The Living age ... / Volume 95, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0095 /moa/livn/livn0095/

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The Living age ... / Volume 95, Note on Digital Production 0095 000
The Living age ... / Volume 95, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1218 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 834 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0095 /moa/livn/livn0095/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1218 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 5, 1867 0095 1218
The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1218, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. CONDUCTED BY E. LITTELL. E FLURIBUS UNUM. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, an4 the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. FOURTH SERIES, VOLUME VII. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. XCV. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, 1867. BOSTON: LITTELL AND GAY. p 2. A: ZSJK5~1c PRESS OF GEO. C. RAND & AVERY, 3 COENHILL, BOSTON. TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME XCV. THE SEVENTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE FOURTH SERIES. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, 1867. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Memoir and Letters of Miss Edgeworth Napoleons Correspondence QUARTERLY REviEw. The French Retreat from Moscow Historical Characters, By Sir H. Lytton Buiwer, Talleyrand, Mackintosh, Cobbett NORTH BRITISH REVIEW. Moral Theories and Christian Ethics BRITISH QUARTER14Y REVIEW. Recollections of Thomas Hood 451 515 473 579 67 323 CONTEMPOHARY REVIEW. Attitude of the Clergy towards Science 195 Norman Macleod, D D. . . . 643 Monetary Conventions and English Coin age 805 BLAcicwOODS MAGAZINE. Novels Browulows . The Socinl Era of George III. Inroads upon English Linda Tressel FRASERS MAGAZINE. The Devils Confession Thackeray on Swift William Cobbett . DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. Tenants of Malory . . . 152, 340 The Fall of the Monasteries . . . 285 CHRISTIAN OBSERVER. The Quaker amongst Kings Shillitoe, the Missionary . . . . 731 3 23, 401, 598 140 218 233, 661 GOOD WORDS. Trotty Story of a London Fog A Bengali Will 437 614 812 CORNEILL MAGAZINE. Little Red Riding Hood Jack the Giant-Killer The Satirists of the Reformation The Sleeping Beanty in the Wood Cinderella 259 540 707 734 792 MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. Old Sir Douglas . . . . 92, 205 On the Correlation of Force in its bearing on Mind 131 Personal Statistics . . . . 243 Social Aspects of German Protestantism 279 TINSLEYS MAGAZINE. Ireland for the Irish SUNDAY MAGAZINE. Occupations of a Retired Life 711 499 ARGOSY. Lady Nairnes Songs 482 ST. PAULS MAGAZINE. 121 All for Greed . . . . 303, 720 369 Phineas Finn, The Irish Member. 417, 177 387 FOETNIGETLY REVIEW. Roman, Anglican, and Protestant Sacred Music 47 Richard Brinsley Sheridan . . . 102 WARNES CHRISTMAS ANNUAL. Christmas in the Desert Dr. Wrightsons Enemy - 691 741 Iv EXAMINER. Motleys United Netherlands Prince Gortzchakoff Memoir of Sir Philip Francis SPECTATOR. What Napoleon means by Peace The Zouave Jacob Grant and Johnson The Fenian Mosquito Lilliput Levee . Herring Fisheries, Facts and Figures Mr. Swinburne as Critic A Strangers Impressions of Vienna The Situation in Rome. Bishop Lonsdale . Mr. Buchanans New Poems. Future of Human Character, Dark Bright Sides . Napoleon and Rome Birds of Prey . The Fall of Italy . Dinner to Mr. Dickens. Motleys United Netherlands Squatting in Victoria Holmess Guardian Angel Italy and Napoleon Old Fashioned Children Jesuits in North America Sir S. Bakers Abyssinia CONTENT S. 623 751 761 20 45 123 251 317 395 397 439 445 497 552 and 557 572 574 636 640 653 656 671 703 754 765 822 EcONOMIST. Foreign Anxeties and the Money Market 63 Cost of an Armed Peace . . . 118 The Mont Cenis Railway . . . 119 Seward and Stanley . . . . 189 The Ultimate End of Fenianism . . 820 SATURDAY REVIEW. The Crisis on the Continent 53 Prof. Tyndall on Sound 55 Love of Scenery 184 Critical and Social Essays from The Na tion . . . . 232 The Romance of Bahington White 254 The Peace Congress 374 France and Italy 382 Germany 441 Admiral Farraguts Visit 443 Italy and Rome 564 The French Emperors Italian Policy . 566 Poetical Works of Walter Scott . . 568 Complimentary Dinners . . . 637 LONDON REVIEW. The Table dH6te General Grant and the President The Two Great Powers of the Future The President on the Rapids American Destiny 115 125 180 249 380 A New Biographical Dictionary - Charles Dickens . A Sermon-Meter - Victor Hugo Ladies Pets Washington Irvings Miscellanies. ATHENAIUM. Light after Darkness - SCOTSMAN. Scotch Gems and Jewellery 511 681 749 757 767 817 186 183 PUNCH. Pas Pour Joseph 22 Holiday Seashore Exercises for Young La dies 127 N. Y. EVENING POST. How they lived in South Carolina - 39 Dr. Stevenss History of the Methodist Church 447 Death of Fitz-Greene Halleck 629 Josiah Quincy 702 N. Y. TRIBUNE. Americans on a Visit to the Emperor of Russia 59 HARPERS WEEKLY. John A. Andrew - . . - Life of Josiah Quincy - Charles Dickens . - CHRISTIAN REGISTER. The Satchel and the Wedding Dress UNITA ITALIANA. Mazzinis Letter to the Peace Congress. - 630 - 659 688 187 377 IL DIRITTO. France and Italy - COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER. Fitz-Greene Halleck - . - DAILY ADVERTISER. How Chromos are made - 498 676 677 NATION. Josiah Quincy PHILADELPHIA PRESS. Southern Immigration . . - 698 679 INDEX TO VOLUME XCV. Armed Peace, The Cost of America and Russia, The Powers of the Future All for Greed American Destiny Austria, Religious Opinion in Andrew, John A. Abyssinia, Sir S. Bakers Two 118 Great 180 303, 720 380 562 630 822 23, 401, 598 . 232 . 511 . 552 . 574 . 812 . 822 Browniows . Baths, Turkish Biographical Dictionary, Catess Buchanans New Poems Birds of Prey Bengali Will, A Bakers, Sir S., Abyssinia Crisis on the Continent. . . . 53 Christian Ethics and Moral Theories . 67 Cenis, Mont, Railway . . . . 119 Clergy, Attitude of towards Science . 195 Critical and Social Essays from the Nation 232 Cobbett, William 387 Catess Biographical Dictionary 511 Cobbett, by~ Sir. H. L. Buiwer 592 Complimentary Dinners - 637 Chrornos, How they are made 677 Christmas in the Desert 691 Children, Old Fashioned 754 Cinderella 792 Coinage, English, and Monetary Con ventions 805 Devils Confession, The 121 Dickens, Charles 681 Dr. Wrightsons Enemy . . . 741 English Language, Inroads upon . . 218 Edgeworth, Miss, Memoirs and Letters of 451 English Coinage 805 End, Ultimate, of Fenianism. . . 820 Force, Correlation of:, in its bearing on Mind 131 Fenian Mosquito France and Italy . 382, 498 Farraguts Visit 443 Fog, London, The Story of a . . 614 Francis, Sir Philip . . 761 Fenianism, Ultimate End of . . . 820 Grant and Johnson .~ . . . 123 George III., Social Era of . . 140 German Protestantism, Social Aspects of 279 Germany 441 Guardian Angel 671 Gortzchakoff . . . . 751 Holiday Exercises for Young Ladies at the Seaside 127 Hood, Thomas, Recollections of . 323 Fisheries, Facts and Figures . 395 Human Character, The Future of, Dark and Bright Sides . . . 557 Halleck, Fitz-Greene, Death of 639, 676 Hugo, Victor 757 Italy and France . . . 382, 498, 566 Italy and Rome . . . . . 564 Italy, The Fall of. . . 63.5, 703 Ireland for the Irish . . - . 771 Irvings, Washington, Miscellanies . 817 Jacob, The Zonave 45 Jack the Giant Killer ~4l Jesuits in North America . . . 765 Light after Darkness 186 Linda Tressel 233, 661 Little Red Riding Hood 259 Lilliput Levee 317 Lon~dale, Bishop 497 Ladies Pets 767 Music, Sacred, Roman, Anglican, and Pro testant 47 Money Market, Influence of Foreign Anx ieties on 63 Moral Theories ani Christian Ethics . 67 Mind, Bearing of Force on the . . 131 VI INDEX. Monody 204 Monasteries, The Fall of the 285 Modern Inquiries 302 Mazzinis L~tters 377 Methodist Church, Stevenss History of 447 Moscow, The Fr~nch Retreat from . 473 Mackintosh, by Sir H. L. Bulwer. . 589 Motleys History of the United Netherlands 623, 653 Macleod, Norman 643 Monetary Conventions and English Coinage 805 Miscellanies, Washington Irvings. . 817 Novels Napoleon, What he means by Peace . 20 Nairne~, Lady, Songs . . . 432 Napoleon I., Correspondence of . 515 Napoleons Italian Policy . . 566, 573 Netherlands, Motleys History of . 623, 653 Old Sir Douglas . . . . 92; 205 Occupations of a Retired Life . . . 499 Old Fashioned Children . . . 754 Peace, What Napoleon means by 20 Peace, Armed, The cost of 118 Personal Statistics 243 President on the Rapids, The . . 249 Protestantism, German, Social Aspects of 279 Peace Congress 374 Phineas Finn, The Irish Member . 417, 777 Quincy, Josiah . . . . 659, 698 Quaker amongst Kings. . . . 731 Russia, Americans on a visit to the Em peror of 59 Russia and America . . . . 180 Rome, The Situation in . . . 445 Rome anti Italy . . - 564 Rome anti Napoleon . . . . 572 Reformation, Satirists of the . . 707 South Carolina, How they lived in 39 Sound, Prof. Tyndall on 55 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 102 Scotch Gems and Jewellery 183 Scenery, Love of 184 Satchel, The, and the Wedding Dress 187 Seward and Stanley . . . 189 Science, Attitude of the Clergy towards 195 Statistics Personal 243 Swift, Thackeray on . . . . 369 Swinburne as Critic . . . . 397 Stevenss history of the Methodist Church 447 Scotts Poetical Works . . 568 Squatting in Victoria . . 656 Southern Immigration . . 679 Satirists of the Reformation 707 Shillitoe, The Quaker Missionary 731 Sleeping Beauty in the Wood 734 Sermon-Meter, A 749 Sir S. Bakers Abyssinia . . . 822 Tyndall, Prof., on Sound Table DH6te, The Tenants of Malory Turkish Baths . Thackeray on Swift Talleyrand, by Sir H. L. Bulwer 55 115 152, 340 232 369 589 Ultimate End of Fenianism . . . 820 Victoria, Squatting in . . . . 656 Vienna, A Strangers Impressions of . 439 White, Babington, Romance of 254 Will, A Bengali 812 Washington Irvings Miscellanies . . 817 POETRY. Answer, The Are the Children at Home After Long Years As Day by Day Angels Everywhere Bird and Baby By the Sea . Book-Keeper, The Old By the Fire . Crooked Path, The Chanson without Music Courage, l)ear Heart Clyde, Lord, Lament for Devils Confession, The Day of Congresses Doves in Peacocks Feathers 130 339 386 386 776 192 320 514 - . 642 194 384 386 597 121 258 222 Evenings a1 Home Faraday, Michael Fashionable Reform In the Alms House Light and Shadow Last Walk in Autumn Loves Gifts . Nina . . Pas pour Joseph . Priestly Thanks to Napoleon Rock of Cullamore Romes Last Pageant - 256 2 130 706 191 673 824 770 22 514 578 706 INDEX. Vii September 66 Things new at the 300 64 Sea Side Life 194 Terry, Kate, Farewell to 128 Sadness of a Transition Period 258 Tired 194 Sinalunga, Arrest of 322 Trotty 43~ Song of the Horse 450 Twenty Years 450 Sea-Music . 450 Strayed from the Flock 640 What shall we bring you Home I 64 State Carriage 642 TALES. All for Greed. . . 303, 720 Browulows . . . 23, 401, 598 Christmas in the Desert .. 691 Cinderella 792 Dr. Wrightsons Enemy . . . 741 Fog, London, The Story of a . . 614 Jack the Giant-Killer . . . . 540 Linda Tressel . . . . 233, 661 Little Red Riding Hood . . 259 Old Sir Douglas . . . 102, 208 Occupations of a Retired Life 499 Old Age 613 Phineas Finn, The Irish Member 417, 777 Sleeping Beauty in the Wood . . 734 Tenants of Malory . . . 152, 3*

The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1218 1-64

LITTELLS LiVING AGE. No. 1218. October 5, 1867. CONTENTS. 1. Novels 2. What Napoleon means by Peace, 3. Pas pour Joseph 4. Browniows. Part ix 5. How they lived in South Carolina, . 6. The Zouave Jacob 7. Roman, Anglican, and Protestant Sacred Music 8. The Crisis on the Continent 9. Professor Tyndall on Sound 10. Americans on a Visit to the Emperor of Russia, 11. Foreign Anxieties and the Money-market, Blackwoods Magazine, Spectator, Punch, Blackwoods Magazine, New York Evening Post, Spectator, Fortniqktlq Review, Tribune, Economsst, POETRY Michael Faraday, 2. SHORT ARTICLE; Note by a Spiritualist, 59. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY5 BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION; FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directlyto the Publishers, the Living Age will be punetuallyforwarged for a year,free of~ostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year; nor where we have to pay commission for ~orwardingth e money. Price of the First Series,in Cloth,36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete work 88 220 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars ,Jjnbound,2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. PAGE 3 20 22 23 39 45 47 53 55 59 63 MICHAEL FARADY.TRULY BASE. MICHAEL FARADAY. BORN: 1794. DIED: 1867. STATESMEN and soldiers, authors, artists, still The topmost leaves fall off our English oak: Some in green summers prime, some in the chill Of autumn-tide, some by late winters stroke. Another leaf has dropped on that sere heap One that hung highest; earliest to invite The golden kiss of morn, and last to keep The fire of eve but still tnrned to the light. No soldiers, statesmans, poets, painters name Was this, through which is drawn Deaths last black line; But one of rarer, if not loftier fame A Priest of Truth, who lived within her shrine. A Priest of Truth; his office to expound Earths mysteries to all who willed to hear Who in the book of Science sought and found, With love, that knew all reverence, but no fear. A Priest, who prayed as well as ministered: Who grasped the faith he preached, and held it fast: Knowing the light he followed never stirred, Howeer might drive the clouds through which it past. And if Truths priest, servant of Science too, Whose work was wrought for love, and not for gain: Not one of those who serve hut to ensue Their private profit: lordship to attain Over their lord, and bind him in green withes, For grinding at the mill neath rod and cord; Of the large grist that they may take their tithes So some serve Science that call Science Lord. One rule his life was fashioned to fulfil, That he who tends Truths shrine, and does the hest Of Science, with a humble, faithful will, The God of Truth and Knowledge serveth best. And from hi~ humbleness what heights he won! By slow march of induction, pace on pace, Scaling the peaks that seem to strike the sun, Whence few can lo)k, isnblinded, in his face. Until he reached the stand which they that win A birds-eye glance oer Natures realm may throw: Whence the minds ken by larger sweeps take in What seemes confusion, looked at from be- low. Till out of seeming Chaos Order grows, In ever-widening orbs of Law restrained, And the Creations mighty music flows In perfect harmony, serene, sustained; And from varieties of f)rce and power, A larger unity ant larger still, Broadens to view, till in some breathless hour, All force is known grasped in a central Will, Thunder and light revealed as one same strength, Modes of the force that works at Natures heart And through the Universes vein~d length Bids, wave on wave, mysterious pulses dart. That cosmic heart-beat it was his to list, To trace those pulses in their ebb and flow Towards the fountain-head, where they subsist In form, as yet, not given een him to know. Yet, living face to face with these great laws, Great truths, great mysteries, all who saw him near Knew him for child-like, simple, free from flaws Of temper, full of love that casts out fear: Untired in charity, of cheer serene; Not caring worlds wealth or good word to earn; Childhoods or manhoods ear content to win; And still as glad to teach as meek to learn. Such lives are precious; not so much for all Of wider insight won where they have striven, As for the still small voice with which they call Along the beamy way from earth to heaven. Punch. TRULY BASE. The Americans want to buy the l)anish possessions in the West Indies. Advocating the sale, a Copenhagen paper says: The cession might, perhaps, be disagreea- ble to England; but no cause at present exists to take that consideration into account. Ungrateful Danes! Whell we forgave them for giving NELSON the trouble of destroying their fleet; when we gave them such good ren- sons for not helping them against Prussia; and when we hold Hamlet as our first favourite in tragedy. Some folks have no sense of favours. Punch 2 ~O V ~ L S. From Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine. NOVELS. ENGLISH novels have for a long time from the days of Sir Walter Scott at least held a very high reputation in the world, not so much perhaps for what critics would call the highest development of art, as for a certain sanity, wholesomeness, and cleanness unknown to other literature of the same class. This peculiarity has had its effect, no doubt, upon those very qualities of the national mind which produced it. It has increased that perfect liberty of read- ing which is the rule in most cultivated English houses; it has abolished the do- mestic Index Expurgatorius as well as all public censorship; it has made us secure and unsuspicious in our reception of every thing, or almost every thing, that comes to us in the form of print. This noble confi- dence has been good for everybody con- cerned. It has ~ut writers on their honour, and saved readers from that wounding consciousness of restraint or of da~iger which dcstroys all delicate appreciation. There are other kinds of literature in which the darker problems of the time can he fitly discussed; and, with a tolerably unanimous consent, English writers have agreed to leave those subjects in their fit place. The novel which is the favourite reading of the young, which is one of the chief amuse- ments of all secluded and most suffering people, which is precious to women and unoccupied persons has been kept by this understanding, or by a natural impulse better than any understanding, to a great degree pure from all noxious topics. That corruption which has so fatally injured the French school of fiction has, it has been our boast, scrupulously kept away from ours. It was something to boast of. We might not produce the same startling effects, we might not reach the same perfection in art, which a craftsman utterly freed of all restraints, and treating vice and virtue with equal impartiality, may aspire to; but we had this supreme advantage, that we were free to all classes and feared by none. Men did not snatch the guilty volume out of sight when any innocent creature drew nigh, or mature women lock up the book with which they condescended to amuse themselves, as they do in France. Our novels were family reading; and the result has been a sense of freedom, an absence of all suggestion of evil, in the superficial studies of ordinary society. which it is impossible to overestimat~e. Nous sommes 3 tous dun age miir. said an irreproachable French matron to the English a~quaintance whose eyes expressed a certain amazement at the frankness of some drawing-room narrative; jesp~re que volts ne pensez pas que je pgrlerais comme ta devant des jeunes gens. This idea, which is the very heart of French ideas on the subject, is quite foreign to our insular habits. We are ac- customed both to read and to speak every thing that comes in our way in the presence of jeunes gens. The habit has so grown upon us, that to change it would involve a revolution in all our domestic arrangements. It would involve us in an aniount of trouble which very few could face. We should re- quire three or four packets from the library instead of one. We should have the nui- sance of separating our children and depend- ants from our own amusements. ~Ve should no longer be able to discuss, as we do now continually, the hooks that we are reading and the thoughts we are thinking. This is a necessity from which we have been altogether free in the tranquil past; but it is an indulgence which only habit and the long use and wont of public security pre- serve to us now. For there can be no doubt that a sin- gular change has passed upon our light literature. It is not that its power has failed or its popularity diminished much the reverse; it is because a new impulse has been given and a new current set in the flood of contemporary story-telling. We will not ask whence or from whom the influence is derived. It has been brought into being by society, and it naturally re-acts upon society. The change perhaps began at the time when Jane E~ re made what advanced critics call her protest against the conventionalities in which the world clothes itself. We have had many protests since that time; hut it is to he doubted how far they have been to our advantage. The point to which we have now arrived is certainly very far from satis- factory. The English mind is still so far borne that we do not discuss the seventh commandment with all that effusion and fulness of detail which is common on the other side of the Channel, though even in that respect progress is daily being made; but there are points in which we altogether outdo our French neighbours. To a French girl fresh from her convent, the novels of her own language are rigorously tabooed; whereas we are all aware that they are the favourite reading of her, contemporary in this country, and are not unfrequently even the production, with all their unseemly ref~ 4 NOVELS. erences and exhibitions of forbidden knowl- edge, of young women, moved either by the wild foolhardiness of inexperience, or by ignorance of everything that is natural and becoming to their condition. It is painful to inquire where it is that all those stories of bigamy and seduction, those soi-disant rev- elations of things that lie below the surface of life, come from. Such tales might flow here and there from one morbid imagina- tion, and present themselves to us as moral phenomena, without casting any stigma upon society in general; hut this is not how they appear. They have taken, as it would seem, permanent possession ot all the lower strata of light literature. Above, there still re- mains, it is true, a purer atmosphere, for which we may be. thankful; hut all our minor m. o~eliats, almost without exception, are of the school called sensational. Writers who have no genius and little talent make up for it by displaying their acquaintance with the accessories and surroundings of vice, with the means of seduction, ~nd with what they set forth as the secret tendencies of the heart, tendencies which, according to this interpretation, all point, one way. When the curates daughter in Shirley burst forth into passionate lamentation over her own position and the absence of any man whom she could marry, it was a new sensation to the world in general. That men and women should marry we had all of us ac- knowledged as one of the laws of humanity; but up to the present generation most young women had been brouiiht up in the belief that their own feelings on this subject should be religiously kept to themselves. No doubt this was a conventionalism; and if a girl in a secluded parsonage is very much in earnest about a husband, there is no effectual reason we know of why she should not lift up her protest against circumstances. But things have gone very much further since the days of Shirley. We have grown accustomed to the reprodut~tion, not only of wails over female loneliness and the impossibility of finding anybody to marry, but to the narrative of many thrills of feeling much more practical and conclu- sive. What is held up to us as the story of the feminine soul as it really exists under- neath its conventional coverings is avery fleshly and unlovely record. Women driven wild with love fbr the man who leads them on to desperation before he accords that word of encouragement which carries them into the seventh heaven; women who marry their grooms in fits of sensual passion; wo- rmen who pray their lovers to carry them off from husbands and homes they hate~ women, at the very least of it, who give and receive burning kisses and frantic em- braces, and live in a voluptuous dream, either waiting for or brooding over the inevitable lover, such are the heroines who have been imported into modern fic- tion. All for love atid the world well lost, was once the motto of a simple but peren- nial story, with which every human crea- ture had a certain sympathy the romance that ended pleasantly in a wholesome wed.. ding, or pathetically in a violet - covered grave. But the meaning has changed now- adays. Now it is no knight of romance riding down the forest glades, ready for the defence and succour of a!l the oppressed, for whom the dreaming maiden waits. She waits now fot- flesh and muscles, for strong arms that seize her, and warm breath that thrills her through, and a host of other physical attractions, which she indicates to the world with a charming frankness. On the other side of the picture, it is, of course, the amber hair and undulating form, the warm flesh and glowing colour, for which th& youth sighs in his turn; but, were the sketch made from the mans point of view, its openness would at least be less repulsive. The peculiarity of if~ in England is, that it is oftenest made from the womans side that it is women who describe those sensu- ous raptures that this intense apprecia- tion of flesh and blood, this eagerness of physical sensation, is represented as the natural sentiment of English girls, and is offered to them not only as. the portrait of their own state of mind, but as their amuse- ment and mental food. Such a wonderful phenomenon might exist, and yet society might be innocent of it. It might be the fault of one, or of a limited school; and the mere fact that such ravings are found in print might be no great argument against the purity of the age. But when it is. add- ed that the class thus represented does not disown the picture; that, on the contrary, it hangs it up in the boudoir and drawing- room; that the books which contain it circulate everywhere, and are read every- where, and are not contradicted, then the case becomes much more serious. For our own part, we do not believe, as some people do, that a stratum of secret vice underlies the outward seeming of society. Most of our neighbours, we know, are very good sort of people, and we believe un- teignedly that our neighbours neighbours resemble Our own. It is possible to be- lieve that very fine people or very shabby people are profoundly wicked; out, as for NOVELS. the world as represented on our own level, we know that it is not so. The girls of our acquaintance in general are very nice girls; they do not, so far as we are aware, not- withstanding a natural proclivity towards the society, when it is to be had, of their natural companions in existence, pant for ~ kisses, or go i;iad for u~at- tamable men. And yet here stands the problem which otherwise is not to be salved. It is thus that Miss Braddon and Miss Thomas, and a host of other writers, explain their feelings. These ladies might not know, it is quite possible, any better. They might not be aware how young wo- men of gool blood and good training feel. The perplexing fact is, that the subjects of this slander make no objection to it. Pro- tests are being raised everywhere in abun- dance; but against this misrepresentation there is no protest. It seems to be accept- ed by the great audience of the circulating libraries as something like the truth. Mr. Trollopes charming girls do not, now that we know them so well, call forth half so much notice from the press as do the Auro- ra Floyds of contemporary fiction. Is, then, the picture true? or by what extraor- dinary impulse is it that the feminine half of society thus Stigmatises and stultifies its own existence? The question is one at which we may wonder, but to which we can give no an- swer; and it is a very serious matter, let us look at it as we will. It may be possible to laugh at the notion that books so entirely worthless, so far as literary merit is con- cerned, should affect any reader injuriously, though even of this we are a little doubtful; but the fact that this new and disgusting picture of what professes to be the female heart comes from the hands of women, and is tacitly accepted by them as real, is not in any way to be laughed at. Some change must nave been wrought upon the social mind ere such things could be toler- ated at all; and even now we are not awakened out of our calm to a full con- sciousness of the change. When we are so, then we will, of course, according to our natural English course of action, take tardy measures of precaution. We will attempt, in the face of all our traditions and habits, to establish the Index Expurganorius; we will lock up the books which are not for the jeunes gens; we will glance, ourselves, with curiosity and a sense of guilt, just to see what it is like, over the objectionable portion of our library parcel; and we will make up our minds to say nothing of it be- fore the girls. Vain thought! If the girls 5 are such as they are therein described, one book or another will do them little harm and, if the picture is false, why do they accept it? So far from showing any diffi- culty on this point, it is those very books, according to all appearances, which are most in demand. The Times deals them the cro ~niug glory of its appiovai. The critical journals, if they do not approve, at least take the trouble to discuss; and the authorities at the great circulating libraries, as somebody says those sublime critics who sit at the fountain-head of literature, and enlarge or choke up at their pleasure the springs of our supply find it impossi- ble to resist the public craving for its favourite food. Mr. Mudie, too, may utter a protest; but it is futile in face of the protests of fiction. We confess to havinrr felt a sense of injury in our national prid~ when our solemn contemporary, the Revue des Deux Mondes, held up in one of its recent numbers the names of Miss Annie Thomas and Mr. Edmund Yates to the ad- miration of the world as representative novelists of England. And yet, after all, though the acknowledgment naturally costs us a pang, the Frenchman was right. Such writers are purely, characteristically English. They are not brilliantly wicked like their French contemporaries. The con- sciousness of good and evil hangs about them, a kind of literary fig-leaf. a little bet- ter or worse than nothing. Tiiough it is evident that the chatter of imaginary clubs or still more imaginary studios is their high-, est idea of social intercourse, still the guardsmen and the painters do not talk so freely nor half so cleverly as they would have done on the other side of the Cha~nel. That sublime respect for sentimental moral- ity and poetic justice which distinguishes the British public stands fbrth in them be- yond all question. The wicked people are punished and the good people are reward- ed, as they always should be; and there are exquisite bits of pious reflection which make up to the reader for a doubtful situa, tion or an equivocal character. This~ how.~ ever, is what we have come to in the eyes of our neighbours. It is not so serious as the moral question; but it is in its way very serious. A critic, indeed, may deceive him- self when he looks across the mists and rains of the Channel; but if he is guided by what English papers say, by what ad-~ vertisements say, by the evidence of cir- culating libraries and publishers announce.~ ments how can he .jtidge otherwise? The glories of the moment are in the hands of Miss Thomas ai~ci her ola~s. Whether i~ 6 NOVELS. be in appreciation, or contempt, or amaze- ment at the extraordinary character o~ such successes, the fact remains that our weekly critics never fail to say something about their productions; and is not Maga also now beguiled to the further extension of their fame? It is bumbling; but it is true. And the fact is all the more humbling when we consider the very small amount of literary skill employed in the construction of these books. In France, again, it is the other way. A wicked novel there may be very disgusting; lut it is generally clever, and sometimes possesses a certain hideous sort of spiritual interest. When the vilest of topics happens to fhll into the hands of such an anatomist as Balzac, or under the more human touch of Victor Hugo, there is something of calm science in the investiga- tion a kind of inexorable and passionless dissection which renders even such studies impressive. But English sensational books of the day have no such attraction. We do not gulp down the evil in them for the sake of the admirable skill tht~t depicts it, or the splendour of the scenery amid which it occurs. On the contrary, we swallow the poorest of literary drivel sentiments that are adapted to the atmosphere of a Surrey theatre descriptions of society which show the writers ignorance of society style the mostmean or the most inflated - for the sake of the objectionable subjects they treat. The novels which crowd our libraries are, for a great part, not litera- ture at all. Their construction shows, in s )me cases, a certain rude skill, in some a certain clever faculty of theft; but in none any real in~entive genius; and as for good taste, or elegance, or perception of charac- ter, these are things that do not tell upon the seiisational novel. The events are the necessary things to consider, not the men; and thus the writer goes on from one tour de force to another, losing even what little ~natural gift might belong to him in its over-exercise, but never losing the most sweet voices which he has once conciliated. Such at I~ast is the evidence of the news- papers. Rupert Godwin, for example, the last work published by Miss Braddon, tdthough published only a few days, is al- ready, according to the advertisements, in the fourth ediion. Yet it would be diffi- cult to-point out one single claim it has to popular approval. We have met with many curious things in these lower regions of bookmaking; but it has never been our fate to meet with any piece of literary theft ~so bare-faced and impudent as this book. i?he story is copied in all its important par- ticulars from Mr. Charles Reades well- known and powerful novel of hard Cash a work, we need not say, as far above the lower world into which Rupert God- win has been born as it is possible to con- ceiv~. The story of Hard Cash, as every- body knows, is that of a sailor captain, who confides his hard-won money to the care of a banker, and, being cheated, goes mad, and is only rescued after many moving adven- tures by sea and land, his wife and children in the meanwhile being left desti- tute. In iRupert Godwin, the conception is so far varied, that the sea-captt~in is stab- bed, and left for dead by the wicked hanker; but all the other incidents may stand as above narrated. There are two pairs of lovers, son and daughter of the respective banker and victim, in both books; there is a madhouse in both books, and a clerk who betrays his master, and a marvellous recovery for the killed and mad hero. The only lit- tle difference is, that in one book this hero is a certain glorious sailor, dear to our hearts, noble old knight of romance, simple old English seaman, David Dodd, altogether one of the finest conceptions in English fiction; and in the other a miserable ghost called Westfield, about whom nobody knows any thing nor cares any thing. How such an amount of self-confidence, or confidence in the folly of the public, could be attained as is displayed in this publication, it would be difficult either to explain or to under- stand. Mr. iReade is not yet a classic. He is one of the most powerful of contem- porary writers; and, though it may be pos- sible to borrow with small acknowledgment a French story, it is temerity, indeed, to plagiarize so well known a production. Yet this is what Miss Braddon has ventured to do. She has taken the bones of the tale, as a poor curate might take a skeleton ser- mon. Having no flesh to put upon them, it is true that, honester so far than the curate, she leaves the bones as she found them; and, notwithstanding a liberal men- tion of violet eyes and golden hair and dark Spanish beauty, presents her person- ages to us in a skeleton state. But this, it would appear, makes no difference to an admiring public. Here is the compilers own account of the reception given to this piece of stolen goods: ~ Rupert Godwin was written for, and first appeared in, a cheap weekly journal. From this source, the tale was translated into the French language, and ran as the leading story in the Journal pour Tous. It was there discovered by an American, who retranslated the matter ba k into English, and who obtained NOVELS. an outlet for the new translation in the columns of the New York Mercury. These and other versions have been made without the slightest advantage to the author, or indeed without the faintest approach to any direct communication to her on the subject. Influenced by the facts as here stated, the author has revised the origi- nal, and now offers the result for what it is namely, a tale of incident, written to amuse the short intervals of leisure which the readers of popular periodicals can snatch from their daily avocations, and also as a work that has not been published in England, except in the crude and fragmentary shape already men- tioned. The public has rewarded this noble con- fidence in them by consuming already three editions of this much produced tale. Three nations, accordingly, have united in doing honour to - Rupert Godwin. England, France, and America have seized upon it with that eager appreciation which is the best reward of genius. Most probably, be- fore this present page has seen the light, it will have been reviewed in more than one leading journal with praise proportioned to its popularity. Was there ever literary phenomenon more inconceivable? We stand aghast with open mouth of wonder, and are stricken dumb before it. Miss Braddon has, without doubt, certain liter- ary claims. Aurora Floyd, notwithstand- its unpleasant subject (though we dont doubt that its unpleasant subject has been in reality the cause of its great success), is a very clever story. It is well knit together, thoroughly interesting, and full of life. The life is certainly not of a high descrip- tion, but it is genuine in its way; and few people with any appreciation of fiction could refuse to be attracted by a tale so well defined. The Doctors Wife strikes even a higher note. It is true that it is to some extent plagiarized, as was pointed out at the time of its publication, from a French story; but the plagiarism was so far perfect- ly allowable that it clearly defined wherein the amount of license permitted by English taste differs from that which comes natural to the French. Other books of Miss Brad- dons have not been unworthy, to some ex- tent, of the applause bestowed upon them. There has been a good story now and then, a clever bit of construction, even an inkling of a character. She is the inventor of the fair-haired demon of modern fiction. Wick- ed women used to be brunettes long ago, now they are the daintiest, softest, prettiest of blonde creatures; and this change has been wrought by Lady Audley, and her influence on contemporary novels. She has brought in the reign of bigamy as an inter- 7 esting and fashionable crime, which no doubt shows a certain deference to the British relish for law and order. It goes against the seventh commandment, no doubt, but does it in a legitimate sort of way, and is an invention which could only have been possi- ble to an Englishwoman knowing the at- traction of impropriety, and yet loving the shelter of law. These are real results which Miss Braddon has achieved, and we do not grudge her the glory of them; but yet we can- not conceive how the ~clat of such triumphs, great as it may be, should cover a piece of imposture. The boldness of the feat is the only thing that does in any way redeem it; and that is not an excuse either f~ literary larceny or that marvellous public credulity and folly, which is the really alarming fea- ture in the transaction. The author of Rupert Godwin has compelled the world to accept not only a copy, but a very miser- able copy, by the mere form of her name. She has palmed off upon three intelligent nations, according to her own account, a fairy changeling, bewitched out of natural beauty into decrepitude and ugliness; and France, England, and America have taken the imp at her word. This is a power which the greatest of writers might envy. It is one of the finest privileges of~ a great name. To have made such an impression upon your contemporaries that the whole civilised world thus acknowledges your sway is a thing rarely achieved even by the greatest. But it has been achieved by Miss Braddon; and, in sight of such a climax of fame and success, what can any one say? We feel disposed, however, to emulate to some extent that pertinacious critic who once, as the story goes, took upon him to annotate the course of a sermon, by an- nouncing the real authorship of its finest paragraphs. Turn that man out, cried the aggrieved incumbent. Thats his own, said the critic. In like manner there is something in Rupert Godwin which is Miss Braddons own. When the poor wid- ows virtuous and lovely daughter earns her scanty living on the stage, she is made the victim of one of those romantic abductions which used to be so frequent (in novels) forty or fifty years ago. As it happens, it does her no harm either in reputation or any thing else, and, in short, is of little ser- vice any how, except to fill up so many pages; but it is purely original, and not copied. This it is only just to say. A foolish young marquess sets his heart upon the queen of beauty in the stage tab- leaux, and declares himself ready, as foolish 8 NOVELS. young marquesses, ~ur readers are aware, are so apt to do, to lay his coronet at her feet, and make her Marchioness of Roxley- dale; a desire which the villain of the piece immediately seizes upon by way of carrying out ,his own vile projects. And accordingly Miss Braddon, with a stroke of her wand, brings back out of the ancient ages that post-chaise with the locked doors and the impassible man on the box with whih we are all so perfectly acquainted. The lovely Violet is thus carried off to the old decayed house, with the old half-imbecile housekeeper, whom also we know. But we are bound to say that the young lady takes the accident with the composure becoming a young ~dy of the nineteenth century. Half-way on the road, when they stop to (hange horses, she satisfies herself that the pretext of her mothers illness, by which ~he has been inveigled into the carriage, is false, and sinks back relieved with a pro- found sense of gratitude to heaven. She is rescued, as we have said; and the whole affair passes off in the calmest way, as such a natural accident might be supposed to pass. This abduction is Miss Braddons own. And so is the episode of Esther Vanberg, a ballet-girl who dies a most ex- emplary death at the Star and Garter, Richmond, after having been thrown by a wicked horse which she had ordered her lover, a young duke, to buy for her for a thousand pounds. The horse is bought, and runs away and breaks the reckless young womans spine, and she then makes an edifying end which would become a saint, and leaves her duke touchingly incon- solable, though this also is utterly uncon- nected with the story. Esthers beauty had been of the demoniac order in her appear- ances on the stage. She inhabited a b~jou mansior~i in Bolton Row; her drawing- room was approached by a richly decorated staircase, where nymphs and satyrs in Flor- entine bronze smirked and capered in the recesses of the pale grey wall, relieved by mouldings and medallions in unburnished gold. Tropical flowers shaded the open windows, and the room was furnished with amber satin. Yet all this, and the hunter worth a thousand pounds, and circlets of diamonds, and flounces of the richest lace, all bought with her dukes money, seems to be considered by Miss Braddon quite con- sistent with relations of the purest charac- ter between the duke and the opera-dancer. And when she dies in this perfectly admira- ble way, the duke remains a kind of spirit- ual widower, to carry out all the last inten- ~tions, and build a monument over the grave of his love. In such an ethereal and lofty way are things supposed to be managed be- tween young English dukes and ballet-girls. These episodes are both Miss Braddons very own. We recognise in them the origi- nal touch of the artist; and no doubt it is thus she has indemnified herself for giving ip her natural faculty of eon~tr~-cticn, and using somebody elses story. Notwithstand- ing the undiminished success which has at- tended the essay, we cannot but think it is a pity. Honesty is the best policy. A writer whose gift lies in the portrayal of charac- ter, in delicate touches of observation, or sketches of real life, may possibly find it practicable to take the mere framework which has served another man; but for an author whose sole literary gift is that of construction, it is a pity. Miss Braddon has proved that she can invent a story. She can do it much better than she can dis- criminate or describe, or even talk; and, though it may save trouble, it is a sacrifice of her own powers she makes when she thus borrows from another. If we could hope that it was Mr. Reade who had done it, the matter would be very much less im- portant; for Mr. Reade has many gifts, and can play upon his audience as on an in- strument, and move us to tears or laughter as is permitted to very few. Miss Braddon cannot do this; but if she can fill up the circulating library, and be translated into French, and retranslated into American, she certainly does owe her clientelle the ex- ercise of her one faculty. Such privileges have duties attached to them; and a prophet in whom the public thus believes should at least give of her own to that believing pub- lic. She never invented any circumstance so extraordinary as this public faith and loyal adherence which she seems to have won. Miss Braddon is the leader of her school, and to her the first honours ought naturally to be given, hut her disciples are many. One of the latest of these disciples is the author- ess of Cometh up as a Flower, a novel which has recently won that amount of pub- lie approval which is conveyed by praise in the leading papers and a second edition. This book is not a stupid book. There is a certain amount of interest and some char- acter in it. The young lover is, in his way, a real man not very brilliant certainly, nor with any pretence of intellectuality, but as far removed as po~sible from th~ woman- ish individual so often presented to us ticket- ed as a man in ladies novels; and so is the middle-aged husband. The wonderful thing in it is the portrait or the modern NO YE L S. A little after, this charming young lady goes to a party, where she makes great prog- ress in the acquaintance and affections of a yellow-haired young dragoon, who is the jeune premier of the tale. But as her opin- ions upon general subjects are more to the point than her particular love-story, we quote from a conversation which takes~ place next day between herself and her father. First of all, it has taken a somewhat lugu- brious tone Do let us talk of something else, cried I peevishly; I hate such moping sort of sub- jects. By all means something gay and fes- tive the party last night for instance, says the author of my being, ironically. It was not so bad as I expected, returned I, brightening up, and eradicating the moisture from my eyes with my knuckles. How did you get on with all those fine ladies? inquired my father kindly. Middlino said I; I did not care much about them. I liked the men better. If I went into society, I should like to go to parties where there are no women, only men. That is a sentiment that I think I should keep for home use, my dear, if I were you. Should you? Well, perhaps so; but wo- men are so prying and censorious All the time you are talking to tliem you feel sure that they are criticising the sit of your tucker, and calculating how much a-yard your dress cost. Now, if youre only pretty and pleasant in- deed, even if youre not either (I mentally classed myself under this latter head) men are goodnatured, and take you as they find you, and make the best of you. My father did not dispute my position. These are sentiments which everybody is aware a great many vulgar clever women think it clever and striking to enunciate. The misery of such unhappy ones as throw themselves out of the society of their own sex, their pitiful strivings after the recogni- t~on of any stray strong-minded woman who will look over their imperfections, should be sufficient answer to it in any serious point 9 young woman as presented from her own this house from morning to night. Is there point of view. The last wave but one of any word of one syllable in the English language temale novelists was very feminine. Their that conveys so many revolting ideas? stories were all family stories, their troubles None, except hell, said my father bit- domestic, their women womanly to the last terly, and I sometimes think theyre synony- mous. degree, and their men not much less 5O~ Dad, said I, take my advice, and try a The present influx of young life has changed new plan; dont worry about them any more .,U ~-e-,~ T~ ~ ,~.*,A ~ ~ take no notice uf diem at ail Weve the ~ ---- got ture Man in something like his natural air and the sunshine, and one another left we character; hut unfortunately it has gone to ought to be happy; and, if the worst comes to extremes, and moulded its women on the the worst, we can but go to jail, where we shall model of men, just as the former school he nicely dressed, well fed, and have our hair moulded its men on the model of women. cut, all for nothing. The heroine of Cometh up as a Flower is a good case in point. She is not by any means so disagreeable, so vulgar, or so man- ish, as at the first beginning she makes herself out to be. Her flippancy, to start with, re- volts the reader, and inclines him to pitch the volume to as great a distance from him as is practicable; hut, if he has patience a little, the girl is not so bad. She is a motherless girl, brought up in the very worst way, and formed on the most wretched model, but yet there is a touch of nature in the headstrong creature. And this of itself is a curious peculiarity in fiction generally. Ill-brought-up motherless girls, left to grow anyhow, out of all feminine guardianship, have become the ideal of the novelist. There is this advantage in them, that benevolent female readers have the resource of saying Remember she had no mother, when the heroine falls into any unusual lapse from feminine traditions; but it is odd, to say the least of it, that this phase of youthful life should commend itself so universally to the female novelist. Here is a specimen of what the young woman of the period con- siders sprightly, prepossessing, and lifelike. It is the introduction of the young heroine to the reader I gambolled up to him in a bird-like man ncr. Well, said I cheerfully, I suppose the tea is (mite cold, and youre quite cross, and Ini to have a real goA scoldin,,, arent I? Then I stooped and kissed the whitened hairs. Eh, what ~ said he, thus suddenly called back from his joyless reverie to the contempla- tion of a young round face that was dear to him, and vainly endeavouring to extricate himself from the meshes of a redundant crop of curly hair which was being flourished in its redness before his face. indeed, Nell, Id forgotten your very existence that minute. What could have chased so pleasing an image from your minds eye? said I laugh- ing. What always chases every pleasing image, he answered gloomily. Bills, I suppose, returned I discontented ly. Bilk, huh, hills I Lhat5 the song in 10 NOVELS. of view. But there is a great deal that is unlovely which is not immoral, and false to every human and natural sentiment without being positively wicked. This is one of the popular bits of falsehood by which lively- minded young women are often taken in and led to misrepresent themselves. And it is another curious feature in second-rate womens books. As a general rule, all the women in these produotions, except the one charming heroine, are mean and envious creatures, pulling the exceptional beauty to pieces. Shall we say that the women who write ought to know? But the fact is, that a great many of the women who write live very contentedly in the society of other wo- men, see little else, find their audience and highest appreciation among them, and are surrounded and backed up and applauded by their own sex in a way which men would be very slow to emulate. The pre- tence is one which only a vulgar mind could make. The man who scorns, or pretends to scorn, womens society, is generally a fool; what should the woman be? But it is one of those popular falsehoods which hosts of people repeat without in the least meaning it. It seems to imply a certain elevation above her neighbours of the speaker; al- although the very same woman, if brought to the test, would shrink and recoil and be confounded if her silly and false aspirations could he realised. Of course the patent meaning of it on the lips of a girl like the heroine of the book before us is, that the society she prefers is that of the man with whom she is falling in love, and who has fallen in love with her, and that for the mo- ment the presence of other people is rather a bore than otherwise. This story, as we have already said, is interesting, not because of its particular plot or incidents, but as a sample of the kind of expression given by modern fiction to modern sentiments from the womans point of view. Nelly Lestr nrc has no particular objections to meet her soldier out of doors whenever he pleases to propose it. He takes her in his arms after he has seen her about three times, and she has still no objection. The girl is innocent enough according to all appearance, but she has certainly an odd way of expressing herself for a girl. She wonders if her lover and she, when they meet in heaven, will be sexless passionless essences, and says, God forbid! She speaks, when a loveless marriage dawns upon her, of giving her shrinking body to the disagreeable bride- groom. There may be nothing wrong in all this, but it is curious language, as we have said, for a girl. And here let us pause to make a necessary discrimination. A grande passion is a thing which has t~ be recognised as possible wherever it is met with in this world. If two young people fall heartily and honestly in love with each other, and are separated by machinations such as abound in novels, but unfortunately are not unknown in life, and one of them is compelled to marry somebody else, it is not unnatural, it is not revolting, that the true love unextinguished should blaze wild- ly up, in defiance of all law, when the op- portunity occurs. This is wrong, sinful, ruinous, but it is not disgusting; xvhere~is those speeches about shrinking bodies and sexless essences are dis~zusting in the fullest sense of the word. Would that the new novelist, the young beginner in the realm of fiction, could but understand this! We will quote the last scene the only scene in which there is much evidence of drama- tic power in this novel. In it the poor lit- tle heroine, in her despair, flies in the face of all right and honour and virtue, yet is not revolting, nor yet nasty which in her quite innocent impassioned moods, in her daring tone, and reckless little sayings, she frequently and unpardonably is. Every thing that is worst to bear has happened to the unfortunate Nelly. Her lovers letters have been abstracted; she has been taught to think him false to her; she has married for that reason, and to save her fathers life, the unattractive Sir Hugh, arid her fa- ther has died the day after, losing to her all the comfort of her sacrifice; and then, in a moment when she is left alone, there comes suddenly her true lover, heart-broken with her perfidy, to look at her for thd last time; and they speak to each other, and find out how it is that they have been s~pa- rated. He is going to India, and it is their last meeting: Looking into his haggard, beautiful, terri- ble face, I forgot all I should have remembcred; forgot virtue and honour and self-respect; my heart spoke out to his. Oh, dont go, I cried, running to him; dont you know how I love you l For my sake stay. I cannot live with- out you. I clasped both hands on his rough coat- sleeve, and my bowed head sank down upon them. Do you suppose I can live in England and see you belonging to another man P he asked, harshly; the world is all hell now as it is; but that would be the hlackest, netherinost hell. No; let me go, said he, fiercely, pushing me away from him roughly, while his face was writhen and distorted. NO V EL S. If you go, I said in my insanity, throw- ing myself into his arms, Ill go too. Oh! for Gods sake, take me with you! He strained me to his desolate heart, and we kissed each other wildly, vehemently; none came between us then. Then he tried to put me away from him. My darling, said he, you dont know what you are saying. Do you think I am such a brute as to be the ruin of the only woman I ever loved l And his deep voice was sorely shaken as he spoke. But I would not be put away. I clung about his neck in my bitter pain, my mad des- pair. Oh, dont leave me behind you! Youre all I have in the world now. Oh, take me, take me with you! My hair fell in its splendid ruddy billows over his great shoulder, and my arms were flung about the stately pillar of his throat. He set his teeth hard, and drew in his breath. It was a tough ordeal. I wont, he said, hoarsely. For Gods sake, stop tempting me! Id sooner cut your throat than take you. Do you think it would be loving you to bring you down to a level with the scum of the earth I Oh, Nell, Nell! you ought to be my good angel. Dont tempt me to kill my own soul and yours. The reproachful anguish of his tones smote me like a two-edged sword. I said no more. Now, this is very objectionable, no doubt, and as wrong as it can be, but it is not dis- gusting. In the circumstances it is not un- natural. Great love and despair, and the sense of an irredeemable useless sacrifice and a horrible mistake, might excuse, if they did not warrant, such an outbreak. The difference is very clear and easily to be defined. At such a moment the reader forgives, and his mind is not revolted by a hopeless burst of passion, even though pos- sible vice and the greatest of social sins is involved in it. And there is no sin involved in the light talk and nasty phrases which may mean nothing; yet to everybody of pure mind it is those latter which are most dis- gusting. Nor is this distinction an arbitrary one. When a human creature is under the influence of passion, it may be moved to the wildest thoughts, the most hopeless im- pulses, suggestions utterly foreign to its natural character; but its utterance in its cooler moments expresses the ordinary, ten- or of life. A woman, driven wild by the discovery of domestic fraud and great wrong, might propose any sin in her frenzy, and yet might be innocent; whereas a wo- man who makes uncleanly suggestions in the calm of her ordinary talk is a creature altogether unendurable and beyond the pale. This distinction is one which goes deeper than mere criticism. It is a point upon which social literature and society itself go much astray. When people who scarcely know each other, and do not care for each other, are obliged to meet, the lightest of light talk naturally comes in to fill up the stray moments; and it is very handy for the novelist who has many stray corners to fill up; but now and then ~s point of some kind must be given to this light social froth. If not wit, which is not al- ways at hand, why then a little license, a touch of nastiness something that will shock, if not amuse. This is the abomina- tion in the midst of us. Perhaps the indi- cation it would seem to give of darker evil concealed below may be fake and we not only hope but believe that it is false but of itself it is the height of unloveliness. After our free-spoken heroine has come to the climax of herfate, she becomes con- sumptive and reflective after that loftily pious kind which generally associates itself with this species of immorality; for sensual literature and the carnal mind have a kind of piety quite to themselves, when disap- p ointment and incapacity come upon them. T he fire which burned so bright dies out into the most inconceivably grey of ashes; and the sweetest submission, the tenderest purity, take the place in a second of all those daring headstrong fancies, all that self-will and self~indulgence. The intense goodness follows the intense sensuousness as by a natural law ; the same natural law, we presume, which makes the wicked witch of romance the woman who has broken everybodys heart, and spent everybodys money, and desolated everybodys home sink at last into the most devoted of sisters of charity. The good women who follow the rule of St. Vincent de Paul would be little flattered by the suggestion. We do not feel ourselves capable of no- ticing, although what we have just said re- calls them t) our mind, certain very fine and very nasty books, signed with the name of a cci tam Ouida, it is to be sup- posed a woman also. They are so fine as to be unreadable, and consequently we should hope could do little harm, the dic- tion being too gorgeous for merely human faculties. We note, in glancing here and~ there through the luscious pages, that there is always either a mass of glorious hair lying across a mans breast, or a ladys white and jewelled fingers are twined in the gentlemans chestnut or raven curls preferably chestnut; for colour is neces- sary to every such picture. Our readers 12 NOVELS. will have remarked that even in the crisis of her misery, the poor little heroine of Cometh up as a Flower could not refrain from throwing her hair in ~ splendid ruddy billows over her lovers shoulder; and the amount of use got out of the same powerful agent in Strathmore and Idalia seems bOifiCtAiig able. Hair, indoed, in general, has become one of the leading. properties in fiction. The facility with which it flows over the shoulders and bos- oms in its owner s vicinity is quite extraor- dinary. In every emergency it is ready for use. Its quantity and colour, and the re- flections in it, and even the fuzz, which is its modern peculiarity, take the place of all those pretty qualities with which hero- ines used to be endowed. What need has a woman for a soul when she has upon her head a mass of wavy gold? When a poor creature has to be represented, her hair is said to be scanty, and of no particular col- our. Power, strength, a rich nature, a no- ble mind, are all to he found embodied in this gr~at attribute. Samson, being a Jew, had probably black locks, which would be aoainst him; but otherwise Samson would have made a ,jeat figure in these days if indeed Delilah had not outdone him with amber floods of equal potency. Amber is the tnt patronised in the works of Onida. It is the only idea that we have been, able to evolve out of her gorgeous pa~es, if in- deed it can be caied an idea. X~ith other anil more orthodox writers the hue is ~oid or red. When the conception demands a milder shale of colouring, aubur n,and even chestnut (with gold reflections), are per- mis~ible; but when a very high effect is in- tended, red is the hue par excellence. Red and gold, in all its shades, are compatible with vir~ue; amber means rich luxurious vice; whereas the pale and scanty locks a~e the embodiment of meanness and pov- erty of character. As for black and brown, which were once 1 vourites in fiction before it took to violent colouring, they are no- where. They may be permitted now and then in a strictly subordinate position, but they have nothing to do with the symbolism of~modern art. Red is the colour chosen by Mr. Edmund Yates * to characterise the heroine of one of his many productions, the Margaret of Land at Last. She has, as a matter of course, large, deep, violet eyes, and long, thick, luxtiact hair, of deep-red. geld colour; iiot the poetic auburn not the vulgar carrots~ a rich metallic red, un * Land at itist; T1ieJ~or1orn Hope. mistakable, admitting of no compromise, no darkening by grease or confining by fix- attire a great mass of deep-red hair, strange, weird, and oddly beautiful. She is pie ked up in the street by the artist-hero,. who is equally, as a matter of course, sub- jugated at once by this gorgeous combina- tion of colour. Margarot makc3 graat play with her hair, like all the other ladies. If she does not take to sweeping it over her lovers breast all at once, she lets it over her own shoulders in a rich red cloud, which comes to the same thing; and not- withstanding that she tells him with beauti- ful frankness the story of her life, into which the usual character without which the drama of womans life is incorn- plete a man! had come at an early age, poor Ludlow marries her, despite all the remonstrances of his friends: Then ensues a long and sufficiently clever de- scription of the failure of this red-haired heroine to adapt herself to the dulness of a respectable life. It is very hard work for her, as may be supposed. When she goes to visit her dull mother-in-law at Brompton, she sees in the Row, as she passes, faces that remind her of her former history; peo- ple pass her in mail-phaetons and on high- stepping horses, while she walks, who would place both at her disposal at a word. She will not say the word; but naturally, as she pursues her walk, she loathes her own bondage more than ever; and in the even- ing, when she plays to her good. stupid, adoring husband, dreams come upon her of the balls of other days of Henri so grand in the Cavalier seul, of the parterre illuminated with a thousand lamps glittering like fireflies, . . . and then the cosy little sup- per, the sparkling iced drink. Such sub- lime recollections carry her far away from the solemn quiet of Elm Lodge. And she has a baby, and hates it; arid her husband loves her so much, and is so unspeak- ably good to her, that she grows mad with disgust and misery. And, in short, an aw- ful crisis is visibly coming, and domes by the reappearance of the man, her first love, who, it turns out, was not her seducer, but her husband. So that the wretched crea- ture has made a victim in cold blood of the unhappy artist marrying him, as the vil- lain used to marry an unsuspecting woman in the old novels, because he was a quite hopeless subject for any other treatment, awl because ~he wanted comfort and a home! The scene in which she calmly in- forms Ludlow of these facts of her utter indifference to hiniself and her child, her devotion to another man, and, finally, of NOVELS. her previous marriage has considerable dramaLic power, if it were not that the vile audacity of one party, and the feebleness of the other, take from it the i terest which should belong to a death-and-life struggle. The idea is so f~r original that Margaret is at no period of her career a repentant Magdalene; and neither is she tempte(l by passion into her base and treacherous crime. She marries Ludlow in (old blood for a home, without any delusion on the subject, knowing that he is a good and innocent man, an(l that she is bringing him disgrace and ruin. The best touch in the book is the womans stupid ignorance and insensi- bility, which leads her to imagine that she can return, as she says, to her husband, af- ter having been the wife of another man a delusion cut of which she is speedily driv- en when the wretched reprobate to whom she goes back turns her away with a cruel- ty and insensibility equal to her own. So far this is true enough, and no attempt is made to clothe vice in an attractive form; but yet it is undeniable that the author throughout gives to his red-haired woman a lofty superiority over all the good people in his book. She with the rich red cloud over her shoulders, her silence, her abstraction, the secret contrasts she is mak- ing in her own mind between the respec- table suburban lite and that, of the illumi- nated parlerres and iced drinks of her for- mer state of being, and the profound dis- gust which fills her is evidently, in Mr. Yates~s eyes, a creature much above the level of those dull women whose talk is of babies. She sails about among them in sullen state, and he feels that she is a banished angel a creature of a higher sphere. Her disgraceful and abominable secret, though of course he duly punishes it, still elevates her above the dull mother and gushing sister of he~ artist-husband. And when her real husband has disdainfully spurned her, she becomes a heroine. When she is found, she makes a little speech of self-defence, I acknowledge my sin, and, so far as Geoffrey Ludlow is concerned, I deeply, earnestly, repent my conduct; she says, Have those who condemned ui~ and I know naturally enough I am con- demned by all his friends have those who condemned me ever known the pangs of starvation, the grim tortures of house- lessness in the streets? Have they ever known what it is to have the iron of want and penury eating into their souls, and then to be offered a comfortable home and an honest mans love? If they have, I doubt very much whether they would have re 13 fused it. And she makes an edifying end, watched and counselled and cared for by the model ot womanly virtue, who all this time has been saving up for poor Ludlow. Such is the story. It is a little departure from the estahlished type of the golden- haired sorceress, an(l the author does not try to soften her guilt by any touches of sentiment; hut still it is clear that he feels her to he a superior woman. He may praise his other personages in words, who are contented people, making the best of their lives; but Margaret, who makes the worst of it, and to whom respectability is intolerable, and who dreams of cosy sup- pers and iced drinks, is evidently, though he says he disapproves of her, fashioned af- ter a much higher ideal. Mr. Yates goes into her ways and thoughts in detail, while he contents himself with weak plafidits of Geoff, dear old Geofl, from all the paint- ers surroundings. To his taste it is evi- dent that the wickedness of the woman, her heartlessness and self-indulgence, and utter blindness to everybodys feelings but her own, render her profoundly interesting; and his good women are very dull shadows by her side. We do not forget that years ago this used to be the reproach addressed to Mr. Thackeray, and that the cleverness of Becky and the silliness of Amelia were very favourite objects of reprobation to virtuous critics. But Thackeray did not dwell upon Becky solely because she was wicked. She was infinitely clever, amus- ing, and full of variety. The fun in her surmounted the depravity. But at the pres- ent day this is no longer the case. There is no sort of fun, no attraction of any sort, about such heroines as the Mirgaret in Land at Last. Their interest is entirely factitious, and founded solely upon their wickedness. The creature is a loathsome cheat and impostor, and therefore she is worthy of being drawn at full length, and presented to us in all the convolutions of her stupid and selfish nature.. Such seems to be the view of fiction adopted even by such a writer (greatly above the ordinary sensational average) as Mr. Yates, to whom, by the way, artists in general are little in- debted for the flippancy and coarseness of the picture he gives of them. Beer and pipes are not refined accessories certainly, but yet their presence on the scene scarce- ly necessitates the production of Charley Potts as the representative painter. It is not complimentary to English art. Another book by the same author whose productive powers fill us with awe and wonder is the Forlorn Hope; in 14 NOVELS. which the story turns upon the forlorn and hopeless passion of a doctor, already mar- ried, for a fair young patient, who returns his love. The doctors wife, in a fit of tra- gic but only too clear-sighted jealousy, poi- sons herself, and leaves him free; but the poor, pretty, consumptive Madeline, who is the object of his love, inarVies somebody else just at the moment when her physician is beginning to permit himself to think of approaching her, and henceforward can only purchase a little intercourse with her hopeless lover by falling very ill and dying in his hands. Now it goes utterly against all social morality to introduce lovemaking between a doctor and his patient. There are even hard-hearted critics who have ob- jected to the idyll of melancholy passion as set forth in the pure and pensive pages of Doctor Antonio, notwithstanding that the scene is Italy, and the story as spotless as imagination could conceive. Doctors and patients have no right to fall in love with each other; it goes in the face of all the proprieties and expediencies of life. A young physician may, it is true, be permit- ted to appreciate the beauty and excellence of the sweet nurse in a sickroom, who min- isters along with him to the sick mother or father or brother; but when she herself be- comes his patient, a wall of brass rises be- tween them. Yet Mr. Yatess sympathies evidently go with the physician, and it ap- pears only natural to him that the golden- haired patient (pale gold in this case, which is angelic not red gold, which is of the demons) should quite obliterate in Dr. Wil- mots mind the reserved and dark-complex- ioned wife who waits for him at home. This poor woman does not right herself even by suicide. The facts of the case give her hmband, when he finds them out, a great shock; but not so great a shock as does the marriage of the delicate Madeline, who, angel of purity as she is, evidently feels it quite legitimate on her part to recall her medical lover, and enact little scenes of despairing love on her deathbed, and die happy in his arms, with a sweet indifference to the fact of her husbands existence. It is no doubt very melancholy that people should obstinately persist in marrying the wrong person, as indeed is visible in real life as well as in novels; but how far it is expedient to call in the right man, whom you have not married, as your medical at- tendant, may, we think, be questioned. The suggestion is not a pleasant one. As Miss Thomas has been mentioned in the beginning of this paper, we may say, in justice to her, that she has freed herself to some extent from the traditions of her school. Her two last books * are neither immoral (to speak of), nor horsey, which is akin to immoral. They are very frothy, and deal with a world whih is not the or- dinary world around us a world where there is either very gorgeous upholstery or very shabby meanness, and no medium be- tween them; but still the books are not nasty. Played Out. in fact, is not a bad story. The little heroine Kate is very tire- some in her changeableness, but still she is a well-known character, whom we have met so often that we feel a certain interest in her, and indignation at the amazingly sense- less way in which her prospects are thrown away. The device by which this is accom- plished is one which is becoming about as general as the golden hair. It is used in both Miss Thomass books in Cometh up as a Flower in a lively and clever nov- el called Archie Lovell, which is a little earlier in date and no doubt in a host of others if we could but remember. It is a de- vice not very creditable either to the inven- tion or the good taste which suggested it. In all these books the heroines are made to spend a night accidentally in the society of a man with whom they have been known to flirt. It is done in the purest innocence, and in that curious fortuitous way with which things happen only in novels. Chance alone on both sides brings it about, but yet it becomes known, and the consequences are generally disastrous. Kate Leth~ridge, for instance, in Played Out is persuaded to step into a railway carriage in which her friend is going off to London, and which is supposed to wait ten minutes at a little country station, to enable him to spend these ten minutes pleasantly. And the moment she has entered it the train sweeps away, and the young ladys reputation is ruined for life. This expedient, it must be allowed, is a very poor one; and it is a curious sign of the absence of all real inventive power in this kind of literature, that it should be so often employed. In Called to Account, Miss Thomas enters upon the less safe ground of married life, and displays to us, among a number of grandly-simple beau- ties, with the usual sublime attribute of gold- en locks, a scanty-haired pale-coloured wo- man, who makes mischief and destroys do- mestic peace, yet turns out very good at the end, and goes into the Sister of Mercy business with much applause on all hands. Here, too, an unhappy pair are condemned to rouse everybodys suspicion, and to risk * Played Out; Called to Acco1int. NOVELS. their character by being shut up together in a cave for some twenty-four hours or so, though happily, as they are all but killed by the experience, scandal is silenced. Certain curious symptoms of the kind of culture prevalent in the region to which this class of literature belongs, are, however, to be gleaned out of these books a real contri- bution to our knowledge of our species. The first of these gives us a sketch of the favourite literature of the hero, who is, like so many heroes, a man of letters publishing novels in magazines, and otherwise contrib- uting to the instruction of the public. He is, besides, a clerk in a government office, a university man, and has suddenly and un- expectedly become heir to a fine estate. We are told to glance round his sitting-room in his absence, with the view of throwing light upon his tastes and pursuits and this is what we find: The recesses on either side of the fire-place were occupied with broad shelves, and th& e were filled with books original editions, most of them, of the standard modern novelists. An independent oak book-stand, placed within reach of the one arm-chair in the room, might be supposed to contain the more special favour- ites of that rooms occupant, and there Field- ing and Smollett, Wycherly and Ben Jonson, Spenser and Sidney, Bon Gaultier, Bacon, Ad- dison, Ingoldsby, and a host of other wits, po- ets, essayists, dramatists, humorists, and schol- ars, stood in amicable array. Our readers will admire the admirable conjunction of names herein assembled, and the charming way in which they relieve and heighten each the effect of the other. Ba- con and Addison leashed together, and marching between Bon Gaultier and In- goldsby, is a true stroke of genius; and there can be no doubt that a very peculiar light is throwli upon the tastes and pur- suits, if not on the character of my hero, by the fact that his shelves are filled with the standard - modern novelists in the original editions. It is intelligible that people who read nothing but standard mod- ern novelists should produce such books as those which are now under review. The second passage we shall quote is also a de- scription of a room a room which the hero again a literary man of Called to Ac- count, thinks so perfect, that he never tires of raving about the exquisite taste which has arranged it. It must have been done by a woman of genius essentially human, he says. We do not go into the paraphernalia of silver lamps, shallow silver urns, classi- cal in design and execution, and reflected 15 in immense sheets of plate-glass, but go on to its more purely artistic features : On either side of these glasses were niches (oval-shaped at the top in the wall, which was coloured a faint warm cream-colour) containing marble statuettes about two feet high. Venus nnd Hercules, Apollo and Diana, were chosen as the respective types of beauty and strength. In one recess by the side of the fire- place, a small semi oblique piano stood, with a pile of loosely arranged music on it. In the corresponding recess there was a ruby velvet shrine, composed of a pedestal and curtains for the glorious goddess, who is grander and more perfect in her mutilated beauty than anything else the world has seen in marble, a nearly life- size copy of Our Lady of Milo. And pictured sug~,estious of the past and the future were not wantin~,; for Raphael and the Fornarina. Dante and his Beatrice, and a Ma- donna with the warm soft beauty of a moon- beani, all looked upon one from the walls. This amazino- combination strikes the poet-hero as haTh divine. Very likely Miss Thomas imagines that the relation of the Fornarina to Raphael, and that of Beatrice to Dante, were identical; and that it is very fine and classical to talk of the Venus as Our Lady of Milo. Such wonderful exhi- bitions of the uneducated intelligence which has caught up a name here and there, and is bold enough to think it knows what they mean, are very astonishing. Truly, a little learning is a dangerous thing. We have gone as far as human patience can go in our survey, and leave off with the certainty that we have left a great deal that is more objectionable still untouched. In one novel, which we do not attempt to no- tice here, but which lately passed through our hands,* we remember that the chief interest turns on the heroines discussion with herself as to whether or not she will become the mistress of a very fascinating man she happens to be brought in contact with. Her decision eventually is -on the side of virtue, but she takes the whole ques- tion into consideration with the most frank impartiality. In another t the central point is a certain secret passage leading from the chamber of the profligate master of a house into a room occupied by an old general and his charming young wife a pnssa~e which the villain uses once too often, finding him- self at last in preseuce of the insulted bus- band. But it is needless to multiply in- stances. It would be a task beyond our * Which shall it be I f Guy Deverell. 16 NOVELS. powers to enter into all the varieties of im- morality which the novelists of the day have ingeniously woven into their stories. In these matters the man who writes is at once more and less bold than the woman; he may venture on positive criminality to give piquany to his details, but it is the female novelist who speaks the most plain- ly, and whose best characters revel in a kind of innocent indecency, as does the her- oine of Cometh up as a Flower. Not that the indecency is always innocent; but there are cases in which it would seem the mere utterance of a certain foolish daring an ignorance which longs to look knowino a kind of immodest and indelicate innocence which likes to play with impurity. This is the most dismal feature among all these dis- agre cable phenomena Nasty thoughts, ug- ly suggestions, an iinaginatioa which pre- fers the unclean, is almost more appalling than the facts of actual depravity, because it has no excuse of sudden passion or temp- tation, and no visible boundary. It is a shame to women so to write; and it is a shame to the women who read and accept as a true representation of themselves and their ways the equivocal talk and flcshly in- clinations herein attributed to them. Their patronage of such books is in reality an adop- tion and acceptance of them. It may be done in carelessness, it may be done in that mere desire for something startlino which the monotony of ordinary life is apt to pro- duce; but it is debasing to everybody con- cerned. Womens rights and womens duties have had enough discussion, perhaps even from the ridiculous point of view. We have most of us made merry over Mr. Mills crotchet on the subject, and over the Dr. Marys and Dr. Elizabeths; but yet a woman has one duty of invaluable impor- tance to her country and her race which can- not be over-estimated and that is the du- ty of being pure. There is perhaps noth- ing of such vital consequence to a nation. Our female critics are fond of making de- monstrations of indignation over the differ- ent punishment given by the world to the sin of man and that of woman in this re- spect. But all philosophy notwithstanding, and leaving the religious question un- touched, there can be no possible doubt that the wickedness of man is less ruinous, less disastrous to the world in general, than the wickedness of woman. That is the cli- max of all misfortunes to the race. One of our cleverest journals took occasion th~ oth- er day to point out the resemblance of cer- tain superficial fashions among ourselves to the fashions prevalent among Roman wo men at the time of Romes downfall. fhe comparison, no doubt, has been made again and again, and yet society has not become utterly depraved. But yet it has come to have many very unlovely, very unpromising features in it. We are no preacher to call English ladies to account, and we have no tragical message to deliver, even had we the nccessary pulpit to do it in; but it certainly would be well if they would put a stop to nasty novels. It would be well for litera- ture, well for the tone of society, and well for the young people who are ixrowing up used to this kind of reading. Considering how low the tone of literary excellence is, and how little power of exciting interest exists after all in these equivocal produc- tions, the sacrifice would not seem a great one. It is good to turn aside from these fever- ish productions and we think it right to make as distinct a separation as the print- ers skill can indicate between the lower and the higher ground in fiction to the, better fare which is still set before us. Though they seem to flourish side by side, and though the public, according to such evidence as can be obtained on the subject, seems to throw itself with more apparent eagerness upon the hectic than upon the wholesome, still we cannot but hope that Mr. Anthony Trollope* has in reality a larger mass of readers than Miss Braddon, and we are very sure no sensational romancist of her school goes half so near the general heart as does the author of the Village on the Cliff. There ~re still the seven thousand men in Israel who have not bent the knee to Baal, notwithstanding that mournful prophets in all ages will persist in thinking themselves alone faithful. Mr. Trollope writes too much to be always at his best. He has ex- hausted too many of the devices of fiction to be able to find always an origihal suggestion for his plot; but there is nobody living who has added so many pleasant people to our acquaintance, or given us so many neigh- hourly interests out of our own immediate circle. We are disposed to protest against the uncomfortable vacillation between two lovers which has been for some time past his favourite topic; but we do so only in the most friendly, and, indeed, affectionate way. High-pitched constancy is no doubt rare nowadays. On the one hand, it is by no means always a matter of certainty that the woman a man has been accepted by, or the * The Claverings ; Last Chronicle 6f Barset. NOVELS. man whom the woman accepts, are beyond dispute the best and most suitable for them. Friends of persons about to be married are on all hands agreed on that point. And, on the other side, we agree with Mr. Trollope that,, as a matter of amusement, love-making is decidedly superior to either croquet or cricket. But the fact remains, that the man and the woman who, without very grave cause, change their minds in this im- portant matter, are seldom satisfactory peo- ple. Harry Clavering, though not a bad fellow in the main, looks very foolish when his first love and his second love are squab- bling over him or at leas~, if nut squab- bling, mutually determining to resign, and sacrifice themselves to his happiness. It is not an elevated position for a man. The reader feels slightly ashamed of him when he has to tell his tale, and submit to every- bodys comment, and realise that the part he has played has been a very poor one. We can forgive our hero for making a tra- gic mistake which ruins or compromises him fatally, or we can forgive him for the most stupid blunder in any other branch of his affairs; but a blunder which necessitates the intervention of three or four women in his love-making, and which is really arranged by them, he himself being very secondary in the matter, is humiliating, and goes ao-ainst the very character of a hero. It seems to be Mr. Trollopes idea that, so long as he is faithful to her,- a woman can see no blemish in a man whom she has once loved. But we fear this is far from being the fact. On the contrary, we should have been inclined to suppose that Florence Bur- ton not only would never have been able to banish from her mind a certain (carefully suppressed, no doubt) contempt for her fickle lover, but that she would have indulged in a sound, reasonable, womanly hatred ever after, for all the kind intercessors who came between them. Women are neither so passive nor so grateful as they are made out to be; and a mans disdain for the girl who, having known me could decline upon the lower heart and lower brain, is perhaps a few degrees less profound than the womans contempt for the actor in a sim- ilar (lefalcation. It was mean of Florence Burton to have him again after he had for- saken her, and unspeakably mean of him to consent to the re-transfer, and to be happy ever after. The only person whom we have any sympathy with in the matter is the poor, faulty beauty, Julia, who was so dreadfully wrong in other respects, but yet not to blame in this. Here, however, is the vast difference between suc~h a work as even LIVING AGF~. VOL. VI. 214. 17 the faultiest and least - satisfactory of M-. Trollopes and the best bf the infe ior school Deep, tragic passion is not in them, although they are chiefly about love-making, and their perplexities and troubles and compi- cations of plot all centre in this one subject. But the atmosphere is the purest English daylight none of those fair women, none of those clean, honourable, unexalted English gentlemen have any terrible secrets in their past that cannot bear the li0ht of day. There may be unpleasant talk at their clubs, an(l they may make no exhibition of horror but they dont mix it up with their his- tory, or bring it into their intercourse with their friends. Now and then a woman among them may make a mercenary mar- riage, or a man among them be led into a breach of constancy; but they live like the most of us, exempt from gross temptation, - and relying upon human natural incidents, contrariety of circumstances, failure of for- tune, perversity of heart, for the plan of their romance. On this level we miss the primitive passions; but we get all those infi- nite shades of character which make society in fact, as well as society in a book, amusing and interesting. In Mr. Trollopes books, there are no women who throw their glori- ous hair over the breast of any chance com- panion; indeed, the red-haired young wo- man, exuberant in flesh and blood, and pant- in~ for sensation, is unknown in them. So great a difference does it make when you step out of the lower into the higher world. In short, here is a novelist to whom the col- our of a womans hair is not of first impor- tance. Lily D le, for instance, gives us no clue as to this important point; perhaps it is mentioned we do not remember at all events it is no way written upon her charac- ter. Our own impression is, that it must have been a kind of soft brown, a subdued sort of framework for her refined head, not any blazing panoply. But anyhow her au- thor is indifferent on the subject. To him her hair is clearly.a secondary matter. Tie takes, strange to say, a great deal more trouble to show us what was passing through her mind. And it is true that he does reveal this with an amount of variety which has pointed many a gentle joke a~ainst him. His knowledge of the thou~hts that go through a girls mind when she is in the full tide of her individual romance is almost un- canny in its minuteness. How did he find it all out? What ti-icksy spirit laid all those secrets open to him? But, wonderful as his insight is into their ways and works, there is one thing for which Mr. Trollope deserves our real gratitude. It is not he 18 NO YEt S. who makes us ashamed of our girls. He gives us their thoughts in detail, and adds a hundred little touches which we recognise as absolute truth; but we like the young women all the better, not the worse, for his intuitions. They are like the honest Eng- lish girls we know; and we cannot he suffi- ciently grateful 10 him for freeing us, so long as we are under his guidance, from that disgusting witch with her red or amber hair. Yet would we chide our beloved novelist fir his Last Chronicle. We did not ask that this chronicle should be the last. We were in no hurry to be done with our old friends. And there are certain things which he has done without consulting us against whhh we greatly demur To kill Mrs. Proudie was murder, or manslaughter at the least. We do not believe she had any (lisease of the heart; she died not by natural causes, but by his hand in a fit of weariness or passion. When we were thinking no evil, lo! some sudden disgust seized him, and he slew her at a blow. The crime was so un- called for, that we not only shudder at it, but resent it. It was cruel to us; and it rather looks as if he did not know how to get through the crisis in a more nat- ural way. Then as to Lily Dale. Mr. Trollopes readers have been cheated about this young woman. It is a wilful abandon. ment of all her natural responsibilities when such a girl writes Old Maid after her name. She has no business to do it; and what is the good of being an author, we should like to know, if a man cannot provide more satis- faitorily for h5 favourite characters? Lily will not like it when she has tried it a little longer. She will find the small house dull, and will miss her natural career; and if she should take to social science or philosophy, whose fault will it be but Mr. Trollopes? On the otherhand, though he has thus wound- ed usin our tenderest feelings, our author has in this book struck a higher note than he has yet attempted. We do not know, in all the varied range of his productions, of any bit of character-painting so profound and so tragic as that of Mr. Crawley. Though there are scenes in Orley Farm which approach it in intensity of interest, L~dy Mason is not to be compared with the incumbent of Hog- glestock. He is exasperating to the last degree almost as exasperating to the read- er as he must have been to his poor wife; and yet there is a grandeur about the half- crazed, wildered man a mingled simplici- ty and subtlety in the conception to which we cannot easily find a parallel in fic- tion. He has all th& curious consistency and inconsistency of a real personage; we feel inclined to laugh and cry and storm at him all in a breath. His obstinate perver- sity his sham sentiments and his true, which mingle together in an inextricable way as they do in nature, not as they gen- erally do in art his despair and confusion of mind, and quaint arrogance and cxagger- ated humility make up a wonderfully perfect picture. The cunning of the crafts- man here reaches to so high a point that it becomes a kind of inspiration. There is no high tone of colour, or garish light, to give fictitious importance to the portrait. Every tint is laid on, and every line made, with an entire harmony and subordination of de- tail which belon,~s to the most perfect art. Mr. Trollopes power of pleasing is so great, and his facility of execution so unbounded, that he is seduced into giving us a great many sketches which will not bear close ex- amination. But so long as he continues to vindicate his own powers by such an occa- sional inspiration as this, we can afford to forgive him a great many Alice Yavasours and Harry Claverings. The household at Plumstead, in its way, is almost as good. The Archdeacons fierce wrath against his son, who is going to marry against his will his suspicion of every- body conspiring against him to bring this about, and at the same time his instant sub- jugation by pretty Grace, and rash adoption of her on the snot is altogether charming. Mr. Trollope is about the only writer we know (with, perhaps, one or two exceptions) who realises the position of a sensible and right-minded woman among the ordinary affairs of the world. Mrs Grantleys per- ception at once of her husbands character and his mistakes her careful abstinence from active interference her certainty to come in right at the end her half-amused, half-troubled spectatorship, in short, of all the annoyances her men-kind make for themselves, her consciousness of the futility of all decided attempts to set them right, and patient waiting upon the superior logic of events, is one of those bits which may scarcely call the attention of the careless reader, and yet is a perfect triumph of pro- found and delicate observation. As for old Mr. Harding, our grief for his loss is yet too fresh to permit us to speak of him. We should like to go to Barch~ster, and see his stall in the cathedral, and hear his favourite anthems, and linger a little by his grave. Honour to the writer who, amid so much that is false and vile and mei etricious in cur- rent literature, beautifies our world and our imagination with such creations as these! NOVEL S. We might say the same thing in a differ- ent sense of the Village on the Cliff, though in it there are no striking develop ments of character or distinct creation. No painter for a long time has given such a sweet bit of colour a picture so full of light and atmosphere and harmonious bright- ness to the world. It is sweeter and more perfect than the Story of Elizabeth, bright and glowing as that was. There is not a colourless corner on the canvas, not a bit of careless shade in the whole picture. The grass is green and the water blue, and the sun shines as if he meant it, and the shadows themselves are rich with all the in- numerable neutral tints of nature. The story is a simple one enough. There is a young Eng- lishman, a young painter, mildly Bohemian, yet fond of everything that is fair and or- derly, who loves a Norman maiden, half-lady half peasant, metaphorically called Reine, and who is loved by, without knowing or having done anything to bring it about, a certain sweet, little, bright-eyed governess, one of the Catherines of the book. But everybody knows the story, and the story is little in comparison with the manner of its telling, and the series of pictures which com- pose it. The reader feels, indeed, that it is rather a picture than a book. What could be more perfect, for instance, than the fol- lowing sketch ? Five oclock on a fine Sunday western light streaming along the shore, low cliffs stretching away on either side with tufted grass- es and thin straggling flowers growing from the loose arid soil far-away promontories, flashing and distant shores which the tides have not ye4 overlapped, all shining in the sun. The waves swell steadily inwards, the foam sparkles where the ripples meet the sands. The horizon is solemn dark blue, but a great streak of light crosses the sea; three white sails gleam, so do the white caps of the peasant women, and the wings of the sea-gulls as they go swimming through the air. Holiday people are out in their Sunday clothes. They go strolling along the shore, or bathing and screaming to each other in the water. The countrymen wear their blue smocks of a darker blue than the sea, and they walk by their wives and sisters in their gay-coloured Sunday petticoats. A priest goes by; a grand lady, in frills, yellow shoes, red jacket, fly-away hat, and a cane. Her husband is also in scar- let and yellow. Then come more women and Normandy caps flapping, gossiping together, and baskets, and babies, and hnge umbrellas. The country folks meet, greet each other cheerfully, and part with signs and jokes; the bathers go on shouting and beating the wa- ter; the lights dance. In the distance, across the sands, you see the flgure~ walking leisurely. 19 homewards before the tide overtakes them. The sky gleams whiter and whiter at the horizon, and bluer and more blue behind the arid grasses that fringe the over-hanging edges of the cliffs. This we quote, not because it is the best of the continually recurring vignettes, but simply because it is of quotable length, and can be detached from the context. The description of iDick Butlers studio at Chel- sea, where he gives his pretty cousins and their little brothers and sisters and the gover- ness tea, is more perfect still. The chateau of Tracy itself, and Reines farm, and Mon- sieur Fontaines chalet, are all drawn with the same vivid and bright reality; we walk about among them, and feel the grass cool under our feet, and the fragrance of the flowers. There is a delicate art in all this which conveys a quite separate and characteristic kind of pleasure. The story is pleasant, the characters true to nature, but the style is simply exquisite. The reader lingers over it as over a picture; the gleams of sweet colour move and change about, and flash out upon him; the lights are lighted, the dews fall, he knows where the poppies are growing in the fields, and how the boats lie on the beach, and is fa- miliar with the reflections that shine out of all the bright surfaces in the Norman farm- kitchen. The picture is so fine, so delicate and clear, that it moves him with that cu- rious delight in itself which only things perfect produce. But for our own part we are inclined to doubt whether Dick and Beine wonld be very happy together. Looking at things in a vulgar and commonplace way, we are not sure that it would not have been better for him to marry Catherine. The young Nor- man is very charming, but her temper might get a little troublesome, especially if the a on Square people snubbed her, as no doubt they would endeavour to do. One feels there is a certain cruelty in adding the one word of criticism which rises to our lips in reference to so soft and sweet a creature as this same little Cathertne. Nothing has ever been more daintily, more delicately done than the revelation of her feelings when she was the kindly-treated yet solitary governess among all those cheerful Butlers. In this and in Eliza-- beth, and in those charming little fairy tales. which we believe we owe to the same pen, the wistful little maiden in the shade, with, her modest longings for happiness, her pen- sive consciousness of being alone, her sur prised, sad, unenvying sense- Qf QQntrast WHAT NAPOLEON MEANS BY PEACE. when everything bright goes to the other, and all that is turn and darksome comes to herself, is set forth with a grace and tender feeling which we would be brutes not to ap- preciate. The strain is exquisite, but it is a monotone. No doubt there are pangs of pain in the young creatures lot which are as keen as anything which ever befalls the heart; but sijil we all know that the time might come when even Catherine should look back and si~~h for the days quartd jetais jeune et souffrais tact. The story of those youthful troubles is very sweet; but there are other troubles in the world, and other kinds of experience worth the study. We do not blame we only suggest. The author of the Villa~e on the Cliff has too much real power to confine herself to one string. The harp has many strings, and there is music in them all. We had hoped to have found room in this paper for some words of comment upon the works of Mr. Charles Reade, who has gradually hecome one of the greatest artists in the realm of fiction; but we have al- ready exceeded reasonable limits, and we will not do that powerful romancist so much wrong as to bring him in at the end. His power is of the kind which will always seem coarse to a certain class of minds unable to discriminate; for he is very apt to call a spade a spade; and among the minikin performances of the day, his strong and genuine mastery over human char- acters and passions shows out with a force of outline which may possibly, in some cases, look exaggerated. We will, if the fates are propitious, return on another occasion to the works of a writer to whom we are dis- posed to assign oue of the highest places in his art. And we cannot but add, by way of con- clusion to our sermon, that.though we have much to lament, we have something too to congratulate ourselves upon in the present condition of English fiction. The objec- tionahle writers are all second-rate; genius there is none among them, and not much even of aiiything that can be called real tal .ent. It is to be supposed they must be en- ~tertaining to somebody, else they would not be popular; bnt then we are all aware that ~there are a great many foolish people in the world people, happily, too foolish to he really injured by any rubbish they may read; and all that is best and highest in fiction, honoirably maintains that character for purity which has been won by the Eng- lish school of novels. This ought to be a & ~onsolatiQn to e.very~ody concerned; and, in the mean time, we can but trust that the tide may turn that even foolish and vulgar readers may get tired of foolish books, an(l that the respectable name of Mr. Mudie may no longer be made the means of intro- ducing nasty sentiments and equivocal her- oines to English novel-readers far and wide. From the Spectator, Aug. 31. WHAT NAPOLEON MEANS BY PEACE. THE speeches the Emperor has this week delivered at Arras and Lille, or which the Moniteur says he delivered there, will not greatly tend to reassure the public mind. Like the telegrams from Salzhurg, the arti- cles in the Viennese press, the angry dia- tribes in the Berlin papers, and the curious ebi~llitions of spiteftilness in the semi-official journals of Paris, they all tend to one tol- erably clear and very unpleasant conviction. The Emperor will not attack Germany as long as Germany remains divided. The Emperors, said the Salzburg telegrams, were perfectly in accord upon the politics of Eu- rope, and especially upon the necessity of maintaining the Treaty of Prague. Tbe re- sult of the meeting, say the Viennese jour- nalists, is favourable to peace, for the Sover- eigns agreed to attack no one as long as ex- isting arrangements are maintained. The Debatte even goes the length of affirming that official intimation of this decision is to he communicated to Berlin. The Berliners, on the other hand, are thoroughly roused, and talk ~f French dictation, and prophesy meetings between the South and North, while the French papers will have it that peace is guaranteed by a defensive alliance too powerful to be attacked. The Russian papers affirm that such an alliance would menace Europe, while Napoleon himself, the one man who clearly knows what he means, says, It is only weak Governments which seekin foreign complications a diver- sion from embarrassments at home, but adds there are black spots on the horizon, and while holding aloft the national banner we should not allow ourselves to be drawn on by tempestuous impulses, however patriotic they may be. The drift of all this seems to us clear. Napoleon is not going of his own mere mo 20 21 WHAT NAPOLEON MEANS BY PEACE. tion to attack Prussia, he is even willing to reco~nize,so far as his people will allow him, accomplished facts, but he proposes to make the Treaty of Prague, that is, the division of Germany, part of the public law of Europe, to ratify it if possible through a Congress hints of which will, we believe, shortly ap- pear or through a well understood, though informal, menace that he will uphold the treaty ~rith the sword. The Austrian Government coincides in this policy, and the object of both powers is first to compel Prussia to pause and reject Southern adhe- sions; and, secondly, to put her in the wrong before the world. She is to be rep- resented as the attacking party, the unscru- pulous and ambitious power aiming at uni- versal dominion, which, not content with one immense aggrandizement, immediately contemplates another. As a third and smaller, but still important result, all the el- ements of resistance in the South, such as the Courts, the Ultramontanes, and the old officers, are to be formally advised that they can rely upon very powerful and very de- termined protectors, while the popular par- ty is made to feel that a Unionist policy in- volves great, and it may be insuperable, difficulties. This is clearly, as Napoleon says, a policy of pacification, ~f Prussia will but yield, or if the Southern populations will but accept their isolated and therefore powerless posi- tion. The latter result would do just as well as the former, for it can never be Prus- sian interest to force Bavaria or Wurteus- burg to merge themselves in the Northern Confederation against their will. Not to mention the danger of insurrection, the Prussian system of administration, which is excessively rigid, but singularly devoid of the checks less confident Governments find indispensable official accounts are trusted, for example, in Prussia as they are nowhere else, not even in England could not be worked at all by unwilling employ~s, or among a decidedly hostile German pop- ulation. If, therefore, the Southern States really wish for no union, and encouraged by this new support recede from Prussia, the game is won, and French diplomacy will have gained a triumph, which may almost compensate it for its failure to anticipate Sadowa. But is such a recoil, on which the new policy mainly depends, at all likely, likely enough for politicians to count it among reasonable probabilities? It is quite conceivable that Napoleon may be- lieve it is. He is fully aware of the deep dread which the Southern Courts entertain of Prussia, he has had long and painful ex- perience of the solid power still I)ossesse(l by Ultramontane feeling, he perhaps over- estimates the Southern dislike of the North- ern exactness and rigidity of administration, and he has shown himself all his lifi~ utterly unable to reckon up the physical force of a strong popular sentiment. He could not calculate it in England, and was thunder- struck at the explosion produced by the Conspiracy Bill; he could not estimate it in America, where he, as it were, betted his crown upon Northern feebleness; and he may not, probably does not, understand it in Germany. If this is his calculation,~he is, we believ~~, wrong; not because Bavarians or Wurtemburgers are already as heavily taxed by the introduction of the Prussian Army system as they would be if they sub- mitted to Prussia ; not because they weary of their very happy, though tranquil, politi- cal life, but because great races in times of commotion are always governed by ideas, and the dominant idea of Germany is to form a great and peaceful State, too power- ful to be attacked, too united to waste force in intestine divisions, able at last to live a free, and stately, and peaceful life. This is ti~e German dream, and the Ger- mans will no more surrender it than the Americans will surrender theirs of the grand and peaceful republic which is to cover a continent, to be the home of op- pressed mankind, and to destroy by its ex- ample every political idol with head of brass and feet of clay. They will not have to fight for their dream, when all is said, half as hard as the Americans had, and all the chatter about material interests is little to the purpose as the similar talk was in the midst of the American Civil War. Nations fight for their dreams, not for their stomachs, and the South Germans will no more consent to abandon their hope because France may overrun them, than France would sacrifice her unity because she might otherwise have to expel the Cossack. The utmost Napoleon will secure from the South by his great menace will be a momentary pause. Will he secure more from the North? Will the half-dozen men, that is, who gov- ern Prussia, think the willing absorption of South Germany into their empire worth a war with France and Austria combined? We think they will, for three distinct reasons. One is, that the idea draws them on just as it draws the humblest German, is as attractive to them as ever the American idea was to Mr. Lincoln or lVtr. Seward.