LITTELLS LIVING AGE.NO. 1140.7 APRIL, 1866. From the Eclectic and Congre~ational Review. JOHN CLARE.* IN the spring of 1864, in the Northamp- tonshire General County Lunatic Asylum, after a sad incarceration of about twenty- three years, an appendix to. a previous in- carceration in a private asylum, from which he escaped, died John Clare. In the lucid intervals which shone upon him, he had al- ways expressed a wish to sleep his last sleep in the churchyard of his native village, Helpston. Accordingly, when his spirit hart fled, the superintendent of the asylum wrote to the Earl Fitzwilliam, one of the great peers of England, and whose proper- ty lies immediately in the neighbourhood of Ileipston, asking for the grant of a small sum to carry the wish of the poor deceased into effect. The illustrious peer briefly re- plied by a refusal, implying that the de- ceased died as a pauper, and should be bur- ied in the paupers burial-ground. There were others who judged more generously than the noble earl, and it is a satisfaction to feel that this great indignity was not per- petrated towards the remains of one of toe sweetest village nightingales that ever warbled the notes of pastoral melody in English verse. A requisite burial-fund was raised in a few days; the poets body was conveyed to Helpston, and now lies be- neath the shade of-a sycamore-tree, tombed over only by the green grass and the eternal vault of the sky. It is our purpose to in- quire a little, while we glance through Mr. Martins most affectionate and mournfully ioteresting biography, into the claims John Clare has to memory and affectionate hom- age as one who has done honour to our lands language, and to inquire how far the Earl Pitzwilliam was justified in treating as a paupers, the remains of one who certainly * 1. The Life of John Glare. By Frederick Martin. Macmillan and Co. 2. The Rural Muse: Poems by John Clare. Whit- taker, 1831. 3. Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery. By John Glare, a Northamptonshire peasant. Fourth Edition. Printed for Taylor and lies- sey. 1821. 4. The Village Minstrel, and other Poems. By John Glare, the Northamptonshire peasant. 2 vols. Printed for Taylor and Hessey. FOURTH $ERIE~. LIVING AGE. VOL. 1. 1. had the sad accidents of pauperism associat- ed with his life. Forty-five years ago, that terrible critic, William Gifford, in the Quar- terly Review, expressed his sense of marvel- ling admiration over the genius of the poor young peasant. The whole review is cast in the appreciative strain of the following words: We had nearly overlooked, amidst the bulk- ier works which incessantly solicit our atten- tion, this interesting little volume; which bears indubitable evidence of being composed alto- gether from the impulses of the writers mind, as excited by external objects and internal sen- sations. Here are no tawdry and feeble para- phrases of former poets, no attempts at describ- ing what the author rniqkt have become ac- quainted with in his limited reading: the woods, the vales, the brooks the crimson spots I the bottom of a cowslip, or the loftier phenomena of the heavens, con- templated through the alternations of hope and despondency, arc the principal sources whence the youth, whose adverse circumstances and resignation under them extort our sympathy, drew the faithful and vivid pictures before us. Examples of mind, highly gifted by nature, struggling with and breaking through the bon- dage of adversity, are not rare in this country; but privation is not destitution; and the in- stance before us is, perhaps, one of the most striking, of patient and persevering talent exist- ing and enduring in the most forlorn and seem- ingly hopeless condition, that literature has at any time exhibited. Our distinguished predecessor of the Eclec- tic Review for 1820 writes in an equal strain of eloquence and admiration in a review of con- siderable length, marked by several subtle touches of sympathy; speaking of the poems as exquisitely vivid descriptions of rural scenery, characterized by minute fidelity and tastefulness of description; as far supe- rior in spirit and picturesque beauty, and tasteftYl expression, to the namby-pamby style of ordinary English pastor~ is,. as the scenes from which he derives his- ktspira- tions are to Vauxhall Gardens. After some quotations, the writer says : JOHN CLARE. We hope we have by this time amply sub- stantiated the opinion we gave at the outset, as to the extraordinary merit of these productions: if so, if, instead of thinkin,, them very clever considering they are by a day-labourer, our readers agree with us in conceding to them a high de- gree of poetical merit quite independent of the circumstances of their author, they will be pre- pared to enter, with the requisite sympathy, into the simple details of his history: and closes hy saying, Society owes it to it- self to prevent the author of these poems from adding another name to the annals of unbefriended genius. In those years poor Clare was petted and patted by the chief reviews of England. Unfortunately, few people seem to have remembered that he was a poor labourer, almost in pauper circum- stances, able only to earn a few shillings a week. Marquisesand earlswrote to him, call- ing him to their palaces that they might look at him; and well they might, for we scarcely know where to find such another prodigy among poets, such an entire severance from every advantage of education resulting in such melody and sweetness of language; but marquises and earls all sent him to dine in the kitchen with the servants all, except one truly beautifnl and noble exception, a real, hearty, and tender friend, Lord Rad- stock, who took a deep interest in him and in his affairs; and which is more, as mark- ing his respect, sat with him and talked fa- miliarly, from time to time, at his table. The nobleman, however, was in his last years, and died in the midst of an efibrt he was making for Claras benefit. There is really much in this life of Clara which re- calls Moores vividly true verses In the woods of the North there are insects which prey On the brains of the elk, till his very last sigh; Oh genius thy patrons, more cruel than they, First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die! among the poorest persons in the village. He first saw the light in one of the most wretched mud-hovels. It is impossible to imagine circumstances more adverse than those in which the poor child first unfolded existence. Mr. Martin says, the house was bore like a prison than a human dwellinn. The hut stood in a dark, gloomy plain, cov- ered with stagnant pools of water, and over- hung by mists during the greater part of the year. Yet from out of these surround- ings sprang a being to whom all life was golden, and all nature a breath of paradise. The poor little lad was born a dreamer, seems to have bean stirred by dangerous, undefined, unpractical consciousness from his very childhood. There is a story of a wild yearning he had, when a child, to see what was to be seen yonder where the sky was touching the earth, and, one hot day in June, he set off to see, not saying a word to father or mother. Through the hot, close, sultry air he hurried on, throughthe gossamer mists; in the morning he set out, a poor little fellow, trotting on mile after mile, to reach that point where the sky seemed near- est to the earth; tantalizingly, it seemed to recede farther from him, the farther he went, till, hungry, exhausted, wearied out, he sunk down. Some labourers gave him a crust of bread, and sent him on his homeward journey; late at night he arrived home, and had to endure a thorough good beating for his romantic excursion. This was not pleasant, but he often said that his real grief was that he had been unable to find the country where heaven and earth met; he found that, nearly seventy years afterwards, in spite of Earl Fitzwilliam, in the little village churchyard; but that first ramble was not a bad parable of his whole future life.~ The Fan country was not then what it is now what it has been made by the enterprise of some of the finest and heartiest farmers in England, it was per- haps really uninteresting; and there, upon Claras verses had bean set to music by the hard fare of agricultural labourers, pa- Rossini; sung, in her palmiest days, to tatoes and water porridge, and perhaps a crowded audiences by Vestris. He had been piece of wheaten bread and pork on Sun- lauded nod lionized as the English Burns; days, he grew. The old women of the but it is the 01(1 tale battling off hunger place initiated him a little into letters; one and anxiety until, in their marria,,e, they carried him through the difficulties of A, B, bring forth madness ! then a paupers ax- C; and another, old Granny Bai~s, an istence; and an English earl thinkin~ that ancient lady filling the dignified post of a paupers grave is good enough foil his ob- cowherd of the village, who spent almost all sequies! her time out of doors, in heat or cold, storm ilelpston is a little village on the borders or rain, a wonderful weather prophetess of the Pen country a place not famous a perfect oracle in the village, blessed for the production of genius, or of poetic with an amazing memory, filled with every .nspiration. Here John Clara was born on variety of merry and plaintive song a the 13th of July, 1 793. His parents were storehouse of traditions always of a joy- 2 JOHN LiLARE. ous nature, and never having known ilf- ness, it is not wonderful if, in the ancient body, John Clare found his guide, instructor, and friend. Before he was twelve years old, he was sent to learn to thresh, and, about the same time, the instincts of scholarship strongly proclaimed themselves. At Glinton, a little villa~e five miles from Helpston, lived a cer- tain schoolmaster, a Mr. Merrishaw, a thin, tall old man, with white baTh hanging over his shoulders, in the fashion of ancient days passionately fond of long walks and his violin. Him John sought out to receive some rudimental lessons in writing and arithmetic. Also he ambitiously looked up to algebra. The algebraic studies, however, soon came to an end. Also came about a disappointment in an attempt in which, however, he nev- er believed to procure employment in a lawyers office in Peterborough, about the year 1807; his mother persuaded him, and he consented. We do not wonder that his ap- pearance in Peterborough, as he walked down the old street, created excitement and astonishment. His mother had ransacked her wardrobe to supply him. She had made him a pair of breeches out of an old dress, a world too large for his slender legs; a many-coloured shawl had been transformed into a waistcoat; an old threadbare coat was a world too small for his tall figure; his hat was half a century old. In white neck- tie and black woollen gloves, this remarka- ble figure made his entrance into the epis- copal city, excitin~ admiration in curious eyes. He soon learned from Mr. Council- br Bellamy, whose office he had sought, that all his mothers efforts were vain; yet his mother cried with joy as she saw her poor plucked crow come hack again. He conti- nued to study algebra, and ever so early he seems to have plunged headlong into his dangerous kingdom of dreams. He had no books no Shakespeare, Milton, Thomson, nor Cowper; neijher had he science; nor, we fear, much common-sense, to direct him. He peopled the world with real spirits. The stories he read, or which were told to him, were literal. The earth swarmed with odiosts and hobgobiins, fairies, and dwarfs, and giants; hallucinations, as of lunacy, seem to have held him in their spell. Then he fell in love; but Mary Joyce, the Mary of ~is poems quite as ideal to him as Laura to Petrareb, Beatrice to Dante, or Mary to Burns was the daughter of a well-to-do former at Clinton. Quite a wonderful world of love and beauty seemed to wrap the two young people round; they used to meet du- ring six months by the stiles and fields, and rural lanes and places; and John used to tell her how he loved the beautiful earth of trees, and flowers, and larks, and insects, and clouds; but lie never told her that he thought her more beautiful than all the great and beautiful works of nature. Then came the terrible father, and prudently, and rightly enough, looking upon them both as mere children, told Mary she must not see the beggar-boy again. The blue-eyed Mary was compelled to listen to her father, and so the lad lost her, and went carving her name about upon a hundred trees. Poor Mary is thought to have carried with her through life affection for her rude and ill- dressed, but eloquent and shrinking lover; she never married, dying a spinster. People point still to an inscription on the porch of Glinton Church known to be theirs, J. C., 1808, and underneath it, in fainter lines, Mary. One day, while tending his cat- tle in the field, a farmers big boy showed him a copy of Thomsons Seasons; a glance revealed to him the quality and character of the book; he implored the possessor for a loan of it, if only for an hour. Its owner was a brutish character, and he refused; it was but a trumpery book, he said; he had bought it for eighteenpence, people who wanted it might buy it. Clare heard there was a copy at a booksellers in Stam- ford to be sold for a shilling; through a va- riety of romantic difficulties, he at last pro- cured the shilling, and oing early to rest got up soon after midnight to walk over to t,tamford from Helpston to make his pur- chase; as it was, he made a grave mistake, for it was on a Sunday, and the shop was not open. He started again on the Monday morning, arrived before the booksellers shop was open, and sat down in quiet resignation for an hour and a-half on the shop steps, counting the quarter chimes; at length came a turning of keys and drawing of bolts, and never, we suppose, was bookseller more amazed than when the thin, haggard, coun- try lad, with great, wild, gleaming eyes, pounced upon him for the copy of Thom- sons Seasons. It was eighteenpence, but the bookseller let him have it for a shilling. The poor lad set forth on his journey again; the sun was just rising in his strength; the larks and linnets were abroad; the land- scape was illuminated; he gassed beneath the walls of Burleigh Park it was more tempting than the road he bounded over the wall, and there, among the stately trees, the ragged laddie, his eye running from the book to nature herself and from nature her- self back again to the book, first felt, him- self, the ambitions of verse striving with 3 JOHN CLARE. him, and, in some way, in obedience to some instinctive movements, upon a crumpled bit of paper, with a pencil he happened to pos- sess, he wrote, we believe, his first piece. Its verses, of course, received subsequent retouchings, but do not these form exqui- site and, the circumstances remembered, truly wonderful lines of rural beauty? The cocks have now the morn foretold, The sun again begins to peep The shepherd, whistling to his fold, Unpeus and frees the captive sheep. * * * * For eve leaf that forms a shade, And everyflowrets silken top, And every shivering bent and blade, Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those pearly drops, The red, round sun advances higher; And stretching oer the mountain tops, Is gi1din~ sweet the village spire. * * * * Now let me tread the meadow paths, While glittcriug.dew the ground illumes, As, sprinkled oer the withering swaths, Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes; And hear the beetle stand his horn; And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Sprungfro his bed of tgfted corn, A Kailing minstrel in the sky. First sunbeam, calling night away, To see how sweet thy summons seems, Split by the willows wavy grey, And sweetly dancing an the streams; How fine the spiders web is spun, Unnoticed by vulgar eyes; Its silk thread glittering in the sun Arts bungling vanity defies. * * * * The swallow wheels his circling flight, And oer the waters surface skims; Then on the cottage chimney lights, And twittering chants his morning hymns. * * * As slow the hazy mists retire, Crampt circles more distinctly seen; I2hin scatterd huts, and neighbouring spire, Drop in to stretch the bounded scene. Brisk winds the li~htend branches shake, By pattering, plashing drops confessd; And, xvhere oaks dripping shade the lake, Print crimpling dimples on its breast. The poor lad passed tbrough a variety of adventures in order -to procure his little crust of bread. It is the story as of a com- pletely ill circumstanced soul a garden- ers lad, then again a farm-labourer, in the midst of his labours in the fields, Thomsons Seasons never out of his pocket, read and read again when eating his humble meal at noonday under a hed~,e; in the evenings in lonely places he enjoyed the pursuit of that provoking jade, poetry, under difficulties scribbling upon all scraps of paper which came in his way, much to the horror of his old father, whose loftiest idea of poetry was of halfpenny ballads sold or sung at public- houses, and who had an idea that produc- tions sold so cheaply could not be of much profit to the composer. His mother also discovered his propensities discovered also where he was in the habit of hiding the scraps of paper on which he had wrtt- ten, and, to make an end of the miserable business at once, with a true and righteous maternal instinct ccnsigned all on which she could lay her hands to the fire; and yet, without knowing it, the poor lad was pursuing a path of culture like that pursued and prescribed by, and for, noblest minds. He had a thought that his father had not so much want of faith in his writings as in himself, the writer; so he committed one of his longest and most effective poems to memory, and pretending to read it from print, had the satisfaction of hearing his father exclaim, Ah John! my boy, if thou couldst make such like verses, that would do; but he did not disclose the secret, but henceforth made a regular habit of reading his own poetry to his parents as if reading it from a book or printed sheet of paper. Thus he had the pleasure of hearing praise from lips to which the poor fellow was not indifferent, although it was not of much critical value; h -t he was also wise enough when he was asked for explanation of a word or a line to note it down as ill express- ed, and to alter it; and so also, when, as was sometimes the case~ laughter came where he had intended pathos, he carried that verse with him into the fields ncxt day, and set it to simpler and more natural words. So the poor fellow was really doing the best with himself, and was at school a d college without knowing it. Did not Molibre make his inimitable comedies per- fect in the same way? and so it happened, that John Clare came to write verses, some of which have the sweet and perfect sim- plicity of the best days of the English undefiled. It is true, when it was found that he was engaged in the sinful practice of verse writing, the sin reached the ears of a certain village dignita~ry, a Mr. Thomas 4 JOHN GLARE. Porter; to him he was persuaded to show the poetry, on little pieces of paper, blue, and red, white, and yellow. Mr. Thomas Porters first question was, Do you know grammar? John was compelled to con- fess that he could scarcely even tell what grammar was, whether a person or a thing; thereupon Mr. Thomas Porter handed him hack his little bits of paper, and, with a frown, exclaimed, You cannot write poetry before you know grammar. Poor John, horrified, did, for a time, give up his propensities, procured a well known school- room-companion of those days, a critical spelling-book; but this did not help him much, and, to the end of his days, he who could enjoy nature so profoundly, read with such sympathy and appreciation some of our best English authors, write verse so sweetly, and use words so graphic and descriptive, never knew much either of grammar or spelling. He is also in very dignified com- pany, however, in this. A poor country lad, upwards of half a century since, with not a guide or a friend, it is not to be sup- posed that his life could run along alone without its own burden of temptation. Viciousness could never have dwelt long with, or have been at all akin to, such a spirit; he was able to resist the temptation of poaching a wild, romantic pursuit not, perhaps, because he either dreaded the danger or cared much for the sin, hut be- cause he was too tender a lover of all the creatures God had made to hurt or destroy them wilfully. Sometimes, we are afraid, he became a little too excited at the Hole- in-the-Wail, or the more dangerous roister- ings of Bachelors Hall: also, in the times when the country was at the fever-heat of excitement against Bony, be enlisted in the Northampton Militia, and was stationed for a little while at Oundle; the warriors, however, with whom he was allied, seem to have created more fear than confidence, for the good people of Oundle felt their property more insecure in their presence than in their absence, and petitioned that they might he disbanded. Before this, how- ever, John had expressed plainly his dislike to the military profession; his regimentals seem to have been of the quaintest and most comical; and when they provoked the laughter of his corporal, a dandybody, he knocked him down. Somehow this did not get him into trouble, and shortly after he returned to Helpston, enriched by an old serond-hand copy of Paradise Lost, and some fragmentary leaves of Shakespeares Thoipest. It would now be scarcely possible for a lad with John Clares mental qualities 5 to be left so entirely to a life of mere vaga- bondage; in some way life would open a side-door for him, if not its great gates. For a time he haunted the fields and lanes as a gypsy, but gypsy life filled him with utter disgust; finally, he settled down to the loftiest occupation he had yet obtained; he became a lime-burner; at this he wrought fourteen hours a day, and sometimes through the night We have ourselves seen, in a pil- grimage we paid to the cottage of Patty Clare some sixteen years since, some relics of the writing of the old days of the brick- kiln. The lines are a heap of most incon- gruous caligraphies, in which Roman and Italian letters run about and dodge each other, even in the same word. His inspira- tion seemed, in those days, to reach its height in the neighbourhood of the lime- kiln, and to the poet there came the first miraculous dream of himself becoming an author a wild, ridiculous ambition, in- deed, when it is remembered that at this time he was earning nine shillings a-week. By this time he was twenty-five years of age; he was also in love. England, at that time, had a strong fit upon her conscience, and was, perhaps, desirous of doin~, pen- ance for some sins in the way of neglect of genius by patronizing a peasant poet. Southey had a large and tender heart for such poor bodies. Bloomfield had written some very sweet and winning verses. Strong Allan Cunningham was working his way up to fame from his stone-masons yard; the wonder of Robert Burns was in the full strength of its sudden meridian light. Somehow, the idea entered Clares mind that he might publish. His first efforts with a bookseller at Market Deeping did not seem very promising, but, circuitously, his prospectus, which he had managed to get printed, met the eye of Mr. John Taylor of the eminent publishing firm of Taylor and Hessey, of London; he was attracted by it, and still more impressed and attracted when he saw the utterly unpromising manu- script, written on dirty bits of coarse pa- per, ill spelt, without a note of punctua- tion; he saw, however, that Clare was one of the born poets of the earth, a man who could no more help writing than birds can help singing, and he signified his intention ofediting and publishing them. One or two kind friends now made their appear- ance in Clares life; Mr. Octavius Gil- christ, a kind, local, literary friend; but even so early we are compelled to notice that which keeps itself before us to the close, that Clares self-respect was never cultivated, yet, he never lost it. What, JOHN OLARE. then, could be the consequence? He was always treated as a poor unhappy miracle of a creature, that made verses. On all bands we notice the apparent inability to guide this poor, ignorant, yet marvellous genius into what might be a way of peace for himself. The person who at this time seems to have taken the most downright, thorough, truly human, and genuine inter- est in John Clare, was the Reverend John Holland, the Congregational minister of Market Deeping. About him there was nothing of the patron; a man of culture, and mind, and character, meets a poor brother marked by higher genius, and in- stantly acknowledges his equality; he did his utmost to serve Clare, encoura~,ed him heartily, and as he heard him read some of his own verses, he said, If this do not succeed, the world deserves a worse opinion than Im inclined to give it. Clare, natur- ally enough, looked upon Mr. Holland as one of his best friends, and was rather pleased and proud to proclaim the fact. Is it not sad to think that at this very mo- ment the p~or young man, so scant of friends, had to learn that the fact of the Calvinistic minister taking him by the hand would be a bar to his success? John him- self was surprised by the publication of some account of his life at this time, in which he was told that Mr. Holland, a Calvinistic preacher in an adjoining ham- let, had paid him some attention, but his mean of aiding the needy youth were small, whatever might have been his wish, and he has now quitted his charge. Mr. Holland was not stationed in a hamlet, not what is understood in that country by a Calvinistic preacher, and he had not given up his charge, that is, his interest in and friendship for Glare. Although Mr. Gilchrist insisted that all communications should cease between the peasant and the preacher, John could not understand the prejudices of the former student of Magda- Len College; but he had the pride of genius and independence here, farm-labourer and lime-burner as he was. He, on his part, declared that his friendship with Mr. Hol- land was lit~erary and personal, and not founded on religious opinions; and so the friendship and confidence of Mr. Gilchrist were scorched. As it was, when the sun of his fame rose, Mr. Holland seems to have been the first to convey to the poor poet the good news from London, widely separ- ated then from Helpstou, compared with its distance now. Mr. Martin tells the story so pleasantly that we shall borrow his own words Day after day passed, yet no news, till in the last week of January, the smiling face of a friend suddenly lighted up the gloom. It was a rainy day, and Glare was unable to take his usn ramble through the fields, when the clat- tering of hoofs was heard outside the little cottage. A man on horseback alighted at the door, and shaking off the dripping wet, rushed into the room, where Glare and his father and mother were sitting round the little fire. It was the Hey. Mr. Holland. Am I not a good prophet ~ he cried, running towards John, and shaking him warmly by the hand. John looked up in astonishment; he had not the slightest notion of what his friend meant or alluded to. But Mr. Holland kept on laugh- ing and dancing, shaking himself like a wet poodle. Am I not a good prophet l he re- peated a~ain. The long face of his melancholy young friend at last brought him to a sense of the actual state of affairs. You have had no letter from your publishers i he inquired. None whatever, was the reply. Then let me be the first herald of good news, cried Mr. Holland; I can assure you that your ut- most expectations have been realized I have had a letter from a friend in London, this morning, telling me that your poems are talked of by everybody; in fact, are a great success. How the words cheered the heart of John Glare! He fancied he had a slight touch of the ague in the morning; but it seemed to fall like scales off his body, and he thought he had never seen so well all his life. Mr. Holland was about getting into his wet saddle again. Oh do stop a little longer, said John, im- ploringly; have something to eat and drink. And he looked at his father and mother; and father and mother looked at him. Alas! they all knew too well that there was nothing in the house to eat; and no money wherewith to purchase food. Good Mr. Holland, at a glance, perceived the actual state of afiidrs. Well, he exclai,~ ed, I intended having some dinner at.the inn round the corner; but if you will allow me, I will have it sent here, and take it in your company. And in a twinklin,, of the eye, he was out of doors, leading his horse, which had been tied to a post, towards the Blue Bell. He was back in ten minutes; and in another ten minutes there appeared the potboy from the Blue Bell carrying a huge tray, smoking hot. Thrice the messenger from the Blue Bell came and returned, each time carrying something heavy in his fat, red hands, and going away with empty trays. When he had turned his back for the third and last time, they all sat down around the little ricketty table, the Rev. Mr. Holland, John, his father and mother. Every good gift, and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, said the minister. Amen! fervently exclaimed John. So he was in print; found himself soon beckoned up into the, circles of good society, of course always occupying the place he- 6 JOHN OLARE. low the salt. Always? No. Here and there occur instances in which the light that shone from his pages dissolve the social distinction. A month or two after the publication of his volume, he was in- vited to Holywell Park, the seat of General Reynardson; he was only permitted to sit down with the servants in the hail, but there was a young governess who did not hesitate to pour upon him simple, unaf- fected admiration, waited for him, met him in the park, procured him an invitation to tea in the housekeepers room, and probably gave to him, for the first time, that which is dearer than all the homages of criticism, not to say the invitations of the parvenue or the nobleman, a gentle, loving womans earnest admiration and unsellish praise. Love verses are not much in our way, but some the young governess admired very heartily, seem to us very poetically and sweetly turned. They also found their way to the pianos of so many drawing-rooms, that they should have saved their author from a dinner in the kitchen. My love, thou art a nosegay sweet, My sweetest flower I prove thee; And pleasd I pin thee to my breast, And dearly do I love thee. And when, my nosegay, thou shall fade, As sweet a flower thoult prove thee; And as thou witherest on my breast, For beauty past Ill love thee. And when, my nosegay, thou shalt die, And heavens flower shalt prove thee; My hopes shall follow to the sky, And everlasting love thee. Glare never saw his governess again. She met him by the park gates; I could not hear of your going, she said, without saying good-bye. There were a wife and little one with his father and mother in the poor cottage at home. Perhaps the reader will forgive the peasant if he turned some- times a glance back upon the young enthu- siast of Holywell Park, though, indeed, much as he felt it at the moment, it never again appears. Now came the ovations of the press; but with some of them the ungrateful Glare was not well ple~ised. The London Magazine, the property of the publisher of his poems, made a most undignified appeal to public charity, and invoked the aid of the nobility and gentry on behalf of the poor youn~ man. Nobody seemed to suppose for a mo- ment that the poor young man might be a most sensitive young man; when, there- 7 fore, he wrote and put in his own strong protest against the account of himself i~ the London Magazine, containing also the announcement of his dissolution of friend- ship with Mr. Holland, the only satisfaction he received was the announcement that he was a most ungrateful young man. Mean- time there was a rush ~ipon the publisher for the poems: from their publication, or from any of his subsequent publications, we do not see that much benefit resulted to him. The noblemen, however, in his neighbour- hood Viscount Milton, the son of Earl FitzxAlliam, and the Marquis of Exeter sent for him. Earl Fitzwilliam and Lord Milton gave him an earnest warning to mind what he was about with the hooksell.. lers. Lord Milton frightened him by taking out of his pock~st a handful of seventeen golden sovereigns. Poor Glare never had a distinct comprehension that there was that amount of money in the world before. When he got outside the park gates he took off his necktie, perhaps to breathe a little more freely, certainly to tie up the sove- reigns in it; and he ran as fast as he could the miles intervening between him and Helpston. We may be sure there was some merry-making in the poor little cottage that night; not unadulterated, we fancy, by certain lumps in the throat of the poor, over- sensitive, nervous man. We have a fancy that true poets cannot take sovereigns ex- actly like beggars; but peers have shown themselves very wise about these matters. Great was the amazement in Helpston when the poor neighbour, John Glare, was in- vited to Milton Park; but greater still was their amazement when a messenger in all the gorgeousness of scarlet and gold came over from Burleigh; the Marquis of Exe- ter would also see the poet for the great Tory organ, The Quarterly, had given in its verdict in very marked words to the gen- uineness of genius in his lowly neighbour. He was to make his appearance in Burleigh Hall to-morrow morning at eleven. It is many a long generation since any person within twenty miles of Stamford would dare to resist the will of a Marquis of Exe- ter; but at this moment, when the invita- tion came, poor John was only possessed of one pair of shoes in the world, and they were at the cobblers. It was a matter of grave discussion that night in Helpston cot- tage, but it was ultimately decided that he could not go without shoes before the mar- quis; the cobbler was away threshing; the visit must be postponed until the next day. When he presented himseW inwardly trem- bling at the idea of the interview with the JOHN CLARE. great marquis, whose very valet was looked upon as a man of high estate, he gave his name to the porter, and was told that he ought to have come the day before. Poor Glare made some apologies founded on the state of the weather. The weather! ex-. claimed the porter, in a high state of excite- ment, do you me an ~o say that you have not obeyed his lordships commands simply because it was a wet day? I tell you, you ought to have come if it had rained knives and forks. Frightened and alarmed, Glare was about to turn his back and run away when he was stopped by a footman; his name had somehow been conveyed to the marquis, and there was an order to admit him instantly; so he was hurried up the marble staircase, through the maze of halls and corridors, in his cloddish shoes and mud-besprinkled garments, among all the splendid upholstery and pictured halls and at last he stood before the great man; but the great man was a kind and amiable young man, not at all the terrible ogre that either footman or porter had been. He did his best to put the poor poet at his ease; he had seen the review in The Quarterly, knew something of his humble neighbours verses and difficulties, and told the astound- ed and astonished lime-burner that he in- tended to give him fifteen guineas a-year. Glare was perfectly bewildered, and, unable to say much, stumbled out of his presence, but lost his way among the rooms; the kind marquis found him, and himself, with- out calling for the footman, led him to the outskirts, and then handed him over to the scrvant to be entertained in the kitchen. The admirers of Glare differed in their ideas of his peculiar genius, and in their sense of his worth; but his noble patrons all seem to have agreed in one particular the conducting him to the kitchen. We quite suppose that Glare was no fitting com- panion for the stately parties and drawing- rooms of Milton or Burleigh; assuredly he had no taste for such society, and in after years the bare possibility of such a penance set him upon devising means of escape; but we who are not noble, and who do not know what the usage is when a noble- man discovers a rare poetic creature in lowly lanes, and desires to pet him should have supposed that if he were worthy to be called from his cottage in his own right to an iiiterview in the palace, entertainment and refreshment should be provided for him certainly not in the kitchen. We are that ignorant and uncivilized, that a poet seems to us something nobler and higher in rank than a scullion, or a cook, a house- maid, or a footman. It is to the honour of the Scotch nobility that they did not treat Burns thus; in days when his hands were holding the plough, duchesses permit- ted him to conduct them to their carriage, and were proud of the ploughmans escort. The reader will say, perhaps, character made all the difference; one was a bold, daring, and graceful, and the other a shrink- ing, retiring creature; but it was scarcely for noblemen and gentlemen to read the difference; both were peers in their own kingdom. We are not presenting these feeble outlines with any idea that they will satisfy the curiosity of our readers; we trust they will for themselves obtain and read the biography by Mr. Martin. It is a romance- life; it is characterized by a quiet persist- ent individuality which, long before its fatal climax of sorrow and calamity, looks like hallucination; wild flashes come and go along the incidents of fhe life, innocent, but unnatural, like sheet-lightning; no mis- chief, no wild outbreaking; scarcely even what one likes to designate disease; but the manifestations are surely those all along of a sensibility which, in such circumstances, could only be synonymous with sorrow. He went to London in 182O~ and saw the sights and lions, expressin ~, on the whole, his dis- appointment with it altogether boldly de- clared that in Poets Gorner he could see no poetry, while the great enchantment of all London in that day, Vauxhall, stirred only his supreme and utter contempt. The wooden bowers, and oil-lamps, and paper flowers stirred him to astonishment, that people could go and stare at such childish things when they were not far from green fields. The guides of John Glare revenged themselves by declaring their opinion that he was a very foolish fellow. In London he met several eminent persons, and was in- vited to many distinguished parties, of which the best result was the kind, sympathetic friendship of Lord Radstock; this nobleman was not of Glares county, but was induced to befriend him by simple feelings of ad- miration and generosity; and a volume richly bound with the inscription on the title-page The gift of Admiral Lord Radstock to his dear and excellent friend, John Glare, August 1st, 1822 speaks of the terms of friendship on whtch he stood with that kind nobleman. Returning ho- e, his cottage was visited by several dis- tinguished persons. The poet, at his humble home, was visited, first by Lady Fane, eldest daughter of the Earl of Westmoreland; secondly, by Viscount Mil 8 JOHN CLARE. ton, coming high on horseback, in the midst of red-coated huntsmen; and, finally, greatest of honours, by the Marquis of Exeter. The vil- lagers were awe-struck when the mighty lord, in his emblazoned coach, with a crowd of glit- tering lackeys around, came up to the cottage of Parker Glare, the pauper. Mrs. Glare was utterly terrified, for she was standing at the washing-tub, and the baby was crying. Her greatest pride consisted in keeping the little cottage neat and tidy; but, as ill-luck would h& ve it, she was always washing whenever visi- tors dropped in. The marquis, with aristo- cratic tact, saved poor Patty from a fresh hu- miliation. Hearing the loud voice of the baby from afar, his lordship despatched one of his footmen to inquire whether Glare was at home. The man in plush carefully advanced to the cottage door, and holding a silk handkerchief before his fine Roman nose, summoned John before him. Old Parker Glare thereupon hob- bled forward, trembling all over, and, in a faint voice, told the great man that his son was mow- ing corn, in a field close to Helpston Heath. Thither the glittering cavalcade proceeded, and John was soon discovered, in the midst of the other labourers, busy with his sickle. Though somewhat startled on being addressed by his lordship, he was secretly pleased that the inter- view was takin~ place in the field instead of in his narrow little hut. It seemed to him that here, among the sheaves of corn, he himself was somewhat taller and the noble marquis somewhat smaller than within the four walls of any cottage or palace; and this feeling encour- aged him to speak with less embarrassment to his illustrious visitor. His ~lordship said he bad heard rumors that a new volume of poetry was forthcoming, and wanted to know whether it was true. Glare replied that he was busy writing verses in his spare hours, and that he intended writing still more after the harvest, and dunn b the next winter, which would, prob- ably, result in another book with his name on the title-page. The marquis expressed his satisfaction in bearing thisnews, and, after a few kind words, and a hint that he would be glad to se~ some specimens, in manuscript, of the new publication, took his farewell. John Glare was not courtier enough to understand the hint about the manuscripts in all its bear- - ings. For a moment, the thought flashed through his mind of asking his lordship to allow the new volume to be dedicated to him; but the idea was as instantaneously crushed by a re- membrance of the fatal article in the Londou Megazine, in which it was said, We really do not see what noblemen have to do with the sup- port of poets more than other people. The remark had left a deep impression upon his mind, and he felt its truth more than ever while standing face to face with a great lord, sickle in hand, among the yellow corn. However, earnest efforts were made to procure an annuity for him to save him irom want, and the Dukes of Bedford, and 9 Devonshire, and Northumberland, and Prince Leopold now King Leopold of Belgium and the Earl Fitzwilliam, were among the promoters of the design. Sir Walter Scott treated the poor peasant, we think, with a very ungracious contempt; but he probably thought that it was a dan.. gerous experiment to withdraw so humble and helpless a being from the paths and pursuits of toil: and successful in life hui was not; it could hardly be expected tiia~ he could continue, through these years, lime-burning, or merely hedging or ditch- ing. It is true that he had acquired tastes and ideas which had placed him above that lowest rung of the ladder, and, with his friends and patrons, the truth slowly dawn- ed upon his mind that he must remain a farmers drudge and a poetical pauper, to plough and thresh something better than a clown, something less than a lackey in uniform. He too often hatl quite insuffi- cient food; he got into a habit of absenting himself from his family, at meal-times going into the fields and munching a dry crust; breaking down at last with hunger and fa- tigue, althou~h he did his best to provide meals for his f2mily, and usually, somehow, succeeded. Fantastic visions crowded more constantly and hurriedly through his brain, his health failed altogether, and his mind began to fail. Prom his sick-bed he fled to the fields, and was found sitting as in a trance, in a favourite hollow oak, his face illumined by the setting sun. But again he visited London, and was an involuntary spectator of the funeral procession of Lord Byron. Returning home, he attempted to obtain a situation as assistant-gardener t~ the Marquis of Exter; and then he tried the Earl Fitzwilliam; with him he had an interview; he was very kind to him in manner, but he supposed that he received a good income from the sale of his books, and did not find till long afterwards, what was the truth, that he received very little from them; that, in fact, they bad been of little use to him but to remove him from his sta- tion in life, and to harrow his feelings. At home he sighed over the absence of all con- genial society. I live here, he wrote to his publisher, Mr. Taylor, among the igno- rant like a lost man; and he was literally through months and years starving. The truth came out once when on an excur- sion with Mr. Artis, the intelligent and even learned butler of Earl Fitzwilliam: he fainted and fell from sheer starvation and exhaustion; yet his cottage seemed neat and tidy, and on his shelves there were many beautifully bound books, but they were JOHN CLARE. mostly presentation copies; and there were many appearances which seemed to indicate tolerable prosperity to those who did not know how bitterly poverty consumed with in. Lord Radstock urged him to obtain a distinct statement and settlement from his publishers. At this his publishers were of- fended; they wished to regard Glare as an orphan and prot~g~, to whom they were not responsible, and for whom they had already done sufficiently. Lord Radstock was not satisfied, and insisted that even if Glare had received more than was due to him, yet it would be better to furnish regular accounts, and so to foster his self-reliance; the publish- ers yielded his point to the peer, but at this juncture Lord iRadstock died, and Glares only really true friend, able to help, was removed. His publishers then advised him to hawk his own volumes over the county; this step failed, of course; it was an utter failure, and ought never to have been coun- selled; yet some people no doubt meant kindly to him, but they took injudicious methods to show that kindness. Mr. Martin, we think, writes too bitterly, in the warmth and earnestness of his affec- tion. Mrs. Marsh, the wife of the eminent Dr. Marsh, Bishop of Peterborough, sought to befriend him, would have him visit at the episcopal palace, and made arrangements for a large party, to introduce him. The nervous poet, when the party arrived, was found missing. His whole nature and frame were unfitted to hear such excitements. We pity Gowper. Have we no pity for Glare ? When he spoke to, or was intro- duced to a beautiful woman, he trembled with nervous excitement. He had, the reader will say, an unbalanced being. Yes, all kinds of beauty, all the relations of this mystical world, became to him the magical affinities which disturbed him. Is not this the very sensation and faculty of the poet? But what was his life in itself? a drudgery and a wretchedness, a hunger and a want; a sense of patronage and of benefit, a per- sistent remembrance on all bands that he was no better than a child. Officious friends did him harm; of course he was proud and sensitive, the more ~o from the feeling of his weakness in the hands of cir- cumstances. Some man, an editor, called upon him, extracting from him his trials and life, and hastened from his cottage to pub- lish and to profit. The poet was immensely astonished when, at the beginnin,~, of October, he received a paper containing an account of himself and his troubles. It was stated that his publishers had robbed him of the profits of his works; that some noble patrons, alluded to in no compli- mentary terms, kept feeding him with compli- ments, but left him to starve; and much more to the same effect. The whole account deeply hurt his feelings, and he at once sent a letter to a friend at Stamford, contributor to Mr. Glarks magazine. The letter ran: My dear friend, I am obliged to write to you to contradict the misrepresentations in your paper of Octo- ber 5th, which I received on Saturday. As long as my owu affairs are misrepresented, I care nothing about it; but such falsehoods as are bandied about in this articl~ not only hurt my feelings but injure me. Mr Glark in mak- ing these statements must have known that he was giving circulation to lies; and had ii been aware of his intentions to meddle in my affairs, I should most assuredly have rre~ted him as a foe in disguise. For enemies I care nothing; from friQuds I have much to fear~ it seems. There never was a more scandalous insult to my feelings than this officious misstatement. I am no beggar; for my income is 36, and though I have had no final settlement with Taylor, I expect to have one directly. The letter, after going into the details of his commercial transactions both with Mr Drury and Mr. Taylor, not altogether complimentary to the former, ended with a positive demand that the statements made in the magazine should be retracted. But no attention was paid to this demand. The result was that Glare got more gloomy and melancholy than ever; hiding himself for whole days in the neighbouring woods, and refnsing to see even the most intimate of his friends. The publication of the unfortunate magazine article and officious misstatement, of which there appeared no public contradiction, was likewise not without effect upon the demeanour of Glares patrons. Earl Fitzwilhiam, after providing him with a suitable dwelling in an un- expectedly generous manner, subsequently left him to his fate. Thus the poet sank deeper and deeper into poverty and wretchedness, unti he could sink no further. At last, after weary years, insanity came, and in 1837 he became an inmate of Dr. Allens private lunatic asylum in the centre of Epping Forest; thence, after several years confinement, he escaped. lie was able afterwards to give some account of his wanderings. There is no reason to doubt its perfect accuracy; among all the stories of the sad race of poets and their suffer- ings, never was there a more sad story told. Here are some singular and pathetic touches in the writing of Mr. Martin: He rested for the night in an old barn, on some trusses of clover, taking the singular precaution, before lying down, of placing his head towards the north, so as to know in which 10 11 JOHN CLARE. direction to start the next morning. This day, July, utterly exhausted, and in a state border- the 21st of July, he rose early, pursuing his ing upon delirium. way northward, and crawling more than walk- ing along the road. A man threw him a Here are some touches in his own lan- penny which he used to get a glass of ale; but beyond this he had again no refreshment. After guage. a second night, spent in the open air, he rose once more to crawl onward, slowly hut steadily. I went on mile after after mile, almost con- To stifle the torments of hunger, he pow took vinced I was going the same way I had to the frightful expedient of eating grass with come. These thoaghts were so strong upon the beasts in the field. The grass served to ap- me, and douhts and hopelessness made rae turn pease the dreadful pains of his stomach, yet so feeble, that I was scarcely able to walk. left him in the same drowsy condition in which Yet I could not sit down or give up, but shaf- he was before. Ills feet were bleeding, the dry fled along till I saw a lamp shiniag as bright as gravel oftheroadbaviagpenetrated his old worn- the moon, which, on nearing, I found was sus- out shoes; but he heeded it not, and steadfastly pended over a toll-gate. Before I got through, pursued his way northward. Alternately sleep- the man came out with a candle, and eyed me lag and walking, sometimes wandering about narrowly; but having no fear I stopped to ask in a circle, lying down in ditches at the road- him whether I was going northward. He said, side, and continuing to eat grass, together with When you get through the gate you are. I a few bits of tobacco which he found in his thanked him, and went thror~gh to the other pocket, he at length reached the neighbour- side, and gathered my old strength as my hood of Peterborou~,h and scenes familiar to doubts vanished. I soon cheered up, and hum- his eye. But he was now fast breaking down med the air of Highland Mary hs I went on. under hunger and fatigue, having had no food I at length came to an odd house, all alone, for more than ninety hours. Nearing the well- near a wood; but I could not see what the sign known place, he could get no further, but sank was, though it seemed to stand, oddly enough, in down on the road, more dead than alive. A a sort of trough, or spout. There was a large great many people passed people rich and porch over the door, and being weary I crept poor, on foot and in carriages, in clerical habit in, and was glad enough to find I could lie with and in broadcloth; hut not one gave alms, or my leus straight. The inmates were all gone even noticed, or had a kind word for the dying to rest for I could hear them turn over in bed, man at the roadside. There was not one good while I lay at full length on the stones in the Samaritan among all the warfarers from the rich porch. I slept here till daylight, and felt very episcopal city. much refreshed. I blest my two wives and At last there passed a cart, containing some both their families when I laid down and when persons from llelpston. They recognized I got up in the morning. their old neighbour, although he was terribly I have but a slight recollection of my jour- altered, with the livid signs of starvation im- ney between here and Stilton, for I was pressed upon his face. The ~aaderer, in a knocked up, and noticed little or nothing. One faint voice, told those friends his tale of woe; night I laid in a dyke-bottom, sheltered from bat even they were not Christians enough to the wind, and went asleep for half-an-hour. lift him into their vehicle and take him home. When I awoke, I found one side wet through All that they did was to give him a few pence; from the water; so I got out and went on. I not even placing the money in his hand, with, remember going down a very dark road, hung perlia~s, a kindly greeting, but throwing it at over on both sides with thick trees; it seemed him from their cart. The wretched poet crept to extend a mile or two. I then entered a town, along the road to gather the coppers, and then where sonic of the chamber windows had lights crawled a little thrrher on to a public-house, shining in them. I felt so weak here that I where he procured some refreshment. The was forced to sit on the ground to rest myself, food the first he had taken for nigh four days and while I sat here a coach that seemed heavi enabled thu to pursue his journey slowly, ly laden came rattling up, and splashing the and he hobbled on through Peterboroiigh, mud in my face, wakened me from a doze. When the blood still t27icklin~ from his wounded feet. I had knocked the gravel out of my shoes I start- At every s~oae-heap at the roadside he rested ed again. There was little to notice, for the himself, until he came to the hamlet of Wer- road very often looked as stupid as myself. I riagtoa, where a cart ran up against him, out was often half asleep as I went on. of which sprang a woman who took him in her The third day I satisfied my hunger by arms. It was Patty, who had heard from the eating the grass on the roadside, which seemed charitable Helpston people that her husband was to taite something like bread. I was hungry, lying on the road, and had come in search of and eat heartily till I was satisfied; in fact, the him. But Clare did not know her. He refused meal seemed to do me good. The next and even to take a seat at her side, until he was told last day I remembered that I had some tobacco, she was his second wife. Then he al- and my box of lucifers being exhausted, I could ed himself to be taken to INorthborough, not light my pipe. So I took to chewing to- he arrived in the evening of the 23d of hacco all day, and eat it when I had done. I ~tre JOHN CLARE. I am.! yet what I am who cares, or knows My friends forsake me like a memory lost. I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am I live though I am tossd was never hungry afterwards. I remember friends or patrons ever visited him, and all passing through Buckden, and going a length his family kept aloof from him; the world of road afterwards; hut I do not recollect the left him, and he, long before he left it, was name of any place until I came to Stilton, where I was completely footsore, bleeding, and quite prepared to leave the world; but this broken down. When I had got about halfway neglect preyed upon him; in one of these through the town, a gravel causeway invited me moods he gave utterance to the followin~, to rest myself; so I laid down and nearly went truly sublime burst of feeling to sleep. A young woman, as I guessed by the voice, came out of a house, and said, Poor creature; and another more elderly said, Oh, he shams. But when I got up the latter said, Oh no, he dont, as I hobbled along very lame. I heard the voices, but never looked back to see where they came from. When I got near the inn at the end of the gravel walk, I met two young women, and asked one of them whether the road branching to the right by the inn did not lead to Peterborough. She said, Yes. As soon as ever I was on it, I felt my- self on the way home, and went on rather more cheerful, though I was forced to rest of- tener than usual. The extracts are long, hut were there ever such autobiographic sketches penned before? But he was not allowed to remain at home long, he was soon consigned to the asylum again; yet his malady was very harmless, and the medical men, Fenwick Skrimshaw and William Page, of Market Deeping mark their names who signed the certificate consigning him for life to the county madhouse, absolutely gave as the reason for doing so, the fact that for years he had written poetry yes, literally, in their language, After years addicted to poetical prosings. It is well that Tennyson, and Browning, and Bailey are not poor and untended men; at any rate it is well that they are not likely to come beneath the eyes of Skrimshaw and Page; to those ple~tsant men we are sure all their words would only seem prosings. Yes, it was, whatever was the state of Clares mind, it was his chief mark of delirium that he wrote verses. So he was torn away to the madhouse; he struggled hard, he wept sore, he declared he would rather die than go, but he was taken away, and it seems he was treated with every kindness and consideration; gladly we record it, most gladly and gratefully we record that, although only eleven shillings a-week was paid for his support, and this by the late Earl Fitzwilliam, a sum which did not entitle him to much better treatment then a pauper, he was placed in the best ward, and among the private patients. The heads of the asylum did honour to them- selves as well ~s him, and recognized the poet in the pauper. For twenty-two years he sojourned there; during all those years it is said not one of all his great or little Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dream, Where there is neither sens~e of life, nor joys, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem And all thats dear. Even those I loved the hest Are strange nay, they are stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man has never trod For scenes where woman never smiled or wept; There to abide with my creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie, The grass below; above the vaulted sky. But lucid intervals often flash through the bars of his being: he wrote down many tender lines which we wonder have not been incorporated in this volume; but into our note-book we, many years since, extract- ed the following as remarkably beauti- ful : BEAUTY AND VIRTUE. When Beauty fills the lovers eyes, And lives like doubtful weather, Her bosom seems to sleep with Love They lie like birds together. Love finds them angels, ready made, So beautiful and blooming; But Time comes in, though half afraid, And rudely calls them Women. Time, like a robber, every year Takes all the fame he gives; While Beauty only goes away, And Virtue only lives. The following also, entitled SIGHING FOR RETIREMENT, Oh, take me from the busy crowd, I cannot bear the nolse! For Natures voice is never loud; I seek for quiet joys. 12 13 JOHN CLARE. The book I love is everywhere, And not in idle words; The book I love is known to all, And better lore affords. The book I love is everywhere, And every place the same; God bade me make my dwelling there, And look for better fame. I never feared the critics pen, To live by my renown; Ijbnnd the poems in the fidds, And only wrote them down. And qniet Epping pleases well, Where Natures love delays; I joy to see the quiet place, And wait for better days. I love to seek the brakes and fern, And rabbits up and down; And thcn the pleasant Autumn comes, And turns them all to brown. To common eyes they only seem A desert waste and drear; To taste and love they always shine A garden through the year. Lord, keep my love for quiet Joys Oh! keep me to 1hy will! I know Thy works, but always find Thy mercies kinder stilt. And TO THE NIGHTINGALE. I love to hear the Nightingale She comes where Summer dwells Among the brake and orchis flowers, And foxgloves freckled bells. Where mugwort grows like mignonette, And molehills sWarm with hug; She bides among the greener May, And sings her love to Spring. I bear her in the forest beech, When beautiful and new; S\Tbere cow-boys hunt the glossy leaf, Where falls the honey-dew. Where brambles keep the waters cool For half the Summer long; The maiden sets her pitcher down, And stops to hear the song. The redcap is a painted bird, And sings about the town; The Nightingale sings all the eve, In sober suit of brown. I knew the sparrow could not sina, An~1 heard the stranger long; I could not think so plain a bird Could sing so fine a song. I found her nest of oaken leaves, And eggs of paler brown, Where none would eve~look for nests, Or pull the sedges doWn. I found them on a white-thorn root, And in the woodland hedge, All in a low and stumpy bush, Half hid among the sedge. I love the Poet of the woods, And love to hear her sing, That, with the cuckoo, brings the love And music of the Spring. Man goes by art to foreign lands, With shipwreck and decay; Birds go with Nature for their guide, And GOD directs their way GOD qf a thousand worlds on high! Proud nsen may lord and dare; POWER tells them that the meanest things Are worthy of lies care. On the 20th of May, 1864, poor Clare closed his eyes forever. His last words were, I want to go home. Few of our readers will know much of John Clam; with us he has long been a favourite; those who rend this volume of his life by Mr. Martin will very likely en- quire, Who was he? was he a poet? what did he do? what are his claims? and we think Mr. Martin would have done wisely had he gathered into this volume some of the chief of his pieces, the happiest illus- trations of his genius and his style; for few will take worth upon trust, and there is nothing in the volume to inform the reader adequately wh& her the poor unfortunate lime-burner and peasant was all that some of the earlier criticisms upon his writings implied. John Clare then was, in a very eminent sense, a rural poet; all his verses have the charm of rustic hiIh, but they are description, informed by reflection. Bloom- field is rustic, and only rustic. The sweet woodbine a d hohaysuekie grace of his verse shows little of gardeners trainime it is simply and only village-like a 4d wild. Clara could not tell a tale so delightfully as Bloomfield; we have nothing that e~ n be put in competition with the Pair Day or the Fakessham Ghost, but on the other hand, reflection, which is the glory of time poet, was quite wanting to Bloomfield; while to Clara every rustic image, every insect, and JOHN CLARE. bird, and flower relieved and li,,htened up an infinite background of mystery; as really as to Wordsworth himself, the aureola of the mystical glorified everything and rested everywhere; hence, often, over his verses there is the brood and hush of a deep solem- nity in feeling and rhythm. He was a poor, illiterate man, but he had very much of Wordsworths way of looking at things, and his manner of speaking about them; he had no humour, no freakishness of speech; like the great high priest of Nature, whose name we have mentioned, he had no dispo- sition towards mirth or trifling with the sub- jects he treated; he looked at a flQwer or an insect intensely it became in itself transcendently glorious and beautiful to him. We are neither praisin, nor blaming this attribute, we are only saying it was simply so. We have called him long since the lau- reate of birds nests nests often seen, he is careful to remind you, never touched. We have the nest of the pettichap close to the rutgalled wagon road, so snugly con- trived, althou~h with not a clump of grass to keep it warm, or shielding thistle spread- ing its spears abroad: * * * * alittlehole, Scarcely admitting een two fingers in, Hard to discern, the birds snug entr~nce win Tis lined with feathers, warm as silken stole, Softer than seats of down for painless ease, And full of eggs, scarce big~ or een than peas; Heres one thats delicate, with spo so small As dust, and of a faint and pinky red. Well, let them be, and Safety guard them well A green grasshoppers jump might break the shell. What a sweet individuality of description in the Nest of the Nightingale, a lengthy and most charming poem, but we can only quote a portion : Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here, Upon this white-thorn stump! Ive searched about For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by Nay, trample on its branches and get near. I-low subtle is the bird! she started out, And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh, Ere we were past the brambles; and now, near Her nest, she sudden stops as choking fear, that might betray her home. So even now Well leave it as we found it: safetys guard Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still. See therc! shes sitting on the old oak bough, Mute in her fears; our presence doth retard Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill. Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befal Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives. We will not plunder music of its dower, Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall; For melody seems hid in every flower, That blossoms near thy home. These hare its all Seem ticowing with the beautcjid in song; And gaping cuckoo-flower, wit/c spotted leaves, Seems blushing of the singing it has heard. How curious is the nest; no other bird Uses such loose materials, or weaVes Its dwelling in such spots: dead oaken leaves Are placed without, and velvet moss within, And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare, What scarcely seem materials, down and hair; For from mens haunts she nothing seems to win. Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives Homes for her childrens comfort, even here, Where Solitudes disciples spend their lives Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown The nest is made a hermits mossy cell. Snug lie her curious eggs in number five Of deadened green, or rather olive brown; And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well. So here well leave them, still unknown to wrong, As the old woodlands legacy of song. But all the birds finds their eggs and nests beautified in this rich mystical halo of verses. This is the aspect of (Mares writ- ing we are desirous of noticing. We very confidently say that, excepting among the very highest masters of sona, such as Words- worth, and Tennyson, and Cowper, there is no rural poetry like it; it is not pastoral, it is intensely reflective. Before him were perpetually present the eternal youth and etrrnal mystery of Nature; indeed, upon the eternity of Nature he writes in the following remarkable ~lints of mystical rhythm. What a half-instinctive, half~ob- serving eye looks at the things enumerated in the following perception of the odd number, flee, among natural things: Leavc~, from eternity, are simple things To the worlds gaze where, lo! a spirit clings Sublime and lasting. Trampled tinder foot, The daisy lives, and strikes its little root Into the lap of Time: centuries may come, And pass away into the silent tomb, And still the child, hid in the wo mb of Time, Shall smile and pluck them, when this simple rhyme Shall be for~otten, like a churchyard stone, Or lingering lie unnoticed and alone. When eighteen hundr yeers, our common date, Grow many thousands in their marchin state, Aye, still the child, with pleasure in his eye, Shall cry the dais11! afamiliar cry 14 JOHN CLARE. And run to pluck it, in the self-same state, As when Time found it in his infant date; And, like a child himself, when all was neW, Might smile with wonder, and take notice too. Its little golden bosom, frilled with snow, Might win een Eve to stoop adown, and show Her penner, Adam, in the silky grass, This little gem, that smiled where pleasure was, And loving Eve, from Eden followed ill, And bloomed with sorrow, and lives smiling still. As once in Eden under heavens hreath, So now on earth, and on thu lap of death It smiles for ever. Gowslips of gold bloom, That in the pastnre and the meadow come, Shall come when icings and empires fade and die; And in the closes, as Times partners, lie As fresh two thousand years to come as now With those fine crimson spots upon their hrow. * * * * * Birds, singing lone, fly silent past acrowd In these same pastoral spots, which childish time Mnkes dear to me, I wander out and rhyme; What hour the dewy mornings infancy Hangs on each blade of grass and every tree, And sprents the red thighs of the humble bee Who o ins benimes unwearied minstrelsy; Who b~ea1fasts, dines, and most divinely sups, With every flower save golden buttercups. On whose proud bosoms he will never go, But passes by with scarcely How do ye do, Since in their showy, shining, gaudy cells, Haply the summers honey never dwells. All Natures wcajs are mysteries! Endless Youth Lives in thens all, unchangeable as Truth. With the odd manber five, her enrions laws Play maey freaks, nor once mistake the cause; For in the cowslip-pips this very day Five spots appear, which Time wears not away, Nor once mistakes in counting look within Each pip, and five, nor more not: less, are seen. So trailing biadweed, with its pinky cup, Five leaves of paler hoe go streaking lip. And many a bird too keeps the rule alive, Laying fin. ~ggs, nor more nor less than five. But flmvcrs how many own that mystic power; With five leaves ever making up the flower! The five leaved grass, mantling its golden cup Of flowers five leaves make all for which I stoop. The briony, in the hedge, that now adorns The tree to which it clings and now the thorns, Owns five starred pointed leaves of dingy white Count which I will, all make the number right. The spreading geos~-grass, trailing all ahroad In leaves of shyer green about the road Five leaves make every blossom all along. Istoop for many, noac are counted wrong. Tis Natnres wonder, and her Makers will, Who bade Earth be, and Order owns him still, As that superior Power, who keeps the key Of wisdom, and of might, through all eternity. We think these passages will abundantly vindicate our expression of the deeply re- flective and sweetly subtle character of Glares poetry. Sixteen years since we expressed ourselves in a criticism upon it, than which we really can find no words of our own transcendent in expression now, and will take the freedom to ask our readers to read it. Glare writes as Gilbert White would have written had he been a poet. He threads his way through all Natures scenery with a quiet meditation and re- flection; and frequently those reflections, if not th& result of profound thought, yet bear the stamp of profound beauty. Glares life is in the country. There are those who study the country, and read the volume of the town by its side; there are those who bring to the study of the country extensive readings and learning; there are those who make each scene of country life only the key to their own imaginations, and move, indeed, very far from the scene of their original thought; but Glare takes the country literally as it is; he brings to it no learning, no historical suggestions; he seelts in the country none of the monuments of haughty human grandeur; he unfolds no political philosophy; he seeks no high ideaHzation; he takes the lesson lying on the surface, and frequently it is so simple and natural, that it affects us to tears. The fields of Nature are not so much a study to which he retires, or an observatory which he mounts; they are rather a hook which he reads, and, as he reads, turns down the page. We should be prepared to expect, after this, what we do actually find, an ex- treme homeliness of style and thought; we mean homeliness in its highest and best sense, not lowness, nor vulgarity the very reverse of all these. Glare walks through the whole world around him with the im- pression, that he cannot go where univer- sal love smiles not around. His whole soul is a fountain of love and sensibility, and it wells forth in loving verse for all and to all creatures. The lessons of his verses may be described as coming, rather than being sought; for they grow up before him; he does not dig for them, and therefore his poems are rather fancies and feelings than imaginations. He throws his whole mind, with all his sensitiveness, into the country; yet not so much does he hang over its humnn life as the life of Nature, the love and the loveliness of this beautiful world. Traditional tales he does not tiar- rate. A birds nest has far morn attraction to his eyes than the old manor-house or the 16 castle. The life of the cottage, too, is a holy life for him; his home is there, and every season brings, day by day, its treas- ures of enjoyment and of peace to him. In a new and noble sense all his poems are pastorals; he sings of rural loves and tryst- ings, hopes and joys. He never, indeed, loses himself, as many have done, in vague generalities, for he has been a keen observ- er of the ways of Nature; he knows her face in all its moods, and to him that face is always cheerful. Other poets go out into the walks of Nature to spend a holiday; they love her, but to see her is an occasion- al pleasure; hut to Clare it is an every-day existence. He has no holiday with Nature; he walks with her as friend with friend. Other poets select a river, or a mountain, and individualize it; but to Glare all are but parts of the same lovely Home, and as every part of the home is endeared the chair, the shelf, the lattice, the wreathing flower, the fire-place, the table so is every object in Nature a beloved object, be- cause the whole is beloved. Other poets entertain, as they enter the avenues of Na- ture, a most solemn awe and dread: we have said that Glare never forgets himself in low coarseness, so neither does he ever shrink or shiver beneath the dread of an overawing presence; he walks with Nature as an angel walks with goodness natural- 4, cheerfully, fraternally. Fancy, Feeling, and Reflection, these are the characteristics of the verses before us. Most rural poets have indulged merely in the Feeling, but the Feeling has not been sufficiently sensitive or profound Tor Reflection, and the mind has not been active enough for Fancy. That is rich and a~rial humour of our poet, in which he enters into the life of an insect. Insects, which to many are, have been, and will be, simply an annoyance, are to him fairies, with col- oured hoods and burnished wings, dis- guised in a sort of splendid masquerade, rocked to sleep in the smooth velvet of the pale hedge-rose, or slumberin~, like princes in the heath-bells purple hood, secure from rain, from dropping dews, in silken beds and painted hall; a jolly and a royal life this seems, this band of playfellows mock- ing the sunshine on their glittering wings, or drinking golden, wine and metheglin from the cup of the honeyed flower. It is in a deeper mood that the Ploughman reflects upon the eternity of Nature; round the. simplest things in Nature, to his eye, there is entwined a spirit sublime and lastino-: the daisy, trampled under foot, strikes its root into the earth, and in the distant cen JOHN CLARE. tunes of t;me the child will clap its tiny hands with pleasure, and cry, A daisy! its golden bosom, frilled with snow, will he the same, as bright as when Eve stooped to pluck it in Eden. Cowslips of golden bloom will come and go as fresh two thou- sand years hence as now; brooks, bees, birds, from age to age, these will sing on when all the ambitious things of e~ rth shall have passed away; and not only the fact continues, but the fact in the same form; for Glare, like Audubon is nut content to be merely sentimental: he fixes his eye on the properties and ever-recurring mysteries of Nature; all Natures ways are mysteries. But how while we read such verses and regard them not merely as melodious pieces of verse-writing, but as the visions of a being with an eye tremblingly alive and visionary in every nerve and pore; an eye gifted with a second sight so extraordinary; a feeling sensitive, not merely to every rude blow, but even to the brush of every breezy gossamer how our affectionate- ness and tender appreciation deepen for one who could not look upon the meanest thing without being brought into a sense of feeling relationship and affinity with it. Sometimes, as we have said, such tender- ness found itself excited by an insect; and his little piece on Insects almost leads one to think that he could write with per- fect freshness, and freedom, and delightful experimental ease, an. Insects Autobio- graphy. These tiny loiterers on the barleys beard, And happy units of a numerous herd Of playfellows, the laughing Summer brings, Mocking the sunshine on their glittering winds, How merrily they creep, nnd run, and fly! No kin they bear to labourss drudgery, Smoothing the velvet of the pale hedge rose; And where they fly for dinner no one knows The dew-drops feed them not they love the shine Of noon, whose suns may bring them golden wine. All day theyre playing in their Sunday dress When night reposes, for they can do no less; Then, to the heath-bells purple hood they fly, And like to princes in their slumbers lie, Secure from rain, and dropping dews, and all, In silken beds and roomy painted hall., So merrily they spend their summer-day, Now in the corn-fields, now the new-mown hay. One almost fancies that such happy things, With coloured hoods and richly burnished wings, Are fairy folk, in splendid masquerade Disguised, as if of mortal folk afraid, Keeping their joyous pranks a mystery still, Lest glaring day should do their secrets ill. JOHN GLARE. How feelingly, and with what individu- ality, he describes the universal love for the Robin; and sc?rely we are not wrong in at- tributing an accent of especial pathos to the last two lines we quote How many are the lowly minds That hear and welcome thee anew; Not taste alone, bnt humble hinds Delight to see and praise thee too. The veriest clown beside his cart Turns from his song with many a smile, To see thee from the hedgerow start To sing upon the stile. The maiden marked at days decline, Thee in the y~ird, on broken plough, And stops her song to listen thine, Milking the brindled cow. Thy simple faith in mans esteem From every heart hath favour ~von; Dangers to thee no dangers seem; Thou seemst to court them more shun. than The clown, in Winter, takes his gun, The barn-door flocking birds to slay, Yet, shonldst thou in the dander run, He turns his tube away. Go where one will in every spot Thy little welcome mates appear, And, like the daisys common lot, Thourt met with everywhere. Tis wrong that thou shouldst be despised, When these gay, fickle birds appear; They sing when Summer flowers are prized Thou art the dull and dying year. Well! let the heedless and the gay Bepraise the voice of louder lays, The joy thou stealst from sorrows day Is more to thee then praise. How these qualities effected him may be seen in~the followjng lines from his first vol- nine; they read as though rather the result of the artifice and culture of verse, but are, in reality, among his very earliest so soon the innate melody of his nature ma- nipulated language to that winning refrain which bids rhyme to bear to the ear the cadence of music. TO AN IN5ICNIFICANT FLOWER OBsCURELY BLOOMING IN A LONELY WILD. And though thou seemst a weedling wild, Wild and neglected like to me, Thou still art dear to Natures child, And I will stoop to notice thee. FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. I. 2. For oft, like thee, in wild retreat, Arrayd in humble garb like thee, Theres many a seeming weed proves sweet, As sweet as garden flowers can be. And, like to thee, each seeming weed Flowers unregarded; like to thee, Without improvement, runs to seed., Wild and neglected, like to me. And, like to thee, when Beautys clothd In lowly raiment like to thee, Disdainful Pride, by Beauty loathd, No beauties there can ever see. * * * * Yet when Im dead lets hope I have Some friend in store, as Im to thee, That will find out my lowly grave, And heave a sigh to notice me. It was Isaac Taylor, we believe, who said upon the appearance of Clares first volume, that no poet of our country has shown greater ability, under circumstances so hos- tile to its development. We believe this is as true now as then, although we have in our recollection the strong and beautiful instances of iRobet Nicoll, and Thomas Mil- ler, Gerald Massey, and many other names we mention with love and honour. No writer of English verse, of whom we have any knowledge, ever fought a way from an obscurity so utterly pitiable, hopeless, and wretched. As to Burns, his circumstances are not for a moment to be mentioned as lowly by the side of Clares; with a thorough Scotch education, which implied some knowledge of Latin and Greek, anti a home in a Scotch farm, and a birthplace amidst the mountain majesties and stern grandeurs of the North, what parallel could be drawn with such an education as that we have discribed with such an early home, and with a birthplace certainly not especi- ally calculated to give poetic inspiration? Most unhappy, most life-lone, wretched, most outcast and despised, most ungratefully treated of all the lowly children of song! As we write this article there lie before us, not only Mr. Martins biography, but we have taken down from our bookshelves, we believe, all the volumes Clare ever pub- lished. We have read his life, and renewed our old impressions with those volumes be- fore us. As a poet and writer their author ought to have met with a better fate, and to have received a more kindly notice, but we trust the fate of this man may he a warning to scare away all youth from the preserves of poetry. We have taken down these volumes because ive believe that jus- tice has never been awarded to them, yet 17 JOHN OI1ARE. they would form a sweet volume of rural verses if any publisher could be induced to bear the responsibility of their publication; far inferior verses have secured a perma- nent place in our language. Poetry of ten- derness, and of home, of pensive reflection, and of natural description, do not all com- bine in the following? called HOME HAPPINESS. Like a thing of the desert, alone in its glee, I make a small home seem an empire to me; Like a bird in the forest, whose world is its nest, My home is~my all, and the centre of rest. Let Amhition stretch over the world at a stride, Let the restless go rolling away with the tide, I look on lifes pleasures as follies at best, And, liks sunset, feel calm when Im going to rest. I sit by the fire, in the dark winters night, While the cat cleans her face with her foot in delight, And the winds all a-cold, with rude clatter and din Shake the windows, like robbers who want to come in; Or else, from the cold to be hid and away, By the bright burning fire see my children at play, Making houses of cards, or a coach of a chair, While I sit enjoying their happiness there. I walk round the orchard on sweet summer eves, And rub the perfume from the black-currant leaves, Wl4ch, like the geranium, when touched, leave a smell That lads-love and sweet-brier can hardly excel. I watch the plants grow, all begemmed with the shower, That glitters like pearls in a sun-shiny hour, And hear the pert robin just whistle a tune, To cheer the lone hedger when labour is done. Joys come like the grass in the fields springing there, \\Tithout the mere toil of attention or care; They come of themselves, like a star in the sky, And the brighter they shine when the cloud passes by. I wish hut for little, and find it all there, Where peace gives its faith to the home of the hare, Who would else, overcome by her fears, run away From the shade of the flower and the breeze of the day. 0 the out-of-door blessings of leisure for me! flealth, riches, and joy I it includes them all three. There Peace comes to me I have faith in her smile Shes my playmate in leisure, smy comfort in toil; There the short-pasture grass hides the lark on its nest, Tho~igh scarcely so high as the grasshoppers breast; And there its moss-ball hides the wild honey-bee, And there joy in plenty grows riches for me. Far away from the world, its delusions and snares Whose words are but breath, nud its breathing but cares, Where troubles sown thick as the dews of the morn, One can scarce set a foot without meeting a thorn There are some view the world as a lightly thrown ball, There are some look on cities like stones in a wall Nothing more. There are others, Ambitions proud heirs, Of whom I have neither the courage nor cares. So I sit on my bench, or enjoy in the shade My toil as a pasture, while using the, spade; My fancy is free in her pleasure to stray, Making voyages round the whole world in a day. I gather home-comforts where cares never grew, Like manna, the heavens rain down with a dew, Till I see the tired hedger bend wearily by, Thea like a tired bird to my corner I fly. It would be too much to expect that all the pages of our peasant poet have an equal beauty and purity of verse and de- scription. He wrote very much he wrote too much. It was remarkably easy to him to find corresponding verse for his ideas. Sometimes the ear is offended hy too home- ly an expression, hut the sense is usually strong and clear, and the imagery is deli- cate and perfect. He is a true painter he cannot be called a severe one; in spite of his tender nature and his many sorrows, a cheerful and subdued glow of happy light plays over his pages. He had, whatever else was wanting, the sense to write Though low my lot, my wish is won, My hopes are few and staid; All I thought life would do is done, The last request is made. If I have foes, no foes I fear, To fate I live resigned; I have a friend I value here, And thats a quiet mind. While yet he read small incidents by the bright light of truth and instruction, as when he writes, 18 JOHN CLARE. ON AN INFANT KILLED BY LIGHTNING. As fearless as a cherubs rest, Now safe above the clouds, A babe lay on its mothers breasi; When thunders roared aloud. It started not to hear the crash, But held its little hand Up, at the lightnings fearful flash, To catch the burning brand. The tender mother stayed her breath In more than grief awbile, To think the thing that brought its death Should cause her babe to smile. Aye, it did smile a heavenly smile To see the lightning play; Well might she shriek when it turned pale, And yet it smiled in clay. 0 woman! the dread storm was given To be to each a friend; It took thy infant pure to heaven, Left thee impure, to mend. Thus Providence will oft appear From Gods owe mouth to preach: Ak! would eve were as prone to hear As Mercy is to teach! Of course it was in him also to find the pensive teachings of nature and of time; and change, as many of his verses especi- ally bear testimony, touched him by its sad autumn hues of surprise and fear. Are there not many who will he able to receive the impression cast by such verses as DECAY. O Poesy is on the wane, For Fancys visions all unfitting; I hardly know her face again, Nature herself seems on the flitting. The fields grow old and common things, The grass, the sky, the winds a-blowina; And spots, where still a beauty clings, Are sighing going! all a-going! 0 Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again. The bank with brambles overspread, And little molehills round about it, Was more to me than laurel shades, With paths of gravel finely clouted; And streaking here and streaking there, Through shaven grass and many a border, With rutty lanes had no compare, And heaths were in a richer order. But Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again. I sat beside the pasture stream, When Beautys self was sitting by, The fields did more than Eden seem, Nor could I tell the reason why. I often drank when not a-dry, To pledge her health in draughts divine; Smiles made it nectar from the sky, Love turned een water into wine. O Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her face again. The sun those mornings used to find, Its clouds were other-country mountains, And heaven looked downward on the mind, Like groves, and rocks, and mottled foun- tains. Those heavens are gone, the mountains grey, Turned mist the sun, a homeless ranger Pursues alone his naked way, Unnoticed like a very stranger. O Poesy is on the wane, Nor love nor joy is mine again. Loves sun went down without a frown, For very joy it used to grieve us; I often think the West is gone, Ah, cruel Time, to undeceive us. The stream it is a common stream, Where we on Sundays used to ramble, The sky hangs oer a broken dream, The brambles dwindled to a bramble! 0 Poesy is on the wane, I cannot find her haunte again. Mere withered stalks and fading trees, And pastures spread with hills and rushes, Are all my fading vision sees; Gone, gone are raptures flooding gushes! When mushrooms they were fairy bowers, Their marble pillars over-swelling, And Danger paused to pluck the flowers, That in their swarthy rings were dwelling. Yes, Poesy is on the wane, Norjoy, nor fear is mine again. Aye, Poesy hath passed away, And Fancys visions undeceive us; The night bath taen the place of day, And why should passing shadows grieve us. I thought the flowers upon the hill Were flowers from Adams open gardens; But I have had ivy summer thrills, And I have had my hearts rewardings. So Poesy is on the wane, I hardly know her face again. And Friendship it bath burned away, Like to a very ember cooling, A make-believe on April day, That sent the simple heart a-fooling; Mere jesting in an earnest way, Deceiving on and still deceiving; And Hope is but a fancy-play, And joy the art of true believing: For Poesy is on the wane, 0 could I feel her faith again! And now we close our notice of a depart.. ed, neglected, forgotten poet; we have de- voted so much space to his name, feeling 19 JOHN GLARE. Yet when Im dead, lets hope I have Some friend in store, as Im to thee, That wilifind out my lowly grace, And heave a sigh to notice me. that we, perhaps, fulfil the hope, already to Earl Fitzwilliam, we are quite aware quoted from his first volume that from his ancestors Clare had received much of that order of kindness which, while it confers, never forgets to glove the hand in conferring. We are aware, too, that Clark was a pensioner on Earl Fitzwilliams estate, by the arrangements of the preceding earl, when he died. It looks as though he Were very glad to find a pensioner struck from his roll. Should this poor notice meet his eye, we will respectfully commend to him certain lines written by the poor lunatic himself, in one of those lucid intervals of sublimity and beauty lines suggested, we suppose, by some such ruggedness of b e- haviour as that with which he treated the venerable corpse of the iNorthamptonshire peasant. The extracts we have made will be at once an appendix to Mr. Martins volume, while they will justify our own wish express- ed above, that he had somewhat enlarged his book, and increased its value by com- prehending within it a general selection from the now-forgotten, unnoticed, and, we suppose, never-to-be-reprinted, writings of the poor peasant. Finally, we trust that, in whatever cir- cumstances the poor poet closed his eyes and days, we have shown that they judged rightly who demurred to, and departed from, Earl Fitzwilliams stern verdict for leaving him to lie in a paupers grave; and we shall be glad if his faithful old friend, the Rev. Mr. Mossop, the excellent, amiable, and admi- rable vicar of Helpston in whose study we, sixteen years a~o, received a number of the first painful particulars of Glares life with other friends, shall he able to rear some modest monumental stone in place of the nameless mound beneath the sycamore- tree. We suppose that llelpston never pro- duced anything very remarkable before; and Northamptonshire, though rich in peers, has not been so fertile in genius that she can afford to forget even so lowly a singer. As THE MODE5TY or GREAT MEN. Great men are always kind, however rare, And more like common men than others are. The poor man saw the King and wondered on To find him only like his neighbour JOHN. Greatness will live with kindness everywhere The sun shines brighter when the days are clear, Time mellows fruit, and suns bring on the flowers; And greatness lives with kindness in all hours; Fame makes them giants with her idle praise, Though common men at home, like common days; But Pride is ever LOW and will deride It nothing knows, for ignorance is pride. Pride would he great, but Folly laughs aloud, And pride sinks down to nothina in tI~e crowd. lie France a dead body must he buried within twenty-four hours of decease, and a petition has recently heen presented to the Sen- ate praying that the time should be enlarged to forty-eight hours. Cardinal Donnet supported the petition, mentioned several cases of prema- ture interment, and related a story which pro- duced a profound sensation. A young priest in the summer of 1826 fainted in the pulpit and was given up for dead. He was laid out, examined, and pronounced dead, the Bishop reciting the De Profandis while the coffin was preparing for the body. All this while, and deep into the night, the body, though mo- tionless, heard all that was going on in an agony of mind impossible to describe. At last a friend known to the deceased from infancy came in, his voice aroused some dormant power, and next day the corpse was again preachin~ from the pulpit. The sufferer was the venerable Cardinal then telling the tale, and in spite of official resistance the Senate voted that the petition should be referred to the Minister of the Interior for action. The idea of the French authorities is, that as the living and the dead are among the poor forced to re- main in the same room, interment cannot be delayed, but twenty-four hours is a herribly short space of time in a country where it is not sufficient to produce any symptom of corrup- tion. Spectator, 3 March. 20 21 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. From Blackwoods Magazine. mass. The few, indeed, do care, who can- A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. not help appealing as they read to their own experience. Anomalies perplex them; IT must always remain an open qnestion it is more than their fancy can accomplish how far the literature of an age represents to picture gentlemen and dustmen on terms the manners of that age. First impressions of absolute equality, and interchanging uniformly take for granted that it does. ideas permanently, over the same dinner- People jump to the conclusion that a man table. But this defiance of fact in some of genius would never portray a state of form or other is a positive charm with the things foreign to his readers experience, many; it is an exception to find any fiction and unverified by his own observation, as widely und with all classes popular without actunily existing; becauseany other assump- it. We have, no doubt, some few trustwor- tion is supposed to cast a slur at once on thy delineations, but they are none of them the writers truth of perception, if not his popular in the full triumphant sense of the honesty, and on his readers common sense; term; or on this account mainly: so little who, by their approval, would seeni to af- is truth to our experience the one great de- fix their seal to a false presentment for sideratum we are sometimes disposed to themselves, under no assignable temptation think it. Our conclusion, therefore, is, that to do so. Yet how little ground we have we may not trust pictures of manners of for this plausible theory! which, if we come any day without large reservations, and to think of it, supposes the authors of past constant reference to our own notions of times to be a different sort of people alto- nature and probability; taking into account gether from the popular writers of our own the universal attraction of the exceptional day; and our great~great-grandfathers jeal- over the commonplace. We see that the ous for truth in a way beyond any example most profound study of men and society we can show. constantly does no more than provide a It appears to us that, in assuming the plausible home for impossible creations, or writers of a former age to have even aimed help a man to personify his own various at representing existing manners according qualities and propensities; his sympathies to any matter-of-fact experience, we run possessing each by turn; all the personages counter to the teaching of our own eyes. talking his talk in different moods; as his In all the infinite varieties of life depicted separate faults or virtues, opinions or quali- by the volumes of the circulating library, ties, assert themselves, and take the lead. when do we come upon aiiything like what But hooks which do not represent society we have ourselves seen and heard, more es- as it is, or ever was, may yet have a power- pecially in those works which are most ea- ful influence on manners. They may mdi- gerly devoured by the widest, most various cate what things are going to be, and fore- circles of readers? What echo, what re- shadow the changes time is on the eve of spouse, does our own experience give back? working. The novel which portrays man- When a future generation judges us by Mr. ners and modes of action preposterous to Dickenss animated pictures of life, or by our observation may, if it is powerfully the works of such lesser luminaries as written, bring about its verification by hit- Charles IReade or Wilkie Collins, on the tiug the fancy of a class open to new im- ground of their universal acceptance, they pressions, and impatient of present re- will have the same reason for their opinion straints. An undisciplined fancy may imag- which satisfies us of the truth of many a me things for which it has small warrant picture of past society, and which prompted and no general example, yet only antici- some of Macaulays most telling representa- pate: planting seeds which shall bear fruit tions. Yet, conspicuous as is the genius of in another generation, and suggesting to the first, and able as are the other two, re- untutored fancies possibilities before un- gard their works as being really what they dreamt of. Most fiction is founded either profess to be pictures of English social on some moral ideal, and is a glorification life and how grotesque, distorted, and ab- of what has been, but which has never been solutely and ridiculously improbable one seen by the writers bodily eyes; or it pie- and all are! What a masquerade-like jum- tures his wishes and testifies to his impa- ble of ranks and degrees what impossible tience of some form of bondage. Very few combinations in some, what impossible cours- people find enough in the actual, in the es of action in others! And for all this mere interest of delineating men and wo- who cares, so long as they are amused? men as they see them, to induce them to The majority mind no more being misrep- the intense intellectual labour of absolute resented in the mass than abused in the elaborate truth of portraiture, stroke for A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. stroke, and. line for line where success can oniy be attained by long study of the minds anatomy. Either of the other al- ternatives is the natural resource of an ac- tive imagination which can manage any- thing better than a correct likeness of what is; which even as an object to be aimed at they regard intellectually as slavish task- work, and morally as purposeless, and achiev- ing nothing. Every true, natural, whole- some picture of life will do good, though the writer must, in the drawing, be more in- tent on doing his own part well than in in- structing or improving others; but it s~ms a finer thing, as well as a pleas. nter, to cre- ate a world after your own mind, and, likely enough, will prcsent more showy conspicu- ous effects. For effects may be more telling and conspicuous; for every shadowy crea- tion that takes other imaginations is likely to consolidate itself in course of time; for good possibly, but also, it may be, for harm, little contemplated. The minds that are to be thus moulded are, of course, the young and unformed; and the literature thfit earliest influences active thought will most surely tell upon their future manners and social morals. If the books they read represent the moral dnties that regulate every days thought and action under a new light, this differ- ence will tell in the long-run far more than if the book implied views on abstract points, not yet forced upon their practical consid- eration, opposed to the formal teaching of home. We have been ledinto this train of thonght by a tale which has chanced to fall in our way a novel by an American writer whose works for young readers have met with more universal acceptance than any reprint except Uncle Toms Cabin. We do not attribute to all our readers any per- sonal knowledge of Miss Wetheralls Wide, wide World, or Qucechy, but to all the names will be familiar. Every railway li- brary presents a row of them on sale, and wherever there are schoolroom book-shelves or a parish library to be referred to, we shall be surprised if these tales, well-thumb- ed, and with every trace of favour, are not forthcoming. They represent manners and a state of things very different from our ex- perience, but this has so far been an attrac-. tion. If there is anything that would not quite do in England, it has all been accept- ed, and even where not quite approved, ex- cused on the ground of nationality. Things are different, we say, in America. Repub- licanism even affects the relation of parent and child. Precocity and independence, we all know, belong to the backwoods. English children, it is assumed, will get the amusement and the good for these are religious tales in the fullest sense of the word, whole chapters devoted to doctrine and experiences without any temptation to the Americanisms of all sorts that simply give a zest to the style and narrative. We confess, however, to have fancied for some time that we could trace, in the young-lady- hood of a certain religious school, the influ- ence of American religious fiction. We notice an independence of conventional re- straints, a freedom of accost, an ease in as- serting and enforcing opinion, a looseness from the old deference to elders, an apti- tude to en~raft flirtation on schemes of ac- tive good not, as of old, timidly and eva- sively, but as a boldly-recognisin~, aid to zeal and consistency and, finally, a con- rageous self-reliance, not without its attrac- tions, where a pretty face and sprightly manners carry it off, but still reminding us that we live in days when womans rights are a leading question, and women are called upon from across the ocean to rouse from their passive dependence, and hence- forth to walk in advance of man in the path of reform and spiritual progress. Parents in our day are not strict disciplinarians; and young ladies making a decided profes- sion, and taking a line in any of the fash- ionable forms, are left in most cases to their own devices, under the trust that the cares of life will soon enough subdue any excess of talkative or fussy zeal. Deference to their will and judgment has long been un- dermined by the b~oks they have placed in their childrens busy hands, so perhaps they do well to succumb. The memory of some of our readers may be familiar with the one cross and trial that tested the youthful her- oine of old Dissenting fiction; the dance to which a worldly father in vain would drive his trembling but determined daughter, and the courage with which she resisted the doubleimportunities of his commands, and the worldly corner of her own heart. In all other matters obedience itself, it was here she must make a stand. These strug- gles, if they ever had place, are a good deal over, and the young people now dance or not to please themselves. But the points on which young and old are permitted to come to an issue are indefinitely increased; while in every religious novel of modern date that comes to our mind the right is in- variably on the daughters side, for one reason perhaps, that the real patrons of ex- citing religious fiction are the young. Mothers, never in great favour with novel- 22 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. 23 ists, are sinking deeper and deeper in their filled prematurely with notions of love and black books there is a positive jealousy admiration. If they are very good and of their influence; while the father in the very pious and very busy in doing grown- religious tale, as opposed to the moral or up work, they have good reason to expect, sentimental, is commonly either a scamp or from these pictures of life, that when they nowhere. The heroine has, so to say, to do reach the mature age of sixteen or so, some her work single-handed. We are so used young gentleman who has been in love with to all tbis that it took us by surprise the them all along will declare himself at the other day to find the teaching of the fifth very nick of time; and they may then look commandment enforced as it is in that ear- to find themselves, all the struggles of life liest example of this class of fiction, Co~- over, reposing a weary head on his stalwart lebs. There the perfect heroine is made shoulder. But in these stories, as far as we the natural product of perfect parents; they recall them, the heroines are good, and have made her what she is, not vice versa, goodness is in a way rewarded. In The as we are used to see it. They are the ar- Old Helmet it is otherwise. It is a reli- biters of her fate; she is grateful to them gious story as opposed to a moral one. If for the most modified exercise of private the heroine had been one whit more scrup- judgment; while the exemplary hero is ulous, conscientious, straightforward, hon- coMspicuous for nothing so much as vener- est, modest, and single-minded than she is ation for his elders, unlessit he for horror if she had possessed hut a shade more of intrepid girls, who depart from pre- delicacy and refinement she would never scription, and set up for independent views, have been converted, or been a Christian Stepping on five-and-twenty years farther at all, according to this writers meaning of into the century, we still do not see much the word. Every step of spiritual progress approach to the modern gloss on parental tramples on some duty or propricty; her duty. In Father Clement, a clever hook, growing convictions are always leading her which made a great sensation in its day, to do wrong, or what the authorcss would religion is not allowed to separate mother allow to be wrong if the end did not justify and child. Maria, my child! cries the the means. But our readers shall judge for dismayed Popish mother of her awakened themselves, if we can condense an abstract daughter, what do you mean?~~ only to within the narrow space such a subject has be reassured, I mean to remain with you, alone a right to. We give it with the less dearest mother; while all parties show apology, because this work belongs to the a caution a submission to old obligations class of books of largest circulation which which would be considered weak by newer yet rarely fall under critical eyes. We lights. Dormer, for example, the fascinat- should premise, in justice to the writer, that lug priest, with commendable prudence, though the scene is laid in England, and she leaves the young ladies to themselves, and desires to give her heroine English charac- converses on spiritual matters with their teristics, she betrays an entire i~,norance of mammas in another room; precisely revers- our manners; and of course in such ques- ing the course of action which we find in- tions the behaviour oE young people must be culcated in Miss Wetheralls later work, to judged by the standard of their country. the consideration of which we have now ar- Girls in American religious fiction are rep-. rived. resented as changing their lovers with the The Old Helmet may not have attained facile flippancy of our housemaids and area as yet the enormous circulation of the writ- belles. Some say this is a misreprentation er s earlier stories, but it has passed through arising from the total separation that exists many Iar~e editions, and still has an exten- in New England between the religions world sive sale, and may be found in any size and and good society, thus throwing their wri- shape, from the two handsome volumes of ters on their own unassisted ideas of what is the circulating library, to the single volume fascinating and likely to attract; but what- for the parish and schoolroom, and the ever excuse this ignorance may furnish, the cheap copy for gift or purchase. That mischief is not the less to the young un~,uard- which has chanced to fall in our way is in ed reader, who takes for granted that En- that soiled and thumbed condition so flatter- glish ideas go along with the English lan- lug to an author, and has done its best to guage, and is here led to think that, in the disseminate the new morality; for the pe- judgment of religious people, jilting and vul- rusal has been to us something of a revela- gar flirting are allowable amusementsthe tion. The slightest glimpse into the writ- wild oats of girlhood. ers previous tales shows that the heads of The scene of The Old Helmet which their childish readers are in danger of being we will explain at once is a patronising syn 24 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL onym for the helmet of salvation opens which she felt read her through and through with a picnic in one of our counties. El- I but she was fascinated instead of angered, and eanor, the heroine, has strayed away from submitted her own eyes to the reading without the rest of the party, and is seated on a wishing to turn them away. Carrying on two bank with a grave young man, a stranger; trains of thought at the same time, as the her previous and much more interestingcom- mind will, her inward reflection was, I had no idea that you were so good-looking! The panion, iXfr. Carlisle, having been recently answer in words was a sober I have felt so. called from her side. This stranger, the real hero, is not described; he is to unfold He presses his point in tones that were ten- himseW a task he is quite equal to, as from der, along with that deliberate utterance. the be,inning to the end he is his own text With all the quietness of his speech, his and subject. Their conversation opens with accent had a clear ring in it which came remarks on the abbey-ruins before them, and from some unsounded depth of power, and on the motives which lead to retirement Eleanors heart sank before it in a secret con- from society. Eleanor supposes this motive vulsion of pain. We know that Revival- disgust of the world. Do you mean, he ists in their practical work recognise such asks, if this is the beginning of all religious influences as these. If young women are feeling? I really think it is, she re- to be converted they do not commit the plies, and turns from the question to admire task to the elders ~of the congregation. some violets at her feet. Then do you Conversions of the young never take place, suppose, he says, that these violets are we are gravely assured, but in mixed schools, less sweet to me than to you? Why and so on. But the influences of voice and should they be? is her answer. Because propinquity were, we think, never more religion is the most precious thing in the boldly advocated than in this story. We world to me. They pursue the subject of have little room, however, for comment. the old monks, one of whom had been a sol- We lately read a complaint from a lady dier, and wore his armour to the last under of the name of Higginbottom, of the ens- his monks habit. This legend elicits the tom in certain circles of addressing her by statement from the grave young man that her name at every sentence. The practice lie also wears armour, amusing himself with prevails in this volume. how, Mr. iRhys? his companions puzzled look. In the mean- she asks; nobody ever talked to me so be- while a storm rises and shelter has to be fore, Mr. Rhys. And he responds, What sought. He knows of a window in. the will you do, Miss Powle? till, pushed ruins, the arch of which still stands; and into a corner, she demands, Are you a givin,, her, in the emergency, the support clergyman, Mr. Rhys? For the benefit of his hand (it was a strong hand, and not of the reader we give his reply: I am not the only time, by a great many, that we what you would call such. In fact, Mr. hear of its good points), he seats her on the IRhys is a Methodist preacher, or minister, window-sill, and, with an apology, places and keeps a small school in the neighbourhood. himself by her side. The writer thinks it The rain being over, they rejoin the party well to state that the window was narrow and Eleanors worldly lover; who at once as well as deep; the two were brought into engages her attention, but not so deeply but very familiar neighbourhood in fact it that she remarks that handsome as Mr. Car- was a tight fit; which amuses Eleanor as lisle is, Mr. Rhys is the tallest, and that he much as her terror of lightning gave her has a good figure a very good figure, spirits for. Here is another opportunity and moves well and easily; asking herself for the young man to assert his superiority what is the difference between his face and he wears armour which makes him safe the other face. In fact, from the first page in all circumstances: Mr. Carlisles nose is put out, though no body knows this for some time but the read- What do you mean V she said. er. In the course of the evening Mr. Rhys Did you never hear of the helmet of sal- makes himself so agreeable to Eleanors vation ~ father, Mr. Powle, that he decides to send I doat know, said Eleanor, wonderingly, his son to his village school. But we oh- I think I have heard the words. I do not serve that to the elders he talks of general ~ Did you never feel, he said, speaking with ubjects, of ferns, and micrescopes; his a peculiar deliberation of manner, that you searching questions and searching glances were exposed to dnn~er and to death, from are all bestowed upon Eleanor, and, in lesser which no effort of yours could free you ~ degree, on her young sister Julia, who plays While lie spoke slowly, his eyes were a very convenient part in bringing the two fixed on Eleanor with a clem, piercing glance, together. Eleanor, though of a fine, vigorous A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. constitution, catches cold with the facility of the heroine of a novel. The rain of the picnic brings on a fever. In it Mr. Rhyss warnings haunt her, and on her return to health she seeks him out to ask more ques- tions about the Helmet. He greets her with a cordial grasp of the hand, a hand-clasp which was all the warmer for her languid appearance He looks at her attentively. You have been very ill, Miss Powle, is his greeting. Julia said you had a ques- tion to ask, Miss Powle, and so they resume the discussion. But what is the Helmet, Mr. Rhys? till in the end, though she could not pmperly comprehend what it was, of its reality there could be no question; she had seen its plumes wave over his brow. For our part we greatly prefer the vene- rable rector of blue eyes and flowing white locks, who used to fill this young mans place in the minds of interesting female in- quirers; the bland fatherly old clergyman who was always sitting in his study, and tolerant of interruption calling Come in, to the young ladies who knocked at his door. But the experience of her religious school seems to have taught the authoress a diff~rent lesson. Rectors, at any rate, do not come under her patronage; and when Eleanor suddenly surprises her pastor, in a large evening party, with questions about the helmet in the Bible, and he replies with something about Goliaths armour, it is evidently a good joke. Very soon Mr. Rhyss voice interposes as it sounds to us somewhat impertinently in the discussion; and his figure standing at the window hid part of the light, to judge by the Doctors face he was keeping out the whole. Then Mr. Carlisle comes forward with his gratifying attentions, which are ex- changed on her way to her room for a long t~te-~i-i& e with Mr. Rhys in the library, whose good-night had been so genial, the clasp of his hand so frank and friendly, that she stayed talkin~, of the helmet; and when at last she lifted her eyes to say good-night, the face she met gave a new turn to her thoughts: It was a changed face; such a light of pure joy and deep triumph shone over it, not hiding nor hindering the loving care with which those penetrating eyes were reading hers. It gave Eleanor a strange compression of heart. But Mr. Carlisle has his turn, too. Elea- nor, in transcendental phrase, led a very full life which means, as far as we can interpret, that she could very well do with two strings to her bow. Her mother has, with the authoress, all the blame of the en- gagement she enters into with the rich, high-born worldling; but she cannot help drawing a flirt, capable of half-a-dozen at- tractions at once. She always likes Mr. Carlisle when she is with him, and tolerates an amount of kissing which we can only say surprises us. We will be bound to say that there are more kisses between the boards of the little volume we hold in our hands than in Sir Walter Scotts collected works and kisses with circumstances, too, and admitting of varied description. In fact, kissing, and fixed and penetrating glances, for which the only synonym is staring, on the gentlemans part, and blushes on the ladys blushes, and flushes of every tint, from palest rose to scarlet damask, which apologise for and condone everything, form the staple of the love-making. The little girl who betrayed her intimacy with romances by the inquiry, Mamma, when papa asked you to marry him, did he go down on his knees to you ? would, after reading this book, have to give another col- our to her question, unless, indeed, she had become too knowing in the perusal to put it at all. But this is a digression. We next find Mr. Rhys ill at his lodgings, and the sisters agree to take him some jelly. Julia congra- tulates herself that Mr. Carlisle is in Lon- don, because he would not have allowed Eleanor to come, which is an implied in- fringement on her liberty the other indig- nantly resents; for the fact that she is losing her heart to Mr. Rhys never makes her a whit less angry with her other lovers grow- ingvigilance. She is as offended at suspicions, and her delineator as indignant for her as though there was no ground for them. Anoth- er opportune storm makes the girls bounce into Mr. Rhys very room without knowing where they are going. There he reposes on a rude couch, pale, changed, and wrapped in a dressing-gown. Eleanor stammers an apology, and she is hegged to stay with that smile that she rememhercd. It hrings her, we are told, at once into a new atmos- phere. They discuss his prospects and mis- sionary desi~ns, and, unfortunately for Mr. Carlisle, the grave, sweet, strong intona- tion of his words moved Eleanor much not to tears, the effect was rather a great shaking of heart the words might have been said by anybody, the impression they produced belonged to him alone. Present- ly the lively Julia asks, Mr. Rhys, do you know that after Eleanor is Mrs. Carslisle she will be Lady Rythdale 2 a stroke 25 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. that drives Eleanor to desperation, and eli- cits a very solemn rejoinder from him. He pursues his searching inquiries in the midst of berries and cream, brought in by the old woman of the cottage; inquiries ut- tered in winning tones which found their way down to some unguarded spot in her consciousness, till all she can answer is No, Mr. Rhys; and Mr. Rhys adds nothing but the frienlly grasp which drove the weapon home. A certain muscular Christianity leads this writer to dwell much on horsemanship. Eleanor is a superb rider, and Mr. Carlisle mounts her on one after a~iother of his stud but when he is out of the way she will scamper about the country unattended on her own pony. Mr. Carlisle does not like this practice, and with reason, for she meets with adventures; and these bring her somehow to Mr. Rhyss door. She has been thrown, is walking home fatigued, and sees his cottage inthe distance. Her heart sprang with a sudden tdmpta- tion doubted, balanced, and resolved. She had excuse enough she would do a rebellions thing; she would go there and rest. It might give her a chance to see Mr. Rhys and hear him talk; it might not. If the chance came, why, she would he very glad of it. She enters, and through an open door hears Mr. Rhys and the ubiquitous Julia in con- versation about his project of going as a missionary to the Fiji Islands Mr. Rhys, they are such dreadfully bad people they might kill you and eat you. Yes. Are you not aftaid I There is strangely much sometimes ex- pressed, one can hardly say how, in the tone of a single word. So it was with this word, even to the ears of Eleanor in the next room. It wa~ round and sweet, untrembling, with something like a vibration of joy in its low ntterance. It was but a word said in answer to a childs idle question: it pierced like a harbed arrow through all the involutions of another heart down to the core. Considering that many men have eloquent voices who have no idea whatever of going to the Fiji Islands, we cannot think these suggestions likely to be profitable to the class of readers whom they are most likely to interest. In another moment Eleanor is discovered by Julia, and brought in bear- ing herself a little proudly; then sitting under a strange spell, and subsiding into that self-possession in which the author- ess takes great pride. Mr. Carlisle will never let you ride out alone again, ex- claims the lively Julia, a speech naturally very annoying to Eleanor, and putting her future husband before her in a very inter- fering unpleasant light. Mr. Rhys waits till the flush is off to commence his spiritual inquiries, in the midst of which the narrator of the scene thinks it material not only to enlarge on every look and tone, but to ex- plain that Eleanor is brought by Julias management into nearer neighbourhood of the couch, on which Mr. Rhys lies, th n at first. At length such a strange softness and light pass over the face she is Ipoking at that she has no heart left.. But whether the subject or the look and tone that con- vey it produce her spiritual comfort seems not to signify the least. After this scene we do not wonder that the thought of her marriage stings her like a serpent. How- ever, she tells Mr. Carlisle nothing of her visit till the heedless Julia lets the cat out of the bag; on which she shows a great deal of what her historian seems to consider very becoming spirit at his gentle remon- strances, which are accompanied by the kisses and caresses this writer is so great an adept at describing. Within a month of her wedding-day Eleanor heai~s from Julia that Mr. Rtiys is going to preach that night in a barn. In- stantly a consumin, desire seizes Eleanor to hear him. It was not only that this pre- sented, perhaps, the first, last, and only chance in her life of hearing the words of truth so spoken, but she had a craving de- sire to hear how they would be spoken. But, of course, neither lover nor parents would allow her to go the idea is simply impos- sible. So Eleanor sets her wits to work, and when her plan is matured informs her mother that she intends to sit up all night with a poor dying girl in the village. The mamma makes some objections on her owu account, and asks, Will Mr. Carlisle like her doing such things? but Eleanor is reso- lute, and repairs to Janes cottage, whence, in disguis4, and stealing off behind its doz- ing mistress, she hurries in the darkness to the barn. A vague queer feeling of her being about something wrong, not merely in the circum- stances of her getting there, but in the occasion itself, haunted her with a sort of superstition. Eleanor was a compound of strange feel- ings; till she suddenly became consel ~us of a stir in the gathering throng, and then heard on the plank floor a step that she instinctively knew; as the step, and the tall figure that it bore passed close by her on the way to thq 26 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. table. An instant sense of quiet and security settled down on her nervousness died away. Mr. Rhys is here as everywhere else he~ conscience. When the congregation dis- perses Eleanor finds herself in the dark at dead of night without an idea which way to turn. The reader, however, by this time familiar with the authoresss taste for equi- vocal situations, is quite prepared for the voice at her elbow asking, Are you alone? To which Eleanor replies with interesting consciousness. I have a chaise here, come with me, says the voice; and acting as decidedly as he had spoken, Mr. Rhys leads her to the little vehicle that had just drawn up, and drives off with her. After some spiritual talk uttered with a tenderness of voice that broke her down at once, Mr. Rhys discovers that she is there without the knowledge of her pa- rents, and does, in the cause of duty and prudence, vouchsafe to remind her that it was ~ very dangerous, and tells her you did very wrong, parting with her a mo- ment after with the earnest grasp of the hand that again Eleanor remembered. The authoress satisfies her ideas of punc- tilio by this one word of disapproval, of which nothing comes. We naturally ask, Can girls do such things where Miss Weth- erall lives and no harm come of it? We can only say she makes good come of it ac- cording to her views of good. In this story, designed for the spiritual benefit of young readers at the most impressihle age, they are tempted to acquiesce in a line of action nothing short of intrigue, and to see a call in the voice, eye, and hand which leads this young woman to outrages of propriety like this. Down in her heart more obstinate than ever is the feeling, I do not want to mar- rv Mr. Carlislc. But when she comes in contact with him, there is riding together, and kissing as before. Of course we are a~surecl that it was all very disagreeable to Eleanor, except when it happened to be a very fine day, and the horses paces, very good. On the whole, however, we can un- derstand how it is that Mr. Carlisle remains in the dark as to her real feelings; even when he follows her to the Methodist chap- el in the neighbouring town, where, inform- ing no one of her intention, but fear- less of consequences, she goes to hear Mr. iRhvs for the last time, and he there sees her approach what used to be called the anxious benches, and Mr. Rhys whisper- ing in her ear. Disconcerted, he takes her home, and, forbearing to question her in the carriage, asks for a conversation, when she has changed her dress. With her head full of Mr. iRhys, she yet prepares for this in- terview by putting on a very becoming gown. She looked lovely when she en- tered the drawing-room, but why she set herself off to the best advantage for the purpose of snubbing, if not cashiering, her lover, is not explained. But the writer as carefully describes a flirt, never forgetting herself or the impression she desires to make, as though it was her object to draw one. The blind, forbearing Mr. Carlisle will not understand, and goes off content, though, on his leaving, Eleanor informs her mother that she will poison herself before she will be married on the 21st To avoid such a consummation, Mr. Carlisles mother dies, which postpones ~he marriage, and Eleanor in the interval pays her Welsh aunt, Mrs. Caxton, a visit, who is intro- duced to us as a wealthy Methodist widow. From thence she writes to refuse Mr. Car- lisle definitely, and Mr. Rhys again turns up, first at a Methodist meeting, and then at aunt Caxtons house, where his good points grow upon her, and she has an op- portunity of observing, as she turns over the leaves of his Bible, how finely made are his hands, white withal, and beautifully cared for. There her conversion is finally consummated; but after three months of this new life she is summoned home by her mother, who seems to know nothing of the way she has been spending her time, and who has by no means given up the hope of her daughters being Lady Rythdale after all. Eleanor comes up obediently, and de- votes herself to London ragged schools, where, strange to say, we find Mr. Carlisle attending her. At their first meeting he had the audacity to come up and speak to her. Eleanor involuntarily admired him, and somehow things slip again into very much the old footing she, satisfied that he knows her mind, and that she treats him always as she does others. As she rides about with him on his horses, and as on one occasion he gives her a kiss, at which, in- deed, she feels indignant when she gets to her own room, this opens out new fields of speculation as to what Eleanor s manners were towards young men in general. Elea- nor will not dance in her present converted state, because she does not see how she can further her Masters business in the dance; but flirting is clearly another thing. Mr. Carlisle is now in Parliament, and Eleanor has at heart to bring in a certain Bill about ragged schools. She is willing, therefore 27 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. to cajole him into an interest in her schemes. One day Julia says to her 0 Eleanor, are you sure you arc not going to Rytlidale V What makes you ask me? Why, everybody thinks so; and you you are with Mr. Carlisle all the time talking to him. I have so many thoughts to put into his head,said Eleanor, gravely. What are you busy with him about V Parliament business. It is for the poor of London, Julia. Mr. Carlisle is preparing a bill to bring into the House of Commons, and I know more about the matter than he does, and so he comes to me.