regard- ed all things beautiful to the eye, soft to the ear, agreeable to the smell, sweet to the taste, pleasant to the toueh,all things, in short, which can gratify the body,as dross and duna, that we might gain Christ, of whom among us, I ask, can devotion be excited by such means? . . . By the sight of costly van- ities, men are prompted to live rather than to pray. Some beautiful picture of a saint is exhibited, and the brighter the colors the greater the holiness attributed to it: men run eager to kiss they are invited to give, and the beautiful is more admired than the sacred is rever~d. In the churches are suspended, not corom~e, but wheels studded with gems. and surrounded by lights, which are scarcely brighter than the precious stones which are near them: what is the object of all this? The repentance of the contrite, or the admi- ration of the gazers? Oh, vanity of vanities! but not more vain than foolish. The churchs walls are resplendent; but the poor are not there. . . . Why at least do we not reverence the images of the saints, with which the very pavement we walk on is covered? Often an angels mouth is spit into, and the face of some saint trodden on by the passers-by. Again, in the cloisters what is the meaning of those ridiculous monsters, of that deformed beauty, that beautiful deformity, before the very eyes of the brethren when reading? What are disgusting monkeys there for, or ferocious lions, or horrible centaurs, or spot- ted ti,.~ers, or fighting soldiers, or huntsmen sounding the bugle? You may see there one head with many bodies, or one body with many heads. Here is a quadruped with a serpents tail; there is a fish with a beasts head; there a creature, in front a horse, behind a goat; another has horns at one end, and a horses tail at the other. In fact, such an endless variety of forms appears everywhere that it is more pleasant to read in the stonework than in books, and to spend the day in ad- miring these oddities than in meditating on the law of God. Proh Deof If we are not ashamed of these absurdities, why do we not grieve at the cost of them? It is only fair to the memory of Peter the Venerable, Bernards brother abbot, to say that the abuses so nwrcilessly anatomized were such as existed before he became respon- sible. But the Apology smote him keenly, nevertheless. In his own gentle way he re- monstrated with Bernard, bringing forward many pleas in extenuation; he strove to show that the property owned by his monasteries ruian szRIzs. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxv. 1172 was better employed, after all, than it would have been by those who gave it; aPcl urged the necessity of mutual concession on the part of the more strict and the more lax observera of the Benedictine rule. Whatever we may think of his arguments, we cannot help sym- pathizing with Peter, when he makes his al- most indignant appeal to Bernards forgotten charity. Love, he said, was the supreme law- giver; the churchs lawgivers, with the pope at their head, were only secretaries of love; and he aptly applied Augustines celebrated Babe charitatem etfac quicquid vis. Lie adds, It has long grieved me sore that men who to this very hour are in hunger and thirst, in cold and nakedness; laboring with their hands, and in all things following the holy Paul, should yet, while they perform the eightier matters, leave the lighter undone. And thou art one of these. Thou keepest the hard coIn- mands of Christ, on fasting, watching, wearr ness, and labor; and yet thou disregardest that easy one of love. It is striking to ob- serve how these two great representatives of monkish observances make their last appeal to love; and it is pleasant to record that both signalized their own possession of the heart of true religion by maintaining throughout this contest an unabated friendship. Bernards severe Apology, following as it did his first treatise on Humiiity,in which he ingeniously depicted the ascending and descending scales of humility and pride, produced a very deep impression. It mended both Cistercians and Cluniacs. And it did more. It made many a lax abbot tremble, and set not a few about reformation. Among the rest, Suger,who combined in one per- son the abbot of St. Denis, prime minister of Louis le Gros, and the historian of his times, found leisure to read for himself. Such words as these, The cloisters are crowded with soldiers, the convent filled with the min- isters of intrigue and litigation, the tumult of the world re-echoes on all sides, and even women enter at their pleasure,went to his conscience. His own monastery, which had degenerated into something like a palace of pleasure for the king and his courtiers, was immediately reformed; and Sugers cele- brated letter to Bernard is one of the most honorable tributes to the reformers power. Another evidence of his growing influence was given by the summons which he received to attend the Council of Troycs in 1128. A 209 210 LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD remarkable letter to the legate Matthew might have been expected to become ex- shows how sore a trial it was to make this tremely popular, had not succeeded to any first appearance on the