~ PAS POUR JOSEPH. Hohenzollern heads do not turn, but if anything could turn them it would be the idea of finishing the long struggle of two hundred years, of completing Fredericks work, by the permanent acquisition of the old Imperial crown. The second is that honour would be involved in the acceptance or rejection of such a challenge, and Conti- nental statesmen are still essentially duellists, still ready to incur for the point of honour dangers they dislike and risks they disap- prove. Prussia would be dishonoured, if when the road was open she refused to be- come German, through admitted fear of Fran~. The reason of her headship would cease to be, and the great fabric erected with such patience and cemented with so much blood, would begin visibly to crumble away. And the third is, that she would not be inevitably compelled to fight France and the Austrian Empire together. It. is possible to paralyze Austria altogether by alienating her German subjects till their resistance is like that of the Venetian troops at Sadowa, almost nominal. It is possible, if that cannot be done, to offer Hungary terms which would divide the Empire in two, and so leave France only in the field, and it is possible to fight Aus- tria through Russian arms. The price to be paid would be high, but Prussia does not want Galicia for herself, and though she does want Bohemia the Czechs must be Ger- mans or corpses the Carpathians would make a clear, a defensible, and a natural boundary to the East. With a Russian army in Galicia, Austria could do nothing except try to expel it, and the only enemy would be the one whose challenge Prussia, for her own honour, could not refuse. The time of the conflict is of course uncertain, for the South has not made up its mind, but on the day it does Prussia must accept her destiny, and Napoleon either accept a great war or confess himself before Paris a vanquished politician. We have said nothing of Englands part in the matter, which seems so greatly to afflict Continental politicians, for we do not believe it will be a great one. Lord Stan- ley will try, we greatly fear, to uphold the Tieaty of Prague by moral force; but if he imagines that Englishmen will wage a Crimean war in order that Napoleon may seize the Rhine-land, or Bavaria remain outside Germany, he has, almost for the first time in his life, misunderstood English temper. Englishmen have had enough and -to spare of ~llied wars, with Napoleon to make peace, and write bulletins for them -and himself together. PAS POUR JOSEPH. Adapted from time at present popular English lyric by LEMPEREUR FRANZ-JOSEPH, and sung by Himself to himself, with great success, du- ring the recent Imperial Meeting at Salzburg. *** Ladies and Gentlemen, Your kind indul- gence is requested for the Imperial French translation of the English argot. NB. The expressive dramatic business of the (2hanson is, wherever it occurs, in brackets. THE EMPEROR NAPOLEON Im very glad to see Aussi lIMPERATRIcE with smiles so charm- ing l And let all European Powers know that there wont be The slightest cause for drilling or for arming. Im thinkin~ all the while, Do I mistrust his smile Theres not a wink, a glance, a shrug, that shows if He means to stick by me, Or whats his real policee, Mere talk wont wash For FRANCIS-JOSEPH. Lavra pas, Lay ra pas, Non! Pas pour JOSEPH! We chat away the morning with our seltzer and cigar, Our conversation light as is our claret. We talk about the Exhibition in the Champs de Mars, Weve no reporter there no paper Parrot. Hes ordered in a lot Of powder, guns, and shot, He hasnt told me yet, and Heaven knows if He means to join with Russia, Or to go to war with Prussia, Or else to fight with FEANcIs-JOsEPH. Va! Allez Vous promener Nez! [Avec les doigts in extenso. Pas pour JOSEPH l We drive about, we ride about, and to the thea- tre go, All which is very pleasant and amusing; We dine, sit up to smoke and sup, returning from some show, And talk on topics many and confusing. And after this to bed, Where to myself Ive said, As twixt the sheets I place my royal toes, If You think to humbug me, On vous voes trompez, diner Louis. Gne lavema paz Non! pas pour JOSEPH, Lavra pas, Lavra pas, Non! Pas pour JOSEPH 1 Punch 22 BROWNLOWS. PART IX. CHAPTER XXVI. A DOUBLE HUMILIATION. JACK entered the avenue that evening in a frame of mind very different from his feelings on his list recorded visit to Swaynes cottage. He had heen sitting with Pamela all the even- ing. Mrs. Preston had retired up-stairs with her headache, and, with an amount of good sense for which Jack respected her, did not come down again; and the young fellow sat with Pamela, and the minutes flew on angels wings. When he came away, his feelings were as different as can he conceived from those with which he marched home, resolute hut rueful, after his first interview with Mrs. Preston. Pamela and her mother were two very diffetent things the one was duty, and had to he got through with; hut the other Jack went slowly, and took a little notice of the stars, and felt that the evening air was very sweet. He had put his hands lightly in his pockets, not thrust down with savage force to the depths of those receptacles; and there was a kind of half smile, the reflection of a smile, ahout his mouth. Fumes were hanging about the youth of that intoxication which is of all kinds of in- toxication the moat ethereal. He was softly dazzled and bewildered by a subdued sweetness in the air, and in the trees, and in the sky something that was nothing perceptible, and yet that kept breathing round him a new influ- ence in the air. This was the sort of way in which his evenings, perhaps, were always to be spent. It gave a different view altogether of the subject from that which was in Jacks mind on the first dawning of the new life before him. Then he had been able to realise that it would make a wonderful difference in all his plans and prospects, and even in his comforts. Now the difference looked all the other way. Yes, it would indeed be a difference! To go in every night, not to Browniows with his fathers intermitting talk and Saras tantrums (this was his brotherly way of puttin~ it), and the monotony of a grave long-established wealthy existence, but into a po6r little house full of novelty and freshness, and quaint poverty, and amusing straits, and Pamela. To be sure that last was the great point. They had been speculating about this wonderful new little house, as was natural, and she had laughed till. the tears glistened in her pretty eyes atthought of all the mistakes she would snake celestial blunders, which even to Jack, sensible as he was, looked (to-night) as if they must be pleas- anter and better and every way more fitting than the wisest actions of the other people. In this kind of sweet insanity the young fellow had left his little love. Life somehow seemed to have taken a different aspect to him since that other evening. No doubt it was a serious business; but then when there are two young creatures, you understand, setting out together, and a hundred chances before them, such as nobody could divine one ~ help the other if either should stumble and two to laugh over everything, and a hundred devices to be con- trived, and Crusoe-like experiments in the art of hem,,, and droll little mishaps, and a per- petual sweet variety the prospect changes. This is why there had come, in the starlight, a sort of reflection of a smile upon Jacks mouth. It was, on the whole, so very considerate and sensible of Mrs. Preston to have that headache, and stay up-stairs. And Pamela, altogether apart from the fact that she was Pamela, was such charming company so fresh, so quick, so ready to take up anything that looked like fun, so full of pleasant changes, cat(hing the light upon her at so many points. This bright, rippling, sparkling, limpid stream was to ,,o singing through all his life. He was thking of this when he suddenly saw the shadow un- der the chestnuts, and found that his father had come out to meet hini. It was rather a star- tling interruption to so pleasant a dream. Jack was very much taken aback, but he did not lose his self-possession; he made a brave attempt to stave off all discussion, and make the encounter appear the most natural thing in the world, as was the instinct of a man up to the requirements of his century. Its a love- ly night, said Jack; I dont wonder you came out, Ive been myselffor a walk. It does a fellow more good than sitting shut up in these stuffy rooms all night. Now the fact was Jack had heen shut up in a very stuffy rooni, a room smaller than the smallest chamber into which he had ever en- tered at Browulows; but there are matters, it is well known, in which young men do not feel themselves bound by the strict limits of fact. I was not thinking about the night, said Mr. Browulow; there are times when a man is glad to move about to keep troublesome things out of his mind; but luckily you dont know much about that. I know as much about it ~s most people, I suppose, sir, said Jack, with a little natural indignation; but I hope there is nothing par- ticular to put you out that Wardell case I was not thinking of the Wardell case either, said Mr. Brownlow, with an impatient momentary smile I fear my clients miseries dont impress me so much as they ought to do. I was thinking of things nearer home Upon which there was a moments pause. If Jack had followed his first impulse, he would have asked, with a little defiance, if it was any- thing in his conduct to which his father par- ticularly objected. But he was prudent, and refrained; and they took a few steps on togeth- er in silence towards the house, which shone in front of them with all its friendly lights. No, said Mr. Browulow, in that reflective way that men think it competent and proper to use when their interlocutor is young, and cannot by any means deny the fact. You dont know much about it; the hardest thing that ever came in your way was to persuade yourself to give up a personal indulgence; and even that you have not always done. You 23 BROW N LOWS. dont understand what care means. How should you Youth is never really occupied with anythin~ but itself. You speak very positi~rely, sir, said Jack, affronted. I suppose its no use for a man in that selfish condition to say a word in his own defence. I dont know that its selfish its natu- ral, said Mr. Browniow; and then he sighed. Jack, I have something to say to you. We had a talk on a serious subject -some time ago Yes, said Jack. He saw now what was coming, and set himself t.o face it. He thrust his hands deep down into his poekets, and set up hi houlders to his ears, which was a good warni ~, had Mr. Brownlow perceived it, that come right or wrong, come rhyme or reason, this rock should fly from its firm base as soon as Jack would and that any remonstrance on the subject was purely futile. But Mr. Brownlow did not perceive. I thought you had been convinced, his father continued. It miaht he folly on my part to think any sort of reason would induce a young fellow, brought up as you have been, to forego his pleasure; but I suppose I had a prejudice in favour of my own son, and I thought you saw it in the right point of view. I bear from Sara to-night I should like to know what Sara has to do with it, said Jack, with an explosion of in- dignation. Of course, sir, all you may have to say on this or any other subject I amu hound to listen to with respect; but as for Sara and her interference Dont be a fool, Jack, said Mr. Browalow sharply. Sara has told me nothing that I could not have found out for myself. I warned you; but it does not appear to have been of any use; and now I have a word more to say. Look here. I take an interest in this little girl at the gate. There is something in her face that reminds me but never mind that. I feel sure shes a good girl, and I wont have her harmed. Understand me once for all. You may think it a small matter enough, hut its not a small matter. I wont have that child harmed. If she should come to evil through you, you shall have me to answer to. It is not only her poor mother or any poor friend she may have Sir, cried Jack, boiling over, do you know you are insultint~ me Listen to what I am saying, said his fath- er. Dont answer. I am in earne4. She is an innocent child, and I wont have her harmed If you cant keep away from her, have the hon- esty to tell me so, and Ill find means to ~et you away. Good Lord, sir! is every instinct ot manhood so dead in you that you cannot overcome a vicious inclination, though it should mm that poor innocent child I A perfect flood of fury and resentment swept through Jacks mind; hut he was not going to he antrry and lose his advantage. He was white with suppressed pgssion ; but his voice did not swell with anger as his fathers had done. It was thus his self-possession that car- ried the day. When von have done, sir, he said, takin~ off his hat with a quietness which cost him an immense effort, perhaps you will hear a hat I have got to say. Mr. Browulow for the moment had lost his temper, which was very foolish. - Probably it was because other things t~o we; e going wrong, and his sense of justice did not permit him to avenge their contrariety upon the purely inno- cent. Now Jack was not purely innocent, and here was an outlet. And then he had been walking about in the avenue for more than an hour waiting, and was naturally sick of it. And, finally, having lost his own temper, he was fu- rious with Jack for not losimz his. Speak out, sir, he cried; I have done. Not that your speaking can make much differ- ence. I repeat, if you hurt a hair of that childs head I will thank you to speak of her in a differ- ent way, said Jack, losing patience also. You may think me a villain if you please; but how dare you venture to suppose that I could bring her to harm I Is she nobody I is that all you think of her I By Jove! the young lady you are speaking of, without knowing her, said Jack, suddenly stopping himself, staring at his father with calm fury. and speaking with deadly emphasis, is going to be my wife. Mr. Browulow was so utterly confounded that he stood still and stared hi his turn at his audacious son. He gave a start as if some one had shot him; and. then he stood speechless and stared, wondering blankly if some transfor- mation had occurred, or if this was actually Jack that stood before him. It ought to have been a relief to his mind no doubt if he had been as good a man as he ought to have been, he would have gone down on his knees, and given thanks that his sons itutentions were so virtuous; but in the meati time amaze awn?- lowed up every other sentiment. Your wife! he said, with the utmost wonder which the hu- man voice is capable o,f expressing in his voice. The wildest effort of imagination could never have brought him to such an idea Jacks wife! His consternation was such that it took the strength out of him. lie could not have said a word more had it been to save his life. If any one had pushed rudely against him, he mighthave droppedon the ground in the weak- ness of his amaze. You might have knocked him down with a feather, was the description old Betty would have ,,iven; and she would have been right. Yes, raid Jack, with a certain m ;gnifi- cence; and as for my power. or ant man 5 power, of harminq her. By Jove ! though of course you didnt know This he said magnanimously, h ing not with- out pity for the utter downfall which bad over- taken his father. Their pnsition~, in fact, had totally changed. It was Mr. Broxvnlnw who was struck dumb. Instead of carmying things 24 BROWNLOWS. with a high hand as he had begun to do, it was he who was reduced into the false position. And Jack was on tfie whole sorry for his fa- ther. lie took his hands out of the depths of his pockets, and put down his shoulders into their natural position. And he was willing to let down easy, as he himself expressed it, the unlucky father who had made such an as- tounding mistake. As for Mr. Browulow, it took him some time to recorer himself. It was not quite easy to realise the position, especially after the warm, not to say violent, way in which he had been beguiled into takin,, Pamelas part He had meant every word of what he said. Her sweet little face had attracted him more than he knew how to explain; it had reminded him, he could not exactly tell of what, of something that be- longed to his youth and made his heart soft. And the thou,,ht of pain or shame coming to her through his son had been very bitter to him. But he was not quite ready all the same to say, Bless you, my chtldren. Sub a notivn, indeed, had never occurred to him. Mr. brownlow bad never for a moment supposed that his son Jack., the ~vise and prudent, could have been led to entertain such an idea; and he was so much startled that he did not know what to think. After the first pause of amazement, he had gone on again slowly, feeling as if by walking on some kind of mental progress might also be practicable; and Jack had accompanied him in a slightly jaunty, magnanimous, and forgiving way. Indeed, circumstances altogether bad conspired, as it were, in Jacks favour. He could not have hoped for so good an op- porfunity of telling his story an opportunity which not only took all that was formidable fom the disclosure, but actually presented it in the character of a relief and standing evi- dence of unthought-of virtue. And Jack was so simple-minded in the midst of his wisdom that it seemed to him as if his fathers antici- pated opposition were summarily disposed of, to be heard of no more a thing which he did not quite know whether to be sorry for or glad. Perhaps it staggered him a little in this idea when Mr. Browulow, after going on, very slow- ly and thoughtfully, almost to the very door of the house, turned hack again, and began to re- trace his steps, still as gravely and quietly as ever. Then a certain thrill of anticipation catne over Jack. One fyrte was ended, but another was for to say. Feeling had been run- ning very high between theta when they last spoke; now there was a certain hushed tone about the talk, as if a cloud had suddenly rolled over them. Mr. Browulow spoke, but he did not look at Jack, nor even look up, hut went on moodily, with his eyes fixed on the ground, now and then stopping to kick away a little stone amon,, the gravel, a pause which became almost tragic by repetition. Is it long since this happened 3 he said, speaking in a very subdued tcne of voice. No, said Jack, feeling once more the high colour rushing up into his face, though in the darkness there was nobody who could see no, only a few days. And you said your wife, Mr. Brownlo~v added our wife. Whom does she belong to 3 People dont go so far without knowuig a few preliminaries, I suppose 3 I dont know who she belongs to, except her mpther, said Jack, growing very hot; and thet he added on the spur of the ruomint, I daresay you think its not very wise I dont pretend its wise I never supposed it was but as for the difficulties, I am realy to face them. I dont see that I can say any more. I did not express any opinion, said Mr. Browtdow coldly; no I dont suppose wisdom has very much to do with it. But I should like to understand. Do you mean to say that every thin,, is settled 3 or do you only speak in hope 3 Yes, it is quite settled, said Jack in spite of himself, this cold questioning had made a difference even in the sound of his voice. It all came before him again in its darker colours. 1he light seemed to steal out of the prospect btfore him moment by moment. 1-us face burned in the dark; he was disgusted with himself for not having somerhing to say; arid gradually he grew into a state of feverish irri- tation at the stones which his father took the trouble to kick away, and the crunching of the gravel under his~feet. And you have not a penny in the world, said Mr. Browniow in his dispassionate voice. No, said Jack, I have not a penny in the world. And then there was another pause. The very stars seemed to have gone in, not to 10(1k at his discomfiture, poor fellow! A cold little wind had sprung up, and went moaning out and in eerily among the trees; even old Betty at the lod,,e had gone to bed, and there was no light to he seen from her windows. The pros- pect was black, dreary, very chilling nothing to be seen but the sky, over which clouds were stealing, and the tree-tops swaying wildly a,,ainst them; and the sound of the steps on the grav- el. Jack lad uttered his last words with great firmness and even a touch of indignation; but there can be no doubt that heaviness was steal- ing over his heart. If it had been any one but yourself who told me, Jack, said his father,I should not have believed it. You, of all men in the world I ought to beg your pardon for misjudging you. I thought you would think of your own pleasure rather than of anybodys comfort, and I was mistaken. I beg your pardon. I am glad to have to make you an apology like this. Thanks, said Jack curtly. It was com- plimentary, no doubt ; - but the compliment itself was not complimentary. I beg your par- don for thinking you a yillain that was how it sounded to his ears; and he was not flattered even by his escape. But I cant rejoice over the rest, said 25 26 BROWNLOWS. Mr. Browniow it is going against all your Mr. Browniow, with sudden dignity; Powvs own principles, for one thing. You are very is a totally different thing I have told you so young you have no call to marry for ten before. ye~rs at least and of course if you wait tea And I have told you, sir, that you are mis- years you will change your mind. taken, said Jack. How is Po~vys different l I have not the least intention of waiting ten except that hes a young cad and never years, said Jack. had any breeding. As for any idea you may Then perhaps you will he so good as to in- have in your head ahout his family have you form me what your intentions are, said his ever seen his mother ~ father, with a little irony; if you have thought Have you l said Mr. Browniow; and his at all on the subject it may he the easier way. heart, too, hegan to heat heavily, as if there Of course I have thought on the suhject, could he any sentimental power in that good said Jack; I hope I an~ not a fellow to do womans name. things without thinking. I dont j~retend it is Yes, said Jack, in his ignorance, she is prudent. Prudence is very good, hut there are a homely sort of sensible woman, that never some things that are better. I meau to get could have been anything heyond what she is; married with the least possible delay. and one look at her would prove that to you. And then l said Mr. Brownlow. I dont mean to say I bite people that have seen Then, sir, I suppose, said Jack, not with- better days: hut you would never suppose she out a touch of bitterness, you will let me re- had been anything more than what she is now; main in the office, and keep my clerkship; see- I she might have been a Masterton shop-keepers ing that, as you say, I have not a penny in the daughter from Chestergate or Dove Street, world. Jack continued, and she would have looked Then they walked on together again for sev- just as she looks now. eral minutes in the darkness. It was not won- Mr. Brownlow, in spite of himself, gave a derful that Jacks heart should be swelling with long shuddering sigh. He drew a step apart a sense of injury. Here was he a rich mans from his son, and stumbled over a stone in the son, with the great park breathing round him gravel, not having the h~art even to kick it in the darkness, and the great house shining be- away. Jacks words, though they were so care- hind, with its many lights, and many servants, less and so ignorant, went to his fathers heart. and much luxury. All was his fathers all As it happened, by some curious coincidence, and a great deal more than tha~t; and yet he, he had chosen the very locality from which his fathers only son, had not a penny in the Phmbe Thompson would have come. And it world. No wonder Jacks heart was very rang into the very centre of that unsuspected bitter within hint; but he was too proud to target which Mr. Browulow had set up to re- make a word of complaint. ceive chance shots in his heart. You think it cruel of me to say so, Mr. I dont know where she has come from Brownlow said, after that long pause; and so he said; but yet I tell you Powys is different; it looks, I dont doubt. But if you knew as and some day you will know better. But what- much as I do, it would not appear to you so ever may be done about that has nothing to do wonderful. I am neither so rich nor so assured with your own case. I repeat to you, Jack, it in my wealth as people think. is very humbling to me. Do you mean that you have been losing Here he stopped short, and Jack was dogged- money l said Jack, who was half touched, in ly silent, and had not a word of sympathy to the midst of his discontent, by his fathers give him. It was true, this second taesalliance tone. was a great blow to Mr. Brownlow a greater I have been losing not exactly money, Wow to his pride and sense of family imiportance said Mr. Browulow, with a sigh; but never than anybody could have supposed. He had mind; I cant hide from you, Jack, that you made up his mind to it that Sara must marry have disappointed me. I feel humbled about it Powys; that her grandeur and her pretty state altogether. Not that I am a man to care for could only be secured to her by these means, worldly advant.tges that are won by marriage; and that she must pay the price for them a hut yet and you did not seem the sort of price which, fortunately, she did not seem to boy to throw yourself away. have any great difficulty about. But that Jack Look here, father, said Jack; you may should make an ignoble marriage too, that peo- be angry, but I must say one word. I think ~ pie should be able to say that the attorneys chil- luau, when he can work for his wife, has a ri,,ht dren had gone back to their natural grade, and to marry as he likes at least ~f he likes, that all his wealth, and their admittance into added the yoan~ philosopher hastily, with a higher circles, and Jacks education, and Saras desperate thought of his consistency; but I do sovereignty, should end in their marrying, the think a girls friends have something to do with one her fathers clerk, the other the little girl in it. Yet you set your f~tce against me, and let the cottage at the gate, was a very bitter pill to that fellow see Sara constantly see her alone their father. He had never sch~med for great talk with her I found them in the flower, marriages for them, never attempted to bring garden the other day, and then, by Jove! heirs and heiresses under their notice; but still you pitch into me. it was a downfall. Even the Brownlows of You are speaking of young Powys, said Masterton had made very different alliances. BROWNLOWS. It was perhaps a curious sort of thing to strike a man, and a man of business, but nevertheless it was very hard upon him. In Saras case if it did come to anything in Saras case there was an evident necessity, and there was an equivalent; yet even there Mr. Browniow knew that when the time came to avow the arrange- ment, it would not be a pleasant office. He knew how people would open their eyes, how the thing would be spoken of, how his motives and her motives would be questioned. And to think of Jack adding another story to the wonder of the county! Mr. Browniow did not care much for old Lady Motherwell, but he knew what she would say. She would clasp her old hands to- gether in their brown gloves (if it was morning), and she would say, They were always very good sort of people, but they were never much in our way and it is far better they should settle in their own condition of life. I am glad to hear the young people have had so much sense. So the count.y people would be sure to say, and the thought of it galled Mr. Brownlow. He would not have felt it so much had Jack alone been the culprit, and Sara free to marry Sir Charles Motherwell, or any other county potentate; but to think of both ! and of all the spectators that were looking on, and all their comments! It was mere pride nod person- al feeling, he knew even feeling that was a little paltry and scarcely worthy of him but lie could not help feeling the sting and humili- ation; and this perhaps, though it was merely fanciful, was the one thing which galled him most about Jack. Jack, for his part, had nothing to say in opposition. He opened his eyes a little in the dark to think of this unsuspected susceptibility on his fathers part, but he did not think it unjust. It seemed to him on the whole natural enough. It was hard upon him, after he had worked and struggled to bring his children into this position. Jack did not understand his fathers infatua- tion in respect to Puwys. It was infatuation. But he could well enough understand how it might be very painful to him to see his only son make an obscure marriage, He was not offend- ed at this. He felt for his father, and even he felt for himself, who had the thing to do. It was not a thing he would have approved of for any of his friends, and he did not approve of it in his own case. He knew it was the only thing he could do; and after an evening such as that he had passed with little Pamela, he for~ot that there was any thing in it but delight and sweetness. That, however, was a forgetfulness whieh could not last long. He had felt it could not last long even while he was taking his brief enjoyment of it, and he began again fully to realise the other side of the question as he walked slowly along in the dark by his fathers side. The silence lasted a long time, for Mr. Browulow had a great deal to think about. He walked on mechanically almost as far as Bettys cottage, forgetting almost his sons presence, at least forgetting that there was any necessity for keeping up a conversation. At last, however, it was he who spoke. Jack, he said, I wish you would reconsider all this. Dont interrupt me, please. I wish youd think it all over again. I dont say that I think you very much to blame. She his a sweet face, said Mr Brownlo~v, with a certain melting of tone, and I dont sty that she may not be as sweet as her face; but still, Jack, you are very youn~, and its a vei-y unsuitable match. You are too sensible not to acknowledge that; and it may injure your prospects and cramp you for all your life. In justice both to your- self and your family, you ought to consider all that. As it happens, sir, it is too late to consider all that, said Jack, even if I ever could have balanced secondary motives against Bab! said Mr. Browulow; and then he added, with a certain impatience, dont tell me that you have not balancedI know you too well for that. I know you have too much sense for that. Of course you have balanced all the motives. And do you tell me that you are ready to resign all your advantages, your pleasant life here, your position, your prospects, and go and live on a clerks income in Master- ton all for love 3 said Mr. Biownlow. He did not mean to sneer; hut his voice, as he spoke, took a certain inflection of sarcasm, as perhaps comes natural to a man beyond middle age, when he has such sn~gestions to make. Jack once more thrust his hands into the depths of his pockets, and gloom and darkness came into his heart. Was it the voice of the Tempter that was addressing him I But then, had he not already gone over all that ground I the loss of all comforts and advanta~,es, the clerks income, the little house in Masterton. I have already thought of all that, he said. as you su~gest; but it does not make any difference to me. Then he stopped and made a long pause. If this is all you have to say to me. sir, per- haps it will be best to stop here, said Jack; and he made a pause, and turned hack again with a certain determination towards the house. It is all I have to say, said Mr. Browulow gravely; and he too turned round, and the two made a solemn march homewards, with scarcely any talk. This is bow Jacks story was told. He had not thought of doing it, and he had found little comfort and encouragement in the disclosure; but still it Was made, and that was so much gained. The lhmtts were beginning to be extinguished in the windows, so late and long had been their discussion. But, as they came up, Sara became visible at the window.of her own room, which opened upon a balcony. She had come to look for them in her pretty white (Iressiug-gown, with all her wealth of hair streaming over her shoulders. It was a very familiar sort of apparel, bi4 still, to be sure, it was only her father and her brother who were witnesses of her little exhibition. Papa, I could not wait for you, she cried, leaning over the balcony, I couldnt keep 27 BROWNLOWS. An~elique sitting up. Come and say good- night. When Mr. Browniow went in to obey her, Jack stood still and pondered. There was a difference. Sara would be permitted to make any marriage she pleased even with a clerk in his fathers office; whereas her brother, who ought to have been the principal however, to do him justice, there was no grudge in Jacks heart. He scorned to be envions of his sister. Sara will have it all her own way, he said to himself a little ruefully, as he lighted his candle and went up the great staircase; and then it occurred to him to wonder what she would do about Pamela. Already he felt himself superseded. It was his to take the clerks income and subside into inferiority, und Sara was to be the Queen of Brownlows as indeed she had always been. CHAPTER XXVII. SARAS OWN AFFAIRS. SARAS affirs were perhaps not so interest- ing, as indeed they were far from being so advan ced, as those of Jack; but still all this time the~ were making progress. It was not without cause that the image of Powys stole across her mental vision when Jack warned her to look at the beam in her own eye. There could be little doubt that Mr. Browulow had encouraged Powys. He had asked him to come generally, and he had added to this many special invitations, and sometimes indeed, when Jack was not there, had given the young man a seat in the dog-cart, and brought him out. All this was very confusing, not to Sara, who, as she thought, saw into the motives of her fathers conduct, and knew how it was, but to the clerk in Mr. Browniows office, who felt himself thus singled out, and could not but perceive that no one else had the same privilege. It filled him with many wondering and even bewildered thoughts. Perhaps at the beginning it did not strike him so much, semi-republican as he was; but he was quick-witted, and when he looked about him, and saw that his neighbours did not get the same advantages, tlt~ young Canadian felt that there must be something in it. He was taken in, as it were, to Mr. Browniows heart and home, and that not without a pur- pose, as was told him by the angry lines in Jacks forehead. He was taken in and admitted into the habits of intimacy, and had Sara, as it were, given over to him; and what did it mean l for that it must mean something he could not fail to see. Thus young Powyss position was very dif- ferent from that of Jack. Jack had been led into his serape unwittingly, having meant nothing. Bat it would have been impossible for Powys to act in the same way. To him unconsciousness was cut of the question. He might make it clear to himself; in a dazzled self-conscious way, that his own excellence could have nothing to do with it; that it must be accident, or good fortune, or something per- fectly fortuitous ; but yet withal the sense re- mained that he and no other had been cho~en for this privilege, and that it could not he for nothing. He was modest and he had good sense, more than could have been expected from his age and circumstances hut yet every thing conspired to make him forget these sober quali- ties. He had not permitted himself so much as to think at his first appearance that Miss Browulow, too, was a young human creature like himself. He had said to himself; on the contrary, that she was of a different species, that she was as much out of his reach as the moon or the stars, and that, if he suffered any folly to get into his head, of course he would have to suffer for it. But the folly had got in- to his head, and he had not suffered. He had been left with her, and she had talked to him, and made every thin~ very sweet to his soul. She had dropped the magic drop into his cup, which makes the mildest draught intoxicating, and the poor young fellow had felt the subtle charm stealing over him, and had gone on bewildered, justifying himself by the tacit en- couragement given him, and not knowing what to think or what to do. He knew that between her and him there was a gulf fixed. He knew that of all men in the world he was the last to conceive any hopes in which such a brilliant little princess as Sara could be involved. It was doubly and trebly out of the question. He was not only a poor clerk, but he was a poor clerk with a family to support. It was all mere madness and irredeemable folly; but still Mr. Brownlow took him out to his house, and still he saw, and was led into intimate com- panionship with his masters daughter. And ~vhat could it mean l or how coul4 it end Powys fell into such a maze at last that he went and came unconsciously in a kind of in- sanity. Something must come of it one of these days. Something ; a volcanic eruption and wild blazing up of earth and heaven a sudden plunge into madness or into darkness. It was strange, very strange to him, to think what Mr. Browulow could mean by it; he was very kind to him almost paternal and yet he was exposirtg him to this trial, which he could neither fly from nor resist. Thus poor Powys pondered to himself many a time, while, with a beating heart, he went along the road to Brownlows. He could have delivered himself, no doubt, if he would, but he did not want to deliver himself. He had let all go in a kind of desperation. It must end, no doubt, in some dreadful sudden downfall of all his hopes. But indeed he had no hopes; he knew it was madness; yet it was a madness he was permitted, even encouraged in; and he gave himself up to it, and let himself float down the stream, and said to himself that he would shut his eyes, and take what happiness he could get in the present moment, and shut out all thoughts of the future. This he was doing with a kind of thrill of prodigal delight, sell- ing his birthright for a mess of pottage, giving 28 BUG WNLOW~. up all the freshness of his heart, and all its force of early passion, for what l for nothing. To throwanother flower in the path of a girl who trod upon nothing hut flowers; this was what he felt it to he in his saner moments. But the influence of that sanity never stopped him in what he was doin ~. He had never in his life met with any thing like her, and if she chose to have this supreme luxury of a mans heart and life offered up to her all for nothing what then He was not the man to grudge her that richest and most useless gift. It was not often he ~vent so deep as this, or realised what a wild cause he was embarked on hut when he did, he saw the matter clearly enough, and knew how it must he. As for Sara, she was very innocent of any such thoughts. She was not the girl to accept such a holocaust. If she had known what was in his heart possibly she might have scorned him for it: hut she never suspected what was passing in his heart. She did not know of that gulf fixed. His real position, that position which was so very true and unquestionable to him, was not real at all to Sara. He was a fairy prince, masquerading under that form for some reason known to himself and Mr. Browniow; or if not that, then he was the man to whom, accord- ing to her fathers will, she was to give herself blindly out of pure filial devotion. Anyhow something secret, mysterious, beyond ordinary ken, was in it; something that gave piquancy to the whole transaction. She was not receiv- ing a lover in a commonplace sort of way when she entertained young Powys, but was instead a party to an important transaction, a grand duty, either to her father menaced by some danger, or to a hero transformed whom only the touch of a true maiden could win hack to his rightful shape. As it happened, this fine devotion was not disagreeable to her; hut Sara felt, no doubt, that she would have done her duty quite as unswervingly had the fairy prince been hewitched into the person of the true Beast of the story instead of that of her fa- thers clerk. It was a curious sort of process to note, had there been any spectator hy sufficiently at ease to note it; hut there was not, unless, indeed, Mr. Hardcastle and Fanny might have stood in that capacity. As for the Rector, he washed his hands of it. He had delivered his own soul just as Mrs. Swayne had delivered hers in respect to the other parties. He had told Mr. Browulow very plainly what his opinion was. My dear fellow, he had said, you dont know what you are doing. Be warned in time. You dont think what kind of creatures girls and hoys are at that age. And then you are compromising Sara with the world. Who do you think would care to be the rival of your clerk l It is very unfair to your child. And then Sara is just one of the girls that are most likely to suffer. She is a girl that has fancies of her own. You know I am as fond of her almost as I am of my Fanny; hut there could not be a greater difference than between the two. Fanny might come safely through such an ordeal, hut Sara is of a different disposition; she is capable of thinking that it doesnt mat- ter; she is capable, though one does not like even to mention such an idea, of falling in love Mr. Brownlow winced a little at this sug~es~ tion. I suppose men dont like to think of their womenkind falling in love. There is a certain desecration in the idea. No, he said, with something in his voice that was half ap- proval and half contempt, you need not he afraid of Fanny; and as for Sara, I ir st Prov- dence will take care of her as you seem to think she has so poor a guardian in me. Ah, Browulow, we must both feel what a disadvantage we are at, said Mr. Hardeastic, with a sigh, with our motherless girls ; and theirs is just the age at which it tells. Yes, said Mr. Brownlow, shaping his face a little, unawares, into the right look. The Rector had had two mothers for Fanny, and was used to this kind of thing; indeed, it was never off the cards, as Fanny herself was pro- foundly aware, that there might he a third and accordingly he had a right to be effusive about it: wlereas Mr. Browulow had had hut one love in his life, and could not talk on the subject. But be knew his duty sufficiently to look solemn, and assent to his pastors propo- sition about the motherless gitls. On that account, if on no other, we ought to give them our double attention, the Rector continued. You know I can have hut one motive. Take my word for it, it is not fit that your clerk should be brought into your daughters society. If any foolish complication should come of it, you would never forgive yourself; and only think of the harm it would do Sara in the world. Softly, Hardeastle, said Mr. Brownlow, dont go too far. Sara and the world have nothing to do with each other. That sort of thin,, may answer well enough for your hack- neyed girls who have gone through a few sea- sons and are up to every thing; but to the in- nocent My dear Browulow, said the Rector, with a certain tone of patronage and compassion, I know how much I am inferior to you in true knowledge of the world ; hut perhaps let us say the world of fashion may he a little better known to me than to you. Mr. Brownlow was roused by this. I dont know how it should he so, he said, looking very steadily at the Rector. Mr. 1Iarlca~tle had a second cousin who was an Irish peer. That was the chief ground of his social preten- sions, and the world of fashion, to tell the ti uth, had never fallen much in his way; buL still a man who has a cousin a lord, when he chains superior knoxvled~te of society to that possessed by another man who has no such distinction, generally, in the country at leAst, has his claim allowed. You think not l he said, stamm~ring and growing red. Oh, ah well of course 29 BROWNLOWS. in that case I cant be of any use. I am sorry to have thrust my opinion on you. If you feel yourself so thorou,,hly qualified Dont take offence, said Mr. Brownlow. I have no such high opinion of my qualifica- tions. I dout think we are, either of us, men of fashion to speak of, but, as it happens, ILkuow my own business. It suits me-to have my clerk at hind and he is not just au ordinary clerk; and I hope Sara is not the sort of girl to lose her head and go off into silly romances. I have confidence in her, you see, as you have in Fan- ny thoueh perhaps it may not be so perfectly justified, Mr. Brownlow added, with a smile. Fanny was known within her own circle to be a very prudent little woman, almost too pru- dent, and this was a point which the Rector always felt. Well, I hope you will find it has been for the best, Mr. Hardcastle answered, and he sighed in reply to his friends smile: evidently he did not expect it would turn out for the best, but at all events he had delivered his soul. And Fanny, in the mean time, was delivering her little lecture to Sara. They had been din- ing at Browulows, and there were no other guests, and the two girls were alone in the drawing-room, in that little half-hour which the gentlemen spent over their temperate glass of claret. It is an hour much bemoaned by fast young women; but, as the silent majority are aware, it is not an unpleasant hour. Fanny ilardcastle and Sara Browulow were great friends in their way. They were in the habit of seeing e ich other continually, of going to the same places, of meeting the same people. It was not exactly a friendship of natural affinity, but rather of proximity, which answers very well in many cases. Probably Fanny, for her part, was not capable of any thing more enthu- siastic. They told each other every thing that is, they each told the other as much as that other could understand. Fanny, by in- stinct, refrained from putting before Sara all the prudences and sensible restrictions that ex- isted in her own thoughts; and Sara, equally by instinct, was dumb about her own personal thelin,,s and fancies, except now and thu when carried away by their vehemence. She would not understand me, you know, both of them would have said. But to-night Fanny had taken upon herself the prophetic office. She, too, had her burden of warning to deliver, and to free her own soul from all responsibility in her neighbours fate. Sara, she said, I saw you the other day when you did not see me. You were in the park down there, look, under that tree; and that Mr. lowys was with you. You know I once saw him here. I do not cali that the park I call that the avenue, said 8ara; hut she saw that her com- panion spoke with intentiou, and a certain quick- ening of colour came to her face. You may call it any thing you please, hut I am sure it is the park, said Fanny, and I want to speak to you ab~ut it. I am sure I dont know who Mr. Powys is I daresay he is vet-y nice but do you think it is quite right walking about with him like that l You told me yourself he was in your papas office. You know, Sara dear, I wouldnt say a word to you if it wasnt for your good. What is for my good l said Sara walk- ing in the park l or having you to speak to me ? As for Mr. Powys, I dont suppose you know any thing about him, so of course you cant have any thing to say. I wish you would not gallop on like that and take away ones breath, said Fanny. Of course I dont know any thing about him. He may be very nice I am sure I cant say; or he may be very amusing they often are, Fanny added with a sigh, when they are no good. But dont go walking and talking with him, Sara; dont, theres a dear; people will talk; you know how they talk. And if he is only in your papas office I dont see what difference that can possibly make,said Sara, with a little vehemence. But it does make a difference, said Fanny, once more with a sigh. If he were ever so nice, it could be no good. Mr. Browulow may be very kind to him; but he would never let you marry him, Sara. Yes, of course that is what it must come to. A girl should not stray about in the park with a man, unless he was a man that she could marry if he asked her. I dont mean to say that she would marry, but at least that she could. And, besides, a girl owes a duty to herself even if her father would con- sent. You, in your position, ou,,ht to make a very different match. You little worldly-minded wretch! cried Sara, have you nearly done l Anybody would tell you so as well as me, said Fanny. You might have had that big Sir Charles if you had liked. Papa is only a poor clergyman, and we have not the place in society we might have; but you can go everywhere, you who are so rich. And then-the gentlemen always like you. If you were to make a po or marriage, it would be a shame. When did you learn all that l said Fan- nys hearer, aghast. I never thought you were half so wise.~~ I always knew it, dear, said little Fanny, with complacency. I used to be too frighten- ed to speak, and then you always talked so much quicker and went on so. But when I was at my aunts in spring I shall always hate your aunt, cried Sara I did before by instinct: did she put it all into your head about matches and things? You were ten thousand times better when you had only me. As if I would marry a man because he would be a good m;irria~e! I wonder what you take me for, that you speak so to me Then what would you marry him for? said little Fanny, with a toss of her pretty head. For! cried Sara, not for any thing! for nothing at all! I hate marrying. To think a girl cannot live in this world without having 30 BRO WNLOWS. that thrust into her face! What should I marry anybody for? But I shall do what I like, and walk when I like, and talk to anybody that pleases me, cried the impetuous young woman. Her vehemence brought a flush to her face and something like tears into her eyes; and Fanny, for her part, looked on very gravely at an ap- pearance of feeling of which she entirely disap- ~ixHc~. I daresay you will take your own way, she said, you always did take your own way; but at least you cant say I did not warn you; and I hope you will neter he sorry for not having listened to me, Sara. I love you all the same, said Fanny, giving her friend a soft little kiss. Sara did not return this salutation with the u armth it deserved. She was flushed and angry and impatient, and yet disposed to laugh. You dont hope anything of the sort, she said; you hope I shall live to be very sorry and I hate your aunt. This was how the warning etided in the drawing-room. It was more elegantly expressed than it had heen by Mrs. Swa) ne and old Betty; but yet the hurden of the prophecy was in some respects the same. When Sara thought over it at a later period of the night she laughed a little in her own mind at poor Fannys ignorance. Could she but know that the poor clerk was an enchanted prince! Could she but guess that it was in pure obedience to her fathers wishes that she had given him such a reception! When he appeared in his true shape, whatever that might be, how uncomfor- table little Fanny would feel at the recollection of what she had said! And then Sara took to guessing and wondering what his true shape might be. She was not romantic to speak of in gentral. She was only romantic in her own special case; and when she came to think of it seriously, her good sense came to her aid or rather not to her aid to her hindrance and confusion and bewilderment- Sara knew very well that in those days people were not often found out to be princes in disguise. She knew even that for a clerk in her fathers office to turn out the heir to a peerage or even some- bodys son would be so unusual as to be almost incredible. And what; then, could her father mean? Neither was Mr. Brownlow the sort of luau to pledge his soul on his daughter in any personal emergency. Yet some cause there must be. When she had come this length, a new sense seemed suddenly to wake up in Saras hosom, perhaps only the result of her own thoughts, perhaps suggested, though she would not have allowed that, by Fanny Hardeastles advice, a sudden sense that she had been coming down from her natural sphere, and that her fathers clerk was not a fit mate for her. She was very generous, and hasty, and hitib- flown, and fond of her father, and fond of amusement and moved by all these qualities and affections together she had jumped at the suggestion of Mr. Browniows plan; but per- haps she had never once thought seriously of it as it affected herself until that night. Now it suddenly occurred to her how people might talk. Strangely enough, the same thought which had been bitterness to her father stung. her also, as soon as her eyes were opened. Miss Browulow of Brownlows, who had refused, or the same thing as refused, Sir Charles Motherwell whom young Keppel had regard- ed afar off as utterly beyond hisreach the daughter of the richest man, and herself one of the most popular (Sara did not even to herself say the prettiest; she might have had an ink- ling of that too, but certainly she did not put it into articulate thought) girls in the county she bending from her high estate to the 1ev of a lawyers clerk ; she going back to the hereditary position, reminding everybody that she was the daughter of the Masterton attorney, showing the low tastes which one generation of higher culture could not be sup- posed to have effaced! How could she do it? If she had been a dukes daughter, it would not have mattered. In such a case, nobody could have thought of hereditary low tastes; but now As Sara mused, the colour grew hotter and hotter in her cheeks. . To think that it was only now, so late in the day, that this occurred to her, after she had gone so far in the way of carrying out her fathers wishes! To think that he could have imposed such a sacrifice upon her! Saras heart smarted and stung her in her breast as she thought of that. And then there suddenly came up a big indig- nant blob of warm dew in either eye which was not for her father nor for her own dignity, but for something else about which she could not parley with herself. And then she rushed at her candles and put them out, and threw her- self down on her bed. The fact was, that she did sleep in half an hour at the farthest, though she did not mean to, and thus escaped from her thoughts; but that was not what she calculated upon. She calculated on lying awake all night and sayin,, many very pointed and griev- ous things to her father when in the morning he should ask her the meaning of her pale face au(l heavy eyes; but unfortunately her cheeks were as fresh as the morning when the morning duly came, and her eyes as bright, and Mr. Brownlow, seeing no occasion for it, asked no questions but had himself to submit to inquiries and condolences touching a bad night and a pale face. He, too, had been moved by Mr. Hardeastles warning moved, not of course to any sort of acceptance of the Hectors ad- vice, but only to the length of being uncomfor- table, while he took his own way, which is at all times the only one certain result of good advice. And he was depressed too about Jacks communication which had been made to him only two nights before, and of which he had spoken to nobody. The thought of it was a hu- miliation to him. His two children whom he had brought up so carefully, his only ones, in whom he had expected his family to make a new beginning and yet they both meant to descend far below the ancestral level which he 31 ]3ROWNLOWS. had hoped to see them leave utterly behind! He was not what is called a proud man, and he had never been ashamed of his origin or of his business. But yet, two such marriages in one family, and one generation ! It was a bit- ter thought. As for Sara, she would have said, had she been qnestoned, that she thought of nothing else all day and, in fact, it was her prevailing pre-ocdupation. All the humiliations involved in it came gleaming across her mind by inter- vals. Her pride rose up in arms. She did not know as yet about the repetition or rather anticipation of her case which her brother had been guilty of. But she did ponder over the probable consequences. The hardest thing of all was that they would say it was the fault of her race, that she was only returning to her nat- ural level, and that it was not wealth nor even admiration which could make true gentlefoiks; all which were sentiments to which Sara would have subscribed willingly in any but her own case. When Powvs arrived with Mr. Brown- low in the evening, she received him with a stateliness that chilled the poor young fellow to his heart. And he too had so many thoughts, and just at that moment was wondering with an intensity which put all the others to shame how it could possibly end, and what his honour required of him, and what sort of a grey and weary desert life would be after this dream was over. It seemed to him al)solutely as if- the dream was corning to an end that night. Jack, who was never very courteous to the visitor, left them imm,ediately after dinner, and Mr. Brownlow retired to the library for some time, and Po~vcs had no choice but to go, where his heart had gone before him, up to the drawing- room where Sara sat alone. Of course, she ought to have had a chaperone; but then this young man, being only a clerk front the office, did not count. She was seated in the window, close to the Claude, which had been the first thing that brought these two together; but to-night she ~vas in no meditative mood. She had provided herself with work, and was labouring at it fiercely in a way which Powys had never seen before. And he did not know that her heart too was beaPug very fast, and that she had been wondering and wondering whether he would have the couraae to come up-stairs. He had really had that courage, but now that he was there, he did not know what to do. He came up to her at first; but she kept on working and did not take any notice of him, she who up to this moment had always been so s~veet. The l)OO~ young -fellow was cast down to the very depths; he thou,,ht they had but taken him up and played upon him for their amusement, and that now the end had come. And he tried, but ineffectually, to comfort himself with the thought that he had always known it must come to an end. Almost when he saw her silence, her absorbed looks, the constrained little glance she gave him as he came into the room, it came into his mipd that Sara herself would say something to bring the dream to a distinct conclusion. If the had told him that she divined his presumption, and that he was never more to enter that room again, he would not have been surprised. It had been a false position throughout he knew that, and he knew that it must come to an end. But, in the mean time, a fair face must he put npon it. Powys, though he was a b. ek- woodsman, - knew enough of life, or had suffi- cient instinct of its requirements, to know that So he went up to the Claude, and looked at it sadly, with a melancholy he could not restrain. It is as you once said, Miss Browulow, said Powys always the same gleam and the same ripples. I can understand your ob- jections to it now. The Claude 3 said Sara, with unne essary vehemence, I hate it. I think I hate all pic- tures; they are so everlastingly the same thing. Did Jack go out, Mr. Powys, as you came up- stairs Yes; he went out just after you had left us, said Powys, glad to find something less suggestive on which to speak. Again 3 said Sara, plunging at the new subject with an energy which proved it to be a relief to her also. He is so strange! I dont know if papa told you; he is giving us a great deal of trouble just now. I am afraid he has got fond of somebody very, very much below him. It will be a dreadful thing for us if it turns out to be true. Poor Powyss tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He gave a wistful look at his torment- or, full of a kind of dumb entreaty. What did she say it for 3 was it for him, without even the satisfaction of plain speaking, to send him away forever 3 Of course you dont know the circum- stances, said Sara; but you can fancy when he is the only son. I dont think you ever took to Jack; but of course he is a great deal to papa and me. I think it was your brother who never took to me, said Powys; he thought I had no business here. He had no right to think so, when papa thought differently, said Sara lie was al- ways very disagiceable; and now to think he should be as foolish as any of us. When she had said this, Sara suddenly recollected herself and gave a glance up at her companion to see if he had observed her indiscretion. Then she went on hastily, with a rising colour, I wish you would tell me, Mr. Powys, how it was that you first came to know papa. It is very easy, said Powys; but there he too paused, and grew red, and stopped short in his story with a reluctance that had nothin, to do with pride. I went to him seeking em- ployment, he continued, making an effort, and smiling a sickly smile. He knev she must know that, but yet it cost him a struggle; and some- how everything seemed to have changed so en- tirely since those long-distant days. And you never knew him before 3 said 32 B ROW N LOWS. Sara nor your father nor anybody be- longin~ to you I do so want to know! You are surprised that he has been so kind to me, said Powys, with a pang; and it is natural you should. No, there i~ no reason for it that I know of, except his own goodness. He meant to be very, very kind to me, the young fellow added, with a certain pathos. It seemed to him as he spoke that Mr. Browniow had in reality been very cruel to him ; but he did not say it in words. Sara, for her part, gave him a little quick fu,Jtive glance; and it is possible, though no explanation was given, that she understood what he did not speak. That was not what I meant, she said quickly; only I thought there was something and then about your Limily, Mr. Powys i she said, looking up into his face with a curios- ity she could not restrain. Certainly the more she thought it over, the more it amazed her. What could her father meau I have no family that I know of, said Powys, with a momentary smile, except my mother and my little sisters. I am poor, Miss Brownlow, and of no account whatever. I never saved Mr. Brownlows life, nor did any thing he could be grateful to me for. And I did not know you nor this house, he went on, when your father brought me here. I did not know, and I could live without Dont ask me any more questions, please; for I fear I dont know what I am saying to-day. Here there was a pause, for Sara, though fearless enou,,h in most cases, was a little alarmed by his suppressed vehemence. She was alarmed, and at the same time she was softened, and her inquisitiveness was stronger than her prudence. His very prayer that she would ask him no more questions quickened her curiosity; and it was not in her to refrain for fear of the danger in that, as in most other amusements, the dangers self was lure alone. But I hope you dont regret having been brought here, she said softly, lookin~ up at him. It was a cruel speech, and the look and the lone were more cruel still If she had meant to bring him to her feet, she could not have done anything better adapted to her pur. pose, and she did not mean to bring him to her feet. She did it only out of a little personal feeling and a little sympathy, and the perversity of her heart. Powys started violently, and gave her a look under which Sara, courageous as she was, actu- ally trembled; and the next thin~ he did was to tnt-n his back upon her, and look long and in- tently at the nearest picture. It was not the Claude this time. It was a picture of a woman holding outa piece of bread to a beggar at her door. The wretch, in his misery, was crouch- ing by the wall and holding out his hand for it, and within were the rosy children, well-fed and comfortable, looking large-eyed upon the want without. The young man thought it was sym- bolical, as he stood looking at it, quivering all over with emotion which he was labouring to LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 215. shut up in his own breast. She was holding out the bread of life to him ; but it youd never reach his lips. He stood strugglin to co a- mand himself, forgettin,,, everything but the desperation of that struggle, bettaying himself, more than any words could have done fight- ing his fight of honour and truth against temp- tation. Sara saw all this, and the little tempt- ress was not satisfied. It would he difficult to tell what impulse possessed her. She had driven him very far, but not yet to the further- est point; and she could not give tip her experi- ment at its very height. But you do not answer my question, she said very softly. The words were scarcely out of her lips, the tingle of compunction had not begun in her heart, when her victims strength gave way. He turned round upon her with a wild breathlessness that struck Sara dumb. She had seen more than one man who supposed he was in love with her; but she had never seen passion before. I would regret it, he said, if I had any sense or spirit left; but I have not, and I dont regret. Take it all take it! and then scorn it. I know you will. What could you do but scorn it? It is only my heart and my life; and I am young and shall have to live on hundreds of years, and never see your sweetest face again. Mr. Powys! said Sara in consternation, turning very pale. Yes, he said, melting out of the momen- tary swell of excitement, I think I am mad to say so. I dont grudge it. Itis no better thin a flower that you will put your foOt on; and now that I have told you, I know it is all over. But I dont grudge it. It was not your doing; and I would rather give it to you to be flung away than to any other woman. Dont be angry with me I shall never see you again Why? said Sara, not knowing what she said what is it? what have I done? M-. Powys, I dont think you either of us know what you mean. Let us forgetall about it. You said you did not know what you were say- ing to-day. But I have said it, said the young man in his excitement. I did not mean to betray myself, but now it is all over. I can never come here again. I can never dare look at you again. And it. is best so; every day was mug it worse. God bless you, though you have made me miserable. I shall never see your face again. Mr. Powys! cried Sara faintly. But he was gone beyond hearing of her voice. lie had not sought even to kiss her hand, as a despairing lover has a prescriptive right to do, much less the hem of her robe, as they do in ro- mances. He was gone in a whirlwind of wild haste, and misery, and passion. She sat still, with her lips apart, her eyes very wide open, her face very white, and listened to his hasty steps going away into the outside world. He was gone quite gone, and Sara sat aghast. She could not cry; she could not speak; she 33 BR 0 WNLOW S. could but listen to his departing steps, which echoed UI)Ofl her heart as it seemed. Was it all over? Would he never see her face again, as he said? Had she made him mberable Saras face grew whiter and whiter as she asked her- self these questions. (if one thing there could be no doubt, that it was she who had drawn this explanation from him. He had not wished to speak, and she had made him speak. And this was the end. If a sudden thunderbolt had f~lteii before h r, she could not have been mote startled arid dismn~cd. She never stirred for an hour or more after he had left her. She let the evemiti~ darken round her, and never asked for li~bts. Everything was perfetly still, yet she was deafktned by the noises in her ears, her heart beating and voices rising and contending in it which she bad never heard before. And was this the end She was sitting still in the win- dow like a thing in white marble when the ser- va .t came in with the lamp, and he had almost stumbled against her as he went to shut the window, and yelled with terror thinking it was a ghost. It was only then that Sara regained command of herself. Was it all over front to- night? CHAPTER XXVIII. DESPAIR. IT was nearly two hours after this when Jack Browniow met Powys at the gate. It was a moonlight night, and the white illumination which fell upon the departing visitot~ perhaps increased tbe look of excitement and despera- tion which might have been apparent even to the most indifferent passer-by. He had been walking very quickly down the avenue; his hoots and his dress gleamed in the moonlight as if he had been burying himself among the wet grass and bushes in the park. His hat was over his brows, his face haggard and ghast ly. No doubt it was partly the effect of the wan and ghostly moonlight, but still there must have heen something more in it, or Jack, who loved him little, would not have stopped as he did to see what was the matter. Jack was all the more bent upon stopping that he could see Powys did not wish it, and all sorts of hopes and suspicions sprang up in his mind. His father had dismissed the intruder, or he had so fir forgotton himself as to betray his fceIiu~s to Sara, and she had dismissed him. Onee more curiosity cam~ in Powyss way. Jack was so resolute to find out what it was that, for the first time in his life, he was friendly to his fathers clerk. Are you walk- tug? he said; Ill go with you a little way. It is a lovely night. Yes, said Powys and he restrained his headlong cour~e a little. It was all he could do that, and to resist the impulse to knock Jack mlown and be rid of him. It might not have been so very easy, for the two were toler- ably well marched; but poor Powys was trem- bling with the force of passion, and would have been glad of any opportunity to relieve himself either in the way of love or hatred. Nothing of this description, however, seemed practicable to him. The two young men walked down the road together, keeping a little apart, young, strong, tall, full of vigour, and with a certain likeness in right of their youth and strength. There should eveti have been the sympathy be- tween them which draws like to like. Arid yet how unlike they were! Jack had taken his fate in his hand, and was contemplating with a cheerful daring, which was half ignorance, a descent to the position in which his companion stood. It would be sweetened in his case by all the ameliorations possible, or so at least lie thought; and, after all, what did it matter? Whereas Powys was smarting under the miser- able sense of having been placed in a false position in addition to all the pangs of unhappy love, and of having betrayed himself and the confi- dence put in him, and sacrificed his honour, and cut himself off forever from the delight which still might have been his. All these pains and troubles were struggling together with- in him. He would have felt more keenly still the betrayal of the trust his employer had placed in him, had he not felt bitterly that Mr. Brown- low had subjected him to temptations which it was not in flesh and blood to bear. Thus every kind of smart was accumulated within the poor young fellows spirit the sense of guilt, the sense of being hardly used, the consciousness of having~shut himself out from paradise, the knowl- edge, beyond all, that his love was hopeless and all the light gone out of his life. It may be supposed how little inclination he had to enter into light conversation, or to satisfy the curiosi- ty of Jack. They walked on together in complete silence for some minutes, their footsteps ringing in harmony along the level, road, but their minds and feelings as much out of harmony as could be conceived. Jack was the first to speak. Ins pleasant walking to-night, he said feel- ing more conciliatory than he could have thought Possible; how long do you allow yourself from here to Masterton? It is a good even road. Half an hour, said Powys carelessly. Half an hour! thats quick work, said Jack. I dont think youll manage that to- night. I have known that mare of mine do it in twenty minutes; but I dont think you could match her pace. She goes very well, said the Canadian, with a moderation which nettled Jack. Very well! I never saw any thing go like her, he said that is with a cart behind her. What kind of cattle have you in Canada? I suppose theres good sport there of one kind or another. Shouldnt you like to go back? I am going back, said Powys. He said it in the depth of his despair, and it startled him- self as soon as it was said. Go back? yes! that was the only thing to do but how? Heally? said Jack with surprise and no small relief, and then a certain hum in sentiment 34 BROWNLO Ws. awoke within him. I hope you havent had a row with the governor 3 he stid: it always seemed to me he had too great a fancy for you. I beg your pardon for saying so just now, es- pecially if yourc vexed; hut look here Im not much of a one for a peacemaker; but if you dont mind telling me what its about I have bad no row with Mr. Browulow; it is worse than that, said Powys; it is pasi talking of; I have been both an ass and a knave, and theres nothing for me but to take myself out of everybodys way. Once more Jack looked at him in the moon- light, and saw that quick heave of his breast which betrayed the effort he was making to keep himself down, and a certain spasmodic quiver in his lip. I wouldnt be too hasty if I were you, he said. I dont think you can have been a knave. Were all of us ready enough to make fools of ourselves, the young philosopher added, with a touch of fellow-feeling. You and I havent been over good friends, you know, but you might as well tell me what its all about. You were quite right, said Powys hasti- ly. I ought never to have come up here. And it was not my doing. It was a false posi- tion all a1ong. A man oughtnt to be tempted beyond his strength. Of course I have nobody to blame but myself. I dont suppose I would be a knave about money or any thing of that sort. But its past talking of; and besides I could not, even if it were any good, make a confidant of you. It was not difficult for Jack to divine what this despair meant, and he was touched by the delicacy which would not name his sisters name. I lay a hundred pounds its Saras fault, he said to himself. But he gave no expression to the sentiment. And of course it was utterly beyond hope, and the young fellow in Powyss position who should yield to such a temptation must indeed hive made an ass of himself. But in the circumstances Jack was not affronted at the want of confidence in himself. I dont want to pry into your affairs, he said. I dontlikeit myself; but I would not do any thing hastily if I were you. A man maynt be happy; kit, so far as I can see, he must live all the same. Yes, thats the worst, said Powys; a fellow cant give in and get done with it. Talk is no good; but I shall have to go. I shall speak to your father to-morrow, and thei Good-night. Dont come any further. Ive been all about the place to say good bye. I am glad to have had this talk with you first. Good- night. Good-night. said Jack, grasping the hand of his fellow. Their hands had never met in the way of friendship before. Now they clasped each other warmly, closely, with an instinctive sympathy. Powyss mind was so excited with other things, and so full of supreme emotion, that this occurrence, though startling enough, did not have much effect upon him. But it made a very different impression upon Jak, who was full of surprise and compunction, and turned, after he had made a fear steps in the di.~ rection of Browulows. with a reluctant idea of doing somethin~ for the young fellow who was so much less lucky than himself. It was a reluctant idea, for he was prejudiced, and did not like to give up his prejudices, and at the same time he was generous, and could not but feel for a brother in misfortune. But Powys was already far on his way, out of hearing, and almost out of sight. lie will do it in the half-hour, Jack said to himself, with admira- tion. By Jove! how the fellow goes! and Ill lay you any thing its all Saras f.mult. He was very hard upon Sara in the revulsion of his fcelin,,s. Of course she could have done noth- ing but send her presumptuous admirer away. But then, had she not led him on and encour- aged him l The little flirt! Jack said to himself; and just then he was passing Swaynes cottage, which lay in the deep blackness of the shadow made by the moonlight. He looked up tenderly at the light that burned in the upper window. He had grown foolish about that faint little light, as was only natural. There was one who was no flirt, who never would have tempted any man and drawn him on to the breaking of his heart. From the height of his own good fortune, Jack looked down upon poor Powys speeding along with despair in his soul along the Masterton road. Something of that soft remorse which is the purest bloom of per- sonal happiness softened his thoughts. Poor Powys! And there was nothing that could be done for him. He could not conpel his fate as Jack himself could do. For him there was nothing in store but the relinquishment of all hope, the giving up of all drcams. The thougut made Jack feel almost guilty in hisown inde- pendence and well-being. Perhaps he could yet do or say something that would smooth the others downfall, persuade him to remain at least at Mastes-ton, where he need never come in the way of the little witch who had beguiled him, and afford him his own prote tion and friendship instead. As Jack thought of the little house that he himself~ separated from Browulows and its comforts, was about to set up at Masterton, his benevolence towards Powys grew still stronger. He was a fellow with whom a man could associate on emergency; and no doujs~ this was .all Saras fault. He went home to Browulows, disposed to stand Powyss friei~d if there was any question of him. But when Jack reached home there was no questio.n of Powys. On the whole it was not a cheerfuL house into which he entered. Lights were. burning vacrntly in the drawing-room, but; there was nobody there. Lights were burning. dimly downstairs. It looked like a deserted place as he went up and down the great stair-. ease, and through the silent rooms, and found~ nobody. Mr. Brownlow himself was in the - li-. brary with the door shut, where, in the present complexion of affairs, Jack did no.t care to d~s- turk him; and Miss Sara had 35 BROWNLO WS. with a headache, he was told, when, after searching for her everywhere, he condescended to inquire. Sara was not given to headaches, and the intimati(n startled her brother. And he went and sat in the drawing-room alone and stared at the lights, and contrasted this solitary grand- eur with the small house whose image was in his mind, the little cozy, tiny, sunshiny place, where one little hright face would always smile; where there would always he some one ready to listen, ready to he interested, ready to take a share in every thing. The picture looked very charming to him after the dreari- ness of this great room, and Sara gone to hed, and poor Powys banished and broken-hearted. That was not to he his own fate, and Jack grew pious and tender in his self-gratulations. After all, poor Powys was a very good sort of fellow; but, as it happened, it was Jack who had drawn all the prizes of life. He did think at one time of ~oing down-stairs notwithstand- in the delicate state of his own relations with his father, and making such excuses as were piacticable for the unfortunate clerk, who had permi ted himself to he led astray in this fool- ish manner. Of course it was a great risk bringing him here at all, Jack thought of say- ing, that Mr. Browalow might he brought to a due sense of his own responsibility in the mat- ter; hut after long consideration, he wisely reflected that it would he hest to wait until the first parties to the transaction had pronounced them~elves. If Sara did not mean to say any thing about it, nor Powys, why should he inter- fere upon which conclusion, instead of going down-stairs, he went to bed, thinking again how cheerless it was for each memher of the household to start off like this without a single good-night, and how different it would be in the new household that was to come. sara came to hreakfast next morning look- ing very pale. The colour had quite gone out of her cheeks, and she had done herself up in a warm velvet jacket, and had the windows closed as soon as she came into the room. They never will rememher that the summers over, she said,-with a shiver, as she took her place; but she made no further sign of any kind. Clearly she had no intention of com- plaining of her rash lover, so little, indeed, that when Mr Browulow was ahout to go away, she held out a beok to him timidly, with a sud- den hiush. Mr. Powys forgot to take this with him last night; would you mind taking it to him, papal she said very meekly; and as Jack looked at her, Sara hlnshed redder and redder. Not that she had any occasion to blush. L might he meant as an olive-hranch or yen a pledge of hope; hut still it was only a hook that Powes had left hehind him. Mr. Browulow accepted the charge with a little surprise, and he, too, looked at her so closely that it was all -she could do to restrain a burst of tears. Is it such a wonder that I should send back a hook when it is left 1 she cried petulantly. ~You need not take it unless you like, papa; it can always go hy the post. I will take it, said Mr. Brownlow; and Jack sat by rather grimly, and said nothing. Jack was very variahle and uncertain just at that moment in his own feelings. He had not forgotten the melting of his heart on the pre- vious night; hut if he had seen any tokens of relenting on the part of his sister towards the presumptuous stranger, Jack would have again hated Powys. He even observed with suspicion that his father took little notice of Saras agita- tion; that he shut his eyes to it, as it were, and took her book, and evaded all further discussion. Jack himself was not going to Masterton that day. He had to see that everything was in or- der for the next day, which was the 1st of Sep- tember. So far had the season wheeled round imperceptibly while all the variations of this little domestic drama were ripening to their appointe(l end. Jack, however, did not go to inspect his gun, and consult with the gamekeeper, immediately on his fathers departure. He waited for a few minutes, while Sara, who had been so cold, rushed to the window, and threw it open. There must he thunder in the air one can scarcely breathe, she said. And Jack watched her jealously, and did not lose a single look. You were complaining of cold just now,~~ he said. Sara, mind what you are about. If you think you can play that young Powys at the end of your line youre making a great mis- take. Play whom 1 cried Sara, blazing up. You are a nice person to preach to me! I am playing nobody at the end of my line. I have no line to play with; and you that are making a fool of that poor little simple Pamela Be quiet, will you 1 said Jack, furious. That poor little simple Pamela, as you call her, is going to be my wife. Sara gazed at him for a moment, thunder- struck, standing like something made into stone, with her velvet jacket, which she had just taken off in her hands. Then the colour fled from her cheeks as quickly as it had come to them, and her grat eyes filled suddenly, like crystal cups, with big tears. She threw the jacket down out of her hands, and rushed to her brothers side, and clasped his arm. You dont mean it. Jack I do yon mean it 3 she cried piteously, gazing up into his face; and a crowd of differ- ent emotions, more than Jack could discrimi- nate or divine, was in her voice. There was pleasure and there was sorrow, and sharp envy and pride and regret. She clasped his arm, and looked at him with a look which said, How could you I how dare you I and, oh, how lucky you are to be able to do it! all in a breath. Of course I mean it, said Jack, a little roughly; but he did not mean to be rough. And that is why I tell you it is odious of you, Sara, to tempt a man to his destruction, when you know yen can do nothing for him hut break his heart. ~Cant I 3 said Sara, dropping away from his arm, with a faint little moan; and then she 36 BR OWN LOWS. turned quickly away, and hid her face in her hands. Jack, for his part, felt he was bound to improve the occasion, though his heart smote him. He stood secure on his own pedestal of virtue though he did not want her to copy him. Indeed such virtue in Sara would have been lit- tle short of vice. Nothing else, said Jack, and yet you creatures do it without ever thinking of the sufferings you cause. I saw the state that poor fellow was in when he left you last night; and now you be~,in again sending him books! What pleasure can you have in it It is some- thing inconceivable to me. This Jack uttered with a superiority and sense of goodness so lofty that Saras tears dried up. She turned round in a blaze of indignation, too much offended to trust herself to answer. You may be an authority to Pamela, but you are not an authority to me, she cried, draw- ing herself up to her fullest state. But she did not trust herself to continue the warfare. The tears were lying too near the surface, and Sara had been too much shaken by the incident of the previous night. I am not going to dis- cuss my own conduct; you can go and talk to Pamela about it, she added pausing an instant at the door of the room before she went out. It was spiteful, and Jack felt that it was spite- ful; but he did not guess how quickly Sara rushed up-stairs after her dignified progress to the door, nor how ~he locked herself in, nor what a cry she had in her own room when she was safe from all profane eyes. She was not thinking of Pamela, and yet she could have beaten Pamela. She was to be happy, and have her own way; but as for Sara, it was an under- stood duty that the only thing she could do for a man was to break his heart! Her tears fell down like rain at this thought. Why should Jack be so free and she so fettered I Why should Pamela be so well off I Thus a sudden and wild litttle hailstorm of rage and mortifica- tion went over Saras bead, or rather heart. Meanwhile Mr. Browulow went very steadily to business with the book in his pocke. He ha& been a little startled by Saras look, but by this time it was going out of his mind. He was thinking that it was a lovely morning, and still very warm, though the child was so chilly; and then he remembered, with a start that next day was the 1st of September. Another six weeks, and the time of his probation was over. The thought sent the blood coursing through his veins, as if he had been a young man. Everything had gone on so quietly up to that moment no further alarms nothing to revive his fears young Powys hilled to indifference, if indeed he knew anything; and the time of liberation so near. But ~tith that thrill of satisfaction came a corresponding ex- citement. Now that t.he days were numbered, every day was a year in itself. It occurred to him suddenly to go away somewhere, to take Sara with him, and bury himself in some re- mote corner of the earth, where nobody could find him for those fated six weeks; and so make it quite impossible that any application could reach him. But he dismissed the idea. In his absence might she not appear, and dis- close herself I His own presence somehow seemed to keep her off, and at arms length but he could not trust events for a single day if he were gone. And it was only six weeks. After that, yes, he would go away, he would go to Rome or somewhere, and take Sara, and recover his calm after that terrible tension. He would need it, no doubt, so long as his brain did not give way. Mr. Brownlow, however, was much startled by the looks of Powys when he went into the office. He was more haggard than he had ever been in the days when Mr. Wrinkell was suspicious of him. His hair hung on his fore- head in a limp and drooping fashion he was pale, and there were circles round his eyes. Mr. Browulow had scarcely taken his place in his own room when the impatient young man came and asked to speak to him. The reques made the lawyers hair stand up on his head, but he could not refuse the petition. ~ Come in, he said faintly. The blood seemed to go back on his heart in a kind of despair. After all his anticipations of approaching freedom, was he to be arrested after all, before the period of emancipation came I As for Powys, he was too much excited him- self to see anything but the calmest composure in Mr. Browulow, who indeed, throughout all his trials, though they were sharp enough, always looked composed. The ~young man even thought his employer methodical and mat- ter-of-fact to the last degree. He had put out upon the table before him the book Sara had intrusted him. with. It was a snall edition of one of the poets which poor Powys had taken with him on his last unhappy expedition to Browulows; and Mr. Browulow put his hand on the book, with. a constrairted smile, as a schoolmaster might have put his hand on a prize. My daughter sent you this, Powys, he said, a book which it appe~irs you left last night; and why did you go away in such a hurry without letting me know I Miss Browulow sent it I said Powys, growin~, crimson; and for a minute the poor young fellow was so startled and taken aback that he could not add another word. He clutched at the book, and gazed at it hungrily, as if it could tell him something. and then he saw Mr. Brownlow looking at him with surprise, and his colour grew deeper and deeper. That was what I came to speak to you about, sir, he said, hot with excitement and wretchedness. You have trusted me, and I am unworthy- of your trust. I dont mean to excuse my-. self; but I could not let another day go over without telling you.. I have behaved like an. idiot and a villain Stop, stop ! ~ said Mr. Browulow. What is all this about I Dont be excited. I don~ 37 BRO WNLOWS. beVieve you have behaved like a villain. Take time aid compose yourself, and tell inc what it Is. It is that you took me into your house, sir, and trusted me, said Powys, and I have be- trayed your trurt. I must mention her name. I saw your dau~hter too often too much. I should have had the honour and honesty to tell you before I betrayed myself. But I did not mean to betray m self. I miscalculated my stren.~th; and in a moment, when I was not thinking, it gave way. Dont thiuk I have gone on with it, he added, looking beseeching- ly at his employer, who sat silent, not so much as lifting his eyes. It was only last ni~ht and I am ready at the moment, if you wish it, to go away. Mr. Browulow sat at his table and made no reply. Oh, those hasty young creatures, who precipitated everything! It was in a kind of way, the re~nlt of his own scheming, and yet his heart revolted at it, and in six weeks time he would be free from all such necessity. What was tie to do l He sat silent, utterly confound- ed and struck dumb not with surprise and horror as his younr companion in the fulness of his compunction believed, but with confusion arid uncertainty as to what he ought to say and do. He could not offend and affront the yonng man on whose quietness and unawakened thoughts so much depended. He could not send Powys away, to fall probably into the hands of other advisers, aid rise up against himself. Yet could he pledge himself; and risk Saras life, when so sl~ort a time might set him free All this rushed through his mind while he sat still in the same attitude in which he had listened to the young fellows story. All this pondering had to be done in a moment, for Powys was Etanding beside him in all the vehemence of passion, thinking every minute an hour, and waiting for his answer. Indeed, he expected no answer. Yet something there was that must be said, and which Mr. Browulow did not know how to say. - You betrayed yourself i he said, at last; that means, you spoke. And what did Sara say l The colour on Powyss face flushed deeper and deeper. He gave one wild, half-frantic look of inquiry at his questioner. There was noth- ing in the words, but in the calm of the tone, in the naming of his daughters name, there was something that looked like a desperate glimmer of hope; and this unexpected light flashed upon the young man all of a sudden, and made him nearly mad. She said noth- ing, he answered breathlessly. I was not so dishonourable as to ask for any answer. What answer was possible I It was forced out of me, and I rushed away. Mr. Browulow pushed his chair away f-o~n the table. lie got up and went to the window, and stood and looked out, he could not have told why. There was nothing there that could help him in what he had to say. There was nothing but two children standing in the dusty road, and a pale, swarthy organ-grinder, with two big eyes, playing Ah, che la morte out- side. Mr. Brownlow always remembered the air, and so (lid Powys, standing behind, with his heart beating loud, and feeling that the next words he should listen to might convey life or death. If she has sad nothing, said Mr. Brown- low at last from the ~vindow, speaking with his back turned, perhaps it will be as well for me to follow her example. When he said this he returned slowly to his seat, and took his chair without ever looking at the culprit before him. Of course you were wrong, he added; but you are young. You ought not to have been placed in such temptatioir. Go back to your work, Mr. Powys. It was a youthful indiscre- tion; and I am not one of those who reject an honourable apology. We will forget it for ever we, and everybody concerned But, sir, cried Powys. No more, said Mr. Browulow. Let bygones be bygones. You need not go up to Browulows again till this occurrence has been forgotten. I told you Sara had sent you the book you left. It has been an unfortunate ac- cident, but no more than an accident, I hope. Go back to your work, and forget it. Dont do any thim~g ra~h. I accept your apology. Such a thing might have happened to the best of us. But you will be warned by it, and do not err again. Go back to your work. Then I am not to leave yQu I said Powys, sorely tossed between hope and despair, think- ing one moment that he was cruelly treated, and the next overwhelmed by the favour shown him. He looked so wistfully at his employer, that Mr. Brownlow, who saw him though he was not looking at him, had hard ado not to give him a little encouragement with his eyes. If you can assure me this will not be re- peated, I see no need for ~rour leaving, said Mr. Brownlow. You know I wish you well, Powys. I am content that it should be as if it had never been. The young man did not know what to say. The tumult in his mind had not subsided. He was in the kind of condition to which every thing which is not despair is hope. He was wild wimh wonder, bewilderment, confusion. He made some incoherent answer, and the next moment he found hiinseif again at his desk, dizzy like a man who has fallen from some great height, yet feels himself unhurt upon solid ground after all. What was to come of it all I And Sara had sent him his book. Sara! Nev- er in his wildest thoughts had he ventured to call her Sara before. He did not do it witting- ly now. He was in a kind of trance of giddi- ness and bewilderment. Was it all real, or had it happened in a dream I Meanwhile Mr. Browulow too sat and pon- dered this new development. What was it all to come to I He seemed to other people to be the arbiter of events; but that was what he himself asked, in a kind of consternation, of time and fate. 38 HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. 39 From the New York Evening Post. ful that Providence has spared her to me. HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. A CORRESPONDENT in South Carolina sends us parts of the journal of a South Caro- lina lady during the latter part of the war and the earlier months of the peace. The fol- lowing extracts from this journal give a curious and vivid picture of the life led by thousands of women and children during the war. Incidentally, too, the journal gives a very touching story of the fidelity of a brave old colored woman. EDS. EVENING POST. COLUMBIA, S. C., Jan. 20, 1865. I trust that we are now settled for the remainder of the war. I fled first from the seacoast of Florida to Charleston. Thence the bombardment drove me and my poor little children to seek refuge in the up-coun- try. There I was uncomfortable. It was impossible for me to get two rooms together the place was so crowded. And henry ab- sent from me. He is still in Charleston. And those dreadful shells! I dream of them at night. bursting all about him! May Heaven preserve him! Alas! what is life to me now, but care, grief, and anxiety? Every feeling of my heart seems but an- other source of suffering. I am a wife, only to grieve for the absence and danger of my husband. I am a mother, only to feel an- guish for my children. My little Edward is no better. The (loctor tells me that he is ill, in a great degree, from want of proper food. My children are not used to eating corn bread, and I can get nothing else for them. Dr. Hall is so kind and good! He said that the children in his own family had been suffering from the same cause. Yet he took some silver to dispose of for me to get food for mine. I was married at the very time that se- cession took place. I was called a beautiful girl then. Oh, what do I care for beauty now! A little health for my poor Edward bread for my children, would be wealth to me now. I read this over. It is so unthankful! I ought to be thankful that I have at length a settled home. No life among my loved ones has been taken from me. My children sleep beside me while I write. To be sure I write by fire-light; but I should he thank- ful that I have the fire. Again I sit musing and writing by the fire-light, after my nurse and children are asleep. Dear old soul! I should be thank- Dr. Hall has brought me flour and meat, and paid in advance for milk for my baby. Now it is better. Maiun Cely showed me how to make pap for it. and it was so well to-day that she went away to wash, and left me with it. I read in the papers that Stvannah has fallen, and I see in the streets a third of the men at home. Oh! how shameful it is! They make every excuse to get out of the army and to stay at home. I hear that one man, at home on furlough, deliberately shot off his thumb the other day to be disabled. I hope they made him go. There was cousin George telling me, to-day, that his old cap- tain has written to the officer some offi- cer, I do not remember which to send him on to his company, as they are expect- ing to meet the enemy. Perhaps he is the only educated man in the company. The rest are all from near the mountains. And instead of going he has gone to the commis- sary general, and made interest throu~h him for a fortni~hts furlough home to see his mother. He says the Confederacy is gone up any how, and he had rather survive it. The refugees are flying here from Augusta. They say Sherman is marching there. Rents have risen enormously, because so many valuables are sent here for safe keep- ing, and so many refuizees from all quarters are crowding here. Geoege says this place is considered the safest part of the State. He brought me some Confederate money to-day, and told me I might as well use it while anything could be bought with it. I had some on hand, too; but, as I could not buy provisions with it, I had not thought of anything else. So I went out with him. Di-ess goods can still be purchased, but at the most enor- mous prices. I bought a lead-coloured flannel dress for $400 $40 per yard. I also bought bright-colored plaids for the children at the same price. It seemed to me prodigal and wicked to give so much money. I should not have done it, but George insisted. You might as well give brown paper, he said ; get it while you can. I bought a bolt of white homespun; also a bolt of checked home- spun. Those articles will be of great value to me. I spent all Georges money, too he insisted upon it. Somehow, I felt for a little while like my old self again. I came home flushed and sparkling, as I used to look. Maum Cely looked gravely at me. She led me to the glass. Look, Miss Mary, she said, is HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. you starved like me? Is you old oman, to go trew de street so wid mas George and so much sodgers about? Law. Miss Mary, mas Ueorge neber was no cou~t. Mas Henry tell me when he gwine away, to take care of you; and you not gwine out again. Ii anybing wanted, I kin go. Sodgers not pester me. I cast my eyes upon the glass. I did look as beautiful as ever as when I was called the beautiful Miss Moore. But I had no thought of my looks at all. I never re- membered my appearance. I was thinking only of necessaries and comforts for my children. General Beauretxard has arrived and taken command in t~e city. I feel easy now. Surely we are safe under his protec- tion. I saw his army enter, for I have lodgings over a store upon Main Street. Every one seems confident now that should that horrid Sherman approach, he and his gallant army can defend us. I tolci George to-day that he must join his command. To think of the men idling about as they do! Columbia is filled wih loaters, who ought to be at the front. 1 heard one superintendent of the rail- road say that he kept a man out of the army for every mile of road. I heard, too, that he would neither employ negroes nor old men, hut gained exemption, in that way, for all his neighbours and friends. To ex- tend his influence. To gain popularity for himself And, oh! how he can talk about patriotism! Tis positively disgusting. But George says his whole fortune is in- vested in Confederate bonds. If we are conquered, he will get his reward, and that is one comfort. MONDAY. General Beauregard is having embank- ments chrown up to retar(l Shermans march. He is coming. They have torn away all the bridges. There will be a siege of the cit The streets are filled with people fly- ing to the country. George is done to get a wagon for me, but it is raining in torrents. I could not take my children out in such weather not if I remained here and was killed. I had rather trust to the mercy of the enemy. And oh! where is Henry? his command has not been heard from. Nobody knows what has become of them. FEB. 20. It is over. Columbia lies in ruins. It has pleas d God to preserve me and my helpless little darlings. I will try to put down a disdnct nc~ouitt of it. I left off where John had gone to get a wagon; but he could not procure one. Only those who had gold and silver coin could do this, and the weather was such that I could not have taken my sick child out. I told him not to try any more. On Thursday. General Beauregard evacuated the city. He had thought, I believe, that the enemy could not cross the river. The destruction of the bridges availed Lothing. They had bridges with them, and it did not even delay them. On Fri- day morning, the fatal entrance was made. We were all crowded into an upper room on Main Street. George had dyed his face and hands, and had procured a suit of dray- mans clothing. His hair and eyes are so black, that he passed for a mulatto very well. When the enemy entered, he came to my room in this guise, intending to pass as Maum Celys son. They watched the enemy from the window. I crouched by the fireside. I could only weep, and hold fast my children. About twelve oclock they began to fire the city. George had been out, and saw the flames commence at the corner of the block in which I resided. He came in and gave us the news. Maum Cely said she would go out and get help, and charged us to wait until she returned. George and I gathered up what valuables we could. I had a great deal of silver. That he tied up in a sheet, together with the childrens clothing. In the mean time, the flames spread with frightful rapidity. Cotton bales had been piled in the street, what for I cannot tell. They. took fire; and all hope of saving any part of Main Street was then gone. The store next to us had caught when Maum Cely came back. She brought with her two negro men. One I recog- nised immediately: he had belonged to my father. 0 Lewis! 