~ Dont you think he is glad of his ignor- ance V said Julia, shrewdly. Eleanor looked thoughtfully down. What do you give him thoughts about Mv poor boys would say lots of things. I have to convince Mr. Carlisle that it would cost the country less to reform than punish. It is important beyond measure, and if I should let it alone the whole might fall to the ground. There are two objections in Mr. Car- lisles mind . . . I must show him how false the objections are. I have begun, I must go through with it. The whole might fall to the ground if I took away my hand. I must go through with it, and it would be such an in- calculable blessing to thousands and thousands in this dreadful place. Eleanor decides that she must at all haz- ards see through the bill. She lets mat- ters take their course, and talks reform diligently to Mr. Carlisle. At length the hill is brought in and printed. The very next day she refuses to join in an excur- sion he plans, and lets it be distinctly known that she cannot fulfil his expecta- tions the authoress evidently approving the whole line of conduct,, and the time she chooses for coming to an understand- ing. Subsequently she records a conversa- tion between aunt and niece on the matter of the bill, in which they both agree that Mr. Carlisle was not a disinterested lover. An explosion ensues on Eleanors distinct refusal to form one of the party to Richmond. Her father half turns her out of doors, upon which she returns well pleased to aunt Caxton, who asks to be allowed to a(lopt her, and is permitted to do so. In the meanwhile Mr. Rhys is off to the Fiji Islands, and in the course of time aunt Caxton thinks fit to sound Eleanor on the state of her affections. Finding them fa- vourable to her views, she gives her two letters from Mr. Rhys, one written on the eve of departure, and another dated Island Vulanga, South Seas, making formal pro- posals to her. Eleanor is dismissed to her couch, with an injunction to take care she does the Lords will in the matter, and comes down in the morning with her an- swer ready. This step gained, aunt Caxton proceeds to smooth matters for an early marriage, beyond Eleanors, and we will also add the readers, first notions of the possible. Vulanga is a long way off, delays innumerable; the advice is, that Eleanor shall set off at once that is, as soon as an escort can be found waiting for no re- sponse from Mr. Rhys to her acceptance. Eleanor does not care for what the world would say, but she is a little afraid of what Mr. Rhys may think fears that aunt Cax- ton conveniently sets to rest; and the pro- cess of preparation sets in at once. A ship and an escort are found in due ti e, and Ele~nor and her aunt repair to Lon- don, where, in a farewell meeting with her mother (the father has died with small moan for his absent daughter), the persecu- tion of the world is represented by Mrs. Powles objections. What do you think, sister Caxton, of a young lady, taking a voyage five months long after her husband, instead of her husband tak- ing it for her l He ought to be a grateful man, I think. And so think we; but Eleanor is pic- tured as divinely forgiving in offering her mamma a cup of coffee upon this insult, aggravated as it is by the further not un- natural inquiry of who there would be to marry her that is, to perform the service when she got there. When Mrs. Fowle is gone, having decided it not safe to ex- pose Julia to the influence of such practices, the aunt reminds Eleanor that he that will live godly in Christ Jesus must suffer persecution. After this she sails, and in due time arrives at the Fiji Islands. The subject of dress must exercise the minds of all young readers of this exciting narrative. Eleanor has long forsworn trimmings; her bonnet is crossed with chocolate-coloured ribbons. The point is, How will she look when Mr. Rhys sees her? But we have not been left to our own guesses in this particular. The pattern of her dress had been asked for, and its sit ad- mired, at Sydney, which is her first stage; and when the vessel nuars the shore at Vulanga, she prudently goes down into the cabin and changes her gown. here, through a nick of the door, she can note what passes on deck. First appears a half- naked black savage, and this vision is 28 A RELIGIOUS NOVEL. soon crossed by another which looked to her eyes very much like a white angel of light in fact, Mr Rhys in a white suit. She takes in the freshness of his whole get- up, even to the hand that holds his hat. It was the same white and carefully-looked- after hand she remembered in England. This was fortunate, and little short of a miracle, considering that he had been in- dustriously engaged in house-building and carpentering in a tropical climate ever since he had learnt that a wife was on her way to him. She ascends to the deck, and his 0 Eleanor! rewards her for all she had gone through. All is now couleur de rose. Mr. Rhys shows himself what is technically called honourable in his inten- tions. He at once carries off Eleanor to the house of sister Balliol, the wife of a brother missionary. This rather trying personage eyes Eleanors thick coil of hair, her collar, her cuffs, and the sweep of her dress suspiciously; asks her if she knew brother I{hvs hefore she left England; and austerely reminds her that she must expect some trials out there. But Mr. Rhys soon returns from the ship. The two stand up then and there and are married, and he carries her off to her new home. If missionary life is such play-work as is here represented, of course sister Balliol was in the wrong. We are introduced, in the Fiji Islands, to a second connubial paradise, where the oddity of having a hus- hand who had never spoken one word of love is expected to create quite a new sensation in the reader. Aunt Caxton had amused herself by shipping an incredible amount of housQhold stores to Vulanga even dinner-napkins and delicate china were not wanting. And in spite of sister BalFol, Eleanor visits her husband in his study, in exquisite white muslin robes (duly set out, we are allowed to gather, by crino- line), and hair charmingly dressed, the oc- casion of this visit being to inform her hus- hand that Mrs. Balliol urges her cutting off her hair as a sacrifice to the missionary cause. He sets her mind at ease on this point; But why not say sister Balliol? For once Eleanor resists. I cannot, she answers. He insists, but with a comical turn of the lip which tantalises our natural curiosity to know his real design. But though the time in Fiji passes in a sort of transcendental rapture though Eleanor is persuaded by her husband to tell her experiences to the assembled company thoucFh they sing revivalist hymns of the usual tone of irreverence for the sake of showing off Eleanors magnificent voice one question remains unanswered which must vex the reader. One bone of conten- ~ion lurks amid all this felicity: Eleanor does not anywhere in these pages address her hostess as sister Balhiol. Abstracts are such bald things that we can scarcely hope to have kept our readers curiosity alive to the end. Compressed as it is, it has taken more than the space it deserves, and has left no room for comment. Comment, however, is surely unnecessary. If our unvarnished tale has not shown that a relioious novel may be more mischievous than most novels that make no profession at all, nothing that we may add can prove it. We are happy to think that it does not describe our young ladies as they are; but does it foreshadow what any circle amongst us may come to? LiTTLE news has occurred in Ireland during tions will be confined to men who have enlisted the week. The arrests continue, and include a in order to tamper with the soldiery. That is great many solAiers both of the cavalry and the one of the very few political offences which a con- line, some militiamen, and two members of stitutional Governmeiit is bound to treat as the constabulary. An impression is abroad mortal crimes. No society could endure if men that Government, in the case of military offen- in uniform who taught mutiny were allowed to ders, will abandon its usual lenity and execute escape. Spectator, 3 Merck. every soldier proved to have broken the oath. [We must take care that our secretaries of As every soldier volunteers, such a proceeding Mr. Buchanans Cabinet do not fall into the would be iust, but neverthekas we trust execu- hands of the Spectator. Living Age.] 29 SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. PART X. CHAPTER XXXVI. AN EXIT. COLONEL SEWELL stood at the window of a small drawing-room he called his own, watching the details of loading a very cumbrous travelling carriage which was drawn up before the door. Though the postilions were in the saddle, and all ready for a start, the process of putting up the luggage went on hut slowly now, a heavy imperial would be carried out, and after a while taken in again; dressing-boxes care- fully stowed away would he disinterred to be searched for some missing article; bags, baskets, and boxes of every shape and sort came and went and came again; and al- though the two footmen who assisted these operations showed in various ways what length of training had taught them to sub- mit to iu worry and caprice, the smart maid, who now andthen appeared to give some order, displayed some unmistakable signs of ill-humour on her face. Drat those dogs! I wish they were down the river! cried she, to two yelping, barking Maltese terriers, which, with small bells jingling on their collars, made an uproar that was per- fectly deafening. Well, Miss Morris, if it would oblige you said one of the tall footmen as he caressed his whisker, and gave a very languishing look, more than enough, he thought to supply the words wanting to his sentence. It would oblige me very much, Mr. George, to get away out of this horrid place. I never did no, never in all my life, pass such a ten days. We aint a-going just yet, after all, said footman number two, with a faint yawn. Its so like you, Mr. Breggis, to say something disagreeable, said she, with a toss of her head. Its because its true I say it, not because its onpleasant, Miss Caroline. Im not Miss Caroline, at least from you, Mr. Breggis. Aint she haughty aint she fierce? But his colleanue would not assent to this judgment, and looked at her with a longing admiration. Theres her bell again, cried the girl; as sure as I live shes rung forty times this mornino and she hurried back to the house. Why do you think were not off yet ? asked George. Its the way I heerd her talking that shows me, replied the other. Whenever shes really about to leave a place she goes into them fits of laughing and crying, and screaming one minute, and a-whimperin,~ the next; and then she tells the peopleas it were, unknownst to her how she hated them all how stingy they was the shameful way they starved the servants, and such like. Theres some as wont let her into their houses by reason of them fits, for shell plump out everything she knows of a family who ran away with the Missis, and why the second dau~,hter went over to France. You know her better than me, Breg- gis. I do think I does; its eight years Ive had of it. Eh, whats that wasnt that a screech? and as he spoke a wild shrill scream resounded through the house, fol- lowed by a rapid succession of notes that might either have been laughter or cry- ing. Sewell drew the curtain; and wheeling an arm-chair to the fireside, lit his cigar and began to smoke. The house was so small that the noises could be heard easily in every part of it; and for a time the rapid passage of per sons overhead, and the voices of many speaking together, could be detected, and, above these, a wild shriek would now and then rise above all, and ring through the house. Sewell smoked on undisturbed; it wa~s not easy to say that he so much as heard these sounds. Ifls indolent attitude, and his seeming enjoyment of his ci,~ ar, indicated perfect composure; nor even when the door opened, and his wife entered the room, did he turn his head to see who it was. Can William have the pony to go into town? asked she, in a half submissive voice. For what? To tell Dr. Tobin to come out; Lady Trafford is taken ill. He can go on foot; I may want the pony. She is alarmingly ill, I fear very vio- lent spasms; and I dont think there is any time to be lost. Nobody that makes such a xow as that can be in any real danger. She is in great pain at all events. Send one of hQr own people despatch one of the postboy~ do what you like, only dont bore me. She was turning to leave the room, when he called out I say, when the attack came on did she take the opportunity to tell you any pleasant little facts about yourself 30 SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. or your family? She smiled faintly, and moved tow ards the door. Cant you tell me, maam? has this woman been condoling with you over your hard fate and your bad husband? or has she discovered how that dear boy up-stairs broke his head as well as his heart in your service? She did ask me certainly if there wasnt a great friendship between you and her son, said she, with a tone of quiet dis- dain. And what did you reply? said he, throwing one leg over the arm of the chair as he swung round to face her. I dont well remember. I may have said you liked him, or that he liked you. It was such a commonplace reply I made I forget it. And was that all that passed on the subject? I think Id better send for the doctor, said she, and left the room before he could stop her, though that such was his intention was evident from the way he arose from his chair with a sudden spring. You shall hear more of this, madam by Heaven you shall! muttered he, as he paced the room with rapid steps. Whos that? come in, cried he, as a knock came to the door. Oh, Balfour! is it you? Yes; what the deuce is going on up- stairs? Lady Trafford appears to have gone mad. Indeed! how unpleasant! Very unpleasant for your wife, I take it. She has been saying all sorts of un- mannerly things to her this last hour things that, if she werent out of her reason, she ought to be thrown out of the win- dow for. And why didnt you do so? It was a liberty I couldnt think of taking in another mans house. Lord love you, Id have thought nothing of it! im the best-natured fellow breathing. What was it she said? I dont know how I can repeat them. Oh, I see, they reflect on me. My dear young friend, when you live to my age you will learn that anything can he said to any- body, provided it only be done by the third party. Whatever the law rejects as evi- dence assumes in social life the value of friendly admonition. Go on and tell me who it is is in love with my wife. Cool as Mr. Cholmondeley Balfour was, the tone of this demand staggered him. Art thou the man, Balfour? said Sewell, at last, staring at him with a mock frown. 31 No, by Jove! I never ~resumcd that far. Its the sick fellow, then, is the cul- prit? So his mother opines. She is an awful woman! I was sitting with your wife in the small drawing-room when she burst into the room and cried out, Mrs. Sewell, is your name Lucy? for, if so, my son has been rambling on about you this last hour in a wonderful way; he h~s told me about fifty times that he wants to see you before he dies; and now that the doctor says he is out of danger he never ceases talking of dying. I suppose you have no objection to the interview; at least they tell me you were constantly in his room before my ar- rival. How did my wife take this ? what did she say? asked Sewell, with an easy smile as he spoke. She said something about agitation or anxiety serving to excuse conduct which otherwise would be unpardonable; and she asked me to send her maid to her, as I think to get me away. Of course you rang the bell and sat down again. No: she gave me a look that said, I dont want you here, and I went; but the storm broke out again as I closed the door, and I heard Lady Traffords voice raised to a scream as I came down-stairs. It all shows what I have said over and over again, said Sewell, slowly, that whenever a man has a grudge or a griev- ance against a woman, he ought always to get another woman to torture her. Ill lay you fifty pounds Lady Trafford cut deeper into my wifes flesh by her two or three impertinences than if I had stormed myself into an apoplexy. And dont you mean to turn her out of the house? Turn whom out? Lady Trafford, of course. Its not so easily done, I suspect. Ill take to the long boat myself one of these days, and leave her in command of the ship. I tell you shes a dangerous, a very dan- gerous woman; she has been ransacking her sons desk, and has come upon all sorts of ugly memoranda sums lost at play, and reminders to meet bills, and such like. Yes; he was very unlucky of late, said Sewell, coldly. And there was something like a will, too; at least there was a packet of trinkets tied up in a paper, which purported to be a will, but only bore the name Lucy. SIR BROOK FOSSBROOK~. How delicate! theres something touch- ing in that, Balfour; isnt there? said Sewell, with a grin. How wonderfully you seem to have got up the case. You know the whole story. How did you man- age it? My fellow Paxley had it from Lady Traffords maid. ~e told him that her mistress was determined to show all her sons papers to the Chief Baron, arid blow you sky high. Thats awk~ard, certainly, said Sew- eli, in deep thought. It would be a devil of a conflagration if two such combustibles came together. id rather shed fight it out with my mother. Have you sent in your papers to the Horse Guards? Yes; its all finished. I am gazetted out, or I shall be on Tuesday. Im sorry for it. Not that it signifies much. as to this registrarship. We never intended to relinquish our right to it; we mean to throw the case into Chancery, and we have one issue already to submit to trial at bar. Who are we that are going to do all this? The Crown, said Balfour; haughtily. Ego et rex meus; thats the style, is it ? Come now, Balfy, if youre for a bet, Ill back my horse, the Chief Baron, against the field. Give me sporting odds, for hes aged, and must run in bandages besides. That womans coming here at this no- ment was most unlucky. Of course it was; it wouldnt be my lot if it were anything else. I say, cried he, starting up, and approaching the window, whats up now? Shes going at last, I really believe. The sound of many and heavy footsteps was now heard descending the stair slowly, and immediately after two men issued from the door, carrying young Trafford on a chair: his arms hung listlessly at his side, and his head was supported by his servant. I wonder whose doing is this? has the doctor given his concurrence to it? how are they to get him into the coach? and what are they to. do with him when he is there? Such was the running commentary Balfour kept up all the time they were engaged in depositing the sick man in the carriage. Again a long pause of inaction ensued, and at last a tap came to the door of the room, and a servant inquired for Mr. Balfour. There! cried Sewell, its your turn now. I only hope shell insist on your ac- companying her to town. Balfour hurried out, and was seen soon af terwards escorting Lady Trafford to the car- riage. Whether it was. that she was not yet decided as to her departure, or that she had so many injunctions to give before going, the eventful moment was long delayed. She twice tried the seat in he carriage, once with cushions and then witl,out. She next made Balfour try whether it might not be possible to have a sort of inclined plain to lie upon. At length she seemed over- come with her exertions, sent for a chair, and had a glass of water given her, to which her maid added certain drops from a phial. You will tell Colonel Sewell all I have said, Mr. Balfour, said she, aloud, as she prepared to enter the carriage. it would have been more agreeable to me had he given me the opportunity of saying it to himself, but his peculiar notions on the du- ties of a host have prevented this. As to Mrs. Sewell, i hope and believe i have suf- ficiently explained myself. She at least knows my sentiments as to what goes on in this house. Of course, sir, it is very agree- able to you. Men of pleasure are not per- sons to be over-burdened wit.h scruples least of all such scruples as interfere with self-indulgence. This sort of life is there- fore charming; I leave you to all its de- lights, sir, and do not even warn you against its dan,,er. I will not promise the same discretion, however, when i go hence. I owe it to all mothers who have sons, Mr. Balfour I owe it to every family in which there is a name to be transmitted, and a fortune to be handed down, to declare what I have witnessed under this roof. No, Lio- nel; no, my dear boy; nothing shall pre- vent my speaking out. This was addressed to her son, who by a deep sigh seemed to protest against the sentiments he was not able to oppose. It may suit Mr Balfours habits, or his tastes to remain here with these I have nothing to do. The Duke of Bayswater might, possibly, think his heir could keep better company with that I have no concern; though when the matter comes to be discussed before me as it one day will, I have no doubti shall hold my- self free to state my opinion. Good-bye, sir; you will, perhaps, do me the favour to call at the Bilton; I shall remain till Sat- urday there; I have resolved not to leave Ireland till I see the Viceroy; and also have a meeting with this Judge, I forget his name, Lam Lem what is it? He is the chief something, and easily found. A few very energetic words, uttered so low as to be inaudible to all but Balfour bimselg closed this address. On my word of honoor on my sacred 32 SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. 33 word of honour Mr. Balfour, said she them islands off the N. E. of Sardinia; aloud, as she placed one foot on the step, one of them is mine. ~- Ever your own, Caroflne saw it saw it with her own ToM L. eyes. Dont forget all I have said; dont Lucy hastened down with this letter in drop that envelope; he sure you come to her hand to her grandfathers room; but see me. And she was gone. met Mr. ilaire on the stairs, who whispered Give me five minutes to recover my- in her ear, Dont go injust yet, my dear; seW said Balfour, as he entered Sewells he is out of sorts this morning; Lady Len- room, and threw himself on a sofa; such drick has been here, and a number of un- a breather as that I have not had for pleasant letters have arrived, and it is better many a day. not to disturb him further. I heard a good deal of it, said Sewell, Will you take this note, said she, and coolly. She screams, particularly when give it to him at any fitting moment? I she means to be confidential; and all that want to know what I shall reply I mean, about my wife must have reached the Id like to hear if grandpapa has any kind gardener in the shrubbery. Where is she message to send the poor fellow. off to? Leave it with me. Ill take charge of To Dublin. She means to see his Ex- it, and come up to tell you when you can cellency and the Chief Baron; she says see the Judge. Thus sayin.,, he passed on, she cant leave Ireland till she has un- and entered the room where the Chief masked all your wickedness. Baron was sitting. The curtains were She had better take a house on a lease closely drawn, and in one of the windows then; did you tell her so? the shutters were closed so sensitive to I did nothing but listen I never in- light was the old man in his periods of ex- terposed a word. Indeed, she wont let one citement. He lay back in a deep chair, his speak. eyes closed, his face slightly flushed, breath- Id give ten pounds to see her with the ing heavily, and the fingers of one hand Chief Baron. It would be such a close twitching slightly at moments; the other thing. All his neat sparring would go for was held by Beattie, as he counted the nothing against her; for though she hits pulse. Dip that handkerchief in the cold wide, she can stand a deal of punishment lotion, and lay it over his forehead, whis- without feeling it. pered Beattie to Haire. Shell do you mischief there. Speak out, sir; that muttering jars on She might, said he, more thoughtfully. my nerves, and irritates me, said the I think Ill set my mother at her; not Judge, in a slow firm tone. that shell have a chance, but just for the Come, said Beattie, cheerfully, you fun of the thing. Whats the letter in are better now; the weakness has pas3ed your hand? off. Oh, a commission she gave me. I was There is no weakness in the case, sir, to distribute this amongst your household, said the old man, sitting bolt upright in the and he drew forth a bank-note. Twenty chair, as he grasped and supported himself pounds! you have no objection to it, have by the arms. It is the ignoble feature of you? your art to be materialist. You can see I know nothing about it; of course you nothing in humanity but a nervous cord never hinted such a thing tome;~~ and with and a circulation.~~ this he arose and left the room. The doctors ministry goes no further, said Beattie, gently. You art is then but left-handed, sir. CHAPTER xxxvii. Wheres Haire? A STORMY MOMENT. Here, at your side, replied Haire. I must finish my story, Haire. Where Wirnmr a week after the first letter came was it that I left off? Yes; to be sure I a second from Cagliari. It was but half-a- remember now. This boy of Sewells dozen lines from Tom himself. They are Reginald Victor Sewell was with my sending me off to a place called Maddalena~ permission to take the name of Lendrick dearest Lucy, for change of air. The and be called Reginald Victor Sew elI priest has given me his house, and I am to Lendrick. be Robinson Crusoe there, with an old hag And become the head of your home? for Friday how I wish for you! Sir The head of my house, and my heir. Brook can only come over to me occasional- She did not say so, but she could not mean ly. Look out for three rocks they call anything short of it. FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. 1. 3. 34 What has your son done to deserve this? asked Haire, bluntly. My sons rights, sir, extend but to the modest fortune I inherited from my father. Whatever other property, I possess has been acquired by my own ability and labour, and is mine to dispose of. I suppose there are other rights as well as those of the statue-book? Listen to this, Beattie, cried the old Judge, with a sparkle of the eye listen to this dialeetician, who discourses to me on the import of a word. It is not gener- ous, I must say, to come down with all the vigor of his bright, unburdened faculties upon a poor, weak, and suffering object like myself. You might have waited, Haire, till I had at least the semblance of power to resist you. What answer did you give her? asked Haire bluntly. I saidwhat it is always safe to say Le roi savisera. Eh, Beattie? this is the grand principle of your own craft. Medicine is very little else than the wisdom of wait- ing. I told her, continued he,. I would think of it that I would see the child. Here he is, said she, rising and leaving the room, and in a few moments returned, lead- ing a little boy by the hand a very noble- looking child, I will say, with a lofty head and a bold brow. He met me as might a prince, and gave his hand as though it were an honour he bestowed. What a conscious power there is in youth! Ay, sirs, that is the real source of all the much-boasted vigour and high-heartedness. Beattie will tell us some story of arterial action or nervous expansion; but the mystery lies deeper. The conscious force of a future development imparts a vigour that all the triumphs of after life pale before. Fiat justitia~ mat cmlum, said Haire Id not provide for people out of my own family. It is a very neat though literal transla- tion, sir, an(l,like all that comes from you, j,ointed a. d forcible. Id rather be fair and honest than either, anid Haire, bluntly. I appeal to you, Beattie, and I ask if I have deserved this; and the old Jud~e spoke with an air of such apparent sincerity as aetua!ly to impose upon the Doctor. The sarcasms of this man push my regard for him to the V st intrenebment. Haire never meant it; he never in- tended to redect upon you, said Beattie, in a low tone. He knows well enough that I did not,~ SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. said Haire, half sulkily; for he thought the Chief was pushing his raillery too far. Im satisfied, said the Judge, with a sigh. I suppose he cant help it. There are fencers who never believe they have touched you till they see the blood. Be it so; and now to go back. She went away and left the child with mc, piomising to take him up after paying a visit she had to make in the neighbourhood. I was not sor- ry to have the little fellows company. He was most agreeable, and, unlike Haire, he never made me his butt. Well, I have done; I will say no more on that head. I was ac- tually sorry when she came to fetch him, and I believe I said so. What does that grunt mean, Haire? I did not speak. No, sir, but you uttered what implied an ironical assent a nisi prius trick like the leer I have seen you bestow upon the jury.box. How hard it is for the cunning man to divest himself of the subtlety of his calling! I want to hear how it all ended, mut- tered Haire. You shall hear, sir, if you will vouch- safe me a little patience. When men are in the full vigour of their faculties, they should be tolerant to those foot-sore and weary travellers who, like myself, halt be- hind and delay the march. But bear in mind, Haire, I was not always thus. There was a time when I walked in the van. Ay, sir, and bore myself bravely too. I was talking with that child when they announced Mr. Balfour, the private secretary, a man most distasteful to me; but I told them to show him in, curious indeed to hear what new form of compromise they were about to propose to me. He had come with a se- cret and confidential message from the Vice- roy, and really seemed distressed at having to speak before a child of six years old, so mysterious and reserved was he. He made a very long story of it full an hour; but the substance was this: The Crown had been advised to dispute my right of appoint- ment to the registrarship, and to make a case for a jury; but mark the but in in consideration for my high name and great services, and in deference to what I mi,ht be supposed to feel from an open col- lision with the Government, they were still willing for an accommodation, and would consent to ratify any appointment I should make, other than that of the gentleman I had already named Colonel Sewell. Sel& control is not exactly the quality for which my friends give me most credit. SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. ilaire, there, will tell you I am a man of ungovernable temper, and who never even tried to curb his passion; but I would hope there is some injustice in this award. I be- caine a perfect dove in gentleness, as I asked Balfour for the reasons which com- pelled his Excellency to make my stepsons exclusion from office a condition. I am not at liberty to state them, was the cool reply. They are personal, and of course delicate? asked I, in a tone of submission, and he gave a half assent in silence. I con- curred that is, I yielded the point. I went even further. I hinted, vaguely of course, at the courteous reserve by which his Excelle]cy was willing to spare me such pain as an unpleasant disclosure if there were suh might occasion me. I added, that old men are not good subjects for shocks; and I will say, sirs, that he looked at me as I spoke with a compassionate pity which won all my gratitude! Ay, Beattie, and though my veins swelled at the temples, and I fiilt a strange rushing sound in my ears, I had no fit, and in a moment or two was as calm as I am this instant. Let me be clear upon this point, said I to him. I am to nominate to the office any one except Sewell, and you will con- firm such nomination? Precisely, re- plied he. Such act on my pai~t in no way to prejudice whatever claim I lay to the ap- pointment in perpetuity, or jeopardise any rights I now assert? Certainly not, said he. Write it, said I, pushing towards him a pen and paper; and so oveijoyed was he with his victorious negotiation, that he wrote, word for word, as I dictated. When I came to the name Sewell, I added, To whose nomination his Excellency demurs, on ~rounds of character and conduct suffi- cient in his Excellencys estimation to war- rant such exclusion; but which, out of defe- rence to the Chief Barons feelings, are not set forth in this negotiation. Is this neces- sary? asked he, as he finished writin~. It is, was my reply; put your name at foot, and the date, and he did so. I now read over the whole aloud; he winced at the concluding lines, and said,I had rather, with your permission, erase these last words, for though I know the whole story, and believe it too, theres no occasion for entering upon it here. As he spoke, I folded the paper and placed it in my pocket. Now, sir, said I, let me hear the story you speak of. I can- not. I told you before I was not at liberty There it. I insisted, and he refused. was a positive altercation between us, and he raised his voice in anger, and de-. manded back from me the paper, which he said I had tricked him into writing. I will not say that he meant to use force, but he sprang from his chair and came towards me, with such an air of menace, that the boy who was playing in the corner, rushed at him, and struck him with his drumstick, saying, You shant beat grandpapa! I be- lieve I rang the bell; yes, I rang the hell sharply. The child was crying when they came. I was confused and flurried. Bal- four was gone. And the paper? asked Haire. The paper is here, sir, said he, touch- ing his breast-pocket. The country shall ring with it, or such submission shall I exact as will bring that Viceroy and his minions to my feet in abject contrition. Were you to ask me now, I know not what terms I would accept of. I would rather you said no more at pres- ent, said Beattie. You need rest and quietness. I need reparation and satisfaction, sir; that is what I need. Of course of course; but you must be strong and well to enforce it, said Beattie. I told Lady Lendrick to leave the child with me. She said she would bring him back to-morrow. I like the boy. What does my pulse say, Beattie? It says that all this talking and agita- tion are injurious to you that you must be left alone. The old man sighed faintly, but did not speak. Haire and I will take a turn in the gar- den, and be within call if you want us, said Beattie. Wait a moment what was it I had to say? You are too abrupt, Beattie: you snap the cords of thought by such rough handling, and we old men lose our dexterous knack of catching the loose ends, as we once did. There, there leave me now; the skein is all tangled in hopeless confu- sion. He waved-his hand in farewell, and they left him. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A LADY ~ LET TEE. Lucy asked me to show him this note from her brother, said ilaire, as he strolled with Beattie down the lawn. It was no time to do so. Look over it and say what you advise. The boy wants a nurse, not a doctor, 35 SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. said Beattie. A little care and generous diet would soon bring him round; hut they are a strange race these Lendricks. They have all the stern qualities that brave dan- ger, and they are terribly sensitive to some small wound to their self-love. Let that young fellow, for instance, only begin to feel that he is forgotten or an outcast, and hell droop at once. A few kind words, and a voice he loved, now, will do more than all my art could replace a little later. You mean that we oueht to have him back here? asked Haire, bluntly. I mean that he ought to be where he can be carefully and kindly treated. Ill tell the Chief you think so. Ill say that you dropped the remark to myself, of course never meaning to dictate any- thing to him. Beattie shook his head in sign of doubt. I know him well, better perhaps than any one, and I know the~res no more gene- rous man breathing; hut he must not be coerced he must not be even influenced, where the question be one for a decision. As he said to me one day I want the evidence, sir. I dont want your speech to it. Theres the evidence then, said Beattie that note with its wavering letters, weak and uncertain as the fingers that traced them show him that. Say, if you like, that I read it, and thought the lads case critical. If, after that, he wishes to talk to me on the subject, Im ready t? state my opinion. If the boy be like his father, a few tender words and a little show of in- terest for him will be worth all the tonics that ever were brewed. Its the grandfathers nature too; but the world has never known it probably never will know it, said Haire. In that I agree with you, said Beattie, dryly. He regards it as a sort of weakness when people discover any act of generosity or any trait of kindliness about him; and do you know, added he, confidentially, I have often thought that what the world regarded as irritahility and sharpness was nothing more nor less than shyness just I certainly never suspected that he was the victim of that quality. No, I imagine not. A man must know him as I do to understand it. I remember one day, long, long ago, I went so far as to throw out a half hint that I thought he laboured nuder this defect he only smiled, and said, You suspect me of diffidence. I am diffident no man more so, sir; but it is of the good or great qualities in other men. Wasnt that a strange reply? I nev- er very clearly understood it do you? I suspect I do; but here comes a mes- sage to us. Haire spoke a word with the servant, and then turning to Beattie, said He wants to see me. Ill just step in, and be back in a moment. Beattie promised not to leave till he re- turned, and strolled along by the side of a little brook which meandered tastefully through the greensward. He had fallen into a reverie a curious inquiry within himself whether it were a boon or an evil for a man to have acquired that sort of influence over another mind which makes his every act and word seem praiseworthy and excellent. I wonder is the Chief the better or the worse for this indiscriminating attachment? Does it suggest a standard to attain to? or does it merely minister to self-love and conceit? Which is it? which is it? cried he aloud, as he stoo(l and gazed on the rippling rivulet beside him. Shall I tell you? said a low, sweet voice; and Lucy Lendrick slipped her arm within his as she spoke shall I tell you, Doctor? Do, by all means. A little of both, I opine. Mind, said she, laughing, I have not the vaguest no- tion of what you were balancing in your mind, but somehow I suspect unmixed good or evil is very rare, and I take my stand on a compromise. Am I right? I scarcely know, but I cant submit the case to you. I have an old-fashioned pre- judice against letting young people judge their seniors. Let us talk of something else. What shall it be? I want to talk to you of Tom. I have just been speaking to Haire about him. We must get him back here, Lucy we really must. Do you mean here, in this house, Doc- tor? Here, in this house. Come, dont shake your head, Lucy. I see the necessity for it on grounds you know nothing of. Laly Lend~ick is surrounding your grandfather with her family, and I want Tom back here just that the Chief should see what a thorough Lendrick he is. If your grand- father only knew the stuff thats in him, hed be prouder of him than of all his own successes. No, no, no, a thousand times no, Doctor! It would never do believe me, it would never do. There are things which a girl may submit to in quiet obedience, 36 SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. which in a man would require subservi- ency. The Sewells, too, are to be here on Saturday, and who is to say what that may bring forth? She wrote to you, s~iid the Doctor, with a peculiar significance in his voice. Yes, a strange sort of note too. I al- most wish 1 could show it to you, Id so like to hear what youd say of the spirit of the writei. Sfie told me she would write, said he again, with a more marked meaning in his manner. You shall see it, said she, resolutely; here it is, and she drew forth the letter and handed it to him. For an instant she seemed as if about to speak, but suddenly, as if changing her mind, she merely mur- mured, Read it, and tell me what you think of it. The note ran thus My DEAREST Lucy, We are to meet to-morrow, and I hope and trust to meet like sisters who love each other. Let me make one brief explanation before that mo- ment arrives. I cannot tell what rumours may have reached you of all that has hap- pened here. I know nothing of what peo- ple say, nor have I the faintest idea how our life may have been represented. If you knew me longer and better, you would know that I neither make this ignorance matter of complaint nor regret. I have lived just long enough to take the world at its just value, and not to make its judg- ments of such importance as can impair my self-esteem and my comfort. It would, howQver, have been agreeable to me to have known what you may have heard of me of us as it s not impossible I might have felt the necessity to add some- thing to correct something perhaps to deny something. I am now in the dark, and pray forgive me if I stumble rudely against you, where I only meant to salute you courteously. You at least know the great disaster which befell here. Dr. Beattie has told you the story what more he may have said I cannot guess. If I were to wait for our meeting, I would not have to ask you. I should read it in your face, and hear it in every accent of your voice; but I write these few lines that you may know me at once in all frankness and openness, and know that if you be innocent of my secret, I, at least, have yours in my keep- ing. Yes, Lucy, I know all; and when I say all, I mean far more than you yourself know. If I were treacherous, I would not make this avowal to you. I should be satisfied with the advantages I possessed, and em- ploy it to my benefit. Perhaps with any other woman than yourself I should play this part, with you I neither can nor will. I will declare to you frankly and at once, you have lost the game and I have won it. That I say this thus briefly, is be- cause in amplifying I should seem to be at- tempting to explain what there is no ex- plaining. That I say it in no triumph, my own conscious inferiority to you is the best guarantee. I never would have dreamed of a rivalry had I been a girl. It is be- cause I cannot claim the prize I have won it. It is because my victory is my misery I have gained it. I think I know your na- ture well enough to know that you will bear me no ill-will. I even go so far as to be- lieve I shall have your compassion and your sympathy. I need them more, far more than you know of. I could tell you that had matters fallen out differently it would not have been to your advantage, for there were obstacles family obstacles per- fectly insurmountable. This is no p~re- tence: on my honour I pledge to the truth of what I say. So long as I believed they might be overcome, I was in your interest, Lucy. You will not believe me, will you, if I swear it? Will you if I declare it on my knees before you? If I have not waited till we met to say these things, it is that we ulay meet with open hearts, in sorrow, but in sincerity. When I have told you everything, you will see that I have not been to blame. There may be much to grieve over, but there is nothing to reprehend anywhere. And now, how is our future to be? it is for you to decide. I have not wronged you, and yet I am asking for forgiveness. Can you give me your love, and what I need as much, your pity? Can you forget your smaller affliction for the sake of my heavier one, for it is heavier? I plead guilty to one only treachery; and this I stooped to, to avoid the shame and disgrace of an open scandal. I told his mother that, though Lucy was my name, it was yours also; and that you were the Lucy of all his feverish wanderings. Your womans heart will pardon me this one per- fidy. She is a very dangerous woman in one sense. She has a certain position in the world, from which she could and would open a fire of slander on any one. She desires to injure me. She has already threatened, and she is capable of mote than 37 38 threatening. She says she will see Sir William. This she may not be able to do; but she can write to him. You know bet- ter than I do what might ensue from two such tempers meeting; for myself I cannot think of it. I have written you a long letter, dear Lucy, when, I only meant to have written five or six lines. I have not courage to read it over; were I to do so, I am sure I would never send it. Perhaps you will not thank me for my candor. Perhaps you will laugh at all my scrupulous hcnesty. Perhaps you will no that you never will I mean, employ my trustfulness against myself. Who knows if I have not given to this incident an importance which you will only smile at? There are people so rich that they never are aware if they be robbed. Are you one of these, Lucy? and, if so, will you forgive the thief who signs herself your ever loving sister, Lucy SEWELL. I have told Dr. Beattie I would write to you; he looked as if he knew that I might, or that I ought which is it? Doc. tors see a great deal more than they ought to see. The great security against them is, that they acquire an indifference to the sight of suffering, which, in renderin~ them callous, destroys curiosity, and then all ills that can neither be bled nor blistered they treat,as trifles, and end by ignoring altogether. Were it otherwise that is, had they any touch of humanity in their nature they would be charming con- fidants, for they know everything, and can go everywhere. If Beattie should be one of your pets, I ask pardon for this imperti- nence; but dont forget it altogether, as, one day or other, you will be certain to ac- knowledge its truth. We arrive by the four-forty train on Saturday afternoon. If I see you at the door when we drive up, I will take it as a sign I am forgiven. Beattie folded the letter slowly, and handed it to Lucy without a word. Tell me, said he, after they had walked on sev- eral seconds in silence tell me, do you mean to be at the door as she arrives? I think not, said she, in a very low voice. She has a humble estimate of doctors ; but there is one touch of nature she must not deny them they are very sensitive about contagion. Now, Lucy, I wish with all my heart that you were not tobe the intimate associate of this woman. SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. So do I, Doctor; but how is it to be helped? He walked along silent and in deep thought. Shall I tell you, Doctor, how it can be managed, but only by your help and assist- ance? I must leave this. Leave the Priory! but for where? I shall go and nurse Tom: he needs me, Doctor, and I believe I need him; . that is, I yearn after that old companionship which made all my life till I came here Come now, dont oppose this plan; it is only by your hearty aid it can ever be carried out. When you have told grandpapa that the thought is a good one, the battle will be more than half won. You see yourself I ought not to be here. Certainly not here with Mrs. Sewell; but there comes the grave difficulty of how von are to be lodged and cared for in that wild country where your brother l~ves? My dear Doctor, I have never known pampering till I came here. Our life at home and was it not happy ! was of the very simplest. To go back again to the same humble ways will be like a renewal of the happy past; and then Tom and I suit each other so well our very caprices are kindred. Do say you like this notion, and tell me you will forward it. The very journey is an immense diffi- culty. Not a bit, Doctor; I have planned it all. From this to Marseilles is easy enough. only forty hours; once there, I either go direct to Cagliari, or catch the Sardinian steamer at Genoa - You talk of these places as if they were all old aquaintances; but, my dear child, only fancy yourself alone in a foreign city. I dont speak of the difficulties of a new language.