more public arena great extent. The number had not increased of the church,what the first step cost. in ten years beyond the original nine. Ber- Those historians whom Gibbon has taught nard entered heartily into the scheme; hay.. to doubt the possibility of a sincere depreca- ing taken his brief, he pleaded the cause with tion of power, and who represent Bernard as all his fervor. Their new rule did not, as is thirsting for publicity, must read the follow- commonly asserted, spring from his hands; but ing sentences with other eyes than ours he drew up an Exhortation to the Knights My heart is ready to obey, but not my of the Temple, which made the new warfare body. Burnt up by heat, and exhausted by generally attractive. This treatise is not one the sweats of a raging fever, my weak flesh of Bernards best. It reads like a piece of is unequal to answer the call of my willing special pleading, written by one whose mind spirit. I was anxious to come, but my desire was full of paradoxes on the subject of war. has been frustrated by sickness. Whether After showing the secular warrior the di- it be a sufficient one, I leave those of my lemma in which his art is entangled, Your friends to judge who, taking no excuse, are reasons for fighting are light and frivolous, daily devising plans to draw me, a monk in- viz., the impulses of an irrational anger, or a volved in a network of duty and obedience, from my cloister into cities. If I were to say desire of vainglory, or the wish to obtain to them, I have taken off my coat, how shall ~ some earthly possession: certainly, for such put it on? .1 have washed my feet, how shall I causes as these it is not safe either to slay or defile them? they would douhtless be offended. be slain, he paints the advantages and They may reply, that tb business is most immunities of the new warfare, a warfare important. If so, they must seek some unheard of in all former ages. Christs one who is fit for great and important busi- soldiers can fight in safety the battles of their ness. I do not think,I know that I am not such an one. Is it difficult or easy, this Lord; fearing no sin from killing an enemy; affair with which you would burden me? dreading no danger from their own death. If easy, it can be done without me; if diffi- Christs soldier can securely kill, can more cult, it cannot be done by me, unless I am securely die: when he dies, it profits him- thought able to do what no one else can, and self; when he slays, it profits Christ. In one to whom impossibilities should be re- the vehemence of his ardor to justify the ferred. If this be so, what an error has God trust reposed in him, Bernard draws an en- committed in my solitary caseplacing a can- dle under a bushel which could have given thusiastic picture of the excellences of the light upon a candlestick, or, to speak more new militia. Never is an idle word, or a plainly, trying to make a monk of me, and useless deed, or immoderate laughter, or a wishing to hide in his tabernacle, in the days murmur, even if only whispered, allowed to of evil-doers, a man who is necessary to the go unpunished among them. Hunting they world, without whom even bishops cannot hold in abomination; soothsayers; jesters, get through their own business! story-tellers, ribald songs, and stage plays, At Troyes, Bernard met Hugo de Pagi~nis, they eschew as vain follies. Such are a few the founder and first grand-master of the or- of the attractions held out to the devout; but der of Knights Templars, who enlisted the whether the grand-master would be equally abbots influence in obtaining a more public pleased by the picture his advocate drew of recognition and a more definite rule for his his Templars and those whom they consorted new order. Ten years before, he and a few with and protected, may be questioned. The others had taken vows, like regular canons, most salutary result is, that in such a multi- to live in chastity, obedience, and poverty, tude who flock to the East there are few be- and for the remission of their sins to keep sides scoundrels, vagabonds, thieves, mur- the roads and passes free of robbers and as- derers, perjurers, and adulterers, from whose sailants, and to watch over the safety of the emigration a double good is observed to flow, pilgrims as much as they could. This in- the cause of a twofold joy. Both rejoice, stitution, which aimed to combine the spirit those whom they go to defend, and those of warlike enterprise with that of stern mo- whom they no longer oppress. On the nastic asceticism, and which, as bringing into whole, there is more of rhetoric than of Ber- concert the two strongest impulses of the age, nards real soul in this effusion. It was not LIFE AND TIMES OF ST. BERNARD. to him a labor of love. And here at the out- set, as we shall see finally in the end, Bernard fell below himself when he looked toward the East. Our abbot had now reached his thirty-ninth year, and up to this time had scarcely ever left his valley of Clairvaux, save to attend the chapters of his order. At any rate, France had hounded his sphere. But now the even tenor of his life was disturbed, to subside into rest no more. His memoirs from this point become history: for about