1 said, help nine! Dat we will, missy; we see you safe. Dis my chile, he said, and secured little Harry. Oh, yes, save my children! I cried. While we spoke, Maum Cely made the other man (who he was I never knew.) throw the mattresses on the floor. She directed me to lie down on theni. They then rolled me up in them, tied all around with the curtains and cord, passing a fold of the curtains over each end. George and one negro tcok me up. Lewis brought both my children. I knew that they were safe with him. He had a rar- ged coloured blanket round his neck, and they were concealed under it, and un5ler a ragged overcoat. Maum Cely brought the 40 HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. bundle of silver and clothing and every- thing she could. They went through the yard, into a back street; negroes were rushing in all direc- tions. Everybody was trying to save some- thing, and carrying out bundles. Women and children were screaming. I do not think that we were even noticed in the general confusion. The soldiers did not interfere with anything that the negroes did. They plundered and despoiled everything them- selves, and gave to them. I afterwards found that Maum Cely had prevetited their entering the upstairs rooms where we were, by declaring that they belonged to her. When I was set down, I found myself in a little negro cabin, in one of the back streets of the city. Maum Cely had judged aright in supposing that soldiers would be least likely to come there. Lewiss wife lived there, two bedsteads were in the one room of which the cabin consisted. They took everything off of one bed and apolo- gized to me for it. Maum Cely spread my bedding upon it, hung the curtains around it so as to make it a place of concealment, and requested me to lie down in it while she placed my baby there in safety. The only idea of these my generous friends seemed to be their regret at the fa- miliarity which circumstances imposed, and at the poor accomodation which they were able to offer. They seemed to think it a matter of course that they should thus protect their masters child. But I could not be thus un- grateful: I thanked them even with tears. On seeing me safe, the three men went back to Main Street, while Maum Cely re- mained to guard and protect me. The flames raged all of that day, and I think that all the houses and stores on Main Street were laid in ashes. The very negroes who had behaved with such ~ener- ous kindness towards me did not hesitate to plunder other people. Toward night, they returned, laden with flour, meat, sugar, tea, and coffee. Lewis brought some tin cups and plates, expressly for me. Maum Cely made some biscuit and tea, which she served to me and the children, as respect- fully as she had ever done. And it was not until I was served that she even began to cook any thing for the rest. They went out of doors to eat, and then all repaired elsewhere for the night, except Maum Cely and Lewiss wife, who remained with me. My own clothing had all been burnt, even the articles which I had purchased with ~o much pleasure only a few days before. George and Lewis re-appeared the next day, with some silk dresses and a few other ar tides, which Lewis had plundered from some one else. George now informed me that he had refused to rejoin the army be- cause he foresaw that I might need his pro- tection, and that he knew the Confederacy was gone up anyhow, as he expressed it. DARK CORNER, March 10. I lay concealed among these faithful ser- vants until Shermans army had left the city. For some time after that, the weather con- tinued dreadful. The rain poured in tor- rents. The bridges were swept away, and communications interrupted everywhere. It was impossible for George to get me a room in any of the houses that remained standing. In many instances three or four families were already crowded into one house. The negroes generally had enough provisions but the white people who had been burnt out suffered dreadfully. The servants gave up their cabin to me during all this time. Maum Cely was in the habit of sleeping in the room with me already, and the presence of Hannah, Lewiss wife, made little differenve. But as soon as the weather cleared, a wagon was procured, and, accompanied by George and Maum Cely, we set out for this place, where I felt sure of being taken in at the same boarding-house where I had for- merly staid. We had almost to beg our way, yet no one refused to take us in at night. It was sufficient to say that we had been burnt out in Columbia to meet with sympathy and kindness everywhere. If I could but hear of Henrys safety, I could bear all that we have gone through. I made all the journey in a light-colored silk belonging to some one else, with a little thawl pinned over my head. My childrens clothing was most of it saved, but I forgot myself. I still have nothing to wear but those silks, and, of course, no means whatever of supplying my wardrobe. I fancy that I look strange mindin gmy children while Maum Cely washes for them, in a long-trained silk, a great deal too large and long for me. But I am thankful enough to get the one room now, which I formerly found so uncomfortable, and to be boarding with Mrs. Johnson again. Two days since I heard that Henrys re- giment had never been engaged. Sherman did not go when he was expected. I left a letter for him in Columbia with Lewis, and he promised to find some way of letting him know where I have gone. Truly we have 41 HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. been chased about, and broken up; but I trust that the same kind Providence which has wat lied over us so far will yet care for us, and give us rest here. DARK CORNER, March 30. Alas for me, poor me! I open my jour- nal and it speaks of rest. Rest indeed rest for me! As well mxy the bunted hare speak of rest. Strong men can never know what helpless women and their young chil- dren know of suffering: whatever they may endure. it is but thenselves. It is we who know the extent of human calamity. Prov- idence did not intend us to struggle with the world alone. Mrs. Johnson came this morning to ask payment for my fortnights hoard. I was obliged to tell her that I had no money; that I thought she could wait until Henry came to settle it. Wait indeed, she said; do you wait for food until Henry comes? I had not supposed that a lady of your family and position would come into my house. antI eat up the hard earnings of a poor widow with- out intending payment. If you knew that you had no money, why did you come here ? Oh! how I wept, I offered her my silver; but she replied that she also had abundance of silver, and that she could not get food for her own. And yet I and my babes have no food but what belongs to this woman. SAME DAY, EVENING. This evening she sent me word that she would not turn me out of my room, but that I must find food for myself hereafter. About six oclock, Maum Cely came in and found me weeping. I had saved two biscuits from breakfast, these and an apple were all the food that my children had had since morning. When I. toll her all about it, she said, You never mind, Miss Mary, I will feed you: you not gwine to starve while your maumer got two hands. Jest make up de fire, said she, pointing to a pile of sticks which she had gathered before going out in the morning. Aint you read in de Bible, dat de Lord feed de maben? Ente you bet- ter dan dem? Maum Cely returned in a little time with some meal and milk. These articles seem- ed to me the greatest treasure I had ever seen: but we had no oven nor cooking utensils of any kind. Maum Cely wrapped the dough in brown paper, and baked it in the ashes. We had Lewiss present of cu,ps and plates. While the bread was baking, she sat flat on the hearth looking at it. Miss Mary, she sail, I want to lam you how for cook bread for de chilern when I gone out to work. If you kin cook de bread,we do bery well. We had bread and milk for supper, and all are i~one to bed but me. I s;t here and write. Truly the Father hat.h provided. How unthankful I was this morning! How careless I have been of praisinghim, who is now my only helper! I had rather accept food from her, a thousand times over, than from Mrs. Johnson. She is like mother and nurse both to me. And to think that I once threw my slip- per at her! Her feelings were hurt at the time, too. But they are a forgiving, gen- erous, loving rac& I was ashamed, too, for days and days after I had done it, and Henry shamed me so too for it. I can scarcely recall it now without tears; but I will punish myself by writing it down for me to remember. Oh! if we ever regain our lands again, I hope I will remember all this. I have never been half so loving and good to her as she to me. It happened thus: I was just married a short time, and rather proud of my new po- sition as housekeeper and mistress of an es- tablishment. But Henrys old servants had a way of treating me as a child who knew nothing, and of going to him for di- rections. It was in vain that I assured them that I was niistress and housekeeper, and that I did know how to keep house. They assumed on all occasions that I (lid not know. One day Henry and I had just come in from a walk in King Street. I had strictly charged Mauin Cely not to put much pepper in the soup, explaining to her that I could not bear pepper, and that Hen- ry could add pepper, but that I could not take it out. I had also locked up the pep- per. But it was contrary to her ideas to make soup without a great deal of pepper, and so she came, just as we had come in, to ask Henry for more pepper. I was just taking off my walking shoes, and putting on my slippers, and I sent the slipper at Maum Cely. She retired in- stantly with an air of offended dignity. I was so ashamed in a moment, and so was Henry! I sent her by him a silver half- dollar and a message that I was sorry; but the act could not be undone. APRIL 6, 1865. I am really happier for some occupation. Manmn Cely is up at dawn in the morning. She m~kes the flre, puts on corn-bread, and then wakes me. She has procured a little oven somewhere. While I am dressing, I 42 HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. watch the bread, and have learned now how to bake it without burning, and to have it thoroughly done; for if it is the least raw it is very unwholesome for the children. When they wake, I dress them. While I am doing this, Maum Cely gathers dry sticks, chips, & c., for the day. I keep bak- ing bread as long as the fire lasts, so as to use as little wood as possible. Maum Cely always contrives to bring enough to last until the next morning. She never takes breakfast out of our stock, but always get her food where she works. By sunrise she has brought me a large pail of water, left me wood enough for the day, and is gone to her days work. In the evening she brings in what she has earned, not in money, but meal or flour, and some- times meat, milk, or potatoes. The country people all around are will- ing to give something for washing, though they do all other work themselves, and she hesitates at nothing that will support us. One day in the week she washes for us and herself, and scours up everything. I clean the oven, put our room in order, patch our clothing, and do all that I can. When the children are dressed and everything in order, I take them out in the fresh air; the spring mornings are lovely, and little Ed- ward is getting quite well. Maum Cely ad- vised me to take an old calico frock of Ed- wards and make myself a long sun-bonnet. This I have done and contrived a pair of gloves, too. All day I mind the children, but I can do sewing work I will beg Maum Cely to get me some. APRIL 30. Our armies have surrendered. I have always believed our cause a just one, and thus I have always felt sure that we would eventually succeed. Nothing could have been a greater blow to me than this intel- ligence, unless it had been the death of my dear husband or one of my children. Truly, Providence brings to pass the right. When I was in Columbia, I asked the Rev. Mr. Chester if he thought that negro slavery could be wrong in the sight of God. His father had been a planter; he was brought up among them; he had every opportunity of knowing their treatment. He told me that he did not think it wrong. His opin- ion quieted my apprehensions until now I thought he must know so much better than I. But I am afraid that we were wrong. I am afraid that on the large plantations, in the absence of the owners, cruelties were committed. It is hard for me to tell what was done, for in good society, and among educated people, the least harshness would have been regarded as so uneentlemanly or so unladylike. The servants always imposed upon us a great deal, and we found it easi- est to let them alone. I know that after I threw the slipper at M~ium Cely I never tried to govern the old servants any more. I was so shocked at myself, that I gave them up, and let thcm have their own way. MAY 5. Peace has been declared. Henry has returned. This weary war is over. Henry brought a little purse full of gold pieces. When the soldiers heard of the surrender, they seized upon the quartermasters office and divided everything there among them, Confederate money, provisions, and gold and silver. Henry called Maum Cely, and offered her a gold piece; but Maum Cely refused to take anything. She desired him to get me some clothes and shoes, if he could get any- thing. She showed him my foot the shoe has worn through, and the foot blistered wherever it had touched the ground. I did not know she knew it. 1 had scarcely thought about it. MAY 7. Maum Cely came and sat down on the hearth by us just now, and askel Henry what he was going to do. Henry said he thought he could get into business again in Savannah. She then begged him not to spend his money, except in travelling expen- ses and a little clothing, and not to vary our present manner of living. Henry was un- willing to leave me again dependent upon her. But she insisted that she was happy and well. Maussa, she said, Oona is chilers to me. I is work for my chilers. You leff Miss Mary wid me. Go and get work, for I is ole, and I not like to see Miss Mary work and bake bread. But keeps your money, if I git rheumatiz, or de chile sick, I can keep Miss Mary long as I will. Mrs. Johnson soon sent to dun Henry for our board and for the rent of the room. I was delighted that henry had the money. Maum Cely was delighted too. He sent Maum Cely to her with the money, and charged her to bring back a receipt. We had forty dollars left, and, to Maums great satisfaction, Henry reserved twenty dollars for his joarney, and with twenty we agreed to purchase clothing and shoes. MAY 10. Henry is gone again, but I feel a quiet hope now that he will soon be able to take us to Savannah, and support us there. And I am quite used now to having only meal and milk or potatoes to live on. I am mak 43 HOW THEY LIVED IN SOUTH CAROLINA. ing two homespun dresses for myself, and one for Manin Cely. I have a pair of new leather shoes. They are the first leather shoes I have ever worn. I bought them too large on purpose, but they hurt my feet dreadfully. I have made a pair of home- spun slippers, to wear in the house. I wanted a few towels very much, but we could not get what could be done without. Mrs. Johnson took away her sheets, which we were usino; but Maum Cely washed the silk skirt which I had worn coming from Columbia in the wa,,on, and with that and the covering which was wrapped around me in the mattresses when I was, carried out from the fire, we do very well. MAY 25. My little Henry saw some boys shooting crackers in the street to-day; he was so delighted with them that he came to beg me for some, but I could not give him any. Ever since, he has joined to his little prayers every night and morning, Oh, Good Papa, please give me a pack of crackers ! One day he said to me, Mamma, if Good Papa is good and loves us, why dont he give us money and give me crackers? Why does he not let us have corn bread and milk? My poor child! I did not know that he could remember anything else but priva- tions. He is but four years old. I did not think he knew of anything else. hear my child speak thus renewed my sorrow; yet I know that I have been often impatient too. MAY 28. Maum Cely brought me a quarter of a dollar in money, with great glee, last night, and, rather than anything for myself, I thought of my little boys prayer for crack- ers. Yet I feared she might think that I wasted her earnings if I proposed to buy them. While I hesitated, she read my face, and said, Miss Mary, if you want tea, or sugar, or what eber you want, you git it. I burst into tears of strangely mingled grati- tude and sorrow, and told her about Henrys prayer. The next morning when he awoke the crackers lay upon his pillow, and were the first thing he saw upon awaking. He in- stantly clasped his little hands: Thank you, Good Papa for the crackers. And all day I and he have been so happy! JuNE 9. The negroes have been declared free. All masters are commanded to declare to their freedmen, late their~ slaves, the news of their freedom. I told Maum Cely; but I think she imagined it a reproach, a piece of ingratitude on my part, to name it to her. No, Miss Mary, I not free I not free I not gwyne for free, unless you gwine turn me off when you git rich. No, Miss Mary, your own nigga will neber leff you. I not leff you. I wont leff you. Mrs. Johnson is very angry about the rent, and makes us very uncomfortable here. She wishes Maum Cely to wash for her family for the rent of this room. I told her that Maum Cely was as free as I was, and that she must ask her. Maum Cely flatly refused, and told her that she had paid her the money and taken her receipt. That Massa Henry would pay when it was due again. She did not know that white peo- ple wanted to be paid by two people. She thought they left that for the niggas. I heard the contest through the window. I could not help laughing. That witticism of Maum Celys was in answer to Mrs. Johnsons having told me that she did not think that a lady of my position and family would consume the hard earnings of a poor widow, and not intend to pay. JULY 12. I actually dined out yesterday. Mrs. Allen came to see me and invited me to dine. I was to bring the children there early in the morning, and walk back late in the evening. As she lives on a large farm, she had everything much as was usual with her. She had for dinner a pair of roast fowls and a ham, nice loaf bread, and a variety of vegetables all raised upon her own farm. I was afraid the children would behave like little savages. I have no knives and forks, and they have been eating with their fingers so long or with a spoon only. I was also afraid that they would eat too much, hav- ing generally only the corn bread and milk. Often I have milk enough only for Edward. Mrs. Allen had a large apple dumpling for dessert, and this I did not allow them to touch. I was not intending to take any myself either, that they might not see me partake of what they could not have; but Mrs. Allen hid her youngest daughter take them both away until I had finished. She gave me a cup of tea also; how delightful and refreshing it seemed when I had not seen any for so long a time! I showed her my feet, on which the blisters have become such that I do not know what to do with them. The leather shoes, and coarse, coun- try-made hose, which Henry thought would make me so comfortable, torture me so that I have kept on making rags and pieces of 44 45 ZOUAVE JACOB. homespun into slippers, that I might keep up and do my part. Mrs. Allen dressed them, and bound them up. She had a crutch cut off short, for my use, and says that if I use it for awhile, and do not take the children out, but only sit in the door and watch them play, my feet will get well. She also sent me home in her wagon, and gave me a dumpling and sauce for the chil- dren to eat a little to-morrow; also some flour and butter. I asked her if she thought I could get sewing work anywhere. But she says all the refugees are ready to do sewing, and that few people have it to give. AUGUST 26. I have just received a delightful letter from Henry. He has got into business in Savannah. and will come for me and take me to a home in the fall. The gentleman who was formerly his factor has given him a clerkship at five hundred dollars a year. I am sure we can do very well on this, only we could not ~hange the climate at this time of the year; we will have to wait un- til fall. In the mean time, he will send me some money every month. From the Spectator. THE ZOUAYE JACOB. PARIS has been ringing for the last fort- night with stories about a non-commissioned officer of Zouaves named Jacob presum- ably a Jew who, it seems, claims the tower of working miracles, or, if not mira- cles, cures without any agency save his own will. According to popular rumour, he can cure all diseases in an instant by the glance of his eye, has cured the heir of the Bonapartes of scrofula, has cured Marshal Forey of hemiplegia, has cured the Count de Chflteauveillard, or some such name, of long-standing paralysis, has cured this chif- fonier, and that fishwife, and the other Auvergnat porter of most diseases known to man. So profound is the belief in his powers among the lower classes, that the street in which he operates is biocked up; and the police, either moved by the annoy- ance, or warned by the priests that cures of the kind did not tend to increase belief in Christianity, ordered the exhibition to end. All this is very vague, too vague for com- ment; but it appears from really respecta- ble testimony that a yuan of this name, wearing a Zouave uniform, has really claimed a power of curing by an effort of the will such diseases as have their origin in paralysis of the nerves; that he has either cured, or deceived, or bought certain pro- tectors; and that he has excited a sort of furore among the lower classes. Further, it seems that one Englishman, presumably intelligent and certainly educated. has ha I access to his room during the cures. The Birmingham Journal is not, we fear, a paper quite so much read in London as it deserves t~ be, hut it possesses a Paris correspondent who is certainly a great gossip, and we fear given, when hardly pressed, to trust a little to a very fertile imagination, and who makes upon the subject of this Zouave the following extraordinary statement, by far the most minute which has yet appeared in England. We cannot hel~i the length of a narrative which is well worth the time it takes to read, and which is absolutely essen- tial to 6ur purpose. The Zonave admits no one to his presence who is not really afflicted with disease or infir- mity; those who are led to the Rue de la Ro- quette by curiosity hem.. compelled to remain in the waiting-room. Fortunately, I was fur- nished with a letter from his best friend, and became privileged at once. I entered the room with twenty of the most ragged and dirty of the whole mob, and am thus enabled to describe the scene. The Zouave was standing as if in a reverie when we entered pell-mell into the long, low apartment, where the cures were per- formed. lie was leaning against the wall, with his eyes half open, after the fashion of Som- nambula before entering completely into trance, the only difference being in the intense light, shot out from the living orbs beneath the droop- ing eyelids. He neither spoke nor moved while his father busied himself in arranging the visit- ors upon the low wooden benches before him. Every crutch and stick was taken from the in- firm patients, and placed in the corner behind the door, amid the timid whines of the poor frightened creatures, accustomed to look upon the help afforded by these objects as absolutely necessary to their safety. When all were seat- ed thus, leaning the one a~ainst the other, the fiither, going close up to the son, whispered in his ear. He was aroused in a moment, and coming forward with a movement brusque and hurried, savouring of the military camp, and not in the least of the solemnity of the magi- cians sanctuary, he walked up and down for a few minutes before the eager line of sufferers. To each he told the disease nuder which he er she was suffering, and the original cause 6f the malady; and, as no objection was made in any one case, I am led to suppose him to have been right in all. Presently, however, I observed him to stop suddenly, and fix his eye upon one of the patients who sat at the extreme end of ZOtIAVE JACOB. the second bench, and, after examining him a moment, turn aside with a slight shudder, which I observed was neither of disgust nor dread, but a kind of involuntary recoil. He said ab- raptly, pointing with his forefingar straight into the face of the individual he addressed, I can do nothing for your disease; it is beyond my power; go, and remember it is useless to return. This was all; hut the words acted upon the man like a magic spell. He shook from bead to foot, like the aspen-leaf, and tried to gasp out a few words, but whether of prayer or expostulation it is impossible to say, for his tongue seemed paralyzed, and clung to the roof of his mouth, while the Zouave turned aside with an indescribable expression of fear, certain- ly indicative of a kind of intimidation. But this was soon shaken oW and he again passed before the line, uttering simply the words, Rise and walk! The sound which simulta- neously bur~t from the assembly could find no fitting description in any language. It was a sort of moaning whine, a kind of infantile wailing, evidently produced by fear and doubt. One feeble old beggar woman, wbose l~ad had stopped its palsied sbaking from the moment the Zonave Jacob had fixed his glittering eye upon her, was the one who gave expression to the feeling which had evidently taken possession ot them all. Oh, how can I move without my crutches? and haviu~ turned a yearning look towards the corner where these old friends and supporters were standing, with a host of others, she began to mumble and moan most piteously. But the Zounve looked for an instant down the line, wirh an oiniious frown on his brow, as he found that not one of the patients had obey ed his orders. No pretension to the sacred charac- ter of a prophet, or inspired seer, was there, for he stamped with such rude violence on the floor that the casement shook again. He almost uttered an oath, but it was unfinished, as be once more uttered the command to rise and walk, so that others might be admitted in their place. Then came the most strange and mys- lerious moment of the whole ceremony. One by one did every individual seated upon those low wooden benches rise and stand erect. No wttrds can describe the singular spectacle of- fered by this fearing, hoping, doubting crowd, as cach one tund himself standing firm upon the legs which for years had ceased to do their office. Some laughed like foolish children, some remained wrapped in stolid wonder, while many burst into the most heartrending paroxysm of weeping. It was then that the Zouave stretched forth his arm and bade them pause. All was bushed and sient for a moment. The pause lasted for some time. I have been told that it is always so, hut have not been able to account for its necessity; and then the door was thrown open, and the crippled and the paralyzed, the halt a~d lame of the hour before, walked from that log, low, half-darkened chamber, with somewhat timitl gait, it may be, hut with straightened limbs and measured steps, as though no ailment bad ever reached them. One or two amongst the number turned to thank their deliverer, but the Zonave dismissed them bru- tally. Be off; dont stand shilly-shally. You are cured, aint you? thats enough now pietiez moi le camp! In plain English, Cut your stick, and be gone! Before leav- ing the room, I turned to look at the single pa- tient whose case Jacob had pronounced as be - ing beyond his power to cure the man was paralyzed in both arms, and his neck twisted all awry. It certainly was a hang-dog counte- nance worse than any I ever beheld and the expression of rage and hate and fear, which it conveyed, was unmistakable. His feet were paralyzed likewise and twined outwards. The Zonaves father searched amongst the sticks and crutches left in the corner for those which belonged to the only cripple destined to remain so, and as he touched each one, looked with in- quiring gla~ce towards the unhappy wretch, who answered with an awkward jerk of his wry neck, until he seized upon a sort of wooden sFelf or go-cart upon wheels, which the cripple had been used to push before him. A boy cam in to help him from his seat, and as he disappeated supported hy this aid. he u~tered a poignant groan, which resounded through the place with the most weird and terrible effect imaginable. I subsequently inquired of the Zouave by what impression he was made aware of his inability to cure. He answered simply that in cases of this kind a veil seemed to fall before his eyes and impede his view of the patient. We need not say we do not ask our readers to believe one word of that most ex- traordinary statement. We know nothing whatever of the correspontlent of the Bir- mingltam Journal, except that for years past he has been telling stories in that paper better than almost any one tells them; we do not know his name, and are wholly unable to decide whether he saw all this, or deliberately invented all this, or, as is most probable, pieced together all this from other mens stories, and then made himself the hero of the narrative. That remark about the veil looks decidedly like an in- vention, for it is Scotch, old S otch, was the mode adopted fifty years ago by the seerss of Skye to describe the modus operandi of their power of predicting death. Nor do we care much to explain, or try to explain, the impression the Zonave has unquestion- ably produced in Paris. Our own impres- sion is, we confess, a very sti-ong one, that he is not a fatmatic at all, but an impostor, who gets up this drama as an advertise- n~ent, with the view of creating an impres- sion highly profitable in Paris that be can cure what qoacks call nervous dis- eases, but that is only a plausible guess. But the story irresistibly suggests the old query, what amount of evidettee would 46 ROMAN, ANGLICAN, AND PROTESTANT MUSIC. 47 justify an intelligent human being in believ- ing the facts related of the Zonave? Clearly no statements from nnknown news- paper correspondents would justify him, be- cause we have no sufficient proof that they are certain to tell the truth, or intelligent enough to detect falsehood. But how much evidence would do? Suppose, instead of an unknown gossip, a known man, say Mr. W. H. Russell, had signed that wonderful tale, would that have been sufficient? No; for any one individual might have been the victim of an illusion. Well, but suppose a group of known men, say, to make the sup- position perffct, the Archbishop of Canter- bury, Mr. Maurice, Lord Stanley, Mr. Lewes, Professor Huxley, and Sir Henry Thompson the operator, we mean had added their ~ignat ures to the tale, would that have been sufficient? We believe one-half the edu(ated men in England would say immediately no, that no evidence whatever could prove an occurrence, or rather a series of occurrences, so nearlx approaching the miraculou~. And yet, if the testimony of many men morally incapa- ble of lying, intellectually more competent to test the deception than any average doubter to test their statements, is not to be accepted, why do we believe anything? Most of us have no better proof that the Queen exists, fir, after all, ones eyesight, if fairly considered, is by no means so com- plete a demonstration of any fact as the testimony of those six men would be. Their six eyesights are worth more than our one, on any rule of evidence worth dis- cussion. There is no proof that we know of that the earth goes round the sun, except the testimony of a good many competent and honest persons that they have seen, or otherwise convinced themselves of, certain phenomena which can be explained only upon that theory. Jacob, as we say, seems to us a vulgar impostor, who has taken in the clever raconteur whose account we have quoted; but our contention is that if the six gentlemen namefl had seen the same incidents, and tested their reality, and sign- ed the st orytellers statement, we should either be bound tQ accept the facts their meaning is a different matteror to state honestly that there are incidents so new, so unusual, and so unlike any previous experience, that evidence in regard to them has no meaning or weight at all. This is the point to which we want to brine, our opponents on this subject and never can bring them. Is there any occur- rence not involving directly or indirectly a contradiction in terms which they would, upon the testimony of these six men, when specially interested in investigation, refuse absolutely to believe? And if so. upon what grounds do they accept anything, or build any scheme of scientific, antiquarian, or judicial research? What is the limit, short of a statement which co~~tradicts itself, beyond which testimony has no value? Is there no amount of testimony which would prove, prove to a demonstration, that the mere will of a Zouave named Jacob could enable a paralyzed person to walk like a healthy man; and if so, how much? or if not, what is our ground for believing a statement of a gradual cure of similar disease in any hospital in Great Britain? Upon the answer to those ques- tions, upon the establishment, if it be pos- sible, of some distinct canon as to the value of evidence, depends the whole utility of inquiry into the more recondite phenomena of nature, and haif the value at least of modern theologic discussion. You are trying, we shall be told, toprov~, on scientific grounds, the scientific value of an unscientific credulity. Well, well, well! never mind about names. Call it credulity or faith, superstition or conviction, the point remains the same. Is there, or is there not, a possible amount of human testimony which ought to produce certainty as to a particular event in a reasoning mind, which in truth, for all purposes of sub-equent investigation or theory-building, makes it a fact, as much to be reckoned with as the appearance of an unexpected comet in an astronomers calcu- lations? We contend that there is, and must be, and have as yet seen no answer from the honestly sceptical side which does not involve the unscientific conclusion that there are facts not impossible in se, which yet are so unlikely that no amount of evi- dence would prove that they occurred. The unhikeliest thing we know of is that a grain of wheat should be buried, and then months afterwards shoot .ont sixty other grains he was a speculator, the genius who first tried that ! but still one believes it, and acts on the belief. Why, if testi- mony to the unlikely has a limit to its force? From The Fortnightty Review. ROMAN, ANGLICAN, AND PROTESTANT SACRED MUSiC. A MAN must be singularly ill-informed or singularly unsympathetic who does not view the changes at present going on in the life of English society with a quite unusual 48 ROMAN, ANGLICAN, AND PROTESTANT MUSIC. degree of interest It is not that we have just now arrived at one of those periods of crisis which to a certain class of minds seem to be chronically imminent, but which in truth rarely occur, either in our individual histories or in the histories of nations. The special interest of our time lies in its being eminently a period of transition, not merely in one or two details of thought and activity, but in almost the whole range of opinion, belief, and practical action. This transition, too, has really been in progress for many years past, and it seems probable that many years have yet to come and go before the movements now at work shall have wrought their natural results, and we are fairly lodged in the new state of things to which we are tending. But yet, so far as can be judged, we shall soon arrive at a stage when these tendencies will exhibit themselves and their operations in a far more striking aspect than any which they have yet assumed, and will thus enable us to forecast the future with anticipations of a more trustworthy sort than those guesses which have been hitherto the utmost upon which a cautious mind would venture. In the regions of politics, of social life, of trade and manufacture, of metaphysical and sci- entific speculation, and of religious belief, everything is moving onwards to something new and unknown; and everywhere signs are exhibited which show that the move- ment is as profound in its depth as it is ex- tensive in its range. It is evident, more- over at least, so it appears to me that the whole of these changes, in their vast variety and apparent unconnectedness, are really due to one cause namely, the rec- ognition of the truth that all belief and all action should be founded on observed facts, and not upon the hypotheses of the past. We may be still destined to be, to no small extent, the victims of our own pre- judices or dreams; and there may be grounds for imagining that the capacity for scientific observation and correct reasoning will never be much more general than it is at this hour. Nor, again, is it to be expect- ed that intelligences at once versatile, cor- rect, enlarged, and profound, will ever be less rare than they are at this day, and than they have been during the past. Those who can thoroughly understand the leading facts and the principles of more than one province of thought a ad knowledge will ever be the exceptions, even amongst the most cultivated classes; so that there is too little hope that the bigotries and intoler- ances from which scarcely any class of thinkers is now free will ever cease. Still, when we penetrate below the surface, in every one of the subjects which I have named we detect one universal tcndency urging all alike in the same direction. Amidst an ever-increasing shattering of old beliefs, there is an ever-increasing desire for the attainment of some state in which con- viction and practical life may attain a con- dition of permanence, as resting upon in- contestable facts, and corresponding to what we call, in mechanics, a condition of stable equilibrium, as distinguished from that unstable equilibrium with which past generations have often been so uiiaccount- ably satisfied. On first thoughts it may seem fanciful to connect with these tendencies that increas- ing love for music in public worship which is so striking a phenomenon of the religious movement of to-day. Yet the connection is real nevertheless. It is a result of the - slowly advancing conviction that the regu- lations of a series of acts which are to be performed by men and women should be based on a recognition of the facts of human nature, and not on the traditions of the- ological controversy and the blind bigotries of the past. If the movement is still chiefly confined to the Anglican and Dissenting communities, it is because the Roman Cath- olic clergy are always the slowest to look actual facts in the face, and are absolutely convinced that there is nothing to be learnt from Protestantism. They are, moreover, so penetrated with the tear that any hints they may borrow from Protestants may be re- garded as a confession of their own falli- bility, and as a sort of misprision of heresy, that they close their eyes to the most ob- viously useful practices, if only they have been originated by their detested rivals. In England, too, the presence of a powerful Establishment, and of a vast body of in- tensely anti-Roman Nonconformists, quick- ens these prejudices to a degree little known in such countries as France and Germany~ and blinds the eyes of the Catholic authori- ties to the suicidal nature of various pra(- ties to which they cling, as if they were among the very essentials of the Christian religion. In the Church of England on the contrary, the advance ofenlightened ideas as to the office of music in religious worship has been wonderful, though as yet neither her clergy nor laity seem to have mastered the principles involved in the subject. The prog- ress that has been made has been solely of that tentative, rule-of-thumb description which is satisfactory only up to a certain point. Were it not for their prejudices, in- deed, they would study more carefully the ROMAN, ANGLICAN, AND PROTESTANT MUSIC. 49 whole system of the Roman Communion it- interest in the dogmatic peculiarities of self, and ask themselves how it is that, some special creed, such an act requires no viewed from the ~sthetic and devotional slight effort. To the enormous majority points of view, the Roman ideal of a pub- such a prolonged devotion becomes a for- lic religious service exhibits a vitality co-ex- mality, an hypocrisy, and a sham. I do not, tensive with the Roman Church itself, of course, pretend that it is a conscious hy- while the same ideal prevails throughout the pocrisy, or a deliberate sham, with the hun- Greek Chuich, and in fact among every Uc- d.~ds Uf Lhod~d1PL of SiiiCc~ peo~Ae who nomination of Christians except those whose go through the process once, or twice, or doctrines were origiirited by the reformers thrice a week in England. What I mean of the fifteenth and sixteenth centnries. is, that, with the vast majority of the re- Having adopted the hymn-singing of the spectable Church of England congregations, Nonconformist and foreign Protestant, first the share they practically take in her ser- introduced into the Church of England by vices is of the nature of a listening to other the evangelical party, it is surprising that persons reading or singing, and not, as they as yet the Anglican clergy know so little of persuade themselves, an actual personal that Roman theory as to the use of sacred sharing in the supplications offered up. music which is undoubtedly one of the They profess to be sharing in common cheif causes which make Catholic services prayer; and by fits and starts no doubt popular among their own poor, while the they do share in it; but in reality this An- poor are precisely that very class which glican theory of common prayer, by Anglicanism has hitherto failed to attract which everybody is intended to embody his and conciliate. By degrees~ if ever the thoughts and aspirations in one identical spirit of common sense and of scientific series of words, uttered, either aloud or study of the laws of human nature shall only mentally, in conjunction with a clergy- sufficiently leaven the An2lican body, it man who acts as their leader, utterly breaks will all at once occur to its clergy and laity down, and results in a som& hing else, which that in cvltivating what they call choral is nothing more than a mixture of the feel- services, with much chanting, and singing ings produced by the Roman system with of anthems, and intoning of prayers, they those produced by the Nonconformist sys- are still ignorant of the principles which tem. We are in the habit, indeed, of con- lie at the root of the whole system of re- demning this latter system with unreserved ligious worship, when designed for large severity, on the ground that it is intellect- and half-educated or uneducated congre- uaily impossible to join in the petitions of gations of men, women, and childern. an extemporary prayer, of which we know Looking, then, at the subject apart from nothing beforehand. Consequently, these all Roman, Anglican, or purely Protestant extemporary prayers are nothing but ob~ prepossessions, certain facts present them- lique sermons, as they were h ppily named selves for recognition whose reality is un- by Archbisho Whately. And yet, to the. deniable. It is undeniable, in the first marvel of ali~ devout Anglicans, the Erig~ place, that the act of praying, and a11 de- lish poor like these Dissenting se~vices, votional acts, involve a very considerable which consist of nothing but professed ser-~ effort of the thinking faculties. I am, of mons, oblique sermons, and hymns; and course, saying nothing about the trnth or they profess themselves highly refreshed falsehood of any theological dogma, or of the and edified by these very prayers which to peculiar benefits which may or may not be the world in general are no prayers at all. expected to follow from addressing ourselves In fact, a gift at pouring forth a stream to the Great Creator of all things. What- of eloquent supplications, redolent of that ever be a mans belief, it is incontestable peculiar and unctuous flavour which to the that the mental act of prayer requires an genuine Anglican and the Roman Catholic application of the thinking powers to which alike is intolerable and repellant, is a qual- very few persons are equal, for any long ification held in high esteem by English period of time. To suppose that men and Nonconformists and Scotch Presbyterians., women who spend their lives in a routine of But the cause of the popularity of these active life can conduct an intellectual ex- services with the poor is the fact that no ex- ercise of a very high order for an hour, or cessive demand is thereby made upon their an hour and a ha~f, every Sunday morning, capacitics. it is in reality nearly all preach-. and can repeat the process again in the ing, whieb they can listen to with pleasure. afternoon or evening, is to expect in~possi- and interest; and they are only called on to bilities. Even to the highly-cultivated in- pray in the shape of hymns. into the singing telligence, sustained by ~ strong personal of which they enter with a fervoirz~ a.ud~ a~ LIYll~G AGE. VOL VI. 216. 50 ROMAN, ANGLICAN, AND PROTESTANT MUSIC. zeal amazing to .tbose who know only the frigid prol)riety of congregational singing in nineteen out of every twenty Church of England places of worship. That this ex- temporary praying was set up by the ultra- Protestant reformers for very different rea- sons is true enough. These reformers, who in their hatred to Popery and Prelacy for- bade all praying from a book, unknowingly hit upon a practice which, in substituting oblique sermons for prayers, fell in with the intellectual incapacities of the ignorant and the poor, The Roman Church, on the other hand, systematically adopts the practice upon which ultra-Protestantism has accidentally stumbled. It aims at establishing a com- munity of idea, of feeling, and of intention in the members of a congregation, while the Church of England system insists upon a literal and verbal community. While the officiating priest, or whoever it may be who conducts the service, has to follow the course prescribed in the authorised formularies of the Church, the utmost possible latitude is allowed to the individual members of the congregation as to the mode in which they will conduct their personal devotions. Every one is permitted to use any book of prayers he may choose, or no book at all, or simply to read when he is tired of praying, just as it pleases him. And this custom prevails, not only in such sacerdotal services as that of the mass, but in others which are theo- retically congregational. The liberty of the individual is complete. And it is from this peculiarity of the Roman practice, as differ- ing from the Anglican and the distinctively Protestant, that the characteristics of the specially Romaii Catholic form of sacred music derive their origin. While the purely Protestant, or hymn- singing school of music, is not unknown either in Anglican or Roman practice (the distinctively Anglican or Cathedral ser- vice being nothing more than an elaborate adaptation of the mode of chanting the of- fices of the Roman breviary, as practised an conventual and capitular Catholic churches), the distinctively Roman school of music is professedly written for the pur- pose of being listened to by a congregation. Protestant Dissenters and English Low Churchmen have always utterly repudiated and denounced such a practice, as profane, unspiritual, and contrary to the very idea of religious worship There are signs, in- deed, that the old bigotries are breaking up, and choral services are becoming popu- lar in the most unexpected quarters. An- ~glicanism has, moreove~ always admitted theoretically the lawfulness of the Roman view of the functions of sacred music, by the singing in cathedrals of l~hat peculiar form of composition which for some unac- countable reason is called an ~ anthem, but which everywhere, except in England, goes by the equally unmeaning term, a motett. Still, there has always existed so wide a difference between the Anglican and the Roman ideals, that the characteris- tics of the Catholic school remain to this day as marked and distinct as ever. Wher- ever the appliances of an individual parish or church are equal to the attempt, it is the Catholic instinct to make the performance of long and elaborate compositions a promi- nent feature in every important public ser- vice. And hence the creation of those in- numerable works which go by the name of Masses, which in reality contain no words that are not found in the Church of Eng- land communion service, but which in the eyes of suspicious ultra-Protestantism are supposed to bristle with all the abominations of Popery. Such, also to mention com- positions with which everybody is familiar are Rossinis Stabat Mater and Men- delssohns Lauda Sion, which, though the words are simply metrical hymns, usual- ly sung to a simple hymn tune, are yet considered fit material for working out into a series of songs, concerted pieces, and cho- ruses, alter the pattern of the regular ora- torio or cantata. So thoroughly is this view of the function of music rooted into the Roman system, that the priest who is cele- brating a high mass sits down, with his assistant deacon and sub-deacon, and pauses in his personal work, whenever the musical compositions sung by the choir demand it. The Gloria in excelsis, for instance, and the Credo, in an elaborate musical mass, occupy, say, ten or perhaps twenty minutes, while the priest at the altar recites the same wor(ls in a subdued voice almost in as many seconds. Acting upon the same principle, it has been the practice of many of the most accomplished foreign musicians, from Palestrina downwards, to set the Vesper and other psalms in the Roman breviary to music of a highly elaborate character; so that instead of being simply chanted, as they are in English cathedrals, the psalms of the day, either in whole or in part, con- stitute the words of a long piece of music to which the congregation simply listen. This practice, too, is partially adopted in Anglican churches when the 7k Deum or any Canticle is sung, not to a chant, but to a more or less developed piece of har- mony or counterpoint. On rare and great ROMAN, ANOL LOAN, AND PROtESTANT MUSIC. occasions, intleed, the Roman system has been introduced in its amplest completion; as, for instance, when Handel wrote his fa- mous Te Deum for performance at the public thanksgiving for the victory of Det- tingen. Still, while each distinctive form of religious music exists in use both in the Roman and the Anglican Churches, the fact remains that through the prevalence of different ideas as to the office of music in religion, we find in each one of the three great sections of European and non-Russian Christendom a special development of one of the three forms of musical expression. Protestantism proper relies upon the inetri- cal hymn, Anglicanism is distinguished by the chant in its various modifications, and Roman Catholicism by its elaborate orches- tral and vocal masses and motetts. Viewed as compositions and works of art, the productions of the Roman and the An- glican schools are strikingly dissimilar. While the chant in an English cathedral, well performed by a sufficient choir, is sin- gularly beautiful and expressive, and far more perfect than any thing of the same kind to be heard abroad, except in rare instances, the Anthems and the services, as the more lengthy settings of the Te Deun? and Canticles are termed, are for the most part dull and dreary compositions. It is the fashion with some English critics to praise the cathedral school of music as if it were really a great and noble school ; and undoubtedly it counts among its composers several respectable names, aud a few great names even. But as a whole, it is respectable and dull, and nothing more. Whatever natural gifts may have been possessed by our writers of an- thems and services, they have been neutral- ised by two causes the necessity of writ- ing vocal music to be sung with an organ accompaniment, and the short period al- lowed by the traditions of Anglican worship for the performance of a work in many divisions. The organ, glorious and unap- proachable as it is in its own way, and admirable as an accompaniment to a large mass of voices singing a simple melody simply harmonised, is too solid and massive in its tones to accompany the human voice in delicate solos, duets, or concerted pieces. In the hands of a player of distinguished skill and unusual sensibility it is abarely tolera- ble substitute for the string and the wind instruments of an orchestra in the accom- paniment of rich, florid, or highly-wrought vocal music. But I believe that every skilled professional composer would agree with me in holding that the great works of the great masters of sacred music, whether Catholic or Protestant, whether ma~ses, mo- tet.ts, or oratorios, would never have been called into existence had their autho s been limited to an organ accompaniment. The greatest organist composers that the word has ever known, such as Handel, Sebastian Bach, and Mendelssohn, invariably wrote their sacred vocal music to an orchestral accompaniment; and when Handel was called in to write a Te Deum for a great national rejoicing, like Purcell before him, he broke through all the traditional meshes of the cathedral system, and wrote for a full orchestra. Even far less men than handel and Purcell have shown how much was in them when they could escape from the trammels of the organ, and revel in the delicacies and capabilities of strings and wood and brass. Boyce was one of these. His various anthems and services are gen- erally worthy of attention; but in his an- them, Lord, thou hast been Our refuge, which is for a full orchestra and divided into a series of well worked-out movements, he appears almost a man of genius. Then, again, it is altogether impossible to write effective~songs or choruses when the whole composition is to take in the perform- ance only a few minutes. It is as impossi- ble as it would be to make a five-act tragedy last only half an hour, or to compress the Iliad into a single book. Musical beauty is dependent upon the melodic and contrapun- tal development of melodious phrases, which in themselves will have no charactertat all unless extended to a certain length. But the rules of the typical cathedral anthem permit nothing of this. A composition may contain three or four separate movements, but it must be all over in about the time thas would take to perform a single air or chorus in an oratorio. Consequently, with few ex- ceptions, the cathedral anthem is a collection of short pieces, made up of mere musical phrases, rarely original, and almost always cold and fragmentary. And the demand for something more resthetically complete and less chilling to the feelings has of late years become so decided, that it is now com- mon to hear anthems which are simply adap- tions of foreign compositions to English words. Thirty or forty years ago, and still earlier, the innovations were beginning, and Pergolesi, Haydn, and Mozart were laid under contribution to enliven the stately cathedrals and collere chapels, where noth- ing more exciting than the solid gravities of Croft or the inanities of Kent had been heard for three centuries before. Altogether, it is clear that the Roman idea as to the pratical- ly religious effect of the mere listening to 51 52 ROMAN, ANGLICAN, AND PROTESTANT MUSIC. sacred music is steadily on the incre. ~e defy the Divine power. The Greeks~ or some among English churchmen who are guiltless of them, believed that when Pandora, by of even the faintest Romanising tendencies, opening her box, sent forth a host of curses although the real ground on which the prac- to make mans life a misery, Hope was givea. tice is to be advocated is litt.l~ understood. to bear him up against his sorrows. To us, At present, too. the whole matter is compli- in the midst of our confusion of tongues, cated by the advance cf the Ritualist school and of the swarm of troubles and perplexi- aid all its dogmatic extravagances. Never- ties in which we are tossing to and tro, Mu- theless. there is not the smallest connection sic remains as the one universal lan~uage, between the use of music as the vocal ex- intelligible to all, and the one relief which ~ of devout feeling, or as a stimulant may be applied to every sort of suffering. to a healthy religious mental activity, and Every attempt, therefore, which is made to any special do~matie system whatever. bring the vast, struggliog, weary multitude Among the first of the Protestant Noncon- within its influences, is to me not merely a tormist bodies to cultivate religious music in matter of interesting intelligence, but a public services was the Unitarian commu- fresh help to the conviction that after all nity; and at the present moment it is diffi humanity is on its way to better things. It cult to name a church or sect where the new is interesting, whatever form it takes, ideis are not making way. And just in pro- wheLher that of a deceutly eunduc~ed music portion as the fierceness of Ritualist and hall, or a ballad concert, or in connection anti-Ritualist, and of Catholic and Protest- with a penny reading, or as a performance ant polemics dies away, it will be perceived of Sunday bands in the parks, or as those that it is of the very essence of music, whether Sunday Evenings for the People, in which in the form of a brilliant orchestral mass, a few men of high position in the scientific or of a grave and noble chant, or of a hearty world recently attempted to combat the popular hymn, absolutely to be non-dogmat- jealousies and follies of Sabbatarianism. ic; expressing, not the eree~s of Trent, or But if the view which I have here most im- Lambeth, or Geneva, but the devout senti- perfectly advocated is true, all these Would ments of every man who adores, loves, and be triflin~ in importance compared with any feels after Him, the True God if I serious attempt at employing the powers of may again quote the words of Fichte, lately music for the distinct purpose of religiously quoted by Professor Tyndall in these pages influencing the poor, the ignorant, and the in whom we all are, and live, and may criminal, apart from the proselytising aims be blessed, and out of whom there is only of any one religious denomination. As death and nothingness. matters now stand, no one religious body Apart, therefore, from all questions as to succeeds in making a wide and permanent the abstract truth or error of any dogmatic impression either upon the skilled or the creed, it is to me a source of unfailing inter- unskilled manual labour of England. Each est to watch the gradual and steady advance one, by its narrowness and its inflexibility in this popular cultivation of music, as a in adhering to the traditions of the past or most powerful instrument for civilising, hu- to some arbitrary code of rules and rubrics, manising, and spirtualising an age which neutralises the influence it might exert on certainly is in sore need of every such ele- the seething mass of ignorance and brutali- vating influence. Amidst the breaking up ty. Each has its own musical system; but of old beliefs, the conflicts of contendino that system is neither planned nor carried superstitions, and the groping, trembling, out with special reference to those regener- and almost shuddering efforts of many of the ating powers which are latent in music leaders of popular thought, after some sure itself I music is the adjunct or servant basis for present sell4evotion, and some to some definite doctrinal creed, and is not ground for future hope amidst all this, it designed simply to be the preacher of prac- is a pleasure, and more than a pleasure, to tical religion to the untaught listener, or to see that we are firmly holding to something be no more than the voice of the humble which is not a delusion or a sham. What- piety of the poor man and his family. The ever else may be false or transitory, it is cer- wealthy and the middle classes have their tam that the sources of the power of musical oratorios, their choral services, and their expression. and of its astonishing practical in- masses, which serve to soothe and elevate fluence on human action, lie deep down in them, and satisfy their utmost longings. the recesses of our nature. The writer of But the hard-working and the outcast are the book of Genesis describes what he held forgotten, and all they know of the divine to bG a supeiiraturI c~nfu~~on of ton4ios a influence of mueical sound is the length- a punishment for the building of a tower to cued sweetness long drawn cut of grind- THE CRISIS ON THE CONTINENT. organs~ or niggers minstrels or coarse bal- lads, or the howlings of some half-tipsy street singer, who makes day hideous in the London slums. J. M. CAPES. From the Saturday Review, Aug. 31. THE CRISIS ON THE CONTIEENT. This sooner had the Emperor of the French returned from Salzburg than he began to take measures to reassure Europe. First he spoke to several hundred school- masters, and, feeling that they would like to be addrerscd in the language which they are accustomed to use, he informed them that patriotism and religion are the keys of happiness. Then he went on to Arras and Lille, and made speech after speech of the most pacific kind. He spoke of his own position with much confidence and candour. Weak princes, on tottering thrones, detested and distrusted by their subjects, might be allowed to feel the temptation to distract the attention of their country from dwell- ing on home grievances by plunging into foreign wars. But he had no occasion for this. He was the elect of eight millions, and those millions were faithful to him still. Wherever he went he found that he and the EMPRESS were dear to the crowds that assembled to welcome them, and his son also came in for their blessings. Peace, which was thus possible for him because he was strong and beloved, was also the wisest policy for him and for every one else. But he could not avoid seeing that there were mistaken persons who were bent on forcing on a war, who frightened themselves and their neirhbours by their foolish alarms, and who took every occasion to represent war as altogether unavoidable. Such men were, he said, very bad friends to their country, and were very small and narrow- minded politicians. They could not look on things as a whole. Now he ventured to ask the inhabitants of Arras and Lille to contemplate his career since he had had the whole power of France in his hands, and they would, he felt satisfied, come to the conclusion that he had been on the whole very successful. That the sun had spots he frankly owned, and one of these spots has lately been apparent to all the world. The Mexican expedition was a sad failure; but then impartial men must allow that, when it was first un1ertaken, it was a very promis- ing enterprise. There was, it is true, a fundamental error pervading it. For its success, it was necessary that the Mexicans should have some good qualities, some wish for improvement, some gratitude for kind- ness. As it happened, this was altogether a mistake. The Mexicans were unmitigated blackguards. and there was no doing any- thing wtih them. But although this mistake was made, and although iVlexico has been, as it niust be confessed, a dark spot, yet the generally luminous character of the EMPE- RORS reign remains unaffected. Such a ruler can afford to be sincere, and to deal honestly with his people. He says that he means peace, and he therefore ought to he believed. There ought to be no foolish national jealousies, no criticism of the policy of the Government, no attempt to prescribe the course which the Government ought to follow. The Government is wise and good, and knows what is best for every one. At present it knows that peace is the best of all good things; and as it knows this, its conclusions ought to be universally accepted, and every one ought to be pacific and con- tented. Such. ought to be the general feeling, but it is not. Instead of feeling pacific and happy, every one sets himself to think what the EMPEROR can mean by talking so much about peace. Is it his little pleasant way of concealing a purpose of war? Last year he~ spoke very warlike words, and peace follow- ed; now that he speaks very peaceful words, war may follow. In itself such a Speculation as this would not come to much. It would only amount to telling us that the EMPEROR is not to be trusted that lie says one thing and means another. But the EMPE- ROR has done something more lately than talk of peace in French towns. He has been to Salzburg, and there he has talked something, whether tending to peace or war, with the Emperor of AUSTRIA. It is diffi- cult to see how this meeting can have been one in the interests of peace. If the EMPE- RORS wished for peace, they might very easily have had it. They had only to stay each in his own dominions, and mind his own business. But they have met, and spent nearly a week in talking polities, and they can scarcely have done this for noth ing. In spite of all the speeches about patriotism and religion, and all the proofs that the EMPEROR must be peaceful be- cause he is so strong, there remains the plain question, why did the EMPEROR go to Salzburg? The official answer is that France is very peaceful, and Austria is very 53 THE CRISIS ON THE CONTiNENT. peaceful. They want nothing that does not accept it. Out of this state of things war hone4ly belong to them. All they wish is might grow so easily that it would be much that the Treaty of Prague should be rigor- more probable than not that a few months ously observed. By this treaty Prussia is will see the beginning of a campaign, bound to allow the States of South Germany were it not that there is no overt act of to form themselves into an independent defiance which either party can feel itself Confederation, and she is also bound to impelled to take. If France is pacific, refer the question of the nationality of Prussia in her turn may be passiye. She is North Schleswig to the decision of the not called on, in her own defence or for her North Schleswigers themselves. All that own honour, to violate any article of the France and Austria ask is that Prussia will Treaty of Prague. She does not wish that do what she has engaged to do, and will be the States of the South should change their kind and friendly to the Danes, and will not position at present. She much prefers that interfere directly or indirectly in the affairs they should remain outside the Confedera- of South Germany. This is all that is tion of the North, which already contains asked, and very moderate it seems. Prussia many adverse and unreliable, and perhaps is only to do what she is bound to do. But even some dangerous, members. Mean- no one who knows the circumstances believes while the effect in the South of the league that the case is quite so simple as this state- between France and Austria can scarcely ment of the facts might lead us to suppose. fail to be favourable to Prussia. The South How far does North Schleswig extend? Germans see clearly before them the choice The Danes had a dim notion that it must of being the vassals of France or the allies be large enough to include Alsen and of Prussia. An alliance with Prussia is not Duppel; but Prussia laughed at the notion exactly the alliance they would wish for. that she could be called on to give up They do not like Prussian offiQials, or the positions that she had spent much and en- Prussian conscription, or the Prussian sys- (lured much to win. And at last the Danes, tem of high-handed government. But to who had taken to very grand ways and Germans anything is better than not being seemed like heroes on the eve of a gigantic German. The necessities of daily life, the conflict, have had orders to be tamer and interchange of commodities and material more sensible; and the probabilities are interests in every shape, will add continu- that the North Schleswig business will not ally to the practical union which will subsist henceforth give much trouble. The Danes between the North and the South. The will be told by their big friends at Vienna Prussians cannot avoid seeing that time is and Paris to keep quiet, and they are sure working in their favour, and that they can to obey. But this only makes the crisis afford to wait, and need not wish to violate moxe dangerous as regards South Germany. the Treaty of Prague in any flagrant man- In the matter of Schleswig, it is very hard ner. In this lies the real hope of peace. to prove Prussia in the wrong. No attempt, Why should any one begin to take a step therefore, is to be made to cast odium on that must lead to war? Prussia, in letting Prussia for what she has done to Denmark; things remain as they are, is getting what and the attention of men is concentrated on she wants, and France and Austria are that which is to be made the main grievance, pledged not to interfere if Prussia lets the relations of Prussia to Southern Ger- things go on as they are. The only thing many. If the Treaty of Prague is to be is that the Emperor of the FRENCH speaks observed to the letter. the Northern States of his recent policy as a decisive one. are to be kept apart from those States France, he says, has resumed her ~xroper which fbrm what was meant to be the place in Europe; but how has she dune Southern Confederation. Trio Treaty of this? If France is to wait and do nothing Prague contemplates these Southern States as long as Prussia keeps quiet, and if this as independent of Prussia, and recognises keeping quiet is obviously and avowedly Germany as divided into three sections. preparing the way fbr Prussia to exercise a To aim at the unity of Germany is, there- supremacy, in one shape or other, over the fore, to violate the Treaty of Prague, and whole of Germany, how can it be said that to uphold the Treaty of Prague is to oppose France has resumed her proper place, or the unity of Germany. got any advantage whatever? Prussia has The Prn~sian papers naturally talk much lost nothing and France gained nothing by less pacifi ~ ly than the EMPERORS do. the meeting at Salzburg; and if this is so, They s~y very plainly that a Isort of chal- the effect which that meeting was intended lenge h is be~n given to Prussia arid to to produce is at an end. Prussia has not Germany, atd they are quite ready to, yielded anything, nor has France done any- PROFESSOR TYNDALL ON SOUND. PROFESSOR TYNDALL ON SOUND.* thing on which she can pride herself. And We cannot say that these lectures strike us in this lies the great danger of war that as equally interesting with the previous se- France is thus in a manner defeated hy ries on Heat. Not that they exhibit by peace. But this is, we may hope, a some comparison any defect in the lecturers treat- what remote danger; it is not like the ment of the subject, in the fluency of his danger, or rather the certainty, of war that language, or the clearness of his experi- would exist if there were some distinct act ments. The falling off, if any, is due to the which Prussia was known to he desirous to subject itself. In dealing with the phenome- do, and which France distinctly forbad her na of sound we find ourselves shut up at to do. Things may remain quiet until the once in a comparatively restricted area. general feelings of Frenchmen and Germans The medium within which we move is more are a little altered, until internal changes limited, and affords less scope for wide- take place in one country or the other, until spread and sr.lowing speculations. The phe- France can do something in some other nomena of light and heat connect us imme- quarter to make it evident that she has diately with the furthest range of cosmical resumed her proper position. Still the state forces, and carry us on the wings of imagi- of things is exceedingly critical, and we nation to the extremes of infinite space. must not allow ourselves to be too readily But the facts relating to sound lie essential cheered by the pacific speeches of the ly within the narrow bounds of our atmos- EMPEROR. phere. They are not cosmical, but terres- trial. Imagination itself is distanced the moment we try to p~ss beyond the limit& d aerial envelope which swathes our planet, and which conveys to us all we are capable From the Saturday Review, of knowing of the nature of sound. Obser- vation gives us direct evidence of the agen- cies of light and heat affecting worlds of untold remoteness from our own, and theory PROFESSOR TYNDALL deservedly holds can roam at will over realms of space with- a place among the foremost of our 1cc- out any misgiving that the analogies of turers on science. His style is clear, con- physics as taught us by experience here will nected, and animated. He has the art of fail us wheresoever the eye can extend i~s seizing at once the most essential and prom- range. But what of the nature of sound, inent features of his subject, while at the when fancy ventures to branch out beyond same time throwing himself into the mental the few hundred miles within which we position of his auditors, so as to appear a fel- seem compelled to limit the acoustic medium, low-learner with them. It is thus that he or ocean of air, in whose lower depths we seems to make himself a link of intelligence live? Take, as the nearest instance, the between them and the body of facts under moon. Who shall say what arc the relations illustration, and to enable them, so to say, of sound to a planet in which the indica- to see through the medium of his own mind. tions ofan atmosphere. if appreciable at all, His experiments are unsurpassed in neatness, are so slight and indeterminate? In the and never miscarry. The lecturers voice presence of vast cosmical convulsions such and manner join with the habitual perspi- as the telescope seems to certify as even now cuity of his language in engaging the atten- I in progress in the moon, are we to divest tion and kindling the intelligence of his i our thoughts of all that class of effects which hearers. A certain glow of enthusiasm act- to us forms perhaps the most emphatic evi- ing upon a fine imagination and a happy deuce of physical change? Is the crash of command of language gives an air of poetry worlds before our eyes going on in vacuo? to what in common hands is often bald, pro- Is the moons rigid metallic crust upheaved saic, and uninviting in the extreme, and and broken, or does the titanic crater sink throws an artistic finish over the hard sub- down into the abyss of central fire, without stratum of fact. We are glad to have the awaking a vibration in the eternal silence? opportunity of studying in print the series We can only come back baffled from the of lectures on Sound which during the last feeblest flight into space to make the most season drew full and attentive audiences to that we can of the narrower and more com- the lecture room of the Royal Institution. monplace facts actually within our ken.. Even here, too, we soon encounter a further cause of limitation. The widest range of acoustics can be, as we have said, but con- terminous with the atmosphere whose vibra- * Sound. A Course of Lectures delivered at the Royal Institution .f Great Britain. B~ John Tyn. dali, LL.D., F.R.S., & c. London: Lougmans & Co. 1q67. 55 PROFESSOa TYNDALL ON SOUND. tions give rise to the property of sound. But there are limits, too, to the powers of the ear or the brain to receive or to appre- ciate the vibrations of that medium. The range of hearing is no doubt infinitely vari- ous among different classes of sentient life. It differs, we find by experience, among in- dividuals in the case of niankind. But the human ear itself at its best is limited in both directions of the scale in its perception of sounds, whether grave or acute. The most satisfactory test of this fact lies in the sensibility of the ear to sounds so sustained as to have a definite or musical pitch. The experiments of men of science have result- ed in an arithmetical scale for the normal pow~r of the organ of hearing Savart fixed the lower limit of the human ear at eight complete vibrations a second; and to cause these slowly recurring vibrations to link themselves together, he was obliged to em- ploy shocks of great power. By means of a toothed wheel and an associated counter, he fixed the upper limit of hearin~, at 24,000 vi- brations a second. llelmholtz has recently fixed the lower limit at 16 vibrations, and the higher at 38,000 vibrations, a second. By employing very small tuning-forks, the late M. Depretz showed that a sound corresponding to 38,000 vibrations a second is audible. Start- ing from the note 16 and multiplying continu- ally by 2; or more compendiously raising 2 to the 11 tb power, and multiplying this by 16, we should find that at 11 octaves above the funda- mental note the number of vibrations would be 32,778. Taking, the efore, the limits assigned by Helmholtz, the entire ranre of the human ear embraces about 11 octaves. But all the notes comprised within these limits cannot be employed in music. The practical range of musical sounds is comprised between 40 and 4,000 vibrations a second, which amounts, in round numbers, to 7 octaves. Dr. Wollaston was the first to take note of the difference that exists in the power of hearing between different persons. XVhile employed in estimating the pitch of certain sharp sounds, he was struck with the total insensibility of a friend to the sound of a small organ-pipe which, in respect to acute- ness, was far within the ordinary limits of hearing. The acoustic sense in this case extended no higher than four octaves above the middle E of the pianoforte, while other persons have a distinct perception of sounds two octaves higher. Professor Tyndall has accumulated various instances of the limits at which the power of hearing ceases in different individuals. The squeak of the -bat, the sound of the cricket, even the chir- a~up of the common hous~sparrow, are un heard by some persons who possess a sensi- tive esr for lower sounds. The ascent of a single note is sometimes sufficient to produce the change from sound to silence. Two persons, neither of them deaf, may be found, the one complaining of the penetrating shrillness of a sound, the other maintaining that no sound exists. In the Glaciers of the Alps, Professor Tyndall has referred to a case of short auditory range of this kind. While crossing the Wengern Alp his ear was rent with the shrill chirruping of the insects which swarmed in the grass on~ either side of the path, while a friend by his side heard not a sound of all this insect music. The pitch of sounds has something closely analo- gous to the various hues of light, which are excited by different rates of vibration. Both alike arise out of the pulses or waves of their respective media. But in its width of perception the ear greatly transcends the eye. The chromatic scale over which the eye ranges consists but of little more than a single octave, while upwards of eleven octaves lie within the compass of the ear~ The quickest vibrations or shortest waves of light, which correspond to the extreme vio- let, strike the eye with only about twice the rapidity of the slowest or extreme red of the spectrum; whereas the quickest vibra- tions that strike the ear as a musical sound have, as Professor Tyndall remarks, more than two thousand times the rapidity of the slowest. An admirable adjunct to our instrument- al means of measuring the lengths of velo- cities of sonorous waves lies in the syren, the invention of M. Cagniard de la Tour, improved by Dove and Helmholtz. This ingenious little contrivance, of which in- structive and amusing use was made by the lecturer at almost every period of his course, is explained at length with the aid of very clear illustrations. A brass disc pierced with four series of holes, 8, 10, 12, and 16 in number, disposed along four concentric cir- cles, is arranged so as to revolve upon a steel axis which passes through a fixed cyl- inder of brass pierced with a corresponding series of holes. These perforations being made oblique to the surface of the cylinder in one direction, and to that of the disc in the other, a stream of air forced through both series by means of bellows causes the disc to rotate more or less rapidly according to the force of the current- A simple device for registering the number of revolutions enables us to determine the number of vibrations or waves of sound corresponding to the pitch of the notes 2iven out by the syren when in motion. When turned slowly, a succes 56 PROFESSOR TYNDALL ON SOUND. sion of beats or puffs of sound is heard, following each other so slowly that they may be counted. But as the motion in- creases, the puffs succeed each other with increasing rapidity, till they blend into a deep continuous musical note. With the in- creased velocity of rotation the note rises in pitch, till it becomes so shrill as to be painful to the ear, and, if urged beyond a certain point, becomes even inaudible to human ears. Not that this last result would prove the absence of vibratory motion in the air. It would but show the incompe- tence of our auditory apparatus to take up vibrations whose rapidity exceeds a certain limit, or that of our brain to translate them into sound. The eye, as Professor Tyndall proceeds to show, is in this respect precisely similar to the ear. By means of the syren, the rapidity of vi- bration of any sonorous body can be deter- mined with extreme accuracy. The body may be a vibrating string, an org an-pipe, a reed, or the human voice. We might even determine from the hum of an insect the number of times it flaps its wings in a second. A tuning-fork to a certain note is sounded for one minute, and the number of revolutions of the disc, when kept in unison with it, is found registered as 1,440. Multi- plying this figure by 16, the number of holes open during the experiment, we get 23,040 as the number of puffs of air or waves of sound passing through the syren in a min- ute, corresponding to the number of vibra- tions executed by the tuning-fork. Divid- ing this total by 60, we find the number of vibrations in a second to be 384. We can now ascertain with the same facility the length of the corresponding sonorous wave. The velocity of a sound wave in free air at the freezing-point has been found to be 1,- 090 feet in a second. In air of the ordina- ry temperature of a room the distance may be taken at 1,120 feet. Dividing 1,120 by 384, the number of sonorous waves em- braced in this distance, we find the length of each wave to be nearly 3 feet. Taking the rates of four different tuning-forks we find them to be 256, 320, 384, and ~12, cor~ responding to wave lengths of 4 t~et 4 inch- es, 3 feet 6 inches, 2 feet 11 inches, and 2 feet 2 inches respectively. The waves generated by a mans organs of voice in common conversation are from 8 to 12 feet, those of a woman are from 2 to 4 fbet in length. Hence a womans ordinary pitch in the lower sounds of conversation is more than an octave above a mans; in the high- er sounds it is two octaves. These experiments refer exclusively to the velocity of sound in atmospheric air. An entirely tlifferent scale of vibratory motion comes in when we consider the transmission of sound through media of va- rious kinds. The research s of Dulong have given us an experimental table of the velocities of sound through differcnt gases at an uniform temperature. It thus appears that the velocity of sound in oxgen is 1,- 040 feet in a second, in carbonic acid 858, in carbonic oxide 1107, and in hydrogen no less than 4,164, the velocity in common air being 1,092. Accordin~ to theory, the velocities of sound in oxygen and hydrogen should be inversely proportional to the square roots of the densities of the two gas- es. Oxygen being sixteen times heavier than hydrogen, the velocity of sound in the latter gas ought to be four times its velocity in the former. Experiment shows it to be so very nearly. The velocity of sound in liquids may be determined experimentally as well as by theory, and a table with this view has been drawn up by the late M. Wertheim. Hence we learn that sound travels with very different velocity through different liquids. A salt dissolved in water augments the velocity, and the salt that produces the greatest augmentation is chlo- ride of calcium. Seawater transmits sound more rapidly than fresh. In water as in air, the velocity increases with the temper- ature. Thus at i5~C. the velocity in Seine water was 4,714 feet, at 300 it was 5,013 feet, and at 60~ 5,657 feet, a second. The less the compressibility, the greater the elasticity; and the greater in consequence the velocity of sound through the liquid. In solids, as a rule, the elasticity as com- pared with the density is greater than in liquids, and consequently the propagation of sound more rapid. In Wertheims table the velocity of sound through lead at 2000. is but 4,030 feet a second, that through gold 5,717, through silver 8553, through copper 11,666, through cast-steel 16,357, and through iron 6,822. As a rule, here too, velocity is aug- mented by temperature. But in the case of iron a remarkable exception exists. While in copper a rise from 20~ to i00~C. causes the velocity to fall from 11,666 to 10,802, the same rise produces in the case of iron an increase of velocity from 16,882 to 17,386. Between 1000, however, and 200~, iron falls from the last figure to 15,483. In iron, that is, up to a certain point, the elasticity is augmented by heat; beyond that point it is lowered. Silver, we learn, is an example of the same kind. The rate of transmission through a solid body depends further upon the manner in which the molecules of the 57 PROFESSOR TYNDALL ON SOUND. body are arranged. Heat is found to be conducted with different facilities through wood according as it passes along the fibre or across it, and again as it follows or cross- es the igneous layers or rings. In like manner, wood possesses three unequal axes of acoustic conduction. For example, in acacia wood the velocity along the fibre is 15,467 feet in a second, across the rings 4,840, and along the rings 4,436. In pine, the corresponding figures are 10,900, 4611, and 2,605; in oak 12622, 6,036, and 4,229. To tbe extreme elasti- city of woody fibres, especially when in a highly dry state, are due the wonderful effects of sound drawn out of the violin, or the sounding-board of the piano. There is practically no limit to the distance through which sound may be transmitted through tubes or rods of wood. The music of in- struments in a lower room may he made to pass to a higher floor, where it is excite(l by a proper sounding-hoard, being all the while inaudible in the intermediate floors through which it passes. It would be possi- ble to lay on, by means of wooden conduct- ors, the music of a hand to a distance in all directions, much as we lay on water. Mr. Spurgeons voice might be turned on from a main in the great Tabernacle, or Mr Bealess eloquence from a platform in Hyde Park, to the ears of admirers in every parlour in the metropolis. The fourth and fifth lectures reproduce and illustrate with much force and neat- ness the beautiful experiments of Chladni, Wheatstone, Faraday, and Strehlke, by which sonorous waves are made visible by means of the vibrations of metal plates strewn with fine sand. The curved lines, nodes, and other modifications of form which sand or the fine seeds of lycopodium exhibit under different degrees of excitement en- able the eye to realize the rhythmical rela- tions which belong to the phenomena of sound. The Pythagorean theory of figures, as applied to music, has its counterpart in the geometrical as well as in the arithmetical laws which are shown to govern the move- ments of sonorous waves. No portion of the present course, however, is more origin- al and striking than that which treats of sounding flames, or the effects produced by sound upon ignited jets of gas. Some experiments in this direction were made by Chladni and De Ia Rive towards the begin- ning of the present century, and Professor Faraday, as early as 1818. showed that cer- tain tones were proluced by tubes surround- ing the flames of a spirit-lamp or a jet of carbonic oxide. After these experiments, the first great novelty in acoustic observa tions was due to the late Count Schaffgotsch,. who showed that a flame in such a tube could be made to quiver in response to a voice pitched to the note of the tube or to its higher octave. Where the note was sufficiently high, the flame was even extinguished by the voice. Following up this rudimentary idea, Professor Tyndall was led to take note of a series of singular effects with flames and tubes, in which he and the Count seem to have been running a race of priority. A number of these curious and beautiful phe- nomena are described in the sixth lecture. The cause of this quivering or dancing of the flame is best revealed by an experiment with the syren. As the pitch of the ins~ru- ment is raised so as to approach that of the tube, a quivering of the flame is seen synchronous with the heats. When perfect unison is attained, the beats cease, but be- gin again when the syren is urged beyond unison, becoming more rapid as the disso- nance is increased. On raising the voiceto the proper pitch, the Professor showed that a flame which had heen burning silently be- gan to sing. The effect was the same, whenever the right note was sounded, at any distance in the room. He turned his back to the flame. Still the sonorous pulses ran round him, reached the tube, and called forth the song. Naked flames uncovered by tubes will give forth the same effects if subjected to increased pressure, or suffered to flare. Professor Tyndall ascribes this discovery to Professor Leconte, of the United States, who noticed at a musical party the jets of gas pulsate in synchronism with the audible beats. A deaf man, he observes, might have seen the harmony. The tap of a hammer, the shaking a bunch of keys, a bell, whistle, or other sonorous instrument, is answered by the sympathetic tongue of flame. An infinite variety of forms is assumed by the luminous jet, ac- cording as the fish-tail, the bats-wing, or other burner is employed, or a greater or less column of flame allowed to rise. The most marvellous flame of the series is that from the single orifice of a steatite burner reaching a height of twenty-four inches. So sensitive is this tall and slender column as to sink to seven inches at the slightest tap upon a distant anvil. At the shaking of a bunch of keys it is violently agitated and emits a loud roar. The lecturer could not walk across the floor without ao4tatin~ it. The creaking of his boots, the tickin of his watch, set it in violent commotion. As he recited a passage from Spenser, the flame picke~l out certain sounds to which it 58 AMERICANS ON A VISIT TO THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. responded by a slight nod, while to others it bowed more distinctly, and gave to some a profound obeisance, to other sounds all the while turning a deaf ear. There is also the vowel flame, so called because the (lifferent vowel sounds affect it differently. Hence we get a scale of vowel sounds in perfect accord with the analysis of Helm- holtz. The pitch of the pure vowel sound A (as in arm ) is the highest. E (or I in French and Italian) contains higher notes than 0, and 0 higher iotes than U. This flame is peculiarly sensitive to the sound of s. A hiss from the mnst distant person in the room would forcibly affect it. To a musical-box it behaved like a sentient creature, bowing slightly to some tones, but curtseyinii deeply to others. We look with lively interest for the development of this novel and highly curious branch of discovery in the hands of Professor Tyndall. The seventh lecture contains some interesting remarks upon the graphic representation of musical and other sounds by means of beams of light thrown upon a screen. The con- tinuity or intermittence of sound is made to announce itself by the alternate lengthen- ing or shortening of the luminous band. We should have expected here some refer- ence to the ingenious attempts of the Ahb6 Moigno to render musical and spokensounds self-recording by means of sheets of sensi- tive paper. Experiments of this kind are of course as yet vague and rudimentary in the extreme. It is impossible to say how far off we still are from the time when a sonata or a speech will register its own acoustic pulsa- tions in fixed and legible characters. For the existing state and prospects, however, of the science of acoustics, we cannot point to a more succinct and intelligible statement than that contained in the course of lectures before us. We would draw the attention of our readers in particular to the conclud- ing paragraph of the last lecture. They will find there briefly and lucidly explained the recent discoveries of Professor Schultze and the Marchese Corti regarding the man- ner in which sonorous motion is transmitted to the auditory nerve. If not as yet scien- tifically conclusive, these ingenious specula- tions open up a new and promising passage in the anatomy and physiology of that won- drous organ the human ear. NOTE n~ A SPIRITUALIST. Unbelievers jeer at our tables dancing, and chairs talking in action, yet no one has ever yet east a doubt up- on the annual Speech froiA the Throne. 59 Correspondence of the New York Tribune. AMERICANS ON A VISIT TO THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. YALTA, RussIA, Aug. 26, 1867. THE passengers on board the American steam yacht Quaker City have been paying a pleasant, informal visit to his Majesty, the Autocrat of all the Russias, at his sum- mer palace near this village. We were not smothered with attentions at Constantino- ple. America is in bad odor there, on account of her outspoken sympathy with the Cretans. But we found a different atmosphere in Russia. At Sebastopol we were received with great cordiality, and were not even asked to show cur pass- ports a singular thing to occur in a Russian port. We were surprised because we had been warned that those documents would be called for and strictly scrutinized about every 40 minutes while we remained in the Czars territories. One of the passen- gers began to inquire into the matter. The Russian officer he spoke to explained it in a very few words and very gracefully. He said: Yonder is your passport the flag you are flying is sufficient! The Sebastopolitans said the Emperor of Russia was spending the summer at the little watering-place of Yalta, 40 miles away, and warmly recommended us to take the ship there and visit him. They said they could insure us a kind reception. They insisted on telegraphing and also sending a courier overland to announce us. But we had been told that the great Vice- roy of Egypt had had his visit there almost for nothing a few days before, and we were modest enough to have our doubts. So we went our way to Odessa, 200 miles distant. Again we were well received, and again they said Go and see the Emperor. Finally the Governor-General telegraphed the court, a prompt reply was returned, and we sailed toward Yalta. A great question had to be solved: What is to be done and how are we to do it? We had the United States Consul on board the Odessa Consul. We assembled all hands in the cabin and commanded him to tell us what we must do to be saved, and tell us quickly. He made a speech. The first thing he said fell like a blight upon every hopeful spirit: he had never seen a court reception I [Three groans for the Consul.] But he said he had seen recep- tions at the Governor-Generals in Odessa, and had often listened to peoples experi- ences of receptions at the Russian and 60 AMERICANS ON A VISIT TO THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. various other courts, and believed he knew pretty well what sort of ordeal we were about to essay. [Hope budded again.] He said we were many; the summer palace was small a mere mansion; doubtless we should be received in summer fashion in the garden we would stand in a row, all the gentlemen in swallow tail coats, white kids and white neck-ties, and the ladies in light-colored silks, or something of that kind; at the proper moment 12 meridi- an the Emperor attended by his suite arrayed in splendid uniforms, would appear and walk slowly along the line, bowing to some, and saying two or three words to others. At the moment His Majesty ap- peared, a universal, delighted, enthusiastic smile ought to break out like an epidemic among the passengers a smile of love, of gratification, of admiration and with one accord. The party must begin to bow not obsequiously, but respectfully, and with dignity; at the end of 15 minutes the Em- peror would go in the house, and w~ could shin along home again. We felt immensely relieved. It seemed, in a manner, easy. There wasnt a man in the party but be- lieved that with a little practice he could stand in a row, especially if there were others along; there wasnt-a man but be- lieved he could bow without tripping on his coat-tail and~hreaking his neck; in a word, we came to believe we were equal to any item in the performance except that com- plicated smile. The counsel also said that we ought to draft a little address to the Emperor, and present it to one of his aides- de-camp, who woull forward it to him at the proper time. Therefore, five of us were appointed to prepare the document, and the 50 others went sadly smiling about the ship. During the next twelve hours we had the general appearance, somehow, of being at a funeral where everybody was sorry the death had occurred, but glad it was over where everybody was smiling. and yet broken-hearted. The Consuls clos- ing statement was that it would be etiquette to invite the Emperor to visit the ship, and that he would respectfully decline as usual. A committee went ashore to wait on his Excellency the Governor-General, and learn our fate. At the end of three hours of bod- ing suspense they came back and said the Emperor would receive us at noon the next day would send carriages for us would hear the address in person. The Grand Duke Michael had sent to invite us to his palace also both desired to visit the ship the following day with their families, the weather permitting. Counterfeited smiles never gave place to real ones so suddenly before! Any man could see that there was an intention here to show that Russias friendship for America was so genuine as to render even her private citizens objects wor- thy of kindly attentions. At the appointed hour we drove out three miles, and assembled in the handsome gar- den in front of the Emperors palace. In five minutes the Autocrat came out, and with him the Empress, the Grand Duchess Marie (her daughter, a pretty, blue-eyed, fair-haired girl of 14), and a little Grand Duke, about 10 years old. With them came a few princes and great dignitaries in hand- some, but not gaudy uniforms. We took off our hats. I smiled a reckless smile at the finest uniform, but I found it was only the Lord High Admiral, and so I had to smile it all over again. If I had had any sense I might have known that the Imperial family would be the plainest dressed personages on the spot. The Consul read the address to the Emperor and then handed it to him. He sai(l a word or two in reply, and passed the document to a court dignitary. This is the address: To His Imperial Majesty ALEXANDER II., Em- peror of Russia: We are a handfnil of private citizens of Amer- ica, traveling simply for recreation and unos- tentationsly, as becomes our unofficial state and, therefore, we have no excuse to tender for presenting ourselves before your Majesty, save the desire of offering our grateful acknowledg- ments to the Lord of a realm, which through good and through evil report, has been the steadfast friend of the land we love so well. We could not presume to take a step like this, did we not know ~vell that the words we speak here, and the sentiments wherewith they are frei,,hted, are but the reflex of the thoughts and the feelings of all our countrymen, from the green hills of New England to the shores of the far Pa- cific. We are few in number, but we utter the voice of a nation l One of the brightest pages that has graced the worlds history since written history had its birth was recorded by your Majestys hand when it loosed the bonds of twenty millions of men; and Americans can but esteem it a priv- ilege to do honor to a ruler who has wrought so great a deed. The lesson that was taught us then we have profited by, and are free in truth to-day, even as we were before in name. Amer- ica owes much to Russia is indebted to her in many ways, and chiefly for her unwavering fi-iendship in seasons of our greatest need. That that friendship may still be hers in times to come we confidently pray; that she is and will be grateful to Russia and to her sovereign for it, we know full well; that she will ever for- AMERICANS ON A VISIT TO THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. 61 feit it by any unpremeditated, unjust act or un- fair course, it were treason to believe. SAM. L. CLEMENS, WM. GIBSON, TIMOTHY D. CROcKER, S. A. SANFORD, Col. P. KINNEY. U. S. A., Committee on behalf of the passengers of the steamer Quaker City. The Emperor had on a white cloth cap, and white cloth coat and pantaloons, all of questionable fineness. The Empress and her daughter wore simple suits of foulard, with a little blue spot in it, blue trimmings, low-crowned straw hats trimmed with blue velvet, linen collars, clerical neck-ties of muslin, blue sashes, flesh-colored gloves, parasols lady readers will take due notice. The exceeding simplicity of these dresses would insure them against creating a sensa- tion in Broadway. The little Grand Duke wore a red calico blouse and a straw hat, and had his pantaloons tucked into his boots. Simplicity of costume and kingly stateliness of manner cannot go very well together, and I was curious to see how the Imperial party would act. They acted as if they had never been used to anything fi- ner. They were as free from any semblance of pride or haughtiness as if their house had always been a village ministers house. They conversed freely and unconstrainedly with anybody and everybody that came along (they all speak English) and so did the great officers of the Empire that were with them- Our party of Americans who were so distressed the day before, as to how they were going to get through this severe trial with credit, suddenly found themselves entirely at home and comfortable. The 15-minutes audience pleasantly aug- mented itself to nalf an hour, and then in- stead of dismissing the guests, the Autocrat of all the Russias and his family transformed themselves into ushers, and led our tribe into the palace dining-room, into the library, the private chap A, the sitting-rooms, pri- vate writing-rocms all over the establish- ment, in fact. I cannot recollect half the places. There was no hurry; there were plenty of affable Dukes and Princes, and Admirals to answer questions, and this part of the programme insensibly wore out another half hour, and something over. When there was nothing more to see, the Imperial family bade the guests good-by till to-morrow, and we departed for the palace of the Grand Duke Michael. Toe young Grand Duchess, however, went to another door and bowed at the party in de- tail as they passed by. If you have ever called on an Emperor you will remember that little attentions not strictly in the bill were the very ones that went furthest to- ward making you feel comfortable. That young girls pleasant face, its expression of friendly interest, and her timid bow, were not calculated to make any one feel like a tiresome nuisance. In my own case I know this was so. It struck me lorcibly at the time that I bad seldom felt so little like a nuisance before. It is singular, but for the moment I for- got that before all this leave-taking occurred, we were invited to the palace of the crown- prince of Russia (aged twenty), and shown all through it with the same absence of hur- ry as was the case at his fathers mansion. A drive of twenty minutes brought us to the beautiful park and garden& and the ele- gant palace of the Grand-Duke Michael. The fi rstpersons we saw there were the Empress and her daughter. They had come by a nearer road I suppose. Whether justly or not, we chose to consider this as a mark that they were not altogether tired of us yet. The introduction to the Grand Duke and his Duchess was hardly over when the Emperor arrived himselL This was about as cheerful as it could be. He caught up his brothers little children and kissed them affectionately. I could not help noticing that, because it was so little like what we had reason to expect from the stern Russian Bear we rea(l about so much. The Grand Duchess was as simply dressed as the Empress was as gentle and unreserved, and as ready to talk with everybody. Her husband was just like her in these respects a splendid looking man, over six feet high, well formed, and en- dowed with as kingly a presence as one could wish to see. He wore a handsome Cossack uniform, and looked the military commander to a charm. He it was who crushed out, in a two-months campaign, the Caucasian war, that had lasted 60 years, and won the coveted first-degree cross of the Order of St. George the only man who has been so decorated in 200 years. It is a distinction that can be achieved, but the terms are not easy dauntless courage, exalted military genius, and success. There was but little ceremony here. We were shown through the palace in the free-and-easy way we had already got ac- customed to, and then our friends, the Princes, and Generals, and Baronesses, conducted the gang all about the lawns and groves of the park. I enjo~ed it. I had reached my level at last. If there is one thing that I am naturally fitted for, it 62 AME~JCANS ON A VISIT TO THE EMPEROR OF RUSSIA. is to converse with Dukes. I got along well. They Coul(l not understand the sub- tleties of an American joke, it is true, and so they generally laughed in the wrong place. ~L~wever, it wasnt any matter tiey were inferior jokes anyhow, and some of them very old. Some of us lingered in the grounds a good while, and when we got back we found the balance of the mob scattered about the reception-room and the veran- (lahs, sitting at little tables, and drinking tea and wine and eating bread and cheese and cold meats with the Grand Duke, who ate at one table a while and then at another, and kept the convvrsation and the destruc- tion of provisions going with a zeal which was perfectly astonishing in the brother of an Emperor. I did not suppose that the brothers of autocrats were so much like other people. Some people have curious ways about them. This sort of thing may have suited His Imperial Highness, but if I were a Grand Duke I wouldnt eat with those varlets. As the circumstances stood, however, I took a hand. They give you a lemon to squeeze into your tea there, or iced milk it you prefer it. The former is best. The Grand Dukes tea was delicious. It is brought overland from China. Ic in- jures the article to transport it by sea. Well, to cut a long story short, it was a chatty, sociable tea-party, and free from re- straint. Whoever chose got up and walked about and talked, and in all human proba- bility would have been allowed to whistle if he had wanted to. And it was a pleasant picnic all through, from the time we left the ship till we got back again. We had spent nearly half a day with the heads of the Russian Empire, and it had seemed as if we were merely visiting a party of ordinary friends. There was not one of them but had said the kindest things about America, and said them with an earnestness that proved their sincerity not one but had done everything he could to make us feel con- tente(l and at home. I fear for our less lib- eral hospitality. If they visit the ships they will find a sign up: No smoking abaft the wheel but the Grand Duke passed around his box of cigars in his own recep- tion-room. And there was another incident that shows how little he was inclined to put on airs, and how genuine the seeming cordi- ality of our reception was. This lordly brother of an Emperor, and himself sub-chief of half an Empire, came down on his horse to Yalta, three miles, when we first came ashore, and escorted our procession all the way to the palace, keeping a sharp look-out, and dispatching his aids hither and thither to furnish assistance whenever it was needed; and, being dressed in an unpretentious uni- form, nobody ever suspected who he was until we recognized him in his own palace. I doubt if he goes about escorting a rabble of plain civilians every day. You may possib1y think that our party tarried too long, or did other improper things, but such was not the case. Their going and coming, and all their movements, were quietly regulated by the imperial master of ceremonies. Mr. M. Curtin, our Secretary of Legation at St. Petersburg, was present, and his advice was frequently asked and fol- lowed. The company felt that they were occupying an unusually responsible position they were representing the people of America, not the Government and there- fore they were especially anxious to perform their high mission with credit. On the other hand, the Imperial families, no doubt, considered that in entertaining us they were more especially entertaininir the people of America than they could by showering attentions on a whole platoon of ministers plenipotentiary; and therefore they gave to the event irs fullest significance, as an expression of good will and friendly feeling toward the enri,-e country. We took the kindnesses we received as attentions thus directed, of course, and not to oirselves as a party. That we felt a personal pride in being received as the representttives of a great people, we do not deny; that we felt a national pride in the warm cordiality of that reception, cannot be doubted. The address and an account of the proceedings have already been forwarded to various Rus- sian newspapers for publication, and thus our little holiday adventure is invested with a degree of political significance. Ii is well. We represented only the true feeling of America toward Russia when we thanked her, through her Chief, for her valuable friendship in times past and hoped that it would continue. The sea has been very rough toAay, but still many Russian nobles, civilians, and officers of the army and navy have visited the ship. Among them were B:aroa Wran- gel, formerly Russian Enb issador at Washington, the Admiral and sevei-al Vice- Admirals of the Russian fleets, and Gen. Todtleben, the honored defender, for 18 trying months, of Sebastopol. For his dis- tinguished services there he has been deco- rated with the crosses of the third and fourth degree of the Order of St. George. TIlE MONEY MARKET. 63 By invitation we visited the Empresss railways, has come on board, and is evi- yacht this morning, and afterward brought dently at home with the passengPrs. lie back the captains of that vessel and of one has traveled a great deal in America. of the Emperors yachts to breakfast with He is preparing to web the Empire with us. We have visitors on board all the time, railroads. Prince Dalgorouki and Count ~nd if we only had the boundless polite- Festetics, members of the Emperors Court, ness these Russians are naturally gifted with are also here, and we are getting ready to we could entertain them well. They are fire a salute for the Governor-General, who able to make themselves pleasant company, will be along directly with his family. whether they speak ones language or not, They are laying carpets on the pier for them but our tribe cant think of anything to do to walk on. They might have done that fbr or say when they get hold of a subject of the poet, but I suppose they didnt know the Czar who knows only his own language. he was here. However, one of our ladies, from Cleve- We shall have a champagne spree directly, land, Ohio, is a notable exception to this I suppose, and then bid our guests and Rus- rule. She escorts Russian ladies about the sia farewell, and sail for the Sublime Porte. ship, and talks and laughs with them, and We have got so used to Princes now, that makes them feel at home. They compre- it is going to be hard work, during the next hend no word she utters, but they under- few days, to get down to the level of the stand the good-will and the friendliness that common herd again. MARK TWAIN. are in the tones of her voice. I wish we had more like her. They all try, but none succeed so well as she. The Emperor is very tall and slender spare, one may say and his bearing is full of dignity and easy self~possession. An un bending will is stamped upon his face, and From the Economist Aug 24. yet when he smiles his blue eyes are as THE INFLUENCE OF FOREIGN ANXIETiES gentle as a womans. His hair and whiskers UPON THE MONEY MARKET. are very light. He is 48 years old, but looks about 53 or 54. THE meeting of the Emperor of France The Grand Duke Michael is very tall and the Empe~ror of Austria at Salzburg is and well shaped; has a blue eye that must one of the striking events which rivet peo- beam with a wicked light when he is angry, pIes attention, and which, though intrinsi- though it is lively and pleasant enough un- cally they may be nothing, yet awaken the der peaceable circumstances; his whiskers minds of men to deeper causes which other- and mustache (a modification of the Dun- wise they would not see. The effect of the dreary pattern) are light, and he cuts his meeting upon the European money market hair as close as plush, and dont curl it. has not been favorable, and it could not be He is as straight as an Indian, and if ever a expected to be so. The hidden movement man looked what they call born to com- to which this meeting recalls mens minds mand, he does. His is the stateliest figure is one which may be productive of great fu- in Europe, I am willing to believe. His ture good, but can in no way promote pres- courtly grace, his fine military bearing, his ent quietude. varied accomplishments, and his knightly The one subject of great magnitude which achievements make of him a Russian Sir the Emperor of France and the Emperor of Philip Sydney. He is greatly beloved in Austria can have in common is the growth Russia. of Prussia. The seven days war has pro- The Czar and his brother would be duced a sudden effect in Europe; a new marked in a crowd as great men and good power of immense force has been created, ones. The Emperor Napoleon would be and daily tends to become greater. For marked in a crowd as a great man and a years Germany has been unanimous in de- cunning one. The Sultan of Turkey would siring unity, but she has been divided as to not be marked in a crowd at all. I want to the mode in which she desired it; one par- see one more assortment of kings and aver- ty wished to gain it under the headship of age them, and then I shall be satisfied. Prussia, another under the headship of Au~ The day is drawing to a close, and the tria. But the bat le of Konigsgra~z (lecid- sea is so rough that the Emperor will cer- ed that issue. No competent person now tainly not visit the ship. Baron Ungern- hopes or dreams that Austria can ever Steinberg, the director of all the Russian again get a hold on North Getmany. Tue 64 THE MONEY MARKET. most active, the best educated, and the great fact which benefits the world, but most powerful part of the country has which impairs and hurts them, without a passed without recall beyond her influence, blow or struggle? and all the hope of future German unity As far as the Emperor of Austria goes, now centres in Prussia only. Besides this the auguries are not favorable. It is now Prussia is the winner, and Austria the loser, known that thewar of 18~9 was, for the time and so all the set of present Germany is in at least, his work; that the Emperor of the favour ot Prussia, and is adverse to Austria, French would have been glad. at least for by the universal principles of human nature. the moment, to draw back; that it was a Nor is the Great North German Power fa- bolt of the Emperor of Austria which vourable to France. For generations, the caused the rupture. Francis Josephs poli.. traditional French policy the policy cy, a policy, it would be unjust not to say, which M. Tniers represents has been to pursued always under great and often under keep Germany weak, and she can only be insuperable difficulties, has often shown the kept weak by keeping her divided. France same impulsiveness. Austria, till now, has has owed her predominance in Europe to been before all things else a German pow- her being more unired than her competi- er. She has valued her non-German prov- tors mainly to her being more united than inces mainly as means of influence and of Germany, the greatest of her competitors; predominance in Germany; and she cannot and, if Germany begins to ii val her in her lose that influence and forego all future unity, she may soon surpass her in her pow- hope of that predominance without pain, er. She is already before her speaking humiliation, and even shame. Whether an broadly and generally in the education, excitable eager sovereign like Francis .Jo- the comlbrt, and, perhaps, the physical seph will endure that pain without a fran- strength of her people. If really united, tic effort to evade it, must be dubious. she would be first in numbers now, and In the Emperor of the French there is far her population increases, though that of more hope. He is a great and calm states- Fraiice is stationary. Why, then, should man; he has great experience; he is used Germany be content with meaner prestige to weigh events; he is used to see all sides and infi~rior political power? of all difficulties; he knows, his imagination That this common enemy of France and apprehends, what a European war means of Austria is irresistible, we believe. The better than any living man. The combina- unity of Germany under the headship of tion of nationalities into nations is a principle Pi-uasia and under the predominance of which he first introduced into recognised di- Northern Germany, seems to us both desir- plomacy; before he took it up it was thought able and inevitable. It is desirable that to be a dream fit only for enthusiasts, and there sbuud he eqailibrium upon the conti- not to be regarded by responsible states- nent, aiid the best balance, the only real men. It will be a pang, no doubt, to him balance, is a single antagonist of equal pow- to see France lessened in Europe, and less- er. The Congress of Vienna, by artificial ened by the certain consequences of his own contrivance, tried to make a set of small treasured principle. Still, be has a mind; States balance Fiance; but the attempt he may see that it must be so; that it is to f~ailed, as was certain. One great Germany him far the less of two great eviis; that he is the only counterpoise to one great France. will only make things worse by contending And if Germany is to be one, she had bet- with an impending destiny. Probably, a- ter be oie under the headship of Prussia, cording to his dilatory and suspensive habit, which is Protestant, highly cultivated, and he will long delay his decision, but the bal- without a sinister interest, than under that ance of probability is on the side of hope and of Austria, which is Catholic, which is peace. worse educated, and which has perpetual Perhaps the most painful part of the mat- sinister interests derived from a ron-Ger- ter is, that the choice is really for the mo- man and miscellaneous population. Nei- ment pretty much with these two men. ther Ausria nor France can alter the new The great nations they rule do not want to world, as we believe; but will they recog- go to war; but they would go to war, and iiise th~ imoossible, will thcy submit to the would foll ow exactly where they were led.