~~ You might, though, my dear Doctor. My French and Italian, which carry me on pleasantly enough with Racine and Ariosto, will expose me sadly with my commission- naire. But quite alone you cannot go thats certain. I must not take a maid, thats as cer- tain; Tom would only send us both back again. If you insist, and if grandpapa in- sists upon it, I will take old Nicholas; he thinks it a great hardship that he has not been carried away over seas to see the great world: and all his whims and tempers that tortured us as children will only amuse us now; his very tyranny will be good fun. I declare frankly, said the Doctor, laughing, I do not see how the difficulties I of foreign travel are to be lessened by the SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. presence of old Nicholas; but are you seri- ous in all this? Perfectly serious, and fully determined on it, if I be permitted. When would you go? At once; I mean as soon as possible. The Sewells are to be here on Saturday. I wonld leave on Friday evening by the mail train for London. I would telegraph to Tom to say on what day he might expect me. To-day is Tuesday; is it possible you could be ready? I would start to-night, Doctor, if you only obtain my leave. It is all a matter of the merest chance how your grandfather will take it, said Beattie, musing. But you approve? tell me you approve of it. There is certainly much in the project that I like. I cannot bear to think of your living here with these Sewells: my expe- rience of them is very brief, but it has taught me to know there could be no worse companionship for you; but as these are things that cannot be spoken of to the Chief, let us see by what arguments we should approach him. I will go at once. Haire is with him, and he is sure to see that what I suggest has come from you. If it should be the difficulty of the journey your grandfa- ther objects to, Lucy, I will go as far as Marseilles with you myself, and see you safely embarked before I leave you. She took his hand and kissed it twice, but was not able to utter a word. There, now, my dear child, dont agi- tate yourself; you need all your calm and all your courage. Loiter about here till I come to you, and it shall not be long. What a true kind friend you are ! said she, her eyes grew dim with tears. I am more anxious about this than I like to own, perhaps. Will you, if you bring me good tidings, make me a signal with your handkerchief? He promised this, and left her. Lucy sat down under a large elm tree, resolvin to wait there patiently for his re- turn; but her fevered anxiety was such that she could not rest in one place, and was forced to rise and walk rapidly up and down. She imagined to herself the inter- view, and fancied she heard her grandfa- thers stern question whether she were not satisfied with her home? What could he do more for her comfort or happiness than he had done? Oh, if he were to ac- cuse her of ingratitude, how should she bear it? Whatever irritability he might display towards others, to herself he had always been kind, and thoughtful, and courteous. She really loved him, and liked his com- panionship, and she felt that if in leaving him she should consign him to solitude and loneliness, she could scarcely bring herself to go; but he was now to be surrounded with others, and if they were not altogeth- er suited to him by taste or habit, they would, even for their own sakes, try to con- form to his ways and likings. Once more she bethought her of the dis- cussion, and how it was faring. Had her grandfather suffered Beattie to state th case fully,, and say all that he might in its favour? or had he, as was sometimes his wont, stopped him short with a peremptory command to desist? And then what part had Haire taken? Haire, for whose intel- ligence the old Judge entertained the low- est possible estimate, had somehow an im- mense influence over him, just as instincts are seen too strong for reason. Some traces of boyish intercourses yet survived and swayed his mind with his. consciousness of its power. How long it seems, murmured she. TDoes this delay augur ill for success, or is it that they are talking over the details of the plan? Oh, if I could be sure of that! My poor dear Tom, how I long to be near you to care for you and watch you! and as she said this, a cold sickness came over her, and she muttered aloud What perfidy it all is! as if I was not think- ing of myself, and my own sorrows, while I try to liblieve I am but thinking of my brother. And now her tears streamed fast down her cheeks, and her heart felt as if it would burst. It must be an hour since he left this, said she, looking towards the house, where all was still and motionless. Itis not possible that they are yet deliberat- ing. Grandpapa is never long in coming to a decision. Surely all has been deter- mined on before this, and why does he not come and relieve me from my miserable uncertainty? At last the hall door opened, and Haire appeared; he beckoned to her with his hand to come, and then re-entered the house. Lucy knew not what to think of this, and she could scarcely drag her steps along as she tried to hasten back. As she entered the hall,. Haire met her, and, taking her hand cordially, said, It is all right; only be calm, and dont agitate him. Come in now, and with this she found herself in the roon where the old Judge was sitting, his eyes closed and his 39 40 SIR BRI*OK FOSSBROOKE. whole attitude betokening sleep. Beattie Not that I remember, said she, care- sat at his side and held one hand in his own. lessly. Lucy knelt down and pressed her lips to What about our coming? Does the old the other hand, which hung over the arm of man wish for it ? how does she herself the chair. Gently drawing away the hand, take it? the old man laid it on her head, and, in a She says nothing on the subject, beyond low faint voice, said, I must not look at her regret at not being there to meet us. you Lucy, or I shall recall my pledge. You And why cant she? where will she are going away! be? The young girl turned her teaful eyes At sea, probably, by that time. She towards him, and held her lips firmly closed goes off to Sardinia to her brother. to repress a sob, while her cheeks trembled What! dojou mean to that fellow who with emotion. is living with Fossbrooke? Why didnt Beattie tells me you are right, contin you tell me this before? ued he with a sigh; and then, with a sort I dont think I remembered it, or, if I of aroused energy, he added, But old age, did, its possible I thought it could not have amongst its other infirmities, fancies that much interest for you. right should yield to years. Ces soot les Indeed, madam! do you imagine that droits de la d6cr6pitude, as La Rochefou- the only things I care for are the movements cauld calls them. I will not insist upon my of your admirers? Wheres this letter? royalties, Lucy, this time. You shall go to Id like to see it. your brother. His hand trembled as it lay I tore it up. She begged me to do so on her head, and then fell heavily to his side. when I had read it. Lucy clasped it ea~,erly, and pressed it to How honourable! I declare you ladies her cheek, and all was silent for some see- conduct your intercourse with an integrity onds in the room. that would be positively charming to think At last the old man spoke, and it was of, if only your male friends were admitted now in a clear distinct voice, though weak. to any share of the fair dealing. Tell me Beattie will tell you everything, Lucy; he so much as you can remember of this has all my instructions. Let him now have letter. yours. To-morrow we shall, both of us, be She spoke of her brother having had a calmer, and can talk over all together. To- fever, and being now better, but so weak morrow will be Thursday? and reduced as to require great care and Wednesday, Grandpapa. attention, and obliged to remove for change Wednesday all the better, my dear of air to a small island off the coast. child, another day gained. I say, Beattie, And Fossbrooke does she mention eried he in a louder tone, I cannot have him? fallen into the pitiable condition the newspa- Only that he is not with her brother, cx- pers describe, or I could never have gained cept occasionally; his business detains him this victory over my selfishness. Come, sir, be near Cagliari . frank enough to own, that when a man corn- ~I hope it may continue to detain him bats himself, be asserts his identity. Haire there! Has this young woman gone off all will go out and give that as his own, mut- alone on this journey? tered he; and as he smiled, he lay back, She has taken no maid. She said it his breathing grew heavier and longer, and might prove inconvenient to her brother; he sank into a quiet sleep. and has only an old family servant she calls Nicholas with her. So, then, we have the house to our- CHAPTER XXXIX. selves, so far. Shell not be in a hurry back, I take it. Anything would be better SOME CONJUGAL COURTESIES. than the life she led with her grandfather. She seems sorry to part with him, and You have not told me what she wrote recurs three or four times to his kindness to you, said Sewell to his wife, as he smoked and affection. his cigar at one side of the fire, while His kindness and affection! His vanity she read a novel at the other. It was to be and self-love are nearer the mark. I their last evening at The Nest; on the thought I had seen something of conceit morrow they were to leave it for the Priory, and affectation, but that old fellow leaves Were there any secrets in it, or were there everything in that line miles behind. He allasions that I ought not to see? is, without exception, the greatest bore and SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. the most insupportable bully I ever encoun- tered. Lucy liked him. She did not she could not. It suits you women to say these things, because you cultivate hypocrisy so carefully that you carry on the game with each other! How could any one, let her be ever so abject, like that incessant homage this old man ex- acted to be obliged to be alive to his vapid jokes and his dreary stories to his twaddling reminiscences of college success, or House of Commons Irish House too triumphs? Do you think if I wasnt a beg- gar Id go and submit myself to such a dis- cipline ? To this she made no reply, and for a while there was a silence in the room. At last he said, Youll have to take up that line of character that she acted. Youll have to swing the incense now. Ill be shot jf I do. She gave no answer, and he went on Youll have to train the brats too to salute him, and kiss his hand, and call him what are they to call him grandpapa? Yes, they must say grandpapa. How I wish I had not sent in my papers! If I had only imagined I could have planted you all here, I could have gone back to my regi- ment and served out my time. It might have been better, said she, in a low voice. Of course it would have been better; each of us would have been free, and there are few people, be it said, take more out of their freedom eh, madam? She shrugged her shoulders carelessly, but a slight, a very slight, flush coloured her cheek. By the way, now were on that subject, have you answered Lady Traffords letter? Yes, said she; and now her cheek grew crimson. And what answer did you send? I sent back everything. What do you mean ? your rings and trinkets the bracelet with the hair mine, of course it could be no ones but mine. All, everything, said she, with a gulp. I must read the old womans letter over again. You havent burned that, I hope? No; its up-stairs in my writing-desk. I declare, said he, rising and standing with his back to the fire, you women, and especially fine ladies, say things to each other that men never would dare to utter to other men. That old dame, for instance, charged you with what we male creatures have no cquivalent for cheating at play would be mild in comparison. I dont think that you escaped scot-free, said she, with an intense bitterness, though her tone was studiously subdued and low. No, said he, with a jeering laugh. I figured as the accessory or accomplice, or whatever the law calls it. I was what po- lite French ladies call le man complaisant a part I am so perfect in, madam, that I al- most think I ought to play it for my Bene- fit. What do you say? Oh, sir, it is not for me to pass an opinion on your abilities. I have less bashfulness, said he, fiercely. Ill venture to say a word on yours. Ive told you scores of times I told you in India, I told you at the Cape, I told you when we were quarantined at Trieste, and I tell you now that you never really captivated any man much un- der seventy. When they are tottering on to the grave, bald, blear-eyed, and deaf, you are perfectly irresistible; and I wish really I say it in all good faith you would limit the sphere of your fascinations to such very frail humanities. Traffbrd only be- came spoony after that smash on the skull as he grew better, he threw off his delusions didnt he? So he told me, said she, with perfect calm. By Jove! that was a great fluke of mine, cried he aloud. That was a haz- ard I never so much as tried. So that this fellow had made some sort of a declaration to you? I never said so. What was it then that you did say, madam? let us understand each other - clearly. Oh, I am sure we need no explanations for that, said she, rising, and moving to- wards the door. I want to hear about this before you go, said he, standing between her and the door. You are not going to pretend jealousy, are you? said she, with an easy laugh. I should think not, said he, insolently. That is about one of the last cares will ever rob me of my rest at night. Id like to know, however, what pretext I have to send a ball through your young friend. Oh, as to that peril, it will not rob me of a nights rest! said she, with such a look of scorn and contempt as seemed actu- ally to sicken him, for he staggered back as though about to fall, and she passed out ere he could recover himself. It is to be no quarter between us then! 41 42 Well, be it so, cried he, as he sank heavily into a seat. Shes playing a hold game when she goes thus far. He leaned his head on the table, and sat thus so long that he appeared to have fallen asleep; in- deed, the servant who came to tell him that tea was served feared to disturb him, and retired without speaking. Far from sleep- inc, however, his head was racked with a maddening pain, and he kept on muttering to himself, This is the second time the second time she has taunted me with cow- ardi cc. Let her beware! Is there no one will warn her against what she is ? Missis says, please, sir, wont you have a cup of tea? said the maid timidly at the door. No; Ill not take any. Missis says too, sir, that Miss Cary is tuk poorly, and has a shiverin over her, and a bad headache, and she hopes youll send in for Dr. Tobin. Is she in bed? Yes, sir, please. Ill go op and see her; and with this he arose and passed up the little stair that led to the nursery. In one bed a little dark- haired girl of about three years old lay fast asleep: in the adjoining bed a bright blue- eyed child of two years or less lay wide awake, her cheeks crimson, and the expres- sion of her features anxious and excited. Her mother was bathing her temples with cold water as Sewell entered, and was talk- ing in a voice of kind and gentle meaning to the child. That stupid woman of yours said it was Cary, said Sewell pettishly, as he gazed at the little girl. 1 told her it was Blanche; she has been heavy all day, and eaten nothing. No, pet no, darlin~, said she, stooping over the sick child, pa is not angry, he is only sor- ry that little Blanche is ill. I suppose youd better have Tobin to see her, said he, coldly. Ill tell George to take the tax-cart and fetch him out. Its well it wasnt Cary, muttered he, as he saunter- ed out of the room. His wifes eyes followed him as he went, and never did a human face exhibit a stronger show of repressed passion than hers, as, with closely-compressed lips and staring eyes, she watched him as he passed out. The fool frightened me she said it was Cary, were the words he continued to mut- ter as he went down the stairs. Tobin arrived in due time, and pro- nounced the case not serious a mere fever- ish attack that only required a day or two of care and treatment. SIR BROOK FOSSBROOKE. Have you seen Colonel Sewell? said Mrs. Sewell, as she accompanied the doctor down-stairs. Yes; I told him just what Ive said to you.,~ And what reply did he make? He said, All right! I have business in town, and must start to-morrow. My wife and the chicks can follow by the end of the week. Its so like him ! so like him! said she, as though the pent-up pasaion could no longer be restrained. CHAPTER XL. ME. BALFOIJRS OFFICE. ON arriving in Dublin Sewell repaired at once to Balfours office in the Castle-yard he wanted to hear the news, and it was here that every one went who wanted to hear the news. There are in all cities, but more especially in cities of the second order,, certain haunts where the men about town repair; where, like the changing-houses of bankers, people exchange their cred- its take up their own notes, and give up those of their neighbours. Sew~ll arrived before the usual time when people dropped in, and found Balfour alone and at breakfast. The Under-Secretarys manner was dry, so much Seweil saw as he entered; he met him as though he had seen him the day before, and this, when men have not seen each other for some time, has a certain significance. Nor did he ask when he had come up, nor in any way recognise that his appearance was matter of surprise or pleasure. Well, whats going on here? said Se- well, as he flung himself into an easy-chair, and turned towards the fire. Anything new? Nothing particular. I dont suppose you care for the Cattle Show, or the Royal Irish Academy? Not much at least I can postpone my inquiries about them. How about my place here? are you going to give me tronble about it ? Your place your place? muttered the other once or twice; and then, standing up with his hack to the fire, and his skirts over his arms, he went on. Do you want to hear the truth about this affair? or are we only to go on sparring with the gloves The truth, of course, if such a novel 43 SILt BROOK FOSSBROOKE. proceeding should not be too much of a shock to you. No, I suspect not. I do a little of everything every day just to keep my hand in. Well, go on now out with this truth. Well, the truth ~s II am now speaking confidentially if I were you id not press ni~y claim to that appointment do you perceive? I do not; but perhaps I may when you have explained yourself a little more fully. And, continued he in the same tone, and as though no interruption had occurred, thats the opinion of Halkett, and Doyle, and Jocelyn, and the rest. Confidentially, of course, said Sewell, with a sneer so slight as not to be detected. I may say confidentially, because it was at dinner we talked it over, and we were only the household no guests but Byam ilerries and Barrington. And you all agreed? Yes, there was not a dissentient voice but Jocelyns, who said, if he were in your place, hed insist on having all the papers and letters given up to him. His view is this. What security have I that the same charges are not to be renewed again and again? I submit now, but am I always to submit? Are my Indian (what shall I call them? I forget what he called them; I believe it was escapades) my Indian es- capades to declare me unfit to hold anything under the Crown? He said a good deal in that strain hut we did not see it. It was bard, to be snre, but we did not see it. As Halkett said, Sewell has had his innings already in India. If, with a pretty wife and a neat turn for billiards, he did not lay by enough to make his declining years comfortable, I must say that he was not pro- vident. Doyle, however, remarked that after that affair with Loftus up at Agra wasnt it Agra ? Sewell nodded it wosnt so easy for you to get along as many might think, and that you were a devilish clever fellow to do what you had done. Doyle likes you, I think. Sewell nodded again, and, after a slight pause, Balfour pro- ceeded And it was Doyle, too, said, Why not try for something in the colonies? There are lots of places a man can go and nothing he ever heard of him. If I was Sewell, Id say, Make me a barrack-master in the Sandwich Islands, or a consul in the Caraccas. They all concurred in one thing, that you never did so weak a thing in your whole life as to have any dealings with Trafford. It was his mother went to the Duke ay into the private office at the horse Cuar(ls and got Cliffords appoinmeiit cancelled, just for a miserable five hundred pounds Jack won off the elder brother, that fel- low who died last year at Madeira. Shes the most dangerous woman in Europe. She does not care what she says, nor to whom she says it. Shed go up to the Queen at a drawing-room and make a complaint as soon as shed speak to you or me. As it is, she told their Excellencies here all that went on in your house, and I suppose scores of things that did not go on either, and said, And are you going to permit this man to be she did not remember what, but she said a high official under the Crown and are you going to receive his wife amongst your in- ~imates? What a woman she is! To hear her youd think her dear child, instead of being a strapping fellow of six feet two, was a brat in knickerbockers, with a hat and feather. The fellow himself must be a con- summate muff to be bullied by her; but then the estate is not entailed, they say, and theres a younger brother may come into it all. His chanees look well just now, for Lionel has got a relapse, and the doctors think very ill of him. I had not heard that, said Sewell, calmly. Oh, he was getting on most favourably was able to sit up at the window, and move a little about the room when, one morning Lady Traffbrd had driven over to the Lodge to luncheon, be stepped down stairs in his dressing-gown as he was, got into a cab, and drove off into the country. All the cabman could tell was that he ordered him to take the road to Rathfarn- ham, and said, Ill tell you by-and-by where to; and at last he said, Where does Sir William Lendriek live? and though the man knew the Priory, he had taken a wrong turn and got down to ask the road. Just at this moment a carria,,e drove by with two greys and a postilion. A young lady was inside with an elderly gentleman, and the moment Trafford saw her he cried out, There she is that is she! As hard as they could they hastened after; but they smashed a trace, and lost several minutes in repairing it, and as many more in finding out which way the carriage had taken. It was to Kingstown, and, as the eabman suspected, to catch the packet for Holyhead; for just as they drove up, the steamer edged away from the pier, and the carriage with the greys drove off with only the old man. Trafford fell back in a faint, and continued so, for when they took him Silt BROOK FOSSBROOKB. out of the cab at Biltons he was insen- sible. Beattie says hell come through it, but Macun thinks hell never be the same man again; hell have a hardening or a softening which is it? of the brain, and that hell befit for nothing. But a place in the viceregal household, perhaps. I dont imagine you want gold- medallists for your gentlemen-in-waiting ? We have some monstrous clever fel- lows, let me tell you. Halkett made a famous examination at Sandhurst, and Jocelyn wrote that article in Bells Life, The Badger Drawn at last. To come back to where we were, how are you to square matters with the Chief Baron? Are you going to law with him about this appointment, or are you about to say that I am the objection? Let me have a definite answer to this question.~~ We have not fully decided; we think of doing either; and we sometimes incline to do both. At all events, you are not to have it; thats the only thing certain. Have you got a cigar? No, not these things; I mean something that can be smoked? Try this, said Balfour, offering his case. Theyre the same as those on the chim- ney. I must say, Balfour, the traditional hospitalities of the Castle are suffering in their present hands. When I dined here the last time I was in town they gave me two glasses of bad sherry and one glass of a corked Gladstone; and I came to dinner that day after reading in Barrington all about the glorious fbstivities of the Irish Court in the olden days of Richmond and Bedford. Lady Trafford insists that your names your wifes as well as your own are to be scratched from the dinner-list. Sir Hugh has three votes in the House, and she bullies us to some purpose, I can tell you. I cant think how you could have made this woman so much your enemy. It is not dislike it is hatred. Bad luck, I suppose, said Sewell, care- lessly. She seems so inveterate, too; shell not give you up very probably. Women generally dont weary in this sort of pursuit. Couldnt you come to some kind of terms? Couldnt you contrive to let her know that you have no designs on her boy? Youve won money of him, havent you? I have some bills of his not for a very large amount, though; you shall have them at a bargain. I seldom speculate, was the dry re- joinder. You are right; nor is this the case to tempt you. Theyll be paid, I take it? Paid! Ill swear they shall! said Sewell fiercely. Ill stand a deal of humbug about dinner invitations, and cold saluta- tions, and suchlike; but none, sir, not one, about what touches a material interest. Its not worth being angry about, said Balfour, who was really glad to see the others imperturbability give way. Im not angry. I was only a little im- patient, a~ a man may be when he hears a fellow utter a truism as a measure of en- couragement. Tell your friends I sup- pose I must ca!l them your friends that they make an egregious mistake when~ they push a man like me to the wall. It is in- telligible enough in a woman to do it; women dont measure their malignity, nor their means of gratifying it; but men ought to know better. I incline to think Ill tell my friends nothing whatever on the subject. Thats as you please; but remember this if the day should come that I need any of these details you have given me this morning, Ill quote them, and you too, as their author; and if I bring an old house abont your ears, look out sharp for a falling chimney-pot! You gave me a piece of advice a while ago, continued he, as he put on his hat be- fore the glass, and arrauged his necktie. Let me repay you with two, which you will find useful in their several ways: Dont show your hand when you play with as shrewd men as myself: and, Dont offer a friend such execrable tobacco as that on the chimney; and with this he nodded and strolled out, humming an air as he croe~ed the Castle-yard and entered the city. 44 MR. BANCROFT AS THE YOUNG COLUMBLAN. From the Spectator, 3 March. MR. BANCROFT AS THE YOUNG COLUMBIAN. AMERICA does great things, but is too apt to say small and silly ones. This is certain- ly, we fear, the case with the great oration of Mr. Bancroft hefore the House of Rep- resentatives on the birthday of the late President, and it is the more to be re- gretted bbcause Mr. Lincoln of all Ameri- can statesmen, showed the most power of maintaining the dignity and reserve of his country, by reticence of feeling, and lumi- nous impartiality of thought. There was something singularly fatuous in celebrating the birth of so simply great and so humor- ously wise a man as Mr. Lincoln, by bom- bastic panegyrics on the greatness of America, and thrilling invectives against the iniquity of England and France. It is, we know, nearly the unforgivable sin in America to maintain that any part of Mr. Dickenss caricature is founded in truth; and we are well aware that our able and instructive New York Correspondent will convict us of showing ignorance so gross in what we are about to say, that Mr. Thomp- son, pointing to our bewilderment, may ob- tain a f4~esh chance of carrying his point with the University of Cambridge, getting the recent vote rescinded, and a Professor- ship of American history, literature, and in- stitutions, founded out of hand. Still even with this deep moral conviction of our doom before our eyes, we cannot help saying that Mr. Bancroft has apparently proved Mr. Dickenss Young Columbian to be a real and not a fictitious person. Was it not he who engaged in an ima~inary struggle with the British lion, very much like that in which Mr. Bancroft engaged heart and soul before the House of Representatives and the Senate the Seaatuspopulusque Amen- canus of Washington? Bring forth that lion, said the Young Columbian; I dare that lion, I taunt that lion; I tell that lion, that Freedoms hand once twisted in his mane he lies a corse before me, and the eagles of the great Republic laugh ha! ha! Mr. Bancroft was almost as impassioned. He indeed divided his metaphors, and kept the wild laughter of nature for the rebel- lious Southerners, and the corse for the British Constitution. Of the Slaveowners he said that they maintained that the slavery of the black man is good in itself he shall serve the white man for ever. And nature, which better understood the quality of fleeting interest and passion, laughed, as it eaught the iicho man and 45 for ever. Did Mr. Bancrofts audience laugh when they caught the echo miiu and for ever? We fear that Mr. Ban- croft understood his audience too well. But then why do American politicians like rant so very silly as this? When Mr. Roebuck the Cassius Clay of England, as he has been called speaks of England driving every American flag from the sea for ever, the House of Commons does laugh as it catches the echo of these tremendous words, and Mr. Roebuck is aware that he is es- teemed a goose. But let us see the equally impressive language which Mr. Bancroft uses of our dead Constitution. After he has fairly got the mighty winds blowing from every quarter to fan the flame of the sacred and unquenchable fire of liberty, a very curious meteorological phenome- non by the way, by the side of which the spiral hurricanes of the tropics seem devoid of all interest, Mr. Bancroft artfully intro- duces England looking coldly on at this curi- ous convergence of the winds. There was a kingdom, he says, with a grand indefinite- ness, whose people had in an eminent de- gree attained to freedom of industry and the security of person and property, but a people whose grasping ambition had dot- ted the world with military ports, kept watch over our boundaries on the North- East, at the Bermudas, in the West Indies, held the gates of the Pacific, of the South- ern and the Indian Oce~j~, hovered on our North-West a t Yancon ~r, held the whole of the newest continent, and the entrance to the old Mediterranean and the Red Sea, and garrisoned forts all the w y from Ma- dras to China. That aristocracy [which we conclude is the English] had gazed with terror on the growth of a common- wealth where freeholds existed by the mil- lion, and religion was not in bondage to the State, and now they could not repress their joy at its perils. Then, Lord Russell as Foreign Secretary had spoken of the late Union, and this giv~s our Young Cohum- bian his opportunity for his grand burst of invective; but it is written, Let the dead bury the dead. They may not bury the living. Let the dead bury their dead. Let a Bill of Reform remove the worn-out government of a class, and infuse new life into the British Constitution by confiding rightful power to the people. It was no doubt well that Mr. Baneroft pointed out the, impropriety of the dead burying the living, as the difficult and recondite charac- ter of the suggestion itself mi~ht otherwise have prevented the gross impropriety in- volved in that procedure from being clearly 46 MR. BANCROFT AS THE YOUNG UOL1JMBIAN. seen. While the vitality of America, i assailed, grave displeasure, if expressed at as Mr. Bancroft observes, is indestructi- all, should he expressed ncgativcly, by ble, the indeceney of burying her would weighty and impressive allusion. A m~ have been frightful, and it is well that the who feels he has grave cause of cifence etoquent orator has warned us in time. A against another may, if he meets him at country which had for its allies the river anothers table, ignore his acquaintance, or Mississippi which would not be divided, or recognize it by the coldcst of bows, but the range of mountains which carried the what should we think of his .dignity and st ronghold of the free through Western Vir- self-respcct if he began a regular assault ginia and Kentucky and Tennessee to the upon him in the presence of others, and a highlands of Alabama, an~ which invok- pompous enumeration of his grievances? ed the still higher power of immortal jus- The Americans are puzzled why we are so tice, would certainly have tested the. ut- unjust to them. Cannot Mr. Baricroft most energies of any dead nation to bury teach them the true cause? The true it, so that we might have been warned reason is that in England few are aware of off the task by considerations at least as ur- the significance of the silent qualities of gent as the moral impropriety of attempt- Americans their indomitable energy and in it. tenacity, their kindliness of temper, their Now this sort of nonsense would have love of freedom, their profoundly patriotic been worthy of no attention, however tran- feeling. But many hear their noisy folly, sient, if it had been uttered at a common and interpret its significance at something meeting on a common occasion. If Mr. far above what it deserves. How is it pos- Bancroft had spoken in Faneuil Hall, or sible to read such an oration as Mr. B n- Tammany Hall, or any other of the great crofts, the selected orator of a State cere- party meeting-places, we should have mony, and not feel something like scorn? thought just as little and just as much about What would not Mr. Gladstone have said it as we should of a lunatic speech from Mr. on any similar occasion as the spokesman Roebuck to his constituents at Sheffield, or of the English nation! What did he not an oration from Mr Beresford Hope on the say on one far less important only yesterday glories of slavery. But when an orator is week, when pressed to declare whether we selected by public or by official choice, and had applied to the Government of the Unit- speaks in the presence of Conress and the ed States to suppress the Fenian prepara- representatives of foreign nations on a great tions itr that country? Was not his lan- State occasion, the first qualities that we guage self-restrained, dignified, weighty, look for are dignity and reticence, and the and calculated to fill his audience with self- power of suppressing idle irritation; and if restraint and dignity also? Did he not tell he does not possess these qualities, some of us how poor and unworthy a figure England the discredit attaching to his folly and his would make, if she went whining to the weakness is necessarily inflicted on the offi- United States about their not doing for her cials who chose and the public who ap- what she had been, in her own case, so un- plauded him. We do not deny, indeed able if not reluctant to do for them? As wehave often maintained, and shall often to the comparative ~public conduct of Eng- have to maintain again, that England land and the United States as nations, there gave grave cause for offence to a great may of course be very different opinions. friendly people, by the needless and wilful It is natural and right that an American injustice of her prejudice with retard to a should believe that his own nation has far quarrel, in which, by all our antecedents excelled ours, and even the most prejodiced arid principles, we were bound to have of Englishmen may concede that we have taken the other side. We were heatily made blunders, and been guilty of injustice ashamed of the public tone of England which an American could not overlook. then, and we are net going to apologize for But as to the comparative public language it now. We believe that no American adopted by the two countries, it is impossi- could have spoken of Mr. Lincolns noble ble to feel any doubt. Mr. Seward himself, career, and the many and grave difficulties while wise in action, has been boastful and which he had to encounter, without a feeling vulgar upon paper. Arid now here is the of quiet but grave displeasure at the temper official spokesman of a great occasion acta- of the domin at class in England which ally decoying, as it were, the Ambassadors caused him so many of those difficulties, of foreign countries to come and hear theni- But on public and official occasions, and in selves denounced with all the insulting ges- the presence of those who, while they have ticuhatiou of a rhetorician making points for no power to reply, still reprasent the nation the galleries. Nor is this sort of thing ex MR. BANCROFT AS THE YOUNG COLUMBIAN. ceptional in the United States. There pub- lic mens mode of expressing themselves seems to be habitually so wanting in dignity and reticence, that it was long before the world began to believe that people who conid talk so big, were capable of the greatness in action which they have since shown. Mr. Bancroft is supposed to stand to th~ United States in something of the same relation in which Mr. Hallam once stood to England. And what would En~- lish society have thought of such an attack on a public occasion by Mr. ilallam, on the foreign countries whose Ministers had been invited expressly to hear him speak of the achievements of a great English states- man? If Mr. Thompsons proposal to found a lectureship of American history at Cambridge had not been already rejected, this folly on the part of one of the men who had been spoken of as possible nomi- nees for the lectureship, would probably have put a final end to the chances of the proposal. If the graver historians of Ameri- ca can shriek criticism of this sort on for- eign countries when they are supposed to be teaching the history of their own, for- eigners will scarcely he likely to profit much by their lessons. Cambridge under- graduates might not improbably indeed at- tend the lectures of A Young Columbian, in sufficient masses. It would he great fun to them to bear him challenging the British lion to come forth at oiice to the contest Here, said the Young Columbian, on this native altar, here, said th~ Young Columbian, idealizing the dining-table, on ancestral ashes, cemented with the blood poured forth like water on our native plains of ChiAubiddy Lick. But the instruc- tion derived from such lectures would be in- finitesimal, and the larks to which they would give rise would distract the authori- ties. How is it that Americans, with all their wonderful qualities, qualities in which, as we quite admit, they often far surpass their English cousins, cannot see the ne- cessity of bridling their tongues a little, if only in order to give weight to what they do say? How could any one hear Mr. Bancrofts rubbish, and not feel rather more than before that American talk is a little of the nature of wind? Sir Frederick Bruce, with notice, to some extent, of the assault to be made on him, quietly and wise- ly, we think, attended and sat out the non- sense, and we wish he had not thought it necessary, as we see he is reported to have done, to have refused to meet Mr. Bancroft subsequently in private. For our part, we should as soon have thought of refusing to meet a jester. The mischief of these fias- coes is not in any immediate effect, which is nil, but in the false impression they produce of the emptiness and vanity of one of the greatest and most earnest nations on ~he face of the earth. The erroneous Europe- an prejudice that braggadocio and a noble earnestness of purpose can never go to- gether is so strongly rooted, that a few offi- cial displays of Young Columbianism do al- most as much to eradicate the impression produced by the great actions of the great men of silence, like Lincoln, Grant, and Sherman, a~ if they were displays of un- stable national purpose, instead of mere symptoms of gas on the brain. Some of us know how false and injurious that notion is, but it obtains nevertheless, and it would do more to give America her true place among the nations, that her tongue should become a little less glib and her language a little less grandiloquent, than even that her actions should grow rapidly in magnitude, and her substantial statesmanship in wis- dom. JOHN BOHUN MARTIN, CAiTAIN or THE LONDON. KEEPING his word, the promised Roman kept Enough of worded breata to live till now. Our Regulus was free of piighted vow Or tacit debt; skies fell, seas leapt, storms swept; Death y woecl: with a mere step he might have stept To life. But the house-master would know how To do the masters honours: and did knows And did them to the hour of rest, and slept The last of all his house. 0, thou hearts- core Of truth, how will the nations sentence thee Hark! as loud Europe cries could man do more Great England lifts her head from her distress, And anssvers But could Englishmen do less Ah England! goddess of the years to be! SYDNEY DOBELL. Florence, Feb. 1866. Argosy. 47 THE MINISTER S SANDY AND JESS. From Frasers Magazine. THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. CHAPTER I. WHAT SANDY WAS TO BE. SANDY, Mr. Stewart the minister of Clovenfords only son, was to be a minister like his father and grandfather, who had both wagged their heads in pulpits before him. Second-si~ht had seen him in a Gene- va gown and pair of bands from the time he wore long-clothes and bibs. With the great end in view, many a day Sandy came, in fear and trembling from making hour-tree mills on the Hare Water, and playing shinty with his sister Jess and the neighbouring farmers sons on the coun- try roads, to construe his ~~cesar or his Sal- lust in the ministers little brown bedroom. Fifty years ago, Mr. Stewart was a Tory and an autocrat in rusty black, walking over his parish, not unlike Dr. Johnson, in snuff-brown, taking a turn down Fleet Street. The minister had made a love marriage. Mrs. Stewart had been an orphan, with a a very slender patrimony a parlour boarder of the Miss Allardyces, the old la- dies who from time immemorial had kept the boarding-school in the neighbouring town of Woodend. Mr. Stewart had met his fate at a Woodend subscription ball, when it was customary for ministers to car- ry to balls their white neckcloths and silver shoe-buckles as a testimony in favour of in- nocent enjoyment, and as a protest against Dissent and Jacobinism. There he succumbed in a single evening to Miss Jean Clephanes dancing, though he did not dance a step himself. The marriage was a happy one. Mrs. Stewart paid the minister loving homage as the greatest and best of men, and called him lord and master to the extent of keep- ing her bedroom scrupulously free for his study, and spending the choicest of her ac- complishments in needlework on the plaited frills of his shirts and the openwork of his bands. In his turn, Mr. Stewart was ten- der to his wife, brouJht home what he sup- posed her taste in gaudy caps and spencers, as connubial gifts, on the striking of the fiars and the meetings of Presbytery, Synod, and Assembly; took notice of her pets, her flowers, her work for Mrs. Stewart was almost as great in knitted bed-covers, tent- stitch-worked chairs, and cambric flowers, as Mrs. Delany; humoured her in her hab- its, squiring her three evenings a week in summer, when she walked with her shawl over her head to the Kames, t6 see the sun set behind the Beld Law, until the servants and the country people called the beaten footpaths through the corn and the clover the Minister and the Leddys Walk. The manse children consisted of Sandy and Jess; and it was a common remark with regard to the two, that Sandy should have been Jess, and Jess Sandy. Sandy was not a scapegrace and a num- skull. He was a bonnie laddie, very like his mother both in her sweet, fair, sunshiny face, and her sannuile, sensitive, imagina- tive temperament. He was a shade thought- less as regarded a divinity studied in pro- spective, with a greater bent for drawing on the margins of his books and copies, and every scrap of paper he could come by, wonderfully faithful transcripts of the hills, and woods, and streams around Cloven- ford, and clever comical likenesses of the master, his schoolfellows, and his acquain- tances, than for severe reading. But his father was persuaded that sedate- ness and application would come to Sandy with riper years; and except in one in- stance, when he punished the lad with aus- terity for depicting the manse cat with a pair of bands round its neck, holding forth from a water-stoup to the cocks and hens, and the rats peeping from the stacks in the glebe yard, calling the sketch a profane and scurrilous jest, he did not trouble himself much about Sandys short-comings. Sandy was the apple of the ministers eye, secret- ly; while openly, the father addressed the son by The comprehensively disparaging corruption mm, a term which, in Scot. land, with the alteration of one letter, con- verts the honourableappellation man into an ostentatiously condescending and slight- ly contemptuous soubriquet. Oh, mm, is that all youre good for? There was more lost at Flodden, mm. And it was true Sandy would have worked a more wonder- ful sampler, and proved a meeker and more gracious woman than Jess, for whom, with a spice of chivalry, all Mr. Stewarts outward favour was reserved. As for Jess Stewart, she would have re- sponded speedily to her fathers wishes but for the trifling accident of having been born a girl, coupled with the Apostle Pauls pro- hibition to a woman. She would have made a fine minister frank, straightforward, im- perative, with a passionate tongue when she was roused; having a real relish for the solid study of history and geography, in opposition to the practise of the spinnet and the execu- tion of satin pieces in the Miss Allardyces course of instruction. But there was nothing unwomanly or re 48 THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. pulsive in Jess, on the contrary, as she out- grew the boisterousness of her childhood when she distressed her mother by playing more uniformly at boys games (Sandy in his tender years took up with ~n old-fash- ioned, hard-featured doll, Jesss rejected property), and destroyin~ three times as many clothes as Sandy, there was the pros- pect of her growing up a woman of noble proportions. There was a charm in Jesss fresh, candid, intelligent face her short, thick black curls in a crop about her brow and neck; her tall, broad-shouldered, firm, erect figure at least eqnal to that of San- dys bright blue eyes, sanguine complexion, and slight but active, long, elegant limbs. Jess was the young queen of the parish, and the position lent her an ease, a power, an air of born authority and command which became the girl, and which did not leave her when she passed from the yeo- mens houses to those of the gentry, where she could claim no precedence of birth and breeding, and where, on the other hand, her best cloth mantle and white muslin frock were homely and out of dat& Young Adam Spottiswoode, of Birkholm, his own master, who opened the balls at Woodend, would rather dance a reel with the minis- ters than a minuet with the members daughter. Jess could dance minuets,too; a little French dancing-master, a poor emi- gni, had imported the true Miauets de la Cour at the service of the public of Wood- end, but Jesss reels wee something in- spiriting. Again, Jess, with the few old and ailing men and women who were on the box (that is, parish paupers), with bairns, with her mothers endless trains of calves, chick- ens, does, cats, pigeons, laverocks, linties, was also beyond compare. Jess, carrying a stray lamb in her arms, or a broken-wing- ed bird in her bosom, showed unmistakably whether she was womanly that is, moth- erly or no. iDlovenford kirk and manse, with moss, lichen, and weather-stain doing something to redeem the barn and bothy order of ar- chitecture, lay in a nest of wooded and bare hills. The parish did not have the grander and more peculiar features of Scot- tish landscape neither the height nor the breadth of savage mountains and moors, where the eagle rears her bloody-beaked young, and the whaup cries dreary. But it had the Fir Tap and t~he Beld Law, the hare Water and the Den of blackthorns and whitethorns, crabs and jeans, ending in the feathery birks and~ stiff dark-green boxes and hollies round tihe old white house FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. 1. 4. of Birkholiri. The fields were all heights and hollows, sunshine and shade, like d un- pled faces. There were hedges tedded with dog-roses and honeysuckles; water-courses yellow with kingcups; feal-dykes nodding with harebells, and twittering with the swallows nestling beneath their eaves. At Clovenford manse the servant lasses still span and sane ballants every afternoon on the bink by the kitchen-fire in winter, and at the back door in summer. Andro Cornfoot, the ministers man, lived with his deaf wife and his eatecheesed laddie, the ministers herd, in the thatched cot- tage at the manse offices, came to the house every evening and was present with the family at the worship, when the minister commended his house, people, kirk, country, and the world to the care of the Great Crea- tor. Andro came again at sunrise to awake the lasses, and to speak in at the ministers window and tell him what the weather was like, never thinking to avert his light grey- green fishy eyes from the nightcap, broad- bordered, and with a. large bow right over the forehead, which bore the picturesque Kilmarnock cowl lovin~ company on the pillow. The cloud, the size of a mans hand, in the Cloveuford sky began with the expenses of Sandys college terms ; notwithstanding they were met without flinching, bravely borne, and every member of the family took a part in defraying them. The minister trudged many a long and weary mile to do duty at neighbouring kirks and canonical meetings, in place of hiring a gig from the Cro n in Woodend. Mrs. Stewart gave up much of her visiting, for the reason that she was de- licate and unable to accompany the minis- ter in his long walks. Jess could walk the best, and thought nothing of crossingthe parish, six miles from one end to the other, and dancing half the night afterwards; but Jess was called on to resign all the little ad- vantages and enjoyments such as even the farmeri daughters could claim. These were her going to Edinburgh and lodging with her Aunt Peggy, the writer to the sig- nets widow, in the High Street, and there learning to bake pastry and cut out patterns for her gowns; and her attending the dan- cing and singing classes for grown-np ladies and gentlemen, opened every winter in Woodend. The very table at the manse was rendered plainer and more frugal on Sandys account. The box which travelled every fortnight with the carrier to Edin- burgh seemed to carry away all the dainties. Mrs. Stewart relinquished her little cup of tea in the morning, protesting she found it 49 50 THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. bad for her nerves, and made a fashion of stockings were a fond transfer of the last supping porridge along with the minister and pair of six-and-thirty shillings worth a Jess. The minister denied himself his bit present to Mrs. Stewart, in handsome dis- of Stilton cheese and glass of Edinburgh ale count from the gallant old b chelor, the after dinner, pretending they made him true kirk man, in his snuff-brown wig and sleepy. Jess had to be more sparing in pre- purple rig and fur stockings, whom she serving the fruit, though it was hanging in called genteelly her merchant in Wood- abundance in the garden, and the whole end. Mrs. Stewart would ten times rather cost was the sugar; and to substitute for see the stockings on Sandys legs than her the old home-brewed wines, the currant, own, that for once she might have the plea- ginger, elder-flower, and elder-berry wel- sure of looking on her bonnie laddie in the come cordials to the sick of narrow means, guise of a fine gentleman, as gentlemen at who knew no better the still humbler the Queens levees and State footmen still beverage of treacle beer. figure. It was neither just nor generous in At first all these sacrifices, regarded as Mr. Stewart to taunt Sandy with his moth- temporary in their nature, were made light ers silk stockings, and to add the gratuitous of. But as sessions came and went, and reflection that puppies neither cared where SandN- brought home no honours, got no their indulgences came from nor to what bursary to ease the burden, no private they led; but the ministers big heart was teaching, except once a summer tutorship, sore. they pressed more heavily. On the other side, Sandy had a hasty as The fact was, that young Snndy Stew- well as an affectionate temper, and was in art, in the most critical years of his life, in constant danger of rebutting unfair asper- place of settling down to hard head work, sions, and speaking back to his father words was flightier and more prone to trifling as ilfeonsidered and unjustifiable in the cir- it was regarded at Clovenford than ever. cuinstances. He showed himself addicted to company; Mrs. Stewart, moving gently about in her not bad company a true son of the manse little apple-green shawl, filled in with what could not at once have degraded himself so manufacturers and women call pines, and far without great moral corruption but to the cap of her own netting as fine as gossa- free mixed company, the company at bar- mer, a light cloud about a face still fair and vest-homes, fairs, and the clubs, in which delicate too fair and delicate for her years Woodend aped more famous places. Gen- was kept with both body and mind on the tiemen of higher decree than the iginisters rack, acting as a mediator between her two Sandy the young Laird of Birkholm, for sovereigns. instance and even ladies, the eccentric old Yet, Mr. Stewart had not swerved for a dowagers and spinsters of the period, fre- moment from his purpose, and never sup- quented these scenes blamelessly; but no posed that Sandy had committed any grave one of them was to be a minister a Presby- offence to forfeit what was in a sort his in- terian divine, whom a single breath of scan- heritance. Mr. Stewart knew full well dal was sufficient to blast. that many a distinguished divine and good The word was not widely applied then, man had begun life by sowing a crop of but Smdy was tainted with Bohemianism. wild oats. Could the minister have been And tie lad was still fonder of making aware of it, his heart might have been com- facsimiles o the rural and genial life, maui- forted by the seeming coincidence that grey mate and an~mated, he loved; the very ma- old St. Regulus was ringing at that moment terials a waste of money, and the practice, with the characteristic exploits of Mad which mio it have been amusing enouch to Tam Chauniers, as Scotland was yet to his family in other circumstances, miserable ring with the virtues and renown of her child p1 y~ in a lacking divinity student. great orator and philanthropist. And the Lne~ of c e began to be drawn on Mr. minister would spare his bread as well ~s Stc~~ art s uli massive face. He left off, his cheese; he would take off his coat, and with scorn(ul magnanimity, inquiring into break stones by a dyke side for days wages, his sons progress in his classes, when the re- if the laws of the kirk and his parishioners suit was invariably disappointment; but he would suffer it, sooner than Sandy should sufiered his tongue to scoff bitterly at the miss his natural call to do his family, his degeneracy of the times, and the effeminate parish, it might be his country and the puppyisni of birkies who put their pride world, credit. in tying up their hair with ribands, and It was Jess who came to a different con- sportin~, tights and silk stockings. elusion. It was Jess who declared plainly The ribands at least were cheap, and the in her secret chamber, I dont believe our THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. Sandy will ever be a minister. Better he should not if he do not put more heart into his work, or he will cover himself and us with disgrace, and brine down his fathers and mothers grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. It is not so long since Mr. Home was put out of the kirk for writing a play; and Sandy has songs, though he has not ser- moris, flying loose about his room when I go in to make up his bed; it is well it is not one of the lasses who sees them. He brags of going every night to the theatre when Mrs. Siddons is in Embro (I wonder where the price of his tickets comes from); and. I am sure, if the Assembly put out one man for writing a play, they could not in honesty keep in another whose pencil is never out of his hand. I catched him drawing the bethel and Miss Mysie Wedderhurn below the book-board at the very summing up of the heads last Sabbath; and his excuse was, he must have their heads out of his head to be at peace to listen. He cares a deal more for the glint of a sunny shower, or the gloom of a thunder-storm, ~6r the crook of a scrag of a tree, or the red of a gipsys torn cloak, than ever I could see he care(l for the bearing of a doctrine. What about the minister of Dnddingstoneless? I would like anybody to tell me whether he was not licensed, presented, called, and placed, before he was known, to gentle and simple, as a drawing-master? If Sandy would but mind his own business. I have no faith in a man, however quick, who does not mind his own business. There is Birk- holm, as good a judge of a straight rig, or a round stack, or a head of nowt, as ever a farmer in the country; yet he kept his terms at an English university, and he is a member of the Hunt, and well his red coat sets him. it was Jess who grew to grudge, almost fiercely, every shilling spent on Sandy. Yet deal gently with Jesss memory, for she was no miser, and she was the chief suffer- er. She had her fathers sense of justice outraged without any of the blindness which accompanies a besetting desirQ; and Jess was sensible that Sandys idleness and extravagance were fatally depressing the balance in which hung the fortunes of her life. Adam Spottiswoode of Birkholm liked Jess, and there was no constraint on his will beyond the influence of his three sisters, whom he could shake off or bring round to submission at his pleasure. Jess Stewart would be a poor but not an unsuitable mate for the Laird of Birkholm; and far beyond the consideration of the white house at, 51 Birkholm being a grand dowusetting for a portionless bride, Jess liked the comely, courteous, frank young laird not half so clever as Jess herself, or Sandy, but a tract- lye by the goodly clamour of his superiour birth and breeding, with the manly, hon- ourable character corresponding to it. Adam Spottiswoode and Jess Stewart had a kindness for each other; but so long as it was no more than a kindness, or tender fancy, it was no stigma on their liking to say that if the couple had no opportunity of meeting, it would die the death of starva- tion gradually on the womans part, more rapidly on the mans.~ There should be a middle ground for the liking to wax into love. There Was no middle ground left to the couple; for the kirk, where Birkholm took his seat in the Birkholrn loft, fronting the ministers bucbt, and where he and Jess were not always so en- grossed with the sermon (in spite of Jesss despotism to other people with regard to their treatment of the heads) as they should have been, was not a middle ground. Poor Jess had no longer gloves, shoes, sashes, to go to the subscription balls in Woodend and the parties in the country- houses: and when the manse family had to dismiss one of the servants, and Jesss hands got red and her face blowsy with continued house-work and garden-work, she felt more and more that, without the commonest fin- ishes to her toilette, she was no longer fit to appear in refined society and be Birkholms chosen partner. Birkliolm attempted one greats advance. Spas were then Ihe height of fashion not foreign spas, but native and not so much as fountains of health but as favourite re- sorts, where men and women saw the world, met every morning in the pump-room, drove together every afternoon, two by twoin high- pitched gigs, to all the show-houses and breezy views in the neighbourhood, and danced together a couple of long country- dances without sitting down, under the coun- tenance of a master of the ceremonies in pumps, and with the powder in his hair not blown away by the tempest of the French Revolution. Birkholm bribed an accommo- dating married cousin and one of his sisters, by their share of the gaiety, to invite Jess Stewart to accompany them for a fortnight to one of the Wells. The excursion would have been like an admission to the Elysian fields, with the temple of Hymen at the end of the principal vista, to Jess. It would have been the gala of the girls life, and she would assuredly have come home from it en- gaged to Birkholm, and counting herself, THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. with reason, the happiest woman in the world. But noblesse oblige in all noble ranks. The project had become simply out of the question. Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, and Jess herself; would not submit to Birkholms pay- ing Jesss share of the travelling expenses, which, in the days of travelling post, were a serious calculation to families with mode- rate incomes. But the Stewarts could and would have made a push to afford the nei*ssary sum had not Sandys delay at college and want of success rendered it im- possible. And Mr. and Mrs. Stewart were deficient in th~ir duty to their daughter, and made no account of Birkholms atten- tions to her, because they had forgotten similar passages in their youth in the trouble of their middle age. Jess said to herself she did not want any- bodys regrets, and told the world she did not care for jaunting she found too much to do among the spring calves and chickens at the manse and carried her high head as high, and looked as strong, stately, and blooming as ever. And the worst of it was, Birkhoim believed her, and was as much piqued as the slightness of the rela- tion between them permitted. The pros- perous young laird could not altogether comprehend the straitness of the manse finances, and drew his inferences from them. He went off in a huff to enjoy himself at the Wells without the hard-hearted mis- tress for whose sake he had planned the hol- iday not so much to enjoy himself either, as to prove to Jess that he could be foolish to the top of his bent without her. So Jess was cut to the heart by hearing rumour~ presently, now that Birkholm was on the eve of his marria~, e with a beauty and fortune he had been introduced to at the Wells; now that he and other young men had indulged in frolics for which the license of the time offered some apology, but which were far more culpable than any follies of Sandys, and to put the matter on the lowest footing, were far from be- comin~ in the young man who aspired to the honour of being the ministers son-in-law. And if Birkholm were utterly lost to Jess, or if he should turn out wild and come to grief, would not Jess lay that to Sandys charge as the heaviest portion of the debt he owed her? CHAPTER II. WHAT SANDY WA5. To desert his post and renounce the highest commission a man can carry to starve, or feed off the great as a painter of false faces, an idolater of stocks and stones jve me patience. The minister had need of patience when he received the letter with the tidings that Sandy, after passing through Ibur of his years at college, with what effort the family knew, had abandoned the ministry and adopted the profession of a painter. Mrs. Stewart and Jess were amazed and appalled beyond presuming to say a word. it is difficult to measure, at present the headlong downfall of Sandy in those good peoples estimation. Though they were fa- miliar with his passion from his earliest years, they had not once contemplated the probability of his taking to painting as a calling. It was not that Mr. Stewart had any puri- tanical scruples as to the lawfulness of art. But Mr. Stewart had no scruple as to the lawfulness of dancing, and that would not have reconciled him greatly to Sandys be- comin~ a dancing-master. Actually, old M. Le Roy, the dancing-master, had a far more accredited and dignified position, both socially and morally, at Woodend than any of the poor portrait-painters who had found their way there. And it was not the pov- erty of the trade that was its crowning drawback. The minister, like all wise, honest men Scotchmen particularly had a due respect for wealth and its power; but the ministers of the Kirk of Scotland bad also need to be disinterested, and their hardy habits of mind and body were not much affected by the prospect of poverty. But though the minister had little doubt that Sandy would starve, or lead a life of misei~able dependence, perhaps vicious com- promise, it would not have made a material difference in this case had the minister been acquainted with the changes in the world which put a moderate competence within Sandys reach, and caused the step he had taken to be within the bounds of righ reason. Sandy was right that, in the Mint burgh of the day, not only was there a won derful and glorious maiden literature among the writer lads, Whom the minister classed together rather contemptuously, but paint- ing, as an art, for the first time coyly blushed and smiled as a true sister of the belles lettres, which Mr. Stewarts cloth did not altogether despise when Robertson wrote history and Blair rhetoric. Runcimans painting of the Clerks of Penicuiks house seemed to promise a new era never at- tained, such as prevailed at Venice when Tintoretto and Paul Veronese painted mar- ble palaces both within and without. Bet- 52 TUE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. ter still, a national academy was really to confer status and impart instruction wher~i youthful genius was concerned. But what was the struggling infancy of art to the minister, who indulged in the pictorial faculty in his own way, and quite another way, by drawing Sandy, as he had fondly hoped, standing up severe in youthftil heauty, not unlike one of Miltons archangels, sway- ing by the breath of his mouth for their sal- vation multitudes in simple country kirks, or in what the Reformation had spared of rich abbeys and cathedrals in towns and cit- ies; and again, Sandy, haggard and sordid and soiled, haggling with Jewish dealers, whom Mr. Stewart confounded with pawn- hrokers; or journeying wearily from town to town, taking in scanty orders, and flatter- ing obsequiously the owners of the puffed- up, vulgar, mean faces which he copied with secret disgust? Mr. Stewart did not absolutely forbid Sandy his course, or threaten him with ut- ter reprobation if he pursued it, because the ministers reasonable soul, in the mid- dle of his wrath and mortification, revolted at violence. He wrote to his son in stern reproach and rehuke. Sandy defended himself like a creature at hay, and refused to force himself into the priesthood, for which Providence could not have designed him, since he had not the necessary qualifi- cations. Mr. Stewart, beside himself, accused Sandy of goin~, nigh to blaspheming of proposing to take Providence into his own hands. Afterwards, Sandy came home for a few days; a wretched visit, when his father never addressed him directly beyond helping him at table, and his mother lookit in his face as if her gaze would melt stone. Sandy was now as stone to his father; for the sweet temper of the lad had been goaded and driven to the point when sweet tempers steel themselves to doggedness, less hopeful and tractable in its despair than any amount of original ar- rogance and perversity. Sandy saw that he had broken the family circle and rendered himself an alien from it. He said to his mother and Jess that he had better go away and fight his battle for himself, and it would be best that they should not hear the accounts, because these would only cause fresh strife and condem- nation. Some day they might see he had not been so far wrong. Sandy watched his opportunity; and one fine harvest-day, when the minister, the servants, and Audro Cornfoot, who hr~d borne the young minister on his back many a sunny morning lang-syne, were all abroad engaged in the ingathering of the glebe corn, he kissed his mother and shook hands with Jess, and departed without other leave-taking or blessing out into the world, which is generally cold enough for a penniless painter, taking no more with him than the stick and the wallet of one of the wandering apprentices of the kindly land of Wilhelm Meister. When the minister returned and found his sons place vacant, he must have guessed that Sandy was gone; but he made no sign. Wandering apprentices are general- ly good pedestrians, and wonderfully en- dowed with friends; but when the first touch of frost nipped Mrs. Stewarts gilly- flowers that night, Sandys mother dreamt of him lying down like Jacob, with a stone for a pillow, but unlike Jacob, the heir of the promises, under the serene sky of Palestine, rather like an Esan , gettin~ his death of cold, shivering under l~he grey clouds and the bleak wind, by the bare Scottish roadside. The door of the manse was thenceforth shut against Sandy; his name became a forbidden sound, not only as that of a stickit minister and the Scotch, with grim humour, deride a failure in proportion as they applaud an achievement in a favour- ite line but as an ill-doer. Neighbours carefully avoided mentioning Sandy to his family, while they talked loudly among themselves, and pitied the poor Stewarts for the sore hearts they had got from the prodigality and ingratitude of their only son. The minister strove manfully not to visit his pain on the blameless women-folk. He was so far left to himself as to call Andro a pompous idiot, and the herd an impudent blackguard; but they were of the same sex as the delinquent, and in that light fair game. He refrained from ebul- litions of temper to his wife and daughter, and was considerate, forbearing, almost carressing, to poor Mrs. Stewart who, in her coming and going about her house, was for- ever coming in contact with the empty kist which had passed to and fro for many happy years, as they looked now, stored with her choicest provisions for Sandy, and bringing Sandys clothes to his mothers care, while in her drawer up-stairs lay the pair of silk stockings which in the pride of her heart she had made Sandy sport when he was the escort of his sister and the darling of the young people at the Woodeud parties far before Birkholm in his mothers esti- mation. To Jess the minister turned with open 53 THE MINISTER S SANDY AND JESS. arms, saying nothing to admit that he had overlooked and injured her, but with some- thing almost pathetic in his dumb determin- ation to make up by every species of indulgence for the irrevocable past. But with all this courage and kindness, the ministers disappointment sat stiffly on him. To escape from its influence he busied himself in his studies, and became more polemical and dogmatic. He shrank from meeting his brethren of the Presby- tery, over whom he bad rei~,ned supreme, and to some of whom, with sons of their own, he had allowed himself, in the fulness of his heart, to boast of the career he had carved for his son, and before whorh Sandy had humbled him in the dust for none of their sons had turned fiddlers, the only vo- cation to which Mr. Stewart could com- pare that of a painter. He shrank from his very parishioners unless in the way of duty as a clergyman, discontinuing largely his share of the old pleasant neighbourly visiting. Peace was restored to Clovenford, but the heartache there was acute and inces- sant. Almost the only event and it was never spoken of was the arrival of one or two foreign newspapers, with foreign postmarks, addressed to Mrs. Stewart in Sandys handwriting, which proved that Sandy had managed to go abroad to follow his studies, possibly as a travelling tutor.; but his family knew ~nothing about him. Mr. Stewart could not have interdicted the newspapers, and he did not throw them into the fire; but he never looked at them, though he alone could have read any part of their contents. To Mrs. Stewart and Jess the newspapers were a dead letter; but the moment the minister had gone to his books, Mrs. Stewart unfolded them, spread them out on her knee, regarded them wistfully, as if their hierolyphics could tell her something of Sandy; and had they only anticipated modern improvements, and con- veyed to her woodcuts, they mi~,ht have spoken to her in appropriate language of her boy. At last she folded them up and deposited them carefully where they were all found one day, in the drawer with her best gown and the silk stockings, as if she waited for the arrival of a scholar of Cloven- ford who would bring back the key and unlock the mystery occasioned by the con- fusion of tongues. Sandy went away in the harvest, and towards the close of the next spring, Birk- holm, who had been in Edinburgh all the winter with his sisters, came back to his own house, and called afterwards at the manse to announce the marria~,e of his eldest sister to a gallant naval captain, who had been fortunate in obtaining prize money, was on shore only for a short time, and as he was already posted to another ship, and had no time to lose, had so expedited mat- ters that he wanted Mr. Stewart to tie the knot at once at Birkholm. It is said that one marriage lightly turns a roving fancy to the thought of a~~other; and with more shyness to cover his anxiety, the young laird alluded to his sisters ex- pectation that Miss Stewart would pay her the compliment of being present at the ceremony, and would remain a few days at Birkholm as company for his youngest sister Nancy, because Effle was to accompany Betsy, the bride, in the capacity of brides- maid. Mr. and Mrs. Stewart were altogether propitious, and very nl.ad that Jess, who had lived a dull life for a long time, should have the grand entertainment, when to their astonishment Jess declined the invita- tion for herself with the greatest prompt- ness and decision, wished Miss Spottiswoode every happiness, hoped to see her before she left the country, but regretted that she had engagements at home which would prevent her having the honour and pleas- ure of being one of the company at the wedding, and staying behind the other guests to console Miss Nancy thus send- ing off the laird with another flea in his ear, and vowing vehemently to have noth- ing more to say to a haughty hizzie, though she was his early flame, Jess Stew- art, ten times over. Jess, my woman, why did you give Birkholm the cold shoulder when he came on so kind an errand? If it is for the pur- pose of making yourself of consequence, and if the lad be of my mind, he will not put himself in your power again, madam, observed the minister, with affected light- ness. He need not try it, answered Jess, shortly. And you are not like your mother, per- sisted the minister, changing his clue; for if I know her, she would be wild to this day to dance at a wedding, and have the chance of walking every day in Birkholm Den, when the birks are shaking out their buds and smelling like balm, and there are more primroses on a single bank than in the whole of her garden beds. My dancing days are over, minister, Mrs. Stewart told him, with a shake of the 54 55 THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. head, but a smile; still a wedding is a bonnie sight, and I should like very well to walk down the Den again and fill my lap full of primroses, and sit and rest, and get a drink, and gather the hyacinths round the Lady Well, and listen to the throstle in the thorn, if I were as good a walker as I have been. I cannot think what has come over our Jess. Jess made no reply till the minister was gone, and her mother began to press her gently for an explanation of her conduct. Then she raised a pair of bent black brows, and opened her lips. Mother, do you think I ha~ie no feeling? Do you think, because I first stood up against Sandy, that I have no regard for my own brother? Would I go and enjoy myself, and not know what has become of Sandy, or what he may have to bear? Adam Spottiswoode used to be Sandys friend: he might have more sense than ask me such a gate. Mrs. Stewart said not another word. But the minister was troubled at Jesss reticence, cast about in his mind for a cause or a cure, and stumbled on one of his old acts of lavish generosity, and extraordinary misconception of his daughters taste and of the laws of harmony. He surprised her by the arrival from her mothers merchants shop in Woodend of a gown of yellow crape, with a pink silk scarf to match. After Jess had overcome the shock at the sight of the articles, and her resolution to find they were not for lier, she took them up in her arms and went straight with them into the ministers study. Well, Jess, what is in the wind now? Have you changed your mind about going to the marriage at Birkholm? he demand- ed, looking up from Campbell on Miracles, and pretending ignorance and innocence. To the ministers consternation, Jesss tears, kept for special occasions, began sud- denly to fall like rain. Father, do not think that I do not value your presents. I shall wear the one or the other at the kirk whenever the weather will permit, and as long as two threads hang to~ether. But I cannot go to Birkholm: it is not fit that I should go and show off among the fine folk there, when somebody who has as good a right to your favour as I have, and wants it far more, has to live without. Jess, is it a fit return for my kindness that you should be so bold as question my judgment? I forbid you to speak another word to me on the subject of your brother. The minister dared her with flashing eyes, and conquered her so far as to drive her from his presence to burst out to her mother Mother, my father is cruel to Sandy; we have all been cruel to him. And what has he done to lose a sons place? It is we who have brought reproach upon him. .Where is the righteousness and the mercy of laying burdens on other mens backs? I do not care whether he is ever to be a fine painter; I am not sure that I have seen a fine painting in my life; but he was free to be a painter if he liked. I never thought more of Sandy than when he walked out at the gate, with his stick in his hand, last harvest; he was a petted lad be- fore, but he was a proud man then. If I catch any mortal man save my father look- ing down on Sandy, I will never speak to him again. And for my rather, I say he is hard to Sandy. He need not think that I will take my pleasure, and Sandy cast off for a lads madness (I wonder why they profess that to the pure all things are pure, if Sandy was not as innocent as a bairn) or that I will flaunt like a butter- fly, when, for aught I can tell, my brother Sandy, who was a hundred times more dutiful and pleasant than I have ever been, may be pining in a garret or perishing in the streets. Oh! whisht, Jess, whisht, implored Mrs. Stewart. Why do you bid me whisht, mother; why do you not interfere? cried Jess, worked into a noble passion, sweeping back- wards and forwards through the confined space of the manse parlour, herself like a mother robbed of her young. Why do you not stand up for Sandy? He is your son, and you liked him, with reason, twice as well as your daughter. I would not suffer my fathers tyranny. Jess, Jess, you do not know what you are saying. I could not rebel against the minister. And do not you misjudge your father: he groans in his sleep; and think how good a man he is. And oh, Jess! you cannot mind, but I can, how he took the candle and held it over Sandy in the cra- dle. And when your little sister died, and your father at the Glenork preachings, and I sent the nearest elder to meet him to break to him the distress at home, he guessed it before Mr. Allan could get out the words. He was always a sharp man, your father, and he just put up his hand and pled with the messenger, Not Sandy; tell me it is not Sandy. It was not that he was not fond of his lasses, Jess, you know; but they could not bear his name and uphold his Masters credit as his lad would do. Though Mrs. Stewart (lid nothing could do nothing, when Jess came to think of it, sobbing in her own room in the reac 56 THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. tion after her recantation, both for Sandy art passed away with her love, perhaps like and for Birkholm, from that days confi- most great love, silent. dence mother and daughter were knit to- But when all was over, Jess thought with gether as they had not been before. In the a breaking heart of the ignorance of him beginning Jess had been a little too vigo- who had most cause to mourn, and of his rous and energetic for her mild, tender place filled by others less entitled to be mother; but Mrs. Stewart clung to Jess in there on the day when the wife and mother the end with mingled fond respect, deep was borne to her grave beside her baby who gratitude, and yearning affection. had passed from her mothers bosom to the On Sabbath days, when the minister left bosom of the second mother of us all, the his wife in the kirk porch to go into the ses- earth, who, if she had lived, would have sion-room, it was on Jesss arm that Mrs. been an older woman than Jess; and beside Stewart now leant for the short distance up the old divines who had filled the ministers the aisle to the ministers bucht, on the right pulpit, and their faithful wives, of centuries hand of the pulpit. On the few other oc- back, in the grassy kirkyard within sight of casions when she crossed her thrseshold, the windows of her old home, where a stormy while she was able to move about among wind might carry the leaves from her gar- her flowers, or stroll to the Kames for den and scatter them on the mound. That the spectacle of the setting of the sun, mound, whether white with May gowans or which shone on other lands besides Scot- December snows, would never be out of the land, she sought to have Jess on the one ministers and Jesss minds, and near it dis- side of her and the minister on the other tance-divided families and former neigh- Another peculiarity of Mrs. Stewarts hours would still meet and be glad to have this summer was her struggle against her their crack in the kirkyard, and not for- feebleness, her efibrts to convince herself get to say softly in her praise what a fine and others that she was gaining strength, gentlewoman the ministers wife had been, the eagerness with which she applied every and how the minister, poor man, would miss means for the restoration of her health her. new milk, port wine, even to the homely, If Adam Spottiswoode had been at Birk- uncouth superstitions of a stocking fi~om holm, Jess might have applied to him in the ministers foot wrapped round her her desperation to learn if he had heard throat at night, and the breath of the cows anything of Sandy, and to beg of him to in the cow-house the first thing of a morn- intercede with her father for his son. But ing. It was as if something had happened Birkholm was absent at the moors, and Jess which would not let her die when her time had respect for her fathers affliction, and came. would not torture him to no end. There- It was well for Jess that she was much fore Mr. Stewart and Jess bore the brunt with her mother during the summer, and of that dark day the darker that it was that their communion was that of perfect in the height of summer, the prime and love; for before the summer was ended pride of the year alone, but for sorrowing Mrs. Stewart was attacked by a sudden in- neighbours and dependents. crease of illness, and after a weeks suffer- When Mr. Stewart returned to the ing was gone where she might have clear manse after the funeral party was dispers- intelligence of Sandy, to which all the ed, and retired to his room, Jess could not knowledge of this world would have been intrude on him. It was the room to which no more than the discordant words of an he had brought her a bride, and she had unknown tongue. died in it. It was her room now while his There could have been no time to write time of the manse lasted, though she had va- for Sandy, even had the minister and Jess cated it humbly during her life. Jcss had known where he was to be found, and Mrs. too much fellow-feeling with her father not Stewart had not asked for her son. No to divine that no hand but his own would immediate danger had been anticipated by be suffered to dispose of its mistresss little the doctor, or apprehended by the patient shawl and cap, which in the hurry of her and her relations, until within a few hours last illness had been put on the side-table of her death, and then speech and in part among his books. He would see them consciousness had failed her. Unless the there, sitting in the gloaming at his mcdi- look of the eyes, which, heavy with their tations, and half believe that her light foot last long slumber, roused themselves to at her feeblest it was a light one s*iarch round the room, once and again, re- would be heard again on the threshold, and ferred to the absence of Sandy, Mrs. Stew- her fair faded face, which had been to him THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. as none other but Sandys, would look in~ upon him, smiling while she asked some sim- ple kind question Why was he sitting without a light? Was he sure he had shift- ed his feet on coming in from christening the bairn at the Cotton Bog? Was -he ready to ask a blessing on the sowens for supper? Jess had her own sorrows, but they were a little lightened when, the long afternoon over, her father re-entered, the sleeves of his coat looking conspicuous in their white cuffs, with which she would grow so familiar that they would seem more than any other details of his dress white neckeloth and black vest a part of the man, as he would come to her every second day and stand patiently while she removed and replaced them for him. The minister wanted his tea, and tried to speak on indifferent subjects on the long drought and the burned-np pasture but stopped abruptly because he could not put back the thought, and he knew that Jess shared it, that Mrs. Stewart not ten days a~o had been lamenting the drought in that room, and had been making her arrange- ments to send out the servants every even- ing with their hooks to cut grass at the ditch-sides, and bring back their aprons full of a fresh green supper for her beasts. He walked to the window and looked out beyond the flowery garden, where the even- mo wind sou~hed sadly in the grass of the kirkyard. Then he turned and said em- phatically, Our wound is deep, though we need not let it he seen. But, Jess, it is not by a gloomy token like that that she would like us to mind her; not that it is not good in its way ever~:thing is good or changed to good, even parting and death, when they are but a stage to meeting and everlasting life. But, Jess, we must take care of her beasts and birds and flowers, that they may never miss her as we shall do, always (lkiough we troubled the last of her days with our discord). We must keep up her habits, that every day may have its trace of her. He went on speaking with unusual openness for a strong, reserved man, on the sweet and winning morning light which had lingered with his wife and Jesss mother amidst the dust and clouds of the heat of the day; on her love of animals and plants, qua~n t books, plaintive old songs, primitive sayings; her walks to the Kames to see the sun set; her reveries looking into the blaz- ing coals on the winter hearth. And Jess knew she was her fathers trusted friend, and that be saw in her one who compre- hended and shared his life-long loss and sorrow. CHAPTER III. THE PICTURE. Fon some time after her mothers death, Jess was thrilled with a nervous expecta- tion that Sandy would cast up, as she ex- pressed it, in the gloaming or the dawning, any day, to take his part in their mourning. The news of his mothers death would reach him through friends or the announcement in the newspapers. But as months passed, Jess was forced to renounce the cx~ectation, and submit to the obscurity which hung over Sandy. The minister and Jess lived together in strict seclusion, until the sharp edge was worn off their sorrow; and then the minis- ter had grown a quiet, absorhed, grey stu- dent, whom Jess could only wile from his household gods the hooks for the bene- fit of his health, by ingenious stratagems and unremitting pains. And Jess was a fine-looking, composed woman, with the eye and the hand of a mother, and the carriage of a duchess. It was summer again at Clovenford, and the whole place and people were pervaded with a grave, shaded, softened brightness, not wautin~ in flashes of mirth, relieving what was pensive in domestic life for both Jess and the minister possessed the compos- ite quality of humour, and not only raised the laugh in others, but were subject them- selves to sudden ringing peals of laughter; the wisdom being as old and common as sin and misery, which the wit of Grizel Baillie set in one memorable line Werena my heart licht I would dee. The month of May, with its lilac lily- oak they called it at Clovenford and hawthorn, was about its close, and the Gen- eral Assembly of the Kirk of Scotland was about to conclude for the season its time- honoured, pious, benevolent, virulent squab- bles. The minister of Clovenford was not a member this year, but he took it into his head late one evenfug that he would like to be present at a cer in debate next night, and, with constitutional rapidity, fi. ed that he would go to Edinburgh next morning by the early coach which passed through Woodend, take Jess with him for a tre ~, be present in the gallery of the Assembly, spend what was left of the night at Jesss Aunt Peggys, and return by the late coach the next night to Clovenford; for there will be nobody sitting up for us at home, he put in, with an involuntary touch of pa- 57 TIlE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. thos, when he found how easy the scheme was. But the minister had not been in such good spirits for a louc, time, and it was with somethin,~ of his old animation that he entered into the details, congratulated Jess that she would have an opportunity of see- ing the Lor~d High Commissioner, and graphically detailed the marks by which she might distinguish the leaders of the kirk. Jess was glad that her father should feel able for the excursion, and soberly pleased with it on her own account. She had been in Edinburgh just once before, and had seen the Castle, Holyrood, Princes Street George Street, and St. Andrews Square already. Two days in Edinburgh were of such rarity and importance that few coun- try-women of her circle attained them more than once in their lives, and then it was on such momentous occasions as the celebration of their marriages in the capital, or the scarcely less serious step of going with bridegrooms, mothers, and matronly friends, to buy their marriage things out of me- tropolitan shops, gloriously combining love and adventure, pleasure and profit. Jess, though far behind in other respects, felt a little elated at the double feat. The minister and Jess were on foot by five oclock next morning; found even the end of May rather raw on the top of a coach at that early hour; spent the greater part of the day on the road, indefatigably enjoying the scenery, and sheltering them- selves under cloak and mantle from pelting showers; alighting and swallowing slices of salt beef from perennial rounds, glassfuls of sherry and tumblerfuls of porter, leisurely, while the coach was changing horses in the inn yards of country towns; and, after in- quisitively scrutinising and formally addross- ing fellow-travellers endin_ by establishing fast friendships with them before the coach and its burden rolled up the High Street of that Auld Reekie which, whether in ancient or modern guise, is one of the most pictu- resque of cities. The journey, which Qccupies so large an amount of old travellers narratives, safely and creditably performed, the rest of the play remained to he played out. Aunt Pegj received her unexpected visitors with a cordial recollection of sum- mer weeks spent by her and her old maiden servant in country quarters at Clovenford, and attended them to the Assembly, where the minister procured the partys admission. And Jess saw his Grace the Commissioner; was duly impressed by his throne; heard, with all the interest a ministers daughter ought to feel, the question of teinds ampy discussed; and just as her high head ,with its gipsy bonnet, was beginning to nod in a manner the most undignified ~and unlike Jess, and when she was thinking she could not keep her eyes open a moment longer, though the Commissioner asked it of her as a personal favour, or threatened to turn her out by his usher if he caught hcr napping, the vote was taken, and Jess was released, to repair to Aunt Peggys and her bed. The next morning the minister and Joss were abroad betimes, while Aunt Peggy gave herself wholly to solertin preparations for the mid-day dinner. The walk was for Jesss pleasure, that she might see again the more remote rugged lion couchant, Ar- thurs Stat, and the nearer, smooth, polish- ed, glittering lions, the shops arid the pas- sengers. Among the fellow-passengers of Jess and the minister, while there were some women who ridiculed the country cut of Jesss black silk pelisse, there was more than one man who turned to look after the pair, and remark what a noble-looking lass that was with the grey, stout, old black coat. The minister had fully discharged his ob- ligations as a ciceroae. He had pointed out the White Hart, at which Dr. Johnson alighted on his way to his tour in the He- brides; the booksellers shop where Robbie Burns, in boots and tops, with a riding- whip dangling over his arm, once corrected proof-sheets of his songs; Richardsons, fre- quented by young Mr. Scott, the author of the poem of Marmion; the houses of Profes- sors Du~ald Stewart and Sir John Hall Captain Basil, the great travellers father; and the Flesh Market Close, where the best beefsteaks in the kingdom were to be eaten. And Jess had wondered, but found it impos- sible to ask, whether they were near the street where she remembered Sandys lodg- ings had been, and where it was just with- in nature he mi~ht be. Father, said Jess, suddenly, with a rush of colour into her face, I would like to go in here. Mr Stewart and Jess had been proceed- ing on the plan of a fair division of labour and recreation. The ministers part per- formed, he had been walking along ab- stractedly, only waking up occasionally at the distant glimpse of a book-stall, where Jess stood quietly beside him, as he stood quietly beside Jess when the attraction was a linendrapers or a jewellers window. The minister had inquired of Jess whether she wanted anything, and Jess, af- ter a few modest purchases had answered 58 THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. 59 in the negative; but he supposed now she presence, weak woman as she was, had had met with an irresistible temptation, or been like a shelter and a stay, full of the recalled a forgotten commission. He fol- security and serenity of experience, the lowed her into the entrance of what looked sweetness of household content. more like a museum than a shop, and The drawing might be faulty, the colour- yielded up his stick, not without an inclina- ing streaky, but there again was the family tion to resist the demand, to a porter, while those of them who were still going about Jess was hurriedly getting two tickets. the streets, and one who on this earth was The minister stopped short in the door- not. It was a god-given faculty and a by- way of another room, aggrieved and ireful; ing heart which thus reproduced and pre- but he had never turned back in his life served the past. never refusad to face an annoyance or a dif- The minister and Jess st6od as if spell- ficuhy and his hesitation terminated in bound among the unheeding spectators, an his marching sulkily at the heels of Jess into gazed at the image of what they had lost as one of the Royal Societys earliest exhibi- if it had been given back to them, with inex- tions. pressible longing; when, at a start from The minister and Jess entered into no Jess, the minister turned round and saw his explanation and offered no comment as wifes dead face in Sandys living one, gaz~ they walke I slowly up the room, literally ing at them in agitation, as they were dazzled by the display on the walls. I-low- gazing at the picture. He was in mourn- ever connoisseurs might have disdained the ing like themselves, but except- that he crude attempts of Wilkie, Allan, and Thorn- looked older, his brown hair darker, and son, they were marvels to the country-folk, that his blue eyes were dimmed for the mo- who were only acquainted with the simper- ment, he was not altered ha as much ing or scowling representations of ladies, the air of a gentleman as ever, and had like full-blown roses in their own persons, emerged from a knot of _entlemen who were clasping rose-buds between their fingers making the circuit of the room and an cx- and thumbs, and gentlemen with fierce tops ainination of the pictures with the ease and of hair breaking the seals of letters with as freemasonry of privileged, professional fre- much cruel satisfaction as if they had been quenters of the place. crushing beetles. But all at once both Jess Jess scarcely noticed this at first. Her and the ministers eyes were fixed, while heart leaped to greet her brother, and, at their feet were drawn to a picture some the same time she was terrified lest her yards in advance of them, which they could falber should think there had been an ap- distinguish through the scanty sprinkling of pointment perhaps through Aunt Peggy, visitors at that hour in the room. and that she had deliberately betrayed him It was not one of the classic pieces, into a meeting with his son; whereas Jess which were the stock pieces there, nor of had known nothing even of the T)icture, had the battle-fields, nor of the landscapes, but a been as much struck by the sight of it as little family group which was straugly well the minister, and had only entered the ox- known to them. They had seen the round hibition on the impulse of the moment table, the straight-backed chairs, the very when she read its name, determined to pay ivory nettin& bOX, many a time before; and that mark of respect to Sandy, and with even these dumb ieces of furniture, so far what lurking notion of establishing a com- from home, awoke a thousand associations. ~munication or provoking an encounter be- Tiiess what of the figures, with living eycs tween them she had not dared to tell looking out at them? The elderly man herself. putting down his book to ponder its con- Jess was in dread of how the minister tents; the young man with his face half hid- would behave to Sandy; she might have den by his hand, as if weary or sad; the known her father better, in his sound sense girl entering the room on some household and old-fashioned code of politeness. errand; and she was there, sitting in the How are you, Sandy? the minister centre of them as she would sit no more, asked, holding out his hand to his son as if looking not as she had looked when she was nothing had happened. - passing away, not as Mr. Stewart with a Sandy was a great deal more put out as backward bound of his memory had been he took the offered hand and shook it, and given to see her lately, the innocent, ingean- said in ~a breath I am glad to see you ous, lovely girl who had come to the manse looking so well, father; and, Jess, when did ox Clovenford, bringing with her sunshine, you come to town? poetry, and the first tremulous dewy bloom Mr Stewart satisfied his sons curiosity of life, but Sandy and Jesss mother, whose with a word, and then it was in entire keep- 60 ing with the man that his next words were in indignant reprobation: Sandy, how dared you make your family a gazin,-stock on the walls of a public ex- hibition without even asking their leave? I did not think you would dislike it so much, sir, stammered Sandy. There are many portraits here. I have not put the names, and I did not fancy the original would be generally recognised. The pic- ture is sold to a friend. Sold! exclaimed Mr. Stewart, with a great increase of anger and a quaver of con- sternation in his voice; how could you do such a thing? Who is the buyer? I meant to take a copy, as I could not afford to keep what I believe is the best thin~ I have done, though I have sold some other subjects readily enough since my re- turn. I dare say I should have altered this had not the buyer been an old friend. He bought it at my own price the first morning he saw it, Sandy expatiated, with pardon- able pride. He should be a judge of the likenesses, when he is one of your own par- ishioners. He was here to-day, and yon- der he is finding you out Birkholm. Misfortunes do not come alone, nor do old friend~ meet singly. Adam Spottis- woode was delighted to come in this man- ner upon the Stewarts and share the pledge of r~conciIiation which the group implied to take it boldly as an omen of other allian- ces. For Birkholm still hankered after Jess with an inextinguishable hankering, which was beginning to deepen into the glow of true love. In all his experience of life for the last year or two, he had seen nobody yet to come up to Jess Stewart. People from the same parish of Cloven- ford, the Stewarts and the laird, encounter- mg each other in the wilderness of a city, were like one family already, and the laird improved the occasion by attaching himself assiduously to the Stewarts, as he would not have had the confidence to do in the Den of Birkholm, acting on the prin- ciole that it would he. disrespectful to his minister not to join his ranks when they turned up in a public place among stran- gers, and that in these circumstances he had as good a right to investigate narrowly when the minister and Jess had come, where they were staying, and when they were going home, as if he were as minutely acquainted with the daily routine of their lives when he was at Birkholm and ~they at Clovenford. And without doubt Birk- holms comely, manly, gentlemanlike pres- ence was like a kind, kenned face to the minsster and Jess in Edinburgh, however THE MINISTER S SANDY AND JESS. lightly they might regard it in their parish. Jess opened her eyes a little at his atten- tion, but she did not repulse him, and the minister only staggered him for a moment. Birkholm, youll give up that picture; it is mine by a double right? The next instant Birkholm was eagerly assuring the minister, It is yours, Mr. Stewart; do not say another word about it, and accrediting with a throb of triumph that he had earned the ministers grtitude. The picture was not Mr. Stewarts, how- ever, in the sense which Birkholm intended at first. The minister would pay him back every pound of his money for it, thouah it should stint his small purse and the laird had the wit to see, soon, that if he woul stand well with the high-spirited old man, he must refrain from offering him a gift of his wife and childrens portraits (as br the ministers own, the minister might not have minded that). Until Birkholm had a title to be painted on the same canvas, he had better be modest in his favours. Mr. Stewart took another line erin4ook at the picture after it wa~ his own, and ex- amined Sandy strictly on its removal and packing, a little nettled that it was at the service of the Academy for a week or two longer. Afterwards the minister made the rest of the round of the room on Sandys arm, freely availing himself of his sons in- formation, a~d making pertinent remarks, which were honourable to the shrewd criti- cism of an old prejudiced ignoramus. Before a picture of John Knox Preach- ing to the Regent, not without correspond- ing fire in the lrandling, Mr. Stewart stood still again, and commended it warmly. He finished by a more personal admission, worthy of the minister, a half-smile playing over his powerfhl features: Sandy, your art is far below the cure of souls, yet I own there is something in it, after all. But it was your mothers face that beat me. Birkholm accompanied Jess, and saw no necessity for concealing from her what h~ d been his intention re0arding the pi ture ud Jess was not offended, hut thanked him softly even when he spoke of a copy, and his project of hangin0 it opposite the the pictures of his father and mother in the dining-room at Birkholm. Aud if that was not a broad hint, the laird did not know what was. Jess was so happy and humble in her happiness that she could not find it in her heart to contradict Birkholm; and the young laird, not being at all used to his own way with Jess Stewart, and finding it intoxicating, went on at a fine pace. But THE MINISTERS SANDY AND JESS. 61 first he had the grace to tell her how well accomplishment of elopements, hut with the Sandy was spoken of among artists, of I full consent of friends and relatives, and what promise he was held, and to point out posted in the all but universal white gowns some of Sandys fYjends who were not like and yellow buekskius, affording no (due to the portrait painters Jess had seen at their design, to Edinburgh or some other Woodend; and to say the picture of the large town, to he married in the privacy of family bad excited a sensation, and that if a crowd. Jess awl the minister were doubly recog- But Jess Stewart was not so minded. If nized as two of the originals, and as the Birkholm had penetrated her secret, she sister and the father of the artist, they had ~rrived at her conclusion with the would have to bear some starin~ for Sandys swiftness of lightning, while mechanically sake. Here J0555 credulity broke down. roviexving the specimens of early Scotch art This statement was more than she could in the Exhibition. Women are seldot at swallow, though she had been devouring fault when they stumble unawares on the the rest the notion that though Sandy leading transaction of their lives they should be the greatest painter in the land, have rehearsetl it too oftea in imagination the minister would be pointed at as Sandys and women like Jess Stewart, never. father! I shall not be batik in Edinburgh till the Next, Birkholms tongue wagged wildly spring, said Jess, composedly, glancing at on his own affairs. There was word of his her black silk pelisse; I think my Aunt. sister Etlies marriage indeed, he might Peggy wants me over at that time, she say it was as good as settled with one of added, with the duplicity which even a the Edinburgh writers; and Betsys cap- woman like Jess could not resist being tam was with his ship, and Betsy, who guilty of in the strait. Ilad she been clear was not saiiing with him on his present as crystal in this as in other matters, she station, w s deticate, and wanted Nancy to would farther ha e comforted the bird; keep htr ompany in her lodgings at an and then, Birltholm, after I have accus- Eu~lish seaport, and he would he left all by himA lf at B rkholm. It seemed lie thono- t no shame of appealing to the charity ot i~ fi n~nd, and arrived speedily at direct in inu~utons that Jess might visit Edinbu1 a a~un with him and the minister in a month or two after harvest and be- fore the huating season or even might make the present visit serve two purposes, as, where people were of one mind, the sooner these things were done the better. less was forced to interpose and put a check on the honest, gallant laird, lest he should come to the point of affronting her by proposing plainly that her stay in town should extend over the Sabbath, and tlten there woold be time to send word to the session clerk and precentor of Clovenford to have their names cried in the kirk and I _ the minister would celebrate the ceremony on the Monday, without the trotible of ,weddinti clothes or wedding guests, or ricisna the broose. These things, as the lairtl called them with agreeable, self-con- setous vagueness, were thus performed frequontly. The world had awakened to perceive a want of delicacy in the old ostentatious parade and riotous rejoicin~s at marriages, and had run into the opposite extreme by encouraging couples to steal off and . be married in secret fine ladies at Richmond, their maids at Chelsea. Half of Jesss ac- quaintance quitted their homes, not in the tomed my father to the~ thought of not seeing me every day in my mothers place, and have made cv ~ry provision for hb comfort, we will be wed but I ttiink on a bonnie April afternoon, in the Cloveuforti dinin& room, where the sound of the healths and the cheering will reach to the kirkyard, as far as my mothers grave. You and me have spirit enough not to be feared at the ringing and firing; we woulti rather give the folk the play. As to Birk- hohn, he took the comfbrt for g anted, and did not need it expressed in wortls. Birkholm dined with the family at Aunt Peggys on the dainty early lamb and the mythically-soundiu~ forced potatoes. and strawberries the stereotyped luxuries of the Assembly weeks in Edinburgh. Aunt Pegry, that estimable and convenient kins- woman, though she hati never been in the same room with the laird and her niece be- fore, her eyes probably opened by her hos- pitality and its good cheer, followed Jets when she retired to prepare for her home- ward journey, and folded her in her arms as soon as they were in the best bedroom; called her a fine lass, who had done her duty by father and m other and brother,and entlin- siastically predicted her reward. For Atint Peggys part, she had always promised that she would give Jess her tea china, and she would take care that Jess had a set which would not disgrace the brass-mounted tea- table of old Lady Birkholm. She would 62 THE MINISTER S SANDY AND JESS. not say but, all things considered, Jess looking up in the purple 4oom at the quiet might not count on her tea trays forbye. little house and the neighbouring kirk and Jess and the minister hied home to Cloy- kirkyard, on which the morning would soon enford, well supported. They had the will- dawn in mid-summer gladness, where her ing convoy of both the young men Sandy light should have shone, and she would have to remain for a months holidays. He was to liked welt to have seen the two lads and the inaugurate his picture, and be a witness lass come home, and to have got her picture to all the parish coming to see and admire by her sons hand, thoucrh she had beboved it, and to the minister never tfred of showing to admit for once that I had been in the it off till he succeeded in discovering subtle wrong. But who says shes blind? She touches which the painter had never laid on. has gone where faith is sight, and where My hand is closed on my spectacles. Jess they know the end from the beginning, and is bringing in the eggs. She is copying a she has her share of the knowledge. I war- leaf from her rose-tree in her work. She rant she sees farther than any of us to hay- had the first China rose in Clovenford, and ing us all round her again, and her, bonnie she was very ingenious. It is from his Jean Clephane, restored to immortal youth. I mother he takes his talent. cannot rit~htly understand how the lass and But beforehand, when Mr. Stewart and the wife and mother can be one and the the young people returned late in the sum- same; but Jam sure it shall be, and that mer night to Clovenford, and the latter de- will be perfection. And oh! Jean, woman, layed for a moment at the manse gate to when Ive sorted and settled the bairns, and take leave of Birkholm and enter into an done something more for my Master, I will appointment with him for the next day, the be blythe to go home to my old friend and minister walked up the garden path alone my young wife. to the door. It is all dark, he thought, NOT A BAD HIT AT THE YANKEES. Rhodes a statue which strided from Nantucket THE Petersburg (Va.) Index, stirred up by to Marthas Vineyard; that Plymouth Rock is the observation that Samuel Adams had ~ all that is left of the Tower of Babel, and the larger share than Thomas Jefferson in bring- Connecticut River ran through Paradise; that in~ on the Revolution, indulges in the follow- Stonington is the si~ht of Tyre, arid Merrirnac ing strain of irony, which has the element fast-colors the dies that made that city famous; that the old Temple of Diana at Ephesus was of fun in it an ingredient not often found not burned but is now Fancuil Hall, and that in Southern outbreaks against the North. Ilerodotus and Wendell Phillips were the same If the Index will always be as amusing the ;tb at the ~fable of Romulus and his most bigoted descendant of the Puritans will) brother being suckled by a wolf (lupus) arose say to it, Fire away my good fellow. Give from the circumstance that their mother was the us mere of the same sort. Transcrt: pt. first Vermonter who looped her dresses; that Mercury was the ancient name of Ben Butlers Our private opinion and belief is that there family, and that like everything else in New are authentic documents now in the library of England, the family had gone on perfecting it- Yale College r they will he there when needed self froru the start; that the sun shines six to prove that Bunker Hill Monument marks hours per diem more on that favored spot than the sight of Babylon the Mighty; that Carthage on any other between the poles ; and that Noaba was no mere nor less than Portland; Ostrium, famil, were so much elated at an alliance with Nahant; and Boston, in fact, Athens; that Ho- the Websters of Massachusetts that they got up mer was Professor of Belles-Lettres at Harvard, a dictionary to commemorate that fleet; that and Patinorus a member of the Cambridge Yacht St. Patrick was Head-Centre of a Feniart circle Club ; that Priscian taught a grammar school at in Bangor, and St. Andrew kept a di dilery in Monrpelier, and Archimedes was a private tutor Lowell; and finally that the milleni ii will he- of chemistry io Concord; that St. Peter was a gin in Baston, and will not be allowed to extend Cape Cod fisherman, and St. Matthew a collec- beyond its limits except by a two-thirds vote of ter of the internal revenue at Stonington; that the tax-payers of that heavenly city, excluding Phidhas owned a brownstone quarry in Maine, all who have at any time in their most secret and Socrates fbnndcd the Atlantic Monthly; thoughts expressed a doubt of the propriety of that the Academia was the walk under the yew hanging Jeff. Davis and General Lee on ~ sour trees at I\ ew Ilaven, and the Colossus of apple tree. FRANCE, MEXICO, AND THE UNITED STATES. CORNELILTS ODOWD UPON FRANCE, MEX- ICO, AND THE UNITED STATES. I HAD ~ot at it is not necessary to say how the whole initial roguery of the ex- pedition, and what led the French Govern- ment in the first instance to embark on the scheme, and by what means England and Spain got timely information of the extent to which they had been jockeyed, and what led to their withdrawal. How a stockbrok- ing raid led to the establishment of an em- pire, the Archduke Maximilian being placed on the direction, as City folk say, just as bubble companies secure a lord, would make an amusing story; and there is just enough of feminine influence throughout to give the narrative the true three-volume gusto. flow the despatch of troops was graduated to rig the market, and the whole campaign suited to the exigencies of the share~, would astonish those small speculators whose devices have never soared beyond a false telegram and a lying despatch. There is, one must own, something gvand in the notion of importing the pomp and circumstance of glorious war into the Stock Exchange, and Bearing the market with a battalion of infantry. Such was the ori- gin of this Mexican affair. A number of im- perial followers had been speculating in that precarious laud. They had taken largely to Mexicans not meaning there- by to the interesting natives of that coun- try, but to the scrip so called. They were sufficiently powerful to induce the Government to press their claims, and when ultimately refused satisfaction, to issue what we would in Ireland call a distress war- rant. Off they went with a strong party to enforce this, and enforce it they did, pretty much, tod, as if the scene were Ire- land! There was a great row, a number of peo- ple hurt, and an amount of property de- stroyed that would have paid the French claims ten times over; hut as this is always the consequence of takino- the law, no- body minded it. It was necessary, however, for the due fulfilment of the demands of France, that measures should be taken with regard to the future; that is, some species of authority something that looked legal st be established in the land, to recov- er accruing liabilities. To this end the Em- peror sent over the Austrian Archduke, and settled him there as the MAN IN P05- SESSION. This is exactly and precisely what he re- presents. He is the man in possession. From Blackwoods Magazine. He is not in Mexico to enferce any claims of his own. The Mexicans owed h~nl noth- ing. As to the farce of being chosen by the nation, of all the exploded fiunibugs of this a~e of humbugs the Plebiscite is the shab- biest. King George of Greece was the elect of the Greeks! Just as little did the Arch- duke want Mexico, but this crafty Emperor induced him to go over and try his fortune. The Yankees just then had their hands full. They had fully as much fighting to do as was good for them, and so all they said was, Wait a while. Theres a considerable reckoning to be settled when we shall have a little leisure score that item amongst the rest I remember once hearing on the wild hills of Donegal, where the Scotch element is as strong in the people as in Argyleshire, a story of a revenue officer who, strolling carelessly through the mountains, came upon a little shealing with an illicit still at full work. He had barely time to look around through the empty dwelling, where casks of the forbidden spirit were ranged about, and bethink him of the dangerous posi- tion he was in, whena tall, gaunt, semi-n k- ed figure, with an old cutlass in his hand, presented himself at the door. Did any one see ye come in 2 ~ asked lie calmly. No, said the gauger, with the cab erness of a man anxious to give a gratifying assuv~r~e no. Then nobody shall see ye go out! was the terrible rejoinder. This is what the Mexican affair is prob- ably coming to. It would be easy enough for an old dynasty, a time-honoured Gov- ernment, to retrace its steps, and actually make confession of a mistaken policy. If it suited Austrian policy to relinquish Yeee~ tia to-morrow, she could retire without the most minute stain upon her honour. Tise~~c is not in all Europe probably one who would dare to ascribe the step to unworthy or dis- creditable motives. If Prussia, or rather M. Bismarck, were to disgorge the duchies of Schleswig-I~olstein, and express contrition for an unjust a~t of spoliation, people would begin to think the better of Prussia. The question however is, Can Louis Napoleon afford this? The policy of an adven- turer has this hard condition attached to it, it must never be wrong. The adven- turer is like the unlicensed practitioner: when his patient dies he can be tried for manslaughter. iNolla vestigia retrorsum is the motto over the Tuileries, so long as the wolf lives there. His hold upon the French people is, that since he has been at their head they have bullied Europe. From the helpless insigni 63 64 FRANCE, MEXICO, AND THE UNITED STATES. ficance of the position they occupied under Louis Philippe, they have risen to be the first power of the world. Part of this they have acquired by hard knocks, and a large part by mere menace. Frenchmen will forgive a great deal to him who makes teem formidable to every other people. It was only when the prestige of the first Napoleon began to decline in this respect that men fell off in their allegiance to him. You may cur- tail liberty in France, hamper daily life with restrictive laws, and tie down enterprise by enactments; you may torture trade with pet- ty regulations. and reduce the press to insig- nificance. All these will be borne so long as Frenchmen feel that they are the terror of Europe, and that there is not a Cabinet on the Continent that does not tremble at their name. An insult to this sentiment is what they will not bear, and woe to him who would expose them to it! The question then is, Can the Em ror retire from Mexico with- out incurring this stain? I do not think that in the present c~se the Americans will employ any unnecessary or unseemly rudeness. They will treat France with a deference they would not accord to us. I make no complaint of that; I even see a certain fairness in it. They will not, in all probability, he very exacting as to the day or the hour, but yet, with Yankee tenacity, I think I hear them saying, Yes, sir, youve got to ,o. Yes, sir, thats a fact. A more insufferable piece of insolent pretension ca:not be imagined than what is called the Monroe doctrine. That my next door neighbour should not live in a cer- tain style lest the servants in my house should become dissatisfied, is too gross an absurdity to be entertained. That whatever rules I prescribe for my family should be adopted by every one who resides in the same street, is somewhat overbearing; and yet, with all this, I declare I am all for the Yankee in this lexican row. It is not the justice of the case I want to .think of. It is not whether France has right on her side, and whether this deman~I to retire be one of those mandates a high-spirited nation cannot submit to; my whole consideration is limited to the fact here at last the great bully of Europe has met his match! Here is a young athletic darin~ fellow ready to go into the ring with that finished pugilist that none of us have courage to fight, and who, even with the gloves on, doubles us up in a fashion far from aerceable. America dares to hold language to France that Ii Europe combined would not utter. Theres no denying it; theres no qualify- ing it. If we had a Continental coalition to-morrow, we could not venture to s~y what America has just said. What Minis- ter of Russia, or England, or Austria would say to the French Emperor. We were thinking of something else when you slipped into Savoy and Nice the other day; now that our hands are free, youll have to go back again. We are famous for brave words in our Foreign Office, but does any one expect that such a message as this will ever issue from Whitehall? We would no more provoke the Tuileries by an insolent despatch than we would go into one of Van Amburghs cages. and kick the lion. It has become a sort of European superstition that France can beat every one, and I am downright grateful to the Ameri- cans that they dont believe it. I never knew I liked America so well till I byan to speculate on this war. I never suspected that there really was that tie of kindred which journalists disparage by that false adulation they deal in. I hate all the cant of cousinship, but call them our own bone and blood; speak of them as a people who have the same leading traits as our- selves sturdy, determined, untiring, un- yieldingtaking their share of hard knocks to-day with a fixed resolve to re1 ay them to-morrow; in a word, of that stuff that makes right trusty friends and very terrible enemies. Regard them in this light, and say, if a war should break out between them and Frar~e, what side you would like to back. I say, America. Id lay my head on the is- sue; and if any gentleman is willing to bet an equivalent say another crown-piece I cry Done, and wait the event.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. NO. 1141. 14 APRIL, 1866. From the Examiner. Familiar whom the heart calls stranger still. A heavy lot bath he, most wretched man, Ckarles Lamb; His Friends, His Haunts, I Who lives the last of all his family: and His Books. By Percy Fitzgerald, He looks around him, and his eye discerns M. A., F. S. A. Bentley. j The face of the stranger; and his heart is sick. Man of the world, what canst thou do for him I XYealth is a burden which he could not hear, Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act; And generous wines no cordial to his soul. For wounds like his, Christ is the only cure. Go, preach thou to him of a world to come, Where friends shall meet and know ea~h other~s face: Say less than this, and say it to the winds. PROFESSING only to be a supplement to Taliburds Memorials and Letters of Charles Lamb, this is a welcome little book. It is a fair collection of anecdotes collected from various sources the chief one, unacknowledged, being De Quinceys charming essay in his Leaders in Litera- ture to be read in corroboration, here and there in correction, of the account given in the well-known memoir. Mr. Fitzgerald, unfortunately, has noth- ing new to say concerning the earlier and least known portion of Lambs history. But he brings out some curious facts about Coleridges correction of his sonnets and the consequent coldness that arose between the friends, and he publishes some interest- in g verses struck out of his collected works because of their painful reference to the one great misery of his life. Among some well-known stanzas, Lamb had written this Where are they gone, the old familiar faces I I had a mother; hut she died, Died prematurely on a day of horrors. He had also said, in touching allusion to the same terrible catastrophe: Thou shouldst have longer lived, and to the grave Have peacefully gone down in full old age: Thy children would have tended thy grey hairs: We might have sat, as we have often done, By our fireside, and talked whole nights away. Old times, old friends, and old events recalling, With many a circumstance of trivial note, To memory dear, and of importance grown, How shall we tell them in a strangers ear. A wayward son, ofttimes I was to thee: And yet in all our little bickerings, Domestic jars, there was I know not what Of tender feeling that were ill exchanged For this worlds chilling friendships, and their smiles FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. L 5. Mr. Fitzgerald recalls other and pleasant- er matters that should not be forgotten. He reminds us how Lamb delighted in children and in telling them strange, wild stories. A young girl, daughter of a well- known dramatist, was often taken out by him on a days junketing; and she has told how they never passed a Punchs show, but always ~topped and sat on the steps, and saw them all out in succession. Once too I have heard on the same authority he saw a group of hungry little faces look- ing into the window of a pastry-cooks shop. He went in and came out, and distributed cakes all round. To Talfourds collection of Lambs letters Mr. Fitzgerald adds a few. This is the shortest; it was addressed to Cary-, the translator of Dante, with whom Lamb and his sister used to dine once a month: DEAR SIR, If convenient, will you give us house-room on Sunday next I I can sleep anywhere. If any other Sunday suits you better, pray let inc know. We were talking of roast shoulder of mutton and onion sauce. But I scorn to pre- scribe to the hospitalities of mine host. This is Mr. Fitzgeralds most important correction of Talfourd: It is sad to think that Lambs latter days were not of the calm und pleasant sort describ- ed hy his friend. A great tenderness and dcli- cacy, or friendly sensitiveness, has kept back from the account of Lambs history much which concerned the horrid spectre which at- J. GODFREY SAXE. tended him all through his life. We are led to believe that in time that great and dreadful trouble had been softened for hi~n,and had, as it were, ibded out, and that the evening of his days had been calm and tranquil. This, at least, would be the impression, reading his closing days at Edmonton. But it is said, and it is vouched for by good authority, that not lon~ before he died, he and his sister had been placed at Enfield in a house called Bay Cot- ta~~ e, with a woman named Redford, who was accustomed to take charge of deranged persons. It is said that both required restraint, and that the woman of the place treated them with cruelty, often locking up brother and sistet to- gether in a closet during some of their fits. There are those who recollect having see~n Mary Lamb at a window tearing up a feather- bed and scattering the feathers in the air. Fortunately, friends found out this pitiable state of things, and Charles was removed in time to Edmonton, where he could die in peace. During that interval his mind seemed to be filled with but one subject it always reverted to Coleridge; and in the strangest way even humorously be would interrupt the con- versation with an abrupt exclamation, So Coleridge is gone!