twenty years he was the most prominent actor upon the Euro- pean scene. Not that he ceased to be Abbot of Clairvaux, or to m~dntain the monastic life. Whatever journeys he had to take, whatever 211 councils to attend, and whatever documents to prepare, his heart was in what he called his beloved Jerusalem. But it was not his lot to know any more the blessedness of uninterrupted devotion. Just when he was likely to rise or to fall into a confirmed mys- tic,at that juncture when a man becomes what he is to remain till the end,he was summoned out upon the stormy scene of Eu- ropean politics; and from that time onward he presents perhaps the most remarkable in- stance of the combination of the ascetic and the active Christian life that the history of Christendom presents. [To he concluded in our next.] Faoo HE WOULD A WRITING GO.(PUflCh.)---- The following is the real text of the letter which the Emperor of France has seat to the little Pre- tender who has been proclaiming himself in Hol- stein. The latter, it may be remembered, wrote to Napoleon, compared himself and his early misfortunes with the emperor and his mishaps, and asked for aid on the ground that, like L. N., the Pretender was appealing to the principle of nationalities. Count de Morny kindly got a copy of the letter, which we have translated literally. To my Cousin the Frog. chopper in my hand, that I shall be forced to ex- ecute her behests. Good is my only motive, as everybody knows, and as I said, indeed, only the other day. So, without dwelling upon your in- discretion in drawing a parallel between the petty miseries of an illegitimate little German frog-duke, and the splendid misfortunes which hallowed the early years of yours truly, look out for your hind legs. And may Jupiter, who sent King Stork to a certain nationality, have you in his best keeping. In parenthesis let me add that I hope you will not be more hurt than is needful, should I ask my friend, John, of the Beerbarrels, to give me his advice as to the best form of chop- ping-block. He has not much delicacy, but is great at inventions, and he thinks with me on this Danish business. And so, my dear Cousin Frog, Wishing you all the compliments of the season, and strongly advising you not to burst, believe me, Your affectionate friend, Louis NAPOLEON, Elected of the Millions. DEAR Cousir,The charming fable about the Frog that wanted to blow itself into the size of the Bull is familiar to you, for all princes are told fables. IVeil, my dear little Frog, you are fancying yourself like me. Now we have no en- mity against you for being a frog: indeed, as you know, frogs are favorites with Frenchmen, and our dear Bull over La Manche may be said to have worked out that theme with more perti- nacity than politenesshowever, we make our- selves amends by always harping on his Beer. But, Cousin Frog, I must really warn you against certain dangers. Frogs, like men, should look before they leap. I fear you have been in a hurry to leap into Holstein. You know how frogs are aerved when wanted for the purposes of high cookery. They are laid on a block, and their hind lees are chopped off for the stewpan. My dearest cousin, you know best how many legs you can spare. But it is due to cousinhood, and all the fine feelings, to tell you that if the King of FaAN~OIs HuGos French translation of Shak- Denmark should have reason to complain of ill- speares works will be completed by April. He treatment, and France, whose wishes I live but is said to have received a remuneration of fifty to obey, should suggest that you mount the block thousand francs for his worka somewhat high- instead of the throne, it will be with cousinly er sum, probably, than that which the poet re- tears in my eyes, but with an uncommonly sharp ceived. Paris, Vendredi soir. Ma. PALORAVES travels in Arabia, the sum- mary account of which, as given recently at the Geographical Society, has excited such unusual interest, are to be published in full. They will probably form a book of travels such as we have not had for a long time. 212 COMPENSATION. CaooxrD and dwarfed the tree must stay, Nor lift its green head to the day, Till useless growths are lopped away. And thus doth human nature do; Till it bath careful pruning, too, It cannot grow up straight and true. For, but by chastenings severe, No soul could ever tell how near God comes, to whom he loveth here. Without lifes ills, we could not feel The blessed change from woe to weal; Only the wounded limb can heal. The sick and suffering learn below That which the whole can never know, Of the soft hand that soothes their woe. And never man is blest as he, Who, freed from some infirmity, Rejoices in his liberty. He sees, with new and glad surprise, The world that round about him lies, Who slips the bandage from his eyes And comes from where he long bath lain, Comes from the darkness and the pain, Out into Gods full light again. They only know who wait in fear The music of a footstep near, Falling upon the listening ear. And lifes great depths are soonest stirred In him who hath but seldom heard The magic of a loving word. Joy after grief is more complete, And kisses never fall so sweet As when long-parted lovers