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The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1219 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 12, 1867 0095 1219
The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1219 65-128

LITTELLS LJYING AGE. No. 1219. October 12, 1867. CONTENTS. I. Moral Theories and Christian Ethics 2. Old Sir Douglas, Part xvi. 3. Richard Bi-insley Sheridan 4. The Table DH6te . 5. Cost of an Armed Peace 6. The Mont Cenis Railway 7. The Devils Confession 8. General Grant and Mr. Johnson 9. General Grant and the President 10. Holiday Sea-shore Exercises for Young Ladies . . North British Review, . . lion. Mrs. Norton, . . Fortnightly Review1 London Review, Economist, Frasers Magazine. Spectator, London Review, Punch, POETRY: September, 66. What shall we bring you home 3 66. Things new at the Zoo, 66. A farewell to Kate Terry, 128. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. Foa EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directlyto the Publishers, the Living Age will be punetuallytorwaroed for a year,free qf postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year; nor where we have to pay c~-mmission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series ,in Cloth,36 volumes,90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete work 88 220 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollar8; Unbouud,2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. - PAGE 67 92 102 115 118 119 121 123 125 127 66 SEPTEMBER. As evening fades on the September shore The calm bright waves and fields the scene brings back The days on which we paced the beach of yore, And meadows crossed with many a winding track; Once more the time returns to me, once more The happy airs that by us went and came, As by the winding autumn road we pass; The scent of apple orchards by the sea, And gleams of clusters ripening ruddily; And here and there amid the rain-bright grass, The poppys fluctuant spot of crimson flame. Then through the tranquil blue air, from its noon, Sinks the gold sun, slanting long shadows oer The yellow harvest fields alon~ the shore, From grassy steep and full-leaved tree, where sin,.~s The thrush in the clear stillness, until soon, Through the faint mist of the green hollow rings, The sprinkled tinkle of the gathering sheep, Footing the herb toward their quiet fold. A furl of cloud oer the sea line is rolld. And oer the misty meadows drowsed in sleep. The windows of the town, late flashing gold, Begin to glimmer whitely in the moon. Dub. U. Meg. WHAT SHALL WE BRING YOU HOME? Answered by one of the Stay-at-homes in the city. BY JOHN T. SARGENT. BRING home that mountain air, A loftiness of soul, Which may go with us everywhere, And all our deeds control. Bring home that scent of flowers, A purity of heart, Whose odor sanctifles the hours While we are forced to part! Bring us that strength of weakness Which from the ground you glean, Humility and meekness, The flowers that blnsh unseen Wild roses from the hedges, Sweet temper,, love of truth, Faith, hope and love, the pledges Of joy to age and youth. Bring home that shaded path l,~Thich windeth through the wood, SEPTEMBER, ETC. The inward self-restraint which hath Ihe charms of solitude. Bring us the sight of mountains, High motives, lofty aims, Whence issue all the fountains Of virtue and great names. Bring home those lovely songs Of the dear little birds And let us see how God prolongs Their music in your words! Bring us that quiet lake, A sovereign peace of mind Which all our thirst of soul doth slake, With no unrest behind! Boston Tianscript. THINGS NEW AT THE ZOO. Go, people, and pay all To see the she-Gayal That BARTLETT has brought from the Indies; And the wolves from Thibet, Which mammals we bet Will raise in their den fearful shindies. The Arctonyx snout Is the newest thing out, The first ever heard of in London; A Panolia deer, Fresh to this hemisphere, Awaits you, your beer and your bun done. Theres a Pigeon that sings, And one with bronze wings, Polypectrons and likewise a Loris; A Monkey men tell us To call it Entellus The charge but a bob at the door is. There are Demoiselle Cranes To be seen for your pains, With six or eight more of the Tortoise; And a ilemipode ends This list of new friends The Marian Moore lately brought us No, stay, there are Pelicans Rhyme to them ilelicons Verse-helping fount might supply us; But a new River Draught, Teetotally quaffed, Is all the liquer we have by us. So then Floreat Zoo, Both old beasts and new; And when you have seen all its treasures, Take an ice or a tartlet, And thank Mit. BARTLETT For adding so much to your pleasures. Punch. MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. From the North British Review. 1. Jouffroys Introduction to Ethics. Trans- lated by CHANNrNG. 2 vols. l2mo. Wild. London, 1840. 2. Bains Emotions and the Will. 8vo. London, 1859. 3. Mi/i on Liberty. Post 8vo. London, 1859. 4. Temples Rugby Sermons (Easter-day). 8vo. London, 1861. 5. Mill on Utilitarianism. 8vo. 1862. 6. Essays on Criticism. By M. ARNOLD. l2mo. London, 1865. 7. Ecce Homo. 8vo. London, 1865. 8. Miss CoMes Studies, Ethical and Social. Post 8vo. London, 1885. 9. Martineaus Essays. Post 8vo. Lou- 10. don,1866. Ethics. 2 vols. 8vo. London, 1866. 11. Ferriers Lectures and Philosophical Re- mains. 2 vols. Edin. 1866. WRY is Ethical Science, as pw-sued in this country of late years, even to rcflectin~ men so little attractive and so little edify- ing? The cognate study of metaphysics has, after lon~, neglect, recently, in a won- derful way,.renewed its youth; but to moral science no such revival has as yet come. And yet human character, the subject it deals with, is one, it would seem, of no in- considerable interest. Physical science has no doubt drained off the current of mens thoughts, and left many subjects which once engaged them hi~h and dry. But man, his spiritual being, his possibilities here, his destiny hereafter, these still remain, amid all the absorption of external things, the one highest marvel, the paramount centre of interest to men. It cannot be said that modern literature the great exponent of what men are thinking circles less than of old round the great human problems. Rather with the circuit of the suns, not only have the thoughts of men widened, but also their moral consciousness, we will not say their heart, has deepened. Mod- ern literature, as compared with that of last century, has nothing more distinctive in it than this, that it has broken into deeper ground of sentiment and reflection, ground which had hitherto lain fallow, non- existent, or unperceived. About the deeper soul-secrets, literary men of last century either did not greatly trouble themselves, or they practised a very strict reserve. But our own and the preceding age has seen an unveiling of the most inward often of the most sacred, feelings which 67 has sometimes gone beyond the limits of manliness and self-respect. This bringing- to-light of layers of consciousness hitherto concealed, though sometimes carried too far, has certainly enriched our literature with new wealth of moral content. In the best modern poetry, it has shown itself by greater intensity and spirituality; in tIe highest modern novels, by delicacy of analysis, discrimination of the finer tints of feeling, variety and fine shatling of charac- ter hitherto unknown ; in the modern essay, by a subtleness and penetrative force which make the most perfect papers of Addison seem slight and trivial. It farther manifests itself in the growing love and keener appre- ciation of the few great world-poets, who are, after all, the finest embodiments of moral wisdom. It may be that so much ethical thou~ht has been turned off into these channels, that it has left less to be expended in the more systematic form of ethical science. It may be too, that as the field of moral experience widens, and the meaning of life deepens, and its problems become more complex, it demands propor- tionably stronger and rarer powers to gather up all this wealth, and shape it into sys- tematic form. Certain it is, that the modern time produces no such masters of moral wisdom for our day as Aristotle and Mar- cus Aurelius were to the old world, or even as Bishop Butler was to his generation. Wide, many-sided, sensitive, deep, complex, as is the moral life in which we now m ov~ if we would seek any philosophic guidanc through its intricacies, any thinking which is at once solid, clear, practical, and in- stinct with life, we must turn, not to any modern treatise, but to the pages of these bygone worthies. What help ardent spirits, looking for guidance in our day, have found, has been not from the philosophers, but from some living poet, some giant of literature with no pretension to philosophy, or some inspired preacher. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Carlyle, Newman, Frederick Robertson, these, not the regular philosophers, have been the moral teachers of our generation; and, to these, young men have turued, to get from them what help they might. And now it seems, that, in these last days, many, wearied out with straining after their high but impalpable spiritualities, have betaken themslves to a style of teaching which, if it promises less, offers, as they think, some- thing more systematic and more certain. In despair of spiritual truth, they are fain to fill their hunger with the husks of a philo~o-. phv which would confine all mens thoug ts. within the phenomenal world, and deny alt 68 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. knowledge that goes beyond the co-exist- ences and successions of phenomena. From aberrations like tbis perhaps no moral philosophy would bave delivered men. But it would be well, it; warned by such sigr s, it were to return closer to life and fact, deal more with things which mcii really feel; it leaving general sentiments and moral theories, it would attempt some true diagnosis of the very complex facts of human nature, of the moral maladies from which men suffer, the burdens they need removed, the aspirations whicb they can practically live by. Instead of this, in- stead of dealing with r~e actual and the ideal, which co-exist in man, and out of which, if at all, a harmony of life is to be woven, philosophers have been content to repeat a meagreand con ventional psychology, taken mostly from books, not fresh from liv- ing hearts; or they have lost themselves in the metaphysical problems which no doubt everywhere underlie moral life, but which, l)ursued too far, distract atten- tion from the vital realities. These two causes have exhausted the strength and the interest of moral study, either a cut-and- dried conventional psychology, or absorbing metaphysical discussion. The former, in which moral truths appeared shrivelled up, like plants in a botanists herbarium, is the style of things you find in the most ap- proved text-books of the last generation. ~ Never before, as one has smartly said, had human nature been so neatly dissected, so handily sorted, or so ornamentally packed up. The virtues and vices, the appetites, emotions, affections, and sentiments stood each in their ~Pl)O nted corner, and with their appropriate label, to wait in neat expectation for the season of the professorial lectures; and the literary world only delayed their acquiescence in a urn- fern creed of moral philosophy till they should have arran~ed to their satisfaction whether the appetites should be secreted in the cupboard, or pamaded on the chimney-piece; or whether cer- tain of the less creditable packets ought in law and prudence, or ou~ht not in charity, to be ticketed Poison. Every thing was as it should be, or was soon to be so, differences were not too different nor unanimity too unani- ruous; opinion did not degenerate into certainty, nor interest into earne~tness; moral philosophy stod apart, like a literary gentleman of easy circumstances, from religion and politics; and t uth itself was grateful for patrona0e, instead of being clamorors for allegiance. Types were delicate, moat-gins were large, publishers were attentive, the intellectual world said it was intellectual, and the public acquiesced in the a~sertion. What more could scientific heart desirel This description may contain something of caricature, and yet thre are hooks enough on moral science which justify it, books which no doubt have been successful in disgusting many with the subject of which they treat. Nor has moral philosophy suffered less from those deeper and more abstract discussions which have often in modern times been substituted for itself. Men of a profounder turn have so busied themselves with investigations of the nature of right, the law of duty, freedom, and ne- cessity, and such like hard matters, that these have absorbed all their interest and energy, and left none for the treatment of those concrete realities which make up the moral life of man. Not that such discus- sions can be dispensed with. They are always necessary, never more so than now, when the spiritual ground of mans moral being is so often denied by materialistic or by merely phenomenal systems. It were well, perhaps, that they should he made a department hy themselves, under the title of Metaphysic of Ethics, to be entered on by those who have special gifts for such inquiries. For when substituted for the whole or chief part of moral inquiry, they become unpractical discussions of a prac- tical subject, and as such alipnate many from a study, which, if rightly treated, would deepen their thought and elevate their char- acter. For what is the real object with which moral science deals? Every science has some concrete entity, some con.,eries of facts, which is called in a general way itS subject-matter. Botany, we say, deals with plants or herbs, geology with the strata which form the earths crust, astronomy with the stars and their motions, psychology with all the states of human consciousness. What, then, is the concrete entity with which moral science deals? It is not the active powers of man, nor the emotions, nor the moral faculty not these, each or all. It is simply human character. This is the one great subject it has ever before it. About this it asks what is character, its nature, its elements? what influences make it? what mar it? in what consists its perfec- tion? what is its destiny? This may seem a very elementary statement; but it is quite needful to recur to it, and even to reiterate it, so much has it been lost si~ht of in the pursuit of side questions branching out of it. At the outset, before any analysis is begun, the student cannot too deeply re- ceive the impression of character as a great and substantive reality. Some vague per- ception of character, all men, of course, MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. 69 have. They are aware, whether they dwell r yond all teaching, the virtue-making pow- onit or not, that men differ not only in face ers. But moral philosophy, though subor- and form and outward circumstances, but in dinate to these, is useless, if it does not sup- something more inward, they cannot exactly plement them; if it does not at once justify tell what. But farther than this confused the hearts aspirations on grounds of r~ason, notion most persons do not go. Others there and strengthen while it enlightens the will are who see much more than this, who have to pursue them. Character, then, in the a keen penetrating glance into every man concrete, truthful, solid, l)ure; high, as they meet, apprehend his bias, know what better than gold, yea than fine gold, its manner of man he is, and deal with him ac- revenue than choice silver; as the best cordingly. This gift, so useful in practice, thing we know of in all our experience, the we call an eye to character; those who one thing needful for a man, which to have possess it, good judges of character. It is got is to have got all, to have missed is to the same gift of discerning the quality of miss all, this cannot be too fully set be- men which some persons have of judging of fore the learner at the outset, as the goal to horses and other cattle. Hence LLchylus which all his inquiries must tend, which spoke of a good judge of character as alone gives his inquiries any value. If this ~po~3aroyv~suv. But this practical insight, is not seen and grasped broadly and deeply so useful in business, and, it may be, to a at first, and its presence felt throughout all certain extent in speculation, is something our reasoning, the discussion and analysis distinct from a fine and deep perception of that follow become mere words, hair-split- the higher moralities of character. Shrewd tin~ and logomachy. observers of human nature are often keen To observe moral facts, and retain them to discern the weaknesses and foibles of steadily, requires a moral perception innate men, and .even to exaggerate them, but or trained, or both. Every one will re- slow to perceive those finer traits of heart meniber Aristotles saying that he should which lie deeper. The apprehension of have been well trained in his habits who is character with which the student should to study aright things beautiful and just, begin, and which his moral studies ought to and in short al moral subjects. For facts deepen, is something very diflhrent from are the starting point. Quickness and te- this. It is an eye open to see, a heart sen- nacity of moral l)erception is not so much sitive to feel, the higher excellences of hu- an intellectual as a moral gift. Nay, it is man nature, as they have existed, and still easy to overdo the intellectual part of the exist in the best of the race. It is a spirit process. Too rigid logic, too exact defin- the very opposite of that of the cynic, one ing and subdividing of that which often can which, while it looks steadily at the moral be but inadequately defined, kills it. It is maladies and even basenesses into which like trying to hold a sunbeam in an iron men fall, yet, without being sentimental, vice. The faculty that will best catch the loves more to contemplate the nobler than many aspects and finer traits of character the baser side, which, behind the com- must be a nice combination, an even balance monplaces and trivialities, can seize lifes between mental keenness and moral emo- deeper import, and look up, and aspire tion. It is the heart within the head which towards the heights which have been at- makes up that form of philosophic imagina- tamed, and are still attainable, by man. tion most needed by the moralist. If moral To call out and strengthen in young minds character, in its higher aspects, were set such perceptions is one main end of moral thus truly and strongly before young minds, teaching. No doubt there are influences it would require little else to counteract which can do this more powerfully than materialism. Such elevating views might any teaching. To have seen and known be left, almost without reasonings. to work lives which have embodied these fair quali- their natural effect on all who were suscep- ties, to have felt the touch of their human tible of them. goodness, to have companioned with those Character has been defined as a com- pletely fashioned will. This, as has been Whose soul the holy forms said, is to be kept continually before us in Of young imagination hath kept pure; all moral inquiry, as its practical end, that which gives it solidity. But, when once to have fed on high thoughts, and been fa- we have looked at it steadily, whether as it auiliar with the examples of the heroes, the has existed actually in the best men,orin the sages, the saints, of all time, so as to believe~ ideal, the question at once arises, how i~ that such lives were once pn earth, and are this right character to be attained? how not impossible even now, these are, be- is the good that is within to be made ascend- 70 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. ant,the less rood to be subordinated, the evil to be cast out? Of the numerous questions which this practically suggests as to the standard by which character is to be tested, the foundation of moral goodness, and many more, the simplest and most ob- vious is to ask, What is in man? What are the various elements of mans nature ? Thus we are at once landed in psychology. And so it has happened, that almost all great ethical thinkers, whatever their meth- od, even when it depends mainly on certain great ~t priori conceptions, have attempte(l some enumeration of the various parts or elements which make up human life. Be- gun by Plato and Aristotle, carried on by the Stoics, revived in modern times by Hobbes, not neglected even by demonstra- tive Spinoza, this way of proceeding by observation of living men and of our own minds, formed the whole staple of Bishop Butlers method. It is strange as we read the first fetches into human nature of tbose early thinkers, with how much more living power they come home to us than modern psychologies. This comes probably of their having read their facts straight off their own hearts, or from observation of other men. There is something in the first thoughts of the world which can never recur, somethin~ in havin~ been the first utterer of those words, the first noters of those distinctions, which thenceforth were to become the common inheritance of all men. Compared with theirs, the moral psychology of recent times has for the most part become stale and unprofitable, because, the first main outlines having been already explored, the moderns have but repeated with shght alteration the old analysis, pre- senting us with tabulated lists of appetites, desires, passions, affections, and so forth, at which men only yawn. In fairness, how- ever, we must allow that although we dis- sent most entirely from the fundamental J)rincipies of Professor Bains philosophy, we have found in his elaborate work on the Emotions and the Will many facts which are either new, or at least which we have not before seen registered in systematic treatises. Certainly if psychology is to in- terest and instruct once more, it must leave the srereotyped forms, and enrich itself with new and hitherto unnoted facts, gathered partly from the more subtle and varied shades of feeling, partly from the wider sur- vey of human history, and the deepened human experience, which our present civ- ilisation has opened up. The surest method then for ethical science, is to begin with :moral psychology that is, with a close study of the phenomena which make up man s moral nature. This is its beginning, but not its end. From observation of these it will be led down to fundamental ideas which underlie them that is, it will land us in theology or religion. There are two ways in which psycholgy may go to work. It may beginat the cen- tre, the core of mans being, at the mysteri- ous conscious I, the fully formed personal will, and then show how the several pow- ers and faculties group thet selves round this centre. But perhaps the better way is, beginning at~ the outside, to follow what we may conceive to be the historical growth of the individual, as well as of the race, and to show how each of the phases of our being successively rises into prominence. Such a survey would place before us man in his earliest stage as a mass of natural ap- petencies or instinctive tendencies, each seeking blindly its appropriate end, the reaching of which is necessary to continued existence. Accompanying these primitive desires, we should find certaill faculties which are the instruments by which the former reach their end, the executive as it were of the blind impulses. During this stage, the spontaneous action of these appe- tencies engenders certain secondary pas- sions, such as love of things which help the attainment of theirends, hatred of things which thwart them. Of these primitive out g& ngs, some we can ~ee have reference to the good of self, some to the good of others, long before self-gratification can be set be- fore us as a consetous object. Such is the earliest stage of our existence, the appe- titive, the spontaneous or semi-conscious, as we see it in inftnts or in uncivilized tribes. This is the raw material, as it were, out of which character is to be formed. The ag- gregate amount of all these primitive ele- ments, and the relative proportions in which the higher and the lower are mingled in each man, will go far to determine what he will ultimately become. But, out of the midst of this blind con- genes, experience develops new powers. Very early in the appetitive life, the desires must meet with obstacles ; and the faculties that purvey for them, being thwarted, are driven inward, and forced to concentrate themselves for a more conscious effort to remove the hindrance. Here, then, is the first dawning, the earliest consciousness, of will within us Again: out of the appeti- tivo life. when experienced long enough, there rises a power of intelligence or reflec- tion, which, observing that each desire has its own end, and that the attainment of that MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. end brings pleasure, generalizes from these separate goods the idea of a general good for our whole nature, a satisfaction arising from the permanent gratification of all our desires, or at least of as many of them as may be possible. Reflection soon perceives that desire left to act blindly our nature swayed now by this, now by that impulse does not attain to any stable happiness. Some kinds of action, it observes, make towar(ls this happiness, others thwart it; the former it calls useful actions, the latter hurtful. From these observations it gener- alizes the idea of a total personal good or self-interest as an end to be aimed at, and forms subordinate rules of conduct with a view t~ attain that end. Self-interest thus intelligently conceived may become an end of life, or what is called a motive, an ever present motive to guide the will. Governed by this motive, the will can control anarchic passion, and introduce order into a mans desires and conduct. In doing this, the will, besides the power of reflection, is forti- fied by the emotions; because, by a law of our nature, self-interest, when once con- ceived as an end, is eagerly embraced as a new object for the affections. This is the second or prudential stage of our nature. Some men remain all their lives in the for- mer or appetitive stage, and these we call impulsive men. Others regulate their ac- tions by well-calculated self-interest, and these we call prudent, or it may be, if self- interest is too absorbing, selfish men. But though the two types of character are clear, yet so infinitely diversified are these simple elements in fiemselves, and in their degrees of strength, that perhaps no two men ever lived in whom they were compounded ex- actly alike, in no two men was the same physiognomy of character ever reproduced. But not any or all of the elements yet no- ticed, however mingled, would make what is called a nioral being; they do not yet rise above the life of nature. To do this, there necus must dawn another and higher con- sciousness. Reflection cannot stop at the idea of merely personal good, for it sees that there are other beings of the same nature and desires as ourselves who have each a self-interest of their own as well as we. But as the personal good of others often collides with ours, and as one or other must give way, we begin to see that the good of others deserves as much respect, ought to be as sacred in our eyes, as our own. So we rise to feel, that, above our sensitive and individual life, there is a high- er, more universal order to which we and all individual souls even Aow belong; that this higher order secures and harmonizes the ultimate good of all rational beings; and that the particular good of each, though in harmony with this order, and an element of it, must be subordinated to it. To real- ize this spiritual order, and be a fellow- worker with it, is felt to be the absolute, the moral good, an end in itself, higher and more ultimate than all other ends. This idea, this end, this imp~-rsonal good, once conceived, comes home to us with a new and peculiar consciousness. In its presence we for the first time become aware of a law which has a right to command us, which is obligatory on us, which to obey is a duty. Seen in the light of this law, the goodof others, we feel, has a right to determine our choice equally with our own; and our own good loses its merely temporary and finite, and assumes an impersonal and eternal character. This consciousness it is which makes us moral agents. Only in the idea of such a transcendent law above us, inde- pendent of us, universal, and of a will determined by it, does morality begin. All other elements of our nature are called moral, only as they bear on this, the over- ruling moral principle. The consciousness just described constitutes the third or moral stage of human nature. Not that the second and the third stages occur in every man in the order we have followed. A man may become alive to the moral law, and to its obligation over him, before he has conceived of self-interest as an end of action. But the order here given marks the relative worth of the respective princi- ples, and the culmination of our nature in that one which is its proper end. It would be easy to show how all the moral systems have taken their character, from giving one or other of these three principles of action, the emotional, the pru- dential, and the moral, a special promi- nence, investing some one element, or some particular disposition of all the elements, with paramount sovereignty. But we must pass on to notice a defect inherent in this and every attempt to map out human nature into various compartments, a de- fect which, when unperceived, as it mostly is, distorts, if not falsifies, the whole work of the analysts. Even if the most exact enumeration, the most minute analysis, could be made, would this give all that makes up character? It is a common mis- take with psychologists to suppose that it does. They fancy they can grasp life by victorious analysis. There can be no great- er, thouirh there is no more common delu- sion. What is it that analysis the most 71 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. perfect accomplishes? It gives the van- Gus elements which go to make up a moral lhct, or it may be said to give the various points of view which a phenomenon or group of phenomena presents. But is this all? Is there nothing more than what is found in the analysts crucihle? The analysis, that is the unloosing, the taking-down into pieces of the bundle, may be complete; but where is the power of synthesis, the bond which held the bundle together? Where is the life which pervaded the sev- eral elements, and made of them one entire power? It is gone, it has escaped your touch. Can the botanist, after he has divided a flower into its component parts, pistil, stamen, anther, petals, calyx, put them together once more, and restore the life and beauty that were there ? This is the main error of psychologists. They fancy, that, when they have completed their analysis, they have done all, not considering that it is just the most unique and mysterious part of the problem which has eluded them. What the late Professor Ferrier shows so well against the pyschologists, that the ego, the one great mystery, ever escapes them, the same takes place in the analysis of every other living entity. In a human character, when you have done your best to exhaust it, to give its whole contents, that which is its finer breath, has it not escaped you? must not you be content to own that there remains behind a something which no language may declare? What end then serves analysis? By bringing out, separately and in detail, each side, aspect, or element in any problem, and fixing the eye on each successively, it helps to give distinctness and exactness to our whole conception of it. But it is only the multi- plicity that is thus given, the unity or rather the unifying power still remains un- grasped. And if we are to see character in its truth, we must, after analysis has done its work, by an act of philosophic imagina- tion remake the synthesis, put the elements together again; and, if we do this rightly, something will re.aI)pear in the synthesis which had disappeared in the analysis, and that something will be just the idiosyncratic element which gives individuality to the whole man. To a moral philosophy which shall give the, truth, this synthesis is not less essential than the analysis. Of the many questions which have been, and may still be, asked respecting virtuous character, there is one, not the least impor- tant, and certainly the most practical, of any, which has received less attention from moralists th~n it dseryes. It is this Supposing that we have settled rightly what the true ideal of character is, how are we to attain it? what is the dynamic power in the moral life? what is that which shall impel a man to persevere in aiming at this ideal, shall carry him through all that hinders him outwardly and inwardly, and enable him, in some measure at least, to realize it? Other questions, it would seem, more stimulate speculation, none has more immediate bearings on mans m0ral inter- ests. For confused and imperfect as mens notions of right may be, it is not knowledge that they lack, it is the will and the power to do. Change one word, and all men will make the apostles confession their own To know is present with me, but how to perform that which is good I find not. On this subject, then, the dynamic or motive power in moral life we would turn attention in the sequel. Under the word motive, three things are included, which are usually (listinguished thus, the outward object, or reality, which, when apprehended and desired, determines to action ; the mental act of apprehending this object; and the desire or affection which is awak- ened by the object so apprehended. To this last step, which immediately precedes the act of will, and is said to determine it, the term motive is often exclusively applied. But in our inquiry into the dynam- ic or modve power we shall use the word in a wider sense, including all the three elements in the process, and applying it more especially to that one which is the startin~-point, namely, the outward object or reality, which, addressing the under- standing, and stirring the affections, ulti- mately determines the will. And the ques- tion we ask is, What is that outward object, or class of objects, which determines the will in a way which can rightly be called moral? What are those truths which, apprehended and entering into a man, enable him to rise into that state of being which is truly virtuous or moral? In doing so it will be well to ask first what answers to this question may be found in the works of some of the ~rreat masters of moral wisdom. In his survey of moral systems, Adam Smith remarks, that there are two main questions with which moral- ists have to deal. The first is, What is virtue? or, more concretely, In what con- sists the virtuous character, that temper and conduct in a man which deservedly win the esteem of his fellow-men? The second is, What is the faculty in us by which we (liseern and approve the virtuous character? in other words, by what power MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. do we distinguish between right actions and praise them, and wrong actions and blame them? Of the question we are now to consider, the dynamic power which en- ables us to do the right, it is remarkable that Smith makes no mention. In discussing this, which we may call the third main question of morals, we shall have occasion to advert to the former two ; but we shall do so no farther than as they bear on the third, which is our more immediate con- cern. Smith has classified philosophers mainly by the answer they give to the first of the three questions, according as they place virtue in the proper balance and harmony of all the faculties and affections which make up our human nature, or in the judicious pursuit of our own happiness, or in benevolence, that is, in the affections which seek the happiness of others. The first of these three answers to the great question, What is the virtuous character.? has been sanctioned by the greatest names of past time, by Plato, by Aristotle, by the Stoics, and by Bishop Butler. Let us glance at their th~ ones, with a view to find what help there is in them as to the dynam- ic power we are in search of. With Plato originated the idea that virtue is a proper balance or harmony of the various powers of soul; and, though it has often since been elaborated into detail, it has never been put in so beautiful and at- tractive a form. It is one of those great thou,h simple thoughts first uttered by that father of philosophy, which have taken hold of the world, and which it will never let go. Repeated in our ordinary language, it sounds a commonplace; but in the Greek of The Republic in stands fresh with unfad- ing bcauty. Ho divides the soul, as is well known, into three elements, desire. pas- sion or coura.e, and intellect; and this division, vaciously modified, has held its ground ip philosophy till now. The dtaatoc~(vy, or righteousness of the individual soul, he places in a proper balance or har- mony of these three elements, in which each holds that position which rightfully belongs to it. The State is the counter- part of the individual soul, and its docatoadvy, or right condition, is attained when the three orders of guardians, auxiliaries, and producers, answering to reason, passion, appetite, respectively stand in their proper order of precedence. This is the philoso- phy which Shakspeare makes Ulysses speak. In the observance of degree, priority, and place, stands The unity and married calm of States. How could communities, I)egrces in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenitive and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree, stand in authentic place Take but degree away, untune that sting, And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy. The man is righteous in whom each of the three elements holds its proper place and does its proper work; and this inward har- mony expresses itself in an outward lite which is every way righteous. The power which discerns the right, and orders all the elements of the soul, is intellect or reason, whose right it is to rule. But how is this harmony of soul, once discerned, to be reached, maintained, made energetic? Plato, of philosophers the least mechanical, the most dynamic, the most full of powers of life, cannot have left this question wholly unanswered, though he has not dealt with it systematically. His hope was that this may be done in the State by educating the guardians, who are philosophers; in the in- dividual, by educating the reason, which is the sovereign principle, by the continual study of real truth, the contemplation of the ideal good. The highest object of all is the E-sential Form or Idea of the Good which imparts to the objects known the truth that is in them, and to the knowing mind the faculty of knowing truth. This idea of the good is the cause of science and of truth. It gives to all objects of knowledge not only the power of being known, hut their being and existence. Tie goo I is not existence, but is above and be- yond existence in dignity and power. Tue purpose of education, he says, is to turn the whole soul round, in order that the eye of the soul, or reason, may be directcd to the right quarter. But education does not generate or infuse any new principle; it only guides or directs a principle already in existence. So far in The Republic. Again, in the famous myth where reason is imaged by a charioteer driving a chariot drawn by two horses, one high-spirited and aspiring, the other earthward gPovelling, Plato makes the charioteer able just to raise his head, and look out for a moment on that super-celestial place, which is above heavens vault, and to catch a glimpse of the realities that are there the colourless, formless, intangible substance on which the gods gaze without let or hindrance. The MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. glimpse which the better human souls get fills them with love of the reality. They see and feast on it, and are nourished by it. It is this idea or essence of the good, the cause of existence and knowledge the vital centre in the world of thought, as the sun is in the world of sight, which is the object of contemplation to the reason. And reason, Plato says, looking upwards, and carried to the true Above, realizes a delight in wisdom unknown to the other l)arts of our nature. This idea of good is the centre at once of morals and politics, the rightful influencing power in human action. It should be ever present to the mind; a fufl philosophic consciousness of it should be the ruling power in every thing. Nor is it an object merely for the pure reason, but for the imagination also, and an attractive power for the higher affections which side with reason. This glimpse, then, granted only to the purest in their purest hour, may be supposed to be to them an in- spiration that will not desert them all their lives after. It will make them hunger and thirst after truth and righteousne~s, and despise, in comparison of these, all lower goods. So far this intuition of the good will ho a dynamic power. But this master- visl9n, if it be possible at rare intervals for the select souls of earth, and if it were ale- quate to sustain them in the pursuit of goodness, is at best a privilege for the few, not an inheritance for mankind. And Plato did not dream of it as more. From the mass of men he turns in despair, and leaves them to their swine-troughs. He did not conceive that for all men thire was an ideal, or any power sufficient to raise them towards it. In Plato, then, the moral dy- namic force we are seeking is in small measure, if at all, to be found. Shall we find it in Aristotle? Although the Ethics contains more than one di- vision of human nature, which helped for- ward psychological analysis, yet the whole system is not determined by any such divis- ion, but by certain leading objective ideas. Foremost among these is that of an end of action. There is an absolute end of alt ac- tion, an end in irselg and man s con- sitution is framed conformably to this end, and in realizing it lies the total satisfaction of his nature, his well-being. Everything in nature has its end, and fulfils it unconsciously, but a moral being must fulfil his end not blindly, but with conscious pur- pose. The end in itself consciously chosen and pursued, this is Aristotles fundamental ethical idea. The end or the good for man is a vivid consciousness of life, according to its high- est excellence, or in the exercise of its highest powers. Sir Alexander Grant, in his very able dissertation on vipyeta, shows, with singular felicity, how Aristotle regarded mans chief good as nothing ex- ternal to him, but as existing in man and for man; existing in the evocation, the vi- vidness, and the fruition of his powers. It is the conscious vitality of the life and the mind in the exercise of its highest faculties. This, however, not as a permanent condi- tion, but one that arises in us, oftenest like a thrill of joy, a momentary intuition. Were it abiding, we should be as God. In order to find in which part of man this highest excellence is to be found, Aristotle has recourse to a psychologic .1 division, not of his own making, but apparently well known at the time. He divdes the inter- nal principle (iPv%~) into the ~iliysical or vegetative part, the semi-rational or appe- titive, and the purely rational. The first has no share in human excellence, in the second lies moral excellence or virtue, in the third lies intellectual excellence. Aris- totle here founds the distinction between moral and intellectual, beyond which we have not yet got. Practical moral excel- lence has its seat in the second division of our nature, in the passions, which, though not purely rational, have communion with reason. And though Ari4otle in the end gives to the purely intellectual excellence, which consists in philosophical contempla- tion, a higher place than he assigns to the exercise of the moral virtues, yet it is of these he chiefly tre~tts, and with these we have now to do. Moral virtue, then, he defines as consisting in a developed state of the moral purpose, in a balance relative to ourselves, which is determined by reason. This is Aristotles famous doctrine, that vir- tue is a mean, an even balance, a harmony of mans powers. It is a mean as exhibited in particular actions, and also a. mean or balance struck between opposite excesses of feelin ~. Feelings, passions, actions, are the raw miterials out of which character is to be wrought by aiming at a balance. Right reason is the power which determines what the mean or balance is. It reviews the whole circumstances of the case, strikes the balance, apprehends the rule by which the irregular feelings may he reduced to that regularity in which virtue consists, virtue as well in l)articular acts as in habits, and in the whole character. The mean is not a hard and fast line, but a balance struck anew in each particular case, from a consideration of all the circumstances. 74 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS 75 The virtucus character is slowly elaborated nature which you feel to be penetiatingly by a repetition of virtuous acts; acts, that is, true, yet, after all, you are left to evolve midway between extremes. And then as the virtuous habit out of your own inward to knowing what the real mean is, man i resources. There is in him no pointing to must begin and act from his own percep- anything which may come home to a man tions, such as they are. His own individ- inwardly, and supplement his mortal weak- ual reason must be the guide he starts with, ness by a strength beyond his own. All but he is nottherefore shut up in subjectivity. that he suggests is of a merely external He has a surer standard than individual kind. Besides moral teaching, such as him- judgment to appeal to, even the universal self and other moralists give, he bids men moral sentiment of men. Or rather in the look for help to such institutions, either wise man, the ideally perfect man, he has domestic or political, as may assist them in a kind of objective conscience, an embodi- the cultivation of virtue. ment of moral law; and lie jude es accord- Amongst moderns, it is well known, Bish- ing as he knows that this ideally wise man op Butler has been the chief expounder of would judge. Here, then, we have a theory the idea which originated with Plato, that of virtue and the virtuous character, but no the virtuous character consists in a harmo- answer to the question, What is the motive ny of the different powers of man. This, power which shall propel men towards this the leading idea of his sermons, has so ideal? Indeed, full though his treatise is worked itself through his teaching into of wise and penetrat1n~ practical remarks modern thought that it need not now be on character, this subject is nowhere dis- dwelt on. A system, a constitution, an cussed by Aristotle; but if we may gather economy, in which the various parts ap- an answer for ourselves, it might have been, petite, passions, particular affections are something like this all ranged in due gradation under the so- Reason of itself cannot reach the will preme conscience; this is his doctrine of and mould the choice. Yet reason and man. In working out this idea, while the those emotions which are most obedient to great Bishop has contributed much of his it, act and re-act on each other. In time, own, especially the masterly analysis by by the law of habit, they blend together which he proves the existence in man of and make up a moral habit of soul, which originally unselfish, as well as of self-regard- restrains and directs all the lower impulses. ing affections, lie recalls here the teachings When intellect and the more generous of Plato, there that of Aristotle. Thouga emotions combine in seeking one end, and he deals entirely with individual man, he by repeated acts form a habit, the result is illustrates his idea of gradation and moral the perfected moral judgment or prac- harmony by Platos image of a civil consti- tical wisdom, which itself is both a guide tution, with its vartous ranks subordinated and a sufficient motive power to im- under one supreme authority. On the pel the soul steadily to good. t~o6viyai~ is other hand, his idea of conscience comes with Aristotle the perfection of the moral much nearer to that of Aristotles ~bp6vyctg intellect. He does not say that it is an in- than that of Platos reason. But in But- terpenetration of the moral with the intel- lers conscience, there is a much more diS- lectual side of human nature, but that there tinct presence of the emotional or moral is an inseparable connexion between this element, while the notion of an obligatory practical wisdom (q~p6vyanc) and moral vir- power or right to command, so characteris- tue. In his view, these two sides, if not tic of modern as distinguished from ancient b!ended in one habit, are brought much thought, comes strongly out. But para- closer together than in Plato, and that, mount as is this idea with Butler, it is stran e both in the discerning and in the ruling that whenever we go beyond it, and ask for moral faculty. a reason why conscience should be stipreme, The elaboration of the virtuous character he fails us Entrenched within his psycho- by the formationi of ~ood habits is a long logical facts, lie refuses to go beyond them. and slow process. Does Aristotle point to Ask what is the rule of right, the canonby any spring of inspiration which may carry which conscience decide~, he replies, Man a man through it? Plato after his own is a law to himself; every l)lain honest man fashion does. Far off and inaccessible as who wishes it will find the rule of right his idea of the good may be, there is some- within himself, and will decide agreeably thing in it, and in his enthusiasm for it, to truth and virtue. This is like saying which must kindle, as by contagion, all but that conscience decides by the rule of eon- the dullest. But in Aristotle, though at science. If asked, Why should I obey con- every turn you meet i~ights into human science? Butler can but assume that MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. conscience carries its own authority with it, that it is our natural guide that it be- longs to our condition of being. and there- fore it is our duty to obey it. If a further sanction is sought, he seems to find it in the fact of experience, that the path of duty and that of interest coincide, meaning by interest happiness and satisfaction. If there be exceptions, these will he set right in the final distribution of things. Duty and interest are perfectly coincident; for the most part here, entirely hereafter; this being implied in the very notion of a good and perfect administration of things. In this coincidence of duty and interest, so far fulfilled in our present experience, and ul- timately made sure by the existence of a Moral Governor of the world, seems to lie a great part of the dynamic power in But- lers system. To this may be added his re- mark, in the spirit of Aristotle, that obedi- ence to conscience, when it has grown into a habitual temper, becomes a choice and a delight. But iti the sermons on the Love of God he strikes a higher strain. lie there de- monstrates to an unbelieving age that this affec ion he speaks of is no dream, hut the most sober certainty. For as we have cer- tain lower affections which find suffleing ob- jects in the world around us, so we have higher faculties and moral emotions, which find hut inadequate objects in the scattered rays of created wisdom, power, and good- ness which this world shows. To these fac- ulties and affections, God himself is the only adequate supply. Tcey can find their full satisfaction only in the contemplation of that ri~hteousness, which is an everlasting right- eousness, of that goodness in the sovereign mind which gave birth to the universe. This is Butlers highest doctrine, whi(-h he sets forth with a calm suppressed enthusiasm almost too deep for words. This contem- plation would give rise to the highest form of happiuess, but it is not for this that it is sought. It would cease to be the ultimate end that it is, if sought for the sake of hap- piness, or for any end but itself. There can he no doubt that if once realized, it would be, as we shall see, in the highest measure, the dynamic of the soul. But ers search for virtue is wholly through psychology. Plato and Aristotle, though they do tot begin with it, very soon have recourse to it. Kant, on the other hand, when seeking for principles of morality, disdains to fumble after them among the debris of observation and experience, Nit searches for them wholly & priori among the pu e iceas of the reason.- We find nothing in him about the virtuous character consist- ing in a harmony of the mental elements, although it might be said that his idea of virtue is a will in harmony with the moral universe. Laying his hand at once on the individual will, and intensifying to its high- est power the idea of responsibility, he starts with the assertion, that the only real and absolute good in the whole world is a good will. And a good will is one purely and entirely determined by the moral law. This law is not a law generalized out of hu- man experience, binding therefore only within the range of that experience, but a law which transcends it; is wide as the uni- verse, and extends in its essential principle to all beings who can think it. Man, accord- ing to Kant, shut up on every other side of his being to a merely relative knowledge, in the moral law for the first time comes into contact with absolute truth, truth valid not only for all men, but for all intelligents. Human conscience is nothing but the en- .tering into the individual of this objective law, the witness, as it has been called, that the will or self has come into suhjec- tion to, and harmony with, the universal reason, which is the will of God. From the reality of this law, Kant deduces three great moral ideas- First, since it commands imperatively, unconditionally,w e must be able to obey it. Freedom, there- fore, as a necessary consequence, follows from the consciousness of an imperative law of duty. Again: in this phenonienal life, we see the will that would obey duty hin- dered by many obstacles, crushed by many miseries, unrewar(led with that happiness which rightfully belongs to well doing. There must, therefore, be a life beyond this phenomenal one, where the hindrances will be removed, where duty and the will to obey it will h are full play, where virtue and happiness, here often sundered, shall at last meet. That is, there must be an immortali- ty. Lastly, reason represents to us the moral will as worthy of happiness. But we see that here they do coincide, nature does not effect such a meetin.. Man cannot constrain it. There must be somewhere a Power above nature, stronger than man, who will uphold the moral order, will bring about the union between virtue and happi- ness, between guilt and misery. And this being is God. Such is Kants practical proof of the great triad of moral fruths in which the morally-minded mai believes, Freedom, Immortality, and God- The ne- cessity for the heief in these arises out of the reality of the moral law. To Kants ideal of duty it matters nothing, 76 77 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTLAN ETHICS. though it is contradicted by experience, though not one instance could be shown of a character which acted on, or even of a single action wbich emanated from, tbe pure unmingled moral law. The question is not what experience shows, but what rea- son ordains. And though this ideal of mor- al excellence may never yet have been ac- tualized, vet none the less it remains a true ideal, the one standard which the moral heart of man approves, however in practice he may fall beneath it. On this pure idea of the moral law, Kant would build a science of ethics, valid not for man only, but for all intelligent beings. Applied to man, it would need to be supplemented by an an- thropology, and would then stand to pure ethics, as mixed stand to pure mathematics. As to the relation in which, according to Kant, the objective moral law stands to the human conscience, there is a very ingenious speculation of the late Professor Ferrier, which will illustrate it. lie asks the ques- tion whether it is the existence of our minds which generates knowledge, or the entering of knowledge into us which constitutes our minds? Is the radical and stable element mind, and is intelligence the secondary and derivative one? Professor Ferriers reply is, that it is not mans mind which puts him in possession of ideas, but it is ideas, that is knowledge, which first puts him in possess- ion of a mind. The mind does not make ideas, but ideas make mind. In like man- ner, applying the same principle to poetic inspiration, he shows that it is not the poet- ic mind which creates the ideas of beauty and sublimity which it utters, but those ileas wbich, entering into a man, create the poetic mind. And so in moral truth, it is not our moral nature which makes the dis- tinction between right and wrong, but the existence of right and wrong, and the ap- prehension of them by us, which create our moral nature. I have no moral nature, he says before the distinction between right and wrong is revealed to me. My moral nature exists subsequently to this revela- tion. At any rate, I acquire a moral nature, if not after, yet in the very act which brings before me the distinct.ion. The distinction exists as an immutable institution of God prior to the existence of our minds. And it is the knowledge of this distinction which forms the prime constituent, not of our mor- al acquisitions, but of our moral existence. This very ingenious speculation is in the very spirit of the Platonic philosophy, and may serve to illustrate Kants view of the priority and independence of the moral law to our apprehensions of it. Where, then, is the motive power in the Kantian ethics? Kants answer is plain. It is the naked representation of duty, the pure moral law. And this, according to Kant, exerts so strong a motive power over the will, that it is only when a man has ac- knowledged its obligatory force, and obeyed it, that he learns for the first time his own free casual power, his independence of all merely sensitive determinators. The naked moral law, defecated, as he speaks, of all emotions of the sensory, is the one only dy- namic which is truly moral. This, acting on the will, with no emotion interposed, will alone, he insists, place morality on a true foundation, will create a higher speculative ethics, and a higher practical morality, and will awaken deeper moral sentiments, than any system of ethics, compounded now of ideal, now of actual elements, can do. In the rigidity with which he holds that in a pure moral action the law shall alone sway the will, that all emotion, love the purest. pity the tenderest, shall be excluded, Kant is ultra-stoical. The representation of duty, when embraced, will awaken rever- ence for the law, and this is a pure moral emotion. But in determining the act, the stern imperative must stand alone, and re- fuse all aid from emotion or affection. For these there is no place in a pure morality, except as the submissive servants of duty. In making this high demand, it should be remembered, that Kant is setting forth, not an actual state which he expects to find in human nature, but an ideal, which never- theless because it is an ideal, affects human nature more powerfully than any maxim merely generalized from experience. And perhaps if the moral idea is to be set fbrth in its native strength and dignity, it is well that it should be exhibited thus nakedly. It does come sborn of much of its power, when so largely mingled, as it is in Butler, with considerations of mere prudence. As has been remarked, however, even Kant, much as he desired to get rid of ex- perience in constructing his morality, was not able to do so. He was obliged to come to experience before he could give content to his moral law So act, that thou couldst consistently will the principle of thy action to become law universal for all intel- ligents. So Kant shaped his imperative. This is not very unlike Austins utilitarian question, What would be the probable ef~ fect on the general happiness or good, if sim- ilar acts were general or frequent? A~ain, as we saw, he is obliged to supplement his moral life here with the belief of a future, where virtue and happiness shall be one, MORAL ThEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. where the ideal shall become actual; thus proving that human feelings cannot to the end be banished from a moral system, that some account must be taken of happiness, though Kant is right i~ giving to such con- siderations a subordinate, not a primary, place. From this brief survey of the motive power as it appears in the systems of some of the most famous Intuitive Moralists it would have been interesting, had our space allowed, to have turned to the Utilitarian theorists, and examined at length the an- swers they give to the same question. A.s it i~, however, a few remarks must suffice. This school of philosophers, as is well known, maintains that utility, or the tendency to promote pleasure or to cause pain, is the only quality in actions which makes them goo~d or bad. They hold, moreover, that pleasure and pain are the only possible objects of choice, the only motives which can deter- mtne the will. These are the fundamental tenets of that school of philosophers repre- sented by Epicurus in the ancient world, and by Bentham, and his followers Mr. Mill and Professor Bain, in our own day. If by the happiness which is said to be the end of action is meant merely the happiness of one s self, the system is one of the plainest and most inteiligible, the dynamic force is the most obvious, and the most surely operat- ing, that can well he imagiued. But then the course of action dictated by the desire of exclusive self-interest is not, according to the view, of most men, a moral one at all, and the motive is not moral, but selfish. The aim of all morality, as we conceive it, is to furnish men with a standard of action, and a motive to work by, which shall not intensify each mans selfishness, but which shall raise him in a great measure above the thou~ht of self If, on the other hand, it is said that it is not my own private interest, but the general interest, which I am to aim at. this may be said in two distinct senses: Either I am to seek the greatest happiness of all men, the sum-total of human interests, because an enlightened experience tells me that my happiness is in many ways bound up with theirs, but then the good of others thus pursued is but a means to my own private good, and I am still acting on the motive of self-love, a strong but not a moral one, or I am to aim at the general happiness for its own sake, and not merely as a means to my own; but then I am car- ried beyond the range of self-interest, and acknowledge as binding otherinotives which lie outside of the utilitarian theory. To the question, Why am I to ~tct with a view to the happiness of others? the utilitarian can, on his own principles, give no other answer than this, Because it is your own interest to d6 so. If we are to find another, we must leave the region of personal pleasure and pain, and allow the power of some other motive which is impersonal. With Ben- tham it is a fundament I principle that the desire of personal good is the only motive which ~,overns the will. This is the one exclusive mode of volition which he recog nises. He denies the other two, unselfish regard for others, and the moral law or the abstract sense of right; and yet these two exist as really as self-love. It is just as cer- tain a fat:t that men do sometimes act from generous impulses, or from respect to what they feel to be right in itself, apart from all consequences, as that they do often act merely with an eye to their own happiness. In the na:ed form, therefore, in which Ben- tham puts it, utilitarianism is founded on a psychological mistake. But the utilitarian system takes many forms. Yet, as Jouffroy, who has discriminated between the varieties with great acuteness, observes - Whether a man pursues the gratification of impulse, or the accompanying pleasure, or the different objects fitted to produce it; whether lie prefers, as most fitted to promote his highest good, the satisfaction of certain tendencies and pleasures; or finally, whether for the attain. meat of his end he adopts the circuitous means of general interest, or the direct pursuit of his own, it is of little consequence to determine; he is impelled to act, in each and every in- stance, by calculations of what is best for him- self. Self love remains essentially the same under all its forms, and impresses a similar character upon the various schemes of conduct to which it leads. In Mr. Mills treatise on Utilitarianism there is no departure from the fundamen- tals of the utilitarian creed, though much straining of ingenuity to make it include principles and sentiments which do not readily come within that theory. Indeed, in this treatise, one prominent characteris- tic of all the authors writings is more than usuall~jr conspicuous. On the one hand, we see an amiably obstinate adherence to the sensational and utilitarian tenets which formed his original philosophic outfit. On the other hand, a redundance of argument, sometimes verging on special pleading, to reconcile to his favourite hypothesis views and feelings gathered in alien regions, with which his wider experience has male him familiar. This effort continued throughout his Utilitarianism has occasioned, if we may 78 79 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. venture to hint it, a want of clear statement and precise thought, with sometimes a strain- ing of the meaning of terms, which we should hardly look for in so trained a logi- cian. This comes no doubt from the fact, that in order to adapt the utilitarian theory to the primary moral perceptions of men, it is necessary to go counter to the natural current of thought, and to give a twist to forms of speech, which have interwoven themselves into the very texture of lan- guage. One of these strange contortions is the following opinion, that it is the idea of the penal sanction which makes men feel certain acts to he wron~ not that they are wrong in themselves, and therefore visited with punishment. Or, as Mr. Mill other- wise expresses it, the deserviig or not de- serving punishment lies at the bottom of the notions of right and wrong. This doctrine, which Mr. Mill seems to hesitate to state in all its breadth, else instead of deserving he would probably have written imposition of punishment, has been stated more explicitly by Professor Bain, who maintains that the imposition of punishment is the distinctive property of acts held to be morally wrong; and again, that the primary germ and com- mencement of conscience is the dread of punishment. Another equally startling po- sition maintained by Mr. Mill is that virtue is pursued primarily only as a means to an end, namely happiness, just as money is; but that in time it comes to be regarded as part of the end, happiness, and as such is pursued for its own sake, just as misers come to love money for itself, and not for its uses. He holds that in man originally there is no desire of virtue, or motive to it, save as a means lo gain pleasure or avoid pain. But even when desired for its own sake, which he grants it comes to be, its worth arises, not from its own intrinsic excellence, but from its being the most important of all means to the general happiness. But what it more concerns us to remark at present is the answer which Mr. Mills gives to the question, What is the sanction of the utilita- rian ethics, what the motive to conform to this standard? It is of two kinds, the ex- ternal and the internal. The external mo- tive is the hope of favour or the fear of pun- ishment from our fellow-men or from the Supreme Ruler. The internal motive is primarily the desire of our own happiness, which, however, when enlarged by intelli- gence, expands into a desire for the good of others. It does so because the more we are enlightened the more clearly we perceive that our own good is inextricably bound up with theirs; because there is in us a natural desire to be in unity with others; lastly~ be- cause an unselfish regard for our neighbours springs, by the principle of association, out of intercourse begun at first merely from self- regard. It is observable, however, that Mr. Mill, though he stretches to the utmost the motive of self-regard, combining with it as much as possible of what is otherwise admi- rable in human nature, and though he seems to allow the existence, in a certain subordi- nate degree, of purely unselfish sympathies, yet in the last resort makes self-regard the centre to which all the other feelings, as ac- cretions, cling, and round which they are woven into a complete web of corrobora- tive association. In his ground-plan of hu- man nature, the unselfish sympathies and the moral principle are not made to occupy what we believe they in reality do occu- py as substantial and independent a place as the feeling of self-interest. Hence nei- ther the standard of action, nor the motive power he sets forth, however muh trans- formed by the magic touch of association, ever gets clear of the original taint of self- reference. Mr. Mills utilitarianism does not, any more than other forms of the same doctrine, give either a really moral stand- ard, or a self-forgetting and moral motive. As water cannot rise above the level from which it springs, no more can moral theo- ries. Self-love may be, and as a fact often is, the first impulse that drives a man to seek to become morally and religiously bet- ter. And there is a measure of self-regard which is right, which, if kept in its due place, ought not to be underrated. But before a man can become either truly moral or re ligious, self-re~,ard must have been wholly subordinated to, if not entirely exchanged for, a higher principle of action and a purer affection. In the opening chapter of his work on Jurisprudence, Austin sets forth the utilita- rian doctrine with a distinctness of outlin e, which, we think, far surpasses Mr. Mills exhibition of it. He does not, like the lat- ter, assert that conduciveness to general happiness is the essence, but only that it is the index, of right action. The rightness and wrongness of all acts, Austin grounds primarily on the Divine will or command. God designs the happiness of all his crea- tures; and as he has given us faculties to perceive what actions tend to pro(luce this, and what actions tend to thwart it, he has given us therein a criterion by which to know what his will is, that is, what actions we ought to do, what to avoid. This repre- sentation of the theory furnishes a lever above and independent of utility, namely, MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. the ~vill of God and therefore, in one point of view, a motive which, if once real- ized is every way adequate to engender moral action. Bat still it does not rise above the utilitarian subjection to pleasure and pain. For Austin snms upthe Divine will in pure benevolence, and grounds obedience to it solely on the fact that God can reward and punish to the uttermost. But to obey God chiefly or entirely for such a reason, does not amount to moral obedience, nor is such a motive a moral motive. A recent subtle and original writer on metaphysics will perhaps pardon us if we here allude to certain points in his ethical views, although he has not yet given these to the world. Differing from the utilitarian view, in that he re,,ards virtue as consistIng in a perfect harmony of all the facn!ties and functions of man; maintaining the exist- ence of a moral sense, distinct altogether from a sense of interest, he yet agrees with the utilitarians so far, that he regards pleas- ure as the universal, motive power. He maintains that in all cases where a choice is made, pleasure, or, as it is sometimes phrased, interest, is the determinator of the choice; that in all conscious actions, thoughts, feelings, where a preference is made, it is because the pleasure of the one preferred is felt by the agent to be greater than the pleasure of those not preferred. The maintainer of this theory would say that the commonly-received distinction be- tween pleasure and duty is a misle ding one. For whenever any act is preferred, this itself proves that that act, however painful it seems, is not only pleasurable, bnt the most pleasurable. Let there be two acts, he would say, one a gratification of sense, and as such pleasurable, the other a denial of this gratification, and so far pain- ful, yet if the latter is done from what is called a sense of duty, the fact that it hi~ been preferred proves that it was not only pleasant, but the most pleasant, to him who preferred it. For that which in the event is chosen to be done is thereby proved to be the most pleasurable. To this it may be replied that to make the pleasurable synony- mous with that which is actually preferred, is to give the term a quite new meaning. So to stretch the idea of pleasure is to change it entirely, and to render it wholly vague, and empty of content. It may he true that in most, perhaps in all moral acts, there is present, more or less, a conscious pleasure; but it is present as a consequence, not as an antecedent of the choice. It is also true that virtue and pleasure are so far from being incompatible, that, the higher a man advances in virtue, the greater is his delight in it; indeed, that the measure of his delight is in some sort a ~aum of his moral progress. But, on the other hand, it is no less true that while man remains in this state of moral struggle, in some of his acts of purest duty the ingre- dient of pleasure must be so faintly present as to be scarce if at all appreciable. To all theories of virtue which give pleasure or seiflove a foremost place in it, whether as entering into its nature, or operating as its moving spring, it is enough to answer that they withdraw from moral action that which is a main constituent of it, namely, its un- selfish character, and so reduce it to the level of at least mere prudence. They fail to recognise what Dr. Newman has so well, described as a remarkable law of ethics which is well known to all who have given their minds to the subject. All virtue and goodness tend to make men powerful in this world; but they who aim at the power have not the virtue. Again, virtue is its own reward, and brings with it the truest and highest pleasures; but they who cultivate it for the pleasures sake are selfish, not reli- gious, and will never have the pleasure, be- cause they can have the never virtue. To our minds there is no truth of ethics more firmly established than this. And it is not merely an abstract principle, but one which embodies itself in practice every day before our eyes. How continually do we see that the pleasure-seeker is not the pleasure-find- er; that those are the happiest men who think least about happiness! Because, in order to attain to that serene and harmoni- ous energy, that inward peace, which is the only true happiness, a man must make not pleasure, but some higher object the end lie lives for. So true is it that, as has been said, the abandoning of some lower end in obedience to a higher aim is made the very condition of securin~ the lo ver one. Or, as the author of Ecce Homo writes, It is far from universally true that to get a thing you must aim at it. There are some things which can only be gained by re- noun~ing them. And such a thing is pleas- ure. Does not this characteristic of it, that, when you make it your conscious aim, it is gone, at least the purer essence, the finer bloom of it, prove that it is merely a sub- sidiary attendant on moral action, the at- tendant shadow, not the substance, and cannot be its end or propelling power? Our survey of systems, ancient and mod- ern, has been long, perhaps even to weari- ness, and yet we have not found the thing we seek. In what have been called the 80 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. intuitive theories, the motive presented, if high, has been remote and impalpable, not such as would naturally come home to the hearts of ordinary men. The narrower forms of utilitarianism offer a motive near and strong enough self-love; hut then it is one which men of moral aspiration most long to rise above. And when the endeav- our is ma(le to combine with it benevolence, and to take in the whole human race, the motive is no doubt elevated, but at the ex- pense of its power ; it is emptied of the strcncth which self-love peculiarly possesses. On the whole, then, from this want of prac- tical help in many ways, and especially from their lack of a moral dynamic, it is no wonder that most men turn from ethical theories with weariness approaching to dis- gust. Young students, and older men pro- fessionally interested in these subjects, can hardly imagine how widely this is the case, not with those so immersed in transitory interests as to have no time or heart for higher matters, but with the devoutly reli- gious, with men of ideal longings, with those who have been most exercised with earnest questionings. Men simply religious turn from theories of virtue, as not only useless, but as cold, hard, unloving hindrances to all their heart holds commune witli. Morality seems to draw all its help from man s own internal resources, and they feel too keenly that not in these is help to be found, but in a strength out from and above themselves. The inmost breathing of the devout heart is, Lead me to the rock that is hi~hcr than I. Again, the deep-hearted poet, weary of abstractions, and longing for life, more life, and fuller, turns from moral theories with a passionate Away, haunt not thou me, Thou vain Philosophy! Little hast thou hestead, Save to perplex the head And leave the spirit dead. Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go Why labour at the dull mechanic oar, When the fresh breeze is blowing, And the strong current flowing Right onward to the eternal shore ~ Again, when we read the lives of those men who have had the deepest spiritual ex- perience, to whom, on the one hand, the infinity of duty, the commandment exceed- ing hroad, and, on the other, the depth of their own spiritual poverty, has been most laid bare we find them confessing that LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 218. the seventh chapter of Romans describes their condition more truly than any philos- opher has done. With their whole hearts they have felt St. Pauls 0 wretched man that I am who shall deliver me? Such are the men who, having come out of great deeps, become the spirit-quickeners of their fellow-men, the revivers of a deeper moral- ity.. To all such there is a grim irony in the philosophic ideals when confronted with their own actuals. So hopelessly wide seems the gap between their own condition and the Thou shalt of the commandment. Not dead diagrams of virtue such men want, but living powers of righteousness. They do not quarrel with the moralists ideal, though it is neither the saints nor the poets. They find no fault with his account of the faculty which discerns that ideal, though it is not exactly theirs. But what they ask is not the faculty to know the right, hut the power to be righteous. It is because this they find not, because, that which reason commands, the will cannot be or do, that they are filled with despair. As well, they say, bid us lay our hand upon the stars be- cause we see them, as realize your ideal of virtue because we discern it. But is there no outlet by which, from the mere forms of moral thought, a man may climb upward to the treasure-house of its power? Let us turn and look once more at the moral law, as exhibited in its purest form by Kant. In his view this law is not a higher self, but an independent reality, which, entering into a man, evokes the higher self within him. To the truth as well as the sublimity of Kants coneeption, all hearts bear witness, by the reverence they must feel in its presence. And yet we know that, when we lay this bare law to heart, it engenders not strength, but des- pair. A few there may have been who have been able to dispense with all tender feelings, and to live high lives by dint of the law of duty alone. All honour to such hardy spii-its; no word shall be said in (lisparagemeut of them. However imper- fect their principle may be, their face is set in the right direction; they are on the way, we believe, to all good. Yet their lives, upright though they may be, will be stern and unrejoicing, wanting in much that hearts set free should have. But for most men, and among these for many even of the nobler sort, such a life would be impossible. Under such an iron rule, a large, and that the finer part of mans being, would have no place; the souls gentler, but more animating forces would he starved for lack of nutriment. 81 82 Still, as this law contains so much of high- est truth, let us keep fast hold of it, and see whence it comes, and whither it leads. On reflection, we find that there are many facts of human nature and of the world, many separate lines of thought, all leading upward, and converging on one spiritual ctntre. These are like so many mountain paths, striking upward in diverse directions, but leading all at last to one great summit. Of these the moral law is the loftiest, the direct est, the most inward, the most awe- inspiring. But to begin with the outward world, there is we shall not say so much a mark of design on every thing, as an expe- rience forced in upon the mind of the thoughtful naturalist, that, penetrate into nature wherever he may, thou~~ht has been there before him; that, to quote the words of one of the most distinguished, there is really a plan, a thoughtful plan, a plan which may be read in the relations which you and I, and all living beings scattered over the surface of our earth, hold to one another. The work of the naturalist, he goes on to say, consists only in an attempt to read more and more accurately a work in which he has had no part, a work which displays the thought of a mind more comprehensive than his own; his task is to read the thoughts of that mind as expressed in the living realities that surround us; and the more we give up our own conceit in this work, the less selfish we become, the more shall we discern, the deeper we shrll read, and the nearer we shalt come to na- ture, and, we may add, to Him whose thought nature is. Then when we look within, there is the casual instinct of the intellect, as it has been called, the men- tal demand for a cause of every event, or rather the ineradicable craving for a Power behind all phenomena, of which they are but the manifestations, a craving which no form of Comtian philosophy will ever exorcise. Again, there is the passionate longing of the imagination, aspiring after an ideal perfection for ourselves and others, apprehending a beauty more than eye has seen or ear heard. Again, there is the unsufficiugness of self for self, the de- pendency of the affections, feeling the need of an object like themselves; yet higher, stronger, more enduring, on which they can lean, in which they may find refuge. Anoth- er avenue upward is the feeling of the de- rivative nature, not of our affections merely, but of our whole being. We are here a little while, each a small rill of life, with many qualities. We feel, think, fear, love ; no facts are morn ccrtain to me than MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. these. Yet it is just as certain that I am not here by my own will. I did not place myself here; cannot keep myself here. My life is in the grasp of powers which I cannot, but in the smallest degree, control. There must be a source whence this life, and all the other similar lives around me, come. And that source cannot he any thing lower, or possessed of lower qualities, than mine, but rather something containing all the qualities, which I. and all other beings like to me, have, in infinite abundance. There must be some exhaustless reservoir of being, from which my small rill, and these numberless like rills, of being, come, a fountain that contains in itself the all of soul that Las heen diffused through the whole human race, and infi- nitely more. This is no elaborate argument, but almost an instinctive perception. Call it anthropomorphic, if you please; it is none the less a natural and true way of thinking, and as old as the Stoics. Cicero puts it in the mouth of his Stoic Balbus, and has supplied him with no better argu- ment. Lastly, and chief of all, there is the law of duty, coming home to the moral- ly awakened man more intimately, affecting him more profoundly, than any thing else he knows. What is it whence comes it this law, which lies close to all his thoughts, an ever-present though often latent consciousness, haunting him like his very being? Mr. Mill speaks slightingly, as it seems, of the sort of mystical character which is apt to be attributed to the idea of moralobligation; but he has not as yet been able really to explain the mystery. If in- stead of trying to solve it, unsatisfactorily we think, into lower elements, as the ana- lyst is apt to do, or to shrink from it as the sensual nature always will do, or to act out merely the letter of it, as the legalist will try to do, we can but get ourselves to look at it steadily, and with open heart, the mystery of its nature and origin will not grow less to us, but more. What is it? is it a mere abstraction? That which reason appre- hends, and the personal will bows to, as an authority superior to themselves, cannot be a mere abstraction, but something which is consubstantial with themselves. The moral law must be either a self-existing entity, like to our highest nature, or must inhere in One who possesses all that we have of reason and will, only in an infinitely greater degree. That which our inner self, our personality, feels to have rightful authority over it, must be either a personality, or something more excellent than personality, if that is possible. To some such conviction as this we are led up, by asking what is this MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. moral law which we apprehend, and whence does it come? Here, if anywhere, we find the golden link which connects the human nature with the divine. Putting, then, all these converging lines of thought together, we see that they meet in the conviction that there is, behind ourselves and all the things.we see and know, a Mind, a Reason, a Will, like to our own, only in- comprehensively greater, of which will and reason the moral law is the truest and most adequate exponent we have. Not that these lines, any or all of them, are to be taken as proofs demonstrating the existence of God, which is, we hold, incapable of sci- entific demonstration. The notion of God we believe with Coleridge to be essential to the human mind, not derived from reason- ings, though, as a matter of fact, actually called forth into distinct consciousness mainly by the conscience. When, however, we come to reflect on that conviction after- wards, we find hints and confirmations of it. mainly in the existence of our moral na- ture and of the law of duty, and secondari- ly in those other lines of thought which, as we have seen, converge towards the same centre. But these are dim tracts of thought, hard to tread with firm step. Yet though the lines here traced are, as we know, im- perfect and broken, they may be taken for what they are meant to be, hints for thought on an exhaustless subject. In this discussion we have taken for granted that the morality of man is in its essence identical with the morality of God that when we use the word righteous of man and of God, we do not use it in two different senses, but in the same sense. This position, implicitly held before by all, both philosophers and ordinary men, has been more explicitly brought out and established by the polemic which Mr. Mansels denial of it has called forth. -The result of a real belief not merely in an abstract moral law, but in a Personal Being, in whom dwells whatever of highest is in ourselves, whose moral nature is imaged in our own, will be to let in on the soul a new motive power, a new centre of existence. This is the first condition of a living morality as well as of vital religion, that the soul shall find a true centre out from and above itself, round which it shall revolve. The essence of all immorality, of sin, is the making self the centre round which we would have all oth- er beings and interests revolve. To be delivered from this, which is the condition of the natural man, is the turning-point of moral progress, and of spiritual renewal. The new and rightful centre which shall draw us out of our self-centre, and by its attraction make us revolve round itself, must be that which contains the moral law, and whatever is best in ourselves and in all other created selves. He only in whose image we are made can be such a centre to our creaturely wills. But farther, neither the God whom mere science leads to, nor the God whom the bare unrelenting moral law sets forth, is capable of being a real resting-place for the heart of man. There are warm emotions within it, which before the representation of a God of mere law, whether natural or moral, die down like herbs beneath an arctic winter. To call forth these, it requires the unveiling of a Living and Personal Will, in sympathy not only with whatever moral principle is in us, but also with whatever is most pure and tender in our affections. When we come to conceive thus of God, then there becomes possible a going-forth towards him of the tenderer and devouter emotions, as well as of the more purely moral sentiments. Such a being bec~mes to a man the centre and the end for the reason, the affections, and the conscience alike, a foundation ott which his whole being can permanently repose. But a few only, and these the most favour- ed of men, have, apart from revelation, ever attained so to conceive of God. A pure- minded sage here and there, Plato when he drops his dialectics, and gives vent to his devouter mind, as in the well-known pas- sage of the The~tetus, Marcus Aurelius here and there in his meditations, may have in some measure, though far off, so caught a glimpse of him. To most men who have sought him at all, outside of Christianity, it has been at best but a dim feeling after him, if haply they might find him. It required the appearance of Christ on earth to bring close to the hearts of large num- bers of men the power of moral inspiration which is laid up in the very thought of God.. Till then he seemed too high, too remote,. for this. But when Christ in human form came near to them, his presence touched the moral springs in men, hitherto dormant, and made new forces of spiritual life to stir~ within them. Christ henceforth, both by his own personal teaching and exampl and also by the new light of Gods character which he let in on mens hearts, himself the channel through which that light was let in, became a new dynamic power of virtue, an inspirer of goodness. The virtue- making power which he used was different from that which had been employed by the philosophers. They addressed the rea.~ 83 84 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. son, he touched the heart by his words, by his deeds, above all by contact with him- self. The two methods are well contrasted in the following passage of Ecce Homo Who is the philosophic good man? He is one who has considered all the objects and consequences of human action; he has, in the first place, perceived that there is in hini a principle of sympathy, the due development of which demands that he should habitually con- sider the advantage of others; he has been led by reflection to perceive that the advantage of one individual may often involve the injury of several; he has therefore concluded that it is necessary to lay down systematic rules for his actions, lest lie should be led into such mis- calculations, and he has in this reasonable and gradual manner arrived at a system of morality. This is the philosophic good man. Do we find the result satisfactory? Do we not find in him a lan~,uid, melancholic, dull, and hard temperament of virtue I He does right, perhaps, hut Without warmth or promptitude. And no wonder! The principle of sympathy was feeble in him at the beginning for want of contact with those who might have called it into play, and it has been made feebler still by hard brain-work and solitude. On the other hand, who is the good man that we admire anal love? How do men become for the most part pure, generous, and humane? By personal, not by logical influences. They have been reared by parents ~vho had these qualities, they have lived in society which had a high tone, they have been accustomed to see just acts done, to hear gentle words spoken, and the justness and the gentleness have passed into their hearts, and slowly moulded their habits, an(1 made their moral discernment clear; they remember commands and prohibitions which it is a pleasure to obey for the sake of those who gave them; they think of those who may be dead, and say, How would this action appear to him? Would he approve that word, or disapprove it? . . . They are never alone, because the absent Examples, the Authorities they still revere, rule not their actions only, but their inmost hearts; because their conscience is indeed awake and alive, representing all the nobleraess with which they stand in sympathy, and reporting their most hidden indecorum before a public opinion of the absent and the dead. It was this last mode of appeal, one not wholly unknown before his day, that Christ adopted. But thou~h the channel was fa- miliar, the use he made of it was not; for the influence he poured through it was not only the purest human, but the Divine. The philosophers had addressed the rea~on, and failed~ Christ laid hold of a passion which was latent in every man, and pre- vailed. What was this passion? It was the love, not of man, not of all men, ncr yet of every man, but of the man in the man. But this in all men is naturally a weak principle; how did he make it a power- ful one, make it a law-making power. a root of morality in human nature? He gave a command to love all men without exception, even our enemies. Now a com- inand cannot create love; but with the commandment he gave himself to love, and to awake the love that lies dormant in every man. This, which is the central teach- ing of Ecce Homo, must be given in the authors own words, so full of beauty and power: Dhl the command to love go forth to those who had never seen a human being they could revere? Could his followers turn upon hahn and say, How can we love a creature so de- graded? . . . Of this race Christ himself was a member, and to this day is it not the best answer to all blasphemers of the species, the best consolation when our sense of its de,,,rada- tion is keenest, that a human brain was behind his forehead, and a human heart beating in his breast, and that within the whole creation of God nothing more elevated or more attractive has yet been found than he? . - - It was be- cause the edict of universal love went forth to men whose hearts were in no cynical mood, but possessed with a spirit of devotion to a man that worahs which, at any other time, however gran(lly they might sound, would have been but words, penetrated so deeply, and along with the law of love the power of love was given. Therefore, also, the first Christians were enabled to dispense with philosophical phrases, and instead of saying that they loved the ideal of man, could simply say and feel that they loved Christ in every man. - . . Christ believed it possible to bind men to their kind (and to all goodness), but on one condition, that they were first bound fast to himself. To his followers who walked with him on earth, his presence, and to many in every age since, his image, has been the stPongest of all levers to lift them out of selfishness, and to create goodness in them. They have found in his life and character an objective conscience better than all other ideals of perfection; in their sympathy with him they have had the most unerring test by which to discern what was right and what was wrong to do; and in their love and veneration for him, a motive power beyond all other powers, enabling them to do what was right from the hove of it, a power of loving God and of loving man, because they loved both in him. To such the law of love absorbed into -itself the law of duty, and became, in a new and pre-eminent way, MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. the fulfilling of the law. Morality to them was no longer subjection and obedience to a dead abstract law, which they might revere but could never love, but an inspiration caught by contagion with Him, who con- tained the moral law an(l all the springs of morality in himself. This is that central truth, lone tacitly recognised, but enforced with such power in Ecce Homo as almost to appear new. If we were to go no further, we have enough t o prove that Christ introduced into the moral heart of man that which all philosophers have been unable to find, a new dynamic force, which not only told them what was good, but inspired them with the love and the power of being good. In short, he was the living centre of a new moral and spiritual creation. But if we go thus far, we cannot stop here, we must go farther than the author of Ecce Homo does. For Christ claimed for himself; and all who have followed him most closely have ac- knowledged, that there are other powers and truths in him, which in that able sur- vey are either left in the background or altogether passed by. Those more tran- scendent doctrines Christs atonement, his resurrection, the indwelling of his Spirit are as much part of the testimony about Christ, and of the agencies by which he has changed the world, as anything that we know of his character. You cannot cut off the one wi bout shakin~, the founda- tions of the other; and these doctrines are, if true at all, not merely in conformity with the purest moral and spiritual principles, but must he their very essence, must lie at their very root. Those who have most laid to heart, and lived by these doctrines, have found in the Atonement the obliterat- ing of the whole burden of past sin. This is not the place to enlarge on it. But no fact in man s moral history is more certain than this, that the simple statement of Scripture, Christ has appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of himseW has been found efficacious to reach down to the lowest depths of mens souls beyond any other truth ever uttered on this earth. In the Resurrection, they have found the assurance that what conscience prophesies will in the end come true, that, though experience often seems against it, right is stronger than wrong, truth is better than falsehood, purity shall prevail over sensual indulgence, meekness shall inherit the earth; for right, truth, and purity are summed up in their champion Christ, and he has conquered death, the one unconquerable champion of the encmy2 In the promise of the indwelling Spirit, and its fulfilment they have found a surety that the impulse which Christ first gave will not grow old, but will outlast time. One great practical result of these truths is the animating confidence they give that God is for us. There is nothing so crushing to moral effort as the suspicion that however we may strive to live rightly, the great forces of tIre universe may be after all against us. But here the Atonement, the Resurrection, come in. They tell us that ihis suspicion is groundless; that God is not against us, but on our side; that the faintest desire to be better he sympathizes with, and will help; that even on the heart where no such desire is yet stirring, he still looks tenderly, he wills its salvation. Can any greater strength for moral improvement be imagin- ed than this? The result of all that has been said is this, that only in vital Christianity, or rather, to speak plainly, in God revealed in Christ, lies the adequate and all-sufficient dynamic for man. For in him thus revealed all the principles of mans composite nature find their object. The natural (lesire for happi- ness, the yearning of the affections, the mor- al needs of conscience, all are satisfied. And all these principles so centred are turned into motive powers, or rather into one composite motive power, in which the lower, more self-regarding elem~nts, are gradually subordinated and absorbed by the higher. But you say, perhaps, that these things, if true, are things of faith, and morality stands on grounds of reason. Is it so? Is it, then, certain that morality is independ- ent of faith? To prefer an unseen duty because it is right, to a seen pleasure, be- cause it is pleasant, what is this but an act of faith? It requires faith to do the simplest moral act, if it is to be done moral ly. And the highest religious truths, if once they are apprehended vitally and spir- itually from within, and not merely taken passively on authority from without, will be found to require but an expansion of that same principle of faith, by which, in its more elementary form, we realize simple moral truths. There can be no manner of doubt that the promise I will put my laws into their hearts, and in their minds will I write them, is the one great work which philosophy could not do, which the gospel has to some extent done. It has brought in that which moralists in vain sought after, and without which their schemes were vain a living virtue-making power. This was held forth. 