~ On November 21st, five weeks only before he died, he was asked to write something in a friends album. When I heard of the death of Coleridge, he wrote, it was without grief. It seemed to me that he had long been on the confines of the next world that he had a hun- qer for eternity. But since i/eel how great a part he was of me, his great and deer spirit haunts me. I cannot think a thought, I cannot moire a criticism on men or hooks without an ineft~ctual turning and reference to him. He was the proof and touch- stone of all my cogitations. . . . He was icy fifty-years old friend without a dissension. Never saw I his likeness, nor probably the world can see again. 1 m to bee the house he died at more passionately than when he died. lVhat was his mansion, is consecrated to me a chapel. A more pathetic chime to a departed friend especially in the words underlined was never sounded. He seemed never to re- cover the blow. From the Athen~um. The Times, the Telegraph, and other Poems. By J. Godfrey Saxe. Complete in One Volume, and including (in the Hope of Securing English Copyright) One Note, not by the Editor of the Biglow Papers. THE publisher of Companion Poets has done well in sending forth the present volume, which contains no passage that especially concerns the two morning papers pointed at by the title the Times of the col- lection of verses being an ambitious and not remarkably strong satire on modern society, that was read before the Boston Mercan- tile Literary Association, Nov. 14, 1849; and the Telegraph being a comic ballad, written in celebration of Mr. Cyrus Field and the Atlantic Cable. By no means the best pieces in the book, these opening, poems will occasion disappointment; and much cannot be said of the editorial taste which has given them such undeserved prom- inence merely for the sake of a sensational title. This fault, however, is not to be charged on Mr. Saxe, who, as a writer of sparklin:.~ and occasionally pungent vers desociete, has for many years enjoyed wide popularity in the United States, and ought to meet with similar acceptance in England. His longer and more laborious productions the two satires in Pcspean verse cannot be men- tioned as satisfactory efforts in a kind of poetry in which the attempts have been numerous and the successes very few during the last hundred years. Of these two satires, the stroncer, and in every respect the better, is entitled Progress, the best lines of which occur at the beginning. The satire opens thus When matrons, seized with oratoric pangs, Give happy birth to masculine harangues, And spinsters, trembling for the nations fate, Neglect their stockings to preserve the State. Of the rhyming lawyers lighter and happier mood favourable illustrations are found in the following satire on a social enemy, known to every man whose time is valuable and whose easy temper exposes him to the persecutions of bores MY rAMILIAR. Ecce iterum Crispinus! Again I hear that creaking step Hes rapping at the door I Too wellI know the boding sound That ushers in a bore. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who comes but never goes! He drops into my easy-chair, And asks about the news; He peers into my manuscript, And gives his candid views; lIe tells me where he likes the line, And where hes forced to grieve; He takes the strangest liberties, But never takes his leave I 66 J~ GODFREY SAXE. He reads my daily paper through Before Ive seen a word; lie scans the lyric (that I wrote) And thinks it quite absurd; He calmly s~nokes my last cigar, And coolly asks for more; He opens everything he sees Except the entry door! He talks about his fragile health, And tells me of the pains He suffers from a score of ills Of which he neer complains; And how he struggled once with death To keep the fiend at bay; On themes like those away he goes But never goes away! He tells me of the carping words Some shallow critic wrote; And every precious paragraph Familiarly can quote; He thinks the writer did me wrong; Hed like to run him throu,,h l He says a thousand pleasant things But never says Adieu! Whener he comes that dreadful man Disguise it as I may, I know that, like an Autumn rain, hell last throughout the day. In vain I speak of urgent tasks; In vain I scowl and pout; A frown is no extinguisher, It does not put him out! I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes! Another characteristic piece is A REFLECTIVE RETROSPECT. T is twenty years, and something more, Since, all a thirst for useful knowledge, I took some draughts of classic lore, Drawn very mild, at rd College; Yet I remember all that one Could wish to hold in recollection; The boys, the jo~, the noise, the fun; But not a single conic section. I recollect those harsh affairs, The morning bells that gave us panics; I recollect the formal prayers, That seemed like lessons in Mechanics; I recollect the drowsy way In which the students listened to them, As clearly, in my wig, to-day, As when, a boy, I slumbered through them. I recollect the tutors all As freshly now, if I may say so, As any chapter I recall In Homer or Ovidius Naso, I recollect, extremely well, Old Hugh, the mildest of fanatics; I well remember Matthew Bell, But very faintly Mathematics I recolleef the prizes paid For lessons fathomed to the bottom (Alas that pencil-maiks should fade l) I recollect the ~haps who got em, The light equestrians who soared Oer every passage reckoned stony; And took the chalks, but never scored A single honour to the pony! Ah me! what changes Time has wrought, And how predictions have miscarried l A few have reached the goal they sought, And some are dead, and some arc married! And some in city journals war; And some as politicians bicker; And some are pleadin,, at the bar For jury-verdicts, or for liquor. And some on Trade and Commerce wait; And some in schools with dunces battle; And some the Gospel propagate, And some the choicest breeds of cattle; And some are living at their ease; And some were wrecked in the revulsion; Some serve the State for handsome fees, And one, I hear, upon compulsion! Lamont, who in his college days, Thought een a cross a moral scandal, Has left his Puritanic ways, And worships now with bell and candle. And Mann, who mourned the negros fate, And held the slave as most unlucky, Now holds him, at the market rate, On a plantation in Kentucky! Tom Knox who swore in such a tone It fairly might be doubted whether It really was himself alone, Or Knox and Erebus together Has grown a very altered man. And, changing oaths for mild entreaty, Now recommends the Christian plan To savages in Otaheite! Alas for young Ambitions vow! How envious Fate may overthrow it! Poor Harvey is in Congress now, Who struggled long to be a poet; Smith carves (quite well) memorial stones, Who tried in vain to make the law go; Hall deals in hides; and Pious Jones Is dealin, faro in Chicago l And, sadder still, the brilliant hays, Once honest, manly, and ambitions, Has taken latterly, to ways Extremely profligate and vicious; ENGLISH KNOWLEDGE OF AMERICA. By slow degrees I cant tell how Hes reached at last the very groundsel, And in New York he figures now, A member of the Common Council! No admirer of Pined will read the fore- going verses without recalling that poets School and Schoolfellows, and especially the lines that run Where are my friends l I am alone: No playmate shares my beaker; Some lie beneath the churchyard stone, And some before the Speaker; And some compose a tragedy, And some compose a rondo; And some draw sword for Liberty, And some draw pleas for John Doe. Tom Mill was used to blacken eyes Without the fear of sessions; Charles Medlar loathed false quantities As much as false professions; Now Mill keeps order in the land, A magistrate pedantic, And Medlars feet repose unscanned Beneath the wide Atlantic. Wild Nick, whose oaths made such a din, Does Dr. Martexts duty; And Mullion, with that monstrous chin, Is married to a Beauty; And Darrell studies, week by week, His Mant, and not his Manton; And Ball, who was but poor at Greek, Is very rich at Canton. Mr. Saxes imitation of Praeds School and Schoolfellows is the more remarkable, because he makes no mention of the bril- liant Etonian when, with an air of scrupu- lous honesty, lie names the writers to whom he is indebted for thoughts or language. Pined, it should moreover be observed, is not the only poet whose music and wit are reproduced by the American imitator, who in turn reminds his English reader of Byron, I3arhnm, and other familiar writers. Some- times the imitation is obviously meant for the readers notice; but in several places it seems to be unintentional on the part of the author. ENGLISH KNOWLEDGE OF AMERICA. to put an end to the lectureship, and providing The surprising ignorance of American af- that in such a case the endowment should fairs, not only on matters of current inter- vert to the donor or his representatives. But est, but of geographical and statistical in- Mr. Thompson suggests that, before the of?er formation, which has been manifested in the is accepted, or deed of endowment is drawn, one preliminary trial of the scheme should he most learned English circles, has been, be- made. The Vice-Chancellor invites the atten- fore now, the occasion of much comment. dance of members of the Senate on Saturday, It seems that there is a prospect of light in for the discussion of the above-mentioned sub- some dark places. The London Times jeet. Some members seem afraid to accept Mr. says: Thompsons liberal offer lest the lecture should he merely republican declamations, and others fail to see that it will be of any benefit to Cam- bridge. By way, probably, of reassuring those timid souls who are afraid of the influence of republican declamations, the Times proceeds to remark that those who have any knowledge of Harvard College, which contains probably the most polished society in America certainly the cream of the men distinguished in science or literature in the United States will not be likely to feel any such fears. The authorities of Harvard College are certain, for their own sakes, to send a lecturer who will represent them well, and the interchange of ideas with such a man resident here could not fail to be a benefit, even if we had to learn about the history, literature, or insti- tutions of his country. The Vice Chancellor of the University of Cambridge has informed the Senate that Hen- rv Yates Thompson, M. A,, late scholar of Irinity Colie,,e, has offered to endow a lecture- ship for the purpose of having delivered at Camhridge during one term biennially a course of lectures on the history, literature, and insti- tutions of the United States of America. Mr. Thompson proposes that the lectureship should be founded at Harvard College, Cambridge, U. S.; that the lecturer should he appointed biennially by the President and Fellows of Harvard College (suhject to the veto in case of the Vice-Chancellor), and that his sole quali- fications should be American citizenship, and the opinion of his appointers that he is a fit person to deliver such ~ course of lectures. If the lectureship is ultimately accepted, Mr. Thompson thinks that the endowment deed should contain a clause giving to either Univer- sity the power at any time, of its own free will, 68 WILLIAM WHEWELL. 69 WILLIAM WHEWELL. Boys hot blood cooled, boys impatience sub siding, BORN: 1795. DIED: MARCH 6, 1866. IRevrently think of the Master to-day. GONE from the rule that was questioned so rarely, Counting his courage, his manhood, his knowl- Gone from the seat where he laid down the edge, law; Counting the glory he won for us all, Gaunt, stern and stalwart, with broad brow Cambridge not only his dearly loved Col- set squarely lege Oer the fierce eye, and the granite-hewn Mourns his seat empty in chapel, and ball. jaw. Lay him down, here in the dim ante-chapel, No more the great Court shall see him dividing Where NEWTONS statue looms ghostly and Surpliced crowds thick round the low chapel white, door: Broad brow set rigid in thought-mastring grap- No more shall idlers shrink cowd from his ple, chiding, Eyes that look upwards for light and more Senate-house cheers sound his honour no light. more. So he should rest not where daisies are grow- Son of the hammer-man: right kin of Thor, he ing: Clove his way thorugh, right onward, amain; NEWTON beside him, and over his head Ruled when hed conquered, was proud of his Trinitys full tide of life, ebbing, flowing, glory, Morning and evening, as he lies dead. Sled~e-hammer smiter, in body and brain. Sailors sleep best within boom of the billow, Sizar and master, unhasting, unrestin, Soldiers in sound of the shrill trumpet call: Each step a triumph, in fair combat won So his own Chapel his death sleep should pil- Rivals he faced like a strong swimmer breast- low, ing Loved in his life-time with love beyond all. Waves that, once grappled with, terrors Punch. have none. Trinity marked him oertopping the crowd of Heads and Professors, self-centred, alone: Rude ns his strength was, that strength she was proud of, Body and mind, she knew all was her own. Science his strength, and Omniscience his weakness, So they said of him, who envied his power: Those whom he silenced with more might than meekness, Carped at his back, in his face fain to cower. Milder mens graces might in him be lacking, Still he was honest, kind hearted and brave: Never good cause looked in vain for his back- ing, Fool he neer spared, but he never screened knave. England should cherish all lives, from begin- ning Lowly as his to such honour that rise: Lives, of fair running and straightforward win- ning, Lives, that so winning, may boast of the prize. They that in years passed have chafed at his chiding: They that in boyish mood strove galust his sway, PIIATIAOHS SEEPENTS. From the little cone of silver foil That fizzes and fumes with a fretful fire, There oozes a serpent all yellow and ribbed, That rolls and thickens, and curls still higher. The magic thing, as if by a spell, Suddenly ceases its sluggish crawl; Its fiery breath has quite burnt out, And leaves a coil of dust thats all. The wise mans toy is a type of life; And all our strugglcs for paltry things; Our diplomatic treaties and talk, Thngled and bound with red-tape strin~s; Our spiders webs, and our subtle plans; Our love and joy, and our brittle dreams; Our poor ambitions, that fleet away Fast as the winter-torrents streams; Alexanders conquests, Cusars spoils; All that we hate, and all that we trust The beggars fears, and the rich mans hopes All end at last in the pinch of dust. Chambers Journal. MISS MAUJORIBANKS. PART XIIICHAPTER XLV. WHEN the first whisper of the way in which she was as people say left, reached Lucilla, her first feeling was in- credulity. It was conveyed to her by aunt Jemima, who came to her in her room after the funeral with a face blanched with dis- may. Miss Maijoribanks took it for grief; and, thou~h she did not look for so much fLeling from Mrs. John, was pleased and comforted that her aunt should really la- ment her poor papa. It was a compliment which, in the softened and sorrowful state of Lucillas mind, went to her heart. Aunt Jemima caine up and kissed her in a hasty excited way, which showed genuine and spontaneous emotion, and was not like the solemn pomp with which sympathising friends generally embraced a mourner; and then she made Lucilla sit down by the fire and held her hands. My poor child, said aunt Jemima my poor, dear, sacrificed child! you know, Lucilla, how fond I am of you, and you can always come to me Thank you, dear aunt Jeinima, said Miss Majoribanks, though she was a little puzzled. You are the only relative I have, and I knew you would not forsake me. What should 1 do without you at such a time? I am sure it is what dear papa would have wished Lucilla, cried Mrs. John, impulsively, I know it is natural you should cry for your father; but when you know all, you that never knew what it was to be without money that never were straitened even, or obliged to give up things, like most other young women. Oh, my dear, they said I was to prepare you, but how can I prepare you? I feel as if I never could forgive my brother-in-law; that he should bring you up like this, and then What is it? said Miss Marjoribanks, dryin~ her tears. If it is anything new tell me, but dont speak so of of What is it? say it right out. Lucilla, sai(l aunt Jemima, solemnly, you think you have a great deal of cour- age, and now is your time to show it. He has left you without a farthing he that was always thought to be so rich. It is quite true what I am saving. He has gone and died and left nothing, Lucilla. Now I have told you; and oh, my poor, dear, injured child, cried Mrs. John, with fervour, as long as I have a home there will be room in it for you But Lucilla put her aunt away softly when she was about to sil upon her neck. Miss Marjoribauks was struck dumb; her heart seemed to stop beating for tliemo- ment. It is quite impossible it can- not be true, she said~~ and gave a gasp to recover her breath. Then Mrs. John came down upon her with facts, proving it to be true showing how Dr. MarjJribankss money was invested, and how it had been lost. She made a terrible muddle of it, no doubt, but Lucilla was not very clear about busi- ness details any more than her aunt, and she did not move nor say a word while the long, involved; endless narrative went on. She kept saying it was impossible in her heart for half of the time, and then she crept nearer the fire and shivered and said noth- ing even to herself, and ~id not even seem to listen, but knew that it must be true. It would~ be vain to attempt to say that it was not a terrible blow to Lucilla; her stren,,th was weakened already by grief and solitude and want of food, for she could not find it in her heart to go on eating her ordinary meals as if nothing had happened; and all of a sudfR~n she felt the cold seize her, and drew closer and closer to the fire. The thoughts which she had been thinking in spite of herself, and for which she had so greatly condemned herself, went out with a sudden distinctness, as if it had been a lamp going out and leavin~ the room in darkness, and a sudden sense of utter gloom and cold and bewildering uncertainty came over Lucilla. When she lifted her eyes from the fire, into which she had been gazing, it al- most surprised her to find herself still in this warm room where there was every appli- ance for comfort, and where her entire wardrobe of new mourning everything, as aunt Jemima said, that a woman could de- sire was piled up on the bed. It was im- possible that she could be a penniless crea- ture, left on her own resources, without fs- ther or supporter or revenue; and yet good heavens! could it be true? If it is true, aunt Jemima, said Lucilla. 1 must, try to bear it; but my poor head feels all queer. Id rather not think any more about it to-night. How can you help thinking about it, Lucilla? cried Mrs. John. I can think of nothing else; and I am not so much con- cerned as you. Upon which Lucilla rose and kissed aunt Jemima, though her head was all confusel and she had noises in her ears. I doot - think we are much like each other, you know, she said. Did you bear how Mrs. Chiley was? I am sure she will be very sorry; and with that Miss Marjoribanks softened and felt a little comforted, anti cried again not for the money, but for h~r 70 MISS MARJORII3ANKS. father. If you are going down-stairs, I think I will come down to tea, aunt Jemi- ma, she said. But after Mrs. John had gone away fuji of wonder at her philosophy, Lucilla drew close to the fire again and took her head between her hands and tried to think what it meant. Could it be true? Instead of the heiress, in a good po- sition, who could go abroad or anywhere and do anything she liked, was it possible that she was only a penniless single woman with nobody to look to, and nothing to live on? Such an extraordinary incomprehen- sible revolution might well make any one feel giddy. The solid house and the com- fortable room, and her own sober brain, which was not in the way of being put off its balance, seemed to turn round and round as she looked into the fire. Lucilla was not one to throw the blame upon her father as Mrs. John had done. On the con- trary she was sorry, profoundly sorry for him, and made such a picture to herself of what his feelings must have been, when he went into his room that night, and knew that all his hard-earned fortune was gone, that it made her weep the deepest tears for him that she had yet shed. Poor papa! she said to herself; and as she was not much given to employing her imagination in this way, and realizing the feeling of oth- ers, the effect was all the greater now. If he had but told her, and put off a share of the burden from his own shoulders on to hers who could have borne it! but the Doc- tor had never done justice to Lucillas qual- ities. This, amid her general sense of con- fusion and dizziness and insecurity, was the only clear thought that struck Miss Marjori- banks; and that it was very cold and must be freezing outside; and how did the poor people manage who had not all her present advantages? She tried to put away this revelation from her, as she had said to aunt Jemima, and keep it for a little at arms length, and get a nights rest in the mean time, and so be able to bring a clear head to the contemplation of it to-morrow, which was the most judicious thing to do. But when the mind has been stimulated by such a shock, Solomon himself, one would sup- pose, could scarcely, however clearly he might perceive what was best, take the ju- dicious passive way. When Lucilla got up from where she was crouching before the fire she felt so giddy that she could scarce- ly stand. Her head was all queer, as she had said, and she had a singing in her ears. She herself seemed to have changed along with her position. An hour or two before, she could have answered for her own steadi ness and self-possession in almost any cir- cumstances, but now the blood seemed to be running a race in her veins, and the stran- gest noises hummed in her ears. She felt ashamed of her weakness, but she could not help it; and then she was weak with grief and excitement and comparative fastings which told for something, probably, in her inability to bear so unlooked-for a blow. But Miss Marjoribanks thought it was best to go down to the drawing-room for tea, as she had said. T6 see everything just as it had b~en, utterly indifferent and unconscious of what had happened, made her cry, and relieved her giddiness by reviving her grief; and then the next minute a bewilder- ing wonder seized her as to what would be- come of this drawing-room, the scene of her triumphs; who would live in it, and whom the things would go to, which made her sick and brou0ht back the singing in her ears. But on the whole she took tea very quietly with aunt Jemima, who kept breaking into continual snatches of lamentation, buL was always checked by Lucillas composed looks. If she bad not heard this extraordi- nary news, which made the world turn round with her, Miss Marjoribanks would have felt that soft hush of exhaustion and grief subdued which, when the grief is not too urgent, comes after all is over; and even now she felt a certain comfort in the warm firelight and the change out of her own room where she had been living shut up, with the blinds down, and the black dresses everywhere about, for so many dreary days. John Brown, who had charge of Dr. Mar.. joribankss affairs, came next day and ex- plained everything to Lucilla. The law- yer had had one short interview with his client after the news came, and Dr. Maijori- banks had borne it like a man. His face had chanted a little, and he had sat down, which he was not in the habit of doing, and drawn a kind of shivering long breath; and then he had said, Poor Lucilla! to him- self. This was all Mr. Brown could say about the effect the shock had on the Doc- tor. And there was something in this very scanty information which gave Lucilla a new pang of sorrow and consolation. And he patted me on the shoulder that last night, she said, with tender tears; and felt she had never loved her father so well in all her life which is one of the sweeter uses of death which many must have experi- enced, but which belonged to a more ex- quisite and penetrating kind of emotion than was common to Lucilla. I thought he looked a little broken 71 MISS MARJORIBANKS. when he went out, said Mr. Brown, but full of pluck and spirit, as he always was. I am making a good deal of money, and I may live long enough to lay by a little still, were the last *ords he said to me. I re- member be put a kind of emphasis on the may. Perhaps he knew he was not so strong as he looked. He was a good man, Miss Marjoribanks, and there is nobody that has not some kind thing to tell of him, said the lawyer, with a certain moisture in his eyes; for there was nobbdy in Carlingford who did not miss the old Doctor, and John Brown was very tenderhearted in his way. lint nobody can know what a good fa- ther he was, said Lucilla, with a sob; and she meant it with all her heart, thinking chiefly of his hand on her shoulder that last night, and of the Poor Lucilla! in John Browns office; though, after all, perhaps it was not chiefly as a tender father that Dr. Marjoribanks shone, though he gave his daughter all she wanted or asked for. Her griet was so true, and so little tinctured by any of that indignation over the unexpected loss, which aunt Jemima had not been able to conceal, that John Brown was quite touched, and felt his heart warm to Lucilla. He explained it all very fully to her when she was composed enough to understand him; and as he went through all the details the giddiness came back, and once more Miss Marjoribanks felt the world running round, and heard his statement through the noises in her ears. All this settled down, however, into a certain distinctness as John Brown, who was very clear-headed and good at making a concise statement, went on; and gradually the gyrations became slower and slower, and the great universe became solid once more, and held to its moorings under Lucillas feet, and she ceased to hear that supernatural hum and buzz. The va~ue shadows of chaos and ruin dispersed, and through them she saw once more the real aspect of things. She was not quite penniless. There was the house, which was a very good house, and some little corners and scraps of money in the funds, which were Lucillas very own, and could not be lost; and last of all there was the business the best practice in Carlingford, and entire command of Grange Lane. But what does that matter? said Lucil- la; if poor papa had retired indeed, as I used to beg him to do, and parted with it But everybody has begun to send for Dr. Rider already, she said, in an ag~rieved voice; and then for the first time John Brown remembered, to his confusion, that there was once said to be something be- tween Miss Marjoribanks and Dr. Rider; which complicated thd affair in the most uncomfortable way. Yes, he said, and of course that would m4ke itmuch more difficult to bring in another man; but Rider is a very honour- able young fellow, Miss Maijoribanks He is not so very young, said Lucilla. He is quite as old as I am, though no one ever would think so. I am sure he is hononrable, but what has that to do with it? And I do think Mrs. Chiley might have done without anybody else: for a day or twQ, considering when it was And here she stopped to cry, unreason- ably, but yet very naturally; for it did feel hard that in the house to which Dr. Mar- joribankss last visit had been paid, another doctor should have been called in next day. What I meant to say, said John Brown, was, that Dr. Rider, though he is not rich, and could not pay a large sum of money down, would be very glad to make some ar- rangement. He is very anxious about it, and he seemed himself to think that if you knew his circumstances you would not be disinclined to But as I did not at all know Lucilla caught, as it were, and n~iet, and forced to face her, her informants embar- rassed, hesitating look. You say this, said Miss Marjoribanks, because people used to say there was somethin,, between us, and you think I may have some feeling about it. But there never was anything between us. Anybody with a quarter of an eye could have seen that he was goin~ out of his senses about that little Australian girl. And I am rather fond of men that are in love it shows they have some good in them. But it is dreadful to talk of such things now, said Lucilla, with a sigh of self-re- proach. If Dr. Rider has any arrange- ment to propose, I should like to give hii the preference, please. You see they- have begun to send for him already in Grange Lane. I will do whatever you think proper, said John Brown, who was rather scared, and very much impressed by Miss Marjori- bankss candour. Dr. Rider had been the first love of Mr. Browns own ife, and the lawyer had a curious kind of satisfaction in thinking that this silly youn,, fellow had thus lost two admirable women, and that probably the little Australian was equally inferior to Miss Marjoribanks and Mrs. Brown. He ought to have been grateful that Dr. Rider had left the latter lady to his own superior discrimination and so he 72 MISS MAUJORIBANKS. was; and yet it gave him a certain odd sat- isfaction to think that the Doctor was not so happy as he might have been. He went away fully warranted to receive Dr. Riders proposition, and even, to a certain extent, to decide upon it and Lucilla threw her- self back in her chair in the silent drawing- room, from which Aunt Jemima had dis- creetly withdrawn, and began to think over the reality of her position as she now saw it for the first time. The sense of bewildering revolution and change was over; for, strangely enough, the greater a change is the more easily the mind, after the first shock, accepts and gets accustomed to it. It was over, and the world felt steady once more under Lucillas feet, and she sat down, not precisely amid the ruins of her happiness, but still in the presence of many an imagination over- thrown to look at her real position. It was not, after all, utter poverty, misery, and des- titution, as at the first glance she had be- lieved. According to what John Brown had said, and a rapid calculation which Lu- cilla had herself made in passing, something approaching two hundred a-year would be left to her just a small single womans revenue, as she thought to herself. Two hundred a-year! All at once thQre rame into Miss Marjoribankss mind a sudden vision of the two Miss Ravenswoods, who had lived in that pretty set of rooms over Eisworthys shop, facing into Grange Lane, and who had kept a ladys maid, and asked the best people in the place to tea, upon a very similar income, and how their achieve- ments had been held up to everybody as a model of what genteel economy could do. She thought of them, and her heart sank within her; for it was not in Lucillas nature to live without a sphere, nor to disjoin herself from her fellow-creatures, nor to give up en- tirely the sovereign position she had held for so many years. Whatevershe mightultimate- ly do, it was clear that, in the mean time, she could not make up her mind to any such giving up of the battle as that. Arwi then there was the house. She might let it to the Riders, and add probably another hun- dred a-year to her income; for though it was an excellent house, and worth more than a hundred a-year, still there was no competition for houses in Grange Lane, and the new Doctor was the only probable ten- ant. And, to tell the truth, though Lucilla was very reasonable, it went to her heart at the present moment to think of letting the house to the new Doctor, and having the patients come as usual, and the lamp light- ed as of old, and nothing changed except the central figure of all. She ought to have been above such sentimental ideas when a whole hundred pounds a-year was in question; but she was not, which of itself was a strange phenomenon. If she could have made up her mind to that, there were a great many things that she might have done. She might still have gone abroad, and to some extent taken a limited share in what was going on in some section of English society on the Continent. Or she might have gone to one of the mild cen- tres of a similar kind of life in England. But such a prospect did not offer many at- tractions to Miss Marjoribanks. If she had been rich, it would have been different. Thus there gradually dawned upon her the germ of the plan she ultimately adopted, and which was the only one that commend- ed itself to her feelings. Going away was expensive and troublesome at the best; and even at Elsworthys if she could have made up her mind to such an expedient, she would have been charged a pound a-week for the rooms alone, not to sp~ak of all kinds of extras, and never having the satis- faction of feeling yourself in your own place. Under all the circumstances, it was impressed upon Lucillas mind that her natu- ral course was to stay still where she was, and make no change. Why should she make any change? The house was her own, and did not cost anything, and if Nancy would but stand by her and one good maid It was a venture; but still Lucilla felt as if she might be equal to it. Though she was no mathematician, Miss Marjoribanks was very clever at mental arithmetic in a practical sort of way. She put down lines upon lines of ficrures in her head while she sat musing in her chair, and worked them out with wonderful skill and speed and accuracy. And the more she thought of it, the more it seemed to her that this was the thing to do. Why should she retreat and leave her native soil and the neighbourhood of all her friends be- cause she was poor and in trouhle? Lu- cilla was not ashamed of being poor nor even frightened by it, now that she under- stood what it was any more than she would have been frightened, after the first shock, had her poverty even been much more absolute. She was standing alone at this moment as upon a little island of as yet undisturbed seclusion and calm, and she knew very well that outside a perfect sea of good advice would surge round her as soon as she was visible. In these circumstances Lucilla took by instinct the only wise course: she made up her mind there and 73 MISS MAIIJORIBANKS. then with a perfect unanimity which is sel- dom to be gained when counsellors are ad- initted. And what she decided upon, as was to be expected from her character, was not to fly from her misfortune and the scene of it, but to confront fate and take up her lawful burden and stay still in her own house. It was the wisest and the easiest, and at the same time the most heroic course to adopt, and she knew beforehand that it was one which would be approved of by nobody. All this Ludila steadily faced and considered and made up her mind to while she sat alone; although si- lence and solitude and desolation seemed to have suddenly come in and taken possession all around her of the once gay and brilliant room. She had just made her final decision when she was rejoined by her aunt, who, every- body said, was at this trying moment like a mother to Lucilla. Yet aunt Jemima, too, had changed a little since her brother-in- laws death. She was very fo~id of Miss Marjoribanks, and meant every word she had said about giving her a home, and still meant it. But she did not feel so certain now as she had done about Toms love for his cousin, nor at all anxious to have him come home just at this moment; and for another thing, she had got a way of prowl- ing about the house and looking at the fur- niture in a speculative, auctioneering sort of way. It must be all sold, of course, aunt Jemima had said to herself, and I may as well look what things would suit me; there is a little chiffonier that I have always wanted for my drawing-room, and Lucifla would like to see a few of the old things about her, poor dear. With this idea Mrs. John gave herself a great deal of unneces- sary fatigue, and gave much offence to the servants by making pilgrimages all Over the house, turning up at the most unlikely places and pokin~ about in the least frequented rooms. It was a perfectly virtuous and even amiable thing to do, for it was better, as she reasoned, that they should go to her than to a stranger, and it would be nice for Lucilla to feel that she had some of the old things about her; but then such delicate motives are seldom appreciated by the home- ly critics down-stairs. It was with something of this same air that she came into the drawing-room, where Lucilla was. She could not help laying her hand in a suggestive sort of way on a small table which she had to pass, as if she were saying to herself (as indeed she was say- ing), the veneer has been broken off at that side, and the foot is mended; it. will bring very little; and yet it looks well when you dont look too close. Such were the ideas with which aunt Jemimas mind was filled. But yet she came forward with a great deal of sympathy and curiosity, anil forgot about the furniture in presence of her afflicted niece. Did he tell you anything, Lucilla? said Mrs. John; of course he must have told you something but anything satisfac- tory, I mean. I dont know if you can call it satisfac- tory, said Lucilla, with a sudden rush of softer thoughts; but it was a comfort to hear it. Jflle told me something about dear papa, aunt Jemima. After he had heard of that, you know all that he said was, Poor Lucilla! And dont you remember how he put his hand on my shoulder that last night? I am sosoglad he did it, sobbed Miss Marjoribanks. It may be supposed it was an abrupt transition from her calculations; but after all it was only a different branch of the same suhject; and Lucilla in all her life had never before shed such poignant and tender tears. He might well say, Poor Lucilla! said Mrs. John brought up as you have been, my dear; and did not you hear any- thing more important ? I mean, more im- portant in a worldly point ~f view, aunt Jemima added, correcting herself; of course, it must be the greatest comfort to hear something aboutyour poor papa. And then Lucilla unfolded John Browns further particulars to her surprised hearer. Mrs. John lived upon a smallish income herself, and she was not so contemptuous of the two hundred a-year. And the house, she said the house would bring you in another hundred, Lucilla. The Riders, I am sure, would take it directly, and per- haps a great part of the furniture too. Three hundred would not be so bad for a single woman. Did you say anything about the furniture, my dear? aunt Jemima added, half regretfully, for she did feel that she would~e sorry to lose that chiffonier. I think I shall stay in the house, said Lucilla; you may think it silly, aunt Je- mima, but I was born in it, and Stay in the house! Mrs. John said with a gasp. She did not think it silly, but sim- ple madness, and so she told her niece. If Lucilla could not make up her mind to Els- worthys, there was Brighton and Bath and Cheltenham, and a hundred other places where a single woman might be very coms fortable on three hundred a-year. And to lose a third part of her income for a piece of sentiment was so utterly unlike any con~ 74 MISS MARJORIBANKS. ception aunt Jemima had ever formed of her niece. It was unlike Miss Marjoribanks; but there are times of life when even the most reasonable people are inconsistent. Lucilla, though she felt it was open to grave criticism, felt only more confirmed in her resolution by her aunts remarks. She heard a voice aunt Jemima could not hear, and that voice said, Stay! CHAPTER XLVI. IT must be all6wed that Lucillas decision caused very general surprise in Carlingford, where people had been disposed to think that she would be rather glad, now that things were so changed, to get away. To be sure it was not known for some time; but everybodys idea was that, being thus left aLne in the world, and in circumstan- ces so reduced, Miss Marjoribauks naturally would go to live with somebody. Perhaps with her aunt, who had something, though she was not rich; perhaps, after a little, to visit about among her friends, of whom she had so many. Nobody doubted that Lucilla would abdicate at once, and a certain un- easy, y~t delicious, sense, of freedom had al- ready stolen into the hearts of some of the ladies in Grange Lane. They lamented, it is i-rue, the state of chaos into which every- thing would fall, and the dreadful loss Miss Ma~joribanks would be to society; but still, freedom is a noble thing, and Lucillas sub- jects contemplated their emancipation with a certain guilty delight. It was, at the same time, a most fertile subject of ditcussion in Carlin~ford, and gave rise to all those lively speculations and consultations, and oft-re- newed comparing of notes, which take the place of bcts in the feminine community. The Carlingford ladies as good as betted upon Lucilia, whether she would go with hcr aunt, or pay Mrs. Be~erley a visit at the Deanery, or retire to Mount Pleasant for a little, where these good old Miss Blunts were so fond of her. Each of these opinions had its backers, if it is not profane to say so; and the discussion which of them Miss Mar- joribanks would choose waxed very warm. It almost put the election out of peoples heads; and indeed the election had been sadly dama~ed in interest and social impor- tance by the sad and most unexpected event which had just happened. in Grange Lane. But when the fact was really known, it would be difficult to describe the sense of guilt and horror which filled many innocent bosoms. The bound of freedom had been premature liberty and equality had not come yet, notwitktanding that too caily unwise elan of republican satisfaction. It was true that she was in deep mourning, and that for a year, at least, society must be left to its own devices ; and it was true, also, that she was poor which might na- turally be supposed a damper upon her energiesbut, at the same time, Carlingford knew its Lucilla. As long a she remained in Grange Lane, even though retired and in erape, the constitutional monarch was still present among her suhjects; and nobody could usurp her placeor show that utter in- difierence to her re ulations which some re- volutionaries had dreamed of. Such an idea would have gone direct in the face of the British Constitution, and the sense of the community would have been dead against it. But everybody who had specu- lated upon her proceedings disapproved of Lucilla in her most unlooked-for resolution. Some could not think how she could bear it, staying on there when everything was so changed; and some said it was a weakness they could never have believed to exist in her; and some for there are spiteful peo- ple everywhere breathed the names of Cavendish and Ashburton, the rival candi- dates, and hinted that Miss Mi rjoribanks had something in her mind to justify her lingering. If Lucilla hnd not been support- ed by a conscious sense of rectitude, she must have broken down before this univer- sal disapprobation. Not a soul in the world except one supported her in her resolution, and that was perhaps, of all others, the one least likely to be able to judge. And it was not for want of opportunity to go elsewhere. Aunt Jemima, as has been seen, did not lose an instant in offering the shelter of her house to her niece; and Mrs. Beverley wrote the lou best, kindest, most incoherent letter begging her dear Lucilla to come to her immediately for a long visit, and adding, that though she had to go out a good deal into society, she neednt mind, for that everything she could think of would be done to make her com- fortable; to which Dr. Beverley himself, who was now a dean, added an equally kind posteript, begging ~MIiss Marjoribanks to make her home at the Deanery until she saw how things Were to be. He would have found me a place, perhaps, Lucilla said, when she folded up the letter and this was a terrible mode of expression to the genteel ears ofMrs. John. I wish you would not use such word~, my dear, said Aunt Jemima: even if you had been as poor as you thought, my 75 MISS MABJORIBANKS. house would always have been a home for you. Thank heaven I have enough for both; you never needed to have thought, under any circumstances, of taking a a situation. It is a thing I could never have consented to, which was a very hand- some thing of aunt Jemima to say. Thank you, aunt, said Lucilla, but she sighed; for, though it was very kind, what was Miss Marjoribanks to have done with herself in such a dowager establish- ment? And then Colonel Chiley came in, who had also his proposal to make. She sent me, th~ Colonel said; its been a ~ad business for us all, Lucilla; I dont know when I have felt anything more; and, as for her, you know she has never held up her head since Dear Mrs. Chiley! Miss Marjoribanks said, unable to resist the old affection; and yet I heard she had sent for Dr. Rider direct- ly, Lucilla added. She knew it was quite natural, and perhaps quite necessary, but then it did seem hard that his own friends should be the first to replace her dear papa. It was I did that, said the Colonel. What was a man to do? I wa~ horribly cut up, but I could not stand and see her making herself worse; and I said, you had too much sense to mind So I ought, said Lucilla, with peni- tence, but when I remembered where he was last, the very last place It was hard upon the Colonel to stand by and see a woman cry. It was a thing he could never stand, as he had always said to his wife. He took the poker, which was his favourite resource, and made one of his tremendous dashes at the fire, to give Lu- cilla time to recover herself, and then he turned to Aunt Jemima, who sat pensively by She sent me, said the Colonel, who did not think his wife needed any other name not that I would not have come of my own accord we want Lucilla to go to us, you see. I dont know what plans she may have been making, but were both very fond of her she knows that. I think, if you have not settled upon anything, the best that Lucilla can do is to come to us. Shell he the same as at home, and always somebody to look after her The old Colonel was stahding before the fire, wavering a little on his long unsteady old legs, and looking wonderfully well pre- served; and old and feeble; and Lucilla, though she was in mourning, was so full of life and force in her way. It was a curious sort of protection to offer her, and yet it was real protection, and love and succour, though, heaven knows! it might not per- haps last out the year. I am sure, Colonel Chiley, it is a very kind offer, said aunt Jemima, and I would have been thankful if she could have made up her mind to go with me. But I must say she has taken a very queer notion into her bead a thing I should never have expected from Lucilla she says she will stay here. Heie?ahehwhat does she mean by here? said the Colonel. Here, Colonel Chiley, in this great big melancholy house. I have been thinking about it, and talking about ittill myhead goes round and round. Unless she were to take Inmates, said Aunt Jemima, in a resigned and doleful voice. As for the Colonel he ways petrified, and for a long time had not a word to say. Here / by Jove, I think she must have lost her senses, said the old soldier. Why, Lucilla, I I thought wasnt there something about the money being lost? You couldnt keep up this house un- der a fifteen hundred a-year at least; the Doctor spent a mint of money ; you must be going out of your senses. And to have all the sick people coming, and the bell- ringing of nights. Bless my soul! it would kill anybody, said Colonel Chiley. Put on your bonnet, and come out with me; shutting her up here, and letting her cry, and so forth I dont say it aint natural Im terribly cut up myself whenever I think of it; but its been too much for her head, said the Colonel, with anxiety and consternation mingling in his face. Unless she were to take Inmates, you know, said aunt Jemima, in a sepulchral voice. There was something in the word that seemed to carry out to a point of reali- ty much beyond anythiug he had dreamt of, the suggestion Colonel Chiley had just made. Inmates! Lord bless my soul! what do you mean, maam? said the old soldier. Lucilla, put on your bonnet directly, and come and have a little fresh air. Shell soon be an inmate herself if we leave her here, the Colonel said. They were all very sad and grave, and yet it was a droll scene; and then the old hero offered Lu- cilla his arm, and led her to the door. Youll find me in the hall as soon as you are ready, he said, in tones half gruff; half tender, and was glad to go down-stairs, though it was cold, and put on his greatcoat with the aid of Thomas, and stand warming the tips of his boots at the hall fire. As for Lucilla, she obeyed him without a word; 76 77 MISS MARJORIBANKS. and it was with his unsteady but kind old Thomas to follow her up-stairs; and when arm to lean upon that she first saw how the she sank, tired, into a A~air, and put up her familiar world looked through the mist veil before commencing to speak to him, it of this strange change that had come over it, was all she could do to keep from crying. and through the blackness of her crape veil. The depressing influences of this sad week But though she succeeded in satisfying had told so much on her, that she was quite her friei~ds that she had made up her mind, fatigued by her walk to see Mrs. Chiley; she did not secure their approval. There and Thomas, too, knew why he had been were so many objections to her plan. If called,and stood in a formal manner before you had been rich even, I dont think I her with his hands crossed, against the should have approved of it, Lucilla, Mrs. closed door. When she put back her thick Chiley said, with tears; and I think we black veil, the last climax of painful change could have made you happy here. So the came upon Miss Marjoribanks. She did not good old lady spoke, looking round her feel as if she were Lucilla; so discouraged pretty room, which was so warm and cheery and depressed and pale, and tired with her and bright, and where the Colonel, neat walk as she was, with all sorts of projects and precise as if he had come out of a box, and plans so quenched out of her; almost was standing poking the fire. It looked all if she had been charged with being some- very solid and substantial, and yet it was body else, the imputation was one which as unstable as any gossamer that the care- she could not have denied. less passenger might brush away. The two Thomas, she said faintly, I think lought good people were so old that they had for- to speak to you myself about all that has hap- gotten to remember they were old. But pened we are such old friends, and you neit.her did Lucilla think of that. This was have been such a good kind servant. You really what she thought and partly said know I shant be able to keep up I am in my own house, that wants no And sorry we all was, Miss, to hear it, expense nor changing, and Nancy is getting said Thomas, when Lucillas utterance fail- old, and does not mind standing by me. ed. I am sure there never was a better And it is not so much trouble after all keep- master, though particular; and for a com- ing every thing nice when there is no gen- fortabler house tleman coming in, and nothing else to do. If I had been as poor papa expected to And, besides, I dont mean to be Lucilla leave me,said Miss Marjoribanks after a lit- Marjoribanks for ever and ever. This was tle pause, everything would have gone on the general scope, without going into all the as usual; but after your long service here, details, of what Lucilla said. and so many people as know you, Thomas, But, at the same time, though she was so you will have no difficulty in gettin~, as happy as not to be disturbed in her deci- good a place; and you know that anything sion, or made uncomfortable, either by la- I can say mentation or remonstrance, and had no Thank you Miss, said Thomas; and doubt in her mind that she was doing right, then he made a pause. It was not exact- it was disagreeable to Miss Marjoribanks ly that as I was thinking of; Ive set my to go thus in the face of all her friends. She heart this many a day on a little business. If went home by herself, and the house did you would be so kind as to speak a word look dreary from the outside. It was just for me to the gentlemen as has the licens- as it had always been, for none of the ser- ing. There aint nobody as knows better vants were dismissed as yet, nor any exter- how nal change made; but still a look as if it What kind of a business, Thomas? had fallen asleep a look as if it too had said LucIlla, who cheered up a little in ready died somehow, and only pretended to be a interest, and would have been very glad if house and home was apparent, in the as- she could have taken a little business too. pect of the place; and when the servants Well, Miss, a kind of a quiet public-. were gone, and nobody remained except house, if I dont make too bold to name it Lucilla and her faithful nancy, and a young said Thomas, with a deprecating air not maid which must be the furthest limit of one of them drinking-places, Miss, as, I Miss Marjoribankss household, and difficult know, ladies cant abide; but many a man, enough to maintain upon two hundred a-year as is a very decent man, wants his pint o what would it look like? This thought beer now and again, and their little sort of was more discouraging than anyremonstran- clubs of a night as well as the gentlcfolks; ces; and it was with a heavy heart that Lu- and its my opinion, Miss, as its a man s doo- cilIa re-entered her solitary house. She told ty to see as that sort of a thing dont go too 78 MISS MARJORIBANKS. far, and yet as his fellow-creatures has Go and speak to him directly, Thomas; their bit of pleasure, said Thomas, who na- and heres one of Mr. Ashburtons colours turally took the defensive side. that I made up myself; and tell him that I am sure you are quite right, said Lu- there can be no doubt he is the man for cilla, cheerin~, up more and more, and in- Carlingford; and send up Nancy to me. stinctively, with her old statesmanlike And I hope Betsy and you will be very breadth of view, throwing a rapid glance happy, said Lucilla. She had been dread- upon the subject to see what capabilities fully down, but the rebound was all the there might be in it; and I hope you will more grateful. I am not done with yet, try always to exercise a good influence and, thank heaven! there must always be What is all that noise and shouting out of something to do, she said to herself when doors? she was alone. And she threw off her Its one of the candidates, Miss, said shawl, aiA began to make the drawing-room Thomas, as is addressing of the bargemen look like itself; not that it was not perfec~ly at the top o Pricketts Lane. in order, and as neat as a room could be; Ah! said Lucilla; and a deep sigh but still. the neatness savoured of Betsy, escaped from her bosom. But you can- and not of Lucilla. Miss Marjoribanks, in not do anything of that kind, you know, five minutes, made it look like that cosy Thomas, without a wife. empire of hospitality and kindness, and Yes, Miss, said Thomas, with great talk and wit, and everything pleasant, that confusion and embarrassment; that was it used to be; and then, when she had ~just what I was going to say. Me and finished, she sat down and had a good cry, Betsy which did not do her any harm. Betsy! said Lucilla, with dismay; for Then Nancy appeared, disturbed in her it had been Betsy she had specially fixed preparations for dinner, and wit~h her arms upon as the handy, willing, cheerful maid wrapped in her apron, looking glum and who, when there was no gentleman coming defiant. Hers was not the resigned and re- in, and little else to do, might keep even sourceful preparation for hcr fate which hed this big house in order. She sighed; but appeared in Thomas. She came in, and it was not in her power, even if she had put the door ajar, and leant her hack desired it, to put any restriction upon against the sharp edge. She might be Betsys wishes. And it was not without a sent off like the rest, if that was Miss Lu- momentary eniy that she received the in- cilias meaning her that had been in the telligence. It was life the housemaid was house off and on for more than thirty years; about to enter on active life of her but if it was so, at least she would not give own, with an object and meamng clogged up without unfolding a bit of her mind. by Thomas, no doubt, who did not appear Come in, said Lucilia, drying her eyes to Lucilla as the bright spot in the picture come in and shut the door; you had but stiji independent life; whereas her better come and sit down here, Nancy, fbr mistress knew of nothing particularly in- I have a great deal to say, and I want to teresting in her own uncertain future. She speak to you as a friend. was roused from her momentary medita- Nancy shut the door, but she thought to ti8n by the distant shouts which came from herself that she knew what all this meant, the top of Pricketts Lane, and sighed and made but a very little movement into again; without knowing it, as she spoke. the room, looking more forbidding than Its a pity you had not got your ever. Thank you all the same, Miss Lu- little inn, said Lucilla, for the sake of cilia, but I aint too old to stand, she said; euphony, six months or a year ago, for and stood firm to meet the shock, with her then you might have voted for Mr. Ashbur- arms folded under her apron, thinking in ton, Thomas. I had forgotten about the her heart that it was about one of the alms- election until now. houses, her horror and hope, that her young Not as that neednt stand in the way, mistress was going to speak. Miss, said Thomas, eagerly; theres Nancy, said Lucilla, I want to tell Betsys brother as has it now, and he aint you what I am going to do. I have to make made up his mind about his vote; and if he up my mind for myself now. They all go knowed as it would be any comfort to against me, and one says I should do this you and another says I should do that; but I Of course it will be a comfort to me! dont think anybody knows me so well as said Miss Marjoribanks; and she, got up you do. Dont stand at the door. I want from her chair with a sense that she was to consult you as a friend. I want to ask still not altogether useless in the world. you a question, and you must answer as if MISS MARJORIBANKS. you were before a jndge I have such confidence in you. Nancys distrust and defiance gave way a little before this appeal. She came a step nearer, and let the apron drop from her folded arms. What is it, Miss Lucilla? though I aint pretending to he one to advise, she said, building a kind of in- trenchment round her with the nearest chairs. You know how things are changed, said Lucilla, and that I cant stay here as I used to do. People think I should go and live with somebody; but I think, you know if I was one of those ladies that have a faithful old servant to stand by them, and never to grumble, nor make a fuss, nor go back on the past, nor go in for expensive dishes one that wouldnt mind cooking a chop or making a cup of tea, if that was all we could afford why, I think, Nan- cy But Nancy could not hear any more. She made a little rush forward, with a kind of c6nvulsive chuckling that was half sob- bing and half laughter. And me here! cried Dr. Marjoribankss famous cook, who had spent a fortune on her gravy beef alone, and was one of the most expensive people in Carlingford me as has done for you all your days! me as wouldif it was but a roast potato ! cried the devoted woman. She was in such a state of hysterical flutter and excitement that Lucilla had to take her almost into her arms and put the old woman into a chair and bring her to, which was an occupation quite in Miss Marjori- banks s way. But I shall only have two hundred a- year, said Lucilla. Now dont be rash; there will have to be a maid to keep things tidy, and that is every farthing I shall have You used to spend as much in gravy beef, said Miss Marjoribanks with a sigh. Oh, Miss Ludilla, let bygones be by- gones, said Nancy, with tears. If I did, it wasnt without many a little something for them as was too poor to buy it for themselves for I never was one as boiled the senses out of a bit of meat; and when a gentleman is well-to-do, and hasnt got no occasion to count every penny The Doc- tor, I will say for him, was never one as asked too many questions. Give him a good dinner on his own table, and he wasnt the gentleman as grudged a bit of broken meat for the poor folks. He did a deal of good as you nor no one never knowd of, Miss Lucilla, said Nancy, with a sob. And