meet. One who is little used to such, - Surely can tell us best how much There is in a kind smile or touch. Tis like the spring wind from the south, Or water to the fevered mouth, Or sweet rain falling after drouth. By him the deepest rest is won Who toils beneath the noonday sun Faithful until his work is done. And watchers through the weary night Have learned how pleasantly the light Of morning breaks upon the sight. Perchance the jewel seems most fair To him whose patient toil and care Have brought it to the upper air. And other lips can never taste A draught like that he finds at las~t Who seeks it in the burning waste. When to the mothers arms is lent That sweet reward for suffering sent To her, from the Omnipotent, I think its helpless, pleading cry Touches her heart more tenderly, Because of her past agony. We learn at last how good and brave Was the dear friend we could not save, When he has slipped into the grave. And after He has come to hide Our lambs upon the other side, We know our Shepbs~rd and our Guide. And thus, by ways not understood, Out of each dark vicissitude, God brings us compensating good. For Faith is perfected by fears, And souls renew their youth with years, And Love looks into heaven through tears. Chamberss Journal. THE BOY AND THE RING. FAIR chance held fast is merit. A certain king Of Persia had a jewel in a ring. He sat it on the dome of Azud high; And, when they saw it flashing in the sky, Made proclamation to his royal troop, That who should send an arrow through the hoop That held the gem, should have the ring to wear. It happened that four hundred archers were In the kings company about the king. Each took his aim, and shot, and missed the ring. A boy, at play upon the terraced roof Of a near building, bent his bow aloof At random, and behold! the morning breeze His little arrow caught, and bore with ease Right through the circlet of the gem. The king, Well pleased, unto the boy assigned the ring. Then the boy burnt his arrows and his bow. The king, astonished, said, Why dost thou so? Seeing thy first shot hath had great success. He answered, Lest my second make that less. COMPENSATION. CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: PART X.CHAPTER XXXI. 1 WILL do what I can for you, said Mr. Morgan; yours is a very hard case, as you say. Of course, it would not do for me to give any opinion; hut such a thing shall not occur in Carlingford, while I am here, with- out heing looked into, said the rector, with dignity ; of that you may he sure. I dont want no more nor justice, said Elsworthy; no more nor justice. Im a man as has always been respected, and never interfered with nobody as didnt interfere with me. The things Ive stood from my clergyman, I wouldnt have stood from no man living. The way as hed talk, sir, of them as was a deal better than himself! We was a happy family afore Mr. Wentworth came nigh of us. Most folks in Carlingford knows me. There wasnt a more industrious family in Carlingford, though I say it as shouldnt, nor one as was more content, or took things more agreeable, afore Mr. Went- worth come to put all wrong. Mr. Wentworth has heen here for five years, said the rectors wife, who was pres- ent at this interview; have things been ~oing wrong for all that time? I couldnt describe to nobody what Ive put up with, said the clerk of St. Roques, evading the question. lIe hadnt the ways of such clergymen ~as Eve been used to. Twice the pay wouldnt have made up for what Ive suffered in my feelins; and I ask you, sir, is this how its all to end? My little girls gone, cried Elworthy, rising into hoarse earnestness, my little girl as was so sweet, and as everybody took notice on. Shes gone, and I dont know as Ill ever see her again ; and I cant get no satis- faction one way or another; and I ask you, sir, is a villain as could do such a thing to hold up his head in the town, and go on the same as ever? I aint a man as is contrairy, or as goes again my superiors; but its driving me mad, thats what its doing, said Elsworthy, wiping the moisture from his forehead. The man was trembling and hag- gard, changed even in his looks; his eyes were red with passion and watching, and looked like the eyes of a wild beast lying in wait for its prey. I cant say as Ive ever slept an hour since it happened, he cried; and as for my misses, its a-killing of her. We aint shut up, because weve got to live all the same; and becaase~ if the poor thing 213 come back, theres always an open door. But Ill have justice, if I was to di& for it! cried Elswortby. I dont ask no more than justice. If it aint to be had one way, Ill have it another. Ill set the police on him I will. When a mans drove wild, he aint answerable for what hes a-doing; and to see him a-walking about Carlingford, and a-holding up his head, is a thing as I wont stand no longer, not if it was to be my ruin. Im as good as ruined now, and I dont care. He broke off short with these words, and sat down abruptly on the chair Thomas had placed for him in front of the rectors table. Up to this moment he had been standing, in his vehemence and agitation, without taking advantage of the courtesy accorded to his misfortune; now the poor man sat down