85 86 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. as a hope in the Old Testament, All my fresh springs are in thee; In thy light shall we see light; Then shall I run in the way of thy commandments, when thou shalt enlarge my heart. In the New it was abundantly fulfilled. To St. Paul and the first Christians the law became no longer a stern commandment, standing outside of them, threatening them from above, but a warnin law of love within them, not only a higher discernment of the good, but a new and marvellous power to do it, cheer- fully and with joy. And down all the ages, whatever obscurations Christianity has undergone, this, the true apostolic succession, coming straight from the Divine Source to each individual recipient anew, has never failed. In such as Augustine, A Kempis, Luther, Pascal, Leighton Ftinelon, henry Martyn, the pure and sacred fire has been relit from age to age. They, by what they were, and what they did, became, each to their generation, the renewers of a deep- er, more substantive morality. For the Christian light in them was not a tradition or an orthodoxy, hut a living flame, enlight- ening and warming themselves, and pass- ing from them to others. And so to this day their works are storehouses of moral and spiritual quickening, more than all the books of all the moralists. When you read Leighton, for instance, you feel ~rourself breathing a spiritual air, compared with which the atmosphere of the moral systems is dull and depressing. For in Leighton, and such men, morality is, as Mr. Arnold finely expresses it, lighted up with the emotion and inspiration needful for carry- ing the sage along the narrow way perfect- ly, for carrying the ordinary man along it at all. The saintly archbishop was but speaking of what few have a ri_ ht to speak of, but what he had seen and known, when he said, One gl nce of God, a touch of his love, will free and enlarge the heart, so that it can deny all, and part with all, and make an entire renouncing of all, to follow him. Again, It isin his power to doit for thee. He can stretch and expand thy straitened heart, can hoist and spread the sails within thee, and then carry thee on swittly; filling them, uot with the vain air of meims applause, but with the sweet breath- ings and soft gales of his own Spirit, which carry it straight to the desired haven. This is the language of those who, like Leighton, have known most immediately, to use again his own words, the sensible pres- ence of God, and shining of his clear-dis- covered face on them. Perhaps ordinary nien had better speak little of these things they are so far beyond their experience. But because language like this has been often repeated as a mere hearsay by those who had no experience of it, it has come to be considered by many a mere decorous tra- dition among religious people, which other men nauseate. Still, however overlaid it has been with words, and however remote from it most men must confess themselves to be, the thing here spoken of remains none the less a reality~ towards which end not only the religious, but even the uprightly moral heart, must look and aspire. In the light of these thoughts regarding the spiritual springs of morality, how vain appears that cry so often heard in this day, Give us Christian morality without the dogmas! In as far as any dogmas may be the mere creations of churches, or may be truths crusted over with human accretions, by all means let them be either swept away or purified. There is much need that all doctrines taught should be adjusted fitting- ly to the moral nature of men, so as, by manifestation of the truth, to commend themselves to every mans conscience in the sight of God. It is also true that as men advance in spiritual insight, their view of doctrine becomes more simple, more natur- al, more transparent with moral light. But still it is no less true that love to a transcend- ent object, to a living Person, is the one root of Christian virtue, and that to expect Christian well-doing without a soul based on Christian faith, is to expect fruit from a tree which has no root. As we have heard one say whose long life of Christian wisdom and love gives weight to his words: Renan and others admire the morality of the Sermon on the Mount, but reject altogether the doc- trines or transcendent truths of Christianity. They would divide the one from the other as with a knife, and preserve this, and throw that away. Now, only think of it in this way. Take that one precept, Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you. How am I really to fulfil this? If the law of my country gives me a command, bids me do this or not do that overt act, I can give it an outward mechanical obedience, and with this human law is satisfied. But this divine precept commands not an out- ward act, but an inward spiritual condition of being. How am I to attain to this? By my force of will? My will can rule my out- ward acts, but cannot change my inward dispositions. What shall avail to turn the whole tide of feeling, and change the natur- al hatred of enemies into love for them? Nothing short of the forgiving love of God in Christ to me and to all men felt in the MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. heart as a reality. This once felt has pow- er to change the natural hatred into a for- giving love. Nothing else can. To us this seams clear as demonstration. And in like manner it might be shown that there is not one Christian precept which has not its root, its motive spring, directly in some transcendent truth of Gods nature, and of the souls relation to him. Deny these, and the precepts fall. Vain, therefore, is the dream of a Christian morality without a true Christian theology at its foundation. But this tendency to seek the fruits of Christianity while rejecting its root, is as nothing compared with the extravagance of that modern system, which teaches that the service of humanity may he raised to the level of a practical and all-powerful moral motive, while all helief in a personal immor- tality and in the existence of God is denied, and a vague something, called the spirit of humanity, is made the only object of wor- ship. This strange persuasion has at this time its devotees, some of them men of great parts, and, we believe, of benevolent lives. That there should be some such men pos- sessed by fanaticism for a creed which paro- dies Christianity while it rejects it is not more to be wondered at than any form of fanaticism. The causes that have produced this strange phenomenon might not he diffi- cult to find. But it is a thing to be ~von- dered at that a cool-headed philosopher like Mr. Mill, who has never evinced tendencies to fanaticism for this or any form of religion, should have thrown over it the shield of his patronage. Yet so it is. While professing that he entertains the strongest objections to M. Comtes system of politics and morals, he still thinks that that system has super- abundantly shown the possibility of giving to the service of humanity, even without the aid of a belief in Providence, both the psychological power and the social efficacy of a religion ma king it take hold of human life, and colour all thought, feeling, and ac- tion, in a manner of which the greatest as- cendency ever exercised by any religion may be but a type and foretaste. The strength of this statement, perhaps, it may be right to attribute to Mr. Mills generosity in advocating a mode of thought which he thought to be unpopular. For certainly it is one of his characteristics, that whether from the desire to help the weaker party, or from the love of parodox, he never shrinks from cutting prejudice against the grain. Can it be to the same reason we are to at- tribute that other strange statement of his, that the ideal of Christian morality is nega- tive rather than positive, passive rather than active, abstinence from evil rather than energetic pursuit of good? If this is not to be put down to the love of paradox, it is an instance of ignorance in a writer of high repute, to which it would be hard to find any parallel. To refute it there is no need to turn to the New Testament, though,. if we did so, we should have to quote nearly one-half of it; neither need we point to the lives of the most eminent Christians, and the extent to which. philanthropy purely Christian has changed the world. For a sufficient refutation we need only refer to a modern authoress, who plainly enough shows that she is as free as Mr. Mill is from any deference to orthodoxy. In her able essay on Christian Ethics, Miss Cobbe sets forth with great force how Christ changed the negative law of the Jews into a positive, and thereby transformed the whole spirit of mo- rality, giving to men the being good and do- ing good for their aim. And then she con- trasts with this what she thinks the ethics of the modern churches, the mere refrain- incr from evil and leading harmless lives. But to return to Mr. Mills assertion, that the service of humanity may probably be found to he a motive force as powerful, or even more powerful, than any hitherto known. Now, is it not a fact of history that it was Christ, who by his character, his teahing, his whole revelation, for the first time so enlarged mens narrow hearts as to make some of them at least conceive an universal love for their kind? flow he did this we have partly seen already, and cannot dwell more on now Is it not also a fact of history, that, since his sojourn on earth, a new virtue, philanthropy, has come into action, and that of the great benefac- tors of mankind by far the largest number, and those the noblest and most self-denying, have been men who confessed that they drew their inspiration to well-doing direct- ly from love to him? Have these not de- dared that the power which enabled them to overcome natural revulsion, and to seek out their fallen fellow-creatures, even under the mest unlovely and revolting circum- stances, was the simple faith that God and Christ have pity on themselves, and on all men, even the most degraded? This worth, which human nature, even when most sunk in vice, has in the eyes of Christ, has for his true followers invested it with a new sacredness. In saying this we speak of no mere feeling or fancy, but of one of the soberest, best attested facts. If for eighteen centuries this has been proved to be the strongest motive power in the breasts of great philanthropists, will mens devotion 87 88 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. to the good of their kind become wider or who, from a more intimate knowledge of more intense if you remove those heliefh Continental life and manners, is better able which have hitherto fed it? Mens perma- than many to estimate British society, nent devotion to any object is exactly in thinks that it is rank with this Philistinism. proportion to their helief in the worth of And of the British people be seems to give that object. Will mens opinion of the the great middle class, and the upper part worth of the race be greater when you have of the lower class, credit for the larger removed from their minds all thought of an share of it. That the thing he speaks of eternal destiny, and convinced them that is no chimera, but a really existing evil, their yearnings towards God are a delu- that stands in the way of all moral eleva- sion? Would human life seem more lovely tion, no one with an eye to observe what is or more suhlime, if you could take Christ going on around him, and some things it out of the heart of the race, and obliterate may he in his own heart, can for a moment all sense of the relation in which we stand doubt. Only it may be doubted whether, to God? Would the music of humanity when we trace the thing to its root, any sound more grand and deep if you could class of society can he justly credited with silence these, its tenderest, profoundest a monopoly of it. Mr. Arnold of course tones? Nothing that we know of the past speaks chiefly of English society, 4th which or of the nature of things makes it in the he is best acquainted. But we in Scotland least probable that by withdrawing what cannot claim any exemption from the history has proved to be the strongest mo- plague of Philistinism. Our Scottish Phil- tive, indeed the creative power, of philan- istine, however, has not so much of the thropy, you will increase its volume. And third element non-intelligence. Indeed, if we are to wait till trial can be made of the he has a large fund of intelliTence of a sort, new panacea, the suspense will be long, and but that so raw and harsh a sort, as only to the result, we believe, disastrous to the best bring into more offensive prominence the interests of mankind. It will, we suspect, other two elements. So little can knowl- require more than the mere assertion of any edge alone really educate a man, that some- philosopher to make sober-minded men will- times even the very highest scientific at- ing to hazard the experiment. tainments may be found combined with the Not to Christian morality, without the true Philistian character. Mere knowledge, faith which underlies it, still less to the without those influences that make a man Comtian service of humanity, can we generous, gentle, humane, is to the man look with hope for the moving force which within the man a very doubtful gain. But shall make man fulfil his moral end. There besides raw brusquerie of intellect triumphant is still another agency, which is so ably industrialism and rapidly gained wealth recommended that it mus~ not be passed tend this same way. For Philistinism is a without a word. Mr. Arnold, in the fare- plant that springs up rapidly nuder the well lecture of that remarkable series by sun of material prosperity. But the truth which he has added new lustre to an Oxford is, it belongs to no one soil, or set of circum- char, adorned within living memory by stances. Wherever there is a man pre-oc- Milman and Keble, has lately renewed his cupied with thoughts about himself and, as advocacy of Culture as a meliorating power a consequence without thought for others, in society. This lecture, like all that Mr. Ar- there is the germ of Philistinism, whether nold writes, is instinct with ideas, not in- in a coarser form or a more refined. Where d~ed formalized into system, and with no there is a heart at leisure from itself, how- parade of philosophy, but more living, ever rustic and unlettered, there Philistin- more provocative of thought, than much of ism cannot be. what passes for philosophy amongst us. From For the antidote to this evil, the solvent the light banter and playful humour with to break up the horny crust that hardens which he conducts his assaults, there is a round the hearts of men, Mr. Arnold looks danger that minds of the heavy-pounding to Culture; and by culture he means much sort may not recognise his real earnestness, more than has usually been meant by that Anew in this lecture he reiterates his as- word. Not only msthetic and intellectual sertion that the great enemy to all that is elements he makes it include, but moral high, pure, and spiritual, is British Philistin- also and even religious. It has generally ism. By Philistinism, he elsewhere ex- been desired as rendering an intelliget plains, is meant, on the side of beauty and being more intelligent; but besides this, taste, vulgarity; on the side of mora1s, bard- Mr. Arnold regards it in another aspect, as ness and coarseness; on the side of mind the means to make reason and the will of and spirit, uninteiligence. Mr. Arnold, God prevail. To the former aspect, which MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. regards rather the improvement of each man s self, this view of Mr. Arnolds would add a social and a moral side, which in- cludes, as a main element of culture, the love of our neighbour, and the desire in a man to leave the world better than he found it. What is new in Mr. Arnolds view is the emphasis with which he insists that cul- ture is not only the endeavour to see things as they areto know the order of the world as it exists but to know it as the Will of God, and to make this will pre- vail. With great power and fine irony, Mr. Arnold shows how in Great Britain, at this hour, men everywhere, absorb d in the pursuit of the means of life, worshipping the machinery, lose sight of the ends those ends which alone give to the, machin- ery any value. Immersed in love of coal, steam, wealth, population, bodily health and strength, they fail to find true well-being. They find instead the character of Philis- tines in all its hideousness, as the result of this worship of machinery, this neglecting of the spiritual ends which machinery ought to serve. In rebuke of all this, he reiterates with Epictetus, and how many more, that the formation of the spirit and character is our one real concern. This is familiar teaching often taught, ever forgotten, What will it profit a man . . . The spiritual ends, however to which he exhorts, the ideal which he holds up, contains in it fully as much of the Greek as of the lie- hrew element. A complete and harmonious inward perfection, a character combining sweetness and light, the two noblest things we know sweetness, or the love of beauty, harmony, goodness light, or the large and high intelli~ence open to all truth, these are the ends that make mens real welfare; these he urges them to seek, and to make all their other seekings subserve. In much of this teaching Mr. Arnold does real service to moral progress. In preach- ing once more the doctrine of moral ends and means, he is following in the path of !all the sages, only with a hinguage which the present hour will understand. But it is he- cause we so entirely side with him as against his opponents, the many enemies of culture, because we see the existence of the evil he warns of, the Philistinism already at our throats, and love the excellence he loves, that we are desirous that no mistake should be made about the right grounds and true meth- od of eradicating the one and of attaining the other. Mr. Am old makes religion an ingredi- ent in culture, a means, perhaps the highest toward culture, yet a means. He thinks 89 that culture, in its ideal of a harmonious expansion of all the human powers, goes be- yond religion, as it is generally conceived among us. Again, he says that culture adding to itself the religious idea of a de- vout energy, is destined to transform and govern religion. Culture the end, religion the means. But there are things which, because they are ultimate ends. in them- selves, refuse to he employed as means, and if attempted to he so employed, lose their essential character. Religion is one, and the foremost of these things. Obedience, conformity of the finite and imperfect will of man to the infinite and perfect will of God, this, which is the essence of reli- gion, is an end in itself, the highest end which we can think of; a~ d it cannot be sought as a means to an ulterior end without he- ing at once destroyed. This is an end, or rather the end in itself, to which culture and all other ends are only means. And here in culture, as we saw in pleasure, the great ethic law will he found to hold, that the abandoning of it as an end, in obedience to a higher, more supreme end, will be made the very condition of securing it. Stretch the idea of culture and of the perfection it aims at wide as you will and Mr. Arnold has widened and deepened it to the utmost you cannot, while you make it your last end, rise clear of the original self-reference that lies at its root; this you cannot get rid of, unless you go out of culture, and be- yond it, abandoning it as the end, and sinking it into what it really is a means, though perhaps the highest means, towar(ls full and perfect duty. No one ever really became beautiful by aiming at beauty. Beauty conies, we scarce know how, as an emanation from deeper sources than itself. If culture, or rather the ends of culture sweetness and light are to be healthy natural growths, they must come uncon- sciously, as results of conformity to the will of God, sought not for any end but itself. On the other hand, culture, making its own idea of perfection the end and religion the means, would degenerate into an unhealthy artificial plant, open to the charges urged against it by its enemies. But it will be said, Have not religious agencies of all kinds been busily at work for the last three centuries, and behold the result! In the warmest advocates of re- ligion, bitterness and division; in the great mass of the thriving classes, rawness, n r- rowness, vulgarity; in the lowest portion, barbarism and profanity. Has not the re- ligious idea been tried to the uttermost, and found wantin~? Intensity to the ut 90 MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. termost the dissidence of dissent, and the Protestanism of the Protestant religion, will this cure the inherent Phulistinism of our people, achieve the ends which culture longs for? No one can pretend that the reli~ious or(ranizations as they now are, have done this, or are on the way to do it. So much is their spiritual strength spent in enforcing sectarian and divisive ideas. Sectarianism, whatever else it may have done, has certainly not promoted the har- monious expansions of human nature which Mr. Arnold aims at. But there are signs enough that its day is waning. On all sides we see the new wine a purer Chris- tian spirit, new and strong as ever, ready to burst the old bottles, if only new ones were at hand to preserve it. Amid all our narrowness, and limitations, and contradic- tions, is not the horizon visibly widening around us? And as it widens, and as social philosophies one afcer another try to keep pace with it, and fail, the adaptation of Christ to fill the hearts of all men indi- vidually, and the necessity of Him to be- come the cementing bond of renewed hu- manity, will become more than ever ap- parent. In subservience to him is the right place for culture. Large service lies ready for it to do, if it only understand its true calling, to be the minister of a faith hi her than itself. As an instrumentality ofhis kind, culture may become a most beneficent power, prob bly the power most needed in this age. But it must be as means, not as end; as servant, not as master. We have attempted to show, as far as our space allowed, how a new and more vital force is imported into morality, if we can regard the abstract moral law of ethical science as absorbed into the All-righteous, All-loving Personal Will which Christianity reveals. In doing so we have touched, and that very imperfectly, we are well aware, but one side of a many-sided, indeed of an exhaustless, problem. When mans natural moral sentiments are confronted with the Christian revelation, many other questions arise, some of them more fundamental, though none perhaps more practical, than the one here discussed. Of these funda- mental inquiries one of the foremost is, how far man naturally possesses within himself certain moral sentiments which serve as criteria by which the truth of a revelation may be judged. On this grave question we cannot even enter at the close of this long discussion. Only we would remark, that the moral nature in man must be that to which any objective religion, which claims to be universal, must mainly make its appeal. Else man has no internal stand- ard at all by which to try any relirion which claims to be received: and on purely external grounds, it is conceivable that a religion, teaching immorality, might have much to say for itself. Christianity, at first, though it came with other evidence besides the moral, yet rested its claim mainly on the moral ground, and must do so more and more, as mans moral perceptions, through its agency, along with other agencies at work, become, age by age, deeper and purer. The appeal to a power of judging in man is made in many different forms by our Lord Himself: Why even of yourselves judge ye not what is right? St. Paul, too, says that he strove in all he taught to com- mend himself to every mans conscience. And the more either individuals or the race advance in spiritual intelligence, the more readily will they respond to this appeal in preference to all others. Morality and Christianity have, for eicrhteen centuries, acted and reacted on each other, the out- ward teaching quickening the inward per- ceptions, and these, when quickened, pun- f~ing mens apprehensions of the outward truth. And these two have become so in- terwoven that we believe it to be now im- possible to separate them in the moral con- sciousness of mankind, and to say, this was drawn from the one source, and that from the other. Christianity, from the first, ap- pealing partly to mens natural desire to es- cape from the dreaded consequences of sin, partly to the moral longing for righteous- ness, never wholly dead in the race, has, through this mingling of prudential and moral motives, elevated the best of mankind, and made their moral perceptions what they now are. And these moral perceptions, thus refined, react on the objective religion, and require ever more stringently that the truths presented by it shall be not only mor- al, that is, conformable to all that is purest and best in man, but that they shall comple- ment this, strengthen, elevate it. They re- quire not only that nothing which is un- moral shall be taught as true of God and His dealings with man, but that all which is taught concerning Him shall be in the high- est conceivable degree righteous, shall he such as to lay hold of and to cherish what- ever susceptibility of righteousness there is in man, and carry it on to perfection. This is so obvious that it seems a truism. It is so readily assented to that no one would think of denying it when stated in this gen MORAL THEORIES AND CHRISTIAN ETHICS. 91 eral way. Yet it is painful to think how righteousness for the love of itself. They much and how persistently it has often been must cease to meet moral yearnings by lost sight of in popular religious teaching, un-moral doctrines or expedients, for and with how disastrous consequences. We bread giving men a stone. They must are quite aware of the difficulties which this keep steadily before them that nothin,, can principle has to meet when turned on cer- permanently satisfy the moral being in man tam points in the elder and more rudimen- but something not less, but more moral tarv forms of revelation. To solve these more spiritual than itself. They must feel fairly would require a combination of moral themselves and make others feel, that in the and historical insight, with various kinds of Divine economy, though there is much knowledge, such as few possess. But when which is mysterious, there is nothing which this principle is applied to the latest and is not even now supremely moral, and completed revelation, Christianity can meet which will not at last be clearly seen to he its requirements in their most exacting form. so. In ceasing to use so exclusively the If precept or truth can elevate, what height weapons of merely earthly, and wielding of morality can be conceived which shall more confidently those of pure spiritual, not find its complement in such precepts as temper, they need not fear that the old this Be ye perfect, even as your Father armory of Christianity will fail them. In in heaven is perfect? or in such announce- the old words, the old truths, the old facts, ments as these, God is love; God is more vitally and spiritually apprehended, light, and in Him is no darkness at all? because brought closer to the moral heart Indeed it is only when the inner moral eye of man, they will find all they need. This has been clarified that the meaning of these close contact between Christian truths and statements comes out at all, and evermore the highest moral sentiment of the time, as the moral nature rises these great truths while it vitalizes and makes real the former, rise above it infinitely. And if it be said will react no less powerfully on the latter. that after all these are but general an- There is no moral truth which is not nouncements, void of content, and we still deepened when seen in the light of eternity need to know what perfection, light, love, and of God. That which, regarded from are, then there remains our Lords own life, the side of man, is felt merely as a yielding with His teaching, actions, character, to fill to his own sensual nature, when seen from these general words with concrete meaning the side of God as disobedience to a loving aud substance. and righteous will, to which be owes every- It were well that those who have to teach thing, is deepened into a sense of sin. religion should consider these matters more Character which, when re,,arded from a closely, make a study more searching than merely moral point of view, almost inevit- is commonly made of what there is moral in ably becomes a building up from our own man, ~ what this lon,s for, with what alone it internal resources, takes altogether another will be satisfied. The most thou,,htfui teach- aspect when it is seen that what a man ers know this, know that for want of thus meet- really is in the last resort is determined by ing the moral needs of men, thus grappling the relation in which he stands to God. with the higher moral side of questions, Then it comes to be felt that the rightness there is danger lest the purest morality of men search for cannot be self-evolved from modern time part company with the re- within, that they must cease from attempt- ceived religion. Men who are to teach ing this, must go beyond self, must fall back cannot see too clearly, or seize too firmly the on a simple receptivity, receiving the right- distinction between that which is really ness and the right-making power which moral and that which is merely prudential they have not in themselves, from out of the in man; and though they may not al- great reservoir of righteousness which is in together pass over notions drawn from the God. Only on thus falling back on God, latter region, on the former mainly they and feeling himself to be as of every other must throw themselves, to it must be their thing, so of righteousness, a recipient, is a chief appeal. They must cease to be con- man truly rightened. Thus the last moral tent if they can raise men merely to the craving and the first upward look of religion prudential level of a desire for safety, they agree in one, A man can receive nothing must feel that their work is hardly begun except it be given him from above. till those they teach have come to desire OLD SIR DOUGLAS. CHAPTER LXXI. THE BARREN, BARREN SHORE! IT was twilight, dreary, drizzling, cloudy twilight, such as we so;netimes endure with a sort of impatient sadness, even when there is no cause for grief; a twilight that dulls our spirits as it sinks over the leaden sea. Colour gone, light gone, warmth gone, all silent, and wet, and cold. The wind, low and hushed, coining in little fit- ful gusts round the rocks and hollow caves; puffs of weak vapour; no freshness; no wildness in the blast; as if great Nature were, in the words of Shakspeare, In all her functions weary of herself. The tiny lodgings and cottages by the sea were beginning to darken. One after one the glimmering lights went out. The terri- fied old washerwoman pulled dcwn her sleeves over her bare arms, and looked round with a shudder at the scoured and mopped floor of her dwelling, before she sat down to supper with two gaping friends who had dropped in to keep her company after the awful event of the day. Lady Charlotte was recovering from repeated hys eries in the pastoral cottage covered with roses and honeysuckles, and leaning her head on Gertrudes shoulder was watch- ing, with something like a returning smile, the energetic at tempts of Neil to make tea and wait on her and his mother. Far away, at the police-station, quivered the gas-light over the door, and with a ghastly brilliancy shone on the closed shutters of the room where the murdered smugglers corpse was lying, waiting for evidence and coroners inquest, and some one to own and identify him, and to take some sort of interest in this sudden destruction of a man in the prime of life and lifes energies. And duly, by and by, muffled in a shawl ashamed of her love, of his fate, of the brawl with some unknown ruffian, his companion in a lawless trade which her father had disap- proved and which had now cost him his life came the decent farmers daughter, the Mary of his obscure love-story, to sob, and sigb, and drop short agitated curtsies when questioned by the sergeant of police, and admit that it was some one she knew some one to whose identity all at home could speak. And then she went back to the quiet farm and her parents, and hack to her little lonely room, where her half- made wedding gown lay neatly folded, with thread, scissors, and needle-book on the top of it; and the bright French silk neckerchief (his last gift) hung over the looking-glass, and her Prayer-book and Bible were set on the chest of drawers, with wild flowers dry- ing between their leaves, gathered in their pleasant walk the last Sunday, when she had persuaded him to go to church that Sunday when her father had shaken hands with him for the first time, and even her mother had asked him if he would stay to tea. That hapoy quiet Sunday! And Mary wept and prayed, and wept again, going through that phase of bitter anguish known to more hearts than hers; the lament for one whose death is lamented by no one else the lament for one thought by others unworthy, but on whom we our- selves pinned many a hope. Unshared was the grief of her patient heart. She knew that her father and mother were sitting downstairs talking over the matter in whis- pers sorry for their young daughter but not sorry rather relieved that by this stroke of destiny her imprudent love was brought to a close. So sh@ wept~ and made her moan, till, at her tiny lattice window also, the light was put out that made one of the sparks on the land above the shore, went out, and told no tale of the hopes ex- tinguished within, or that a poor simple girl lay sobbing herself to sleep in the darkness that succeeded. But on the long cold stretch of the sea- shore stood one who neither wept, nor rest- ed, nor slept. Ailie was there Her head was uncovered to the drizzlinw rain. Her boa, twisted round her slender throat, was clutched at from time to time with restless flowers as the light puffs of wind waved the daqgling ends of the fur. She was shivering, less with cold than in- tense nervous excitement alternately mov- ing swiftly and pausing, more cat-like than ever in the dim sad light. More cat-like than ever! At one moment she would scud swiftly over the damp sands with soundless footsteps, and be lost behind the cliff then with slow, stealthy, deliber- ate pace, she would emerge, advance a fe v yards, and stop: motionless and watchful, yet watching nothing: looking over the sea the objectless, grey, low line of the un- dulating sea with a fixed stare her eyes gleaming in the faint light her spare fig- ure making a sort of shadowy column be- tween sand and sky. And thus she would ren~ain till, all of a sudden, the spirit of swift scudding would awake in her again, and send her flitting along the shore with such rapidity that the eye lost her, and only became conscious of her reappearance when 92 93 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. again the stealthy pace, the objectless pause, Nonsense. These were the words of in- the long stare at nothing visible, the slight suit he had tossed at her before that other gesture of the governing hand that would woman, the Anita, he had recognised! fain keep the boa from imitating the move- Words spoken, no doubt, to deceive that ments of animal life when stirred by the Creole wife; perhaps to pave the way for capricious air, broke the monotony, and reconciliation with her. She was rich; she gave something of a less visionary nature had boasted of her riches. Every thing to her presence on the gloomy sands. over which Alice Ross had power as her Oh! very dismal and barren of all hope own property, she had lent or given to was that shore to the eyes of Alice Ross. James Frere. The Creole had said that Sbe might recross the sea in that light sail- her father was dead; and she was rich, and ing-boat which had home her from France; so had come to England. What though she might put countries and continents he- she had spoken angrily at that first meet- tween her and her native land; but across ing? Frere would have power to soften the gulf of black thoughts, across the ocean her. He had fled, hut it was not clear that tinued with blood, across the disturbed bil- he knew that he had killed the man he struck lows of raoe and confusion which tossed at: it was not clear that he knew he was a her soul, ne er more could she be steered murderer. Where would he flee to? that to any quiet haven. Nevermore! was the question. All his haunts, his tricks Nor was she dreaming of quiet; nor de- of disguise and hiding, his fox-like, craftily- sirous of peace; nor pitying any of the contrived holes, his means of evading and. actors or sufferers in the strange tragedy of eluding, his daring ways and cunning de- the morning except herself; nor yearning vices, were they not known to Alice? Had to blot out all that had occurred that day he not himself revealed and boasted of like a bad dream. Active, restless, full of them in the days of their love? the supple energy of the animal she so Only one thing for ever marked him; the closely resembled; sharp and feverish were scar on his cruel right hand. the workings of her busy brain. Yes, he was marked. She was glad of Ailie was not thinking of the terrible that. That would help others to track him, past; she was planning a terrible future. others not so well acquainted with his She was thinking of James Frere; not as manifold contrivances. She remembered the a false lover, a comi~ion swindler, a murder- first day she had ever noticed that scar; er amenable to the laws of his country. No, the day the Dowager Clochnaben had asked no; none of these things. She was think- him to sketch some architectural improve- ing of hhn solely as her PREY. ments for her grim castle. He had had many a narrow escape, but She saw him now, as in a vision; saw him this time his fate shall doom him. He shall as she stood with the drizzling rain not escape AILIE! damp on her hair, and the leaden sea cold Woe to the man who is loved with the and sad at her feet seated in the great passion that has neither tenderness nor af- room at Clochnaben, with all its stately fection to soften it! who is loved not for old furniture, its huge comfortable grate, his own sake, but for the selfish sake of the full of pine-logs burning with a scented woman who has mated with him! The odour, its heavy shining table on which lay opposite of that love is hate. The serpent the maps, and books, and the slanting port- hatched from the Egyptian warmth of that folio with blood-red strings from which he sterile soil is vengeance. Pity and regret took the etchings lie had made. She saw and the sad quiet partings of a humbled his smile once more; that smile when their heart, the unutterable and fiery sense of eyes met; THE smile that told her there wrong quenched and conquered by a flood was more in the soul of that wandering of better and holier feelings, all these things preacher than was taught by his scriptural are unknown to such women. Their im- texts; and yet she had liked him the better pulse is to slay Jasons children to punish for it, and welcomed with a thrill of passion Jason. They fulfil the scriptural maledic- that irregular and intelligent face as her tion which says, Cursed be their anger, ideal of male beauty. She saw his hand for it was fierce; and their wrath for it was that scarred, that forq~ng hand with cruel. its light firm touch, and pencil of power, Aihie thought over the links that had busy in its task that harmless night. She bound he? to Frere, and all that she had saw it raised and bleeding in the blue lake said, done, and suffered, till a delirium of by the hut, when he dived for Eusebias wild revenge thrilled her brain. bracelet, and Guiseppe bad recognised him Dont be affected. You knew it. and exclaimed against him. OLD SIR DOUGLAS. And lastly, in the rapid magic lantern of her shifting visions, she saw him lying in the Highland cottage, simulating to the simple and pious minister the woes of a blind beg~,ar, and cunningly ohtaining his assistance and charitable recommendation. She saw the low sunshine gleam in on the tartan quilt of the lowly bed as she sat by him, illumining the edge of the bed-frame, polished and worn hy age, the dark green check of the quilt, and the forgers hand, as he held Gertrudes and Kenneths letters, steadily gazing at the writing with those eyes supposed to be filmed in darkness, preparatory to exerting once again those skilful fingers in their power of imitative art, for the satisfaction of a base revenge on the innocent. That hand; that thin scarred hand! Clear as the awful image of warning that came out and wrote on the walls of a pal- ace Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, she saw it rise between her and the sullen sky and cold grey sea that dim and dreary evening. And, as all the passing dreams of her mind faded and vanished, the swift scuddiur movement returned to her limbs, and flit, flit, flit, went Alice; over the sands, and round the rocks, and up the cliff and along the narrow pathway; no sound in her footfall, only in the click of the little painted wicket-gate at the garden of the inn where she and Frere had passed the preceding night. There she paused, and passed in with slackened and furtive tread; looking up at the window of her own room, where a light was still burning. And gathering her dress more closely round her to escape the wet, which dripped from the late autumn roses and trickled down the cairn-like heaps of huge flints with conch-shells set about them which formed the chief ornament of that circumscribed Eden, she felt, at last, all the chill which busy thought had dead- ened as yet to her senses. So, answering in the negative the ques- tion of the sleepy servant-girl, if she would take smething before she went to bed, she stole shivering upstairs to rest. And there in the very chamber where he of the scarred hand had slept in security the night before did Ailie lay her head on her pillow, resolved that he should die an i~ noniinbous death by the laws of his country. ~omore meeting with Anita; no more insult to Ailie; but death death death and disgrace. The lingering light at her chamber-win- dow burnt long and low; but at length even that sign of wakeful life disappeared, and all along the coast was dark. The damp drizzle and weak gusty wind of the evening, gradually rose to wild beat- ing rain and wilder storm. The sea rose and the tempest howled. Undermanned and overladen merchant-vessels whose owners had to think twice before paying port dues lost spars and sails, and drove regretfully past havens of refuge; and prouder ships rode out the blast, or t:ok shelter where best they might. But through the storm, as through the calm, Ailies fearless eyes watched the darkness; and with a fierce compression of her fingers she muttered every now and then, He shall be hunted down, hunted down ! Long she pondered where to beoin the feline watch and pitiless chase. He would not surely go back to France? St. Malo was the haunt of the smuggling companions he had lately consorted with. Would he go to Jersey? It was too small for hiding, and too probable a place for the searching visit of the police. He would go to London! In that vast struggling hive, with its eternal murmur of a working, striving, occupied population, any one might hide and be for- gotten. He would surely go to London. And Ailie made her slender package, and was off at dawn of da~r, having paid the bill to her nervous landlady before the tardy inquiries of the police as to the young for- eign woman who was seen with the murderer the day before and whose place of lodg- ing had only just been made out dis- turbed the small household, filled the tap- room with sinister agitation, and set the hostess herself off in tearful protestations of the extreme respectability of her house, into which, if her account might be trusted, no foot had ever passed that might not have walked in equal procession with the holiest of saints and martyrs. To London, then, went Ailie, and set her catlike watch at many a ruined hole, and saw the walls placarded here and there with the great words MURDER and RE- WARD, and read in various papers the vari- ously abridged accounts of the event, the long details in Lloyds; the brief notice in the Morning Post; the stern methodic ac- count in the Daily Telegraph; the tiny cor- ner devoted to Murder in the Isle of Wight, in the superb and overflowing Times. And still, as she read, the hunger of her starved revenge grew keener, and through the streets she knew of old to be his haunts 94 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. she flitted in the dim foggy evenings, as she had flitted over the sea sands; her eyes di- lating sometimes as she followed with fur- tive step a figure resembling Freres to the door of some low lodging in court or alley, only to close, with an exasperated moan of impatience and disappointment, as she slunk hack from the aspect of a stranger. Pains thrown away; calculations shrewd in vain; for Frerethat man of shifts and expedients knew too well that the safe thing to do under such circumstances is the one thing you are expected not to do; and, while firtive Ailie was prowling wearily through hye-streets and round foggy corners hetween the Strand and the river, he was sitting fearlessly in gay French theatres and French cafds his black hair curled and perfumed dining well and enjoying him- self; waiting for remittances from Mad- rid; and getting all current expenses meanwhile lavishly provided for by a young lordling setting out on his first independent tour, whom he had amused and looked after during a very rough and sick passage to Llavre, and who had already decided that he was the pleasantest fellow upon earth, expressing a hope that (as soon, as those remittances should arrive) they might join purses and travel together over the con- tinent. And James Frere spoke his thanks and made conversation, in very pretty broken English; for he was a Spanish hidalgo for the nonce, just returned from Mexico. And a gentlemans linen may certainly be marked J. F. whose name is not James Frere, but Marquis Josd de los Frios. So Ailie wandered in vain. The streets, like the sands, were barren; and the tide of human events washed slug~ ishly back- wards and forwards over the sunken wreck of her life, but brou0ht nothing to the sur- face. CHAPTER LXXII. GERTRUDE MADE JEALOUS. THE horror with which Lady Charlott~i was seized at the idea of any further resi- dence in the pastoral cottage, where you see, my darling Gertie, we might evidently any day he most likely murdered in our beds, was so great, that there was no con- testing the advisability of removal; and their preparations for departure were ac- cordingly made with as close an imitation of Ailies haste as the greater multiplicity of objects to be removed Tendered possible. Biting the end of her long ringlet, and trembling very visibly, Lady Charlotte sat watching each successive trunk and carton corded and directed to her town address; smiling nervously at their lids, and repeat- ing to her maid, You see, Sansonnet, Lon- don is such a nice safe place so safe and nice. Im sure I wish we were there! So very safe; so many policemen, and houses, you know, on each side of one, and no back doors only the area. These pastoral places are dreadfully dangerous Dear me! Only to think of what Ive gone through And it might have been any of us! You cant tell what that sort of man will do. Its a mercy he didnt take it into his head to stab us all round. And he isnt caught yet; you know they couldnt catch him, which indeed is all for the best; I mean that if they had laid hold of him, of course he would have killed them all. So the sooner we get to London the better. But now dont get flurried, Sansonnet; you are crushing down that white crape hat with bluets most dreadfully: just lift the lid. You may have the bonnet, for yourself that I wore that day. I shall never he able to look at it again. So horrid. Oh, dear me! Do be as quick as you can, my good San- sonnet, and let us get into safety. I never, never will leave London again. It was Mr. Boyds idea not mine in the least. And he said it would do my daughter so much good, and I ask you if it has done her any good at all? Certainly not; only these clever men are so wilful a~id obstinate. You never can get Mr. Boyd to have any opinion but his own; a little of his mother in him; a little of~ his mother. Obstinate, you know. And now see what has come of it! Murder has been done, and Gertrude not a hit the better. Im quite glad to get away, and I shall write to Mr. Boyd and tell him so. Horrid! And my darling Gertie so patient too, and quite anxious we should start. I shall certainly write & d show Mr. Boyd how wrong he was to advise us to come. Now, Sansonnet, do shut the basket trunk! You can iron the dresses you know when we get to town, if they are a little crushed. Anything is better than staying among robbers and murderers anything And so the fragile lady chattered ner- vously on; and never gave her rinulet any rest till she sat on the deck of the steamer for Southampton, with her pretty little fringed parasol held carefully over one of the bonnets that had not been prescnt at the murder, smiling at every one and at every thing, and repeating from time to time, I feel so safe, going back, you know, dear 95 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. Gertie, dont you feel safe and comfortable? And dear Neil, Im sure even he is glad to be safe, though of course he was sorry to leave his boat and those horrid gulls. But he is to stuff two of the gulls, and they will be very pretty in the dining- room. They wont make that screaming either, after they are stuffed. He, he, he ! And Lady Charlotte gave a little merry tittering laugh after the last observation, for she was under the impression that she had made a jest; and she felt besides altogether glad and in spirits at escaping thus with life and limb from the dangers of pastoral retire- ment. But nothing could make Gertrude Ross feel glad or in spirits. Day by day her melancholy deepened. Day by day her health failed. More beautifnl than she had been in early ,,irlhood, her beauty was yet further increased by a transparency of corn- plexion and hectic colour which began now to be habitual. Her mother saw it with alarm. With alarm she listened to the evasive answers of the physician in attendance; answers eva- sive and unsatisfactory even to her simple mind, sharpened on this one subject alike by affection and experience. And consol- ing friends careless or unconscious of the suffering and fright consequent on their words told her they feared dear Lady Ross was going in the same way her father had gone before her; and that they had known many instances of rapid decline in persons who had been made anxious and uncomfortable, when the taint was in the constitution, my dear. And out of the letters of reproach, ap- peal, and confused explanation, which Lady Charlotte kept inditing to Vienna, as if Lorimer Boyd was .in lieu of Providence, and could keep her daughter alive and well if he only chose to take sufilcient pains in the matter, came at last a tender counter- reproach from Lorimer himself; complain- ing of a certain reticence in Gertrudes let- ters to him, giving so little account of her own feelings or state of health. And out of that again a nervous, repressed yet anguished answer from poor Gertrude, not absolutely saying, but implying, that he could not understand her state of mind. That he, without those dear and intimate ties which were hers (and yet not hers) could not be expected to comprehend that her heart was torn up by the roots, and that she seemed to herself to be not so much dying, as already dead, in some respects, dead to all interest in usual things, and sad, even about her d~epest interest, her one source of joy and consolation, her adored Neil. And then came from Lori- mer a letter so passionate that the col- our flushed to Gertrudes temples as she read it; scarcely recognizing, in its im petu- ous burst, the grave, grim, caustic friend, whose reticence on such subjects had al- ways seemed to be far greater than her own. You think then, dear Gertrude (for there is no other possible translation of your letter), that there are bounds to my sympa- thy for you, that, in vulgar parlance, I cannot understand you? You have put it gently, carefully, sweetly. Where there is regard (less regard than that which I trust you feel for me, your old friend, and your fathers friend), we do all of us en- deavour as it were to shelter our thou~hts in soft words; even to those whose intimacy with us enables them to fling aw y that vel- vet scabbard, and leave the thoughts as bare, sharp, and wounding. as befbre they were slipped into their useless coverincr. The scabbard is worn in vain for me! You are mistaken, dear Gertrude. Dear child of the man I loved before you grew to lovely womanhood, you are mistak- en. I feel and know all you im~tgine must be unknown to me. D you think I have lived till now, and never loved? Do you think I have not also experienced how diffi- cult it is to bend ones mind even to whole- some hopes, before the hourglass of sorrow is well turned, or its sand has begun to fall? that I do not know how miserable a thing it is to struggle with the clinging thought that one might yet be blest with reconciling love, instead of being able to give a per- son up utterly? The difference between death and imprisonment! The one a pro- longed torture, the other only a merciful blow. Do you think I am unacquainted with that sensation of utter indifference to all subjects and events which bear no rel - tion to the object painfully beloved? with that consciousness, that, for aught we care, the earth might crumble with all upon it, as long as standing-room was left for two? I know that love! I know the power that nAkes all other vexatious seem like the raving of a far-off storm to one that sits safely sheltered, the power that can build, as it were, round the human heart walls so massive that the indistinct thing is the thun- der of the worlds tempests, while near and dear and sweetly audible sounds the voice whose low music thrills every pulse of our being. My dear Gertrude, do not doubt me. You are so much to me ! even as we are, 96 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. tbat my life would be barren but for the belief that I am something to you. Do not write me letters reserved in their sorrow ant] their fears. They make me feel like a miserable alien. I call to you at such times, but there is no echo. I look for you, but I cannot find you. Tell me you think you are dying. tell me your beait is breaking for this miserable madness in our ever dear Douglas (which one day must have an end); but do not exile me from your confidence. and bid me stand after so many years of intimate companionship, far off, among the group of common friends, who are left to conjecture your sufferings, and ask news of ,ou in vain~ When Loriner Boyd had despatched his letter, he would have given much to rewrite it. Especially he regretted, yea, was in- wardly stung by the memory of the phrase, even as we are.~ Would she take it as art allusion to his concealed love for her? Would she notice it, not in words, but by a vet further evidence of reserve in her cor- respondence? He stood, grim and gloomy, looking over the Bastei on the dotted dwell- mn~s of the Viennese suburbs ,ashamed,and angry with himself. Would his letter seem imliortunate and distasteful? Had he said so much, only to produce e~trangement be- tween them instead of increased confidence? Ab! idiot that he had been to pass the boundary line he had set to himself for many a long year, and change from the tone of habitual gravity or persiflage, to plunge into passionate phrases that might draw down en him a repulse, however gently given. lIe tormented himself nee(llessly. Ten- der, and soft, and thankful, were all the words of Gertrudes answer. Tender, and utterly unconscious! One timid sentence expressive of a certain degree of sur- prise that any one he had honoured with his love should have failed to respond lie found there; and one simple allusion to the very phrase he had almost cursed him- self for writing: that even a~s we are, which had been such a burden of hot lead in his thoughts. She took that phrase to mean the distance that separated them as contrasted with their constant companion- ship in former days; and promised to tell him all, even as if we were sitting consult- ing together, as in the old happy (lays, in the pi-etty room of the Villa Mand6rlo, how best to spare Sir Douglas pain about Ken- neth. And Lorimer, relieved and half-satisfied, fell back on his old style of letter-writing, and spake no more of pining love or wild LIVING AGE. VOL. VI 219. enthusiasms. Common topics, passing jests, indifferent discussions, again filled the many pages that travelled from the distant cTtancel- lerie to the white haul that broke the seal so languidly, and the sweet eyes whose lids grew heavier each succeeding day. He strove to interest and amuse; to jest ~vith her, as men will do (and women too) who feel that they have been on the verge of a dangerous confession of an attachment that never can prosper, or which never should have b en avowed. Vienna is very dull, he said, so at least I ant told. It is at all events very empty. I think of wearing a coat of skins and a conical cap, such as Robinson Crusoe is represented in; and going about with a poll parrot on my finger, looking for a foot- print in the Prater or public drive. Mrs. Cregan was here for a short time with her pretty- daughter; the mother the most al- ntired of the two. Though, indeed, a fair leauty of Viennese society (with a most German wealth of hair) insisted that the luxuriant brown plaits of the English stranger were postiches. But going to the opera a little hut ned and dishevelled was considered tantamount to having walked ever redliot ploughshares, and Mrs. Cregan c~m e off triumphant and completely cleared. The opera is aty sole pleasure! You know how I love music; nut], though the voi(-es sound thin alter the full-throated bubbling richness of Italian sin~in~ these people are on the whole butter musicians. A backward people, too. We had an alarm of fire the other night, and a prodi gious incendie it turned out to be. A whole convent burned down. Any thing worse than the arrangements for getting water on such an occasion, it is impossible to conceive. Here, with the Donau carry- ing the Danube into the heart of Vienna, it was brought in barrels such as serve to lay the dust in other cities. The fright of the crowd was extreme; and the rushing about of water-carts and engines, with men stand- ing up in them, holding immense pine notches, scattering sparks and flakes of fire as if handing about samples of the destruc- tion going on wholesale, made a picture very strange, and not very edifying to my unaccustomed eye. I heard an interestiuig anecdote at the Hospital for the Insane. A poor young lady there, quite mail, but gentle (mad for being forsaken, as her attendant assured me), had )et so much of rational system left in her bewildered brain, that she regu- larly and daily taught the child of one of 97 98 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. the keepers to write and read,* and heard unknown, who took her place, and usurped her lessons with the most methodical care. her duties? She must be young and fair. I was niuch touched by the story; that wan- Voices fade, like all other things; the most dering mind, unfit to associate with grown- melodious tones grow flat and hoarse and weak up people, still keeping so far in advance in age, and this was one of the sweetest a~ to be of use to an ignorant child; shut voices Sr Douglas had ever heard ONE out too, from usual companionship on earth, of the sweetest. Oh ! had he yet some mem- and (according to our views) irresponsible ory of hers? Had he forgotten the Sabbath- for her actions in the eye of Heaven, yet singing so cruelly commented upon by the able to train another mind in some ilegree Dowager Clochiiaben and the hypocrite to knowledge and duty. James Frere, when she, his wife, soothed the I will tell you nothing more to day; but hours made weary with the same pain, and you are to tell me all about yourself and the same deprivation of common occupaton. your health. ALL, or I shall write and Could he hear sweet singing, and forget complain to Lady Charlotte, who always hers? Forget his own praises, his own emo- writes and complains to me when you are tion, and how his first declaration of love not well, till she has almost brought me to had been at Sorentu the sequel1 the blessed think it somehow my fault when you cough sequel, to the song that died away into si- or have bad headaches. lence over the moonlit sea? Yours ever, How often since had he praised her voice! - LORIMER BOYD. How often! Was that praise now the por- tion of another! Was he to love again? To be loved as she had loved him? And in the process of their infamous She had her visions of the past, like Ailie, correspondence, as Lady Clochnaben had but oh, how different? She saw her noble termed this interchange of letters, Gertrude Dou~,las in those blessed happy days. She did struggle to tell him all, all that she felt saw the dreamy love in his eyes while listen- or feared for herself, for Neil, for her gentle ing to some favorite ballad: the silent thank- little mother, and much of what she felt and ful smile of approval and delight as it ended. feared about Sir Douglas. She felt the pressure of his cordial hand. Only one thing Gertrude kept buried in Once so vivid and so painful was the vision her heart, and yet it was the bitterest pang of all this given to another, that with a sharp of all. She had grown jealous. A new wailing cry she stood up in her lonely chain- miserable pain had risen like a flickering her, extending her arms in desp ir; calling tongue of fire, and seared where it touched. wildly on the absent, Oh love! oh husband! Sir Douglas had been ill, very unwell in- oh Douglas! till Lady Charlotte came in, deed : the hardships that were trying so many flurried and frightened, in her white muslin fine constitutions round him, and were borne dressing-gown, and asked her what had hap- so bravely by all, told on a frame stricken by pened; and pitied her, but also scolded her; anxiety and vexation. His eyes, too, had or letting her mind dwell so on a man suffered. He had scarcely been able to read who after all had been so very ungrateful and or write for some time. In this condition foolish, yes. foolish, she must say so; and she he had, be said, received much kindness from didnt care who heard her, or bought the one of the officers wives who had come out to contrary; and she wished she h~ I never seen join her husband. He did not say much of Sir Douglas nor Kenneth, nor any of the this lady, except that she sang to him. She Rosses; for they were worse than ghosts or had one of the sweetest voices he had ever demons, and ,had brought nothing but misfor- heard, and had written some of his letters tune into the family. for him. And all this Gertrude kept in her aching Human nature is human nature, and, heart when writing to L~rirner; as he kept dreadful as it used to be to Gertrude to think also in his angry heart the announcement of her husband lonely in his sadness and of the same news by his mother; who tri- suffering, it was more dreadful still to dwell umphed and sneered, and called Sir Doug- las a very gay old gentleman, and said on the picture thus conjured up of his being tended, consoled, charmed, by another. it was a pity when folk didn t know their All day long, and in her mournful dreams, own mind; and if they chose to have young Gertrudes feverish imagination dwelt on the wives instead of just being content with a circumstances. What was she like, this rival good nurse and a flannel nightcap, they should put up more quietly with the conse * A fact. qiences; that was her dictum. OLD SIR DOUGLAS. CHAPTER LXXIII. THERES LODGINGS DETECTED. THE most humble instruments are some- times the means of Heavens perpetual wrath. In the midst of Freres charming sejour at Paris, his daily feasts, his nightly carouses, his quips and cranks and wreathitd smiles, and delightful Companionship with his wealthy young dupe a little commonplace accident once more sent him into space, a forlorn and hunted va~. abond, ready for all chances which Ailie might prepare, or his luckless destiny entail on him. The young lordling looked out for a cou- rier with excellent recommendations. He found one. Tne courier especially recom- mended to him was an Italian, speaking very good English and French, active, ener- getic, and having lived already not only as courier but in regular service in an English family an affectionate devoted sort of fellow, who had nursed his master in illness, and energetically attended him in health and who, in due course. presented himself for examination and inspection. The lordling was pleased and so was the courier. The engagement was made; the day of departure fixed; the route planned, and nearly decided upon. To end all uncertainty on this latter point, the most amusin~ fellow in the world, the Marquis de lbs Frios, who was to be travelling-companion and friend on the oc- casion, was called in. The courier looked eager1y at the Mar- quis, and his countenance fell. The Marquis also looked at the Courier. Signor Frere ! The mock Marquis would fain have braved out the recognition; but to be re- cognized now was not the light matter it might have been in former days. He stood his ground with admirable self-possession while in the presence of the courier and his new master. If a man could have been cheated out of his very senses, the courier would have faltered in his conviction, so perfect was Freres unconscious bearing, so excellent his broken English mixed with words of Spanish ori~in. But the courier was our old friend Giuseppe, the coral-diver of Naples. His bold, sunburnt, honest, handsome countenance quailed not, nor altered one jot, as he gazed in Freres face. When the latter left the room to fetch a journal in which there were maps of the route he had formerly tal~en by Switzerland to Italy, Giuseppe rapidly and resolutely laid bare all he knew of the impostor thus suddenly met again after a pause of years. The incredulity of the lordling was great, so great, that with the happy sauciness of boyhood he rose at last, saying, Will you stay here, my good fellow and let Los Frios just confront you, and put you down with an unvarnished account of himself? If you wernt yourself a foreigner, youd know that this gentleman couldnt be English; couldnt because he hardly speaks En~lish well enough to be understood, unless one was used, as I am, to this sort of lingo. And so the young lord left Giuseppe, pa- tiently waiting; and did not try his patience long, but returned in ahout five minutes with a puzzled exclamation of By Jove ! which comprised all he liked to say on the occasion, having found Frere, alias Los Frios, departed, and a pencilled note in a very neat gentleman-like hand, informing him, that, remittances not having yet ar- rived from Madrid, and these sort of stories being embarrassing for a stranger, and most difficult to disprove in a place where one had no acquaintances, he had thought it best to renounce the idea of their mutual tour, and go at once to Spain. That he was sure, under the circumstances, his friend would find no fault with his availing himself of a portion of a bag of Napoleons obtain- ed for travelling purposes the day before. He had not yet counted the pieces he had borrowed, but would do so in the railway carriage, and strenuously advised him to be very cautious as to the man who had pre- tended to recognise him (Frere), for that he never saw the man before in his life, and he must have had some motive in thus en- deavouring to get rid of a third party on their travels. And now James Frere really did come to London, having first cleverly arranged to derouter the police in Paris, by taking a ticket by rail for Madrid, and ostenta- tiously showing himself at the proper sta- tion for such a start. How or when he disappeared from that. station, no one could have said. But an in- firm old gentleman arrived by the Havre packet for Southampton the night of that day, and from Southampton went to Lon- don, very anxiously and timidly asking his. fellow-passengers to recommend some quiet hotel, and advise him about lodgings, hay- ing just arrived from America on anxious business which niight detain him some time in the great metropolis. And he also begged~ to know where was the best place to get American money changed, for though he~ had, of course, bills on bankers in En0land 99 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. yet he would be glad to get dollars and such like turned into silver; as to Australian soy- ereigns, he believed they were good and correct for use in England. And both dol- lars, and notes, and sovereigns were dis- played, and much good-natured assistance tendered in the way of advice; and the in- firm old gentleman accepted the card of one of his advisers, who kindly offered to call next day and see if he was comfortable, and if he could do any thing for the stran- ger; and then the old gentleman got into a cab, and was driven to an eating-house, from which, having taken some refresh- ment, he sauntered forth on foot, and turned to cross Waterloo Bridge. He paused on the bridge, and leaned over, looking into the water. Wrapt in contemplation he seemed, and of a sorrowful character, for he often sighed, and covered his face with his hands. And as the various passengers across the bridre passed on, and others succeeded, a magical change came over his face; and when he turned once again to cross the hride,e in the opposite direction, though still elderly, he was no longer infirm, hut a jolly, radiant sort of personage, who looked abbot him, and could have taken part, at a mo- ments notice, in a frolic or a fray, and paid a saucy compliment to any unprotected fe- male he met. But AILIE saw him. And patient was the watch she kept, as he tried one lodging after another; patient the ear that listened when he told the land- lady where at last he fixed himself, that he was dining out with some friends, and would return at night, and handed her an earnest in advance on the price of his lodg- ings before he walked away. The red cross that marked the doors in the fatal days of the Great Plague of London told no surer tale of certain death and misery than the invisible notice from Ailies watch- ful gaze on the door of that house. At last! At last he was earthed. Anoth- er night; or less; haifa night; enough of night to put an end to whatever wassail he was about to enrage in, and bring him back to the trap set for him, and shut out all hope of escape. She had only to go now and communi cate with the police. That was all. And with the swift scudding that took her over the long sands by the Black Gang Chine, she threaded her way through the crowd, reached the police station, and laid her information. Freres lodging was detected. His fate was sealed. CHAPTER LXXIV. AILIE BAFFLED. Iv is not only in pleasant things that the proverb holds good, Theres many a slip twixt cup and lip. Ailie was doomed once more to be disappointed. Frere never returned to those lodgings; although the forfeit money remained with his ex- pecting landlady; and that personage, after pondering much over the question, Why tarry the wheels of his cab? supplied his place with another lodger, keeping a pleasant little apology ready cut and dry to be offered (with her unlet second floor), should the defaulter turn up in a few days, and the delay turn out to be a case of illness or something. But Frere was by no means ill. His wavering star was once more for a whihe in the ascendant. He had made another rem- contre as he walked towards the parks, cer- tain not to be recognised. He met his Creole wife. She was walking, handsomely dressed, from the gate of Kensington Gardens to a carriage. He did exactly what Ailie had conceived possible; he resolved to appeal to her com- passion. S~op, for Gods sake, he whispered. I am James Frere; I have wandered in disguise for days, in hopes to see you (this was a pleasant fable). You can denounce me; but I am your son s father, a miser- able man (here she paused, and faltered in her march onward. He saw it, ar~ continued eagerly and sadly); a man worn out with lifes struggles, ready to die, but not by the hangmans hands. Turn back into the garden! Give me ten nun- utes for dear lifes sake. You shall never be troubled with me more, Anita, after that. Abject, humble, imploring; the great dark eyes she dared not meet fixed in greedy scrutiny and hope of pity on her downcast face. She paused she hesitated she turned and re er~tered the gardens with Frere at her side. He led to a solitary bench un- der some trees; and there he pleaded with the woman who had once loved him, and had mourned his desertion with bitter tears. Plausible, fiery, eloquent, a most con- summate master of all the tricks of speech by which favour can be won or condemna 100 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. tion averted, he made way once more into the yielding heart that listened. He falsi- fied his whole life; his reasons for leaving her, his trials and persecutious, his long im- prisonments, the anger of her relations. As to love, he had known other women, hut never really loved, except herself He asked for no love only aid to escape to America or the West Indies. She could give it. She could be his saviour, his guardian angel. Some day, when her boy was old enough to understand, he would bless her a thousand times over for saving him from the heritage of indelible shame consequent on the disgrace and despair of his father. The smugglers death need not be the horror to her that it was to the Eng- lishwomen who witnessed it. Only in Eng- land is such a calm value set on human life. Thousands of sOl(liers die on the field as suddenly. Every bullet has its billet. He did not mean to slay the man, but to shake himself free: he was maddened and be- wildered by meeting her. He scarce knew what he did at the time. Any way, if he was the veriest wretch that ever burdened earth, she had loved him once, and by that love and by her childs life, he besoueht her pity, her pity, and nothing more. So that, in the onward years when she was happy and blest, she might think of the miser- able wanderer who had gone to die in the Far West, and rejoice that she, at least, had had compassion in the sorest need of his hunted and persecuted life. I live, she said at last, in Manchester Square. Take an apartment near there, and I will come and see you, and talk of possi- ble things and ships that will sail soon. There was a pause, and she added in a low voice, Do not be miserable ! Do not be miserable. She did not belong to the class of women who slay Jasons children to punish Jason. She had melted. The exultint~ blood bounded in the mans heart. Gaining so much, he might yet gain more. But Ailie also had thought over possi- bilities. And among those possibilities she classed the meeting with this lost Anita. She had ascertained her name, or the name she went by, from the people of the hotel in the Isle of Wight, and her ad- dress in London. The day came, and the hour, when Frere was once more within reach of her cat-like spring. He had not left in any ship. He was in the lodging near Manchester Square, and Ailie, prowling near the Creoles house, saw her go forth in the late dim hours always in one direction4 Then she made sure that Frere would fall into her hands. She watched, and watched, and watched. Oh! not in vain this time. She saw him: saw him looking from the balcony of a well-built comfortable house, and saw the Creole enter. Ailie never prayed; or she might have prayed then to keep her senses, so flu~- tering and leaping were the pulses of heart and brain. Afraid to leave, and miss him, as on that former occasion, she stood wist- fully considering, and looking about for a policeman on his beat to call the detec- tive whowas watching in Manchester Square. She saw one advancing, and went swiftly up to him. She spoke in a hurried breath- less tone: In there (pointing to the house) lives the man who committed that murder in the Isle of Wight; you will get a reward here is the placard; go in and take him. While the man stood hesitating, mutter- ing something in a doubtful and surprised tone about a warrant, and speaking to the sergeant of the force, the Creole passed out again. Her veil was down, and she moved slowly and sadly with her hand- kerchief to her face as though weeping. Her dress brushed lightly against Ailies as she went by, and the latter drew back from the contact with an angry shudder. Go in now, she said to the policeman in a hoarse whisper, the servant-girl is still standing at the open door: there is a large reward, I tell you. Here is your ser- geant coming. The detective at this moment joine(l them. The two men advanced, and Ailie f& lowed. They passed together up the stairs, and opened the door of the sitting- room. Frere sat at the writing-table, with his back to them, apparently too intent on his occupation to notice the intrusion. The detective moved forward a pace or two, touched him on the shoulder, and stepped back again, as if prepared for any show of resistance he might offer. But nothing of the kind seemed impending. He rose quietly and slowly, and turning round deliberately, faced Ailie Ross She gave a cry, and darted to the door. It is not the right person, she exclaimed. They have changed clothes; he has es- caped! Follow him: he cannot have got far! This is a woman! Yes, said the Creole, as she fixed her large dark eyes scornfully on Alice. I am a woman, though I wear the garb of a man; and you, you are a tigress, perhaps, though you wear the garb of a woman. He saw you from his balcony. He saw you ! 101 RICHARD ISRINSLEY SHERIDAN. From the Fortnightly Review. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. ON the 18th of December, 1813, Lord Byron made the following entry in his dia- ry: Whatever Sheridan has done or cho- sen to do has beeu, par excellence, always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy (School for Scandal), the best opera (The Duenna in my mind far before that St. Giless lampoon, The Beggars Op- era), the best farce (The Critic it is only too good for an after-piece), and the best ad- dress (Monologue on Garrick), and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration (the fa- mous Begum speech) ever conceived or heard in this country. These words had been spoken by Byron, in the presence of Lord Holland and others, and were report- ed to Sheridan. Hearing that Sheridan was so affected as well as gratified by them as to hurst into tears, Byron added: Poor Biinsley! If they were tears of pleasure, I would rather have said these few, but most sincere, words, than have written The Iliad, or made his own celebrated Philipic. say, his own comedy never gratified me more than to hear that h~ had derived a moments gratification from any praise of mine humble as it must appear to my elders and my betters. Comm from such a man, this eulogium merits attention: it would command approval if Byron had been as great a critic as a poet. Gibbon, a far more discriminating writer, recorded in his memoirs that Mr. Sheridans eloquence demanded my applause; but the force of this statement is weakened by Gibbons avowal that he heard with emotion the p(rsolial compliment paid me in the pres- eiice of the British nation. When one em- inent man, having been flattered by another, repays the debt in like coin, his action is not wholly disinterested, nor should it be rated beyond its worth. So little is this maxim r& gerded in Sheridans case, that the speech of Byron and the phrase of Gibbon have been generally accepted as representing, not the utterance of a young enthusiast and the expression of a single compliment, but as embodying the judgment of two distin- ~uish ed contemporaries which posterity would do wrong to question. Ought pos- terity to ratify that decision? if not, what should be its verdict? I. When still a youth and dependent on his wits for a livelihood, Sheridan was admitted into the gayest society in England, which then had its head-quarters at Bath. It is difficult to realise now the style of living which, towards the middle of the eighteenth century, was the mode in this country. To be well-bred according to the code of the day, was the first requisite: to be witty, was the second. To bow gracefully, to dance elegantly, to have a handsome figure, and to merit the title of a pretty fellow ; these qualifications, aided by fashionable and costly clothes, constituted a passport to the hearts of women and the society of men. If, in addition, the candidate for favour was ca- pable of amusing his companions by neatly- turned stories or clever sallies, he was as certain of being honoured then as he would be in these days were his broad acres num- bered by the hundred, and his pounds by the hundreds of thousands. That period was a halcyon one for adventurers who were clever, as this age is for adventurers who use their credit so as to get the reputa- tion of being rich. Though the son of a player, and destitute of wealthy or influential patrons, Sheridan yet succeeded in moving on terms of equal- ity with the most notable personages in Bath. He could write such verses as in those days were regarded as poetry. Who- ever could do this better than the crowd of polite versiflers had then an opportunity for distinguishing himself, for Lady Miller, a would-be poetess, had established a sort of poetical competition in which all might take part whose merit or rank was, in her opin- ion, sufficiently exalted. The prize was a myrtle wreath which she bestowed with her own hand. Sheridaii had the pleasure of joining in the game, and the honour, if such it can be styled, of winning m anya crown. He derived more solid advantage from watching the manners of the motley group of characters there assembled, and storing his mind with the traits of character with which lie afterwards endowed his he- roes and heroines of dramatic life. He had the still greater satisfaction of fl~ uring in an exploit which made him for a time the talk of society. Miss Linley was then the loveli- est and most popular of public singers. The charms of her voice attracted immense audiences; the charms of her person attract- ed numerous suitors. Men of large fortune, and men of rank, men who had no reputa- tion to lose, and men who had a reputation to make, contended for her hand. Amon the rivals were Sheridans most intimate friend, HAhed, and his elder brother Charles. One by one they retired from the struggle. The most romantiC and generous 102 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. was Mr. Long, an elderly gentleman of for- tune. On being told by Miss Linley, that if she married she could never love him. he abandoned his suit, and settled upon her the sum of three thousand pounds by way of compensation for any pain he might have caused her. The most ignobl.e of the band was a Captain Matthews. He was that most despicable of all creatures, a married rake. In order to gratify his passion for the fascinating singer, he was prepared to commit bigamy or adultery. It was Sheri- dan who at once thwarted his projects, and became possessor of the treasure for which so many had vainly sighed and striven. Under the pretext of shielding her from the base solicitations of a man she detested, Sheridan persuaded Miss Linley to elope with him. They escaped to France and were married. Even in this busy and common-sense age the conduct of the young man who should act as Sheridan then did would be the topic of many tongues, and the subject of news- paper articles. He would have succeeded in making himself a name. Whoever does this has taken the first step in gaining the favour of the public. It is equivalent to a letter of introduction. Whatever such an one may do next will assuredly be watched with interest by some persons. Nothing is more distasteful to the general public than the endeavour to enlist its sympathies on behalf of an nnknown person. He is looked upon with the aversion which the Romans manifested for a new man. The confessions of an avowed reprobate will be more widely read than the life of the philanthropist who does good by stealth. If these remarks have a direct application now, they are still more applicable to the period when Sheridan be- came the talk of the town. The interest excited by the first intelligence of his ad- venture was kept alive by the consequences which naturally flowed from it. In accord- ance with the barbarous custom of the time, Captain Matthews sought to avenge his de- feat by slaying his succes~fnl rival. Two duels were fought, but without fatal results. indeed, the dispute between the pair be- came changed hito a controversy as to the fairness which they had shown in their at- tempts to kill each other. This gave fresh matter for the newspapers, and hindered tIme scandal from being too soon for,otten. The end was that all parties ceased their recriminations, because Sheridan was too in- dolent to furnish fresh topics for controversy. His opponents having circulated reports reflecting on his honour, he requested Woodfall to publish them at length in the Morning Advertiser, as a preliminary to his refuting them in tietail. In compliance with his wish, the charges were printed and circulated. [Ic forgot to answer them! Excepting the sum of money he got with his wife, he had no pecuniary resource. Had he consented to his wifes singing in public lie would have gained an income from her professional labours which would have am- ply sufficed for all moderate demands. But he was chivmilrous, or, as some may think, Quixotic enough to hold that he would have been dishonoured had he trusted for an in- come to the exercise of his wifes splendid talents. By the thinking section of the public his conduct in th,s matter was de- servedly applauded. Under the circum- stances, he had no option between doing what he shi-ank from with loathing, and earning a living by means of his pen. In concert with his friend Halhed, he had al- ready made a venture as a man of letters. They had published a versified translation of the flowery prose of Aristrenetus, a Greek writer whose work hew had ever heard of, and fewer still had read. The translation met with the reception it merited: the wise critics styled it labour expended in vain; the foolish critics attributed it to Dr. John- son or Dr. Armstrong. Before making another attempt he tried many experiments which, fortunately for his fame, were not printed during his lifetime. Among these were essays like those of the Spectator; let- ters after the manner of Lord Chesterfield. Had he written fifty years earlier he would have persevered in essay writing: fifty years later he would have forwarded articles to the editor of the Edinburgh. As it was, he had the discernment to perceive, and the ability to gratify, the taste of the time. He composed The Rivals, and became famous. Sheridan was twenty-four years of age when. in 1775, this play was first performed at Covent Garden. The theatre-going public was then ready to welcome anything which was fresh as well as clever, The licence of Wycherley and Congreve was ito lender tolerated, but a substitute which should contain wit without alloy was not yet forthcoming. New plays were pro- duced nearly as frequently as new novels are now published; the result being that a good play was then as great a rarity as a really ood novel is at present. Besides, the audienees which then filled a theatre went to criticise quite as much as be amus- ed. The opinion of the pit was the terror of the young and inexperienced dramatist. There were few professional newspaper critics to puff the plays of their fm-iends and 103 104 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. censure those of their rivals. An audience ence were alike dissatisfied; but this feel- did not hesitate either to hiss what it dis- ing was exchanged for one of surprise and liked, or to applaud what pleased its fastid- plca-ure, when, a few months afterwards, ious taste. Injustice might sometimes be The School jbr Scandal was written and done to struggling merit; but hlatant in- put on the stage. The opinion now becanie capacity seldom escaped merited punish- general that in the author of that comedy meat. It may be a consequence of this, as England had acquired another great compared with the existing state of things, dramatist. It was believed that while he or simply a coincidence, that never was might write more comedies, he could not English acting bqtter than at the middle of po-sibly write any which should surpass the eighteenth and worse than at the mid- tho~e he had produced. This appeared to die of the nineteenth century. Even The be his own impression also. Although he Rivals narrowly escaped con(letnnation be- made sketches of others, yet he never com- cause, on the first night, an ator played his pleted them. His last theatrical venture part badly. When Mr. Clinch acted Sir of an original kind was The Critic, a farce Lucius OTrigger instead of Mr. Lee, the produced four years alter his first comedy. success of the come(ly was indubitable. It This farce at once became popular, and, was performed amid applause at Southamp- like the School for Scandal, is still hailed ton, Bristol, Bath, and cther places. At a with applause whenever competent actors bound, Sheridan had leapt into the first can be found to fill the principal parts. place among the favouriws of the puh- At the a~e of twenty-eight he ahandoned lic. the composition of plays, having within the He worked the rich vein with- assiduity, compass of four years produced three of re and had continued good fortune. A farce, markable excellen e. The Scheming Lieutenant, was receivcd with Two years after ceasing to compose for a favour transcending its merits. The the stage he took his seat in the house of Duenna, an English opera, created an en- Commons as a member for Stafford, and de- thusiasm which was duly earned. It r quit-- livered his maiden speech. From one whose ed all the skill and ener~y of Garrick to reputation for wt was so great, much was hinder Bury Lane from being wholly ne- expected, hut the result was unsatisfactory. glected for Covent Garden, the theatre of The (luller members reckoned on an addi- Sheridans triumphs. That great actor tion to their ranks. Mr. Thgby, a veteran had realised a large fortune by his profes- place-hunter, sneered at the new menihers sian; he had been a successful if not popu- fine sentiments. But Fox was ready with lar manager, but he was now growing old, a retort, which turned the laugh a~ ainst and he had made up his mind to retire Sheridans opponents, and not long after- from the stage. This determination on wards Sleridan attacked those who had at- Garricks part afforded Sheridan an oppor- tempted to put him to shame. His on- turtity of doing a bolder feat than a more slaught was so effective that their discomfi- cautious man would have even imagined. ture was complete. It was evident that he He undertook to succeed the retiring man- had the power to take high rank as an ager, and he contrived to find the money orator; he certainly spared no efforts to wherewith to pay for the honour. I-low ensure scccess, and the result was that this was acc( mplished is still uncertain, while still a young memher of the House, Of the fact there is no (loubt that little he was acknowledged to he one of its niost more than a year after his fist play had brilliant ornanients. In the year 1782 the been produced. and at an age when other men have barely fittished their training fur Whig party succeeded to office with the Marquis of Rockiugham as premier. Al- the business of life, and when he was poe- though Sheridan had been in the House two sessed of to more money than sufficed for years only, yet so highly did the party his daily wants, Sheridan became the man- value his services that he was appointed ager of Bury Lane Theatre with a per- an under Secretary of State. When the sonal stake in the property amountinc~ to Coalition Ministry was formed after Lord ten thousand pounds. Rockiughams death, Shet-idan again held At first the change in the mana~ement office. That he should have so quickly occasioned disappointment. Instead of he- won his way as a politician proves that he ginning his new career with an original was able to impress his friends with confi- comedy, Sheridan contented himself with dence in his abilities. Never, perh ps, purging Vanburghs play, The Relapse ot was confidence more misplaced. S& dom indecency, and chngitt~ the titl to A Trip has a more incompetent official, who was to Scarborough. The actors and the audi- neither a peet- nor a peers ~on, occupied a RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. responsible post in the State. One thing connected with his official duties attracted less notice then than it would do now, or rather the times have so changed as to render it no longer possible for any one to do again what Sheridandid: he was at once a Secretary to the Treasury and the manager in reality, though not in name, of Drury Lane Theatre. lie deserves the merit of having given open expression to a view respecting the manner in which the State ought to be served that is generally entertained by officials, but which none, excepting Sheridan, have had the frank- ness to avow, it consists in regarding the occupancy of a post to imply the receipt of pay combined with the absence of work. If other officials were courageous enough to brave public opinion, many would copy his example. and order the notice to be affixed to the doors of their offices which was placed on that of his: ~ No applications can be received here on Sundays, nor any business done here during the remainder of the week. * His enjoyment of the sweet~ of office was short-lived. The downfall of the Coalition Ministry was followed by the disruption of the Whig party. Twenty years elapsed before that party again returned to power for a brief season, to be followed by another lengthened exclusion from official influence over the conduct of public affairs. Mean- time, its chiefs, among whom Sheridan was one of the most popular, devoted themselves to criticising the acts of the Government, and endeavouring to oppose the undue as- cendancy of the Crown as exercised through the medium of councellors far too subservi- ent to the caprices of the sovereign and too indifferent about the welfare of their country- men. On a memorable occasion the opposing factions made common cause, and united to bring to the btr of justice one who in the estimation of many enlightened men was the greatest criminal of the a.