then his daughter and his faithful old servant cried a little in company over Dr. Marjoribankss vacant place. What could a man have more? Nobody was made altogether desolate by his death, nor was any heart broken, but they wept for him honestly, though the old woman felt happy in her sorrow. And Lucilla, on her knees before the fire, told Nancy of that exclamation the Doctor had made in John Browns office, and how he had put his hand on her shoulder that last night. All he said was, Poor Lucilla! sobbed Miss Mar- joribanks; he never thought of himself nor all his money that he had worked so hard for; and once more that touch of something more exquisite than was usual to her went sharply down into Lucillas heart and brought up tenderer and deeper tears. She felt all the better for it after, and was even a little cheerful in the evening, and like herself; and thus it will be seen that one person in Carliugford not, it is true, a popular oracle, but of powerful in- fluence and first-rate importance in a prac- tical point of view gave the heartiest approbation to Miss Marjoribankss scheme for her new life. CHAPTER XLVII. LucILLAs calculations were fully justified by the result. Twenty times in~ a day she recognised the wisdom of her own early decisi6n, which was made while she was still by herself, and before anybody had come in to advise her. If she had left it over until the time when, though much shaken, she was understood to be able to s~e her friends, it is just possible that the whirlwind of popular opinion which raged about her might have exercised a distract- ing influence even upon Miss Marjori- bankss clear head and steady judgment. For even now, though they sa~v her in her own house, in her mourning, people would not believe that itwas true, and that Lu- cilla actually intended to make no change; and all that tide of good advice which had been flowing through Carling- ford ever since the Doctors death in the form of opinion, now rushed in upon her, notwithstanding that all the world knew that she had made up her mind. Every- body says you are going to stay on, but we do hope it is not true, Lucilla, her friends said, in many voices. It is dreadful for us to lose you, but you never could bear it, dear. And this was repeated so often tiiat if Miss Marjoribanks had been weak-mind- ed, she must have ended by believing not only that it was more than she was equal 79 MISS MARJORIBANKS. to, but more than she ought to be equal to which was a more touching argument still. You are excited now, Miss Brown said, who had a great deal of experience in family troubles; one always is at such a time; but when things have settled down in their ordinary way, then you will find it is more than you can bear. I think it is al- ways best to make a change. If you were to travel a little, you know But, my dear, I am poor, said Lucilla. It doesnt require so much money when you know how to set about it, said her ad- v~ser; and there are so many people who would be glad to have you, Lucilla! And then you might settle a little at Caen or Tours, or some of those nice places, where there is such capital English society, and everything so cheap; or, if you thought your health required it, at Pan or Nice, you know. You are looking quite pale, and I dont think you were ever very strong in the chest, Lucilla; and everything is so different on the Continent one feels it the moment one crosses the Channel; there is something different in the very air. It smells different, I know, said Lu- cilla, meekly; and then the conversation was interrupted by that afternoon cup of tea, which Nancy could not be got to think was an extravagance, and around which, to tell the truth, the Grange Lane ladies be- gan to resume their habit of gathering though Miss Marjoribanks, of course, was still quite unequal to society as in the old times. And unless it is for a very short time, Lucilla, Mrs. Centum said, who had joined them, you never can keep it up, you know. 1 could not pretend to afford Nancy for my part; and when a cook is extrava- gant she may promise as faithfully as you please, and make good resolutions, and all that; but when it is in her, Lucilla I am sure one or two receipts she has given me have been quite ridiculous. You dont like to give in, I know, but youll be driven to give in; and if she does not get you into debt as well you will be very lucky. I know what it is.. With my family, you know, a week of Nancy would make an end of me. And the worst of all is, said Lady Richmond, who had driven in expressly to add her mite to the treasure of precious counsel, of which Miss Marjoribanks was making so little use, that I am sure Lu- cilla is over-estimating her strength. She will find after that she is not equal to it, you know; all the associations and the people coming at night to ask for the Doc- tor and and all that. I know it would kill me. Dear Lady Richmond, said Lucilla, making a desperate stand, and setting, as it were, her back against a rock, dont you think I can bear it best here where you are all so kind to me; and where everybody was so fond of of him? You cant think what a comfort it is to me, said Lucilia, with a sob, to see all the hatbands upon the gentlemens hats. And then there was a pause, for this was an argument against which nobody could find anything to say. For my part, I think the only thing she can do is to take Inmates, said aunt Jemima. If I were obliged to leave she would be so very lonely. I have known ladies do it who were in a very good posi- tion, and it made no difference; people visited them all the same. She could say, In consequence of changes in the family, or A lady who has a larger house than she requires, which I am sure is quite true. It goes to ones heart to think of all these bedrooms and only one lady to sleep in them all when so many people are so hampered for want of room. Or she might say, For the sake of society; for, I am sure, if I should have to go away But I hope you are not going away. It would be so sad for Lucilla to be left alone, said Lady Richmond, who took a serious view of everything, at such a time. Oh, no ! aunt Jemima said, faltering a little; and then a pink blush, which seemed strangely uncalled for in such a mild little tea-party, came over her mature counten- ance; but then one can never tell what may happen. I might have other duties my son might make a call upon my time. Not that I know of anything at present, she added, hurriedly, but I never can bind myself on account of Tom And then she caught Lucillas eye, and grew more confused than ever. What could she have to be confused about? If Tom did make a call upon her time, whatever that might mean, there was nothing in it to call a blush upon his mothers face. And the fact was, that a letter had come from Tom a day or two before, of which, con- tra~y to all her usual habits, aunt Jemima had taken no notice to Lucilla. These were things which would have roused Miss Marjoribankss curiosity if she had~ been able to think about anything, as she said. But her visitors were taking their cup of tea all the time, in a melancholy, half-sym- pathetic, half-disapproving way, and they 80 MISS MARJORIBANKS. could not be expected to see anything par- ticularly interesting in aunt Jemimas blush. And then Rose Lake came in from Grove Street, who was rather an unusual visitor, and whose appearance, though they were all very kind and gracious to her, rather put the others to flight; for nobody had ever quite forgotten or forgiven Barbaras brief entrance into society and flirtation with Mr. Cavendish, whichmight be said to have been the be~inning of all that happen- ed to him in Gran~, e Lane. As for Mrs. Centum, she took her leave directly, and pressed Lucillas hand, and could not help saving in her ear that she hoped the other was not coming back to Carlingford to throw herself in poor Mr. Cavendishs way. It would do him so much harm, Mrs. Cen- tum said, anxiously; but oh! I forgot, Lu- cilia, you are on the other side. I am on no side now, said Miss Mar- joribanks, with plaintive meaning; and Barbara was as old as I am, you know, and she must have gone off. I have no doubt she has gone off, said Mrs. Centum, with righteous indimation As old as you, Lucilla! She must he ten years older at least; and such a shocking style of looks if men were not so infatua- ted! And you have not gone off at all, my ioor dear, she added, with all the warmth of friendship! And then they were joined at the door by the county lady, who was the next to go away. My dear, I hope you will be guided for the best, Lady Richmond said as she went away; but she gave a deep sigh as she kissed Lucilla, and looked as if she had very little faith in the eflicacy of her own wish. Maria Brown had withdrawn to another part of the drawing-room with aunt Jemi- ma, so that Lucilla was, so to speak, left alone with Rose. And Rose, to?, had come with the intention of giving advice. I bear you are going to stay, Lucilla, she seid, and I did not think I would be dong my duty if I did not tell you what ~ras in my mind. I cant do any good to anybody, you know; but you who are so clever, and have so much in your power I am poor now, said Miss Marjori- banks; and as for being clever, I dont know about that. I never was clever about drawing or Art like you. Oh, like me ! said poor little Rose, whose career had been sacrificed ten years ago, and who was a little misanthropical now, and did not believe even in Schools of Design; I am not so sure about the moral influence of Art as I used to be except High Art, to be sure; but we never have any High Art down here. And oh, Lu- cilla! the poor people do want something done f& r them. If I was as clever as you, with a great house all to myself like this, and well off, and with plenty of influence, and no tics said Rose, with energetic emphasis. She made a pause there, and she was so much in earnest that the tears came into her eyes. I would make it a House of Merey, Lucilla! I would show all these poor creatures how to live and how to manage, if I was as clever as you; and teach them and their children, and look after them, and be a mother to them! said Rose; and here she stopped short, altogeth- er overcome by her own magnificent con- ception of what her friend could or might do. Aunt Jemima and Miss Brown, who had drawn near out of curiosity, stared at Rose as if they thought she had gone mad; but Lucilla, who was of a larger mind and more enlightened ideas, neither laughed nor looked horrified. She did not make a very distinct answer, it is true, but she was very kind to her new adviser, and made her a fres~i cup of tea, and even consented, though in an ambiguous way, to the pi~inciple she had just enunciated. If you wont be affront- ed, my dear, Lucilla said, I do not think that Art could do very much in Carling- ford; and I am sure any little thing that I may be of use for But she did not commit herself any further, and Rose too found the result of her visit unsatisfactory, and went home disappointed in Lucilla. This was how the afternoon passed; and at the end of such a day, it may well be im- agined how Miss Marjoribanks congratula- ted herself on having made up her mind be- fore the public, so to speak, were admitted. For Rose was followed by the Rector, who, though he did not propose in so many words a House of. Mercy, made no secret of his conviction that parish-work was the only thing that could be of any service to Lu- cilla; and that, in short, such was the ine- vitable and providential destination of a woman who had no ties. Indeed, to hear Mr. Bury, a stranger would have been disposed to believe that Dr. Maijoribanks had been, as he said, removed, and his fortune swept away, all in order to indi- cate to Lucilla the proper sphere for her energies. In the face of all this it will be seen how entirely Miss Marjoribankss wis- dom in making her decision by herself be- fore her advisers broke in upon her, was justified. She could now set her back against her rock, and face her assailants, a,s Fitz-James did. FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. I. 6. 81 82 MISS MARJORIBANKS. Come one, come all, this rock shall fly for herself, and that utter devotion to the IFrom its firm base as soon as 1/ cause of humanity which would be involved in it; hut yet, when a woman happens to be mi~iht have been her utterance; but she full of energy and spirit, and determined was not in a defiant mood. She kissed all that whatever she may be she shall certain- her couusellors that day (except, of course, ly not be a nonentity, her position is one the Rector), and heard them out with the that demands thought. She was very capa- sweetest patience; and then she thought to ble of serving her fellow-creatures, and herself how much better it was that she had very willing and weil disposed to serve mae up her mind to take her own way. them; and yet she was not inclined to give Notwithstanding, ~ll this commotion of herself up entirely to them, nor to relin- public opinion about her made a certain im- quish her personal prospects vague though pression upon Miss Marjoribaukss mind, these might be. It was a tough problem, It was not uupleasant to feel that, for this and one which might have caused a most moment at least, she was the centre of the unusual disturbance in Lucillas well-re~u- thoughts of the community, and that almost lated mind, had not she remembered all at everybody in Carlingford had taken the once what deep mourning she was in, and trouble to frame an ideal existence for her, that at present no sort of action, either of according as he or she regarded life. It is one kind or another, could be expected of so seldom that any one has it in his power, her. There was no need for making a final consciously and evidently, to regulate his decision, either about the parish-works or life for himself, and make it whatever he about taking Inmates, as aunt Jemima pro- wants it to be. And then, at the same posed, or about any other single su~,esdon time, the best that she could make of it which had been offered to her; no more. would, after all, be something very limited than there was any necessity for asking and unsatisfactory. In her musings on what her cousin Toms last letter had been this subject, Lucilla could not but go back about, or why his mother looked so gudty a great many times to that last conversa- and embarrassed when she spoke of him. tion she had with her father, when she Grief has its privileges and exemptions, walked up Grange Lane with him that like other great principles of life; and the night over the thawed and muddy snow. recollection that she could not at presen.t The Doctor had said she was not cut out be expected to be able to think about any- for a single woman; and Lucilla, with can- thing, filled Lucillas mind with the most dour, yet a certain philosophical specula- soothing sense of consolation and refreshing tiveness, had allowed that she was not calm. unless, indeed, she could be very rich. If And then other events occurred to ocen- she had been very rich, the prospect would py her friends; the election for one thing no doubt have been, to a certain extent, began to crow a little exciting, and took different. And then, oddly enough, it was away some of the superfluous energy of Rose Lakes suggestion n~hich came after Grange Lane. Mr. Ashourton had carried this to Lucillas mind. She did not simile all before him at first; but iince the Rector at it as some people might expect she had come into the field, the balance had would. One thing was quite sure, that she changed a little. Mr. Bury was very Low- had no intention of sinking into a nobody, Church; and from the moment at which he and giving up all power of acting upon her was persuaded that Mr. Cavendish was a fellow-creatures; and she could not help great penitent, the question as to whicX~ was being conscious of the fact that she was the Man for Carlingford had been solveX in able to be of much use to her fellow-crea- his mind in the most satisfactory way. A. tures. If it had been Maria Brown, for in- man who intrenched himself in mere re- stance, who had been concerned, the whole spectability, and trusted in his own good question would have been one of utter un- character, and considered himself to have importance, except to the heroine herself; a clear conscience, and to have done his but it was different in Miss Marjoribankss duty, had no chance against a repentant case. The House of Mercy was not a sinner. Mr. Cavendish, perhaps, had not thing to be taken into any serious consider- done his duty quite so well; but then he ation; but still there was somethin~ in the was penitent, and everything was expressed idea which Lucilla could not dismiss care- in that word. The Rector was by no means lessly as her friends could. She had no contemptible, either as an adversary or a vocation, such as the foundress of such an supporter and the worst of it was that, establishment ou~,ht to have, nor did she see in embracing Mr. Cavendishs claims, he her way to the abandonment of all projects could scarcely help speaking of Mr. Ash- MISS MARJORIBANKS. burton as if he was in a very bad way. And feeling began to rise rather high in Carlingford. If anythina could have deep- ened the intensity of Miss Marjoribankss grief, it would have bees to know that all this was going on, and that affairs might go badly with her candidate, while she was shut up, and could give no aid. It was hard upon her, and it was hard upon the candidates themselves one of whom had thus become generally disapproved of, with- out, so far as he knew, doin~ anything to deserve it; while the other occupied the still more painful character of being on his promotion a repentant man, with a char- acter to keep up. It was no wonder that Mrs. Centum grew pale at the very idea of such a creature as Barbara Lake throwing herself in poor Mr. Cavendishs way. A wrong step one way or other a relapse in- to the ways of wickedness might undo in a moment all that it had cost so much trou- ble to do. And the advantage of the Rec- tors support was thus grievously counter- balanced by what might be called the uncertainty of it especially as Mr. Cay- endish was not, as his committee lamented secretly among themselves, a man of strong will or business habits, in whom implicit confidence could be placed. He might get restive, and throw the Rector over just at the critical moment; or he might relapse into his lazy Continental habits, and give up church-going and other gool practices. But still, up to this moment, he had shown very tolerable perseverance; and Mr. Burys influence thrown into his scale had equalised matters very much, and made the contest very exciting. All this Lucilla heard, not from Mr. Cavendish, but from her own candidate, who had taken to cal- ling in a steady sort of way. He never went into any effusions of sympathy, for he was not that kind of man; but he would shake hands with her, and say that people must submit to the decrees of Providence; and then he would speak of the election and of his chances. Sometimes Mr. Ashburton was despondent, and then Lucilla cheered him up; and sometimes he had very good hopes. I am very glad you are to be here, he said on one of these occasions. It would have been a great loss to me if you had gone away. I shall never forget our talk about it here that day, and how you were the first person that fouud me out. It was not any cleverness of mine, said Lucilla. It came into my mind all in a moment, like spirit-rapping, you know. It seems so strange to talk of that now; there 83 have been such changes since then it looks like years. Yes, said Mr. Ashhurton, in his steady way. There is nothing that really makes time look so long; but we must all bow to these dispensations, my dear Miss Marjori- banks. I would not speak of the election, but that I thought it might anuse you. The writs are out now, you know, and it takes place on Monday week. Upon which Miss Marjoribauks smiled upon Mr. Ashburton, and held out her hands to him with a gesture and look which said more than words. You kuow you will have all my best wishes, she said; and the candidate was much moved more moved than at such a moment he had thought it possible to be. If I succeed, I know whom I shall thank the most, said he fervently; and then, as this was a climax, and it would have been a kind of bathos to plunge into ordinary details after it, Mr. Ashburton got up, still holding Lucillas hand, and clasped it almost tenderly as he said good- bye. She looked very well in her mourn- ing, though she had not expected to do so; for black was not Lucillas style. And the fact was, that instead of having gone off, as. she herself said, Miss Marjoribanks looked better than ever she did, and was even em- bellished by the natural tears which still shone by times in her eyes. Mr. Ashburton went out in a kind of bewilderment after this interview, and forgot his overcoat in the hall, and had to come back for it, which was a confusing circumstance; and then he went on his way with a gentle excitement which was not unpleasant. Would she, I wonder? he said to himself, as he went up Grange Lane. Perhaps he was only asking himself whether Lucihla would or could be present along with Lady Richmond and her flimily at the window of the Blue Boar on the great day; but if that was it, the idea had a certain brightening and quickening influence upon his face and his movements. The douht he had on the subject, whateyer it was, was not a discouraging, but a pi- quant, stimulating, exciting doubt. lie had all but proposed the question to his com- mittee when he went in among them, which would have filled these gentlemen with wonder and dismay. But though he did not do that, he carried it home with him, as he trotted back to the Firs to dinner. Mr. Ashburton took a walk through his own house that evening, and examined all its capabilities with no particular motive, as he was at pains to explain to his housekeep- er; and again he said to himself Would MISS MARJORIBANKS. she, I wonder? before he retired for the ni~ht; which was no doubt an unusual sort of iteration for so sensible a man, and one so fully occupied with the most important affairs, to make. As for Lucilla, she was not in the way of asking herself any questions at that mo- ment. She was letting things take their course, and not interfering; and conse- quently, nothing that happened could be said to he hir fault. She carried this prin- ciple so far, that even when aunt Jemima was herself led to open the subject, in a hesitating way, Miss Marjoribanks never even asked a single question ahout Toms last letter. She was in mourning, and that was enough for her. As for appearin~ at the window of the Blue Boar with Lady Richmond, if that was what Mr. Ashbnrton was curious about he might have saved himself the trouble of any speculations on the subject. For though Miss Marjoribanks would be very anxious about the election, she would indeed have been ashamed of herself could her feelings have permitted her to appear anywhere in public so. soon. Thus, while Mr. Ashburton occupied him- self much ~vith the question which had taken possession of his mind, Lucilla took a good book, which seemed the best reading for her in her circumstances, and when she had looked after all her straitened affairs in the morning, sat down sweetly in the afternoon quiet of her retirement and Se- ~~lusion, and let things take their way. THE LovE or Music. Whatever lamen. receive from wandering through a picture gal- tations may be pronounced over the decline of lery l A good deal of fine confused pleasure the fine arts, there is one art which is at the perhaps, of a kind which allows them to make present day a passion with every nation of remarks upon about two hundred paintings per Europe. Sculpture may have little real and hour. But to obtain any intense delight from vital connection with our modern life; our painting, such delight as does not suffer one to architecture may be grey, and grim, and death- make a remark, not a little special culture, cx- ful, or a sterile reproduction of forms which cept in rare instances, must have gone before. critics instruct us to admire, or for truly mod- Music, if we set aside poetry, is the only art era work, a railway station and a Crystal which can at p resent give delight of great in- Palace; our painting may hay fallen sadly tensity to per~ons who have received but slight away from the grand style and the glories of artistic education, or that preparation for art. high art: but the hearts of men are vi- istic enjoyment which comes from the study of brating everywhere to perfect music. And nature and literature. The mere recollection this, as M. Tame remarks, is the genuine of it is a delicious torture; it is not the remem- language of reverie, and vague emotion, and brance of an object perceived by the senses, but undefined aspirations, and infinite regret. The the attempt to revive a state into which our last hundred years have not given us a seeon~l whole emotional nature was thrown, and Phidias, or Raphael, or Shakespeare; but we though this state, while actually experienced have had Handel, and Mozart, and Beethoven. seems more entirely passive and trance-like We look back to the Middle Ages; and be. than that produced by any of the other arts, cause we fiuid a wonderful palace here, and a music, more powerfully than all the rest, bell-tower or a cathedral there, we say they awakens the dormant artistic activities in every were great days of art. And so they were. man, and, by some mysterious dealings with the But what ~vill future centuries think of soul, makes him involuntarily a reproducer. It the period of art in which 1)ou Giovanni, may be a gain, or it may be a misfortune, that y should be one Fidelio, Elijah, were created Will the the master art of the present da painters of the Renaissance who stood below so purely sensitive and emotional one into Raphael and Michael Angelo, or the dramatists which, for the listener, so slight an intellectual of the Elizabethan age who stood below Shake- element enters. But of the fact there can be spenie, appear a more illustrious group of little question. What may come of this in the artists than Rossini, Donizetti, Belhini, Ver- future it is not easy to conjecture; but this di, Weber, Auber, Meyerbeer, Berlioz, Gounod I we know, that the source of a noble develop- As unquestionably as sculpture was the supreme meat of art is a noble national nature, and that art of Greece, architecture of the Middle Ages, if ever a period comes when clear thought, and painting of the Renaissar~Ce (poetry being earnest faith in great things, and vigorous wills, common to all), is music the supreme art of the are united in men with a delicate susceptibility, present day. It is that ~vith which we are a finer power of sympathy, and a higher cul- most in sympathy: it is also the most truly ture, our country cannot fail to obtain a freer democratic. How much do nine persons out and more healthful development of art than has of ten really care for a tinted Venus or a sleep- yet appeared.COCttmPOfarY Review. ing faun I What amount of pleasure do they NOVELS FOR FAMILY READING. From the Saturday Review. NOVELS FOR FAMILY READING.* DOCTORS tell us that the prevalent type of disease from which the present genera- tion suffers is quite different from that which afflicted our fathers and grandfathers. Punch and port wine have done their work, and we bear the penalty of past an- cestral joviality in the shape of an exagge- ration of nervous sensibility and all its attendant miseries. Gout and fevers have gone out, and headaches and dyspepsia have come in. In fact, had not volunteer- ing been invented, and cricketing come to be regarded as a branch of the literce humaniores, there is no saying to what a degree of morbid sensitiveness and in- curable indigestion the whole nation might have been by this time reduced. But this is not all the change that is going on. As we are unlike our progenitors in bodily constitution, so must we expect our posterity to be unlike ourselves in the type of their minds. The next genera- tion of Englishmen and Englishwomen will exhibit to the world the unprecedented phenomenon of a a people brought up mainly upon novels. Half a century has wrought a development of the theory of fiction-making for the young at which our own worthy fathers and mothers would have stood amazed, if not absolutely aghast. Let any man of fifty or sixty recall the amount of -story-reading and bond fide novel-reading which was permitted to himself when he was a boy, and the change will strike him at once as wonderful. In those days it was universally held that much fiction was a most unwholesome thing for the young mind, and according to the national belief such was the national practice. Very few stories for children were in existence, and those were usually of the most carefully devised and highly proper description. Think only of the names of the books and the writers who were supposed to satisfy all our young aspirations after the good, the beautiful, and the true. Miss Edgeworth, Mrs. Trimmer, Mrs. Barbauld, Lucy Aikin, Mr. Day (the author of Sandford and Mer- ton), were our novelists. Exquisitely exciting periodicals like the Mirror or the Bee, with an occasional Keepsake or Gem, and, in more indulgent families, a Gulliver (unexpurgated), the Arabian Nights (un- expurgated), and Don Quixote (also unex- purgated), with, of course, Robinson Crusoe, and (perhaps) the Tales of the Genii, and * Alfred ifagrerts H~usehotd. By Alexander Smith. London: Alexander Strahan. Rasselas, and Lambs Tales from Shake- speare these constituted the bulk of the books for the young, with which we were perforce contented. Now all is changed. Not only is every booksellers shop deluged with stories for boys and stories for girls, but periodicals for the young are supplied, with every sort of illustration and at every variety of price. Besides this, the whole national notion as to novel-reading is modi- fied. Unless there is somethin~ flagrantly offensive to propriety, and the plot turns upon the infraction of one particular coin- maudment, the real novel, with all its full- blown love-making, is regarded as whole- some reading for girls and boys in almost unlimited quantities. It is probably n6t an exaggeration to say t~hat, for one book of fiction, of some sort or other, that was read by each girl or boy at the beginning of the century, fifty are now read by each one of our children. A still more striking and suggestive thing is the position that novels have established for themselves in the various periodicals of what we must call the religious world. The publication of magazines for the propagation of some theological school by the aid of stories and tales is, when one comes to think of it, a phenomenon almost startling, from the rapidity with which it has grown to its present maturity. The in- genuous youth of to-day are to be seduced into the paths of virtue on the high-pressure system which now pervades all English life. The single or two-volume stories of the established religious tale-writer (10 not come fast enough for the children of a gen- eration that has the Times of the day on its breakfast-tables at Brighton, and tele- graphs a Queens Speech to Paris with such haste that it arrives about ten minutes after the last words have been spoken in the House of Lords. A union between piety and periodicalism has become a recognised means of grace, even among the lowest of Low Churchmen, and the most sabba- tarian of SabK tarians. Non-confbrmity itself relaxes into a grim smile, the Religious Tract Society provides its Sunday stories, and in the same sheet which offers wor(1s in season, hints to the uncon- verted, and daily texts, the youthful Congregationalist and Baptist learns how to combine flirting an(l chapel-going on the soundest possible of Scriptural principles. Good Words, the periodical from which this story of Alfred ilagarts Household has been republished though the fact is no- where stated in the republication itself is in itself a phenomenon. It is the first 85 NOVELS FOR FAMILY READING. distinct attempt of the Broad Church school to make its voice heard ii~ the parsonages and quiet homes of universal Great Britain. Its Broad Churchism, is, of course, of the mildest description. Edited by a shrewd and accomplished Presbyterian minister, it was not to be expected that it would too heedlessly shock the prejudices of the ortho- dox, whether north or south of the Tweed. Dr. Maclends chief assistants belong, in- deed, to the English Establishment, and this fact alone is sufficient to suggest the tone and principles of the publication. And, in reality, it is by the combination of writers differing widely from one another as to their tastes, habits df thought, and actual dogmatic beliefs, that this singular periodical propagates religious liheralism. The editor and his staff have just attained to that early and haWdcveloped form of Broad Church thought which aims at the creation of charitable views towards an- tagonists in general. As for the distinct liberalism of Stanley, Joxvett, and Colenso, they know it not and in truth, if they did know it, their periodical could never have seen the light. Nevertheless, it is difficult to conclude that Good Words is not play- in~ the part of a pioneer. A household that habitually reads a magazine wherein one clerical writer records the unrivalled influences of Assisi and the Evangelical piety of the founder of ihe Franciscans, while another tells how he coquetted with Greek priests and Arehimandrites in Mon- tenegro, and a third (a Dean) wanders among French churches, combining ad- miration for their architecture with zeal against Mariolatry such a household must surely be~ome habituated to the idea that Christianity is something different from a belief in patristic creeds or medi~val hymns or Thirty-nine Articles of British ocigin. Nobody who is accustomed to see Mi. Charles Kingsleys name associated with thdse of a host of more orthodox divines can continue to cherish the dear delirhtfhl old theory that the Gospel is the good news of eternal damnation to every- holy except ones seW even though Mr. Kint~slev himseif is more bitter than ever against the IbIlow-religionists of Dr. New- man, and a Dr. B. own (a Scotch gentle- man) denounces B ibists, Fuscyites, and Rationalists as the lecitimate successors of the Pharisees, the Essenes, and the Sad- ducees of ancient times. And on just such universalist principles the editor of Good Words administers his fiction to his believing readers. Of couAe he can usher nothing improper into the world. Not a suspicion of bigamy, or of the doings of French actresses, or of run- away marriages, must be detected either in the verse or prose which he stamps with his irnpri?natur. But, short of this, every taste shall be gratified. During the past year he has given to the world two novels as utterly unlike in style, tone, and sub- stance, as it is possible to conceive. If the rational and non-theolonical novel-reader finds neither ofthem to his liking, this is not because they are both of them of the kind one would look for in such a quarter. To those who think Mr. Kingsley a master of the craft of story-telling, and are ready to sit at his feet when he teaches history, Here- ward, the Last of the Enylish, may appear as something less extravagant, noisy, and tedious than we have found it, so far as we have been able to surmount its difficulties. As an historical picture, it appears to be about as accurate as its authors remark that all true men love women with an overwhelm- ing adoration is profoundly true. A~fred HagartsHousekold is altogether in a different line. If Mr. Kingsley is truculent, abd the talk of his characters fiery and fierce, Mr~ Alexander Smiths personages are all of the goody kind. his tale is just the description of story that the simple-minded reader would have looked for in a magazine bearing the ominous title of Good Words. The plot is imperceptibly small; the re- flections are highly appropriate and gen- erally untrue. Mr. Hagart, and Mrs. Hagart, and the young hiagarts, and an old relation, Miss Kate, and all their friends, acquaintances and relations in general, whether laudable or the reversq in their conduct, talk that small and smartish talk which is in favour with the imitators of Mr. Dickens. Then, by way of giving life to the tale, the author is pdrpetually intro- ducing himself, after the way of Thackeray and Mr. Anthony Trollope a practice disagreeable enough in the hands of a master of the craft, but in Mr. Smith ut- terly intolerable. It is, however, by his more eloquent outbreaks that Mr. Smith would probably have us judge him. Let us hear him, then,in the person of a gifted youth whose love-making is introduced towards the end of the story, as he strides up and down an apartment in his own house, his mind filled with austere music in consequence of reading Samson Agonistes. The reading of Milton always hiumikat s me, he silently observes to himself What immeasurable altitude and solitariness of soul! What cruel purity and coldness as TILE CONTRAST. of Alpine snows! Chaucer gossips, Spenser troon, and a fool. With this last judi- dreams, Shakspeare is mobile as flame, now cious seutiment we may leave him, assuring clown, now emperor; now Caliban, now Ariel; the reader who may be disposed to serve at hone everywhere, taking his ease in every Alfred Hagarts Household as this young condition of life but Milton is never other served Samson Agonistes, and than himself; he is always autooratic the gentleman haughtiest scorafulest, stateliest, loneliest of dash the book upon the ground, but not in human spn~its. He daunts, repels, frightens an ecstacy of admiration, that if he will but yet fascinates. He would sing the song o read on for a few more pages he will learn Paradise, and he left the task to the close of how to make love in the same eloquent life, when smitten with blindness, pierced with style, and will find Mr. Henry Willoughby ingratitude, and fallen on evil days and evil calling himself a great many more ugly tongues perfectly conscious that he could names, in whose applicability he will cor- bccome immortal whenever he pleased dially agree. Gracious Heaven, what a will the blind old Such are the household novels of Good man had, making time, infirmity, and sorrow Words. That they will stimulate the pre- his slaves! Other poets are summer yachts, moving hither and thither on the impulse of vailing appetite for novel-reading can the sunimer wind ; Milton is an ocean steamer, scarcely be supposed. One is almost with steadfast-pointing needle, plenty of coal tempted to imagine that they are designed on boatd, and which, relying on internal with malice prepense to serve the very op- resources, and careless alike of elemental aids posite end. No one can surely ever find or hindrances, bears straight on its determined that 1 appetit vient en mangeant, after way, deviating not a hairs-breadth, come hur- feasting on such delicacies as Mr. Kingsleys ricane, come calm. What power, what energy very peppery stew and Mr. Smiths very in every thin,, he does! His lines are like the charging files of Cromwells Ironsides. watery gruel. Let us hope, in considera- tion for the mothers and daughters and Then the unspoken meditation takes maiden aunts of England, for whom Good another turn, and the critic asks what he Words provides their only literary reerca- himself is to be considered when compared tion, that the new story, now commenced with Milton, deciding in favour of the by the accomplished author of the C/iron- view that he is a spineless caterpillar, ic/es of Carlingford, may prove a pleasanter a blown arrow of thistle-down, a pol- kind of refection. BY N. G. sHEriSERD. THE CONTRAST. I. Peal after peal that echoed to the hills! Blast after blast that shook the solid ground! From morn to night the grimy cannon smote The tortured ear with quick continuous sound And denser hung the battles suiphurous cloud: The serried ranks grew thinner as they passed; And all the while the cannon, bellowing loud, Shook the dumb earth with each succeeding blast. II. Peace dawned at length upon the suffering land Where, like a shadow, rested Wars dark blight Peace, like a golden sunrise, where had reigned For weary months the long and dismal night And from the skies the mellow light looked down On blackened hamlets where the broad plains lay, Beside the sea where stood the ruined town That once had smiled across the purple bay. III. But now from spires uplifted to the sky, The cannons sturdy metal, cast anew Into sweet bells, rings out on Sabbath moms, And tranquil Sabbath eves, the whole land through Rings out from brazen lips, with voices clear That float like hymns upon the listening air, Calling across the dim vales, far and near, A thankful nation forth to praise and prayer. U. S. Service Afagazine. WHITE AND BLACK CHILDREN IN RICHMOND. From the Transcript. a WHITE AND BLACK CHILDREN IN RICHMOND. The following is an extract from a letter from Miss Bessie Canedy, teacher of a flour- ishing school in Richmond, to the Freedmens and Union Commission ia this city. It will be observed that the column designed for registering the number of whites is still filled only by ciphers, but not because the teach- er is unwilling to receive pupils, both of whose parents are of the same dominant race. I have always tbought that I would like to see black and white children start together in the race, if for no other reason, to show the world which would run the faster. My last effort to induce a white child to come into my school was as amusing as it was unsuccessful. A boy livin,, in this neighbor- hood has for some time been in the habit of coming into the yard and playing with my boys at recess, and walkin, quietly away when the bell called the school in. The last time he was there, it occurred to me that he might like to come in, if invited; so I asked him if he ~vent to. school. Not now, used to go to private school before the war; mother cant afford to send me now. How would you like to come to my school ? Come to your school! where Why, here, I re- plied, where these boys, whom you were play- in,, with, belong. Hastily picking up his marbles, with a look calculated to annihilate me, he exclaimed: Id have you know I dont put myself on an equal with niggers. Now stop, said I, and let ns see how foolish that is; you like to come here to play, and these boys like to play with you. Now why not come in and study with them? And, without giving him time for another thrust at color, I added, it shall not cost you anything, not even for your books, if you are not able to pay for them. Then you should have seen my hau,,hty Sonthron! To the insult of asking him to go into a school with niggers I had added the injury of sup- posing him reduced so low as to be willing to accept education without money and without price. My mother wouldnt let me go to a free school, no how! But, said I, I nev- er went to any but free schools. Dont you think I could teach you l Oh yes, maam, I reckon you could, for the Yankees get a right smart of learning in those free schools, some- how. I was almost inclined to forgive him for his contempt of my school, in consideration of his unintentional compliment to Yankee free schools. Our Lincoln night school continues to at- tract its two hundred pupils. I wish it were possible to have it photographed for you. The turbaned heads and spectacled faces bent reverently over their primers; the young men earnest and determined that no want of educa- tional qualifications ~ball long hinder their en- franchisement; the weary washerwoman . and cook, hurrying in at a late hour, unrolling their broad white aprons over their soiled dresses; the tired seamstress (I have two in my class with skins just like my own ), the joyous groups of boys and girls who are helping mammy and so cant go to day-school, but to whom learning to read is just so much fun; and not to be forgotten, though they get no atten- tion there, some three or four dark bundles asleep in some dark corner of the church, where they are put for safe keeping while father and mother are learning to read. Qb, it would make just such a picture as I would like to add to the decorations of the White House. The veto fell with a disheartening, but by no means crushing, effect upon the freed-people. The evening it was announced in the school was one of the saddest I have experienced with them since the death of President Lincoln. A few evenings before; a nephew of Senator Trumbull had visited the school and on being asked to address them, said he had no speech to make, but would say to them: Congress is doing all it can for you. This they warmly applauded, pronouncing it the best speech they had heard for a long time. Their faith in the powers that be, is as astonishing as it is beautiful. How cruel to abuse it. James, my representative boy, came to me with a doleful face when it was rumored that the Examiner was to go on again, to ask if President Johnson could revoke General Grants order. Oh yes, I replied. After a moment he looked up more hopefully, with the question, Cant somebody revoke Presi- dent Johnson l I sent him to the Constitution for an answer, but hardly think he found one that satisfied him. SPEEcHEs xv AN OLD SMOKER. They The ass and the pig have few wants, and call you selfish, Sir, do they? What they dont care to supply any wants but their own. mean is, that you decline to sacrifice yourself to You may believe some people who tell you they themselves. can be content with a little. Everybody does as he pleases, with or with- Sir, the reason why they object to your love out reflection. Well, Sir! A man commonly of money is, because it keeps your money from called selfish differs from those who call him them. so merely in following his own inclinations Punch. under the restraint of intelligence. 88 THE CLAVERINGS. CHAPTER IV. FLORENCE BURTON. IT was now Christmas time at Stratton, or rather Christmas time was near at hand; not the Christmas next after the autumn of Lord Ongars marriage, hut the following Christmas, and Harry Clavering had fin- ished his studies in Mr. Burtons office. He flattered himself that he had not been idle while he was there, and was now about to Commence his more advanced stage of pu- pilage, under the great Mr. Beilby in Lon- don, with hopes which were still good, if they were not so magnificent as they once had been. When he first saw Mr. Burton in his office, and beheld the dusty pigeon- holes with dusty papers, and caught the first glimpse of things as they really were in the workshop of that man of business, he had, to say the truth, been disgusted. And Mrs. Burtons early dinner, and Florence Burtons plain face and plain ways, had disconcerted him. On that day he had re- pented of his intention with regard to Strat- ton; but he had carried out his purpose like a man, and now he had rejoiced greatly that he had done so. He rejoiced greatly, though his hopes were somewhat sobered, and his views of life less grand than they had been. He was to start. for Clavering early on the following morning, intending to spend his Christmas at home, and we will see him and listen to him as he bade farewell to one of the members of Mr. Bur- tons family. He was sitting in a small back parlour in Mr. Burtons house, and on the table of the room there was burning a single candle. It was a dull, dingy, brown room, furnished with horsehair-covered chairs, an old horse- hair sofa, and heavy rusty curtains. I dont know that there was in the room any attempt at ornament, as certainly there was no evidence of wealth. It was now about seven oclock in the evening, and tea was over in Mrs. Burtons establishment. Har- ry Clavering had had his tea, and had eaten his hot muffin, at the further side from the fire of the family table, while Florence had poured out the tea, and Mrs. Burton had sat by the fire on one side with a handker- chief over her lap, and Mr. Burton had been comfortable with his arm-chair and his slippers on the other side. When tea was over, Harry had made his parting speech to Mrs. Burton, and that lady had kissed him, and bade God bless him. Ill see you for a moment before you go, in my of- fice, Harry, Mr. Burton had said. Then Harry had gone downstairs, and some one else had gone boldly with him, and they two were sitting together in the dingy brown room. After that I need hardly tell my reader what had become of Harry Cla- verings perpetual life-enduring hearts mis- ery. He and Florence were sitting on the old horsehair sofa, and Florences hand was in his. My darling, he said, how am I to live for the next two years? You mian five years, Harry. No; I mean two, that is two, unless I can make the time less. I believe youd be better pleased to think it was ten.. Much better pleased to think it was ten than to have no such hope at all. Of course we shall see each other. Its not as though you were going to New Zealand. I almost wish I were. One would agree then as to the necessity of this cursed delay. Harry, Harry! It is accursed. The prudence of the world in these latter days. seems to me to be more abominable than all its other iniqui- ties. But, Harry, we should have no in- come. Income is a word that I hate. Now you are getting on to your high horse, and you know I always go out of the way when you begin to prance on that beast. As for me, I dont want to leave papas house where Im sure of my bread and butter, till Im sure of it in another. You say that, Florence, on purpose to torment me. Dear Harry, do you think I want to torment you on your last ni~ht? The truth is, I love you so well that I can afford to be patient for you. I hate patience, and always did. Pa- tience is one of the worst vices I know. Its almost as bad as humility. Youll tell me youre umble next. If youll only add that youre contented, youll describe your- self as one of the lowest of Gods creatures. I dont know about being umble, but I am contented. Are not you contented with me, sir? No, because youre not in a hurry to be married. What a goose you are. Do you know Im not sure that if you really love a per- son, and are quite confident about him, as I am of you, that having to look for- ward to being married is not the best part of it all. I suppose youll like to get my let- 89 THE CLAVEILINGS. ters now, but I dont know that youll care for them much when weve been man and wife for ten years. But one cant live upon letters. I shall expect you to live upon mine, and to grow fat on them. There; I heard papas step on the stairs. He said you were to go to him. Good-by, Harry; dearest Harry! What a blessed wind it was that blew you here. Stop a moment ; about your getting to Clavering. I shall come for you on Easter-eve. Oh, no ; why should you have so much trouble and expense? 1 tell you I shall come for you, un- less, indeed, you decline to travel wiLh me. It will be so nice! And then I shall be sure to have you with me the first mo- ment I see them. I shall think it very aw- ful when I first meet your father. Hes the most good-natured man, I should say, in England. But hell think me so plain. You did at first, you know. But he wont be un- civil enough to tell me so, as you did. And Mary is to be married in Easter week? Oh, dear, oh, dear; I shall be so shy among them all. You shy! I never saw you shy in my life. I dont suppose you were ever really put out yet. But I must really put you out, because papa is waiting for you. Dear, dear, dear- est Harry. Though I am so patient I shall count the hours till you come for me. Dearest Harry! Then she bore with him, as he pressed her close to his bosom, and kissed her lips, and her forehead, and her glossy hair. When he was gone she sat down alone for a few minutes on the old sofa, and hugged herself in her happi- ness. What a happy wind that had been which had blown such a lover as that for her to Stratton! I think hes a good young man, said Mrs. Burton, as soon as she was left with her old husband upstairs. Yes, hes a good young man. He means very well. But he is not idle; is he? No no; hes not idle. And hes very clever ; too clever, Im afraid. But I think hell do well, though it may take him some time to settle. It seems so natural his taking to Flo; doesnt it? Theyve all taken one when they went away, and theyve all done very well. Deary me; how sad the house will be when Plo has gone. Yes, itll make a difference that way. But what then? I wouldnt wish to keep one of em at home for that reason. No, indeed. I think Id feel ashamed of myself to have a daughter not married, or not in the way to be married afore shes thirty. I couldnt bear to think that no young man should take a fancy to a girl of mine. But Plos not twenty yet, and Car- ry, who was the oldest to go, wasnt four- and-twenty when Scarness took her. Thereupon the old lady put her handker- chief to the corner of her eyes, and wept gently. Plo isnt gone yet, said Mr. Burton. But I hope, B., its not to be a long en- gagement. I dont like long engagements. It aint good, not for the girl; it aint, in- deed. We were engaged for seven years.~~ People werent so much in a hurry then at anything; but I aint sure it was very good for me. And though we werent just married, we were living next door and saw each other. Whatll come to Flo if shes to be here and hes to be up in London, pleas- uring himself? Plo must bear it as other girls do, said the father, as he got up from his chair. I think hes a good young man; I think he is, said the mother. But dont stand out for too much forem to begin upon. What matters? Sure if they were to be a little short you could help em. To such a suggestion as this Mr. Burton thought it as well to make no answer, but with ponder- ous steps descended to his office. Well, Harry, said Mr. Burton, so youre to be off in the morning? Yes, sir; I shall breakfast at home to- morrow. when I was your age I always used to make an early start. Three hours before breakfast never does any hurt. But it shouldnt be more than that. The wind gets into the stomach. Harry had no re- mark to make on this, and waited, there- fore, till Mr. Burton went on. And youll be up in London by the 10th of next month? Yes, sir; I intend to be at Mr. Beilbys office ~n the 11th. Thats right. Never lose a day. In losing a day now, you dont lose what you might earn now in a day, but what you might be earning when youre at your best. A young man should always remember that. You cant dispense with a round in the ladder going up. You only make your time at the top so much the shorter. I hope youll find that Im all right, sir. I dont mean to be idle. 90 THE OLAVERINGS. Pray dont. Of course, you know, I speak to you very differently from what I should do if you were simply going away from my office. What I shall have to give Florence will be very little, that is, com- paratively little. She shall have a hundred a year, when she marries, till I die; and af- ter my death and her mothers she will share with the others. But a hundred a year will be nothing to you. Wont it, sir? I think a very great deal of a hundred a year. Im to have a hundred and fifty from the office; and I should be ready to marry on that to-mor- row. You couldnt live on such an income, unless you were to alter your habits very much. But I will alter them. We shall see. You are so placed that by marrying you would lose a considerable income; and I would advise you to put off thinking of it for the next two years. My belief is, that settling down would be the best thing in the world to make me work. Well try what a year will do. So Florence is to go to your fathers house at Easter? Yes, sir; she has been good enough to promise to eome, if you have no objection. It is quito as well that they should know her early. I only hope they will like her as well as we like you. Now Ill say good- night, and good-by. Then Uarry went, and walking up and down the High Street of Stratton, thoueht of all that he had done during the past year. On his arrival at Stratton that idea of perpetual misery arising from blighted af- fection was still stron~ within his breast. lie had given all his heart to a false woman who had betrayed him. lie had risked all his fortune on one cast of the die, and, gambler-like, had lost everything. On the day of Julias marriage he had shut himself up at the school, luckily it was a holiday, and had flattered himself that he had gone throu~li some hours of intense agony. No doubt isa did suffer somewhat, for in truth he had loved the woman: but such suffer- ings are seldom perpetual, and with him they had been as easy of cure as with most others. A little more than a year had passed, and now he was already enga~ed to anoth- er woman. As he thought of this he did not by any means accuse himself of incon- stancy or of weakness of heart. It appeared to him now the most natural thing in the world that he should love Florence Burton. In those old days he had never seen Flor 91 ence, and had hardly thought seriously of what qualities a man really wants in a wife. As he walked up and down the hill of Stratton Street with the kiss of the dear, modest, affectionate girl still warm upon his lips, he told himself that a marriage with sueh a one as Julia Brabazon would have been altogether fatal to his chance of hap- piness. And things had occurred and rumours had reached him which assisted him much in adopting this view of the subject. It was known to all the Claverings, and even to all others who cared about such things, that Lord and Lady Ongar were not happy together, and it had been already said that Lady Ongar had misconducted herself. There was a certain count whose name had come to be mingled with hors in a way that was, to say the least of it, very unfortunate. Sir Hugh Clavering had declared, in Mrs. Claverings hearing, though but little dis- posed in general to mhke many revelations to any of the family at the rectory, that he did not intend to take his sister-in-laws part. She had made her own bed, and she must lie upon it. She had known what Lord Ongar was before she had married him, and the fault was her own. So much Sir Hugh had said, and. in saying it, had done all that in him lay to damn his sister- in-laws fair fame. Harry Clavering, little as he had lived in the world during the last twelve months, still knew that some people told a different story. The earl too and his wife had not been in England since their marriage; so that thesa rumours had been filtered to them at home through a foreign medium. During most of their time they had been in Italy, and now, as Harry knew, they were at Florence. 