by way of emphasis, and began to polish his hat round and round with his trembling hands. As for Mr. Morgan, he, on the contrary, got up and walked instinctively to the fire- place, and stood there with his back to the empty grate, contemplating4~the world in general with a troubled countenance, as was natural. Not to speak of his prejudice against Mr.Wentworth, the rector was moved by the sight of Elsworthys distress; but thcn his wife, who unluckily had brought her needlework into the library on this par- ticular morning, and who was in the interest of the Curate of St. Iloqucs, was seated watchful by the window, occasionally look- ing up, and entirely cognizant, as Mr. Mor- gan was aware, of everything that happened. The rector was much embarrassed to feel himself thus standing between the two par- ties. Yours is a very hard case; but it is necessary to proceed with caution; for, after all, there is not. much proof, he said, fal- tering a little. My dear, it is a pity to detain you from your walk, Mr. Morgan continued, after a momentary pause, and looked with a flush of consciousness at his wife, whose absence would have been such a relief to him. Mrs. Morgan looked up with a gracious smile. You are not detaining me, William; I am very much interested, said the design- ing woman, and immediately began to ar- range and put in order what the rector knew by experience to be a long piece of work likely to last her an hour at least. Mr. Morgan uttered a long breath, which sound- ed like a little snort of despair. 214 It is very difficult to know what to do, said the rector, shifting uneasily upon the hearth-rug, and plunging his hands into the depths of his pockets. If you could name anybody you would like to refer it to; but being a brother clergyman A man as conducts himself like that didnt ought to be a clergyman, sir! cried Elsworthy. Im one as listened to him preaching on Sunday, and could have jumped up and dragged him out of the pulpit, to hear him a-discoursing as if he wasnt a big- ger sinner nor any there. I aint safe to stand it another Sunday. Id do something as I should be sorry for after. Im asking jus- tice, and no more. With these words, Els- worthy got up again, still turning round in his hands the unlucky hat, and turned his person, though not his eyes, towards Mrs. Morgan. No man could be more partial to his clergyman nor I was, he said, hoarse- ly. There was never a time as I wasnt glad to see him. He came in and out as if it belonged to him, and I had no more thought as he was meaning any harm than the babe unborn; but a man as meddles with an inno- cent girl aint nothing but a black-hearted villain! cried Elsworthy, with a gleam out of his red eyes; and I dont believe as any- body would take his part as knew all. I put my confidence in the rector, as is responsible for the parish, he went on, facing round again: not to say but what its natural for them as are Mr. Wentworths friends to take his part; but Ill have justice, wherever it comes from. Its hard work to go again any lady as Ive a great respect for, and wouldnt cross for the world; hut it aint in reason that I should be asked to hear it and not say nothing; and Ill have justice, if I should die for it! snid Elsworthy. He turned from one to another as he spoke, but kept his eyes upon his hat, which he smoothed and smoothed as if his life depended on it. But for the reality of his excitement, his red eyes, and hoarse voice, he would have been a ludicrous figure, standing as he did in the middle of Mr. Morgans library, veering round, first to one side and then to the other, with his stooping head and ungainly person. As for the rector, he, too, kept lookir~g at his wife with a very troubled face. It is difficult for me to act against a brother clergyman, said Mr. Morgan; but I am very sorry for you, Elsworthy very THE PERPETUAL CURATE. sorry; if you could name, say half a dozen gentlemen But dont you think, said the rectors wife, interposing, that you should inquire first whether there is any evidence? It would make you all look very ridiculous if you got up an inquiry and found no proof against Mr. Wentworth. Is it likely he would do such a thing all at once without showing any signs of wickedness beforehand is it possible? To be sorry is quite a dif- ferent thing, but I dont see Ladies dont understand such matters, said the rector, who had been kept at bay so long that he began to get desperate. I beg your pardon, my dear, but it is not a matter for you to discuss. We shall take good care that there is plenty of evidence, said the perplexed man I mean, before we proceed to do anything, he added, growing very red and confused. When Mr. Morgan caught his wifes acute eye, he got as nearly into a passion as was possible for so good a man. You know what I mean, he said, in his peremptory way; and, my dear, you will forgive me for saying this is not a matter to be discussed before a lady. When he had uttered this bold speech, the rector took a few little walks up and down the room, not car- ing, however, to look at his wife. He was ashamed of the feeling ~e had that her ab- sence would set him much more at ease with Elsworthy, but still could not help being con- scious