~e. The im- peachment of Warren Hastings was an act of which the merit cannot easily be over rate]. Daring the latter p3rt of the eigh- teenth century there were plenty of great orators and astute statesasen. bat the dis- play of great virtues was then far rarer than the manifestation of grezit talents. On the part of the ablest politicians, and on the part of a large section of the co~nnunitY, there was too conspicuous a leanino- in fa- vour, of high-handed measures. N thing * Sheridans nottce ended with the word Sundaya. The remainder was added by a wicked wag. Liv. Age. was then so much admired as success. Among successful men, there were few to rival Loi-d Clive and Warren Hastings. They had extended the rule of Englishmen over countries of which the very names were synonymous with fabulous wealth and boundless extent. To have conquered the great rulers of India in the face of fearfbl odds was an achievement which gratified the nations pride. To have supplanted the French in a country where they had secured a footing~ and whereof thy promised to be- come the masters, was considered a nation- al triumph even more glorious than the con- quest of Indian soil from its hereditary pos- sessors. But to have done these things at no pecuniary sact-ifice; on the contrary, to have accomplished them, yet sent home treasure to add to the national wealth, was a feat which seemed so praiseworthy as to deserve unstinted honour instead of minute criticism and petty censure. A few men thought otherwise, men of truly noble minds, and loving justice more than glory. Foremost among them was Edmund Burke. He had perused the reci- tal of the splendid achievements with mis- givings as to their real character. When complaints were timidly made by the via- tims of Enclish policy, he gave to them his most serious attention, inquiring into their foundation and testing their truth. The result was to convince him that Englishmen had perpetrated great wrongs on the weak and defenceless natives of India; that the conquerors whose praises were sounded by so many tongues deserved to be stigmatised as freebooters and punished as tyrants. He devoted his energies an.t talents- to bring them to trial, in order that they might re- ceive their deserts. He communicated his ardour and determination to others endowed with less genius but possessing greater iiiflu- ence than hiiiself. The Liberal party in the House of Commons ranged itself on his side. The vehemence and the intense hatred of oppression which characterised Fox were easily enliste I in support of the good cause. Inferior men obeyed the bril- liant leaders of their party, and simulated their unbounded and uncompromising enthu- siasm. By none was the question espoused with greater cordiality than by Sheridan. He had the tact to perceive from the first that the opportunity afforded him a field for the display of his peculiar talents, a field wherein he could distinguish himself greatly, and widen his renown Many hours be snatched from pleasure in order to mtster his subject. All the rhetorical arts in whi h he was an adept were se lubusly cultivated 105 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. for the purpose of adorning and pointing his speeches. He was repaid with a measure of applause far exceeding what gratified auJiences had vet accorded to him, and by a personal triumph unparalleled in the an- nals of Parliament. William Pitt, his con- stant opponent, Burke, his countryman and rival, Fox, his acknowledged chief; cen- Cu rred in pronouncing his speech advocat- ing the impeachment of Warren Hastings to be the most marvellous piece of oratory they had ever heard in the House of Commons. Even more gratifying to his vanity and more unprecedented were the compliments lav- ished on his eloquence by the less notable members who had resolved to vote against him, and who had never before been moved by arguments when their side was bhosen. None of the friends and defenders of War- ren Hastings ventured to reply to his charges. They complained that, being under a spell, tbey were powerless to refute accusations which, till Sheridan had spoken, seemed to them alike baseless and unj ust. It was unanimously resolved that the de- bate should be adjourned till the following day, to allow time for reflection and to en- able the effect of the orators words to be partially dissipated before going to a divi- sion. If anything could add lustre to a victory like this, it was that which he gained on the same issue when Wari~en Hastings was af- terwards impeached by Edmund Burke in the name of the people of India and the Commons of England before the High Court of Parliament. Sheridans speech came after the most finished and impassion- ed Oration ever delivered by Burke, and enshrined in the English language. Con- temporaries are unanimous in thinking that it produced a.far stronger impression on the public than the more heart-felt utterances of the principal manager of the impeach- ment. Both were great orators, but Sheri- dan was also an admirable actor. He de- lighted in causing a sensation; he knew well how to move an audience. On this occasion his whole strength was put forth; the result was that he became the hero of the hour. Sheridan rendered himself quite as con- spicuous, but far less popular, by speeches of another kind in the House of Commons. He was there recognised as the official ad- vocate of the Prince of Wales. When that prince applied to the House for money wherewith to discharge his debts, his fa- vourite companion supported the applica- tion When one of his many scandalous acts had to be justified, Sheridan was ready with a plausible excuse. Fox and Burke unhappily took the same side, because they indulged in the fbolish expectation that the prince would thereby be enlisted among the Whigs. This notion led to the fatal blun- der of maintaining the princes right to suc- ceed to the regal office when his fathers mind had, in the opinion of the nation, be- come permanently disordered. Then it was that Pitt triumphed over them while assert- ing a doctrine which, whether strictly consti- tutional or the reverse, was an implied con- demnation of the notion of Divine Right, and was to the effect that the two Houses of Parliament, and they only, had the pow- er to provide for an unforeseen interruption in the exercise of the Royal authority. This question was debated in 1789. The sudden recovery of the king prevented the views of Pitt from being carried into effect, and also disappointed those members of the Whig party who had looked forward to be- coming ministers on the Prince of Wales being invested with regency. Soon after- wards, the Whig party was broken up. Its chiefs differed among themselves on the momentous issues raised by the French Revolution. Burke went over to the side of Pitt. For a time Fox and Sheridan stood forth as the defenders of popular pri v- ileges, approving of the right of the French people to select their own form of govern- ment. Bnt when Bonaparte led his victori- ous armies over Europe, Sheridan rallied to what was then regarded as the standard of patriotism. He favoured war with France, while Fox never ceased to express his desire for peace. Neither the people, nor their political leaders, were imbued with the spirit of Fox; consequently, the country was committed to that protracted and de- plorable contest which ended in replacing the Bourbons on the French throne, and in (Irawing upon England the bitter if unjustifi- able hatred of every nation with which she had been allied. The latter part of Sheridans career was characterised by isolation in the House of Commons, and severe private affliction. In 1792 he lost the wife whom he had strug- gled so hard to win, and to whose influence and labours he was indebted for much of his reputation. His friends and biographers represent his grief on the occasion to have been overwhelming. To employ the words of one of them, the four years succeeding the sad event were wasted in the vain efforts of dissipatin~ his mourning for the greatest domestic affliction the loss of a 106 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 107 wife and child, tenderly if not immoderate- withstanding its water tanks, and the cas- ly. loved. * This remark is introductory to~ cades powerful enough to drown the thea- the statement that, after being nearly Ibur I tre, Drury Lane was burnt to the ground years a widower, he married again. His on the 20th of February, 1810. 5eCOfl(l marriage took place in 1795; his Shortly after the opening of this ill-fated bride was a Miss Ogle, whose age was house, it was the scene of a demonstration nearly the same as that of his son Tom. which proved that an audience may he wis- At the time it was thought more wonderful er than the professed judges of dramatic that the lady should have consented to compositions. The most respected men in marry him, than that he had grown tired of the world of letters had openly given their his widowed state. He was then as notable testimony to the effect that a play entitled for his indulgence in the pleasures of the Vortigerrs had been written by Shakes- table as for his oratorical efforts. Dissipa- peare. Sheridan either placed reliance tion was legibly marked on his countenance. upon their judgment, or was himself de- He was considered to be a better boon com- ceiv~d by the forgery. He purchased the panion than a husband. spurious play for three hundred pounds and Prior to this marriage, he had succeeded~ a moiety of the profits during the first sixty in raising the funds necessary for re-build-~ nights of its performance. The house was ing Drury Lane Theatre. As is customary, crowded from floor to ceiling with an audi- the outlay exceeded the estimate, and thus! ence wrought up to a high pitch of excite- he was saddled with liabilities which he was ment. Before the third act had been per- not prepared to meet and had not intended formed, the audience was more excited to incur. The new building was opened on still this was owing, however, not to its the 21st of April, 1794. Macbeth was per-! expectations having been gratified, but to formed, Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble its taste being insulted by the foolish play filling the leading parts. The author of which Ireland had attempted to palm off as Sheridan and his Times states that on the production of Shakespeares pen. this night Edmund Kean, the great trage-~ The tide had now turned. Sheridans dian, then a mere boy of some eight years, latter days were marked alike by riotous made his first appearance on the boards as! living and irreparable blunders. In a pe- one of the blue-devils in the witches scene. cuniary sense, the destruction of Drury Miss Farren delivered an address. What Lane Theatre by fire was his ruin. In a pleased the audience the most was the ex- political sense, the ahandonment of his seat hibition of the devices for securing the thea- for Stafford, in order to occupy for a few tre against fire. A massive iron curtain months the place of Fox as member for was lowered, and struck with heavy ham- Westminster, was his crownin~ misfortune. mers, in order to prove that it was some- He intrigued against his party in the inter- thing more than stage iron, which, by its est of the god of his idolatry, the profligate clang, reverberated through the house, Prince of Wales, and he caused that party mingling with the uploarious clamour of a to be excluded from the offices to which its delighted audience. On its being raised, members had a just claim. The proprietors another burst of applause rang from every of Drury Lane refused to let him have any quarter on the exhibition of a cascade of voice in its affairs. His creditors cast him water rushing down from tanks with which into prison. He was released after a brief the roof had been supplied, roaring into a detention; but be regarded himself as a huge basin prepared for its reception; dash- dishonoured man. Hard drinking had Ing, splashing, tumbling over artificial rocks, shattered his constitution: harassing cares but bearing no doubt of its own reality, and preyed on his mind, and made him a physi- clearly showing that in such an awful event cal and mental wreck. At the age of as that of fire, they could not only extin- sixty-five death released him from his trials guish the fiaffie upon tI e instant, from what- and sorrows. The tragedy was followedhy ever quarter it could originate, but actually a solemn farce. Abandoned in the days of drown the theatre. The writer of the his adversity by the noble associates who foregoing passage, who professes to have had welcomed him when fortune attended been the personal friend of Sheridan, was his footsteps, these distinguished persons doubtless a witness of the spectacle he de- professed a great desire to attend his funer- scribes. Unfortunately, his anticipations al. The chief officers of state, princes of about the efficacy of the precautions against the blood royal, dukes, marquises, earls, vis- fire were not justified by the event. Not- counts, a prelate of the church, the whole tribe of the haughty and highly-placed per (*) Sheridan and his Times, vol. ii. ~. 233. sonages who are ever ready to grace a RICHARD JIRINSLEY SHERIDAN. pageant with their presence, and to do good deeds with ostentation yet without self-sacrifice, aided in laying all that was mortal of Sheridan beneath the pavement of Westminster Abbey. II. Sheridan wrote, as he lived, for the sake of effect. He aimed at conqucrintz a place in literature as he aimed at becoming the friend of princes and nobles. What other men have done by inspiration he accom- plished by energy. Although not a man of great industry, yet he could work with un- exampled perseverance till his object was attained. Genius he did not possess. There are no conspicuous failures alterna~ing with successes to be laid to his charge. He had the talent for compassing his ends, and the sense to knov the exact measure of his power. In his cleverness he resembles Dry- den; Sheridan might have written what- ever Dry den wrote, excepting the Ode to St. Cecilia. In sev~raI respects there is a close resem- blance between Dryden and Sheridan. Both were politicians as well as J)laywrights. Both coveted the title of wits, and both oh- timed it. As dramatist neither displayed origina1ity. for Dryden copied French, while Sheridan as carefully copied English mod- els. E~ich succeeded, however, in being recogoised as a master of style. Even now there is no better example of easy, idiomat- ic, and forcible style than that of Dryden, while Sheridans writings are the best spe- cimens we have of the most expressive words arranged in the most effective order. But in the case of Sheridan far more than in that of Dryden, the culture of the form has been carried to excess. Like the pictures of some pre-Raphaelite artists, his scenes are all foreground. His mistresses and maids not only go mad in corresponding ap- parel, but in identical phrase. The valet is not only as witty as his master: his witti- cisms are cast in the same mould. In his first play the faults are the same as those which characterise his more finished ones. Thomas, a coachman, and Fag, the servant to Captain Absolute, converse in a strain which, however it may have suited the taste of the day, seems to us absurd and ar- tificial. Replying to the inquiry of the for- mer, the latter says, Why, then, the cause of all this is love love, Thomas, who (as you may get read to you) has been a mas- querader ever since the days of Jupiter. When not indulging in allusions which no one would expect I~im to make, Fag indulges in exaggeration of the most artificial kind, saying of Miss Lydia Lan- guish, Rich! why, I believe she owes half the stocks! Zounds! Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easily as I could pay my washerwoman! She has a lap- dog that eats out of gold; she feeds her parrot with small pearls; and allher thread- papers are ma(le of bank-notes. To his master, Fag uses the same style. Captain Absolute having said, You blockhead, never say more than is necessary, the reply is, I beg pardon, sir I beg pardon but, with submission, a lie is nothing unless one supports it. Sir, whenever I draw on my invention for a good current lie, I always forge endorsements as well as the bill. Not to be outdone, his master replies in the same strain, Well, take care you (lOnt hurt your credit by offering too much security. Sir Lucius OTrigger says far-fetched things also. Thus, when commenting ot the style of Mrs. Malaprops ridiculous letter, he remarks, Faith, she must be very deep read to write this way though she is rather an arbitrary writer, too, for here are a great many poor words press- e(l into the service of this note, that would get their habeas corpus from any court in Christendom. Acres is not only remark- able for his peculiar oaths and his lack of courage, but for sayings like these: Your words are a grenadiers march to my heart; The thunder of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in my breast. His servant David is depicted as a clown, yet lie talks with the point of a fine gentleman; But my honour, David, my honour! I must be very careful of my honour. Ab, by th~i mass! And I would be very careful of it; and I think, in re- turn, my honour couldnt do less than to be very careful of me. Think what it would be to disgrace my ancestors! Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing them, is to keep as long as you can out of their company. Lookee now, master, to go to them in such haste with an ounce of lead in your brains I should think might as well be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of folks ; but they are the last people I should choose to have a visiting acquaintance with. The female characters are as artificial as the male. Mrs. Malaprop, Lydia Languish, and Jahia, are women whom we could not find off the stage. Most unnatural of all is the senti- mentality of Julia. It has a mawkish flavour which is (lisgutting. The concluding sentences are as forced and silly as the rant about filial piety in his famous speech. 108 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Lydia exclaims, Our happiness is now as unalloyed as general. Julia adds, Then let us study to preserve it so; and while hope pictures to us a flattering scene of future bliss, let us deny its pencil those col- ours which are too bright to be lasting. When hearts deserving happiness would unite their fortunes, Virtue would crown them with an unfading garland of modest, hurtless flowers; but ill-judging Passion will force the gaudier rose into the wreath, whose thorn offends them when its leaves are dropped. Had there been nothing but this stuff in The Rivals, it is doubtful if any audience of the period at which it was pro- duced would have applauded the piece. What gives life to it is the humour of Sir Anthony Absolute, and the broard farce of Acres and Sir Lucius OTrigiuer. But it had, as all Sheridans plays have, the great merit of being a good acting play. He at once caught the knack of writing for the stage. He had an almost intuitive percep- tion of the best way in which to produce effects. Horace Walpole bears witness to the wonderful impression made by seeing his plays, and contrasts it with that experi- enced after perusing them. I have read Sheridans Critic, but not having seen it for they say it is admirably acted it ap- peared wondrously flat and old, and a poor imitation; it makes me fear I shall not be so much charmed with The School for Scan- dal on reading, as I was when I saw it. * When read, The School for Scandal fa- tigues by its brilliancy. The effect on the mInd resembles that made on the eye by a mirror shown in the International Exhibition of 1862. This mirror was composed of nu- merous prisms ranged side by side. There is no prettier sight than the rays of light refracted by a prism. But the spectacle, to be appreciated, must be witnessed on a small scale and for a short time. A room lined with huge mirrors formed of clusters of prisa3s would be unbearable to any one but the Turkish potentate, for whom simi- lar mirrors were designed and manufactured. To those whose tastes are vitiated, the per- petual sparkle of The Shool for Scandal will give unalloyed deii~ht. All whose tastes are natural and acute are soon cloved with its beauties. As a whole, The Critic is Sheridans hap- piest dramatic work. He was essentially a critic, quick to detect imposture, and capa- ble of exposing and punishing it. And in this farce he had full scope for the exercise of his talents. He can claim no credit for * Correspondence, edited by P. Cunningham, ori~inating the plan on which it is framed, as it is modelled on The Rehearsal. The greater is his merit in having succeeded as he has done, because, excepting in the form, The Critic differs from any work of the kind ever conceived and executed. The character of Puff is one of the most fin- ished and truthful which Sheridan has created. He is as life-like now as when he first amused the audience of Drury Lane. When reading The Rehearsal, no one can forget that Bayes is the counterpart of Dryden, or can regard the play as other than an elaborate lampoon. But Puff is as impersonal, yet natural, as Falstaff. Lie makes us laugh by the ahsurdity of his com- ments; still we always feel that his remarks are those which the author of such a tragedy as The Spanish Armada would have made. It is impossible to believe in Joseph Surface~, or to regard his luckier brother Charles as a praiseworthy hero. Joseph is too conscious of his villany: when he says, in reply to Lady Teazles reproach, You are going to be moral, and forget that you are among friends, Egad, thats true! Ill keep that sentiment till I see Sir Peter, we know he is acting a part. Again, when he moralises in this fashion, we feel that is not the true rogue whoni Sheridan would have us take him for, because a genuine rogue dissembles even to himself: A curious dilemma, truly, my politics have run me into! I wanted, at first only to ingratiate myself with Lady Teazle, that she might not be my enemy with Maria; and I have, 1 dont know how, become her serious lover. Sincerely I b~- gin to wish I had never made such a point of gaining so very good a character, for it has led me into so many cursed rogueries, that I doubt I shall be exposed at last. Now, the last thing for which Joseph Sur- face ou~,ht to have professed his dread was ignominious failure. his plausibility is based on self-assurance, and the thought of being exposed would have rendered him in- capable of being always prepared I r every emergency. A true 411am always believes in his star. Puff, on the other hand, is serenely uliconscious of being the object of ridicule. To the hits of Mr. Sneer he has an answer ready which lie thinks effec- tive, because he does iiot perceive that he is being ridiculed. He never doubts that the rubbish uttered by the players is really fine poetry. He is alwa~ s ready with an ingeni- ous explanation of any alleged mistake. What can be cleverer or more natural in his mouth than the following. In the dia- logue between the Justice and the Consta- ble, Mr. Sneer having said, But, Mr. Puff, 109 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. I thin1~ not only the justice, but the clown seems to talk in as high a style as the first hero among them, the reply is, Heaven forbid that they should not, in a free coun- try! Sir, I am not for making slavish dis- tinctions, and giving all the fine language to the upper sort of people. Equally ~good in its way is his comment on the resem- blance between the first line of the Beef- eaters soliloquy and one in Othello. Sneer says, Havent I beard that line before ? Puff replies, No, I fancy not; where, pray? Mr. Dangle suggests, Yes, I think there is something like it in Othello. Gad! now you put me in mind ont, I be- lieve there is; but thats of no consequence; all that can be said is, that two people hap- pened tf hit on the same thoughtand Shakespeare made use of it first, thats all. As literary works, Sheridans plays no longer seem the paragons of excellence they once did; nevertheless, when well act- ed, they still charm playgoers as greatly as of 01(1. That they are laboured and artificial is of little consequence : a theatrical audience does not expect natural truth on the stage. What it desires and delights in are smart dialogues and good plots, and these set forth by good performers. A modern English audience alsc~ expects sound morality. Jo- seph Surface, the consummate hypocrite, must be punished. Lady Teazle must be more sinned against than sinning. Wit must be untainted with lewdness. Provid- ed these conditions are fulfilled, the public will applaud the performance. The public of to-day is still the same as that for which Sheridan write, a public in which the middle class has the preponderatin~ voice. Prior to his day, the theatre had not wholly recovered from the ban of the Common- wealth. Ladies and gentlemen of quality and their lackeys formed the audience: the shopkeeper and the artisan were disposed to regard theatre-going as the beginning of evil. Accordingly, play-writers had to please the taste of an audience which preferred vice to puritanism. Cougreve, XVycherley, and Vanburgh supplied the sort of play for which the demand was ttreat and the relish keen. It would be as impossible to represent their comedies before modern audiences as to revive the old mira- cle plays. A section of the audience would be gratified, for there is still a section of society which takes pleasure in the filth which amused the courtiers of Charles the Second and fine ~entlernen in the time of Queen Anne. When these persons go to parts of the Continent where the pursuit of Vice is the only employment with which the Government does not interfere, they purposely frequent the theatre in order to witness the plays of which the characteristic is indecency. Without being more virtuous in reality, the class of play-goers which, in our day, as in that of Sheridan, constitutes the majority, likes to save appearances, and discountenances the public exhibition or sanction of profligacy. This class had begun to frequent the theatre when he wrote. He strove to hit its taste, and he succeeded, because he carefully avoided the style which, had he lived half a century earlier, he might have adopted. Fortunate- ly for his fame as a dramatist, the style which suited his age could only beconie antiquated when anol her revolution had taken place in the constitutions of theatri- cal audiences. It may be that the change is in progress, and that even the printed dialogue of Sheridan will fall flat on ears accustomed to verbal absurdities, and that a farce like The Critic, wherein character is depicted, will be thought far inferior as a work of art to a burlesque containing masked actors and half-naked actresses. Even greater than his success as a dram- atist, was his success as an orator: the fbrmer is more intelligible than the latter. It appears inexplicable how Sheridan could ever have been ranked among the first of orators by such men as Pitt, Fox, and Burke. By contemporaries he was regard- ed as without an equal. Naturally, it is expected that speeches which aroused such enthusiasm and elicited so many weighty encomiums should appear on perusal to be exceptionally clever prod uctions. Not only do they disappoint the most moderate ex- pectation, but the passages which produced the greatest impression on delivery are among the tamest, if not the weakest, in the speeches. Many who read them will marvel exceedingly that they should have been delivered in the House of Commons. It is true that a more critical body does not exist than the members of that House, but it is also true that a tribunal more indulgent to its favourites could hardly be found. The man who has the ear of the House may talk nonsense with impunity: possibly he will be applauded. But to attain this high position is even more difficult than to get admission among its members. A great fool or a great genius has an equal chance of success The former will be listened to because of his folly. and the latter because of his Wishes of wisdom. In the House, as in olden times at court, the jester is privi- leged, and may say thiocs which men, possessing self-respect and devoid of conceit, 110 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. would never dare to utter. The man of acknowledged capacity is also a chartered speaker: unlike the other, he is a leader instead of a plaything. Sheridan had the good fortune to conquer for himself the position of chieftain in debate. His friends were lad of his support: his opponents dreaded his sarcasm. All united in listen- ing to him with respect. Finding then that he might say unchecked whatever he pleas- ed, he often indulged to the full his taste for florid orname.t and forced conceits. These exhibitions came to be regarded as flights oteloquence, an] men praised in the veteran debater passages which they would have denounced had they proceeded from a tyro. Nothing prepares the public better for being pleased with an orator than the unanimous and favourable testimony of rec- ognised j ud,,es. After such a preparation, the public heard him deliver his most famous speech, that on the impeachment of llastidgs, and its approbation was unbound- ed. Some of the passages which we are wont to regard as unmitigated bombast were singled out by contemporaries as excelling anything ever achieved in the annas of oratory. Immediately after his decease, his speech- were given to the world in a c Qllected form, under the editorship of a Constitutional Friend. The editor says in the pref- ace: No exertion has been spared to collect and arrange accurate accounts of every speech de- livered by the late Mr. Sheridan; and those efforts proving successful, it may boldly be as- serted that pages more ahounding with brilliant wit, depth, solidity, and sound argument, have never been presen ted to the public. Many of these speeches have been candidly admitted, by all parties, to exhibit every oratorical effect the human mind is capable of suggesting. From this collection extracts have been taken, in order to be placed before youths for their instruction in oratorical effects. The impression made on this generation by Sheridan as an orator has been caused by the perusal of that edition of his speech- es. It will materially affect the decision as to his powers of oratory, if it be shown that the accepted report of his speeches is not only defective, but wholly misleading. This can be proved, with recard to his most important effoet: it may be inferred of the others. In 1859 there was published an almost verbatim report of the speeches of the managers and counsel at the trial of Warren Hastings. The late Sir George Cornewall Lewis advised this publication as soon as he was informed that copies of the speeches, taken in shorthand, had been preserved. Moore says, in his Life of Sheridan, that he had in his possession an authentic report of the Begum speech. He gives some extracts from it; but till this official work appeared, it was impossible to compare what the vari- ous speakers did say with what they are cred- ited with saying. A few specimens will suffice to show the nature of the changes, and these specimens may be taken as fair sam- ples of the whole. The report of the Begum speech in the collected work does not profess to he literal. A great portion is in the third person : it is detached passages only which are in the first person, and are placed within inverted com- mas to show that they are literally accurate. It is these passages alone which will now be selected for comparison. The first verbatim passage occurs in the introductory remarks : The unfortunate gentleman at the bar is no mighty object in my mind. Amidst the series of misehiefa to my sense, seeming to sur- round him, what is he but a petty Nucleus, in- volved in its Laaina, scarcely seen or thought of. * Be it remarked that in all these extracts the words in italics are so printed in the original. This was doubtless done to call attention to a phrase or epithet supposed to be of great beauty or fitness. It will be ob- served, however, that the most nonsensical words or clauses are those italicised. The following is the parallel passage to that just quoted, and it contains nothing about a Nu- cleus or a Lausina. So far from it, that the unfortunate gentle- man at your bar is scarcely in my contempla- tion when my mind is most engaged in this busiess; that it then holds hut two ideas a sincere abhorrence of the crimes and a sanguine hope of the remedy. t The next passage is remarkable as exem- plifying the utter nonsense which was first put into sheridans mouth and then eulo- gised as his rhetoric : It is not the peering suspicion of appre- bending guilt; it is not any popular abhorrence of its wide-spread consequences ; it is net the secret consciousness in the boson~m of the judge, which can excite the vengeance of the law, and authorise its infliction! No. In this good * Shertdans Speeehes,vol. it. p. 36. Report of the Trtal of Warren Hastings, vol. 1. p.483. 111 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHII~RIDAN. land, as high as it is happy, because as just as it is free, all is definite, equitable, and exact. The laws mu-;t he satisfied before infliction en- sues. And ere a hair of the head can be plucked, LEGAL GUILT must be established by LEGAL PROOF. * The accurate report is far less sensational than the foregoing, and has the advantage of being intelligible No, my Lords; we know well that it is the glory of this Constitution that not the general fame or character of any man not the weight or power of any prosecutors no plea of moral or political expediency not even the secret consciousness of guilt which may live in the bosom of the judge can justify any British court in passin,, any sentence, to touch a hair of the head or an atom in any respect of the property, of the fame, of the liberty, of the poorest or meanest subject that breathes the air of this just and free laud. We know, my Lords, that there can be no legal guilt without letal proof; that the rule which defines the evidence is as much the law of the land as that ~vhich creates the crime. It is upon that ground that we mean to stanil. t In the following passage it will be ob- served that the reporter has not merely made Sheridan talk balderdash, but has made him say the opposite to what he actu- ally stated. It is necessary to quote the paragraph in full in order to prove this, the first sentence not being within inverted commas in the original: But though he stated the difficulties which the mana,,ers had to encounter, he did not mean to say that the proofs, which they had adduced, were in any degree defective. Weak, no doubt, in some parts, and incompetent, and yet more deplorable, as undistingubhed by any compunctious visitings of repenting accomplices, hut yet enough, and enough in sure validity, to abash the front of guilt no longer hid, and flash conviction oi corHcientioa~ jnd~es. t Havio~ said this, I think it extremely pos- sible that your Lordships may imagine that I am begging indulgence and allowance for weak ned inconpetent evidence. No, my Lords, I will be bold to say that there is now before you, upon this charge, a mass of full, complete, competent evidence strong as ever abashed the confidenee of courageous guilt, or brought conviction home to tie hearts of conscientious judges. It would be wearisome to quote all the passages illustrative of the imperfections of the published version of this speech. The * Speeches, vol. ii. pp. 59, 60. t Raport, vol. i. p. 486. ~ Speeches, vol. ii. p. 60. ~ Re port, vol. i. p. 487. -~ reporter frequently gives the very words useil by Sheridan, but he slightly alters their appropriateness by changing their places. Sometimes a page or two of the official report intervenes between the two members of a sentence as given in the speeches. Phrases are tacked together with little regard to symmetry or sense. Very often there are improvements due to the re- porters imagination, and perhaps introduced by him in the belief that they were in Sheridans manner. The latter having said of a native officer who had made the affidavits : I imagine your Lordships will now again think we have done with Doond Sin~r. No such thins. Here he is again, the third time, swearing before Elijah Imbey. But he is not to be trusted by himself, he is a bad one siurle- handed; and, as it was a military duty. he is coupled with somebody else he is joined with Mir Ahmud Au, subadar; and at la~t he hits the mark. In this passage there is nothing remarka- ble; the reporter removes all tameness from his version by introducing some fine military metaphors. These are his im- provements : He had sworn once then again and made nothing of it ; then comes he with an- other, and swears a third mime ; and in company does better. Sinqle-hoided he can do notbin~, but succeeds by plotooe-swearing and volleys of oat/is. One passage merits quotation on account of the different turn given to the incidents referred to in it. Speaking of the rebellion with which the Begutus were charged, Sheridan said he could find no trace of it : The best antiquarian in our Society would be, after all, never the wiser! Let him look where lee would, where can lie find any vestige of battle, or a single blow l In this rebellion there is no soldier, neither horse nor foot not a man is known fighting no office order sur- vives, not an express is to be seen. His Great Rebellion as notorious as our Forty;five, passed away unnatural, but not raging beqsnnvnq in not/linq, and ending, no doubt, just as it be- gan! If rebellion, my Lords, can thus engender unseen, it is time for us to look about. What hitherto has been dramatic may become listori- cal; Knightsbridge may at this moment be in- vested ; and all that is left us, nuthin,, but the fo horn hope of being dealt with according to the statue, by the sound of the Riot Act, and the sight, if it can be, of another Elijah. * * Speee1mes,~vol. ii. pp. 80, 81. 112 RICHARD BRkNSLEY SHERIDAN. With regardto the first charge, which is a charge of direct, actual rebellion, I do protest that, in order to satisfy my own mind as much as I could, I have been hunting, with al the industry at least, though not with the acuteness, of any antiquarian that ever belonged to the Antiquaries Society, to find at what period this rebellion actually existed, and I have not found any one thing to guide me to the period of its existence. There never was a rebellion so concealed. We asked Mr. Middleton wheth- er any battle was fought anywhere l None, he owns, that ever be heard of. Did any one man, horse or foot, march to suppress this re- bellion l None. Did you ever hear any orders given for any troops to march to sup- ply it l None. The rebellion seems clearly to have died a natural death, though raised cer- tainlv for a most unnatural object. But if this rebellion really did exist, it is impossible to treat the idea seriously; and it mnst have been a merry scene when Mr. Hastings first con- ceived the strange improbable fictiouwben he first entertained the i(lea of persuading the directors that they had entered into such a plot. It is impossible to know when and where there may not be a rebellion. While we are sitting here there may be a rebellion at Knightsbridge of the most fatal tendency that ever was; for the cele- brated account of that army which has given celebrity to that village was an ostentations of pomp and military parade com- pared to that with which this was conduct- ed * cies between the two reports of the speech- es, this exposition of blunders will termi- nate. Referring to Captain Gordon, Sheridan is made to say it was difficult to imagine any man could tell a benefac- tor The breath that I now draw, next to heav- en, I owe to you; my existence is an emana- tion from your bounty; I am indebted to you beyond all possihi itv of return; and therefore my gretitude shall heyour destruction. What he did say was: If he was so deluded, he may explain that delusion to your Lordships; hut till that time I will, not believe that Captain Gordon who said to the Begums, The welfare of your ser- vant is entirely owing to your favour and be- nevolence, meant to say, and the gratitude of your servant shall be your destruction. As this speech and the one in reply at the close of the impeachment are the only two by Sheridan of which verbatim reports are extant, it is fair to make them the basis of a judgment concerning his rank as an orator. The foregoing extracts prove that much of the bombast in the ordinary ver- sion is due to the reporters imagination, but there is still a large mass of rhetorical common-place in the trustworthy report. A comparison of the foregoing extracts In the latter we read the very words which proves how very different Sheridans points are said to have made Burke exclaim, were from his reportets notion of what There, that is the true style; something they ought to have been. There is real between poetry and prose, and better than cleverness in the way that he makes Mr. either. Those who now read them will Middleton bear witness to the absurdity of a ree with the dictum of Fox that such a his own allegations. The nonsense about mixture was for the advantage of neither; the rebellion beginning in nothing, engen- as producing poetic prose, or, still worse, dering unseen, and the forlorn hope of be- prosaic poetry. Indeed, there is an artifi- ing dealt with by the sound of the Riot ciality about these passages which detracts Act, and the sighf, if it can be, of another from their effect. They have the appear- Elijah, is the reporter~s own unadulterated ance of being laboured. Sheridan was not nonsense. It is greatly to be regretted able to polish them so artistically as to con- that so many persons should have enter- ceal his art. Few could excel him at an tamed the conviction that Sheridan ever epigram, or more successfully barb a phrase uttered all the stuff which is contained in with satre. To do this perfectly was his the generally accepted version of his special gift, as it was the gift of Rochefou- speeches. The better known and much cauld to write maxims. It is probable that admired piece of declamation about filial had Rouchefoucauld endeavoured to cope piety, as well as the peroration, have been with Bossuet as a writer of funeral orations, greatly distorted by mis-reporting. In he would have failed as egregiously as Sher- Moores Life of Sheridan the correct ver- idan did when he tried to out-do Burke in sions are quoted, so that it is unnecessary his own particular field of figurative rhet- to insert them here. But, did space permit, one, and impassioned declamation. it would be instructive to exhibit the little- The best thing in this speech, as in all known but correct version alongside of the Sheridans speeches, is not its rhetoric, but well-known and absurd one. With another, its common-sense. With a thorough mas- and that a short example of the discrepan- tery of the subject, and a marvellous adam tation of the materials to produce the de * Report, voL. i. p. 579. LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 220. 113 114 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. sired result, he stated the case with a fulness the deplorable perversion 6f the speakers and clearness which a professional advocate utterances of which the incompetent re- would have envied. As a one-sided yet porter is guilty. It detracts from Sheridans comprehensive exposition of the question at renown and diminishes the value of his issue, the Begum speech is noteworthy work that, excepting a few witticisms of among great orations. None of the mana- doubtful authenticity and doubtful value, grs of the impeachment could have done he uttered but one phrase which sank into the work better: perhaps Burke himself mens minds and was added to the stock of would not have done it so well. Had the parliamentary wisdoni. That phrase, how- purely ornamental passages been omitted, ever, is a glorious one, and though it has it would still have deen a splendid address. not been attributed to Sheridan, yet to him The condemnation of. these passages is that the merit of originating it belongs. In they add neither beauty nor symmetry to the debate on a motion by Mr. Gray, re- the speech as a whole. garding reform, he said that man was not To estimate a mans powers as an orator born to have property in man. after perusing the most accurately reported speech is a fruitless task. It is necessary to have heard as well as read the speech in iii. order to criticise its author. As a piece of composition the performance may be admi- rable, but it is merely as an essay that it is judged. It may read well: in opposition to Fox, I maintain that a good speech must read well. Yet, when printed, half its spirit has departed. The voice, the gesture, the personal appearance of the orator, give a force to his utterance, the effect of which no reader of it can experience or conceive, but of which every listener has felt the in- fluence. Take the finest of Mr. Gladstones. budget speeches, or any one of Mr. Brights splendid appeals to the noblest feelings of human nature, and endeavour to obtain from a perusal of them a notion of the pre- cise effect they would produce on delivery. Why, the attempt will be vain. Sayings, common-place in themselves, will electrify an assembly while they may be passed over almost unnoticed by the reader. There is no magic in these words: America, they tell me, has resisted I rejoice to hear it; but proceeding from the lips of the haughty Chatham, they produced a ferment in the House of Lords. It is, then, the personal element which is the chief attribute of an orator, and it is the element which is want- ing from the printed speoch while it domi- nates the spoken one. We are assured that Sheridan was marvellously endowed with this personal element, that he was listened to because it was a debght to hear him give utterance to his thoughts. He did not speak beautiful essays like his great con- temporary Burke, or our great contempora- ry, the late Lord Macaulay. His fame as an orator, like the fame of Bolingbroke and Chatham, is based on tradition. More for- tunate than either, two of his speeches have been rescued from the oblivion which awaits the speaker when no reporter is presetit to record his thoughts, and from Many who admit that Sheridan (lid much which is excellent lament that he uiisemplny- ed opportunities which would have enabled him to render far more lasting and valuable service to literature an(l to his country. They bemoan the irregularities of his life, and charge him with squandering his money and injuring his health by vicious indulgences. His biographers have put on recdrd many strange stories about him, and other stories equally discreditable bit less trustworthy pass current in society. Such tales always find ready credence among the lovers of lit- erary garbage. The maxim, S iy nothing but good about the dead, is generally inter- preted to mean, Invent or discover as many good stories as possible concerning the dead, and, if e good stories are nasty, so much the better. That the actual facts should be set forth is most desirable; but that gratui- tons and probably false inferenees should be drawn from them is highly blameworthy. Biographers, however, ar~ always so anxious to prove theories or point morals, that they are prone to give prominence to that side or those truths only which will serve their pur- pose. From this tendency on their part Sheridan has suffered greatly. Mcny things in his life give a handle for morahising. or a pretext for vile imputatiois. Other things afford occasion for comments of an opposite kind and equally discreditable to those who make them. On the one hand, it is assumed that because he drank and spent tco much, he cannot have been a great dramatist or orator. On the other, it is held that beenuse he made good jokes there was no harm in his leading a free life and making his credi- tors sigh for their money. The Hon. Mrs. Norton, in her natural and laudable desire to protest against the injustice done to his memory, has advanced a plea on his behalf THE TABLE D HOTE. 115 which ought never to have been seriously ish to look for the advent of a second Sheridan mooted. She says that Sheridan was drunk as of a second Shakspeare. His position as his companions were drunk, and with his among orators who have had extraordinary drunken companions with a drunken triumphs is a lofty one; yet his rhetoric~tl Prince Royal and the drunken Ministers of merits cannot be ascertained from his pub- the Crown but there can be little doubt lished speeches. These speeches deserve that the more finally organised the brain, perusal to satisfy curiosity, but they should the more fatal the conmequences of such swi- never be studied as models. His oratorical ish excitement. * Now, it is very doubtful renown is simply a tradition ; it is a tradition, wheth~r the man whose brain is finely or- however, which will not soon perish, for it ganised, if he indulges in stimulants to excess, will endure so long as the represntatives of really suffers greater physical injury than the Commons of England remember those his less gifted brother. If the bodily health who were once the heroes of their debates, be the same in both cases, the results will be and so long as Englishmen cherish the mem- similar. It is said that Sheridans constitution ones of all the valiant champions of their was unusually robust, that he hardly knew liberties and their rights. W. F. RAE. what illness was, consequently the result in his case could not have been unusually fatal. Nor is it an apology for him that other men ______ did likewise. The truth is that his faults and his excellences were chiefly due to the age in which he lived. Because he was a notable man he reflected in his person and From the Economist. works the peculiarities characteristic of this THE TABLE DHOTE. country during the latter half of the eigh- teenth century. Were he alive now, he THE distinguishing feature of the English- would dripk less claret: he would write ar- man abroad is his hatred of every other tides instead of comedies, and he might not Englishman. He will travel any distance, aspire to manage Drury Lane Theatre. His or be at any expense, in order to avoid his speeches in Parliament would be quite as countrymen. Tolerable fishing and good powerful without being at all flowery; they scenery have their attractions; a noted would contain more sarcasms than tropes. gaming-table or a celebrated mineral sprino To be the boon companion of the Prince of is occasionally taken into consideration Wales would not appear to him the greatest but that country, town, or village eclipses object of his ambition His reputation all its rivals which can say There are no might be as widespread, but his career would English to be found here. When the mem- be less romantic. It may be lett to the high- bers of one English family observe the toned moralist to bespatter Sheridans actual members of another English family come life with unsavoury epithets. The critics on board the steamer in which they are al- duty is neither so invidious nor so easily ready seated, they stare at the new-comers discharged. He has to deal with the man as if the latter were guilty of a gross imper- as a whole; to analyse, without bias or regard tinence, or they smile in contempt when for consequences, his life and his writings, they hear English spoken, or they say, with Whateverjudgment he passes must be based a well-imitated shrug, You cannot escape on the entire case, but it must relate more the English tourist, wherever you go. to the writings which survive than to the What particular traits decide that a man is man who has departed. To the present no longer a man but a tourist, have not as generation it is important to know whether yet been specified; but it is certain that Sheridans comedies and speeches are mas- every English person abroad refuses to con- terly productions, whether they are ani- sider himself an ordinary tourist, but con- mated with the vital spark which will render siders every other English person abroad them immortal, whether they will give as an ordinary tourist. This vague impres- much pleasure to those who now or who sion or feeling becomes at no time so pro- may hereafter read them as to the audiences nounced as during dinner; when Nature which first hailed them with rapturous ap- herself, appealing to our strongest instincts, plause. His place in literature is in the shatters the frail restrictions which art, or second rank, but in that rank he has no su- civilization, or society would impose, and penior. The historian of the English drama insists on these mutually repugnant persons will chronicle him as the last great writer of sitting down at the one tabie. The table English comedy, and will consider it as fool- t dh6te is the apostle of humanity. Dinner * Afaemillaas Magazine, vol. iii. ~. 176. is that touch of nature which, in foreign 116 parts, especially, makes the whole world kin. With three-fourths of the people who go abroad because they ought to go abroad, who stare listlessly at big rocks and try to consider them scenery, who walk through cathedrals and wonder why they should smell so badly, who, on the whole, are rath- er sick of the picturesque, all the interest, and excitement, and romance of travelling centre upon the table dhOte. The guide- books may talk hectic rhapsody about this or the other useless fall of water over some bill-side; ones companions may display an unaccountable interest in seeking out the birth-place of some one who died five hun- dred years ago (if he ever lived); it may be necessary, for courtesys sake, to accom- ~any ones friends up a sloppy ravine, or along a dusty road, or over a bare hill, in order to see a view which about equals that of the Thames from Greenwich or Primrose Hill from Regents Park; but these hard- ships may be borne with equanimity when the mind is allowed to rest with secret de- light on the prospect of dinner. Then all the social hypocrisies of travelling are dis- missed. Then the critical and gossipping faculties come into play. Then one meets ones enemies face to face, and the secrets of incomplete wardrobes are discovered. To go mooning after waterfalls and moun- tains, or gazing at a picturesque peasantry not one of whom can speak a word of Eng- lish, is vexatious, harassing, and tiresome; at the table dh6te our ingenious traveller finds herself or himself once more in Eng- land. The table dh6te, occupying this promi- nent po~ition in foreign travelling, has nat- urally become an object of much study on the part of those worthy Britons who find in it their only refuge from the insipidities of the picturesque. The old hands soon get to know the difference between the one oclock, five oclock, and seven oclock din- ners. At the one oclock dinner, as they speedily discover, neither cooks nor waiters have as yet been aroused from the lethargy produced by the previous days labour while for companions at table they find a number of boarding-school misses with large appetites, depraved Frenchmen who make the meal their breakfast, and trout-fishers who talk noisily to each other about what they did when all the world was asleep, and what they mean to do during the afternoon. The seven oclock dinner, on the other hand, is only the ghost of the five ooclock dinner. Tuere is a rechauffe air about the dishes; the waiters are relapsing into coma; and the people at table resemble the fre THE TABLE D HOTE. quenters of a coffee-room in their miscella- neous character and indecorous haste. The arrivals by the last boat, who come in with great coits and unwashed hands; people who have been out all day in the mountains and return savage and hungry; and one or two elderly gentlemen who have been at the trouble of dressis~g for dinner, and sit silent and sulky because no one else has thought fit to do the same, form the chief part of the seven oclock table. It is at five oclock that the table ~h6te is in its glory. They who have discovered how long the day becomes in foreign parts, seize this hour as that most likely to break the dull monotony; and practically spend the time intervening between five and bed-time at dinner. Now, the waiters have been aroused to a sense of their own importance; a general activity and briskness pervade the atmosphere of the long saloon, and, as the soup is served, a band in the next apartment begins to whisper recollections of Der Freischutz. Young English misses, with profuse jewellery that sparkles down the table as they deliberately lift their spoons; their mothers, gorgeous and severe; elderly French ladies, with a girlish sim- plicity and neatness in their attire; a few Rotten-row young gentlemen, with white waistcoats and the moustache of the period; a couple of Prussian officers, tall, silent, grave, quick-eyed; a resident English cler- gyman, with a view to after-dinner subscrip- tions; a newly-married couple who do their best to be coldly distant to each other, and flatter themselves that they succeed in im- posing upon their neighbours; and the or- dinary number of English snobs, male and female surely here is material to interest and instruct the man or woman who has seen nothin~, to excite his or her curiosity since leaving Charing Cross. As the wine begins to flow more freely, a gentle enthu- siasm is stirred, and the prudent listener learns the future movements, the past ex- periences, and a good deal of the family history of the persons whom he or she has I stared at during the forenoon. Is it the girls who insisted on wearing grey silk in going up the Niesen? The economical English mother hears that one of these dresses was entirely ruined, and she is in- wardly comforted. is it the man with the pointed whiskers who bullied the waiter at breakfast, and asked loudly if Sir James MacFayden had written for rooms? You hear hint remark to his neighbour Aint it ot in this ere climate? and you wonder whether he has brought on the whole of the I MacFaydens luggage. Is it the charming THE TABLE DHOTE. little girl, with the pearly teeth, and the bright smile, and the almost infantine ring- ing laugh which was heard not half an hour before in the grounds? Lo! there is a wed- ding- ring on her finger; and presently she is talking across the table, in a long, nasal whine that tells of Connecticut, of all her pension experiences, and calculating~ in the most hideously-practical manner, the profits which the landlady of the penszon was ena- bled to reap from washing the linen of her visitors. This little girl, with the soft brown hair and the pretty face, is able to trans- mute florins and kreutzers into dollars and cents with a dreadful facility; and as she rattles off her impressions of the various countries she has passed through, they sound like the recital of the dream of an army victualler; while her husband, much older than she is, with a complexion which makes one fancy his veins must run tobacco- juice, sits silent and picks his teeth after every course. If our inquisitive traveller, having acquired sufficient knowledge to en- able him to drive a close bargain with the most rapacious pension-keeper in existence, now shuts his left ear and opens his right, he will hear the resident clergyman expati- ate. It is not of free-will, or election, or baptism that the reverend gentleman treats; it is not with accounts of benevo- lent institutions and charities that he graces the chief ceremony of the day; it is with a running commentary on the aristoeracy who have visited the place during the past week. Generosity is the virtue which he most de- lights to laud. He makes great allowances for the necessity under which English peo- ple labour of conforming to popular custom abroad. They have not, he argues, the same opportunities that exist at home; and if, when they cannot go to church on a Sunday evening, they go to see a fair or sit in a garden and listen to some music~ they are not so much to be blamed. Theatre- going on a Sunday he rather deprecates, so far as an 1~nglishman is concerned; but for the poor foreigners who know no better, one must egret the evil nature of their education rather than accuse themselves. If an Englishman has heen so imprudent as to go to a theatre on Sunday, the best thing he can remember is that charity or, in other words, a subscription covereth a multitude of sins. The resident clergyman is really a valuable person at the table dh6te; for his white tie lends respectability to the occasion, and his fund of universal information is at everybodys service. Unfortunately the table dh6te dinner can- not last for ever. By the~ time that our tray- e~ler has studied the peculiar arrangements of hair and the jewellery of all the ladies present, found reasons for depreciating the personal appearance, intellect, and position of all the men, and succeeded in producing as a net result, a faint glow of personal sat- isfaction within his own bosom, he finds that he has arrived at the dessert. Fain would. he spin out this brief period of happiness. Must he relinquish this beautiful sphere, and return to the cold world without, there to fix glazed eyes once more on contorted rocks, muddy streams~ dirty houses, and brown-visaged peasants? The short, stout English lady, with the black satn dress and the thick chain, has gathered her daucvhters around her, and is sailing downward to- wards the door. The Italian gentleman, who must have been horn in a district where forks are unknown, sets vigorously to work to pick his teeth, confronted by the Ameri- can husband, who follows his example; while the wife of the latter remarks across the table that the feeding wasnt bad for five and half francs, but that one never feels filled after a foreign dinner. From giving a young lady a pleasant description of a picnic on the summit of the Righi, the clergyman has diverged into hinting to the young ladys papa of the painful necessity under which he labours of gathering dona- tions for his church. The unhappy Briton knows his time has come; but there is still one refuge. Whatever his family may urge about the advisability of going to do any place he has medical authority for insisting on quiet after dinner; and as he sits down under some acacia, to smoke a cigar and watch a feeble fountain unsuccessfully en- gaged in endeavouring to balance a ball on its summit, there still remain for him the memories of buried joys. He can chew the cud of reflection, and, with the assistance of his wife, go over, seriatim, the incidents of the dinner, the quality of the dishes, and the appearance of the people who were at table. The results of their joint observa- tions are compared ; and the nationality, profession, and prospects of every stranger definitely settled. Family likenesses and stray observations become the material out of which Mr. Brown and his wife now pro- ceed to evolve the most delightful fictions; and if there have been two young people seen to exchange a word or band a bit of pastry down the table, a marriage is at once concluded in Mrs. Browns ready ima~,ina tion. It will thus be seen that the five oclock dinner is of much more value thar~ that of seven oclock; for the former stretches over the entire evening, while the 117 THE COST OF AN ARMED PEACE. latter invades the realm of sleep with ride- culous dreams in which wild foreigners and wilder adventures produce all the horrors of nightmare. The five oclock dinner kills half a day; and there can be no greater recommendation to the miserable English- man whom a social custom has banished from his own fireside and sent into a desert where he is beset by all the ravenous beasts of fatigue, ennui, discomfort, and general di~gust. From the Economist, Sept. 7. THE COST OF AN ARMED PEACE. WHEN the British capitalist looks askance upon foreign loans and other investments, there must be some reason for a frame of mind to which he is not prone. Russia seeking money in the London market, and not finding it, is a novelty deserving expla- nation. That the realm of the Czar is flooded with inconvertible paper is not a sufficing, though it is a very considerable, cause of impaired credit. Perpetual defi~ cits and promissory assets do not form at- tractive securities; still less when the depth of the deficit, when the exact relation be- tween income and expenditure, is unknown. Nevertheless, we are disposed to think that these phenomena do not alone weigh con- sciously or unconsciously with the men of money. It is the malaise of Europe which makes John Bull button up his pocket. Looking abroad from this secure island, what does he see except a costly present and an uncertain future on all sides? The flicker of myriads of bayonets, the rumble of thousands of gun-carriages, the roar of great and small arms on the experimental ranges of every land, are apt to startle credit, and gladden only the hearts of con- tractors. Europe is now one vast camp, and swarms with an expensive sQldiery from the Ural Mountains to the capes of the Atlantic and the inlets of the Mediter- r~nean. Not one nation has full confidence in the friendship not even in the calcu- latel friendship of any other. If there is a State in Europe which, from its posi- tion, the character of its military geography, the strength of its natural and artificial ob- stacles. ou~ht to feel the intense satisfaction of complete security, it is. France. Com- bined Europe would find it almost hopeless to assail her ; yet she thirsts for more soldiers, more armaments, more fortresses, and her action abroad stirs up doubt, apprehension, and, of course, counter armaments. If France would sit still, and mind her own af- fairs, her present host of soldiers would more than suffice her needs. At this moment she can put in the field five armies, each a hundred thousand strong; but a defensive attitude does not please her, and so her Government demand the means of putting seven hundred thousand men in the field. Prussia, struggling to maintain her new gains, and found a real German Empire, is actually laying hands upon every effective male within her reach, moved thereto, part- ly by the influence of custom, chiefly by dread of a coalition. Russia is fanning the fires of insurrection all through the East, and swelling to their full limit the enor- mous armies she has on foot. Even Italy, all but bankrupt, chin deep in deficits, main- tains a large public force; and Belgium, although styled neutral in the lan~uage of diplomacy, feels bound to array scores of thousands more than she would need were it certain her neutrality would be respected. Austria trembles at every breath, runs forth to seek strange alliances, and spends on soldiering sums disproportioned to her means. When the cost of an armed peace is draining every exchequer, it is not sur- prising that capital should shrink back at the mere mention of loans. In the middle of the nineteenth century, and at this height of modern civilization, the military peace establishment of Europe consists of 2,800,000 men, while the war establishment rises to the awful total of 5,000,000. The cost of the peace array of the European States does not fall far short of 80,000,0001 annually eight hundred millions (an English National Debt) every ten years. Austria keeps on foot perma- nently 278,137 men, at a charge of 8.876,3001; Spain expends 4,200,0001 upon 234,426 men; France maintains 404,000 men under arms, and pays 14,000,0001 for the luxury; Italy, out of her well-drained treasury, devotes 6,603,4441 to an army 222,321 strong; the peace establishment of North Germany cannot now fall far short of 300,000 men, nor the cost fall much below 8,000,0001. The huge Russian levy of 800,000 men extracts from the national chest 15,250,0001; while our own regulars, militia, and volunteers, are maintained for the trifling sum of 14,569,2791. These are the principal items in the dread account, and the smaller States complete the full tale. Eight nations spend on their soldiers and establishments 72,000,0001. These sums, in gross and in detail, represent the 118 MONT CENIS RAILWAY. annual rate at which we insure an uncertain like gencies. Prussia wishes to consolidate peace a peace interrupted by three ~reat br power, and both Prussia and Austria wars in fifteen years, and now in extreme desire to conciliate their people, and seem peril of a wholesale breaking up. It is a to think huge levies of men and money the charming monument of human wisdom, best mode of aceomp1ishin~ the end in view. an excellent testimony to the good gwern- The French Revolution bequeathed to Gov- ment of nations, this expenditure upon non- eruments the fatal legacy of the conscrip- productive employment. But this does not tion. This ready method of raising large represent the total cost of the warlike ma- armies was speedily adopted, and one great chinery. Five States Austria, Spain, obstacle to the carrying-on of war vas France, England, and Italy employ removed, the (lifficulty of seizing on men. 213,887 men for sea-service, and spend up- Except in moments of national passion, rio wards of seventeen millions on their navies. Government could raise and pay for huge Including Russia and the smaller States, the armies by voluntary enlistment. But now total expenditure for military and naval Prussia has shown that a strong executive purposes in Europe is not less than 100,000- need only consider the effective male pop- 0001 per annum. The worst of it is, that ulation the limit of military enrolments. when this vast outlay has bee made, Eu- While the system of conscription exists, rope is not one whit more certain of tran- all proposals for disarming are absurd de- quillity, nor is any one of the several States lusions, since a State, under that system, assured that it will not have to fight for its may keep comparatively few men under life. That constitutes the irony of the arms, and yet be able to lay its hands on situation. triple the number. No doubt there is a But when we have summed up the actual great deal to be said for conscription; but cost of this array by sea and land, the total it is not the least effective agent in aug- falls short of the enormous penalty levied menting the vast charges of an armed upon the nations. Who can truly estimate peace. the additional loss arising from the forced abstinence of two millions and a half of men in the prime and vigour of life from repro- ductive labour. Suppose we estimate their probable earnings, if employed, at one shil- ling per diem, the total loss per week of six days is no less than 750,0001 or 39,000.0001 per annum. To this we should add the difference between t~ieir wages and the value of their productions, and, if we only double it, the total exceeds the whole revenue of France. If we were to set down 200,000,OOOl a year as the total loss to Europe in hard cash, and as a conse- quence of compulsory abstinence from la- bour, we should not he far wrong, especially if we include the evil effect of insecurity upon enterprise. No wonder that Govern- ments require loans, that nations should vegetate tor want of railways, that capital should be withheld even where it abounds. Here is the French Emperor proposing an elaborate plan for the spending of 8,000,- 0001 upon parish roads, to be spent in ten years, and be repaid in ever so many more; yet the other day he did not hesitate to spend, it was said, 6,000,0001,. but at any rate a sutn of enormous maguttude, in less than ten weeks upon warlike preparations, having for their object the eviction of Prussia from Luxemburg. Russia stands as much in need of roads and railways as Spain, yet behold her expenditure on war- From the Economist, Sept. 7. TIlE MONT CENIS RAILWAY. ON the 21st of last month, a train com- posed of an engine and two carriages made the trial-trip over the Summit Railway of Mont Cenis, from St. Michel, in Savoy, to Susa, in Piedmont, a length of forty-eight miles. Since George Stephenson first made man and wife, as he called them, of the locomotive and the iron road in 1828, this is the greatest achievement that has been made in the working of railways; and it is due to an English engineer, Mr. Fell, a member of the firm of Brassey, Fell, & Co. By the ingenious expedient of a central double-headed rail, placed on its side in the middle of the way, fourteen inches above the ordinary rails, and grasped by four horizon- tal wheels, the engine is able to work up gradients of 1 in 12, and thus to climb with ease the steepest mountains. Not only can this be done easily, but, strange as it may seem, in spite of heavy gradients and sharp curves, Mr. Fells mountain travelling is safer than ordinary travelling. The central rail and the horizontal wheels, with which the ear- MONT CENIS RAILWAY. riages as well as the engine are supplied, afford the means of supplying any amount of break-power for checking the speed, or for stopping vehicles which may have become detached from the rest of the train, while they render it almost impossible for engines or carriages to leave the rails. On ordi- nary lines of railway, a curve whose radius is twenty chains is considered a sharp one; but the radius of the smallest curves in the Summit Railway is only two chains. We could hardly hare a bettor illustration of the great security which Mr. Fells inven- tion gives to railway travelling. The only regret with which we can regard so success- ful an invention is that it was not applied earlier. It was in 1864 that Mr. Fell, de- sirous to prove its value, obtained leave from the French Government to lay down a length of about an English mile and a quarter on a portion of the Mont Cenis road, where the average gradient is 1 in 13, while on half a mile of it the curves vary from 42 to 170 yards radius. He made his trials in the presence of commis- sioners appointed by the Governments of England, France, Italy, Spain, Russia, and Austria, who were unanimous in favour of the mechanical possibility of his plan, and of its commercial value. There can hardly be a doubt that if this proof had been given ten years earlier, the Mont Cenis tunnel would never have been commenced. But no one, except perhaps Mr. Fell him- self, imagined in those days that it would be po-sible to make a locomotive and train climb a mountain 6,700 feet above the sea with apparently impracticable curves, and with gradients of 1 in 12. We do not, in saying this, wish to dis- parage so great an engineering undertaking as the tunnel unquestionably is. But when we compare its advantages and its cost in time and money with those of the Fell Railway, the balance of the former in its favour are not to be named in comparison with the balance of the latter against it. It was commenced in 1857; the most sanguine opinion ,.,ives 1870 as the date of its completion; and it will not be finished at a less cost than seven millions sterling. The Fell Railway was estimated to cost something less than one million, and it has been completed in eighteen months, in spite of the inundations of September, 1866, the most calamitous on recor(l, which injured, and in parts altogether swept away, twenty- four miles of the route. In point of dis- tance, the tunnel line will show a gain of six miles, and of three hours in point of time. But many travellers would readly sacrifice this advantage for the sake of the glorious scenery through which the Fell Rail- way passes. So striking is the balance of considerations in favour of summit railways, that, in all probability, before long others will be constructed over other Alpine passes, of which there are ten traversa- ble as carriage roads. Wherever there exists such a road, the Fell Railway can be laid down. The line just opened traverses the road commenced by the first Napoleon in 1803, and completed in 1810. Upon the French side, several important deviations have been made, as in the neighbourhood of the Fortress of Lessaillon, and at Ter- mignon, to avoid impracticable curvEs. Elsewhere, the road has been widened, an(l the number of covered ways increased, which, in places where avalanches are to be apprehended, are constructed of the most sold masonry, while in other parts they are made of iron and timber. There is no reason why the other passes should not be similarly utilized, though they may not be quite so favourable for the purpose as that of Mont Cenis. There is the Col- di Tenda, which lies on the direct road be- tween Nice and Tut~in; the Mont Gen~vre, which, like Mont Cenis and the Simplon, owes its road to the genius of the first Napo- leon; the Little St. Bernard, leading from Chamb& y to Aosta; the Simplon, the Gothard, and others. Indeed, only three days before the experimental trip on the Mont Cenis line took place, the first journey was performed upon the Austrian railway over the Brenner Pass connecting Innspriick with Botzen, and thus uniting the system of German railways with the system of the Italian lines. Atis- tria had already distinguished herself by erecting the first railway over the Alps, crossing the Sdmmering Pass. But now that Mr. Fell has shown that Alpine rail- ways can be constructed at a cost of 20,- 000 per English mile, the line across the Sdmmering cost 98,000, there is no reason why all the passes which could promise sufficient commercial results to justify the undertaking should not be trav- ersed upon iron roads. But has Mr. Fells ingenious invention no interest for us at home, or are our lines of railway already so satisfactory in all respects that his central rail and horizontal wheels are to be dismissed from our con~il- eration as only fit for the Continent? Happy would it have been for those who have ventured their money in railway 120 THE DEVILS CONFESSION. undertakings if Mr. Fell had followed upon George Stephenson a little earlier. But perhaps if he had we should have been none the better for him. For years he hawked his invention about in England, and has sought patronage in vain. With the name of a well-known doctor he seemed to have inherited his unpopularity, as far as his invention was concerned, though it would not be difficult for those who have endea- voured to keep him out of the field to explain why they do not like him. The grand aim of speculation of any kind, per- sonified in engineers, contractors, promoters, is to bud and blossom into money as quickly as possible, if possible rec1~, but if not, then quocunque modo. Fbr such people, the ordinary plant is sufficient. They do not want improvements. Improvements would benefit the shareholders and the publi, about whom engineers, contractors, and promoters do not care a fig. They look upon an inventor as their natural enemy, and thus far they have been able to set him at defiance. But will shareholders much longer tolerate a system of administration which has so utterly broken down that some of the most promising of our lines are bankrupt, while others are verging towards a state of bankruptcy? In the backwoods of America, where the first rude but ener- getic attempts at civilization are being made, and where the moral force of law is by no means so powerful as it is in long- settled communities, lawless acts are ha- bitual. To counteract them, the natural law of self-preservation has set up what is called a Vigilance Committee. This committee holds its sittings in secret, and its sentences are carried out in a very summary manner. Would it not be well if railway shareholders in England were to imitate this example, with the requisite modifications? We do not wish them to appoint, a vigilance committee the result of whose secret meetings would be that fraud- ulent contractors and self-interested direct- ors would be found dangling from the lamp- posts nearest to their board-room. Short of so extreme a measure, a shareholders vigilance committee woul(I be of great advantage. And surely it is strange that though the railway system has now been established amongst us for nearly forty years, the only committees which have emanate I from the body of shareholders have been committees of investigation, committees appointed to bar the door when the steed has been stolen. From Frasers Magazine. THE DEVILS CONFESSION. (From CA~5ARIU5 IIEISTERBACHENSIS, De lliliracelts et Visionibus sui temnporis. AD. 1230. Lib. iii. c. 26). THROUGH the tall minster windows of Cologne The flaming saffron of the evening shone: A golden dove suspended in the choir It turned into a bird of living fire, Floating above the sacramental shrine.. It was the evening of that Maundy night, When, in the ghastly glimmering moonlight, The Saviour prostrate fell in sweat of blood, And by his side an awe-struck angel stood Wiping the pain-drops from his face divine. In the confessionals, from hour to hour, Sat the priests wieldin, the absolving power; And penitents were thronging all the fane Seeking release from the long gnawing pain Of conscience poisoned by the tooth of sin. And many a sob broke out upon the still Dim air, and sent an answering thrill Through unlocked hearts; and, praying on their knees, They bent, and waited their turn of release From horrors haunting the waste soul within. A little space apart, with restless eyes, Upon his face a blank look of surprise, And on his brow a shadow of great dread; Not kneeling, not erect, with out-thrust heal, Stood a mute stranger in a nook of gloom, Where lay a prelate with a seven-claspd book, And, in one hand, a floreate pastoral crook, Sculptured in alabaster on his tomb. The strangers dress was carved with antique slash, Around his waist was knotted a red sash, And in his bonnet danced a scarlet plume. He was a Fallen Spirit. Now he saw In a wild flutter of hope, hate and awe, Souls that were blackened with guilts deepest stain, [ass to their shriving, and come forth again Assoiled and white ; then caught the dis- tant ring Of angels chanting, To the Lamb be praise Who from the Book of l)eath doth sins erase With his own Blood! 0 ecstasy untold When brought the lost sheep back into the fold And found the coin marked with the im- age of the King! He thought : If these from chains are sent forth free, Can there, oh, can there be a chance for me That I, who long from Ileaven have outcast been, I, who the joys of Paradise have seen Flowing from union with a Holy God, That I, who tasted have the woes of hell, Since before Michaels flashing lance I fell, And all the passages of gloom have trod, Where burns the fire of an undyin~ Hate, Burning to strangle, scorch and suffocate And Envys worm feeds ever; where 121 122 THE DEVIL S Horror of all ! is unrelieved Despair: That I, like these, may also ao forth shriven Once more become a denizen of Heaven! When the last foot was gone, and all the aisle Was silent, he stepped forth with leer of guile, And gliding down to a confessional, brushed In l)y a priest in meditation hushed, And said : To thee will I unclose my sin Of lawless thought and word and evil deed, That I, of all the consequences freed, When the bright doors are open, may pass in. Then said the priest : . Begin in Gods Trine name. I have a hitch of speech, and cannot frame The words in German. Then in thine own tongue. The devil muttered, with a sort of scoff, Nomine Dagon, Beelzebuh, Ashtaroth, My sins, 0 father, are of deepest dye; They har me out from peaceful courts on high, Where endless anthems to my God are sung. Then from his lips was his confession hissed; It was of crimes a long appalling list. But he only had advanced a little way, Ere the confessor ordered, angry, Stay! Thou art not kneeling, son, that I can see. Father, theres something crooked in my knee. Go on then, said the priest in lower tone. I have sinned exceedingly through fault my own; Have wakened up in peaceful families strife, Have urged the husband on to hate the wife, Aufithe child bid against his parents rise. The thief I prompted to his villany, The adultrous flame was kindled hot by me, I turned the glances of malignant eyes; As sower, sowed in families mistrtist, Aid friendship cankered I with envys rust. The murderer I prompted to his deed, I roused the insatiable money-greed, The eyes I dazzled with the blink of ~old And taught that Heaven could b~ bonght or sold. And faith I sta~gered, planting weeds of doubt. The slandrous lie by me was deftly wrought, Pure minds I sullied with polluting thought, Working like leaven. Here fiercely he laughed out A hideous burst of wild discordant laughter, Shaking the wall, and quiverin~ in each rafter, And flung in echoes all along the roof. The old confessor startin~ terrific I Said, In the sacred name of Him who died, Profane one l outrage not the holy rite! Pardon me, father, pray! my breast I smite, I have convulsions, but, at thy reproof The fit is passed; And now let me proceed. Then he unfolded many a godless deed And muttered on an hour, and was not done. So the confessor stopped him, saying, Son, Thou couldst not crowd these many actions in A hundred years of unremitted sin! Rather a huodred times t~n hundred say, O ON F ES 510 N~ Labouring at crime, unflagging, night and day, Through all the ages from the hour I fell. Shuddered the priest, and made the holy sign. In the Name of God and of his Son divine, Who art thou, answer I A spirit lost of hell! The priest leaped up with an aifrighted cry: Angels of Jesus, stand me succouriug by! Then he relapsed, and laid aside his dread; Why hast thou sought this Sacrament I he said, Wherefore these horrors to my ear reveal I I saw thee vested with a wondrous might To make the sons of darkness heirs of light, Blackest of souls become as drifted snow And to the sentence of the priest below The Judge of all things setteth to his seal. And I thought oh! if shattered were tny chain, I might the gates of Paradise regain. Say, is there any gleam of hope for me I I know the mercy of the Crucified Is very lofty, deep, exceeding wide;. Then, if thy sorrow only he sincere, In the Lords name, I bid thee have no fear! The blood of Christ will reach as far as thee. Father, why question thou my strong desire To fly the abysses of eternal fire, And from keen misery obtain release, And refuge in the home of matchless peace I There comes a thrill on me, and now.I grope, With feeble glimmer, for a thread of hope. Son, ere I utter the absolving word, Of thy contrition I must be assured Therefore on thee a penance I impose. Give me ten thousand of acutest woes, And from my purpose, mark you, if I swerve, Bid me be bound upon a flaming wheel Set with the sharpest blades of tempered steel, Bid it revolve in fire at whirlwind speed, Parch me, and lacerate, and make me bleed, And suffer with the finest mortal nerve, Turn into flaming drops my coursing tears, Bid me thus writhe through fifty thousand years, And I will hug the woe and not repine. Son, said the pastor, no such test be thine. As thou didst fall through thy unbounded pride, Bow to the figure of the Crucified, But otice, and utter with a broken sigh, I am not worthy to look up to Heaven, O be free pardon to the rebel given. What! said the Devil, with an angry cry, Bow to a God so lost to sense of shame, As to take Human nature, and Mans name! Bow to a God who could himself demean To suck the breast and sweep the kitchen clean, And saw up chips for Joseph! one Who died Upon a ballows, with a mangled side! Ha! when another twist of Fortunes wheel Would have sent me up, and cast him below! Ha! to the son of Mary shall I bow And with a curse he turned upon his heel. S. BAItING-GOULD. GENERAL GRANT AND MR. JOHNSON. From the Spectator, Sept 14. GENERAL GRANT AND MR. JOHNSON. THE very remarkable correspondence published this week between General Grant and President Johnson, on the subject of the Presidents order removing General Sheridan from the command of the Fifth District (Louisiana and Texas), brings be- fore us with singular force the nature of the movement which is now going on for re- moulding the Constitution of the United States, and the grave obstructions which that movement necessarily encounters. The nature of the movement is easily describe d. The framers of the original American Con- stitution appear to have believed either that they should always have Presidents chiefly anxious to consult the popular will, or that it would be a not undesirable thing for the popular will only to have what geol- ogists would call a catastrophic power to re- mould the political condition, that is, only every four years. Probably what they really expected was that there would be nothing properly catastrophic about the quadrennial elections, because the President would be far more likely during the whole four years to be currying favour with the electors of the next period than to be oppos- ing their wishes; and thus they scarcely considered the possibility of an interregnum of years elapsing between any two decisive exertions of the popular volition. What they failed to consider was the chance, first of having the Presidency filled up by an officer never elected, and never, perhaps, likely to have been elected, for that office, like Mr. Johnson ; and next, that in case of any great rupture between different sections of the nation, it might well be that some President would care more to use his temporiry authority in the interests of his own party thourh that party were not the popular party than to court popular- ity by deferring to the will of the majority. Both these untoward influences have been brought to bear on Mr. Johnson. He never was elected as the popular favourite, and never had that mollifying sense of grati- tude to the people which at least dis- poses a really popular President to inter- pret their will. His original election as Vice-President was a mere empty compli- ment to one of the few remaining loyal Southerners. On the other hand, Mr. Johnson is a man of fierce party feeling and intense obstinacy, and to him it matters in- finitely more to have his own way while he can, than to win any power or any good opinion for the future by giving up his will to the will of the majority. He has never once modified his own course more than was absolutely necessary to prevent a revolu- tion and an immediate downfall, in the direction of the changing and rapidly matur- ing view of the people on the great crisis in which he finds himself. He stands as immovable as a rock in the tnidst of a roar- ing torrent, and when talked to about the will of the people, says in effect, I repre- sent the written Constitution, and the writ- ten Constitution represents the will of the people, so far as they themselves chose to keep things in their own power. You may chafe at me now, but it was the will of your forefather~, accepted and ratified by yourselves, which put me here to chafe you. And therefore even in the very act of chaf- ing you, I represent a deeper popular will than the popular will which is chafed. In other words, President Johnson is doing his best so to avail himself of the power given him by the paper Constitution, that the ex- pressions of popular will in American shall become catastrophic, and instead of perma- nently shaping the action of the Adininis- tration, and insensibly exerting a living pressure o~i the course of affairs, shall act only by fits and starts, so far as the Presi- dent has not power to override or resist it. When Congress is in session, then it has power by a two-thirds majority, which now it can almost always command, to override Mr. Johnson. But directly Con- gress separates, Mr. Johnsons power be- comes active again, and he employs himself in doing as much as possible what Con~ress will wish to undo, and leaving undone as much as possible what Congress will wish to do. Not till his Presidency ceases will Con- gress be able to overturn my policy alto- gether. In the mean time, my policy is a mere attempt to stem the policy of Con- gress, resulting in a series of little political eddies and whirlpools very perplexing to the military rulers of the five disaffected Southern districts, who are carried now this way by Congress, now that by the Presiden- tial backwater, like Virgils ran riantes in gurgite vasto. General Grant, of all men in the North who have no very enthusiastic political con- victions of their own, which everything seems to show General Grant has not, seems the one who has the clearest insight into the uselessly dangerous results of this vain struggle with the popular will. He sees that in a genuine democracy, the more easily and rapadly the Government follows the lead of the people as well in administra- tion as in legislation, the more sober and 123 GENERAL GRANT AND MR. JOHNSON. sensible on the whole, the will of the peo- ple is likely to be. He wishes the Presi- dent to act as though he were the index of the electric telegraph moved by the cur- rents of popular feeling. The will of the people, he says, has clearly shown that it is in favour of General Sheridans policy in Louisiana, and that it trusts General Sher- idan himself. No, virtually replies Mr. Johnson, the will of the people did not elect Gereral Sheridan, and you have no means of knowing whom it would elect. You do know that the will of the people made the Constitution under which I am at the head, and am bound to exercise my own judgment for the good of the nation in the best way I can. Thus the two men repre- sent in fact the two opposite elements in the United States Constitution, Mr. Johnson the resisting, dragging element, in- troduced because the framers of the Con- stitution so greatly distrusted the temporary, and, as it was then feared, capricious exer- cises and expressions of popular will, that they invested one man, at his own discre- tion, with the power to overrule them, often even for four years; General Grant, on the other hand, representing the pliant, flexible element, originally intended to be repre- sented rather by Congress than by the Pres- ident, that element of deference to the people which is the life and soul of a De- mocracy, and which, in a pure Democracy like that of America, rarely indeed finds one with the wish, even if he has the power, to thwart it. We cannot doubt for a moment which of these equal intentions of the original Con- stitution will conquer in the end, nor which ought to conquer, nor that in the very pro- cess of conquest, the Constitution will prob- ably be so modified that a prolonged con- test between the people and one man, nom- inally its servant, can never occur again. We shall have, in one way or another, Con- gress providing for its own power to change its Executive, such a power as our own Parliament possesses, whenever it sees good. And we believe the result of this change will be not to make the popular will more violent and capricious, but more sta- ble and cautious. With an educated and long-headed people it is only resistance, fret, silly opposition, like Mr. Johnsons, which is dangerous, in exciting anything like rashness or impatience. Even under this constant fret, no people ever showed themselves less angry or fitful. And, indeed, the practical working of a constitutional modification which should give the Con- gress power to suspend ~r change the Pres ident at will, would in all probability be, not that it would be often exercised, but that it would effect what the people wish without being put in action at all. A Pres- ident, once aware that he was liable to re- moval for any obstinate resistance to the popular will as expressed by Congress, would, like an English constitutional mon- arch, assent as a matter of course to all schemes of policy which had clearly re-. ceived the national sanction. And in the very rare cases where a President had either too strong a will or too scrupulous a conscience to acquiesce in what he thought really bad, he would yield of course to the necessity of the case, and resign his place. That some such mode of extinguishing the Presidential power of resistance to a united Congress will certainly result from Mr. Johnsons obstinacy, almost all careful ob- servers of the American conflict admit. It is important, however, to observe that even with this modification, the American machinery for registering the popular wishes and convictions will not be so good or so effective as the parliamentary machinery in England, where the personnel of the Gov- ernment depends not directly, but indirectly, on a vote of Parliament. For in America the effect of giving this additional power to Congress, woulti be, as we have already pointed out, not to change one decisive policy which the people disapprove, for an- other decisive policy which they approve but to prevent the actual Executive ruler from making up his mind at all while he is still in doubt as to what the decision of the peo- ple will be. In other words, you will have a ruler of deliberately hesitating policy, of no policy, till that very slow process is completed which we may call the crystalli- zation of political opinion among the peo- ple. The great object of a President who knows that he shall either have to change his policy, or be removed if he does not suc- ceed in agreeing with the people, will he to temporize until he can see clearly what the people prefer. Now, we hold that this is an evil, if only that it does not give the people the means of knowing half so clearly their own minds, as a decisive policy of some kind, which they could see in opera- tion, even if they ended by utterly disap- proving it. would do. Mr. Johnson has done badly enough; but he has at least edneated public opinion in America. Mr. Lincoln would have educated it in a different way, by anticipating and going before it. But a President who was merely waiting on events, temporizing for a distinct idea of what the people wished, without any idea of his own, 124 125 GENERAL GRANT AND TWE PRESIDENT. a President, in short, like Mr. Buchanan towar(ls the close of his term of office, when he had become alarmed at the policy of his own party, and was too timid to cast in his lot with the opposite party, a President of that kind actually delays, instead of aid- ing, the crystallization of public opinion. It is far better that it should be as it is in Eng- land, quite as sure a cause of ejection from office ihat the Prime Minister should hesi- tate, temporize, and not know what to do in any great emergency, as that he should do what the nation disapproves, than that it should be, as it will become, we fear, almost the duty of the Chief Officer of the American Executive to hesitate and tempo- rize till he sees how public opinion is set- ting. The conflict of definitely opposite policies between the competitive leaders of our parliamentary parties does more by far to educate public opinion than public opin- ion can ever do to educate itself. And the defect of a modification of the American Constitution which should merely make the President removable at pleasure, would be that this would not have the effect of iden- tifying the actual ruler in possession with any one distinct party in Congres~, but rather of tendin~ to make him reserve his views as long as possible, and hold himself aloof from all parties. Not being a mem- her of Congress, not being bound to lead de- bate and express opinion, it would be open to a removable President to hang back till he sees which way the wind blows. And the worst result of this is, that no two con- flicting policies for which rival leaders are responsible, and the success of either of which in Congress would lead to power, are likely to be plainly put before the people in Congressional debates. It is a great pity that the President should not be the chief leader of his party in Congress, liable to re- moval, like our Prime Minister, only when he falls into a minority. Still, that he should be removable at the pleasure of Con- gress at all will be something gained. And to that result all the political phenomena in the United States seem to tend. President in appointing General Grant to Mr. Stantons place was to bring to the side of his policy the weight and influence of the conqueror of Richmond and the Lieutenant-General of the United States. The chief issue between himself and the late Secretary of War was the retention of General Sheridan at New Orleans, this officer having, by his eager and effective application of the measures of reconstruc- tion passed by Congress, become a repre- sentative man of the policy inimical to that of Mr. Johnson. Whatever opposition Mr. Stanton may have offered to the removal of Sheridan was limited at least, to conversa- tional and unpublished protests made in the privacy of Cabinet meetings. But General Grant has availed himself of the prominence of his new position to protest publicly against the removal of Sheridan on grounds particularly offensive to the President, and consequently strengthening to the position of Congress. He avails himself of the oppor: tunity to urge earnestly urge urge in the name of a patriotic people who have sacrificed hundreds of thousands of loyal lives and thousands of millions of treasure to preserve the integrity and union of this country that this order be not insisted on. It is unmistakably the expressed wish of the country that General Sheridan should not be removed from his present command. This is a Republic where the will of the people is the law of the land. I beg that their voice may be heard. General Sheridan, be adds, has per- formed his civil duties faithfully and jntelli- gently. His removal will only be regarded as an effort to defeat the laws of Congress. It will he interpreted by the unreconstruct- ed element in the South those who did all they could to break up this Government by arms, and now wish to be the onlycle- ment consulted as to the method of restor- ing order as a triumph. It will embolden them to renewed opposition to the will of the loyal masses, believing that they have the Executive with them. Every word of this stirring protest reaches beyond the immediate case of the New Orleans administration, and strikes at the entire ~~ourse and present position of the President. In opposition to the claim of the latter that Congress does not repre- sent the will of the country, General Grant THE late Secretary of War certainly declares that the support of the military never managed to inflict upon the Pi-esident representative of the Congressional policy s~ damaging a blow as that which his tem- is unmistakably the wish of the country. porary successor has dealt immediately on He ignores the question of the non-r~epre- assuming office. It was the natural t~nd sentation of the South in Congress. To general conclusion that the object of the maintain that the officer most obnoxious to From the London. Revtew, Sept. 14. GENERAL GRANT AND THE PRESIDENT. 126 the President has discharged his duty faith- fully and intelligently, virtually charges the Chief Magistrate with unfaithfulness and folly; nay, the new Secretary even goes so far as to intimate that the Presidents course is materially abetting an element in the South which is ready again to assume an attitude of violent hostility to the North. That after this letter the President should have persisted in removing Sheridan shows him to he a bold man, but of the kind of boldness that led Sam Patch to leap upon the Genesee Falls to his destruction. It cannot admit of a moments doubt that the Lieutenant-Generals spinion will be final with the loyal American masses. By the theory of the American Government the President is ex-~/jicio commander of the land and naval forces of the country; but the Lieutenant-General is practically the commander, and it is his especial business to know the condition and wants of the na- tion in every thing that affects military ad- ministration. The President, in setting aside the advie of the military chief in a military matter, must necessarily be regard- ed as availing himself of a power meant to be noninal for his own political ends. And there are circumstances connected with this particular case that can hardly fail to intensify public indignation against him. One of these circumstances is, that the general who has been removed from New Orleans has in no wise been the sub- ject of personal reproach. It is not con- tended that he has dabbled in cotton specu- lations, or confiscated rebel furniture for his own use, or issued insulting orders con- cerning Southern ladies; it is alleged only that he has carried out con amore the laws passed by the Congress of the United States. And that his promptness in this respect is the result both of his loyalty and his conviction of the necessity of those laws will be inferred, from the fact that his po- litical sympathies have hitherto been with the democratic party which alone supports Mr. Johnson in the North. But the strong- est circumstance of the case is, that General Granfs politics have also been hitherto democratic. Nor have the events of the last few years sufficed to elicit from him any expression of anti-slavery, anti-South- ern, or even of moderate republican views. He had on these subjects been so reticent that each party has spoken of him in con- nection with its coming presidential nomi- nation. During his long struggle with Lee in Vireinia, Grant issued no proclam~tion a, siust the Soath whi~h avoucd of parti GENERAL GRANT AND THE PRESIDENT. san feeling, and he had the almost singular fortune of conquering his foe without ren- dering himself amenable to any charges from that foe of inhumanity. The protest which he has now addressed to the Presi- dent is in phrases of earnestness and even excitement, whose impression will be much enhanced by the notorious moderation of their author, a moderation which the President himself seems to have fatally misunderstood. The reply of the president to General Grant is calculated to exasperate his oppo- nents to the utmost. While 1 am cogni- zant, he says, of the efforts that have been made to retain General Sheridan in command of the Fifth Military District, I am not aware that the question has been submitted to the people themselves for de- termination. Such expressions as this, in- dicating the resolution of the President, in defiance of the national legislature, to as- cribe to those recently in arms against the Government an equal authority with those who defended it, will probably alarm the Northcrn people, and lead them to lend a willing ear to the proposition for impeach- ment. This ultima ratio of the Republic has now been assented to by the New York Tribune and other journals and statesmen who have hitherto stoutly resisted it. The country. writes Mr. Greeley, needs adjustment, security, tranquillity, repose; and he persists in keeping it unsettled, dis- tracted, angry, and apprehensive. It can- not be thus disturbed and convulsed for- ever to humour the caprices and gratify the passions of any one. This seems to be now the voice of the most reluctant in the North. No one now seems to believe that the Prs- ident means to execute the laws faithfully. When the President says that in New Or- leans a bitter spirit of antagonism seems to have resulted from General Sheridans management, the country will probably remember that a similarly bitter antagonism resulted a few years ago from General Grants management before Richmond; and when he declares that his rule has, in fact, been one of absolute tyranny, without reference to the principles of our Govern- ment or the nature of our free institutions, it will no doubt remind him that Sheridan is not the Supreme Court; that he was ap- pointed to execute laws, not to analyze their principles; and that to say that his faithful and literd execution of them is absolute tyranny amounts simply to a confession that he, though sworn, as President, to exe- cute the laws of the United States, will not execute them. This, of course, closes the HOLIDAY EXERCISES. argument between the President and Con- gress, and remits the settlement to another set of weapons altogether. The President may protest that this or that will destroy the Republic: his declaration that negro voting would bring on a war of races has been followed by the orderly election in Tennessee, in wInch 60,000 negroes voted with the whites; but beneath all is the main fact that when his vetoes were overborne in the manner prescribed by Congress, his opinions about the laws became of no more legal importance than those of his unofficial countrymen. Any hesitation in the execu- tion of those laws whilst he occupies the Presidential Chair must force upon Con- gress a trial of physical strength with him; and to this all signs now seem to point. The letter of General Grant is also of great importance in another respect. It simplifies the question of the presidential succession. He has been for some time an inevitable fact in all political plans, each party fearing that it might have to contend with his military renown and with the pop- ular gratitude toward him, if it nominated any one else, yet each fearing that if elect- ed be would not represent its principles. having now determined to sustain Congress there is no longer enough ambiguity about General Grants views to prevent the Re- publicans uniting upon him. For the rest, it is not only admiration for military glory that iwlines the people to select General Grant to the next Presidency; they are keepin~, a military government in the South side by side with civil authority; and they can hardly hope to complete the work of re- construction without the co-operation of both kinds of power in emergencies that must arise. It is natural that they should trust one whose courage and patriotism have been fully tested, and whose name, ali eady associated with the great victory over disunron, is no ~ found at the head of those that sustain the people in their demand for a thorough arid just reconstruction. HOLIDAY EXERCISES. FOE YOUNG LADIES AT THE SEA-SIDE, WHEN THEY HAVE GOT NOTHING ELSE TO DO. HISTORY. 1. What other reasons have you for calling CHARLES THE FIRST the finest kinH that ever lived, besides his having been so handsome 2. On account of what instances of wisdom, piety, morality, and self-coremand in the histo ry of MARY QUEEN OF ScoTs do you always write her down as your Favoni-ite Queen 3, Should the proved fact that WILLIAM WALLACE burned a school with all the chil- dren in it, prevent your calling him a darling 4. Having seen MR. FRITHs picture of CLAUDE IDUVAL, do you think the latter ought to have been hanged? 5. Should you have liked to call on RIcHARD THE FIRST, your Favourite King, after he had lunched on the Saracens head 6. Show the true mirthf lness of the Merry Monarch, in taking a pension from France, and letting our ships be burned in the river? 7. For what other reasons than that he was ugly and religious would you have hanged that monster OLIvER CROMWELL? 8. State the national humiliations and atro- cious legislation endured by us under WILLIAM TIlE THIRD, which induce you to regard him as a hateful hook-nosed wretch THRO LOGY. 1. Do you think that curates are sufficiently awake to their duties as croquet-players 2 For what reason would you have the ser- mon omitted? 3. You regard the High Church as aristo- cratic. Give a second reason for this view, in addition to the fact that Patristic means Pa- trician theology. 4. Distinguish between a movable feast and a pic-nic. s. Why would you not be married on a Fri- day? 6. State whether you are a -Ritualist, and, if so, whether the persons who educated you have since been removed to an asylum. 7. Are you aware that when in Scotland you are a Disr,enter? 8. l)o you not think that a bishops wife ought ro have a title? 9. If you were a parochial clergymans wife, should you think it wiser to insult your Dissent- ers, or to treat them with silent contempt? 10. Show that, though there is no ohjection to complaining loudly if a preacher gives you an extra ten minutes, it would be vufrar to ex- press impatience at being detained at the Opera until 1.30. POETRY. 1. Do you see any good in poetry except as words for music? 2. Is not Paradise Lost a bore? 3. Who was DANTE? and do you not think that he will live chiefly through .M. GUSTAVE I)oREs engravings? 4. Is not a ~reat fuss made about BYRON? and doos not your cousin CHARLES, in the Ar- tillery, write every bit as good poetry? 5. Should not rhythm be pronounced as if spelt rhyme, as the two words mean the same thing. 127 A FAREWELL TO KATE TERRY. 6. Is not English poetry far inferior to French l 7. 1)o the following words convey any ideas to your mind: HERBERT, SPEESER, COWLEY, HERRICK, COLLINS, GRAY, COLERIDGE, WORDSWORTH, BROWNING ? Have you no- ticed any such words on the hacks of books in your papas library Punch. A FAREWELL TO KATE TERRY. SHALL they that have charmed us, heguiled us, bewitched us, Pass hence, with no guerdon of thanks and farewell For the ineinries with which their true Art has enriched us, The hours of delight we have owed to their spell l No; let mole-eyed, hen-hearted, and snow- blooded serihblers, Who write themselves asses in blame as in praise, The vipers who still at the steel must be nib- blers, Who, blind t~ all good, call the sense of it craze, Fling the mud that soils them, and not those it is flung at, The sneers that recoil on the pens whence they flow; If their game please the sliugers, it hurts not the slung at, And envy and malice are wide in their blow Be ours the more manly and pleasanter duty, To offer our homage, where homage is due, At the fair shrine of Genius and Goodness and Beauty, Of Grace ever present, and Art ever true. God-speed to KATE TErRY, who leaves all too early A stage such as she are sore needed to grace; It taxes philosophy not to feel surly For the loss of that innocent, sensitive face Where the ripples of feminine thought and emotion, Of gladnesss rapture, and sadnesss shade, Like sunshine and cloud oer the surface of ocean, With utterance and action in harmony played. For the loss of that presence, still gentle and gracious, And womanly ever, in act or repose; The merriment chastened when most twas vivacious, The grief that was rythmic, to height though it rose. In a time of coarse cravings, and coarse rpur- veying, When the craft of the stage tis a task to sustain, Her delicate influence seemed a gainsaying Of those who despaired of tine Art and its reign. She has passed from us, just as the goal she had sighted From the top of the ladder, reached fairly at last; With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted, And a future, how bright, may be gauged by her past.~ From childhood through girlhood to woman- hood toiling, Unhasting, unresting, she went on her way; Neglect neer discouraged, nor praise led to spoiling, Right instincts, sound teaching, she felt, to obey. Nor of hounds of good taste deem the rhymster unwitting, If of privacys curtain so much he withdraw, As to peep on a life such an artist hefitting Pure, generous, unselfish, a fame without flaw. May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not of- fend her; And fragrant with flowers be the paths of her life; May the joy she has given in blessings attend her, And her happiest part be the part of The Wife. Punch. 128