1-b had heard that Lord Ongar had declared his intention of suing for a divorce; but that he supposed to be erroneous, as the two were still living under the same roof. Then he heard that Lord Oni~ar was ill; and whispers were spread alroad darkly and doubtingly, as though great misfortunes were apprehended. Harry could not fail to tell himself that had Julia become his Wife, as she had once promised, these whispers and this (larkuess would hardly have come to pass. But not on that account did he now regret that her early vows had not been kept. Living at Stratton, he had taught himself to thnk m.ueh of the quiet domesticities of life, and to believe that Florence Burton was fit- ter to be his wife tha~n Julia Brabazon. lie told himself that he haLf done well to find this out, and that he had been wise to act upon it. his wisdom had in truth con- THE CLAVERINGS. sisted in his capacity to feel that Florence was a nice girl, clever, well-minded, high- principled, and full of spirit, and in fall- ing in love with her as a consequence. All his regard for the quiet domesticities had come from his love, and had had no share in producing it. Florence was bright-eyed. No eyes were ever brighter, either in tears or in laughter. And when he came to look at her well he found that he had been an idiot to think her plain. There are things that grow to beauty as you look at them, to exquisite beauty; and you are one of them, he had said to her. And there are men, she had answered, who grow to flattery as you listen to them, to impudent flattery; and you are one of them. I thought you plain the first day I saw you. Thats not flattery. Yes, sir, it is; and you mean it for flattery. But after all, Harry, it comes only to this, that you want to tell me that you have learned to love me. He repeated all this to himself as he walked up and down Stratton, and declared to himself that she was very lovely. It had been given to him to ascertain this, and he was rather proud of himself. But he was a little diffident about his father. He thought that, perhaps, his father might see Florence as he himself had first seen her, and micrht not have discernment enough to ascertain his mistake as he had done. But Florence was not going to Clavering at once, and he would be able to give beforehand his own account of her. He had not been home since his engagement had been a thing set- tled; but his position with regard to Flor- ence had been declared by letter, and his mother had written to the young lady, ask- ing her to come to Clavering. When Harry got home all the family re- ceived him with congratulations. I am so glad to think that you should marry early, his mother said to him in a whisper. But I am not married yet, mother, he an- swered. Do show me a lock of her hair, said Fanny, laughing. Its twice prettier hair than yours, ~hough she doesnt think half so much about it as you do, said her brother, pinching Fannys arm. But youll show me a lock, wont you, said Fanny. Im so glad shes to be here at my mar- riage, said Mary, because then Edward will know her. Im so glad that he will see her. Edward will have other fish to fry, and wont care much about her, said Harry. It seems youre going to do the regular thing, said his father, like all the good apprentices. Marry your masters daughter, and then become Lord Mayor of London. This, was not the view in which it had pleas- ed Harry to regard his engagement. All the other young men that had gone to Mr. Burtons had married Mr. Burtons daughters, or, at least, enough had done so to justify the Stratton assertion that all had fallen into the same trap. The Burtons, with their five girls, were supposed in Strat- ton to have managed their affairs very well, and something of these hints had reached Harrys cars. He would have preferred that the thing should not have been made so common, but he was not fool enough to make himself really unhappy on that head. I dont know much about becoming Lord Mayor, he replied. That promotion doesnt lie exactly in our line. But mar- rying your masters daughter does, it seems, said the Rector. Harry thought that this as coming from his father was almost ill- natured, and therefore dropped the conver- sation. I am sure we shall like her, said Fanny. I think that I shall like Harrys choice, said Mrs. Clavering. I do hope Edward will like her, said Mary. Mary, said her sister, I do wish you were once married. When yod are, youll begin to have a self of your own again. Now youre no better than an unconscious echo. Wait for your own turn, my dear, said the mother. Harry had reached home on a Saturday, and the following Monday was Christmas- day. Lady Clavering, he was told, was at home at the park, and Sir Hugh had been there lately. No one from the house ex- cept the servants were seen at church either on the Sunday or on Christmas-day. But that shows nothing, said the Rector, speak- ing in anger. He very rarely does come, and when he does, it would be better that he should stay away. I think that he likes to insult me by misconducting himself. They say that she is not well, and I can easily believe that all tbis about her sister makes her unhappy. If I were you I would go up and call. Your mother was there the other day, but did not s~e them. I think youll find that hes away, hunting some- where. I saw the groom going off with three horses on Sunday afternoon. He al- ways sends them by the church gate just as were coming out. So Harry went up to the house, and found Lady Clavering at home. She was looking old and careworn, but she was glad 92 THE CLAVEIIINGS. to see him. Harry was the only one of the rectory family who had been liked at the great house since Sir Hughs marriage, and he, had he cared to do so, would have been made welcome there. But, as he had once said to Sir Hughs sister-in-law, if he shot the Clavering game, he would be expected to do so in the guise of a head gamekeeper, and he did not choose to play that part. It would no~ suit him to drink Sir Hughs cla- ret, and be bidden to ring the hell, and to be asked to step into the stable for this or that. He was a fellow hf his college, and quite as big a man, he thought as Sir Hugh. He would not be a hanger-on at the park, ai.d, to tell the truth, he disliked his cousin quite as much as his father did. But there had even been a sort of friendship, nay, occasionally almost a confidence between him and lady Clavering, and he believed that by her he was really liked. Lady Clavering had heard of his en- gagement, and of course congratulated him. Who told you? he asked, Was it my mother? No; I have not seen your mother I dont know when. I think it was my maid told me. Though we somehow dont see much of you all at the rectory, our servants are no doubt more gracious with the rec- tory servants. Im sure she must be nice, Harry, or you would not have chosen her. I hope she has got some money. Yes, I think she is nice. She is coining here at Easter. Ah, we shall be away then, you know; and about the money? She will have a little, but very little, a hundred a year. Oh, Harry, is not that rash of you? Younger brothers should always get money. Youre the same as a younger brother you know. My idea is to earn my own bread. Its not very aristocratic, but, after all, there are a great many more in the same boat with me. Of course you will earn your bread, but having a wife with money would not hinder that. A girl is not the worse because she can bring some help. However, Im sure I hope youll be happy. What I meant was that I think it best when the money comes from the husband. Im sure I ought to agree with you, be- cause we never had any. Then there was a pause. I suppose youve heard about Lord Ongar, she said I have heard that he is very ill. Very ill. I believe there was no hope 93 when we heard last;- but Julia never writes now. Im sorry that it is so bad as that, said Harry, not well knowing what else to say. As regards Julia, I do not know wheth- er it may not be for the best. It seems to be a cruel thing to say, but of course I can- not but think most of her. You have heard, perhaps, that they have not been happy? Yes; I had heard that. Of course; and what is the use of pre- tending anything with you? You, know what people have said of her. I have never believed it. You always loved her, harry. Oh, dear, I remember how unhappy that made me once, and I was so much afraid that Hugh would suspect it. She would never have done for you; would she, Harry? She did a great deal better for her- self, said Harry. If you mean that ironically, you shouldnt say it now. If he dies, she will be well off, of course, and people will in time forget what has been- said, that is, if she will live quietly. The worst of it is that she fears nothino But you speak as though you thou~ht she had beenbeen I think she was probably imprudent, but I believe nothing worse than that. But who can say what is absolutely wrong, arid what only imprudent? I think she was too proud to go really astray. And then with such a man as that, so difficult and so ill- tempered I Sir Hugh thinks but at that moment the door was opened and Sir Hugh came in. What does Sir Hugh think? said lie. We were speaking of Lord Ongar, said Harry, sitting up and shaking hands with his cousin. Then, Harry, you were speaking on a subject that I would rather not have discuss- ed in this house. Do you understand that, Hermione? I will have no talking about Lord Oncrar or his wife. We know very little, and what we hear is simply uncom- fortable. Will you dine here to-day, liar- ry? Thank you, no; I have only just come home. And I am just going away. That is, I go to-morrow.. I cannot stand this place. I think it the dullest neighbouriood in all England, and the most gloomy honee I ever saw. Hermione likes it. To this last assertion Lady Cl vering expressed no assent; nor did she venture to contradict him. 94 TIlE CLAVERINGS. CHAPTER v. was received, there came over the faces of them all that lugubrious look, which is, as LADY ONGARs RETURN, a matter of Course, assumed by decorous ~s come of the death of BUT Sir Hugh did not get away from people when tidino any one who has been known to them, even Clavering Park on the next morning as he in the most distant way. With the exception had intended. There came to him that of Harry, all the rectory Claverings had been same afternoon a message by telegraph, to introduced to Lord Ongar, and were now say that Lord Ongar was dead. He had bound to express somethin~, approaching to died at Florence on the afternoon of Christ- sorrow. Will any one dare to call this hy- mas-day, and Lady Ongar had expressed pocrisy? If it be so called, who in the her intention of coming at once to Eng- world is not a hypcrite? Where is the man land. or woman who has not a special face for sor- Why the devil doesnt she stay where row hefore company? The man or man she is? said Sir Hugh, to his wife. Peo- who has no such face, would at once be ac- pIe would forget her there, and in twelve cused of heartless impropriety. months time, the row would be all over. It is very sad, said Mrs. Claveriug; Perhaps she does not want to be for- only think, it is but little more than a gotten, said Lady Clavering. year since you married them! Then she should want it. I dont care And twelve such months as they have whether she has been guilty or not. When been for her! said the IRcetor, shaking a woman gets her name into such a mess as his head. His face was very lugubrious, for that, she should keep in t he background. though as parson he was essentially a kind- I think you are unjust to her, Hu~li. ly, easy man, to whom humbug was odious, Of course you do. You dont suppose and who dwelt little in the austerities of that I expect anything else. But if you clerical denunciation, still be had his face mean to tell me that there would have been of pulpit sorrow for the sins of the people, all this row, if she had been decently pm- what I may perhaps call his clerical dent, I tell you that youre mistaken. knack of gentle condemnation, and could Only think what a man he was. therefore assume a solemn look, and a little She knew that when she took him, and saddened motion of his head, with more ease should have borne with him while he last- than people who are not often called upon ed. A woman isnt to have seven thousand for such action. a year for notbino Poor woman! said Fanny, thinking of But you forget that not a syllable has the womans married sorrows, and her early heen proved against her, or been attempted widowhood. to be proved. She has never left him, and Poor man, said Mary, shuddering as now she has been with him in his last mo- she thought of the husbands fate. ments. I dont think you ou0ht to be the I hope, said Harry, almost sententious- first to turn against her. ly, that no one in this house will condemn If she would remain abroad, I would do her upon such mere rumours as ~have been the best I could for her. She chooses to heard. return home; and as I think shes wrong, I Why should any one in this house con- wont have her here;thats all. You dont demn her, said the Rector, even if there suppose that I go about the world accusing were more than rumors? My dears, judge her? not, lest ye be judged. As regards her, we 1 think you might do something to fight are bound by close ties not to speak ill of her her battle for her. I will do notbino unless she takes or even to think ill, unless we cannot avoid it. As far as I know, we have not my advice and remains abroad. You must even any reason for thinking ill. Then he write to her now, and you will tell her what went out, changed the tone of his counte- I say. Its an infernal bore, his dying at nance among the rectory stables, and lit his this moment; but I suppose people wont cigar. expect that Im to shut myself up. Three days after that a second note was For one day only did the baronet shut brought down from the great house to the himself up, and on the following he went rectory, and this was from Lhdy Claverinh whither he had before intended, to Harry. Dear Harry, ran the note, Lady Clavering thought it proper to write Could you find time to come up to me this a line to the rectory, informing the family morning? Sir Hu0h has gone to North Pri- there that Lord On~ar was no more. This she ory. Ever yours, H. C. Harry, of course, did in a note to Mrs. Clavering; and when it went, and as he went, he wondered how Sir 95 THE CLAVERINGS. Hugh could have had the heart to go to North Priory at such a moment. North Pri- ory was a hunting seat some thirty miles from Clavering, belonging to a great noble- man with whom Sir Hugh much consorted. Harry was grieved that his cousin had not resisted the temptation of going at such a time, but he was quick enough to perceive that Lady Clavering alluded to the absence of her lord as a reason why Harry might pay his visit to the house with satisfaction. Im so much obliged to you for coming, said Lady Clavering. I want to know if you can do something for me. As she spoke, she had a paper in her hand which he perceived to be a letter from Italy. Ill do anything I can, of course, Lady Clavering. But I must tell you, that I hardly know whether I ought to ask you. Im doing what would make Hugh very angry. But he is so unreasonable, and so cruel about Julia. He condemns her simply because, as he says, there is no smoke without fire. That is such a cruel.thing to say about a woman; is it not? Harry thought that it was a cruel thing, but as he did not wish to speak evil of Sir Hugh before Lady Clavering, he held his tongue. When we got the first news by tele- graph, Julia said that she intended to come home at once. Hugh thinks that she should remain abroad for some time, and indeed I am not sure but that would be best. At any rate he made me write to her, and advise her to stay. He declared that if she came at once he would do nothing for her. The truth is, he does not want to have her here, for if she were again in the house he would have to take her part, if ill-natured things were said. Thats cowardly, said Harry, stoutly. Dont say that, Harry, till you have heard it all. If he believes these things, he is right not to wish to meddle. He is very hard, and always believes evil. But he is not a coward. If she were here, living with him as my sister, he would take her part, whatever he might himself think. But why should he think ill of his own sister-in-law? I have never thought ill of her. You loved her, and he never did ; though I think he liked her too in his way. But thats what,he told me to do, and I did it. I wrote to her, advising her to remain at Florence till the warm weather comes, say- ing that as she could not specially wish to be in London for the season, I thought she would be more comfortabk there than here; and then I added that Hugh also advised her to stay. Of course I did not say that he would not have her here, but that was his threat. She is not likely to press herself where she is not wanted. No, and she will not forget her rank and her money; for that must, now he hers. Julia can be quite as hard and as stubborn as he can. But I did write as I say, and I think that if she had got my letter before she had written herseig she would perhaps have stayed. But here is a letter from her, declaring that she will come at once. She will be starting almost as soon as my letter gets there, and I am sure she will not alter her purpose now. I dont see why she should not come if she likes it. Only that she might be more comfort- able there. But read what she says. You need not read the first part. Not that there is any secret; but it is about him and his last moments, and it would only pain you. harry longed to read the whole, but he did as he was bid, and began the letter at the spot which Lady Clavering marked for. him with her finger. I have to start on the third, and as I shall stay nowhere except to sleep at Turin and Paris, I shall be home by the eighth; I think on the evening of the eighth. I shall bring only my own maid, and one of his men who desires to come back with me. I wish to have apart- ments taken for me in London. I suppose Hugh will do as much as this for me? I am quite sure Hugh wont, said Lady Clavering, who was watching his eye as he read. Harry said nothing, but went on reading. I shall only want two sitting-rooms and two bedrooms, one for myself and one for Clara, and should like to have them some- where near Piccadilly, in Clarges Street, or about there. You can write me a line, or send me a message to the H6tel Bristol, at Paris. If anything fails, so that I should not hear, I shall go to the Palace Hotel; and, in. that case, should telegraph for rooms from Paris. Is that all Im to read? Harry asked. You can go on and see what she says as to her reason for coming. So Harry went on reading. I have suffered much, and of course I know that I must suffer more; but I am determined that I will face the worst of it at once. It has been hinted to me that an attempt will be made to inter- fere with the settlement Who can have hinted that? said Harry. Lady Clavering suspected who might have done THE CLAVERINGS. so, but she made no answer. I can hardly think it possible; but, if it is done, I will not be out of the way. I have done my duty as best I could, and have done it under circumstances that I may truly say were terrible; and I will go on doing it. No one shall say that I am ashamed to show my face and claim my own. You will be sur- prised when you see me. I have aged so much~ You need not go on, said Lady Claver- ing. The rest is about nothing that signi- fies. Then Harry refolded the letter and gave it back to his companion. Sir hugh is gone, and therefore I could not show him that in time to do anything; but if I were to do so, he would simply do nothing, and let her go to the hotel in Lon- don. Now that would be unkind ; would it not? Very unkind, I think. It would seem so cold to her on her re- turn. Very cold. Will you not go and meet her? Lady Clavering blushed as she answered. Though Sir Hugh was a tyrant to his wife, and known to be such, and though she knew that this was known, she had never said that it was so to any of the Claverings; but now she was driven to confess it. He would not let me go, Harry. I could not go without telling him, and if I told him he would forbid it. And she is to be all alone in London, without any friend? I shall go to her as soon as he will let me. I dont think he will forbid my going to her, perhaps after a day or two; but I know he would not let me go on purpose to meet her. It does seem hard. But about the apartments, Harry? I thought that perhaps you would see about them. After all that has passed I could not have asked you~ only that now, as you are engaged yourself, it is nearly the same as though you were married. I would ask Archibald, only then there would be a fuss between Archibald and Hugh; and some- how I look on you more as a brother-in-law than I do Archibald. Is Archie in London? His address is at his club, but I daresay he is at North Priory also. At any rate, I shall say nothing to him. I was thinking he might have met her. Julia never liked him. And, indeed, I dont think she will care so much about b~- ing met. She was always independent in that way, and would go over the world alone better than many men. But couldnt you run up and manage about the apartments? A woman coming home as a widow, and in her position, feels an hotel to be so public. I will see about the apartments. I knew you would. And there will be time for you to send to me, so that I can write to Paris; will there not? There is more than a week, you know. But Henry did not wish to go to London on this business immediately. He had made up his mind that he would not only take the rooms, but that he would also meet Lady Ongar at the station. He said nothing of this to Lady Clavering, as, perhaps, she might not approve; but such was his inten- tion. He was wrong no doubt. A man in such cases should do what he is asked to do, and do no more. But he repeated to himself the excuse that Lady Clavering had made, namely, that he was already the same as a married man, and that, therefore, no harm could come of his courtesy to his cousin s wifes sisthr. But he did not wish to make two journeys to London, nor did he desire to be away for a full week out of his holidays. Lady Clavering could not press him to go at once, and, therefore, it was settled as he pro- posed. She would write to Paris immedi- ately, and he would go up to London after three or four days. If we only knew of any apartments, we could write, said Lady Clavering. You could not know that they were comfortable, said Harry; and you will find that I will do it in plenty of time Then he took his leave; but Lady Claver- in g had still one other word to say to him. You hadb etter not say anything about all this at the rectory; had you? Harry, without considering much about it, said that he would not mention it. Then he went away and walked again about the park, thinking of it all. He had not seen her since he had walked round the park, in his misery, after parting with her in the garden. How much had happened since then! She had been married in her glory, had become a countess, and then a widow, and was now returning with a tar- nished name, almost repudiated by those who had been her dearest friends; but with rank and fortune at her command, and again a free woman. He could not but think what might have been his chance were it not for Florence Burton! But much had happend to him also. He had almost perished in his misery; so he told himself; but had once more tricked his beams, that was his expression to him- 96 THE CLAYERINGS. 97 self, and was now flamincr in the fore- out of the ordinary course. His only oh. head of a glorious love. And even if jection to Florence was that she had come there had been no such love, would a wid- to him so much in the ordinary course. owed countess with a damaged name have I suppose the truth is you are tired of suited his ambition, simply because she had our dulness, said his father to him, when he the rich dower of ~he poor wretch to whom declared his purpose of going up to London, she had sold herself? No, indeed. There and, in answer to certain questions that could he no question of renewed vows be- were asked him, had hesitated to tell his tween them now ; there could have been business. no such qoestion even had there been no Indeed, it is not so, said Harry, glorious love, which had accrued to him earnestly; but I have a commission to cx- almost as his normal privilege in ri:,ht of his ecute for a certain person, and I cannot ex- pupilage in Mr. Burtons office. No; plain what it is. ihere could be, there could have been, noth- Another secret; eb, Harry? ing now between him, and the widowed I am very sorry, but it is a secret. Countess of Ongar. But, nevertheless, he It is not one of my own seeking; that is all liked the idea of meeting her in London. I can say. His mother and sisters also He felt some triumph in the thought that he asked him a question or two; but when he should be the first to touch her hand on her became mysterious~ they did not persevere. return after all that she had suffered. He Of course it is something about Florence, would be very courteous to her, and would said Fanny. Ill be bound he is going to spare no trouble that would give her any meet her. What will you bet me, harry, ease. As for her rooms, he would see to you dont go to the play with Florence be- everything of which he could think that fore you come home? To this Henry might add to her comfort; and a wish crept dei~ned no answer; and after that no more upon him, uninvited, that she might be con- questions were asked. scions of what he had done for her. He went up to London and took rooms in There was Would she be aware, he wondered, that Bolton Street. a pretty fresh- he was engaged? Lady Clavering had looking light drawing-room, or, indeed, two known it for the last three months, and drawing-rooms, and a small dining-room, wuuld probably have mentioned the circum- and a large bed-room looking over upon the seance in a letter. But perhaps not. The trees of some great noblemans garden. As sisters, he knew, had not been good cor- Harry stood at the window it seemed so respondents; apd he almost wished that she odd to him that he should be there. And might not know it. I should not care to he was busy about everything in she chain- be talking to her about Florence, he said her, seeing that all things were clean and to himself, well ordered. Was the woman of the It was very strange that they should come house sure of her cook? Sure; of course to meet in such a way, after all that had she was sure. Had not old Lady Dimdaff passed between them in former days. Would lived there for two years, and nobody ever it occur to her that he was the only man she was so particular about her victuals as Lady had ever loved ? for, of course, as he well Dimdaffi And would Lady Ongar keep knew, she had never loved her husband. her own carriage? As to this Harry Or would she now be too callous to every- could say nothing. Then came the qnesdon thing but the outer world to think at all of of price, and Harry found his coxutnission such a subject? She had said that she was very difficult. The sum asked seemed to aged, and he could well believe it. Then be enormous. Seven guineas a-week at he pictured her to himself in her weeds, that time of the year! Lady I3imdail~ worn, sad, thin, but siill proud and hand- had always paid seven guineas. Wit thAt some. He had told Florence of his early was in the season, suggestesl harry. To love for the woman whom Lord Ongar had this the woman replied that it was the married, and had described with rapture his season now. Harry felt that he did not joy that that early passion had come to like to drive a bargain for the Countess, nothing. INow he would have to tell Flo- who would probably care very little what rence of this meeting; and he thought of she paid, and therefore assented. But a the comparison he would make between her guinea a day for lodgings did seem a great bri~ht young charms and the shipwrecked deal of money. lIe was prepared to marry beauty of the widow. On the whole, he and commence housekeeping upon a less was proud that he had been selected for the sum for all his expenses. Ilowever, he had commission, as he liked to think of himself done his commission, had written to Lady as one to whom things happened which were I Clavering, and had telegraphed to Paris. FOURTH SERIE$. LIVING AGE. VOL. 1. 7. 98 He had almost brought himself to write to Lady Ongar, but when the moment came he abstained. He had sent the telegram as from H. Clavering. She might think that it came from Hugh if she pleased. He was unable not to attend specially to his dress when he went to meet her at the Victoria Station. He told himself that he was an ass, bnt still he went on being an ass. During the whole afternoon he could do nothing but tbink of what he had in hand. He was to tell Florence everything, but had Florence known the actual state of his mind, I doubt whether she wonld have been satisfied with him. The train was due at 8 p. ai. He dined at the Oxford and Cambridge Clnb at six, and then went to his lodgings to take one last look at his onter man. The evening was very fine, but he went down to the station in a cab, becanse he would not meet Lady Ongar in soiled boots. He told himself again that he was an ass; and then tried to console himself by thinking that such an occasion as this sel- dom happened once to any man, could hardly happen more than once to any man. lie had hired a carriage for, her, not think- ing it fit that Lady Ongar should be taken to her new home in a cab; and when he was at the station, half an hour before the proper time, was very fidgety because it had not come. Ten minutes before eight he might have been seen standing at the entrance to the station looking out anx- iously for the vehicle. The man was th~re, of course, in time, but Harry made himself angry because he could not get the carriage so placed that Lady Ongar might be sure of stepping into it without leaving the plat- form. Punctually to the moment the com- ~ train announced itself by its whistle and Harry Clavering felt himself to be in a flutter. The train came up along the platform, and Harry stood there expecting to see Julia Brabazons head projected from the first window that caught his eye. It was of Julia Brabazons head, and not of Lady On ars, that he was thinking. But he saw no sign o~ her presence while the car- rages were coming to a stand-still, and the platform was covered with passengers before he discovered her whom he was seeking. At last be encountered in the crowd a man in livery, and found from him that he was Lady Ongars servant. I have come to meet Lady Ongar, said Harry, and have got a carriage for her. Then the servant found his mistress, and Harry offered his hand to a tall woman in black. She wore THE CLAVERINGS. a black straw hat with a veil, but the veil was so thick that Harry could not at all see her face. Is that Mr. Clavering? said she. Yes, said Harry, it is I. Your sister asked me to take rooms for you, and as I was in town I thought I might as well meet you to see if you wanted anything. Can I get the luggage? Thank you ; the man will do that. He knows where the things are. I ordered a carriage ; shall I show him where it is? Perhaps you will let me take you to it? They are so stupid here. They would not let me brine, it up. It will do very well Im sure. Its very kind of you. The rooms are in Bolton Street. I have the number here. Oh! thank you. But she would not take his arm. So he led the way, and stood at the door while she got into the carriage with her maid. Id better show the man where you are now. This he did, and afterwards shook hands with her through the carriage window. This was all he saw of her, and the words which have been repeated were all that were spoken. Of her face he had not caught a glimpse. As he went home to his lodgings he was conscious that the interview had not been satisfactory. He could not say what more he wanted, but he felt that there was some- thing amiss. He consoled himself, however, by reminding himself that Fjorence Burton was the girl whom he had really loved, and not Julia Brabazon. Lady Ongar had given him no invitation to come and see her, and therefore he determined that he would return home on the following day without going ne r Bolton Street. He had pictured to himself beforehand the sort of descrip- tion he would give to Lady Clavering of her sister; but, seeing how things had turned out, he made up his mind that he would say nothing of the meeting. Indeed, he would not go up to the great house at all. He had done Lady Claverings commission, at some little trouble and expense to him- self, and there should be an end of it. La- dy Ongar would not mention that she had seen him. He doubted, indeed, whether she would remember whom she had seen. For any good that he had done, or for any sen- timent that there had been, his cousin hughs butler might as well have gone to the train. In this mood he returned home, consoling himself with the fitness of things which had given him Florence Burton instead of Julia Brabazon for a wife. THE CLAVERINGS. CHAPTER VI. THE REV. SAMUEL SAUL. DURING Harrys absence in London, a circumstance had occurred at the rectory which had surprised some of them and an- noyed others a good deaL Mr. Saul, the curate, had made an offer to Fanny. The Rector and Fanny declared themselves to beboth surprised and annoyed. That the Rector was in truth troubled by the thing was very evident. Mrs. Clavering said that she had almost suspected it, that she was at any rate not surprised; as to the offer it- self, of course she was sorry that it should have been made, as it could not suit Fanny to accept it. Mary was surprised, ah she had thought Mr. Saul to be wholly intent on other things; but she could not see any rea- son why the offer should he regarded as be- ing on his part unreasonable. had How can you say so, mamma? Such been Fannys indignant exclamation when Mrs. Clavering had hinted that Mr. Sauls proceeding had been expected by her. Simply because I saw that he liked you, my dear. Men under such circumstances have different ways of showing their likino Fanny, who had seen all of Marys love- affair from the beginning to the end, and who had watched the Reverend Edward Fielding in all his very conspicuous manmu- vres, would not a~ree to this. Edward Fielding from the first moment of his inti- mate acquaintance with Mary had left no doubt of his intentions on the mind of any one. He had taWed to Mary and walked with Mary, whenever he was allowed or found it possible to do so. When driven to talk to Fanny, he had always talked about Mary. He had been a lover of the good, old, plain-spoken stamp, about whom there had been no mistake. From the first mo- ment of his coming much about Clavering Rectory the only question had been about his income. I dont think Mr. Saul ever said a word to me except about the poor people and the church services, said Fanny. That was merely his way, said Mrs. CIa- verin,. Then he must be a goose, said Fanny. I am very sorry if I have made him unhappy, but he had no business to come to me in that way. I suppose I shall have to look for anoth- er curate, said the Rector. But this was said in private to his wife. I dont see that at all, said Mrs. Cla- vering. With many men it would be so; but I think you will find that he will take an answer, and that there will be an end of it. Fanny, perhaps, had a right to be indig- nant, for certainly Mr. Saul had given her no fair warning of his intention. Mary had for some months been intent rather on Mr. Fieldings church matters than on those go- ing on in her own parish, and therefore there had been nothing singular in the fact that Mr. Saul had said more on such mat- ters to Fanny than to her sister. Fanny was eager and active, and as Mr. Saul was very eager and very active, it was natural that they should have had some interests in common. But there had been no private walkings, and no talkings that could pi oper- ly be called private. There was a certain book which Fanny kept, containing the names of all the poor people in the parish, to which Mr. Saul had access equally with herself; but its contents were of a most prosaic nature, and when she had sat over it in the rectory drawing-room, with Mr. Saul by her side, striving to extract more than twelve pennies out of charity shillings, she had never thought that it would lead to a declaration of love. He had never called her Fanny in his life, not up to the moment when she de- clined the honor of becoming Mrs. Saul. The offer itself was made in this wise. She had been at the house of old Widow Tubb, half-way between Cumberly Green and the little village of Clavering, striving to make that rheumatic old woman believe that she had not been cheated by a general conspiracy of the parish in the matter of a distribution of coal, when, just as she was about to leave the cottage, Mr. Saul came up. It was then past four, a~nd the evening was becoming dark, and there was, more- over, a slight drizzle of rain. It was not a tempting evening for a walk of a mile and a half through a very dirty lane; but Fan- ny Clavering did not care much for such things, and was just steppiog out into the mud and moisture, with her dress well loop- ed up, when Mr. Saul accosted her. Im afraid youll be very wet, Miss Clavering. That will be better than going without my cup of tea, Mr. Saul, which I should have to do if I stayed any longer with Mrk Tubb. And I have got an umbrella But it is so dark and dirty, said he. Im used to that, as you ought to know. ,Yes; I do know it, said he, walking on with her. I do know that nothing ever turns you away from the good work. There was something in the tone of hi~ 99 THE CLAVERINGS. voice which Fanny did not like. He had never complimented her before. They had been very intimate and had often scolded each other. Fanny would accuse him of exacting too much from the people, and he would retort upon her that she coddled them. Fanny would often decline to obey him, and he would make angry hints as to his clerical authority. In this way they had worked together pleasantly, without any of the awkwardness which on other terms would have arisen between a youn~ man and a young woman. But now that he bega to praise her with some peculiar in- tention of meauin~, in his tone, she was con- founded. She had made no immediate an- swer to him, but walked on rapidly through the mud and slush. You are very constant, said he; I have not been two years at Clavering without finding that out. It was becoming worse and worse. It was not so much his words which provoked her as the tone in which they were uttered. And yet she had not the slightest idea of what was coming. If, thoroughly admiring her devotion and mis-. taken as to her character, he were to ask her to become a Protestant nun, or suggest to her that she should leave her home and go as nurse into a hospital, then there would have occurred the sort of folly of which she believed him to be capable. Of the folly which he now committed, she had not be- lieved him to be capable. It had come on to rain hard, and she held her umbrella low over her head. He also was walking with an open umbrella in his hand, so that they were not very close to each other. Fanny, as she stepped on impetuously, put her foot into the depth of a pool, and splashed h~rself thorou~hly. Oh dear, oh dear, said she; this is very disagreeable. Miss Clavering, said he, I have been looking for an opportunity to speak to you, and I do not know when I may find another so suitable as this. She still believed that some proposition was to be made to her which would be disagreeable, and perhaps impertinent, but it never occurred to her that Mr. Saul was in want of a wife. Doesnt it rain too hard for she said. As I have begun I must go on with it now, he replied, raising his voice a little, as though it were necessary that he should do so to make her hear him through the rain and darkness. She moved a little further away from him with unthinking irritation; but still he went on with his purpose. Miss Clavering, I know that I am ill-suited to play the part of a lover; very ill-suit~. ed. Then she gave a start and again splashed herself sadly. I have never read how it is done in books, and have not al- lowed my imagination to dwell much on such things. Mr. Saul, dont go on; pray dont. Now she did understand what was coming. Yes, Miss Clavering, I must go on now; but not on that account would I press you to give me an answer to-day. I have learned to love you, and if you can love, me in return, I will take you by the hand, and you shall be my wife. I have found that in you which I have been unable not to love, not to covet that I may bind it to myself as my own for ever. Will you think of this, and give me an answer when you have con- sidered it fully? He had not spoken altogether amiss, and Fanny, though she was very an~,ry with him, was conscious of this. The time he had chosen mi~ht not be considered suitable for a declaration of love, nor the place; but having chosen them, be bad, perhaps, made the best of them. There had been no hesi- tation in his voice, and his words had been perfectly audible. Oh, Mr. Saul, of course I can assure you at once, said Fanny. There need not be any consideration. I really have never thought Fanny, who knew her own mind on the matter thoroughly, was hardly able to express herself plainly and without incivility. A3 soon as that phrase of course had passed her lips, she felt that it should not have been spoken. There was no need that she should insult him by telling him that such a propesition from him could have but one answer. No, Miss Clavering; I know you have never thought of it, and therefore it would be well that you should take time. I have not been able to make manifest to you by little signs, as men do who are less awk- ward, all the love that I have felt for you. Indeed, could I have done so, I should still have hesitated till I had thoroughly resolved that I might be better with a wife than without one; and had resolved also, as far as that might be possible for me, tl~a.t you also would be better with a husband. Mr. Saul, really that should be for me to think of. And for me also. Can any man offer to marry awoman, to bin,d a woma~ for life to certain duties, and to so close an ob- ligation without thinking whether such bonds would be good for her as well s for himself? Of course you must think for yourself; and so have I thought for you. 100 THE OLAVERINGS. You should think for yourself, and you should think also for ~ Fanny was quite aware that as regarded herself, the matter was one which required no more thinking. Mr. Saul was not a man with whom she could bring herself to be in love. She had her own ideas as to what was lovable in men, and the eager curate, splashing through the rain hy her side, by no means came up to her standard of excel- lence. She was unconsciously aware that he had altogether mistaken her character, and given her credit for more ahnegation of the world than she pretended to possess, or was desirous of possessing. Fanny Clavering was in no hurry to get mi~rried. I do not know that she had even made up her mind that marriage would he a good thing for her; but she had an untroubled conviction that if she did marry, her husband should have a house and an income. She had, no reliance on her own power of living on a potato, and with one new dress every year. A comfortable home, with nice, comfortable things around her, ease in money matters, and elegance in life, were charms with which she had not quarrelled, and, though she did not wish to be hard upon Mr. Saul on account of his mistake, she did feel that in making his proposition he had blun- dered. Because she chose to do her duty as a parish clergymans daughter, he thought himself entitled to regard her as a devotee, who would he willing to resign everything to become the wife of a clergy- man, who was active, indeed, but who had not one shilling of income heyond his cu- racy. Mr. Saul, she said, I can assure you I need take no time for further think- that it is so, though I did not know ma. It cannot be as you would have it. Perhaps I have been ahrupt. Indeed, to avoid it. would have made no difference. In- indeed, Mr. Saul, nothing of that could have made a difference. Will you grant me this; that I may to you again on the same suhject six months? It cannot do any good. will do this good; that for so much lime you will have had the idea before you. anny thought that she would have Mr. Saul himself befcwe her, and that that would be enough. Mr. Saul, with his rusty clothes, and his thick, dirty shoes, and his weak, blinking eyes, and his mind always set upon the one wish of his life, could not be made to present himself to her in the guise of a lover. He was one of these men of whom women become very fond with the fondness of friendship, but from whom young women seem to be as far removed in the way of love as though they belonged to some other species. I will not press you further, said he, as I gather by yon~ tone that it distresses you. I am so sorry if I distress you, but really, Mr. Saul, I could give you, I nev- er could give you any other answer. Then they walked on silently throu~,h the rain, silently, without a single word, for more than half a mile, till they reached the rectory gate. Here it was nec- essary that they should, at any rate, speak to each other, and for the last three hun- dred yards Fanny had been tryin,~, to find the words which would be suitable. But he was the first to break the silence. Good-night, Miss Clavering, he said, stopping and putting out his hand. Good-night, Mr. Saul. I hope that there may be no difference in our bearing to each other, because of what I have to-day said to you? Not on my part; that is, if you will forget il~. No, Miss Clavering; I shall not forget it. If it had been a thing to he forgotten, I should not have spoken. I certainly shall not forget it. You know what I mean, Mr. Saul. I shall not forget it even in the way that you mean. But still I think you need not fear me, because you know that I love you. I think I can promise that you need not withdraw yourself from me, because of what has passed. But you will tell your father and your mother, and of course will be guided hy them. And now, ~,ood-night. Then he went, and she was astonished at finding that he had had much the best of it in his manner of speaking and conducting himself. She had refused him very curtly, and he had borne it well. He had not been ahashed, nor had he become sulky, nor had he tried to melt her hy mention of his own misery. In truth he had done it very well, only that he should have known better than to make any such attempt at all. Mr. Saul had been right in one thing. Of course she told her mother, and of course her mother told her father. Before dinner that evening the whole affair was beina debated in the family conclave. They all agreed that Fanny had had no al- ternative hut to reject the proposition at once. That, indeed, was so thoroughly ta- ken for granted, that the point was not dis- cussed. But there came to he a difference between the Rector and Fanny on one side, 101 102 THE CLAVERINGS. and Mrs. Clavering and Mary on the other. himself as though conscious of what he had Upon my word, said the Rector, I done, hut in no degree ashamed of the do.. think it was very impertinent. Fanny ing it. The Rectors manner to him was would not have liked to use that word her- stiff and formal ; seeing which Mrs. Clay- self, but she loved her father for using it. erin~, spoke to him gently, and with a smile. I do not see that, said Mrs. Clavering. I saw you were a little hard on him, and He could not know what Fannys views in therefore I tried to make up for it, said life might he. Curates very often marry she afterwards. You were quite right, out of the houses of the clergymen with whom said the hushand. You always are. But they are placed, and I do not see why Mr. I wish he had not made such a fool of him- Saul should he deharred from the privilege self. It will never he the same thing with~ of trying. him again. Harry hardly spoke to Mr. I f he had got to like Fanny what else Saul the first time he met him, all of which was he to do ? said Mary. Mr. Saul understood perfectly. Oh, Mary, dont talk such nonsense, Clavering, he said to Harry, a day or said Fanny. Got to like! People shouldnt two after this, I hope there is to be no get to like people unless theres some reason difference between you and me. for it. Difference! I dont know what you XYhat on earth did he intend to live mean by difference. on? demanded the Rector. We were good friends, and I hope that Edward had nothing to live on, when we are to remain so. No doubt von know you first allowed him to come here, said what has taken place between me and your Mary. sister. But Edward had prospects, and Saul, Oh, yes ; I have been told, of course. as far as I know, has none. He had given What I mean is, that I hope you are no one the slightest notice. If the man in not going to quarrel with me on that ac- the moon had come to Fanny I dont sup- count? What I did, is it not what you pose she would have been more sur- would have done in my position ? only prised. you would have done it successfully? Not half so much, papa. I think a fellow should have some in- Then it was that Mrs. Clavering had de- come, you know. dared that & e was not surprised, that Can you say that you would have wait- she bad suspected it, and had almost made ed for income before you spoke of mar- Fanny angry by saying so. When Harry riage? came back two days after~vards, the family I think it might have been better that news was imparted to him, and he immedi- you should have gone to my father. ately ranged himself on his fathers side. It may be that that is the rule in such Up~n m~ word I think that he ought to be things, but if so I do not know it. Would she forbidden the house, said Harry. He have liked that better? has forgotten himself in making such a Well; I cant say. propositiom You are engaged? Did you go to the Thats nonsense, Harry, said his moth- young ladys family first? er. ~ If he can be comfortable coming I cant say I did; but I think I had giv- here, there can be no reason why he should en them some ground to expect it. I fancy be uncomfortable. It would be an injus- they all knew what I was about. But its tice to him to ask him to go, and a great over now, and I dont know that we need trouble to your father to findanother curate say anything more about it. that would suit him so well. There could Certainly not. Nothing can be said be no doubt whatever as to the latter propo- that would be of any use; but I do not sition, and therefore it was quietly argued think I have done anything that you should that Mr. Sauls fault, if there had been a resent. fault, should be condoced. On the next Resent is a strong word. I dont resent day he came to the ractory, and they were it, or, at any rate, I wont; and there may all astonished at the ease with which he be an end of it. After this, harry was bore himself. It was not that be affected more gracious with Mr. Saul having an a aix special freedom of manner, or that he idea that the curate had made some sort of altogether avoided any change in his mode apology for what he had done. But thav, of speaking to them. A slight blush came I fancy, was by no means Mr. Sauls view upon his sallow face as hc first spoke to Mrs. ~of the case. Had he offered to marry the Clavering, and he hardly did more than say daughter of the Archbishop of Canter- a single word to Fanny. But he carried bury, instead of the daughter of the Rector THE CLAVERINGS. of Clavering, he would not have imagined that his doing so needed an apology. The day after his return from London Lady Clavering sent for Harry u~ to the house. So you saw my sister in Lon- don? she said. Yes, said Harry blushing; as I was in town I might as well meet her. But, as you said, Lady Ongar is able to do without much assistance of that kind. I only just saw her. Julia took it so kindly of you; hut she seems surprised that you did. not come to her the following day. She thought you would have called. Oh, dear, no. I fancied that she would be too tired and too busy to wish to see any mere acquaintance. Ah, Harry, I see that she has angered you, said Lady Clavering; otherwise you would not talk about mere acquain- tance. Not in the least. Angered me! How could she anger me? What I meant was at such a time she would probably wish to see no one but people on business, unless it was some one near to her, like yourself or Hugh. Hugh will not go to her. But you will do so; will you not? Before long I will. You dont seem to understand, Harry, and, perhaps, it would be odd if you did, that I cant run up to town and back as I please. I ought not to tell you this, I dare say, but one feels as though one wanted to talk to some one about ones affairs. At the present mo- ment, I have not the money to go, even if there were no other reason. These last words she said almost in a whisper, and then she looked up into the young mans face, to see what he thought of the communication she had made him. Oh, money l he said. You could soon get money. But I hope it wont be long before you go. On the next morning but one a letter came by the post for him from Lady Ongar. When he saw the handwriting, which he knew, his heart was at once in his mouth, and he hesitated to open his letter at the breakfast-table. He did open it and read it, but, in truth, he hardly understood it or digested it till he had taken it away with him up to his own room. The letter, which was very short, was as follows : DEAR FRIEND. IFELT your kindness in coming to me at the station so much ! the more, per- haps, because others, who owed me more kind- ness, have paid me less. Dont suppose that I allude to poor Hermione, for, in truth, I have no intention to complain of her. I thought, perhaps, you would have come to see me before you left London; but I snp~ose you were hur- ried. I hear from Clavering that you are to he up about your new profession in a day or two. Pray come and see me befbre you have heen many days in London. I shall have so much to say to you! The rooms you have taken are everything that I wanted, and I am so grateful! Yours ever, J. 0. When Harry had read and had digested this, he became aware that he was again fluttered. Poor creature! he said to himself; it is sad to think how much she is in want of a friend. HELEN GRAY. BECAUSE one loves you, Helen Gray, Is that a reason you should pout. And like a March wind veer about, And frown, and say your shrewish say l Dont strain the cord until it snaps, Dont split the sound heart with your wedge, Dont cut your fingers with the edge Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps. Because youre handsome, Helen Gray, Is that a reason to be proud l Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud, Your steps go mincing on their way; But so you miss that modest charm Which is the surest charm of all: Take heed, you may yet trip and fall, And no man care to stretch his arm. Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey, Come down, and take a lowlier place, Come down, to fill it now with grace; Come down you must perforce some day: For years cannot be kept at bay, And fading years will make you old; Then in their turn will men seem cold, When you yourself are nipped and grey. CHRIsTINA G. RossETTI. ...~..Macmiltans Magazine. 103 ON BEING SENTIMENTAL. From the Argosy. ON BEING SENTIMENTAL. IT would be amusing to trace the steps by which the words sentiments and senti- mental, once words of praise, have come to mean something bad. When Sterne wrote his Sentimental Journey through France and Italy, he intended, and was understood to intend, to describe the book by an adjec- tive that would recommend it. In one of the posthumous stories of Mary Wollstone- craft Godwin, I remember a passage in which the heroine is delighted to find in a book some pencil notes by the hero, of the most reflective and sentimenta.l kind. Who cannot find among his old books, Poems, Didactic and Sentimental? or Sentimen- tal Discourses for Youth ? Did not Wordsworth classify some of his writings as poems of sentiment and reflection ?* Does not Isaac Disraeli, in the Curiosities of Literature (Second Series), devote a long paper to the task of commending to peoples attention a new class of biography to be called Sentimental, which he thinks insuffi- ciently cultivated? Does he not wind up by saying that Gibbon (!) had contem- plated the very ideal of Sentimental Biog- raphy; that the subject would powerful- ly address itself to the feelings of every Englishman; and that we may regret that Gibbon had left only the project? How often, in turning over an old-fashioned book, and not so very old either, may we find a pencilled comment something like this A most admirable and sentimental author, my dear read him and follow bis counsels, so prays your affectionate mother! I have the very case now under my eyes, in a book that seems to have been well read in Calcutta at the beginning of the centu- ry. Now when did the tide begin to turn in the use of this adjective? I think the last, or almost the last speech uttered by Sir Peter Teazie in The School for Scandal is, Oh, dn your sentiment! but the break-down of Joseph Surface can never have done it all. Indeed, if there ever were any considerable number of persons running about in society who habitually talked what our grandfathers called senti- ment, they must have been bores of a de- gree and quality that would speedily wear out human patience and produce a reac- tion. What our forefathers meant by senti- ments was what we now call maxims * This headiug covers, in my edition, the Ode to Duty, the Happy Warrior, Dion, and Lycoris. moral deliverances such as we have seen in copy-book slips, as Reason should ever control passion, Fidelity in friendship is beautiful, Benevolence is a virtue, Truth is ever victorious over error, and the like. Or, again, they meant what some people still call sentiments; though others simply classify them as wishes, or aspirations. As May the wing of friend- ship never moult a feather ! May we neer want a friend, or a bottle to give him ! My charming girl, my friend, and pitcher! and the like. Sometimes, at a serious festival, you may have heard the chairman say, Mr. So-and-so will now speak to the following sentiment The cause of civil and religious liberty all over the world I And then Mr. So-and- so rises, with a slip of paper in his hand, supposed to contain a copy of this sentiment in MS., and he speaks to it. It is difficult to picture to ones self a race of creatures going about in drawing- rooms and dining-rooms, parlours and shops, streets and market-places, and discharging sentiments at the rest of mankind. But evidently the conception was not so diii- cult to our grandfathers as it is to ourselves. Take up an oldlsh copy of Thomson or Gray, or Elegant Extracts. Here is a steel engraving, and a good one too. On a mossy bank, by the side of a brawling rivulet, whose rapid passage over the pebbly shal- lows is supposed to be suggestive, is re- clined a handsome young man such a one as Fielding drew in Joseph Andrews, where you may read his portrait in pen and ink. But he is attired in the costume of a later. period pumps, silk-stockings, cut- away coat, frilled shirt, long kerseymere vest, wit1~ angular tippety collar. Over his shoulders broad are his hyacinthine locks, and he has no hat on. His face is towards the spectator of the picture, and he is rais- ing both hands, with the palms turned out- wards. He might be saying, Dear me, now! hut a reference below the picture, to p. 91, instructs you better. You there find that he is presumed to be composing a poem, and uttering, at the moment of sight, the words: Health is at best a vain precarious thing, And fair-faced Youth is ever on the wing! Now this is a sentiment. The youth might walk straight off the page before the foot- lights, go on for Joseph Surface, and pro- voke, indirectly, Sir Peter Teazles impre- cation. He belongs to the period at which were current coin, not flouted token 104 ON BEING SENTIMENTAL. pieces, those little classic bits which we now call delectus quotations; such as Ne?no mortalium omnibus boris sapit, ingenucs didicisse fideliter artes, & c. Sic vos non vobis, & c and all the rest of them. If Colonel Newcome had met him, he would have broken out directly, Emollunt mores, and if Clive (who, by-the-by, was not born) or any one else had pulled his coat- tail, it would have been because of the bad syntax, and not because it was mauvais ton to be sentimental. Now-a-days it would be mauvais ton. If a young man, ever so well dressed, were to go about saying, as oppor- tunity offered, Virtue rewards her follow- ers, or Ingratitude to parents is base, he would nQt be thought a pri~e by affec- tionate mothers with marriageable daugh- ters. But in the days when Lindley Mur- ray wrote his Grammar, it seems to have been a proper part of a polite education to instil into the minds of youth at every chance, by way of example in gram- mar for instance maxims in morals or theolocy. As The sun that rolls over our heads, the food that we eat, and the rest that we enjoy, daily admonish us of a benevolent, superintending power! (is that correctly quoted, young shaver?) To such a length, indeed, was the taste for these little statements of opinion carried, that almost anything, however obvious, was made to fall into the mode of the Sentiment proper, and do duty for it. As Gold is corrupting; the sea is green; a lion is bold, which is also in Murrays gram- mar. In modern times we have changed all that. If a person were to contribute to a conversation the sentiment, We should ever heed the voice of nature, he would be thought as much out of order as Mr. F.s aunt Theres milestones on the Dover road. We learn now to epigram and banter rather than to sentiment and maxim. In point of fact, we have no means of tell- ing whether there ever really was any considerable number of people who went about in society saying fine things, but who never did them; or whether, on the other hand, there ever was a large class of listen- ers who were predisposed to believe in the goodness of the people who went about uttering the maxims. But we must bear in mind that there was scarcely any popular literature in those days, and comparatively very little associated effort. At present the public hires and fees a class the literary class to do the sentiment for it, as much as it wants done; and, besides, there~are so many opportunities for sentimental ac tivity, that the excuse for mere talk is less. It is difficult not to believe, reading old- fashioned books, and looking at old-fashion- ed prints, that there was a real difference. There is a particular print, now in my mind, which I once saw at a brokers shop in a back street. It belongs to about the first days of the Regency, or a few years before; just about when Dr. Buchan was writing his Domestic Miedicine, I should say. It is dedicated to the President or some- thing of the Royal Humane Society, and represents a young man who had been half drowned restored to his friends, alive. Of course there is a scene. All the female figures have short-waisted frocks; all the males have knee-breeches, and long hair except those who have wigs. And they have all, I think, their hands upraised and their mouths open. They are all uttering sentiments, I presume which, now-a-days, a newspaper paragraph would probably have uttered for them. Indeed, everybody must have noticed that in the caricatures of those days, and even so recently as those of H. B., sentiments were openly put into the mouths of the people represented in pictures. You see a bladder-shaped scroll issuing from the mouth, and the speech is written inside the scroll. When we make a caricature, we put the speeches at the bot- tom, if anywhere, like scraps of comedy dialogue. But in the majority of eases there is so complete an under-current of in- telligence on the spectators part presup- posed that no sentiment at all is expressed. I