that it was so. He did not say any- thing more, but he walked up and down the room with sharp, short steps, and betrayed his impatience very manifestly. As for Mrs. Morgan, who was a sensible woman, she saw that the time had come for her to retire from the field. I think the first thing to be done is to try every possible means of finding the girl, she said, getting up from her seat ; but I have no doubt what you decide upon will be the best. You will find me in the drawing- room when you want me, William. Per- haps her absence for the first moment was not such a relief to her husband as he had expected. The mildness of her parting words made it very apparent that she did not mean to take offence; and he perceived suddenly, at a glance, that he would have to tell her all he was going to do, and encounter her criti- cism single-handed, which was rather an ap- palling prospect to the rector. Mrs. Morgan, CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: for her part, went up-stairs not without a little vexation, certainly, but with a com- forting sense of the opportunity which awaited her. She felt that, in his unprotected posi- tion, as soon as she left him, the rector would conduct himself rashly, and that her time was still to come. The rector went back to the hearth-rug when his wife left the room, but in the heat of his own personal reflections he did not say anything to Elsworthy, who still stood smooth- ing his hat in his hand. On the whole, Mr. Morgan was rather aggravated for the mo- ment by the unlucky cause of this little en- counter, and was not half so well disposed tow- ard Mr. Wentworths enemy as half an hour before, when he recognized his wife as the champion of the curate, and felt controlled by her presence; for the human and even the clerical mind has its impulses of perver- sity He began to get very impatient of Elsworthys hat, and the persistent way in which he worked at it with his hands. I suppose you would not be so certain about it, if you had not satisfactory evi-~ dence? he said, turning abruptly, and even a little angrily, upon the supplicant; for Mr. Morgan naturally resented his own tam- per and the little semi-quarrel he had got into upon the third person who was the cause of all. Sir, said Elsworthy, with eagerness, it aint no wonder to me as the lady takes Mr. Wentworths part. A poor man dont stand no chance against a young gentleman as has had every advantage. Its a thing as Im prepared for, and it dont have no effect upon me. A lady as is so respected and thought a deal of both in town and coun- try I was not speaking of my wife, said the rector, hastily. Dont you think you had better put down your hat? I think you said it was on Friday it occurred. It will be necessary to take down the facts in a busi- ness-like way, said Mr. Morgan, drawing his chair toward the table and taking up his pen. This was how the rector was occupied when Thomas announced the most unex- pected of all possible visitors, Mr. Proctor, who had been Mr. Morgans predecessor in Carlingford. Thomas announced his old mas- ter with great solemnity as the late rector a title which struck the present incumbent with a sense of awe not unnatural in the 215 circumstances. lie jumped up from his cha~ and let his pen fall out of his startled fingers when his old friend came in. They had eaten many a good dinner together in the revered hall of All-Souls, and as the familiar counte- nance met his eyes, perhaps a regretful thought of that Elysium stole across the mind of the late Fellow, who had been so glad to leave the sacred brotherhood, and marry, and become as other men. He gave but a few hurried words of surprise and welcome to his visitor, and then, with a curious counterpoise of sen- timent, sent him up-stairs to see my wife, feeling, even while half envious of him, a kind of superiority and half contempt for the man who was not a rector and married, but had given up both these possibilities. When he sent him up-stairs to see my wife, Mr. Morgan looked after the elderly celibate with a certain pity. One always feels more in- clined to take the simple view of any matter to stand up for injured innocence, and to right the wrongedwhen one feels ones self better off than ones neighbors. A reverse position is apt to detract from the simplicity of ones conceptions, and to suggest two sides to the picture. When Mr. Proctor was gone, the rector addressed himself with great devotion to Elsworthy and his evidence. It could not be doubted that the man was in earnest for his own part, and believed what he said; and things unquestionably looked rather ugly for Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Mor- gan took down all about the curates untimely visit to Elsworthy on the night when he took Rosa home; and when he came to the evi- dence of the Miss Hemmings, who had seen the curate talking to the unfortunate little girl at his own door the last time she was seen in Carlingford, the rector shook his head with a prolonged movement, half of satisfac- tion, half of regret; for, to be sure, he had made up his mind beforehand who the cul- prit was, and it was to a certain extent sat- isfactory to have his opinion confirmed. This