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The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1220 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 19, 1867 0095 1220
The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1220 129-192

LITTELLS LiVING AGE. No. 1220. October 19, 1867. CONTENTS. 1. On the Correlation of Force in its bearing on Mind 2. The Social Era of George III. . 3. Tenants of Malory, Part viii. . 4. The Two Great Powers of the Future 5. Scotch Gems and Jewellery 6. The Love of Scenery 7. Light after Darkness. By Mrs. Stowe 8. The Satchel and the Wedding-Dress 9. Mr. Seward and Lord Stanley Macmillans Macjazine, Biackwoods Maqazine, Dub. University Magazine, London Review, Scotsman, Saturday Review, Athenmum, Christian Register, Economist, POETRY: The Answer. By J. G. Whittier, 130. A Fashionable Reform, 130. Light and Shadow, 191. The Bird and the Baby, 192. F~ Preparing for Publication at this office: LINDA TRESSEL; THE BIRAMLEIGIIS OF BISHOPS FOLLY; GRACES FORTUNE; TENANTS OF MALORY; BROWN- LOWS; OLD SIR DOUGLAS. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY. BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FOR EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directlyto the Publishers, the Living Age will be punetuallytorwarcied for a year,free p/postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year; nor where we have to pay c~mmission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series ,in Cloth,36 volumes,90 dollars. Second ~ 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete work 88 220 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound,2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be 8ent at the expense of the publishers. PAGE 131 140 152 180 183 184 186 187 189 130 THE ANSWER. SPARE me, dread angel of reproof, And let the sunshjne weave to-day Its gold-threads in the warp and woof Of life so poor and gray. Spare me a while the flesh is weak. These lingering feet, that fain would stray Among the flowers, shall some day seek The strait and narrow way. Take off thy ever-watchful eye, The awe of thy rebuking frown; The dullest slave at times must sigh To fling his hurdens down; To drop his galleys straining oar, And press, in summer warmth and calm, The lap of some enchanted shore Of blossom and of balm. Grudge not my life its hour of bloom, My h~art its taste of long desire; This day he mine: he those to come As duty shall require. The deep voice answered to my own, Smiting my selfish prayers away: Tomorm-ow is with God alone, And man bath hut to-day. Say not thy fond, vain heart within, The Fathers arms shall still he wide When fiom these pleasant ways of sin Thou turnst at eventide. Cast thyself down, the tempter saith, And angels shall thy feet upbear. He bids thee make a lie of faith, A blasphemy of prayer. Though God he good and free be Heaven, No force divine can love compel; And, though the song of sins forgiven May sound through lowest hell, The sweet persnasion of His voice Respects thy sanctity of will. He giveth day: thou hast thy choice To walk in darkness still; As one who, turning from the light, Watches his own gray shadow fall, Doubting, upon his path of night, If there be day at all! No word of doom may shut thee ont, No wind of wrath may downward whirl, No swords of fire keep watch about The open gates of pearl. THE ANSWER. A FASHIONABLE REFORM. A tenderer light than moon or sun, Than song of earth a sweeter hymn, May shine and sonud forever on, And thou he deaf ~nd dim. Forever round the Mercy-seat The guiding lights of Love shall burn; But what if, habit-hound, thy feet Shall lack the will to turn l What if thine eye refuse to see, Thine ear of Heavens free welcome fail, And thou a willing captiye be, Thyself thy own dark jail? 0 doom beyond the saddest guess, As the long years of God unroll To make thy dreary selfishness The prison of a soul! To doubt the love that fain Would hreak The fetters fi-om thy self-bound limb; And dream that God can thee forsake As thou forsakest Him! JOhN G. WHITTIER. Independent. A FASHIONABLE REFORM. Now Reason in a measure reigns Oer female dress ; some girls, with feet And ankles gifted, and with brains, Wear skirts that do not sweep the street. The wearer thus her hrains doth show, Exhibits feet and ankles too: Without her dress held up, as though On purpose to afford the view. Now you can see a form of grace, Whose outlines were before concealed Draped simply, and, hesides the face, With judgment other charms revealed. Old times return, emotions old Back with sweet recollections bring; The dull blood feels, in winters cold, As though revisited by spr1n~. Our very youth, serene through smoke And self-sufficient as are they, With some sensation may be woke By damsels clad in meet array. Ye fair ones, blest with minds and souls, Effect just one amendment more; Discard those chignons from your polls, And youll be objects to adore! Punch. 131 of plants, and of animals (fed on plants) namely the re-oxidation of carbon, hydro- gen, & c. that yields all the manifestations of power in the animal frame. And, in particular, it maintains (1) a certain warmth or temperature of the whole mass, against the cooli% power of surrounding space; it maintains (2) mechanical energy, as mus- cular power; and it maintains (3) nervous power, or a certain flow of the influence cir- culating through the nerves, which circula- tion of influence, beside re-acting on the other animal processes muscular, glandu- lar, & c. has for its distinguishing concoini- tant, the MIND. The extension of the correlation of force to mind, if at all competent, must be made through the Nerve force a genuine member of the correlated groI~ Very serious diffi- culties beset the propos ~ but they are not insuperable. The history of the doctrines relating to mind, as connected with body, is in the highest degree curious and instructive; but for the purpose of the present paper, we shall notice only certain leading stages of the speculation. Not the least important position is the Aristotelian ; a position in some respects sounder than what followed and grew -out of it. In Aristotle, we have a kind of gradation from the life of plants to the highest form of human intelligence. In the following diagram, the continuous lines may represent the material substance, and the dotted lines the immaterial : A. Soid of Plants. Without consciousness. ________ B. Animal Soul. Body and mind inseparable. C. Hioean Soul Nous Intellect. I. Passive Intellect. Body and mind inseparable. II. Active Intellect Cognition of the highest principles. Pure form; detached from matter; the prime mover of all; immortal. ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. From Macmillans Magazine. ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE IN ITS BEARING ON MIND. BY PROFESSOR BAIN. THE doctrine called the Correlation, Per- sistence, Equivalence, Transmutability, In- destructibility, of Force, is a generality of such compass, that no single form of words seems capable of fully expressing it; and different persons may prefer different state- ments of it. My understanding of the doc- trine is, that there are five chief powers or forces in nature: one mechanical, or molar, the momentum of moving matter; the oth- ers molecular, or embodied in the molecules, also supposed in motion : these are beat, light, chemical force, electricity. To these powers, which are unquestionable and dis- tinct, it is usual to add vital force, of which however it is difficult to speak as a whole; but one member of our vital energies, the Nerve Force, allied to electricity, fully de- serves to rank in the correlation. Taking the one mechanical force, and those three of the molecular named heat, chemical force, electricity, there has now been established a definite rate of commu- tation, or exchange, when any one passes into any other. The mechanical equivalent of heat, the 772 foot pounds of Joule, ex- presses the rate of exchange between me- chanical momentum and heat: the equiva- lent or exchange of heat and chemical force is given (through the researches of An- drews and others) in the fl~ures expressing the heat of combinations; for example, one pound of carbon burnt evolves heat enough to raise 8080 pounds of water one deg. C. The combination of these two equivalents would show that the consumption of half a pound of carbon would raise a man of aver- age weight to the highest summit of the himalayas. It is an essential part of the doctrine, that force is never absolutely created, and never absolutely destroyed, but merely transmuted in form or manifestation. As applied to living bodies, the following are the usual positions. In the growth of plants, the forces of the solar ray heat and light are expended in decomposing (or de-oxidizing) carbonic acid and water, and in building up the living tissues from the liberated carbon and the other elements; all which force is given up when these tissues are consumed, either as fuel in ordinary combustion, or as food in animal combus All the phases of life and mind are in- separably interwoven with the body (which inseparability is Aristotles definition of the soul) except the last, the active Nous or intellect, which is detached from corporeal matter, self-subsisting, the essence of Deity, and an immortal substance, although the immortality is not personal to the individual. tion. (The immateriality of this higher intellectual It is this animal combtistion of the matter a~ ent was not, however, that thorough-going ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. negation of all material attributes which we now understand by the word immaterial.) How such a self subsisting and purely spir- itual soul could hold communication with the body-leagued souls, Aristotle was at a loss to say: the difficulty re-appeared after him, and has never been got over. That there should be an agency totally apart from, and entirely transcending, any known powers of inert matter, involves no difficulty: for who is to limit the possibilities of existence ? The perplexity arises only when this radi- cally new and superior principle is made to be, as it were, off and on with the material princijile; performimg some of its functions inpurc isolation, and others of an analogous kind by the aid of the lower principle. The difference between the active and the passive reason of Ar%totle is a mere dif- ference of gradat m the supporting agen- cies assumed by hm are a total contrast in kind wide as tho poles asunder. There is no breach of continuity in the phenomena, there is an impassible chasm between their respective foundations. Fifteen centuries after Aristotle, we reach what may be called the modern settlement of the relations of mind and body, effected by Thomas Aquinas. He extended the do- main of the independent immaterial prin- ciple from the highest intellectual soul of Aristotle to all the three souls recognised by him the veuetable or plant soul (without consciousnessl, the animal soul (with con- sciousness), and the intellect throughout. The two lower souls the vegetable and the animal need the co-operation of the body in this life : the intellect works with- out any bodily organ, except that it makes use of the perceptions of the senses. A. Vegetable or X~stritire Soul. Incorporatcs an immaterial part, al- though unconscious. B. Animal Soul. Has an immatarial part, with con- sciousness. C. Intellect. Purely immaterial. The animal soul, B, contains sensation, appetite, and emotion, and is a mixed or two-sided entity; but the intellect, C, is a purely one-sided entity, the immaterial. This does not relieve our perplexities; the phenomena are still generically allied and continuous sensation passes into intellect without any breach of continuity; but as regards the agencies, the transition from a mixed or united material and immaterial substance to an immaterial substance apart, is a transition to a differently constituted world, to a transcendental sphere of ex- istence. The settlement of Aquinas governed all the schools and all the religious creeds until quite recent times; it is, for example, sub- stantially the view of Bishop Butler. At the instance of modern physiology, however, it has undergone modifications. The de- pendence of purely intellectual operations, as memory, upon the material processes, has been reluctantly admitted by the partisans of an immaterial principle; an admission incompatible with the isolation of the intel- lect in Aristotle and in Aquinas. This more thorough-going connexion of the men- tal and the physical has led to a new form of expressing the relationship, which is nearer the truth, without being in my judg- ment, quite accurate. It is now often said the mind arid the body act upon each other; that neither is allowed, so to speak, to pur- sue its course alone: there is a constant in- terference, a mutual influence between the two. This view is liable to the following objections : 1. In the first place, it assumes that we are entitled to speak of mind apart from body, and to affirm its powers and proper- ties in that separate capacity. But of mind apart from body we have no direct experi- ence, and absolutely no knowledge. The wind may act upon the sea, and the waves may re-act upon the wind; but the agents are known in separation: they are seen to exist apart before the shock of collision; but we are not permitted to see a mind acting apart from its material companion. 2. In the second place, we have every reason for believing that there is an un- hroken material succession, side by side with all our mental processes. Fr6m the ingress of a sensation to the outgoing responses in action, the mental succession is not for an instant dissevered from a physical succession. A new prospect bursts upon the view; there is a mental result of sensa- tions, emotion, thought, terminating in out- ward displays of speech or gesture. Par- allel to this mental series is the physical series of facts, the successive agitation of the physical organs, called the eye, the retina, the optic nerve, optic centres, cere- bral hemispheres, outgoing nerves, muscles, & c. There is an unbroken physical circle of effects, maintained while we go the round of the mental circle of sensation, emotion, and thought. It would be incom- patible with everything we know of the 132 ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. cerebral action, to suppose that the physical chain ends abruptly in a physical void, occu- pied by an immaterial substance; which im- material subsance, after working alone, imparts its results to the other edge of the physical break, and determines the active response,two shores of the material with an intervening ocean of the immaterial. There is, in fact, no rupture of nervous con- tinuitv. The only tenable supposition is, that mental and physical proceed together, as undivided twins. When, therefore, we speak of a mental cause, a mental agency, we have always a two-sided cause: the effect produced is not the effect of mind alone, but of mind in company with body. That mind should have operated on the body is as much as to say that a two-sided phenomenon, one side being bodily. can in- fluence the body; it is, after all, body acting upon body. When a shock of fear paralyses digestion, it is not the emotion of fear in the abstract, or as a pure mental existence, that does the harm: it is the emo- tion in company with a peculiarly excited condition of the brain and nervous system; and it is this corAition of the brain that deranges the stomach. When physical nourishment, or a physical stimulant, acting through the blood, quiets the mental irrita- tion, and restores a cheerful tone, it is not a bodily fact causing a mental fact by a direct line of causation: the nourishment and the stimulus determine the circulation of blood to the brain, give a new direction to the nerve currents; and the mental condi- tion corresponding to this particular mode of cerebral action henceforth manifests it- self The line of mental sequence is thus, not mind causing body, and body causing mind, but mind-hody giving birth to mind- body; a much more intelligible position. For this double or conjoint causation, we, can produce evidence; for the single-handed causation, we have no evidence. If it were not my peculiar province to endeavour to clear up the specially meta- physical difficulties of the relationship of mind aiid body, I would pass over what is to me the most puzzling circumstance of the relationship, and indeed the only real difficulty in the question. I say the real difficulty, for factitious dif- ficulties in abundance have been made out of the subject. It is made a mystery how mental functions and bodily functions should be allied together, at all. That, however, is no business of ours; we accept this alli- ance as we do any other alliance, such as gravity with inert matter, or light with heat. As a fact of the uniyerse, the union is, pro- perly speaking, just as acceptable, and as intelligible, as the separation would be, if that were the fact. The real difficulty is quite another thing. What I have in view is this: when I speak of mind as allied with body, with a brain and its nerve currents, I can scarcely avoid localizing the mind, giving it a local habitation. I am thereupon asked to ex- plain what always puzzled the schoolmen, namely, whether the mind is all in every part, or only all in the whole; whether, in tapping any point, I may come at conscious- ness, or whether the whole mechanism is wanted for the smallest portion of conscious- ness. One might perhaps turn the ques- tion by the analo~y of the telegraph-wh~e, or the electric-circuit, and say that a com- plete circle of action is necessary to any mental manifestation; which is probably true. But this does not meet the case. The fact is, that, all this time that we are speak- ing of nerves and wires, we are not speaking of mind, properly so called, at all; we are putting forward physical facts that go along with it; but these physical facts are not the mental fact, and they even preclude us from thinking of the mental fact. We are in this fix: mental states and bodily states are utterly contrasted; they cannot be com- pared, they have nothing in common except the most general of all attributes, degree,. and order in time: when enraged with one, we must be oblivious of all that distinguishes the other. When I am stu(lying a brain and nerve communicating, I am engrossed with properties exclusively belonging to the object or material world; I am at that mc- ment (except by very rapid transitions or alterations) unable to conceive a truly men- tal fact, my truly mental consciousness. Our mental experience, our feelings and thoughts, have no extension, no place, no form or out- line, no mechanical division of parts; and we are incapable of attending to anything mental until we shut off the view of all that. Wahing in the country in spring, our mind is occupied with the foliage, the bloom and the grassy meads, all liurely ob- jective things: we are suddenly and strongly arrested by the odour of the May-blossom we give way for a moment to the sensation of sweetness: for that moment the objective regards cease; we think of nothing extend- ed, we are in a state where extension has no footing; there is, to us, place no longer. Such states are of short duration, mere fits, glimpses; they are constantly shifted and alternated with object states; hut, while they last and have their full power, we are in a different world ;. tdie material world. is. 133 134 ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. blotted out, eclipsed, for the instant un- The conditiGn of our existing thoroughly in thinkable. These subject-moments are the one is the momentary eclipse or extine- studied to advantage in bursts of intense tion of the other. pleasure or intense pain, in fits of engrossed The only mode of union that is not con- reflection, especially reflection upon mental tradictory is the union of close succession facts; but they are seldom sustained in in time; or of position in a continued thread purity beyond a very short interval; we are of conscious life. We are entitled to say constantly returning to the object side of that the same being is, by alternate fits, things, to the world where extension and object and subject, under extended and un- place have their being. der unextended consciousness; and that, This, then, as it appears to me, is the without the extended consciousness, the Un- only real difficulty of the physical and men- extended would not arise. Without cer- tal relationship. There is an alliance with tam peculiar modes of the extended, what matter, with the object or extended world; we call a cerebral organization, and so on, but the thing allied, the mind proper, has we could not have those times of trance, itself no extension, and cannot be joined in our pleasures, our pains, and our ideas, local union. Now, we have no form of which at present we undergo fitfully, and lahguage, no familiar analogy, suited to this alternately with our extended conscious- unique conjunction: in comparison with all ness. ordinary unions, it is a paradox or a con- Having thus called attention to the meta- tradiction. We understand union in the physical difficulty of assigning the relative sense of local con nexion; here is a union position of mind and matter, I will now where local connexion is irrelevant, unsuit- state briefly what I think the mode of deal- able, contradictory, for we cannot think of ing with mind in correlation with the other mind without putting ourselves out of the forces. That there is a definite equivalence world of place. When, as in pure feeling, between mental manifestations and physi pleasure or pain, we change to the cal forces, the same as between the physical subject attitude from the object attitude, forces themselves, is. I think, conformable we have undergone a change not to be cx- to all the facts, although liable to peculiar I)ressed by place; the fact is not properly difficulties in the way of decisive proof. described by the transition from the external I. The mental manifestations are in exact, to the internal, for that is still a change in proportion to their physical supports. the region of the extended. The only ade- If the doctrine of the thorough-going quate expression is a change of state, a connexion of mind and body is good for change from the state of the extended cog- anything, it must go this leno-th Th nition to a state of unextended cognition. must be a numerically-proportioned rise By various theologians, heaven has been and fall of the two together. I believe spoken of as not a place, but a state; and that all the unequivocal facts bear out this this is the only phrase that I can find suita- proportion. ble to describe the vast, though familiar Take first the more obvious illustrations. and easy, transition from the material or In the employment of external agents, as extended, to the immaterial or unextended warmth and food, all will admit that the ~side of the universe of being. sensation rises exactly as the stimulant When, therefore, we talk of incorporating rises, until a certain point is reached, mind with brain, we must be held as speak- when the agency changes its character; ing under an important reserve or qualifica- too great heat destroying the tissues, and ton. Asserting the union in the strongest too much food impeding digestion. There manner, we must yet deprive it of the al- is, although we may not have the power to most invincible association of union in place. fix it, a sensational equivalent of heat, of An extended organism is the condition of food, of exercise, of sound, of light; there our passing into a state where there is no is a definite change of feeling, an accession extension. A human being is an extended of pleasure or of pain, correspon ding to a and material thing, attached to which is the rise of temperature in the air of 10 deg., powet of becoming alive to feeling and 20 deg., or 30 deg. And so with regard to thought, the extreme remove from all that every other agent operating upon the human is material; a condition of trance wherein, sensibility: there is, in each set of circum- while it lasts, the material drops out of stances, a sensational ~quivaleut of alcohol, view, so much so, that we have not the of odours, of music, of spectacle. power to represent the two extremes as It is this definite relation between outward lying side by side, as container and contained, agents and the human feelings that ren- or in any other mode of local conjunction. ders it possible to discuss human interests ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. from the objective side, the only accessible side. We cannot read the feelings of our fellows; we merely presume that like agents will affect them all in nearly the same way. It is thus that we measure mens fortunes and felicity by the numerical amount of certain agents, as money, and by the ab- sence or low degree of certain other agents, the causes of pain and the depressors of vitality. And although the estimate is somewhat rough, this is not owing to the indefiniteness of the sensational equivalent, but to the complications of the human sys- tem,and chiefly to the narrowness of the line that everywhere divides the wholesome from the unwholesome degrees of all stimu- lants. Let us next represent the equivalence under vital or physiological action. The chief organ concerned is the brain; of which we know that it is a system of myriads of connecting threads, ramifying, uniting, and crossing at innumerable points; that these threads are actuated or made alive with a current influence called the nerve force; that this nerve force is a mem- ber of the group of correlated forces; that it is immediately derived from the changes in the blood, and, in the last resort, from oxidation or combustion of the materials of the food, of which combustion it is a definite equivalent. We know, farther, that there can be no feeling, no volition, no intellect, without a proper supply of blood, containing both oxygen and the materials to be oxidized; that, as the blood is richer in quality in regard to these con- stituents and more abundant in quantity, the mental processes are more intense, more vivid. We know also that there are means of increasing the circulation in one organ, and drawing it off from another, chiefly by calling the one into greater exercise, as when we exert the muscles or convey food to the stomach; and that, when mental processes are more than usually intensified, the blood is proportionally drawn to the brain; the oxidizing process is there in ex- cess, with corresponding defect and detri- ment in other organs. In high mental ex- citement, digestion is stopped; muscular vigour is abated except in the one form of giving vent to the feelings, thoughts, and purposes; the general nutrition languishes; and, if the state were long-continued or oft-repeated, the physical powers, strictly so called, would rapidly deteriorate. We know, on the other extreme, that sleep is accom- panied by reduced circulation in the brain; there is in fact a reduced circulation gen- erally; while of that reduced amount more goes to the nutritive functions than to the cerebral. In listening to Dr. Franklands lecture on Muscular Power, delivered last year at the Royal Institution of London, I noticed that, in accounting for the various items of ex- penditure of the food, he gave mental work as one heading, but declined to make an entry therein-under. I can im- agine two reasons for this reserve, the statement of which will further illustrate the general position. In the first place, it might be supposed that mind is a phenome- non so anomalous, uncertain, so remote from the chain of material cause and effect, that it is not even to be mentioned in that con- nexion. To which I should say, that mind is indeed, as a phenomenon, widely different from the physical forces, hut nevertheless, rises and falls in strict numerical concomi- tance with these so that it still enters, if not directly, at least indirectly, into the circle of the correlated forces. Or second- ly, the lecturer may have held, that, though a definite amount of the mental manifesta- tions accompanies a definite amount of oxidation in the special organs of mind, there is no means of reducing this to a measure, even in an approximate way. To this I answer, that the thin~ is difficult, but not entirely impracticable. There is a possibility of giving, approximately at least, the amount of blood circulating in the brain in the ordinary waking state; and as, dur- ing a period of intense excitement, we know that there is a general reduction, almost to paralysis, of the collective vital functions, we could not be far mistaken in saying that in that case, perhaps one-half or one-third of all the oxidation of the body was expend- ed in keeping up the cerebral fires. It is a very serious drawback in any de- partment of knowledge, where there are relations of quantity, to be unable to reduce them to numerical precision. This is the case with mind in a great degree, although not with it alone: many physical qualities are in the same state of unprecise measure- ment. We cannot reduce to numbers the statement of a mans constitutional vigour, so as to say how much he has lost by fatigue, by disease, by age, or how much he has gained by a certain healthy regimen. Un- doubtedly, however, it is in mind that the difficulties of attaining the numerical state- ment are greatest, if not nearly insuperable. When we say that one man is more courage- ous, more loving, more irascible, than anoth- er, we apply a scale of degree, existing in our own mind, but so vague that we may apply it differently at different times, while we 135 ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. can hardly communicate it to others exact- ly as it stands to ourselves. The conse- quence is, that a great margin of allowance must always be made in those statements: we can never run a close argument, or con- tend for a nice shade of distinction. Be- tween the extremes of timidity and courage of character, the best observer could not entertain above seven or eight varieties of gradation, while two different persons sulting together could hardly agree upon so minute a subdivision as that. The phrenologists, in their scale of qualities, had the advantage of an external indication of size, but they must have felt the useless- ness of graduating this beyond the delicacy of discriminating the subjective side of character; and their extreme scale included twenty steps or interpolations. Making allowance for this inevitable de- fect, I will endeavour to present a series of illustrations of the principle of correlation as applied to mind, in the manner explained. II deal not with mind directly, but with its material side, with whose activity, measured exactly as we measure the other physical forces, true mental activity has a definite correspondence. Let us suppose, then, a human being with average physical constitution, in re- spect of nutritive vigour, and fairly supplied with food and with air, or oxygen. The result of the oxidation of the food is a defi- nite total of force, which may be variously distributed. The demand made by the brain to sustain the purely mental func- tions may be below average, or above aver- age; there will be a corresponding but in- verse variation of the remainder available for the more strictly physical processes, as muscular power, digestive p6wer, animal heat, and so on. In the first case supposed, the case of a small demand for mental work and excite- ment, we look for, and we find, a better physique, greater muscular power and endurance, more vicrour of digestion, ren- dering a coarser food sufficient for nourish- ment, more resistance to excesses of cold and heat; in short, a constitution adapted to physical drud~ery and physical hardship. Take now the other extreme. Let there he a great demand for mental work. The oxidation must now be disproportionately expcnded in the brain; less is oiven to the muscles, the stomach, the lungs, the skin, and secreting organs generally. There is a reduction of the possible muscular work, and of the ability to subsist on coarser food, and to endure hardship. Experience con- firms this inference; the common observa tion of mankind has recognised the fact although in a vague, unsteady form that the head worker is not equally fitted to be a hand worker. The master, mistress, or overseer has each more delicacy of sense, more management, more resource, than the manual operatives; but to these belongs the superiority of muscular power and persist- ence. There is nothing incompatible with the principle in allowing the possibility of com- bining, under certain favourable conditions, both physical and mental exertion in con- siderable amount. In fact, the principle teaches us exactly how the thing may be done. Improve the quality and increase the quantity of the food; increase the supply of oxygen by healthy residence; let the hab- itual muscular exertion be such as to strengthen, and not impair, the functions; abate as much as possible all excesses and irregularities, bodily and mental; add the enormous economy of an educated disposal of the forces; and you will develop a higher being, a greater aggregate of powcr. You will then have more to spare for all kinds of expenditure for the physico-mental, as well as for the strictly physical. What other explanation is needed of the military superiority of the officer over the common soldier? of the general efficiency of the man nourished, but not enervated, by worldly abundance? It may be possible, at some future stage of scientific inquiry, to compute the compar- ative amount of oxidation in the brain dur- ing severe mental labour. Even now, from obvious facts, we must pronounce it to be a very considerable fraction of the entire work done in the system. The privation of the other interests during mental exer- tion is so apparent, so extensive, that, if the exertion should happen to be long contin- ued, a liberal atonement has to be made in order to stave off general insolvency. Men- tal excess counts as largely as muscular ex- cess in the diversion of power: it would be competent to suppose either the one or the other reducing the remaining forces of the system to one-half of their proper amount. In both cases, the work of restoration must be on the same simple plan of redressing the inequality, of allowing more than the average flow of blood to the impoverished organs, for a length of time corresponding to the period when their nourishment has been too small. It is in this consideration that we seem to have the reasonable, I may say the arithmetical, basis of the constitu- tional treatment of chronic disease. We repay the debt to nature by allowing the 136 ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. weakened organ to be better nourished and less taxed, according to the degradation it has under~,one by the opposite line of treat- ment. In a large class of diseases we have obviously a species of insolvency, to be dealt with according to the sound method of re- adjusting the relations of expenditure and income. And, if such be the true thcory, it seems to follow that medication is only an inferior adjunct. Drugs, even in their hap- piest application, can but guide and favour the restorative process; Just as the stirrin~, of a fire may make it burn, provided there be the needful fuel. There is thus a definite, although not nu- merically-statable relation, between the total of the physico-mental forces and the total of the purely physical processes. The grand aggregate of the oxidation of the system includes both; and, the more the force taken up by one, the less is left to the other. Such is the statement of the corre- lation of mind to the other forces of Nature. We do not deal with pure mind, mind in the abstract; we have no experience of an entity of that description. We deal with a compound or two-sided phenomenon mental on one side, physical on the other; there is a definite correspondence in degree, although a difference of nature, between the two sides; and the physical side is itself in full correlation with the recognized phys- ical forces of the world. II. There remains another application of the doctrine, perhaps eqnally intercstjng to contemplate, and more within my spe- cial line of study. I mean the correlation of the mental forces among tiicmselves (still viewed in the conjoint arrangement). Just as we assign limits to mind as a whole, by a reference to the grant of physical expen- diture, in oxidation, & c , for the department, so we must assign limits to the different phases or modes of mental work thought, feeling, and so on according to the share allotted to each; so that, while the mind as a whole may be stinted by the demands of the non-mental functions, each separate manifestation is bounded by the require- ments of the others~ This is an inevitable consequence of the general principle, and equally receives the confirmation of expe- rience. There is the same absence of nu- merical precision of estimate; our scale of quantity can have but few divisions between the highest and the lowest degrees, and these not well fixed. What is required for this application of the principle is, to ascertain the compara- tive cost, in the physical point of view, of the different functions ofthe mind. The great divisioffs of the mind are, Feeling, Will, and Thought, Feeling, seen in our pleasures and pains; Will, in our labours to attain the one, and avoid the other; Thought, in our sensations, ideas, recollections, reasonings, imaginings, and so on. Now, the forces of the min(l, with their physical supports, may be evenly or unevenly distributed over the three func- tions. They may go by preference either to feeling, to action, or to thinking; and, if more is given to one, less must remain to the others, the entire quantity being limited. First as to the Feelings. Every throb of pleasure costs something to the physical system; aiid two throbs cost twice as much as one. If we cannot fix a precise equiva- lent. it is not because the relation is riot definite, but from the difficulties of redu- cing degrees of pleasure to a recognized standard. Of this, however, there can be no reasonable doubt, namely, that a large amount of pleasure supposes a correspond- ing large expenditure of blood and nerve tissue, to the stinting, perhaps, of the active energies, and the intellectual processes. It is a matter of psuctical moment to ascertain what pleasures cost least; for there are thrifty and unthrifty modes of spending our brain and hearts blood. Experience probably justi- fies us in saying that the narcotic stimulants are, in general, a more extravagant cx pen- diture than the stimulation of food, society, and fine art. One of the sati2st of delights, if not very acute, is the delight of abound- in~ physical vi~our; for from the very sup- position, the supply to the brain is not such as to interfere with the general interests of the system. But the theory of pleasure is incomplete without the theory of pain. As a rule, pain is a more costly experi- ence than pleasure, although sometimes eco- nomical as a check to the spendthrift pleas- ures. Pain is physically accompanied by an excess of blood in the brain, from at least two causes, extreme intensity of nervous action, and conflicting currents, both being sources of waste. The sleeplesness of the pained condition means that the circulation is never allowed to subside from the brain; the irritation maintains energetic currents, which bring the blood copiously to the parts affected. There is a possibility of excitement of considerable amount, without either pleas- ure or pain; the cost here is. simply as the excitement; mere surprises may be of this nature. Such excitement has no value, except intellectually; it may detain the thoughts, and impress the memory; but it is not a final end of our being as pleasure is, 137 ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. and it does not waste power to the extent that pain does. The ideally best condition is a moderate surplus of pleasure a gentle glow, not rising into brilliancy or intensity, except at considerable intervals (say a small portion of every day), falling down frequently to indifference, but seldom sink- ing into pain. Attendant on strong feeling, especially in constitutions you ng or robust, there is usu- ally a great amount of mere bodily vehe- mence, as gesticulation, play of countenance, of voice, and so on. This counts as muscu- lar work, and is an addition to the brain work. Properly speaking, the cerebral cur- rents discharge themselves in movements, and are modified according to the scope given to those movements. Resistance to the movements is liable to increase the con- scious activity of the hrain, although a con- tinuing resistance may suppress the entire wave. Next as to the Will, or our voluntary la- hours and pursuits for the great ends of obtaining pleasure, and warding oft pain. This part of our system is a compound experience of feeling and movement; the properly mental fact being included under feeling that is, pleasure and pain, present or ima~incd. When our voluntary endeav- ours are successful, a distinct throb of pleas- ure is the result, which counts among our valuable enjoyments: when they fail, a pain- ful and depressing state ensues. The more complicated operations of the will, as in ad- justing many opposite interests, brin in the element of conflict, which is always painful and wastino. Two strong stimulants point- ing opposite ways, as when a miser has to pay a high fee to the surgeon that saves his eyesight, occasion a fierce strug~le and se- vere draft upon the physical supports of the feelings. Although the processes of feeling all in- volve a manifest, and, it may be, a serious expenditure of physical power, which of course is lost to the purely physical func- tions; and although the extreme degrees of pleasure, of pain, or of neutral excitement must be adverse to the general vigour: yet the presumption is that we can afford a certain moderate share of all these without too great inroads on the other interests. It is the thinking or intellectual part of us that involves the heaviest item of expenditure in the physico-mental department. Any- thing like a great or general cultivation of the powers of thought, or any occupation that severely and continuously brings them into play, will induce such a preponderance of cerebral activity, in oxidation and in nerve-currents, as to disturb the balance of life, and to require special arrangements for redeeming that disturbance. This is fully verified by all we know of the tendency of intellectual application to exhaust the phys- ical powers, and to brin on early decay. A careful analysis of the operations of the intellect enables us to distinguish the kind of exercises that involve the greatest ex- penditure, from the extent and the intensi- ty of the cerebral occupation. I can but make a rapid selection of leading points. First. The mere exercise of the senses, in the way of attention, with a view to watch, to discriminate, to identify, belongs to the intellectual function, and exhausts the powers according as it is long continued, and according to the delicacy of the opera- tion; the meaning of d~ licacy being that an exaggerated activity of the organ is needed to make the required discernment. To be all day on the qui nyc for some very slight and barely perceptible indications to the eye or the ear, as in catching an indistinct speaker, is an exhausting labour of atten- tion. Secondly. The work of acquisition is necessarily a process of great nervous ex- penditure. Unintentional imitation costs least, because there is no forcing of reluc- tant attention. But a course of extensive and various acquisitions cannot be main- tained without a large supply of blood to ce- ment all the multifarious connexions of the nerve-fibres, cons~ituting the physical side of acquisition. An abated support of other mental fiincfons, as well as of the purely physical functions, must accompany a life devoted to mental improvement, whether arts, languages, sciences, moral restraints, or other culture. Of special acquisitions, languages are the most apparently voluminous; but the mem- ory for visible or pictorial aspects, if very high, as in the painter and the picturesque poet, makes a prodigious demand upon the plastic combinations of the brain. The acquisition of science is severe, rath- er than multifarious ; it glories in compre- hending much in little, but that little is made up of painful abstract elements, every one of which, in the last resort, must have at its beck a host of explanatory particu- lars; so that, after all, the burden lies in the multitude. if science is easy to a se- lect number of minds, it is because there is a large spontaneous determination of force to the cerebral elements that support it; which force is applied by the limited com 138 ON THE CORRELATION OF FORCE. 139 mon fund, and leaves so much the less for The absence of restraints, of severe con- other uses. ditions, in fine art, allows a flush and ebul If we advert to the moral acquisitions hence, an opulence of production, that is and habits in a well-regulated mind, we often called the highest genius. The must admit the need of a large expenditure Shakespearian profusion of images would to build up the fabric. The carefully-poised have been reduced to one-half, if not less, estimate of good and evil for self, the ever- by the self-imposed restraints of Pope, Gray, present sense of the interests of others, or Tennyson. So, reckless assertion is fuel and the ready obedience to all the special to eloquence. A man of ordinary fairness ordinances that make up the morality of of mind would be no match for the wit and the time, however truly expressed in terms epigram of Swift. of high and abstract spirituality, have their And a~ain. The incompatibility of di- counterpart in the physical organism; they verse attributes, even in minds of the lar- have used up a large and definite amount gest compass (which supposes equally large of nutriment, and, had they been less de- physical resources), belongs to the same veloped, there would have been a gain of fundamental law. A great mind may be power to some other department, mental or great in many things, because the same physical. kind of power may have numerous applica- Refraining from further detail on this head, tions. The scientific mind of a high order I close the illustration by a brief reference to is also the practical mind; it is the essence one other aspect of mental expenditure, of reason in every mode of its manifestation namely, the department of intellectual pro- the true philosopher in conduct as well duction, execution, or creativeness, to which as in knowledge. On such a mind also, a in the end our acquired powers are ministe- certain amount of artistic culture may be rial. Of course, the greater the mere con- superinduced; its powers of acquisition may tinuance or amount of intellectual labour in be extended so far. But the spontaneous, business, speculation, fine art, or anything exuberant, imaginative flow, the artistic na- else, the greater the demand on the physique. ture at the core, never was, cannot be, in- But amount is not all. There are notorious eluded in the same individual. Aristotle differences of severity or laboriousness, could not be also a tragic poet, nor Newton which, when closely examined, are summed a third-rate portrait-painter. The cost of up in one comprehensive statement natne- one of the two modes of intellectual great- ly, the number, the variety, and the conflict- ness is all that can be borne by the most ing nature of the conditions that have to be largely-endowed personality; any appear- fulfilled. By this we explain the difficulty ances to the contrary are hollow and delu- of work, the toil of invention, the harass- sive. ment of adaptation, the worry of leadership Other instances could be given. Great the responsibility of high office, the severity activity and great sensibility are extreme of a lofty ideal, tjie distraction of numirous phases, each using a large amount of power, sympathies, the meritoriousness of sound and therefore scarcely to be coupled in the judgment, the arduousness of any great same system. The active, energetic man, virtue. The physical facts underlying the loving activity for its own sake, moving in mental fact are a wide spread agitation of every direction, wants the delicate circum- the cerebral currents, a tumultuous conflict, spection of another man who does not love a consumption of energy. activity for its own sake, but is energetic It is this compliance with numerous and only at the spur of his special ends. opposing conditions that obtains the most And once more. Great intellect as a scanty justice in our appreciation of charac- whole is not readily united with a large ter. The unknown amount of painful sup- emotional nature. The incompatibility is pression that a cautious thinker, a careful best seen by inquiring whether men of over- writer, or an artist of fine taste, has gone flowing sociability are deep and original through, represents a great physico-mental thinkers, great discoverers, accurate inquir- expenditure. The regard to evidence is a ers, great organizers in affairs; or whether heavy drag on the wings of speculative dar- their greatness is not limited to the spheres ing. The greater the number of interests where feeling performs a part poetry that a political schemer can throw over- eloquence, and social aseendency. board, the easier his work of construction. THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. THE reign of George 111., as usually de- scribed in history, presents us with little else than a continuous narrative of fierce party struggles at home, and of long and sanguinary foreign wars in all parts of the world. Two historians indeed, both of them painstaking writers, have, within the last few years, stepped in this respect slight- ly out of the beaten track. Lord Stanhope first, and after him Mr. Massey, saw the im- portance of at least touching on the inner life of the nation, and each has, in conse- quence, devoted a separate chapter to the discussion of other points than those of foreign and domestic policy. Even they, however, treat this portion of their subject with less breadth of detail than its impor- tance seems to deserve. They describe some of the customs of a bygone age, and describe them well; but the picture which they paint is far from complete ; and they fail to show by what process it assumed by degrees, like a dissolvin~ view atatheatre, a new aspect. Even Mr. Jesse, whom the great- er freedom afforded to a biographer might have tempted to take a course of his own, has not, according to our judgment in the matter, quite come up with the point which was accessible to him. He gives us, it is true, pleasant glimpses of the domestic habits of the royal household, and exposes, without circumlocution, the low state of morals which prevailed a hundred years ago among the aristocracy. But of the marvellous changes which were going on under the hero of his tale in the constitu- tion of English society at large, and of the causes to which they are attributable, even he takes little or no notice. We propose in the following pages to supply in some degree what we do not find in his pleasant pages, not because we desire to censure him for turning aside from investigations the pursuit of which might have carried him outside the plan on which he proposed to construct his work, but because the student of his agreeable volumes will scarcely de- rive from them all the instruction with which they are fraught, nuless he know something more than Mr. Jesse tells him of what En nland was, while those sixty years were rnnning their course during which the Government of this country was carried on in the name and under the authority of Geor~e III. We must begin by reminding our readers that the incidents which mainly determine whether nations are tQ be accounted civil- ised or the reverse are the condition of. their roads, the state of their agriculture, and the means of transport available, at all times, and under everyday contingen- cies, for the conveyance of goods and of persons from one point within the country to another. Wherever you find these three conditions of social existence in gco d order, there you may he sure that you are not so- journing with barbarians. There may be no high standard of art and literature among theni; their manners, in the common inter- course of life, may be rough; and even in the views which they entertain of moral and religious requirements, you may encounter a ~ood deal which offends your more just perception of what is right. But the peo- ple as a l)eople are lifted above tire line which divides civilisation from barbarism; they have made the first and certainly the most important advances towards national refinement. On the other hand, wherever these three conditions of social existence are in bad order, there, you may depend upon it, you have fallen among a rude peo- ple. Their country may have produced great writers, great artists, learned (liviuCS, philosophers, and scholars; and luxury may abound in their capital as it aboundeut long ago in Rome. But the people, as a people, are essentially rude; they have yet the first and most important steps to take ~A the direction of national refinement. When George III. mounted the throne, England, so far as regarded the state of its roads, its agriculture, and means of internal transport, was, if not the most backward, certainly one of the most backward of European countries. In respect to roads it haul decidedly fallen far behind the condi- tion in which the Romans left it. The long straight causeways of that marvellous people, taking no account of levels, but passing sheer from point to point, were all but obliterated, and nothing barn, solid, or fit to bear the pressure of travel, h. d then, or for centuries before, taken their place. Here and there, indeed, as on the Wiltshire downs, the moors of Devonshire, and the Yorkshire wolds, stone blocks laid down irregularly on the surface of the ground, enabled men and horses to pick their way, even in ~yinter, from one town or village to another. But wherever the old Roman roads were lost in other parts of the coun- try, nothing was brought in to supply their place, and travelling became, in conse- quence, not only difficult and dangerous, but xvell-ni,h impossible. It is not our business to describe in de- tail how feeble were the attempts madcm 140 THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. 141 long ago by legislation and royal authority middle of the ocean; and all the Londoners to correct this evil. As early as 1285, a tell us that there is between them and us law was passed directing the hushes and an impassable gulf of mud. And that trees to be cleared away from either side of Lord Hervey scarcely overcolocred his the highways, to a distance of two hundred picture, is shown by the fact that when feet, for the avowed purpose of preventing Queen Caroline passed from St. Jamess rohbers from lying in ambush. But for Palace to Kensington, she spent two hours the construction of roads themselves no on the journey in bad weather, and that orders were given, and these became in con- over and over again the royal carriage sequence, wherever they existed at all, ex- stuck fast or was upset by the wheel getting aetly what the amount of traffic upon each into a rut. Nor were the streets of London happened to make it. Hence, two centu- themselves in a much better plight. Open ries later, the fbotway at the entrance of kennels ran in the middle of them, which, Temple Bar was become so choked by when the rain came down, flooded them thickets and bushes as to be all but impass- altogether, leaving, on the subsidence of able; indeed it was not till the accession of the waters, a sea of mud, through which William and Mary that anything whatever (for there were no sideways or flagstones), was done to enforce the establishment of passengers on foot had to pick their way, means of intercommunication between and to pick it after nightfall in the dark, either the capital and the provinces, or one for street-lamps there were none. provincial town and another. Then the Over roads of this description, the only Statute of Labour, as it is called, was first practicable mode of travelling was on foot passed. This threw upon parishes the or on horseback. The poor walked, the burden of maintaining such roads as were rich rode. The judges rode the circuits, already marked out. But besides that the and the har walked or rode, according as law made no requisition for new roads, so their circumstances authorised. Ladies sat little was it regarded in its effect upon the on pillions, with their arms round the gen- old roads that in Queen Annes reign, and tlemen or servingmen who rode before down to the demise of George II., the them. Queen Elizabeth made most of her traveller who in winter approached Lon- journeys in this fashion, and entered the don from the west, was in danger of sink- city in state sitting on a pillion behind the ing, even when he got to Knii~htsbridge, up Lord Chancellor. She was provided, in- to his saddle-giribs in mud. Nor, as may be deed, in the course of her reign with a supposed, were the facilities of travel great- coach, which, like the Roman carriages, er in the provinces than near the capital. In was destitute of springs, the body resting the neitthbourhood of Birmingham, where the upon solid axles. But so severe was the soil is sandy, successive generations of men jolting that, except on state occasions, the and horses cut down the paths here and there coach never came With her into use, nor to a depth of many feet below the surface was it for many years after her reign adopt- one of which, by-the-by, still existing, and ed even by the great nobility. The horse- known as holloway Head, tells its own story, litter conveyed tadies who were too delicate even though in part the hollowbas been fill- to go through a journey on horseback, and ed in. In like manner Holloway parish in the pillion did service with the more ro- London speaks of the condition in which the bust. way or road used to be, from which the parish Meanwhile, what little traffic in goods takes its name. As to Sussex, Fuller tells us was carried on between one part of the that in his day the roads were such that an realm and another was carried on entirely old lady, a friend of his, used to he dragged by packhorses. Corn and wool went to in her coach to church by six oxen. So also market in creels. Manure was carried to Cowley, the poet, encourages his friend the fields in the same way and in the same Spratt to visit him in Chertsey. by showing way from moss or forest fuel was conveyed that he might sleep the first nirht in Hamp- to towns, villages, and private houses. ton town. and reach him in time for supper Even the little coal which was used in the the day following. And thus things con- southern counties could only be transported tinned with very little improvement down in panniers from the seashore or navigable to the middle of the eighteenth century. rivers inland. In a country so circumstan- Lord Hervey~ writing from Kensington in ced it was out of the question that mann- 1 736, complains that the road between factures of any kind could flourish. It was this place and London is grown so infamous- cheaper to import foreign wares into Lou- ly bad, that we are here in the same soli- don by sea than to bring them on horses tude as we would be if cast on a rock in the backs from the interior. And elsewhere 142 than in London people were content to do without articles which arc now re,,arded as indispensable, even to the poorest. For example, a hundred and fifty years ago vessels of wood, pewter, and even of leath- er, formed the chief part of the household and table utensils in opulent families. Clothiur,, glass, delft, cutlery, paper, even hats, all caine from France, Germany, and Holland; and most of these, like plate in silver and gold, were in common use only among the titled and untitled no- bility. Commercial intercourse there was, how- ever, of a certain kind even then between the capital and the provinces, and between one provincial town and another. At the time when Smollett made his famous jour- ney from Glasgow to London, this was carried on partly in waggons, more fre- quently hy packhorses. The latter were used principally for purposes of trade the former had begun to carry passengers likewise; and of both modes of conveyance Smollett, like the Roderick Random of his story, made trial. The packhorses went in long strings, one following the other, pretty much as in the present day mules traverse Spain; and in England in 1753, as in Spain in 1867, the leading beast, because he was remarkable for his sagacity, bore a hell, or a collar of bells, wherewith to guide aright those that followed. We ~find in that amusing work The Original, a pas- sage which explains so accurately the cir- cumstances under which this species of in~ ternal trade was carried on, that we can- not do better than transfer it to our own pages I have, by tradition, the mode of carrying on the home-trade by one of the principal mer- chants of Manchester, who was born at the commencement of the last century, and who realized a sufficient fortune to keep a carriage, when not half-a-dozen were kept in the town by persons connected with besiness. He sent the manufactures of the place into Nott- ingbamsbire, Lincoloshire, Cambridgeshire, and tbe intervening counties, and principally took in excbange feathers from Lincolushire, and malt from Cambridgeshire and Notting- hamshire. All his commodities were conveyed on packborses, and he was from home the greater part of every year, performing his jour- neys entirely on horseback. his balances were received in ~uineas, and were carried with him in his saddle-bags. He was exposed to the vi- cissitudes of the weather, to great labour and fatigue, and to constant dan,,er. In Lincoln- shire he travelled chiefly along bridle-ways, through fields where frequent gibbets warned him of his perils, and where flocks of wild-fowl THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. continually darkened the air. Busiiiess carried on in this manner required a combination of personal attention, courage, and physical strength not to be looked for in a deputy; and a merchant then led a much more severe and irksome life than a bag-man afterwards, still more than a traveller of the present day. In the earlier diys of the merchant above men- tioned, the wine-merchant who supplied Man- chester resided at Preston, then always called Proud Preston, because exclusively inhabited by gentry. The wine was carried on horses, and a gallon was considered a large order. Allusion has been made in this extract to the perils of the road, and to the frequent gibbets which warned the travelling mer- chants, in the midland and northern coun- ties, to keep constantly upon their guard. It was not, however, in the midland and northern districts of England exclusively that the practice of highway robbery was of frequent occurrence. While Turpin and Bradshaw made the Great North Road the scene of their operations, Duval, Macheath, Macham, and many more, infested Hours slow Heath, Finchley Common, Shooten- Hill, and other approaches to the capitaL Many bodies of highwaymen,hung in chains, ornamented most of these approaches; yet the example failed to deter from constant repetitions of the offence which had cost these men their lives. Nobody thought, indeed, a hundred years ago, of setting out upon a journey, whether he travelled by coach or on horseback, without getting his firearms ready; and the circumstance of having used them effectively, and beaten off or killed a robber, gained for a gentleman almost as proud a name as the soldier acquires now by winning the Victorial Cross. The following story of John, Earl Berkeley, is not new, but we give it as well illustrating the manners of the times of which we are writing. Lord Berkeley, it appears, had often expressed his surprise at the success with which the noted highwaymen of the day carried on their pperations. He especially blamed gentlemen who gave up their purses, except when attacked by superior numbers, and said that he should be ashamed to appear in public if ever he allowed himself to be robbed by a single highwayman. The knights of the road, as they called them- selves, and were called by others, appear to have possessed one of the qualities which are essential to make up the character of a great commander. Their intelligence was excellent, and the speeches of Lord Berke- ley soon got abroad among them. These touched their honour, and it was determined THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. that the earliest possible opportunity should be taken of compelling the boastifil Peer to eat his words Accordingly, when he was crossing Hounslow Heath one night in his carriage, he was suddenly roused from a slumber into which he had fallen by find- ing that the carriage was stopped, an(l that a strange face looked in upon him through the window while a pistol was presented at his breast. So, my lord, said the face, I have you now. You have often boasted that you would not be robbed. Ddiver, or take this. No more I would, replied Lord Berkeley, coolly, at the same time put- ting his hand into his pocket as if to find his purse, if it were not for that fellow peep- ing over your shoulder. The highwayman turned round to look; it was a false move; Lord Berkeley drew out, not his purse, but a pistol, and shot the man dead on the spot. It was not, however, by mounted cava- liers exclusively, and in the open country, that in the early days of George Ill, deeds of violence were done upon the road. Foot- passengers, proceeding after dark towards Kensington and Paddington, would wait till they mustered in sufficient strenoth to set robbers at defiance; and the proprietors of Belsize House and Gardens, of Sadlers Wells, Vauxhall. and Ranelagh, encouraged Londoners to come to those places of amuse- ment by advertising that during the season the roads would be patrolled by twelve lusty fellows. It was, we believe, the astounding suc- cess, both of the advance and the retreat of the Highland army in 1745, which first drew the serious attention of the English Govern- ment to the condition of the roads. The Highlanders, active, lithe, and little encum- bered with haggage, made their way to Derby and back again with ease, while the armies opposed to them, with their cavalry, and guns, moved both slowly and painfully as well in manotuvre as in pursuit. It was determined to make an effort towards cor- recting the evil, and a beginning was effect- ed in the north. An Act of Parliament, passed in 1765, authorized a road to be con- structed between Harrowgate an dEorough- bridge, and turnpike gates to be set up for levying tolls on horses, cattle, and wheel- carriages. John Metealfe of Knaresbor- ough, a man self-educated and blind, under. took and executed this work with an amount of skill which astonished the world. He showed his countrymen also how to bridge over torrents; how to construct upon bogs and marshy places excellent hi~hways; how to bring one town in the north into direct communication with another, provi ded there was enterprise enough in individu- als to a~t on his suggestions, and persever- ance to go on with them. It is curious to see how, both then and now, the people of the north of England took and kept the lead of those in the south in every matter demanding these qualisies. When as yet the intercourse was but indifferent between London and the coast of Kent, and London and the counties to the south and west of it, Yorkshire had its stages running from town to town, and passing with considerable reg- ularity north as far as the English border, and south into Lancashire. It may be well to notice this incident in the history of the times of which we are writing a little more in detail. Stage-coaches appear to have been intro- duced into England as early as the middle of the seventeenth century. They were mere waggons, which made their wy chiefly for a short distance out of London and back again. The pace never excee(led four miles an hour, and their joltino was fright- ful. Dugdale in his Diary speaks, how- ever, of a Coventry coach in 1659, and Thorsley of one which ran in summer be- tween York and Hull. But with the roads in the state to which we have just adverted, and in a country where drainage was un- known, travelling to any distance in wheel- carriages of any kind was both uncertain and tedious. In 1700 the journey by coach from London to York occupied a week. Tuobridge Wells, Salisbury, and Oxford, were two days distance from the metrop- olis. The adventurous traveller might hope to reach Exeter in five days; and, sixty years later, a full fortnight was required to make good the distance between London and Edinburgh. Even at this latter period the coach started only once a-month from each extremity of its line of route, and al- ways went forth equipped with a store of hatchets wherewith to cut down branches, and even trees, which blocked the way, and a box of carpenters tools in order that the means might be at hand of repairing dani- ages incident upon upsets and general break- ages. With roads in this state, and the means of intercommunication so scanty, the inhab- itants of one town and one district in Eng- land knew next to nothing of the inhabit- ants of another, though separated from them, it might be, by only twemity or thirty miles. Whatever people learned respect- ing their neighbours was learned from the pedlars or packmen, who were the mer- chants of the day, and conveyed from place to place news as well as goods; for shops 143 144 were rare even in towns of considerable size, and had no existence at all in smaller towns and villa~es. From these hawkers the mistress of the house was accustomed to provide herself with finery ribbons, lace, and such like. All the necessaries for home usage were provided at home. The wool clipped from the masters sheep was carded by the masters servants. The flax, steeped and worked up, was, as well as the worsted, spun; and the thread, taken charge of by a handloom-weaver on the estate, or per- haps sent to some neighbouring town or vil- lage, caine hack in due time fit to pass through the hands of the thrifty domestic seamstress or the travelling tailor. In like manner, English house-keepers were accus- tomed, less than a century ago, to lay up in the autumn such a stock of provisions as would suffice for the winters consumption. Sheep and oxen slau,,htered and salted down, with stores of wheat, barley, malt, spices, salt, honey, and savoury herbs, stocked the larder and the store-room of the rich. The poor were content if, in addition to their meal, they could lay in a supply of salted herrings. Those were the days of fairs, great and small; some chartered, some held by custom only, to which people of all ranks and conditions repaired, in order to provide themselves from time to time with such articles of luxury as neither the trav- elling merchant nor the neighbouring market town could supply. At these fairs the squires and yeomen bought and sold the prodnce of their farms. There, too, the hir- ing of servants took place; and side by sidd with traffic went on sports of all kinds merry andrews, ju~glers, quack doctors, and what not, keeping the country people in a roar, and gathering in their small coin. Of the greater fairs, not a few were given up to special business. Between Huddersfield and Leeds there was a cloth fair; a leather fair was held near Northampton; and cat- tle fairs, bonnet fairs, and even fruit fairs, abounded in all the counties of England. They were to England in the seventeenth, and even late in the eighteenth century, very much what the great fair of Novgorod is to Ru~sia at this day. The first serious innovation upon this primitive condition of things occurred in 1 760, the same year in which George III. came to the throne; and to Sheffield belongs the honour of achieving it. There was set up in that year, and in that town, a flying machine on steel springs, which the inven- tors undertook should sleep the first night at the Black-mans Head in Nottingham, the second at the Ang~1 in Northampton, THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. arriving at the Swan-with-two-necks, in Ladd Lane, on the evening of the third day. No doubt the Manchester men have some right to enter in this respect into com- petition with the men of Sheffield. They had their flying coach for the convey- ance of passengers from their town to Lon- don as early as 1754; and they gave out, by public advertismemt, before the enter- prise began, that however incredible it may appear, this coach will actually (bar- ring accidents) arrive in London in four days and a half after leaving Manchester. In the matter of steel springs, however, they appear to ~ ye fallen short of the Sheffield men; and it does not quite appear that their promise of completing the journey in four days and a half was ever fulfilled. Still the impulse was given from both quar- ters, and its rebound extended to many others. Thus we find that, in 1766, John Scott. afterwards Earl of Eldon, made his way from Newcastle to London in a fly, having spent only four days and four nights on the road. From Bath and Birmingham London was reached, a year or two later, in two days; and one day (a long one to be sure, for it began at four in the morning and ended at nine at night) sufficed, in 1770, to convey the traveller froni Dover to London. Such was the state of England when George Ill, came to the throne, as regards two of those three conditions of social life which enable us to judge, at first sight, re- specting the comparative barbarjsm of na- tions. The roads were of the worst possible description. The means of conveyance be- tween place and place were defective in the extreme. With respect to the third the state of English auriculture, and the condi- tion of the classes by whieb it was practiced, in these points the picture which meets our gaze is scarcely more cheering. Drain- age, in 1760, maybe said to have been a thing unknown. The courage and skill of our remote ancestors had, indeed, at periods too far removed from us to come wjthin the province of history, constructed here and there vast mounds for damming out the sea and keeping rivers and even estuaries within certain circumscribed limits. Such a work is the great sea-dvke which interposes be- tween the Channel and R~muey Marsh, an exten~ive tract of country containin~ about 60,000 acres, and which lies chiefly under lowwater mark, along the south coast of Kent. Such also are the emhankments which exclude the Thames from its old bed on either side of the present river, includ- ing the whole of the district now known as Pluinstead arid Erith Marshes, Plaistow, THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. 1145 East Haven, and the Barking Level. Such, time between 1760 and 1770, and even at too, are the bulwarks and causeways the the latter period only the most scientific of construction as is believed of the Romaus agriculturists grew there. As to artificial which in the fen countries of Lincoln, grasses such as sainfoin, vetches, and Norfolk, and Lluntingdon, protect the land even clover these, with the exception of from coming again under the dominion of the latter, had never been heard of~ Iii the ocean. But on these triumohs of old Scotland matters were still worse. Mis3 en~ineerin~ skill scarcely any iinprov~- Catherine Sinclair, in the Life of her fath- meets were en~rafted till the reign of er, tells us that in 1 772 the whole coun- Charles II. Then further attempts were try round the Baronets residence was bar- made, and made successfully, to shut out ren moor; that scarcely one of his tenants the sea in other quarters, hut nothing or owned a wheel-cart; and that all the hur- next to nothing was (lone to dry the soil, or dens, whether of wool or manure, were to evaporate the stagnant waters from the csrried in wicker creels upon the backs of redeemed regions. IRomney Marsh well women. Neither were the Lothians them- deserved its name a hundred years ago. selves at that tiwe much further advanced. It was a region of swamp in winter of The region between Berwick and Edin- hard dry baked grassland in summer. So burgh, which now waves with yellow corn, did all the fen regions in Lincoln and Nor-~ lay then comparatively waste, a patch of folk; so did Sedge Moor in Somersetshire; oats intervening here and there amid the so did Thorne Mere in Yorkshire, with end- heather, and scanty flocks picking up what less districts besides, of which the main pro- fodder they could among knolls and low- duce was wildfowl and eels. And where lands overgrown with broom. this waste of waters happened not to be, The people who thus practised the art of lack of skill prevented the English husband- agriculture were, as might be expected, men from applying the lands which they rude in the extreme. Schools there were owned or occupied to tillage. Hence War- none in the rural parishes; and even in burton, the author of the Valium Raman- small towns, except where King Ed- um, giving the impression which was made wards foundations happened to be, such upon hire by the condition of Northumber- schools as existed taught but little, and few land at a period nor more remote than 1783, came to profit by that little. The clergy describes a tract of country fit only for pas- did not appear to consider that upon thee-i turage, and that. too, of the most primitive the people had any further claim than for description. Such was the wild and bar- the hasty and slovenly performance of the ren state of the~ country, he says, at the public services of the Church. Of the time I made my survey, that in those parts bishops appointed since the Revolution of now called the wastes, and heretofore the 1688 several were indeed learned men debatable ground, I have frequently discov- but their learning, and the exercise of it ered the vestiges of towns and camps that through the press, engrossed all their atten- seemed never to have been trod upon by tion. The great majority could not even any human creature than myself since the claim to be scholars; and whether scholars Romans abandoned them; the traces of or not, they all alike lived and died pro- streets and the foundations of the buildings fo undly indifferent, or apparently so, to being still visible, only grown over with their proper duties. From 1688 till Geor~e grass. So also, in the middle of one of the III. came to the throne, the qualifications best cultivated and richest districts of Eng- mainly looked for in the aspirant for a mitre land Lincoln Heath there still, we be- were, that in politics he should be a Whig lieve, may be seen, there certainly could in Church matters easy-goin,, and care- be seen not many years ago, a column sev- less one who was likely to give as little enty feet high, which, when George III. as- trouble as posfible either to the Govern- cended the throne, did duty as a beacon by ment or to the not very moral society by day and as a land lighthouse by night, to which he was surrounded. This baneful guide the wayfarer in his progress over what influence made itself felt among the higher was then a dreary waste. classes, and in towns, as we shall presently While drainage was so little practised, show. In the rural districts it kept farm- and roads all but impassable, the produce ers and labourers alike steeped in the very of the fields of England could not be other depths of ignorance. Mrs. Hannah More, than scanty. Wheat, barley, and oats were describing a visit which she paid to the vil- raised in small quantities. Turnips, though lage of Cheddar, within hearing, so to sown and reared in gardens, never became speak, of the organ in Wells Cathedral, a crop in any sense of the~ term till some says We found more than 200 people LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 222. THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. in the parish, almost all very poor; no gen- try; a dozen wealthy farmers, hard, brutal, and ignorant. . . We saw but one Bible an all the parish, and that was used to prop up a flower-pot. Another witness, Wil- liam Huntington, the well-known sinner saved, thus delivers himself in his Kin~- dom of Heaven take~n by Prayer, concern- rng the profound ignorance which prevailed in the Weald of Kent when he was a boy. His book appeared in 1793, and he was then a man advaned beyond middle life There was in the village (where he lived) an exciseman of a stern and hard- favoured countenance, whom I took notice of for having a stick covered with figures, and an ink-bottle hanging at his button- hole. This man I imagined to be employed by God Almighty to take an account of childrens sins. I thought he must have a great deal to do to find out the sins of chil- (Iren; and I eyed him as a formidable be- ing, and the greatest enemy I had in the world. The Weald of Kent is scarcely, we suspect, now it certainly was not in 1820 the most enlightened portion of England; but we doubt whether there could be found in it at this day, or even forty years ago, a child, far less a grown lad, ~o besotted as to take Mr. Huntingtons view of an exciseman and his ink-bottle. It was while George III. filled the throne that the first be.~innings were made to break in upon this state of pitiable darkness. To Mr. Raikes, the son of the printer and pro- prietor of the Gloucester Journal, himself a Dissenter, and therefore by the entire Dissenting interests put forward for canoni- sation, the merit is very generally attribut- ed of making this beginning. With Sun- day-schoolshis name is popularly associat- ed; and it is perfectly true that he estab- lished and promoted in his native city and elsewhere institutions of the kind which were of great value. Bat Mr. IRmikes only followed in the track of another, and that other was a woman Miss Hannah Bell of High Wycombe first thought of gathering together and instructing the children of the poor, whom she saw, Sunday~after Sunday, driven by the beadle out of the churchyard. Her benevolent efforts were attended with marked success, and the fame of them reaching Gloucester, stirred up Mr. R ikes to do likewise. Then came into the same field Bishop Porteous, and after him many. Such was the little fountain-head whence, in due time, broke out those waters which are now fertilising, under the superintend- ence of the National Society, the length and breadth of Englaa~I. Nor would it be just to the memory of the good old King were we, in observing upon these matters, to leave unnoticed the part which he per- sonally took in promoting this righteous end. Georgo III. was the friend of Bishop Porteous, and of every good work which Bishop Porteous took up. He rejoiced in tf~e spread of Sunday-schools, and desired that every one of his snbje(ts might possess and be able to read, a Bible. He was a zealous promoter, also, of improvements in agriculture. Besides experimenting on his own lands, he corresponded, under the sig- nature of Ralph the Farmer, with Arthur Young, the well-known traveller and editor of the Agricultural Journal. He was an admirer, also, of Adam Smiths great work, and did much to promote the study of the subject of which it treats. How well di- rected the Kings energies were it is hardly neces~ary to point out. Scientific agricul- ture became a fashion, and that race of im- provement began, both in England and in Scotland, which has ever since been going on. The results are before us- Meanwhile the mineral wealth of Eng- land, which had lain hid, or been but par- tiallv brought to light, for centuries, began to make itself felt. That coal was abundant there were probably few intelligent Eng- lishmen who were not aware. yet the ex- pense of removing it even a few miles finom the pits mouth rendered it, for all the prac- tical purposes of life,up tothe year 1760, com- paratively worthless. There was then only one canal in the cou.ntry, if the deepenin~ of the Sanky Brook can be spoken of as a canal. It passed through a district where no obstructions presented themselves, and as far as it went only a few miles con- ferred vast benefits on the district. But everywhere else, roads impassable except to pack-horses in winter, or in the height of summer to heavy waggons, put quite be- yond the reach of the seats of Englands infant industry the means of going forward in the way of improvement. In this year the idea presented inself to Francis, third Duke of Bridgewater, of attempting to do on a large scale what the deepeners of San- ky Brook had done on a small. He pro- posed, if possible, to connect his coal-fields at Worsiey with the town of Manchester by a canal constructed on a scale so vast that the most accomplished engineers of the day pronounced the scheme to be absolutely uto- pian. Worsley was separated from Man- chester by nine miles of broken country, a broad river intersecting the line by which the canal was to be carried forwar(i; anti how to overcome the obstacles presented 146 THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. 