looks very bad, very bad, I am sorry to say, said Mr. Morgan; for the un- happy young mans own sake, an investiga- tion is absolutely necessary. As for Els- worthy, everybody must be sorry for you. Have you no idea where he could have taken the poor girl?that is, said the incau- tious rector, supposing that he is guilty of which, I am afraid, there does not seem much doubt. THE PERPETUAL CURATE. There aint no doubt, said Elsworthy; there aint nobody else as could have done it. Just afore my little girl was taken away, sir, Mr. Wentworth went off of a sudden, and it was said as he was a-going home to the Hall. I was a-thinking of sending a letter anonymous, to ask if it was known what he was after. I read in the papers the otl~er day as his brother was a-going over to Rome. There dont seem to henone o them the right sort; which its terrible for two clergymen. I was thinking of dropping a bit of a note anonymous Nonono, said the rector, that would never do; nothing of that sort, Els- worthy. If you thought it likely she was there, the proper thing, would be to go and inquire; nothing anonymousno, no; that is a thing I could not possibly countenance, said Mr. Morgan. He pushed away his pen and paper, and got very red and uncomfort- able. If either of the critics up-stairs, his wife, or his predecessor in the Rectory, could but know that he was having an anonymous letter suggested to himthat anybody ven- tured to think him capable of being an ac- complice in such a proceeding! The presence of these two in the house, though they were most probably at the moment engaged in the calmest abstract conversation, and totally unaware of what was going on in the library, had a great effect upon the rector. He felt insulted that any man could venture to con- fide such an intention to him almost within the hearing of his wife. if I am to take up your case, everything must be open and straightforward, said Mr. Morgan; while Elsworthy, who saw he had said something amiss, without precisely un- derstanding what, took up his hat as a re- source, and once more began to polish it round and round in his hands. I didnt mean no harm, sir, Im sure, he said; I dont seem to see no other way o finding out; for I aint like a rich, man as can go and come as he pleases; but I wont say no more, since its displeasing to you. If youd give me the list of names, sir, as you have decided on to be the committee, I wouldnt trouble you no longer, seeing as youve got visitors. Perhaps, if the late rector aint going away directly, he would take it kind to be put on the committee: and hes a gentleman as ive a great respect for, though he wasnt not to say the man for Carlingford, said Elsworthy, with a side- long look. He began to feel the iiiiportance of his own position as the originatorofa committee, and at the head of the most ex- citing movement which had been for a long time in Carlingford, and could not help being sensible, notwithstanding his affliction, that he had a distinction to offer which even the late rector might be pleased to accept. I dont think Mr. Proctor will stay, said Mr. Morgan; and if he does stay, I believe he is a friend of Mr. Weutwortlis. It was only after he had said this that the rector perceived the meaning of the words he had uttered; then, in his confusion and vexation, he got up hastily from the table, and upset the inkstand in the embarrassment of the moment. Of course that is all the greater reason for having his assistance, said Mr. Morgan in his perplexity; we are all friends of Mr. Wentworth. Will you have the goodness to ring the bell? There are few things more painful than to take steps against a brother clergyman, if one did not hope it would be for his benefit in the end. Oh, never mind the table. Be so good as to ring the bell againlouder, please. There aint nothing equal to blotting- paper, sir, said Elsworthy eagerly. With a bit o blotting-paper Id undertake to rub out ink-stains out o the finest carpetif youll permit me. It aint but a small speck, and itll be gone afore you could look round. Its twenty times better nor lemon-juice, or them poisonous salts as youre always ner- vous of leaving about. Look you here, sir, if it aint a-sopping up beautiful. There aint no harm done as your respected lady could be put out about ; and Ill take the list with me, if you please, to show to my wife, as is a-breaking her heart at home, and cant believe as well ever get justice. She says as how the quality always takes a gentle- mans part against us poor folks, but that aint been my experience. Dont you touch the carpet, Thomas; there aint a speck to be seen when the blotting-papers cleared away. Ill go home, not to detain you no more, sir, and cheer up the poor heart as is a-breaking, said Elsworthy, getting up from his knees where he had been operating upon the carpet. He had got in his hand the list of names which Mr. Morgan had put down as referees in this painful business, and it dawned faintly upon the rector for the mo 216 CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD: 217 ment that he himself was taking rather an his own in the matter, that he had referred undignified position as Elsworthys partisan. his indignant hostess to one of the leaves as I have no objection to your showing it an illustration of the kind of diaper intro- to your wife, said Mr. Morgan: but I duced into the new window which had lately shall be much displeased if I hear any talk been put up in the chapel of All-Souls. about it, Elsworthy; and I hope it is not re- A naturalistic treatment, you know, said venge you are thinking of, which is a very Mr; Proctor, with the utmost serenity; and unchristian sentiment, said the rector, se- some people objected to it, added the un- verely, and not likely to afford comfort suspicious man. either to her or you. I should have objected very strongly, No, sir, nothing but justice, said Els- said Mrs. Morgan, with a little flush. If worthy, hoarsely, as he backed out of the you call that naturalistic treatment, I con- room. Notwithstanding this statement, it sider it perfectly out of place in decoration was with very unsatisfactory sensations that of every kind . Mr. Proctor happened to Mr. Morgan went up-stairs. He felt some- be looking at her at the moment, and ft how as if the justice which Elsworthy de- denly occurred to him that Miss Wodehouse manded, and which he himself had solemnly never got red in that uncomfortable way, declared to be pursuing the Curate of St. which was the only conclusion he drew from Roques, was wonderfully like revenge, the circumstance, having long ago forgotten All punishment must be more or less yin- that any connection had ever existed between dictive, he said to himself as he went up- himself and the carpet on the drawing-room stairs; but that fact did not make him more in Carlingford Rectory. He addressed his comfortable as he went into his wifes draw- next observation to Mr. Morgan, who had ~ng-room, where he felt more like a conspir- just come in. ator and assassin than an English rector in I saw Mr. Wodehouses death in the broad daylight, without a mystery near him, Times, said Mr. Proctor, and I thought had any right to feel. This sensation con- the poor young ladies might feelat least fased Mr. Morgan much, and made him more they might think it a respector, at all peremptory in his manner than ever. As for events, it would be a satisfaction to ones Mr. Proctor, who was only a spectator, and self; said the late rector, who had got into felt himself on a certain critical eminence, a mire of explanation. Though he was far the suggestion that occurred to his mind from being a young man, yet having a young was, that he had come in at the end of a daughter like Miss Lucy quarrel, and that the conjugal firmament was Poor Lucy! said Mr. Morgan. I still in a state of disturbance; which idea hope that wretched fellow, young Went- acted upon some thoughts~in the hidden mind worth and here the rector came to a dead of the Fellow of All-Souls, and produced a stop, and felt that he had brought the sub- state of feeling little more satisfactory than ject most to be avoided head and shoulders that of the Rector of Carlingford. into the conversation, as was natural to an I hope Mr. Proctor is going to stay with embarrassed man. The consequence was us for a day or two, said Mrs. Morgan. that he got angry, as might have been ex- I was just saying it must look like coming pected. My dear, you must not look at home to come to the house he used to live me as you do. I have just been hearing all in, and which was even furnished to his own the evidence. No unbiased mind could pos- taste, said the rectors wife, shooting a sibly come to any other decision, said Mr. little arrow at the late rector, of which that Morgan, with exasperation. Now that he good man was serenely unconscious. All had committed himself; he thought it was this time, while they had been talking, Mrs. much the best thing to go in for it wholly, Morgan had scarcely been able to keep from without half measures, which was certainly asking who could possibly have suggested the most straightforward way. such a carpet. Mr. Proctors chair was What has happened to Wentworth? l)laced on the top of one of the big bouquets, said Mr. Proctor. He is a young man for which expanded its large foMage round him whom I have a great regard. Though he is with more than Eastern prodigalitybut so much younger than I am, he taught me was so little conscious of any culpability of some lessons while I was in Carlingford which THE PERPETUAL CURATE I Bhall never forget. If he is in any trouble that I can help him in, I shall be very glad to do it, both for his own sake and for Mr. Proctor slurred over the end of his sen- tence a little, and the others were occupied with their own difficulties, and did not take very much noticefor it was difficult to state fully the nature and extent of Mr. Went- worths enormities after such a declaration of friendship. I met him on my way here, said the Fellow of All-Souls, not looking quite as he used to do. I supposed it might be Mr. Wodehouses death, perhaps. All Mr. Proctors thoughts ran in that channel of Mr. Wodehouses death, which, after all, though sad enough, was not so great an event to the community in general as the late rec- tor seemed to suppose. It was Mrs. Morgan at length who took heart to explain to Mr. Proctor the real state of affairs. He h