147 first by a succession of hills, and next by John Kay of Bury invented the fly-shuttle, the bed of the Irwil that was a point by means of which the hand-loom weaver which no reasonable man would undertake was able to make in a day twice as much to grapple with. LIow it was grappled with cloth out of thread as he had made before. and to what purpose. Mr. Smiles, in his in- John Kays immediate reward was much the teresting Life of Brindley, has well told. same as attends on every inventor. He in- Before the daring of that self-taught genius, terfered with the established routine of all difficulties melted away. Hills were labour. He made the loom so productive tunnelled; over the Irwell an aqueduct was that thread could not he supplied fast enough thrown, of sufficient height to admit of the to keep it busy, and the weavers, imitated passa~e beneath of masted vessels; and by intervals of compulsory idleness, and Manchester, with irs 40,000 inhabitants, was blaming Kays invention, fell upon Kay enabled in 1761, to supply itself ~rith fuel himself and drove him out of the country. at less than half the cost which had been Then help came to trade in the shape of incurred the year before. improvements in the process of spinning, of To extend the canal to Liverpool, and which Lewis Paul, James Hargreaves, Tho- thereby connect that seaport with Manches- umas Hughes, and the ill-fated and wayward ter, was the next creat scheme taken up Samuel Crompton, were consecutively the and executed. Others followed which it is authors. By-and-by arose Richard Ark- not necessary to l)arti(ularise here, till by- wright, just as much as Brindley a self-. and-by between each ppulous Euglish town tauiht man, who, beginning life as a barber and almost all the rest, whether inland or in Bolton, died one of tIme richest men in on the seaboard, easy and inexpensive England. Contemporary with him was means of communication by water . were Robert Peel, the father of the late Prime, provided. Form hwirh the riches which had Minister, and, far more original th~ n either~ heretofore lain in the howelsof the earth were Edward Cartwright, a clergyman an a exhumed. Not cuel only, but iron and poet. Each of these added his share to the lead, and whatever else could be applied common stock of mechanical invention, the to the convenience of human life, became last especially giving to his country the as accessible to the dwellers in every way- most important of the whole, the power~-- side village as to o cu;ants of large towns; loom. It is worthy of note that these gr at and the impulse thereby given to other in- things were begun, improved, and perf~c e dustries than that of the loom began to within the limits of the era of whi h w make itself felt. A word or two will suffice are writing, and that in sixty years more to show how this came about. country which had heretofore depended on The cotton trade is now, and has long foreign nations for time supply of almost all~ been, the great staple of this country. In its artificial wants became mistress f am 1760 the year of the Kings accession export trade larger and more remunerative the profits on the cost of the raw material, than ever before was boa of since the and of the labour bestowed upon it, were world began. calculated to amount r.o 200,000 for the About the same time, or a little 1 ter~. whole of the United Kinrzdom. And poor were introluced those improvements in as the recompense was and easy to be ac- making po celain or china which hay ad-~ counted for, we may reasonably doubt vanced from year to year ever sine , till whether increased facilities of turning out they place time England of the present ay the goods would hay benefited the pro- quite upon a footing of equality with lol-- ducers, who, in the absence of other means land and Fra cc. In 1763, Josial Wcdg-. than the pack-horse of conveying them from wood turned his attentio to thi. matter, place to place, must have locked them up and in due time produced a cream-coloured and left them to rot in cellars and ware- earthen-ware very different from any which houses. No sooner, however, werefacilities had previously been seen in this country. afforded of throwinz in upon large towns, Not that in the qualities of smoothness and at a comparatively heap rate, the products beauty it surpassed, or even came t p to, the~ of their looms, than manufacturers began older productions of Bow, Worcester, and to study how they might render their looms Chelsea. Bat the poreelains of Bow, Wor- more productive, and muerchants cast about cester, and Chelsea, contributed only to in-. for openin~ with foreign nations an export crease time luxuries of th rich, whereas the trade which as yet had, in cotton goods at Wedgwood ware made its way into the dwell-- least, no existence. The same year in which ings of the poor. From these it e polled by the King came to the throne, and the origi- degrees the wooden platters and b own dishes nal Bridgewater Canal wa~ mapped out, which had been in universal use prior to- THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. Mr. Wedgwoods success. INor has the art stood still. When Mr. Wedgwood began his labours, the estimated profits upon the whole porcelain industry of England, after providing machinery and payin~ workmens wages, amounted to not more than 5000 a year, and the number of people employed upon it were very few. Ten years later the profits had risen to 100,000, and the work- people could be numbered by hundreds. Now many thousands earn their bread in the potteries, and the whole civilized world the east, the west, the north, ~nd the south is stocked with the works of their hands. Simultaneously, or nearly so, with these inventions came Dr. Roebucks important discovery, that, in the smelting of iron, pit- coal is as efficacious as charcoal: and that to the iron-industry of this country, hereto- fore cramped by the dancer of exhausting the forests, no limits could be placed. Con- fident in the soundness of his own princi- ples, Dr. Roebuck lookel out for a conve- nient site on which to apply them, and find- in~ it at Carron, a place within easy reach both of coal and iron, he there set up that great foundry which soon became, and long continued to be, the main source whence England derived the principal supply of cannon for her fleets and fortresses. Mean- while James Watt was working out those improvements in the steam-engine which others took up and carried continually fur- ther, till it became what we of the present generation find it to be. The progress which he made, in conjunction with partners less scientific, but bolder than himself, was in- deed quite astounding. Within a few years of 1763, steam had, to an enormous extent superseded the water-power as water-pow- er had previously set nside the power of hand, in all our principal manutactories. How it has gone on since, leading up, step by step, to the steam-ship, the steam-car- ria~e an(l thou h indirectly, still decidedly, to the electric-wire, we may not stop to show. But this great truth we must ask our readers to observe and pon~zer upon. To whatever point of excellence the arts which civilise life have attained, the hardest por- tion of the battle was fouuht a. d fought out, in the reign of George IlL When he came to the throne, England was destitute of roads, and could boast of only one caii I, scarce three miles in extent, and navigable for the lightest possible craft. Without means of intercommunication between the interiQr and the coast, an between one town and another, she could command neither foreign commerce nor domestic trade. The population was sparse, and little employed in manufactures. The manners of her humbler classes were rude, and they fared indifferently. Where the richest crops of corn are now reared, enormous swamps spread themselves out; and for lack of bridges, rivers were impassable, or passable only by fords and ferries. The Rev. James Brown, rector of Cheriton in Kent, publish- ed, in 1726, Three Years Travels in Eng- land, Scotland, and Wales. We read the work at this day as we would the details of a journey into the heart of Africa, or across the conthient of America, so perilous are the adventures which the brave ecclesiastic en- countered, and so determined the energy which carried him through them all. He could not move from place to place except under the care of trustworthy guides; and as soon as the winter set in, and occasionally when heavy rains fell in summer, he suspend- ed his operations, and established himself wherever he might be, till better times came. In 1820, when the old King died, the roads of England were the best in the world. Coaches, beautifully horsed, and well ap- pointed in every respect, ran over them, summer and winter, at an average rate of ten miles in the hour. The whole island was intersected with canals. Not a river or small stream, except in remote and out-of- the way districts, lacked its bridges; and fens were drained, and heaths cleared away. As to the trade of the country, foreign and domestic, it had become a marvel in men s eyes, as it might well be. We turn next to the condition of society as we find it in its upper ranks; and there, too, the change wrou~ht for the better dur- ing the interval over which Mr. Jesses nar- rative extends presents itself as perfectly amazing. Of the undisguised venality of members of Parliament in the earlier part of the old Kings reign we need not say one word. Then, as in the days of Walpole, every public man had his price, not in places for himself or his friends or his constituents only, but in notes of the Bank of England, which he accepted in return for support rendered to Whig Government. Meanwhile the habits of fashionable ladies and gentle- men in private life were such as now surprise, almost as much as they offend, our better tastes. Education in the softer sex was sadly neglected, and before marriage girls learned little except to embroider, to cook, and to dress. They usually married we speak of the upper ten thousand for rank or wealth, and thenceforth gave up their time to intrigue. They played high even at Court, George II. promoting the amuse- ment. They could not always spell or 148 THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. write correctly a common note. Sunday was the great day for their entertainments. Their religion consisted in occasionally showing themselves at church; and their wit found vent in indelicate inuendoes. Honourable exceptions to this rule there doubtless were; but the rule was general, welluigh to universality. Among men, and especially men of fash- ion, to be profligate, drunken, given to play, and profane, was not oidy not discred- itable but quite correct. The club-houses, and especially Brookess, were the scenes night after night of orgies which would not now be tolerated in the worst conducted gin- shop in London. Duels were events of constant occurrence, to which, no doubt, the barbarous custom of wearing swords greatly contributed. And he who could boast of having betrayed the largest num- ber of women was received with the great- est favour in all circles. The extent to which the more daring among the wits car- ried their profligacy is well illustrated by the usages of the order of the Franciscans a knot of men eminent in their day, and advanced, many of them, to high place in the counsels of the Sovereign. Mr. Jesse has well epitomised the story, and we there- fore give it in his words. Speaking of Wilkes he says He was one of that debauched fraternity, consisting of men of wit and fashion, who, having restored and fitted up the ruins of Mid- menham Abbey, near Marlow, adopted the monastic garb at their convivial meetings, and instituted the most immodest rites and ribald mysteries within its sacred walls. The ruins of the old abbey, formerly a convent of Cistercian monks, still stand surrounded by rich meadows, by han,ing woods and venerable elms, on a beautiful and secluded spot on the banks of the Thames. Over the principal entrance was the inscription from Rabelaiss Abbey of Theleme, Fay ce que voudras. In the pleasure-grounds, the temples, statues, and inscriptions all savoured of the impure tastes and irreverent wit of the modern denizens of tle abbey. The members of the new order styled themselves Franciscans, in honour of their father abbot Sir Francis Dashwood. Dashwood shall pour from a communion-cup Libations to the goddess without eyes, And bob and nob in cider and excise. CHURCHILLS Candidate. Each monk had his cell and appropriate name. In the chapel the embellishments of which were of so immodest a character that none but the initiated were permitted access to it, the monks not only adapted the sacred rites of the Roman Catholic Church to the profane worship of Bacchus and Venus, but are said to have carried their blasphemy to such a pitch as to administer the eucharist to an ape. The members of the Midmenham Club whose names have been handed down to us were, besides Sir Francis Dashwood and Wilkes, Bubb Doding- ton, afterwards Lord Melcombe; Sir Thomas Stapleton, father of the twenty-second Lord Le Despencer; Paul Whitehead, the poet, who was secretary to the brotherhood; and Thomas Potter, son of the then late Archbishop of Canter- bury, one whose rare and promising abilities as an orator and man of letteis, unhippily suc- cumbed to habits of debauchery and an early grave. Laurence Sterne has been named as one of the fraternity, though apparently on no very sufficient grounds. Lord Sandwichs con- nection with the club is more than once referred to in a clever poem of the time, entitled Ode to the Earl of Sandwich The midnight orgies you reveal, Nor IDashwoods cloistered rites conceal. And again In vain you tempt Jack Wilkes to dine By copious drafts from chaliced wine, And anthems to Molls nose.~ At Midmenham Abbey vice and profanity were in(leed carried to their utmost limits; but they largely prevailed elsewhere. The public amusements of the age, the gather- ings at Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and suchlike places, tended much to encourage them. There, under cover of her mask, the wife, disgusted with her husbands intemperance, found frequent opportunities of taking. her revenge. Ilogarths Rakes Progress tells a tale which, in all except its finale, had more of hbtorical truth than of fiction in it a century ago. Nor were the manners and morals of the squirearchy and even the clergy much more elevated. Drunkenness was regarded as a necessary incident on hospitality. The country gentleman who allowed his guests to leave the dinner-table except in a state of elevation would have been despised as a screw he was the best fellow who saw them all flu-st gorged with meat and wine and then put to bed. As to the clergy, their habits continued to be pretty much what they learned to make them when students at Oxford or Cam- bridge. Even the fellows common room, and not unfrequently the masters lodge, taught them any thing rather than the graces of sobriety. In a word, the age was a drunken age, a profligate age, an age either of daring profanity or indifference to religion of coarse talk, coarse manners, and the worst possible morals. Exceptions there doubtless were both in town and country to the general rule. The much- 149 150 THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III abused Lord Bute, for example, though a with universal condemnation by his critics. courtier, was a man of correct morals and But thou~h we may riot judge from their refined tastes, just as among the country standard literature of the advance which gentlemen some Squire Aliworthys were to nations have made at differcut periods in be found, and among the country clergy general refinement, a far criterion is afford- not a few Parson Adamses. But for one ed of the degree of influence which litera- Lord Bute in the higher circles a score at ture exercised over them by studying the least of Lord Sandwiches defied God and facilities at the command of the people for man; and Sir Timothy Fletcliers and Par- gaining access to the works of the best au- son Trullebars, and worse than he, outnum- thors at any given period in history. For bered by ten to one their more respectable example, in 1730, when Samuel Johnson neighbours, both lay and clerical. had reached his nineteenth year, his father it would carry us far beyond the pur- was in the habit of carrying books about pose of the present essay were we to speak from one market-town in t~ie neighbourhood at any length respecting the condition in of Lichfield to another, in order to sell this country of literature and the arts in them; and at all the great fairs in Bir- the age of which we are now writing. As miugham he set up a stall. There were was said a few pages back, it is not from then, throughout the whole of the corpora- the state of its literature that we can de- tion towns of England, only twenty-eight termine the comparative civilization or bar- printing-houses established. As to circulat- barism of a nation. Rome was never more ing libraries, such things he_ an to be only depraved, the Empire was never more es- in 1751, Mr Hutton of Birmingham being sentially brutal, than when Horace struck the first to open one. And in 1 782, the his lyre, and Cicero philosophised; and of provincial newspapers existing in England the ages of Homer and of the authors of amounted to fifty, and no more. Nor is all the sublime poetry of the Old Testament, this to be wondered at in a country which nothing more can be said than that they could boast of no schools except such as were utterly barbarous. In like manner, benevolent individuals had here and there the works of Pope, Swift, Addison, Steele founded; for when, among the people at of Young, Thompson, Akenside, Collins, large, the art of reading is unknown, who Gray all these show that, neither through would ever think of accumulating printing- neglect of public patronage, nor by the in- presses, or multiplying circulating libraries ability of the masses to recognize its claim and journals? Of English literature, to distinction, can genius, whatever path it therefore, as an instrument for training the ch 1k out for itselg be held back. Yet the English mind, or creating among the E ng- tone of the most successful works of the lish people pure tastes and lofty aspirations, last century, as it reflects the tone of society we are scarcely going too far when we say itself, so it leaves upon the minds of the that, when Geor~e III. ascended the throne, men of the present generation a not very it had no existence. Great authors there comfortable impression. Not to mention doubtless were, whose works told within a the translations and imitations of depraved circle comparatively narrow. But so far as French stories, which women, virtuous as the bulk of the people were concerned, the fashion of virtue then was, devoured whether in town or country, they might with avidity, we need only turn over the almost as well have had no existence. They pages of liodmerick Random and Count were not read, or if read they could not Fathom to see what the public taste then have been appreciated. was, and how clever men pandered to it. Art has always been, even more decided- Observe that we do not pretend to sqneam- ly than literature, a very unsafe test to ishness ourselves, nor desire to find it in apply when we are considering the point others, touching such matters. The works at which, in social improvement, nations of Smnollett, Fielding, Rich wdson, and have arrived. But the extent to which ar- Churchill, must always command readers so tists are honoured, and their works held in 1onc~ as in Enodand the power of appreciat- esteem by the rich and noble, enables us to mg high genius remains; but no gentleman draw a just estimate in regard to the com- could now venture to read even the best of parative refinement of society in its upper them aloud to an audience of ladies. The grades. When George III. tame to the author who should describe as broadly as throne, Reynolds, Gainshorough, Wilson, they do the darker shades in human life, West, Angelica, Kauffman, and, though would find some difficulty in getting a re- last not least, Ilogarth, were all before the spectable publisher to father his work, and world. It would be too much to say that would certainly be greeted in these days the great productions of their pencils were THE SOCIAL ERA OF GEORGE III. 151 not appreciated, just as we should contra- pects which characterizcd his ace. But dict the truth were we to assert that nei- nobody can read Mr. Jesacs volume, far ther Roubilliac nor Wilton had achieved a less be familiar with the works from which name. But there was wanting to them all he derived his information, without receiv- that without which genius in painting or ing a strong impression that all that it was sculpture can nowhere find a fair field on possible for the sovereign of a constitutional which to venture. England could boast of country to do for the purpose of elevating no patronage in high places, no marks of the tastes and improving the morals of his Royal favour shown to artists, and, still people George III did. his own habits more necessary, no school or academy where were simple and unosteatatious in the ex- students might study, and masters exhibit treme. Of purity of life and conversation their finished performances. Private per- he was a perfect model. In agricnlture he sons, here and there, did their best to snpply took a lively interest, contributing, as, we the defect; and the artists themselves, of have shown, b6th by writin~ and practice, their own free will, and to a great extent at to its advancement; and to the growth of their own cost, set up what they called the manufactures, and the scientific researches ~ very encourage- Academy in St. Martins Lane. But the which lead to it he gave e battle went decidedly against them till, in ment. His patronage of literature and of 1768. the Royal Academy was founded, and the fine arts was liberal. Toe library the King stood forth as the avowed patron of which he collected and bequeathed to the art. We may no doubt question the correct- British Museum shows that this was not an ness of the Kings taste when we find that indiscriminating patronage; and to his gra- among living painters West washis favourite. cious manner of conversing with literary Still art, in the abstract, gained immensely men, Dr. Johnson and others bear ample even thou~h connoisseurs might be offended; testimony. That he was sincerely religions, and its professors took their proper place in none who knew him could doubt. Of pro- public estimation, from which they have motions to dignities in the Church, he took, never since descended. so to speak, personal charge ; and oddly as Besides these there are many other points from time to time he dispensed his favours, of comparison between England as she was they were in every instance well bestowed. in 1760, and England as she had become in He promoted thespread of l)opular educa- 1820, to whichthe space at our command tioa everywhere, and his memory is still will permit us only to allude. At the former cherished, like the memory of a patron of these periods, there was no protection to saint, by the boys of Eton. These are, after travellet except their own right hand, all, the great glories of kings. Success in neriod either in town. or city. At the latter war, which comes in one gener~ tion, not watchmen guarded the streets in towns, unfrequently makes room for great reverses mounted patrols kept the approaches to in another; and the triumph of what is London safe, and the mail-coaches, with called principle in high politics, results oftea their well-armed guards, had completely enough in the de:,radation of peoples. But driven highwaymen from the roads in the where arts flourish which tend to make men Provinces. In 1760 the state of our prisons happier and better; where literature is cx- was frightful, and the law, not criminal only, ercised with a view to elevate the public but of debtor and creditor likewise, abso- taste; where religion, neither histrionic lutely savage. In 1820 Oglethorp and nor puritanical operates to supply mo- howard had done their work, and that pro- tives of conduct, and keep men from forget- cess of amelioration was well begun which, tin ~ their high destiny; in whatever age or if it be not wisely watched and directed, country we see these things advancing, then threatens to carry us into the opposite ex- we may rest assured that the people treme of undue lenity. In the interval be- are well governed, and their rulers wise tween 1760 and 1820, the Church had re- men. The era of George III. is quite as formed itself, and profligate parsons were remarkable in all these respects as it is for become as rare as their opposites had been the triumphs by land and sea which waited when the cycle be~an. Schools were spring- on the arms of England. ing up likewise in every parish. Under We wish that we coultl see in our own age their influence, the working classes lost a more steady progress in the same direc- by degrees their brutality, and society in its tion, and should be ulad if it could be made upper ranks purified itself. It would be too quite clear to us that we are-not, so far as much to say of George III. that he was, in public morals are concerned, going back any sense of the term, the immediate cause from the point to which we had attainel of the vast improvement- in all these res- forty-seven years ago. THE TENANTS OF MALORY. CHAPTER LI. Teach me, ye groves, some art to ease my pain, Some soft resentments that may leave no stain On her loved name, and then I will coin- plain. NEXT day after dinner, Lord Verney said to Cleve, as they two sat alone, I saw you at Lady Dorminsters last ni~ht. I saw you about it. It seems to me you go to too many places, with the House to attend to; you stay too long one can look in, you know. Sometimes one meets a person; I had a good deal of interesting conversation last night, for instance, with the French Ambassador. No one takes a hint better; they are very good listeners, the French, and that is the way they pick up so much information and opinion and things. I had a cup of tea, and we talked about it for half~an-hour, until I had got my ideas well before him. . A very able man, a bril- liant person, and seemed he appeared to go with me about it and very well up upon our history and things and andlooknc~ at you, it struck me youre looking a good deal cut up, about it and and as if you were doing too much. And I said, you know, you were to look about, and see if there was any young person you liked that was suitable and that kind of thing.; but you know you must not fati,.,ne yourself, and I dont want to hurry you; on!y it is a step you ought to take with a view to strengthen your posi- tion ultimately. And and I hear it is too late to consider about Ethel that would have been very nice, it struck me; hut that is now out of the question, I under- stand in fict, it is certain, although the world dont know it yet; and therefore we must consider some other alliance; and I dont see any very violent hurry. We must look about and arid youll want some money, Cleve, when you have made up your mind. You are always too good, said Cleve. I I mean with your wfe about it; and Lord Verney coughed a little. Theres never any harm in a little money; the more you get, the more you can do. I always was of that opinion. Knowledge is power, and money is power, though in different ways; that was always my idea. What I want to impress on your mind, however, at this mo- ment, particularly, is, that there is nothing very pressinu as to time; we can afford a little time. The Onslow~ motto, you know, it conveys it, and your mother was connect- ed with the Onslows. It would not be easy to describe how the words of his noble nncle relieved Cleve Ver- ney. Every sentence seemed to lift a load from his burthen, or to cut asunder some knot in the cordage of his bonds. He had not felt so much at ease since his hated con- versation with Lord Verney in the library. Not very long after this, Cleve made the best speech by many degrees he had ever spoken, a really forcible reply upon a sub- ject be had very carefully made up, of which in fact, he was a master. His uncle was very much pleased, and gave his hearers to understand pretty distinctly from what fountain he had (Irawn his inspiration, and promised them better things still, now that he had got him fairly in harness, and had him into his library, and they put their heads together; and he thought his talking with him a little did him no harm, Cleves voice was so good he could make himself heard you must be able to reach their ears or you can hardly hope to make an im- pression ; and Lord Verneys physician in- sisted on his sparing his throat. So Lord Verney was pleased. Cleve was Lord Verneys throat, and the throat emit- ted good speeches, and every one knew where the head was. Not that Cheve was deficient; but Cleve had very unusual ad- vantages. Tom Sedley and Cleve were on rather odd terms now. Cleve kept up externally their old intimacy when they met. But he did not seek him out in those moods which used to call for honest Tom Sedley, when they ran down the river together to Greenwich, when Cleve was lazy, and wanted to hear the news, and say what he liked, and es- cape from criticism of every kind, and en- joy himself indolently. For Verney now there was a sense of con- straint wherever Tom Sedley was. Even in Toms manner, there was a shyness. Tom had learned a secret, which he had not con- fided to him. He knew he was safe in Tom Sedleys hands. Still he was in his power, and Sedley knew it, and that galled his pride, and made an estrangement. In the early May, When winds are sweet, though they unruly be, Tom Sed- hey came down again to Cardylhian. Miss Charity welcomed hhn with her accustomed emphasis upon the Green. How very pretty Agnes looked! But how cold her ways had grown He wished she was not so pretty so beaut!ful in fact. It pained him, and somehow he had grown strange with 152 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. 153 her; and she was changed, grave and silent Yes. I think it would be very nice; rather, and, as it seemed, careless, quite, and there is no wind. What do. you say, whether he was there or not, although he Agnes? could never charge her with l)osLtlve un- I don~t know. Im lazy to-day. I think, kindness, much less with rudeness. He and I have this to finish, said Agnes. wished she would be rude. He would have But you ought to take a walk, Agnes liked to upbraid her. But her gentle, care- it would do you good, and Thomas Sedley less cruelty was a torture that justified no and I are going for a walk on the Green. complaint, and admitted no redress. ~ Pray do, pleaded Tom timidly. He could talk volubly and pleasantly Agnes smiled and shook her head, looking enough for hours with Charity, not caring out of the window, and, making no other a farthing whether he pleased her or not, answer, resumed her work. and thinking only whether Agnes, who sat You are very obstinate, remarked silent at her work. liked his stories, and was Charity. aniused by his fun; and went away elated Yes, and lazy, like the donkeys, on the for a whole night and day because a joke of Green, where you are going; but you dont his had made her laugh. Never had Tom want me particularly I mean you, Char- felt more proud and triumphant in all his ne and Mr. Sedley, I know, will excuse days. me; for I really feel that it would tire me But when Charity left the room to see to-day. It would tire me to death, said old Vane Etherage in the study, a strange Agnes, win(ling up with an emphasis. silence fell upon Tom. You could hear each ~ Well, Ill go and put on my things; and stitch of her tambour-work. You could he~ r if you like to come, you can come, and if you Toms breathing. He fancied she aught dont you can stay where you are. But I hear the beating of his heart. He was wish you would not be a fool. It is a beau- ashamed of his silence. He could have been tiful day, and nothing on earth to prevent eloquent, had he spoken from that loaded you. heart. But he dare not, and, failin~ this, he I dont like the idea of a walk to-day. must be silent. I know I should feel tired immediately, and By this time, Tom was always thinking of have to bring you back again, and Ive really Agnes Etherage, and wondering at the per- grown interested in this little bit of ~vork, versuty of fate. He was in love. He could and I feel as if I must finish it to-day. not cheat himself into any evasion of that You are such a goose, Agnes, said Char- truth a tyrant truth that had ruled him ity, marching out of the room. mercilessly; and there was she pining for Tom remained there standing, his hat in love of quite another, and bestowing upon his hands, lookin~ out of the window him, who disdained it, afl the treasure of longing to speak, his heart being full, yet her heart, while even a look would have not knowing how to begin, or how to go on, been cherished with ~ratitude by Sedley. if he had begun. What was the good of his going up every Agnes worked on diligently, and looked day to H~zleden, Tom Sedley thought, to out from the windoxv at her side over the look at her, and talk to Charity, and laugh, shorn grass amid flower-beds, throtigli the a~d recount entertaining gossip, and make old trees in the fore-ground over the tops jokes, and be agreeable, with a heavy and of the sloping forest, with the back-ground of strangely suffering heart, and feel himself the grand Welsh mountains, and a glimpse every day more and more in love with her, of the estuary, here and there seen through when lie kumew that the sound of Cleves the leaves, stretclmin,~ in dim gold and gray. footstep, as he walked by, thinking of him- You like that particular window, said self would move her heart more than all Tom, making a wonderful efThrt; I mean, Tom S~dley, adoring her, could say in his why do you like always to sit there? He lifetime? spoke in as careless a way as he could, look- What a fool he w s! Before Cleve ap- ing still out of his window, which command- peared, she was fancy-free, no one else in the ed a different view. field, and his opportunities unlimited. He This window! oh, my frame stands here had ldpsed his time, and occasion had spread always, and, when one is accustomed to a its wings and flown. particular place, it puts one out to change. What heafitifmml sunshine! What do you Then Agnes dropped her pretty eyes say to a valk on the Green? said Tom to again to her worsted, and worked, and hum- Coarity, anti listening for a word from Ag- mcd, very faintly, a little air; and Tom~ nes. She raised her pretty eyes, and looked heart swelled within him, and he hummed out, but said nothing. - as faintly the same gay air. THE TENANTS OF MALORY. I thought perhaps you liked that view? said Tom Sedley, arresting the musIc. She looked out again Well, its very pretty. The best from these windows: some people think, I believe, the prettiest view you have, said Tom ,gathering , the water is always so pretty ! Yes, the water, she assented listlessly. Quite a romantic view, continued Sed- ley a little bitterly. Yes, every pretty view is romantic,she acquiesced, looking out for a moment again. If one knew exactly what romantic means lbs a word we use so often, and so vaguely. And cant you define it, Agnes? Define it? I really dont think I could. Well, that does surprise me. You are so much more clever than I, of course it does. No, quite the contrary: you are clever Im serious, I assure you and Im a dull fellow, and I know it quite well, I cant define it ; but that doesnt surprise ~ Then we are both in tile same case, but I wont allow its stupidity the idea is not quite definable, and that is the real difilcul- ty. You cant describe the perfume of a violet; but you know it quite well, and I really think flowers a more interesting sub- ject than romance. Oh, really! not, surely, than the ro- mance of that view. It is so romantic ! You seem quite in love with it, said she with a little laugh, and began again with a grave face to stitch in the glory of her saint in celestial yellow worsted. The water yes and the old trees of Ware, and just that tower, at the angle of the house. A~znes just glanced through her window, but said nothing. I think, said Sedley, 1ff were peo- plin.~ this scene, you know, I should put my hero in that Castle of Ware that is, if I could invent a romance, which, of course, I couldnt. He spoke with a meaning, I think Whr should there be heroes in roman- ces? asked Miss Agnes, looking neverthe- less towards Ware, with her hand and the needle resting idly upon the frame. Dont you thing a romance ought to resemble reality a little ; and do you ever find such a monster as a hero in the world. I dont expect to see one, I know, and she laughed again, but Tom thouoht, a little bitterly, and applied once emore diligently to her work, and hummed a few bars of her little air again. And Tom, standing now in the middle of the room, leaning on the back of a chair, by way of looking still upon the landscape which they had been discussing, was really looking, unobserved, on her, and thinking that there was not in all the world so pretty a creature. Charity opened the door, equipped for the walk, and bearing an alpacca umbrella such as few gentlemen would like to walk with in May-fair. Well, you wont come, I see. I think you are ~ery obstinate. Come, Thomas Sedley. Good-by, Agnes; and with these words the worthy girl led forth my friend Tom, and as they passed the corner of the house, he saw Agnes standing in the win- dow, looking out sadly, with her finger-tips against the pane. Shes lonely, poor little thing ! thought he, with a pang. Why wouldnt she come? Listlessness apathy, I suppose. How selfish and odious any trifling w th a girls affections is; - and then aloud to Charity, walking by her side, he continued, you have not seen Cleve since the great day of Lord Verneys visit, I suppose? No, nothing of him, and dont desire to see him. I-Ic has been the cause of a oTeat (leal of sufferino- as se~~~A I ~,, you ~ think he has behaved odiously. Shes very odd; she doesnt choose to confide in me. I dont think its nice or kind of her, but of course, its her own affair; only this is plain to me, that shell never think of any one else now but Cleve Verney. Its an awful pity, said Tom Sedley quite sincerely. They were walking down that steep and solitary road, by which Vane Etherage had made his memorable descent a te months since, now in deep shadow under the airy canopy of transparent leaves, and in tot~ silence, except for the sounds, tar below, of the little mill-stream struggling aniong the rocks. Dont you know Mr. Cleve Verney pretty well ? Intimately that is I did. I have not lately seen so much of him. And do you think, Thomas Sedley, that he will ever come forward? said blunt Miss Charity. Well, I happen to know that Cleve. Verney has no idea of anything of the kind. In fact, I should be deceiving you, if I did not say distinctly that I know he wont. Tom was going to say he cant, but checked himself. however, I think he was not sorry to have an opportunity of testify- 154 TIlE TENANTS OF MALORY. 155 ing to this fact, and putting Cleve Verney Tell me what it is, sir; for I know you quite out of the field of conjecture as a have come to tell me something. possible candidate. No, I assure you; merely to ask you how Then I must say, said Miss Charity, you are, and whether I can be of any use. flushing brightly, that Mr. Verney is a Oh! sir; what use? no. villain. Do you wish me to give any message to From this strong position, Tom could not that fellow IDingwell? Pray make use of dislodge her, and, finding that expostulation me in any way that strikes you. I h ar he involved him in a risk of a similar classi- is on the point of leaving England again. fication, he abandoned Cleve to his fate. Im glad of it, exclaimed the old lady. Up and down the Green they walked Why do I say so? Im glad of nothino until Miss Flood espied and arrested Chari- but Im sure it is better. What business ty Etheraire, and carried her off upon a could he and Mr. Larkin and that Jew have visit of philanthropy in her pony-carriage; with my child, who, thank God, is in heaven, and so Torn Sedley transferred his charge and out of the reach of their hands, to fussy imperious Miss Flood; aid he felt evil hands, I dare say. strangely incensed with her, and walked So I rather think also, maam; and Mr. the Green, disappointed and bereft. Was Larkin tried, did he? not Charity Agness sister? While he Larkin, yes, that was the name. He walked with her, he could talk of Agnes. came here, sir, about the time I saw you; He was still in the halo of Hazelden, and and he talked a great deal about my poor near Agnes. But now he was adrift, in the little child. It is dead, you know ; but I did dark. He sat down, looking toward the not tell him so. I promised Lady Verney upland woods that indicated Hazelden, and Id tell nothing to strangers they all grow sighed with a much more re 1 pain than he angry then. Mr. Larkin was angry, I had ever sighed toward Malorv~ and he think. But I do not speak and you ad- thought evil of meddling Miss Flood, who vised me to he silent and, though he said had carried away his companion. After a be was their lawyer, I would not answer a time, he walked away toward Malory, in- word. tending a visit to his friend old Rebecca I have no doubt you acted wisely, Mrs. Mervvn, and thin king all the way of Agnes Mervyn, you cannot be too cautious in hold- Etherage. ing any communication with such people. Id tell you, sir if I dare; but Ive promised, and I c/arent. Till old Lady CHAPTER LII. Verneys gone, I darent. I know nothing of law-papers my poor head! How MRS. MERVYNS DREAM. should I? And she could not half under stand them. So I promised. You would ~ HE found himself, in a little time, under understand them. Time enough time the windows of the stewards house. Old enough. Rebecca Mervyn was seated on the bench I should be only too happy when- beside the door, plying her knitting needles; ever you please, said Tom. she raised her eyes on hearing his step. And you, sir, have come to tell me Ha, hes come ! she said, lowering her I something: what is it? hands to her knees, and fixing her dark i I assure you I have nothing particular wild gaze upon him. I ought to have to say; I merely called to inquire how you known it so strange a dream must have are. had a meaning. Nothing more needless, sir; how can a They sometimes have, maam, I believe: poor lonely old woman be, whose last hope I hope you are pretty well, Mrs Mervyn. has gone out and left her alone in the iNo sir, I am not well. wilderness? For twenty years more, Very sorry, very sorry, indeed, maam, more, than twenty I have been watch- said Tom Sedley. Ive often thought this ing day and night; and now, sir, I look must be a very damp, unhealthy place at the sea no more. I will never see too much crowded up with trees; they say those head-lands again. I sit here, sir, nothing is more trying to health. Youd be from day to day, thinking; and, oh, dear! much better, Im sure, anywhere else. I wish it was all over. Nowhere else; my next move shall be Any time you should want me, I should my last. I carti not how soon, sir. be only too happy, and this is my address. Pray, dont give way to low spirits; you And you have nothing to tell me? really mustnt, said Toni. No, maam, nothing more than I said. THE TENANTS OF MALORY. It was wonderful: 1 dreamed last night I was looking toward Pendillon, watching as I used; the moon was above the moun- tain, and I was standing by the water, so that the sea came up to my feet, and I saw a speck of white far away, and some- thing told me it was his sail at last, and nearer and nearer, very fast it came; and I walked out to meet it, in the shallow water, with my arms stretched to meet it, and when it came very near I saw it was Arthur himself coming uprirht in his shroud, his feet on the water, and with his feet, hands, and face as white as snow, and his arms stretched to meet mine; and I felt I was going to die; and I covered my eyes with my hands, praying to God to receive me, expecting his touch; and I heard the rush of the water about his feet, and a voice it was yours, not his said, Look at me, and I did look, and saw you, and you looked like a man that had heen drowned your face as white as his, and your clothes dripping, and sand in your hair; and I stepped hack saying, My God! how have you come here? and you said, Listen, I have great news to tell you; and I waked with a shock. I dont believe in dreams more I believe than other people; but this troubles me still. Well, thank God, I have had no acci- dent by land or by water, said Tom Sedley, smiling, in spite of himself, at the awful figure he cut in the old ladys vision; and I have no news to tell, and I think it will puzzle those Jews and lawyers to draw me into their business whatever it is. I dont like that sort of people; you need never he afraid of me, maam, I detest them. Afraid of you, sir! Oh, no. You have heen very kind. See, this view here is under the branches; you cant see the water from this, only those dark paths in the wood; and I walk round sometii~es through that hollow and on by the low road toward Cardyllian in the evening, when no one is stirring, just to the ash-tree, from which you can see the old church and the churchyard; and, oh! sir, I wish I were lying there You must not be talking in that mel- ancholy way, maam, said Tom kindly; Ill come and see you again if you allow me; I think you are a great deal too lonely here; you ought to ~o out in a hoat, maam, and take a drive now and then, and just rattle about a little, and you cant think how much good it would do you; and I must go and I hope I shall find you a great deal better when I come hack. And with these words he took his leave, and as he walked along that low narrow road that leads by the inland track to Cardyllian, of which old Rebecca Mervyn spoke, whom should he encounter hut Miss Charity coming down the hill at a brisk pace, with Miss Flood, in that ladys pony carriage? Smiling, hat in hand, he got himself well against the wall to let them pass; but the ladies drew up, and Miss Charity had a message to send home. If he, Thomas Sedley, would be so good as to call at Joness they would find a messenger, merely to tell Aones that she was goin gto dine with Miss Flood, and would not be home till seven oclock. So Tom Sedley undertook it; smiled, and bowed his adieus, and then walked faster toward the town, and, instead of walking direct to Mrs. Joness, sauntered for a while on the Green, and bethought him what mistakes such messengers as Mrs. Jones could provide, sometimes make, and so re- solved himself to be Miss Charitys Mercury. Sedley felt happier, with an odd kind of excited and unmeanin~ happiness, as he walked up the etubowered steep toward Ha- zelden, than he had felt an hour or two before while walking down it. When he reached the little flowery platform of closely mown grass, on which stands the pretty house of Hazelden, he closed the iron gate gently, and looked toward the drawing- room windows that reach the grass, and felt a foolirk flutter at his heart as he saw that the frame stood in Agnes window without its mistress. Reading, now, I suppose, whispered Tom, as if he feared to disturb her. She has changed her place, and she is reading; and he began to speculate whether she sat on the ottoman or on the sofa, or in the cushioned arm-chair, with her novel in her hands. But his sidelong glances could not penetrate the panes, which returned only reflections of the sky or black shadow, ex- cepting of the one object, the deserted frame which stood close to their surface. There was a time, not long ago either, when Tom Sedley would have run across the grass to the drawing-room windows, and, had he seen Agnes within, would have made a semi-burglarious entry through one of them. But there had come of late, on a sudden, a sort of formality in his relations with Agnes; and so he walked round by the hail-door, and found the drawing-rooms empty, and, touching the bell, learned that Miss Agnes had gone out for a walk. Ive a message to give her from Miss Charity; have you any idea which way she went? He found himself making excuse to the 156 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. servant for his inquiry. A short time since he would have asked quite frankly where she was, without dreaming of a reason; but now had grown, as 1 say, a reserve, which has always the more harmless incidents of guilt. He was apprehensive of suspicion; he was shy even of this old servant, and was encountering this inquiry by an ex- planation of his motives. I saw her go by the beech walk, sir, said the man. Oh! thanks; very good. And he crossed the grass, and entered the beech walk, which is broad and straight with towering files of beech at each side, and a thick screen of underwood and ever- greens, and turning the screen of rhododen- drons at the entrance of the walk, he found himself quite close to Agnes, who was walking toward him. She stopped. He fancied she changed colour; had she mistaken him for some one else? Well, Agnes, I see the sun and the flowers prevailed~ though we couldnt; and Im glad, at all events, that you have had a little walk. Oh! yes, after all, I really couldnt resist; and is Charity coming? No, you are not to expect her till tea time. Shes gone with Miss Flood some- where, and she sent me to tell you. Oh! thanks; and Agnes hesitated, looking towards home, as if she intended returning. You may as well walk once more up an(l down; it does look so jolly; doesnt it? said Tom ; pray do, Agnes. Well, yes, once more, I will: but that is all, for I really am a little tired. They set out in silence, and Tom, with a great effort, said I wonder, Agnes, you seem so cold, I mean so unfriendly, with me, I think you do; and you must be quite aware of it; you must, indeed, Agnes. I think if you knew half the pain you are giving me I really do that you wouldnt. The speech was very inartificial; but it had the merit of going direct to the point, and Miss Agnes began I havent been at all unfriendly. Oh! but you have indeed you have you are quite changed. And I dont know what I have d6ne I wish youd tell me to deserve it; because even if there was another anything no matter what Im an old friend, and I think its very unkind; you dont perceive it perhaps but you are awfully changed. Agnes laughed a very little, and she answered, looking down on the walk before her, as Sedley thought, with a very pretty blush, and I believe there was It is a very serions accusation, and I dont deserve it. No, indeed, and, even if it were true, it rather surprises me that it should in the least interest you; because we down here have seen so little of you that we might very reasonably suspect that you had begun to forget us. Well, I have been an awful fool, it is quite true, and you have punished me, not more than I deserve; but I think you might have remembered that you had not on earth a better friend I mean a more earnest one particularly you, Agnes, than I. I really dont know what I have done, pleaded she, with another little laugh. I was here, you know, as intimate almost as a brother. I dont say of course, there are not many things that I had no right to expect to hear anything about; but if I had, and been thought worthy of con- fidence, I would at all events have spoken honestly. But may I speak quite frank- ly, Agnes? You wont be offended, will you? No; I shant Im quite sure. Well, it was only this, you are changed, Agnes, you know you are. Just this moment, for instance, von were going home, only because I came here, and you flincied I might join you in your walk; and this change began when Cleve Verney was down here staying at Ware, and used to walk with you on the Green. Agnes stopped short at these words, and drew back a step, looking at Sedley with an angry surprise. I dont understand you Im certain I dont. I cant conceive what you mean, she said. Sedley paused in equal surprise. II beg pardon; Im awfully sorry youll never know how sorry if I have said anything to vex you; but I did think it was some influence, or something connect- ed with that time. I really dont pretend to understand you, said Agnes coldly, with eyes, how- ever, that gleamed resentfully. I do recol- lect perfectly Mr. Cleve Verneys walking half-a-dozen times with Charity and me upon the Green, but what that can possibly have to do with your fancied wrongs, I can- not imagine; I fancied you were a friend of Mr. Verneys. So I was solam; but no such friend 157 158 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. as I am of yours your friend, Agnes. little. Do sit down here, just for a moment Theres no use in saying it; hut, Agnes, Id there was a rustic seat beside them die for you I would indeed. only for a moment. Im not likely to ask you, Mr. Sedley; She did sit down, and he beside her. but I thought it very strange, your coming That moment of Tom Sedleys grew as so very seldom to inquire for papa, when such moments will, like the bean that Jack he was so poorly last year, when you were sowed in his garden, till it reached, Titania at Cardyllian. He did not seem to mind it; knows whither. [know that Miss Charity but, considering as you say how much you on her return surprised it still growing. once used to be here, it did strike me as I made the tea, Agnes, fancying you very rude I may as well say what I really were in your room. Ive had such a search thought not only unkind, hut rude. So for you! I really think you might have that, if there has been any change, you need told Edward where you were going. Will not look to other people for the cause of it. you drink tea with us, Thomas Sedley, this If you knew how I blame myself for evening? though I am afraid youll find it that, I think, bad as it was, youd forgive perfectly cold. me. If Miss Charity had been either suspi- I think it showed that you did not very cious or romantic, she would hav~ seen by a much care what became of us. glance at the young peoples thees what had Oh! Agnes, you did not think that happened; but being neither, and quite you neverthought it. Unless you are happy, pre-occupied with her theory about Cleve I cant be happy, nor even then unless I Verney, and having never beamed of think you have ~brgiven me; and I think if Tom Sedley as possibly makirw his d6but I could be sure you liked me ever so little, at ilazeiden in the character oF a lover even in the old way, I should be one of the she brought her prisoners home, nith only a happiest people in the world. I dont vague sense now and then that there was make any excuses I was the stupidest either something a little odd in their manner fool on earth I only throw myself on your or in her own perceptions; an(l she remarked, mercy, and ask you to for~ive me. looking a little curiously at Torn, in refer- Ive nothing to forgive, said Agnes, ence to some query of hers with a cruel little lau~h. Ive asked you that question twice Well, well forget oh, do! and shake without an answer, and now you say some- hands like your old self. You have no idea thing totally unmeaning! how miserable I have been. With a very beautiful blush and a smile a little shy, and so gratified and a lit- CHAPTER LIII. tle silvery laugh, Agnes relented, and did give her hand to Tom Sedley. WILL you tell her? whispered Sedley Oh, Agnes! Oh, Agnes! Im so happy to Agnes. and so grateful! Oh, Agnes, you wont take Oh, no! Do you, she entreated. it away just for a moment. They both looked at Charity, wIno was She plucked her hand to remove it, for preparing the little dogs supper of bread Tom was exceeding ing it. ~ his privilene, and kiss- and milk in a saucer. Ill go in, and see papa, and you shall Now we are friends, said Agnes laugh- speak to her, said Agnes. ing. Which Tom Sedley did, so much to her ~Are we quite friends? amazement that she set the saucer down on Yes, quite. the table beside her, and listened, and con- You must not take your hand away versed for half an hour; and the poodles one moment more. Oh, Agnes, I can screams and wild jumping and clawing at never tell you never, how I love you. her elbow, at last reminded her that he had You are my darling, Agnes, and I cant been quite forgotten. live without you. So while its mistress was apologizing ear- Agnes said something was it reproof nestly to poor Bijou, and superintending or repulse? He only knew that the tones his attentions to the bread a~i.l milk, now were sad and gentle, and that she was placed upon the floor, in came Agnes, and drawing her hand away. up got Charity, and kissed her with a frank Oh, darling, I adore you! You would beaming smile, and said not make me miserable for life. There is Im excessivel;~ glad; Agnes. I was al- nothing I wont do nothing I wont try ways so fond of Thomas Sedley; and I won.- if youll only say you like me ever so der we never thought of it before. 159 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. They were all holding hands in a ring by this time. And what do you think Mr. Etherage will say? inquired Tom. Papa! why of course he will he de- lighted, said Miss Charity. He likes you extrerndy. But you know, Agnes might do so much better. Shes such a treasure, theres no one that would not be proud of her, and no one could not help falling in love with her, and the Ad I mean Mr. Etherage, may think me so presumptuous, and, you know, he may think me quite too poor. If you mean to say that papa would object to you because you have only four hundred a year, you think most meanly of him. I know I should not like to he con- nected with anybody that I thought so meanly of, because that kind of thing I look upon as really wicked; and 1 should be sorry to think papa was wicked. Ill go in and tell him all that has happened this moment. In an awful suspense pretty Ames and Tom Sedley, with her hand in both his, stood side by side, looking earnestly at the double door which separated them from this conference. In a few minutes, they heard Vane Ether- ages voice raised to a pitch of testy bluster, and then Miss Charitys rejoinder with a shrill emphasis. Oh! gracious goodness hes very angry. What shall we do? exclaimed poor little Agnes, in wild helplessness. I knew it I knew it I said how it would be he cant endure the idea, he thinks it such audacity. I knew he must, and I really think I shall lose my reason. I could not I could not live. Oh! Agnes I couldnt if he prevents it. In came Miss Charity, very red and angry. Hes just in one of his odd tempers. I dont mind one word he says to-night. Hell be quite different, youll see, in the morning. Well sit up here, and have a good talk about it, till its time for you to go; and youll see Im quite right. Im sur- prised, she continued, with severity, at his talking as he did to-night. I consider it quite worldly and wicked! But I contented myself with telling him that he did not think one word of what he said, and that he knew he didnt, and that hed tell me so in the morning; and, instead of feel- ing it, as I thought he would, he said some- thing intolerably rude. Old Etherage, about an hour later, when they were all in animated debate, shuffled to the door and put in his head, and looked surprised to see Tom, who looked alarmed to see him. And the old gentleman bid them all a glowering good-ni~ht, aild shortly after they heard him wheeled away to his bed-room, and were relieved. They sat up awfully late, and the old servant who poked into the room oftener than he was wanted towards the close of their sitting, looked wan and bewildered with drowsiness; and at last Charity, struck by the ghastly resignation of his countenance, glanced at the French clock over the chimney-piece and ejaculated, Why, merciful goodness! is it possible? A quarter to one! It cant possibly be. Thomas Sedley will you look at your watch, and tell me what oclock it really is? His watch corroborated the French clock. If papa heard this! I really cant the least conceive how it happened. I dio not think it could have been eleven. XVell~ it is undoubtedly the oddest thing that ever hap- pened in this house! In the mornium between ten and eleven, when Tom Sedley appeared again at the drawing-room windows, he learned from Charity, in her own emphatic style of narra- tion, what had since taken place, which was not a great deal, but still was uncomforta- bly ambiguous. She had visited her father at his break- fast in the study, and promptly introduced the subject of Tom Sedley, and he broke into this line of observation, Id like to know what the dense Tom Sedley means by talking of business to girls. Id like to know it. I say, if he has any- thing to say, why doesnt he say it, thats what I say. Here 1 am. What has he to say. I dont object to hear him, be it sense or be it nonsense out with it! Thats my maxim; and he it sense or be it nonsense, I wont have it at second hand. Thats my idea. Acting upon this, Miss Charity insisted that he ought to see Mr. Etherage; and, with a beating heart, he knocked at the study door, and asked an audience. Come in, exclaimed the resonant voice of the Admiral. And Tom Sedley obeyed. The Admiral extended his hand, and greeted Tom kindly, but gravely. Fine day, Mr. Sedley; very fine, sir. Its an odd thing, Tom Sedley; but there s more really fine weather up here, at Hazel- den, than anywhere else in Wales. More sunshine, and a deal less rain. Youd hardly believe, for youd fancy on this elevated ground we should naturally have more rain, hut its less by several inches than any- THE TENANTS OF MALORY. where else in Wales! And theres next to no damp the hygrometer tells that. And a curious thing, youll have a southerly wind up here when its blowing from the east on the estuary. You can see it, by Jove! Now just look out of that window; did you ever see such sunshine as that? Theres a clearness in the air up here at the other side, if you go up, you get mist hut theres something about it here that I would not change for any place in the world. You may he sure Tom did not dispute any of these points. By Jove, Tom Sedley, it would he a glorious day for a sail round the point of Penruthyn. Id have been down with the tide, sir, this morning if I had been as I was ten years ago; but a fellow doesnt like to be lifted into his yacht, and the girls did not care for sailing; so I sold her. There wasnt such a boat take her for every thing in the world necer! The Feather; wasnt she, sir? said Tom. The Feather! ,that she was, sir. A name pretty well known, I venture to think. Yes, the Feather was her name. I have, sir, yes, indeed, often heard her spoken of; said Tom, who had heard one or two of the boatmen of Cardyllian mention her with a guarded sort of commendation. I never could learn, indeed, that there was any thing very remarkable about the boat; but Tom would just then have backed any assertion of the honest Admirals with a loyal alacrity, bordering, I am afraid, upon unscrupulousness. There are the girls going out with their trowels, going to J)oke among those flowers; and certainly, ill do them the justice to say, their garden prospers. I dont see such flowers any where, do you? Nowhere! said Tom with enthusiasm. Ay, there theyre at it grubbing and raking. And by-the-by, Tom, what was that? Sit down for a minute. Tom felt as if he wa going to choke; but he sat down. What was that some nonsense Chari- ty was telling me last night? Thus invited, poor Sedley, with many hesitations and wanderings and falterings, did get through his romantic story. And Mr. Etherage did not look pleased by the recital: on the contrary, he carried his head unusually high, and looked hot and mina- tory; but he did not explode. He con- tinued looking on the opposite wall, as he had done, as if he were eyeing a battle there, and he cleared his voice. As I understand it, sir, theres not an income to make it at all prudent. I dont want my girls to marry ; I should, in fact, miss them very much; but, if they do, there ought to be a settlement, dont you see? there should be a settlement, for I cant do so much for them as people suppose. The property is settled, and the greater part goes to my grand-nephew after me; and Ive invested, as you know, all my stock and money in the quarry at Llanrwyd; and, if she married you, she should live in London the greater part of the year. And I dont see how you could get on upon what you both have; I dont, sir. And I must say, I think you ought to have spoken to me be- fore paying your addresses, sir. I dont think thats unreasonable; on the contrary, I think it reasonable, perfectly so, and only right and fair. And I must go further, sir; I must say this, I dont see, sir, without a proper competence, what pretensions you had to address my child. None, sir; none in the world, Mr. Ether- age. I know, sir, Ive been thinking of my presumption ever since. I betrayed myself into it, sir; it was a kind of surprise. If I had reflected, I should have come to you, sir; but but you have no idea, sir, how I adore her. Toms eye wandered after her through the window, among the flowers. Or what it would be to me to to have to Tom Sedley faltered, and bit his lip, and started up quickly and looked at an en- graving of old Etherages frigate, which huno on the study wall. lie looked at it for some time steadfastly. Never was man so affected by the portrait of a frigate, you would have thought. Vane Etherage saw him dry his eyes stealthily two or three times; and the old gentleman coughed a little, and looked out of the window, and would have got up, if he could, and stood close to it. Its a beautiful day certainly wind coming round a bit to the south though south by east; thats always a squally wind with us; andandI assure you I like you, Tom; upon my honour I do, Tom Sed- ley better, sir, than any young fellow I know. I think I do I am sure, in fact, I do. But this thing it wouldnt doit really wouldnt; no, Tom Sedley it wouldnt do; if youll reflect, youll see it. But, of course, you may get on in the world. Rome wasnt built in a day. Its very kind of you, sir; but the times so long, and so many chances, said Sedley, with a sigh like a sob; and when I go away, sir, the sooner I die, the happier for me. Tom turned again quickly towards the 160 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. frigate the Vulcan and old Etherage looked out of the window once more, and up at the clouds. Yes, said the Admiral, it will; we shall have it from south by east. And, dye hear, Tom Sedley? I Ive been thinking theres no need to make any fhss about thisthis thing; just let it be as if you had never said a word about it, do you mind, and come here just as usual. Let us put it out of our heads; and if you find matters improve, and still wish it, theres nothing to prevent your speaking to me only Agnes is perfectly free, you under- stand, and you are not to make any change in your deniear~our ha a or I mean to be more with my daughters, or any thing marked, you understand. People begin to talk here, you know, in the club-house, on very slight grounds; and and you un- derstand now; and there mustnt be auy nonsense; and I like you, sir I like you, Thomas Sedley; I do I do, indeed, sir. And old Vane Etherage gave him a very friendly shake by the hand, and Tom thanked him gratefully, ai~d went away reprieved, and took a walk with the girls, and told them, as they expressed it, everpthing; and Vane Etherage thought it incumbent on him to soften matters a little by askiuc, him to dinner; and Tom accepted; and, when they broke up after tea, there was another mistake discovered about the hour, and Miss Charity most emphatically announced that it was pe?fectly unaccountable, and must never occur again; and I hope, for the sake of the venerable man, who sat up, resigned and affronted, to secure the hall-door and put out the lamps after the party had broken up, that these irregu- lar hours were kept no more at Hazelden. CHAPTER LIV. ARCADIAN LILAC AND LABURNUM AND RED BRICK. As time proceeds, renewal and decay, its twin principles of mutation, being every- where, and necessarily active, apply to the moral as well as to the material world. Af- fections displace and succeed one another. The most beautiful are often the first to die. Characteristics, in their beginning minute and unsubstantial as the fairy brood that people the woodland air, enlarge and materialize till they usurp the dominion of the whole man, and the people and the world are changed. Sir Booth Fanshawe is away at Paris LIVING AGE. VOL. VI. 223. just now, engaged in a great negotiation, which is to bring order out of chaos, and in- form him at last what he is really worth per annum. Margaret, and her cousin Miss Sheckleton, have revisited England: their Norman retreat is untenanted for the pres- ent. With the sorrow of a great concealment upon her, with other sorrows that she does not tell, Margaret looks sad and pale. In a small old suburban house, that stands alone, with a rural affectation, on a little patch of shorn grass, embowered in lilacs and laburnums, and built of a deep vermi- lion brick, the residence of these ladies is established. It is a summer evening; and a beautiful little boy, more than a year old, is sprawl- ing, and rolling, and babbling, and laughin~ on the grass, upon his back. Margaret is seated on the grass beside him, prattles and laughs with him, and rolls him about, de- lighted, and adoring her little idol. Old Anne Sheckleton. sitting on the bench, smiling happily, under the window, which is clustered round with roses, con- tributes her quota of nonsense to the prat- tle. In the midst of this comes a ring at the bell in the jessamine-covered wall, and tidy little maid runs out to the green door opens it, an(l in steps Clove Verney. Margaret is on her feet in a moment~. with the light of a different love, someth~n~ of the old romance in the glad surprise, Oh, darling, it is you ~ and her arms are about his neck; and he stoops and kisses her fondly, and in his face for a moment is reflected the glory of that delighted smile. Yes, dailing. Are you better? Oh, yes ever so. much! Im always well when you are here; and look, s e o ir poor little darling. So he is. We have bad such fun with him ! . havent we, Anne? Pm sure hell be so like you. Is that in his favour, Cousin Anne ?. asked Clove, taking the old ladys band. Why should it not? said she gayly. A question well, I take the benefit of the doubt, laughed Clove No, dar- lino he said to Margaret, you mustnt sit on the grass; it ~5 damp: youll sit be- side our Cousin Anne, and be prudent. So he instead sat down on the crass, and talked with them, and prattled and romped with the baby by turns, until the nurse came out to convey himto the nursery, and he was handed round to say what passes f~ 161 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. Good-night, and give his tiny paw to each in turn. You look tired, Cleve darling. So I am, my Guido; can we have a cup of tea? Oh, yes Ill get it in a moment, said active Anne Sheckleton. Its too bad disturbing you ! said Cleve. No trouble in the world, said Anne, who wished to allow them a word together; besides, I must kiss baby in his bed. Yes, darling, I aim tired, said Cleve, taking his place beside her so soon as old Anne Sheckleton was gone. That old man Lord Verney, do you mean? Yes: he has begun plaguing me again. What is it about, darliwr 9 Oh, fifty things: he thinks, among others, I ought to marry, said Cleve, with a dreary laugh. Oh! I thought he had given up that, she said, with a smile that was very pale. So he did for a time; but I think hes possessed. If he happens to take up an idea thats likely to annoy other people, he never lets it drop till he teases them half to death. He thinks I should gain money and political connexion, and I dont know what all, and Im quite tired of the whole thing. What a vulgar little box this is, isnt it, darling? I almost wish you were hack again in that place in France. But I can see you so much oftener here, Cleve! pleaded Margaret softly, with a very sad look. ~And wheres the good of seeing mehere, dear Margaret? Just consider, I always come to you anxious; theres always a risk, besides, of discovery. Where you are is to me a paradise. Oh, darling! do not talk rubbish. This vulgar, odious little place! No place can he either quite, of course, where you are. But you must see what it is a paradise and he laughed peevishly of red brick and lilacs and laburnums, a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tallow-chandler. There was a little tremor in Margarets lip, and the water stood in her large eyes; her hand was, as it were, on the coffin-edge; she was looking down in the face of a dead romance. Now, you really must not shed tears over that speech. You are too much given to weeping, Margaret. What have I said to vex you? It merely amounts to this, that we live just now in the future; we cant well deny that, darling. But the time will come at last, and my queen enjoy her own. And, so saying, he kissed her, and told her to he a good little girl; and from the win- dow Miss Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran up to the nursery. You do look very tired, Cleve, said Mar,~aret, looking into his anxious face. I am tired, darling, he said with just a degree of impatience in his tone; I said so horribly tired. I wish so much you were out of the House of Commons.~~ Now, my wise little woman is talking of what she doesnt understandnot the least; besides, what would you have me turn to? I should be totally without resource and pursuit dont you see? We must be rea- sonable. No, it is not that in the least that tires me, but Im really overwhelmed with anxieties, and worried by my uncle, who wants me to marry, and thinks I can marry very well, and whom I like thats all. I sometimes think, Cleve, Ive spoiled your fortunes, with a great sigh, said Mar- garet. Now, wheres the good of saying that, my little woman? Im or~ly talking of my uncles teazing me, and wishing hed let us both alone. Here came a little pause. Is that the baby? said Margaret, rais- ing her head, and listening. I dont hear our baby or anyone elses, said Cleve. I fancied I heard it cry; but it wasnt. You must think of me more, and of that child less, darling you must, indeed, said Cleve a little sourly. I think the poor heart was pleased, think- ing this jealousy; but I fear it was rather a splenetic impulse of selfishness, and that the baby was, in his eyes, a bore pretty often. Does the House sit to-night, Cleve dar- ling? Does it, indeed? Why, its sitting now. We are to have the second reading of the West India Bill on to-night, and I must be there yes in an hour lie was glan- cing at his watch and Heaven knows at what hour in the morning we shall get away.~~ And just at this moment old Anne Sheck- leton joined them. Shes coming with more tea, she said, as the maid emerged with a little tray, and well place our cups on the window-stone when we dont want them. Now, Mr. Verney, is noP this a charming little spot just at this light ? I almost think it is, said Cleve, re- lenting. The golden light of evening was touching the formal poplars and the other 162 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. trees, and bringing out the wrinkles of the old bricks duskily in its flaming glow. Yes, just for about fifteen minutes in the twenty-four hours, when the weather is particularly favourable, it has a sort of Dutch picturesqueness; but, on the whole, it is not the sort of cottage that I would choose for a permanent dove-cot. I should fear lest my pigeons should choke with dust. No, theres no dust here; it is the quietest, most sylvan, little lane in the world. Which is a wide place, said Cleve. Well, with smoke, then. Nor smoke either. But I forgot, love does not die of smoke, or of anything else, said Cleve. No, of course, love is eternal, said Mar- garet. Just so; the King never dies. Les roix meurent-ils? Quelquefoi, madame. Alas, theory and fact conflict. Love is eter- nal in the abstract; but nothing is more mortal than a particular love, said Cleve. If you think so, I wonder you ever wished to marry, said Margaret, and a faint tinge flushed her cheeks. I thought so, and yet I did wish to marry, said Cleve. It is perishable, but I cant live without it; and he patted her cheek, and laughed a rather cold little laugh. No, love never dies, said Mar~,aret, with a gleam of her old fierce spirit. But perhaps it may be killed. It is terrible to kill anything, said Cleve. To kill love, she answered, is the worst murder of all. A veritable murder, he acquiesced; once killed, it never revives. You like talking awfully, as if I might lose your love, said she haughtily; as if, were I to vex you, you never could for- give. Forgiveness has nothing to do with it, my poor little woman. I no more called my love into being than I did myself; and should it die, either naturally or violently, I could no more recall it to life than I could Cleopatra or Napoleon Bonaparte. It is a principle, dont you see? that comes as direct as life from heaven. We cant create it, we cant restore it; and really, about love, it is worse than mortal, because, as I said, I am sure it has no resurrection no, it has no resurrection. That seems to me a reason, she said, fixing her large eyes upon him with a wild resentment, why you should cherish it very much while it lives. And dont I, darling? lie said, placing his arms round her neck, and drawing her fondly to his breast, and in the thrill of that momentary effusion was something of the old feeling when to lose her would have been despair, to gain her heaven; and it seeine(l as if the scent of the woods of Malory, and of the soft sea-breeze, was around them for a moment. And now he is gone, away to that weary house lost to her, ~iven up to his amhi- tion, which seems more and more to absorb him; and she remains s~niling on their hean- tiful little baby, with a great misgiving at her heart, for four and twenty hours more. As Cleve went into the House, he met old Colonel Thongs, sometime whip of the outs. Youve heard about old Snowdon ? No. In the Cabinet, by Jove. Really ? Fact. Ask your uncle. By Jove, it is very unlooked for: no one thought of him; but I dare say hell do very well. Well soon try that. It was a very odd appointment. But Lord Snowdon was gazetted a dull man, but laborious; a man who had held minor offices at different periods of his life, and was presumed to have a competent knowl- edge of affairs. A dull man, owing all to his dulness, quite below many, and selected as a ne,ative compromise for the vacant seat in the Cabinet, for which two zealous and hrilhiant competitors were contendin,. I see it a11 , thought Cl eve ; thats the reason why Caroline Oldys and Lady Wim- bledon are to he at Ware this autumn, arid Im to be married to the niece of a Cabinet minister. Cleve sneered; but he felt very uneasy. CHAPTER LV. THE TRIUMVIRATE. THAT night Lord Verney waited to hear the debate in the Commons waited for the division, and brought Cleve home with him in his brougham. He explained to Cleve on the way how much better the debate might have been. He sometimes half re~,rett.ed his seat in the Commons; there were so many things un- said that ought to have been said, and so 163 164 many things said that had better have been omitted. And at last he remarked Your uncle Arthur, my unfortunate brother had a great natural talent for speak- ]ug. lits a talent of the Verneys about it. We all have it; and you have got it also; it is a gift of very decided importance in debate; it can hardly be overestimated in that respect. Poor Arthur might have done very well, but he didnt and hes gone about it; and Im very glad for your own sake, you are cultivating it; and it would be a very great misfortune, Ive been think- ing, if our family were not to marry, and se- cure a transmission of those hereditary ta- lents and and things and whats your opinion of Miss Caroline Oldys? I mean, quite frankly, what sort of wife you think she would make. Why, to begin with, shes been out a long time; but I believe shes gentle and foolish; and I believe her mother bullies her. I dont know what you call bullying, my good sir; but she appears to me to be a very affectionate mother; and as to her be- ing foolish about it I cant perceive it; cn the contrary, Ive conversed with her a good deal and things and Ive found her very superior indeed to any young wo- man I can recollect having talked to. She takes an interest in things which dont in- terest or or interest other young per- sons; and she likes to be instructed about affairs and, my dear Clove, I think where a young person of merit either rightly or wrongly interpreting what she conceives to be your attentions beccunes decidedly epris of you, she ought to be a con- sidered her feelings, and things; and I thought I might as well mention my views, and go about it strai~ht to tl~e point; and I think you will perceive that it is reasonable, and thats the position about it; and you know, C~eve, in these circum- stances you may reckon upon me to do any- thing in reason that may still lie in my power about it. You have always been too k;nd to me. You shall find me so still. Lady Wim- bledori takes an interest in you, and Miss Caroline Oldys will, I undertake to say, more and more decidedly as she comes to know y on better. And, so saying, Lord Verney leaned back in the brougham as if taking a doze; and, after about five minutes of closed eyes and silence, he suddenly wakened up and said It is, in fact, it strikes me, high time, Clove, you should marry about it and THE TENANTS OF MALORY. you must have money, too; you want mon- ey, and you shall have it. Im afraid money is not one of Carolines strong points. You need not trouble yourself upon that point, sir; if Im satisfied, I fancy you may. Ive quite enough for both, I presume: and and so well let that matter rest. And the noble lord let himself rest also, leaning stiffly back with closed eyes, and nodding atid swaying silently with the mo- tiori of the carriage. I believe he was only ruminating after his manner in these periods of apparent repose. He opened his eyes again, and remarked I have talked over this affair carefully with Mr. L rkin a most judicious and worthy person about it, and you can talk to him, and so on, when he comes to town, and I should rather wish you to do so. Lord Verney relapsed into silence and the semblance, at least, of slumber. So Larkins at the bottom of it; I knew be was, thought Clove, with a pang of hatred which augured ill for the future pros- pects of that good man. He has made this alliance for the Oldys and Wimbledon f& ctiou, and Im Mr. Larkins parti, and am to settle the m~nagement of everything upon him; and what a judicious diplomatist he is and how he has put his foot in it. A blundering, hypocritical coxcomb Dn him! Then his thoughts wandered away to Larkin, and to his instrument Mr. Ding- well, who looks as if lie came from the galleys. We have heard nothing of him for a year or more. Amon~ the Greek and Malay scoundrels again, I suppose; the Turks are too good for him. But Mr. Dingwell had not taken his de- parture, antI was not thinking of any such step yet, at least. He had business still on his hands, and a mission unaccomplished. Still in the same queer lodging, and more jealously shut up during the daytime than ever, Mr. Dingwell lived his odd life, pro- fessing to hate Enuland certainly in dan- ger there he yet lin~ered on for a set purpose, over which he brooded and laughed in his hermitage. To so chatty a person as Mr. Dingwell, solitude for a whole day was irksome. Sarah Rumble was his occasional resource, and when she brought him his cup of black coffee he would make her sit down by the wall, like a servant at prayers, and get from her all the news of the dingy little neighbourhood, with a running commentary of his own flighty and savage irony, and he would sometimes entertain her, between the THE TENANTS OF MALORY. whiffs of his long pipe, with talk of his own, which he was at no pains to adapt to her comprehension, and delivered rather for his own sole entertainment. The world, the flesh, and the devil, maam. The two first we know pretty well hey? the other we take for granted. I suppose there is somebody of the sort. We are all pigs, maam unclean ahimals and ihis is a sty we live in slime and abomination. Strong delusion is, unseen, circling in the air. Our ideas of beauty, delights of sense, varieties of intellect all a most comical and frightful cheat egad! What fun we must he, maarn, to the spirits who have sight and intellect! I think, ma am, were meant for their pantomime dont you? Our airs, and graces, and dignities, and compliments, and beauties, and dandies our metal coronets, and lawn sleeves, and whalebone wigs fun, maam, lots of fun! And here we are, a wonderful work of God. Eh? Come, maama word in your earall pu- trefaction pah! nothing clean but fire, and that makes us roar and vanish a very otid position were placed in: hey, ma am? Mr. Dingwell had at first led Sarah Rum- ble a frightful life, for she kept the (loor where the children were peremptorily locked, at which he took umbrage, an d put her on fatirue duty, more than trebling her work by his caprices, and requiting her with his ironies and sneers, finding fault with every- thing, pretending to miss money out of his desk. and every day threatening to invoke Messrs. Levi and Goldshed, and invite an incursion of the police, and showing in his face, his tones his jeers pointed and en- venomed by revenge that his hatred was active and fiendish. But Sarah Rumble was resolute. He was not a desirable companion for childhood of either sex, and the battle went on for a considerable time; and poor Sarah in her misery besought Messrs. Levi and Gold- shed with many tears and prayers, that he might depart from her; and Levi looked at Goldshed, and Goldshed at Levi, quite gravely, and Levi winked, and Goldshed nodded, and said, A bad boy; and they spake comfortably, and told her they would support her, hut Mr. Dingwell must remain her inmate, hut theyd take care he should do her no harm. Mr. Dingwell had a latch-key, which he at first used sparingly or timidly; with time, however, his courage grew, and he was out more or less every night. She used to hear him go out after the little household was in bed, and sometmes she heard him lack the hall-door, and his step on the stab-s when the sky wa.s already gray with the dawn. And gradually finding company such as he affected out of doors, I suppose, he did not care so much for the seclusion of his fellow-lodgers, and ceased to resent it al- most, and made it up with Sarah Rum- ble. And one night, having to go up between one and two for a match-box to the lobby, she encountered Mr. Dingwell coming down. She was dumb with terror, for she did not know~ him, and took him for a bur4ar, he being somehow totally changed she was too confused to recollect exactly, only that he had red hair and whiskers, and looked stouter. She did not know him the least till he laughed. She was near fainting, and leaned with her shoulder to the corner of the wall; and he said, Ive to put on these; you keep my se- cret, mind; you may lose me my life, else. And he took her by the chin, and gave her a kiss, and then a slap on the cheek that seemed to her hai-der than play, for her ear tingled with it for an hour after, anti she uttered a little cry of friaht, and he laughed, and glided out of the hall-door, and listened for the tread of a policemau, and peepecfslily up and down the court; and then, with his cotton umbrella in his hand, walked quietly down the passage and disappeared. Sarah Rumble fearcd him all the more for this little rencontre and the shock she had received; for there was a suggestion of something felonious in his disguise. She was, however, a saturnine and silent woman, with few acquaintances, and no fancy for collecting or communicating news. There was a spice of danter, too, in talking of this matter; so she took council of the son of Sirach, who says, If thou hast beard a word, let it die with thee, and, behold, it will not burst thee. Sarah Rumble kept his secret, and hence- forward at such hours kept close when in the deep silence of the night she heard the faint creak of his stealthy shoe upon the stair, and avoided him as she would a meet- ing with a ghost. Whatever were his rnnsements, Messrs. Goldshed and Levi grumbled savagely at the cost of them. They grumbled because grumbling was a principle of theirs in carry- ing on their business. No matter how it turns out, keep al- ways grumbling to the man who led you in- 165 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. to the venture, especially if he has a claim to a share of the profits at the close. So whenever Mr. Larkin saw Messrs. Goldsbcd and Levi he heard mourning and imprecation. The Hebrews shook their heads at the Christian, and chanted a Jere- miad, in duet, together, and each appealed to the other for confirmation of the dolorous and bitter truths he uttered. And the iron safe opened its jaws, and disgorged the private ledger of the firm, which ponder- ous and greasy tome was laid on the desk with a pound, and opened at this transac- tion the matter of Dingwell, Verney, & c.; and Mr. Levi would run his black nail alon~ the awful items of expenditure that filled column after column. Look at that look here look, will you ? look, I say: you never sawed an account like that never all this here look down and down and down and down Enough to frighten the Bank of Eng- land boomed Mr. Goldshed. Look down thish column, resumed Levi, and thish, and thish, and thish theres nine o them and not one stiver on th other side. Look, look, look, look, look! Da-am, itsh all a quaag, and a quickshand nothing hut shink and sliwal- low, and give ush more and as he spoke Levi was knoeking the knuckles of his long lean fingers fiercely upon the empty col- umns, and eyeing Larkin with a rueful fcroctv, as if he had plundered and half- murdered him and his partner, who sat there inno~ent as the hahes in the wood. Mr. Lerkin knew quite well, however, thht, so far from regretting their invest- meat, they would not have sold their ven- tures under a very high figure indeed. A~J that d-~-am Dingwell, talking as if he had us all in quad, by and always wbiinperin, and whingin, and swearin for more why youd say, to lis en to his bosh, twas bite had us under his knuckle you would the lunatic And may I ask what he wants just at present? inquired Mr Larkin. What he always wants, and wont be eatv never till he gets it a walk up the mill smr, and his head cropped, and six months solitary, and a touch of corporal now and again. I never sawd a cove as wanted a teazin more; thats what he wants. What hes lookin for, of course, is different, only he shant get it, nohow. And I think, look- mnz at that book there, as I showed you this account in considering what me and the gov nor here has (lone twould only he faim~ you should come down with summut, if you goes in for the lottery, with other gen- tlemen as pays their pool like hricks, and never does modest, by no chance. He has pushed that game a little too far, said Mr. Larkin; I have considered his feelings a great deal too much. Yesh, but we have feelinsh. The gov- nor has feeliush; I have feeliush. Think what state our feeliush is in, lookin at that there account, said Mr. Levi, with much pathos. Mr. Larkin glanced toward the door, and then toward the window. We are quite alone ? said he mild ly. Yesh, without you have the devil in your pocket, as old Dingwell saysh, answer- ed Levi sulkily. For there are subjects of a painful na- ture, as you know, gentlemen, connected with this particular case, continued Mr. Larkin. Awful painful; but well sta-an it, said Goldshed, with unctuous humour; well sta-an it, but wishes it over quick; and he winked at Levi. Yesh, he wishes it over quick, echoed Levi; the govnor and me, we wishes it over quick. And so do I, most assuredly; but we must have a little patience. If deception does lurk here and you know I warned you I suspected it we must not prema- turely trouble Lord Verney. He might throw up the sponge, he might, I lcno w, said Levi, with a nod. I dont know what course Lord Verney might think it right in such a c~ se to adopt; IC only know, that, until I am in a position to reduce suspicion to certainty, it would hard- ly consist with right feeling to torture his mind upon the subject. In the mean time he is a growing Growing warm in his birth, said Gold- shed. Establishing himself, I should say, in his position. He has been incurring, I need hardly tell you, enormous expense in restor- ing ([ might say rebuilding) the princely mansions of Ware, and of Verney House. He applied much ready money to that ob- ject, and has charged the estates with nearly sixty thousand pounds besides. Mr. Lar- kin lowered his tones reverentially at the mention of so considerable a sum. I know Sirachs did ni~h thirty thou- shand o that, said Mr. Goldshed. And that tends to to as I may say steady him in his position; and I may mer tion, in confidence, gentlemen, that the. are other measures on the tepis (he pe 166 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. nounced taypis) which will further and still more decidedly fix him in his position. It would pain us all deeply. gentlemen, that a premature disclosure of my uneasiness should inspire his lordship with a panic in which he might deal ruinously with his own interests, and, in fact, as you say, Mr. Levi, throw up the the Sponge, said Levi reflectively. But I may add, said Mr. Larkin, that I am impatiently watching the moment when it may hecome my duty to open my suspicions fully to Lord Verney; and that I have reason to know that that moment can- not now be distant. Heres Tomlinshon comm up, govnor, said Mr. Levi, jumping off the table on which he had heen sitting, and sweeping the great ledger into his arms, he pitched it into its herth in the safe, and locked it into that awful prison-house. I said he would, said Goldshed, with a lazy smile, as he unlocked a drawer in the lumbering office table at which he sat. Dont bring out them overdue renewals; well not want them till next week. Mr. Tomlinson, a tall, thin man, in light drab trousers, with a cotton umbrella swing- ing in his baud, and a long careworn face, came striding up the court. You wont do that for him? asked Levi. No, not to-day, murmured Mr. Gold- shed, with a wink. And Mr. Tomlinsons timid knock and feeble ring at the door were heard. And Mr. Larkin put on his well-brushed hat, and pulled on his big lavender gloves, and stood up at his full length, in his new black frock-coat, and waist-coat and trou- sers of the accustomed hue, and presents the usual ~lossy and lavender-tinted effect, and a bland simper rests on his lank cheeks, and his small pink eyes look their adieux upon Messrs. Goldshed and Levi, on whom his airs and graces a~e quite lost; and, with his slim silk umbrelM between his great finger and thumb, he passes loftily by the cotton umbrella of Mr. Tomlinson, and fancies, with a pardonable egotism, that that poor gentleman, whose head is full of his bill- book and renewals, and possible executions, and preparing to deceive a villanous om- niscience, and to move the compassion of Pandemonium is thinking of him, and mistaking him, possibly, for a peer, or for some other type of aristocracy. The sight of that unfortunate fellow, Tomlinson, with a wife and a seedy hat, and children, and a cotton umbrella, whose little business was possibly about to be knocked about his ears, moved a lordly pity in Mr. Larkins breast, and suggested contrasts, also, of many kinds, that were calculated to elate his good humour; and as he stepped into the cab, and the driver waited to know where, he thought he might as well look in upon the recluse of Rosemary Court, and give him, of course with the exquisite tact that was peculiar to him, a hint or two in favour of reason and mdderatiou; for really it was quite true what Mr. Levi had said about the preposterous presumption of a person in Mr. Dingwells position affecting the airs of a dictator. So being in the mood to deliver a lecture, to the residence of that uncomfortable old gentleman he drove, and walked up the flagged passage to the flagged court-yard, and knocked at the door, and looked up at the square ceiling of sickly sky, and strode up the narrow stairs after Mrs. Rumble. How dye do, sir? Your so~il quite well, I trust. Your spiritual concerns flour- ishing to-day? was the greeting of Mr. iDingwells mocking voice. Thanks, Mr. Dingwell; Im very well, answere(l Mr. Larkin, with a bow which was meant to sober Mr. Dingwells mad hu- mour. Sarah Rumble, as we know, had a defined fear of Mr. Dingwell, but also a vague ter- ror; for there was a great deal about him ill-omened and mysterious. There was a curiosity, too, active within her, intense and rather ghastly, about all that concerned him .She did not care, thereforc, to getup and go away from the small hole in the carpet which she was darning on the lobby, and through the door she heard faintly some talk she didnt understand, and Mr. Ding- wells voice, at a high pitch, said ID you, sir, lo you think Im a fool? Dont you think Ive your letter, and a copy of my own? If we draw swords, egad, sir, mines the longer and sharper, as youll feel. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, lawk! gasped Sarah Rumble, standing up, and expecting the clash of ra- piers. Your face, sir, is as white and yellow youll excuse me as an old turban. I beg your pardon; but I want you to under- stand that I see youre frightened, and that I wont be bullied by you. I dont suppose, sir, you meditate totally ruining yourself, said Mr. Larkin, with dignity. I tell you, sir, if anything goes wrong with me, ill make a clean breast of it everything ha, ha, ha ! upon my hon- our and we two shall grill together. 167 168 Larkin had no idea he was going in for so hazardous and huge a game when he sat down to play. His vision was circum- scribed, his prescience small. He looked at the beast he had imported, and wished him in a deep grave in Scutari, the scheme quashed, and the stakes drawn. But wishing would not do. The spirit was evoked in nothing more manageable than at first; on the contrary, rather more insane. Nerve was needed, subtlety, com- pliance, and he must manage him. Why the devil did you bring me here, sir, if you were not prepared to treat me properly? You know my circumstances, and you want to practise on my misfor- tunes, you vile rogue, to mix me up in your fraudulent machinations. Pray, sir, not so loud. Do do com- mand yourselg remonstrated Larkin al- most affectionately. Do you think Im come all this way, at the risk of my life, to be your slave, you shabby, canting attorney? Id better be where I was, or in kingdom come. By Allah! sir, you have me, and Im your mas- ter, and you shant have my soul for nothiiig. There came a loud knock at the hall-door, and if it had been a shot and killed them both, the debaters in the drawing-room could not have been more instantaneously and breathlessly silent. Down glided Sarah Rumble, who had been expecting this visit, to pay the tax- man. And she had hardly taken his receipt, when Mr. Larkin, very pink, endeavouring to smile in his discomfiture, and observing, with a balmy condescension, A sweet day, Mrs. Rumble, appeared, shook his ears a Ittle, and adjusted his hat, and went forth, and Rosemary Court saw him no more for some time. CHAPTER LVI. IN VERNEY HOUSE. Mn. LARKIN got into his cab, and ordered the cabman, in a loud voice, to drive to Verne) House. Didnt lie know Verney Tiouse? He thought every cabman in London knew Verney House! The house of Lord Vis- count Verney, in Square. Why it fills up a whole side of it! He looked at his watch. He had twenty seven minutes to reach it in. It was partly to get rid of a spare half-hour, that he had THE TENANTS OF MALORY. paid his unprofitable visit to Rosemary Court. Mr. Larkin registered a vow to confer no more with Mr. Dingwell. He eased his feelings by making a note of this resolution in that valuable little memorandum book which he carried about with him in his pocket. Saw Mr. Dingwell this day as usual impracticable and ill-bred to a hopeless degree waste of time, and worse resolved that this gentleman being inaccessible to rea- son, is not to be argued. but DEALT with, should occasion hereafter arise for influen- cing his conduct. Somewhere about T mple-bar, Mr. Lar- kins cab got locked in a string of vehicles, and he put his head out of the window, not being sorry for an opportunity of astonish- ing the citizens by calling to the driver I say, my good fellow, cant you get on? I told Lord Verney to expect me at half-past one: Do, pray, get me out of this, any way, and you shall have a gratuity of half a crown. Verney House is a good step from this. Do try. His lordship will be as much obliged to you as I am. Mr Larkins assiduities and flatteries were, in truth, telling upon Lord Verney, with whom he was stealing into a general confidence which alarmed many people, and which Cleve Verney hated more than ever. With the pretty mansion of Hazelden, the relations, as Lord Verney would have said of the House of Ware, were no longer friendly. This was another instance of the fragility of human arrangements, and the vanity of human hopes. The altar had been erected, the swine sacrificed, and the augurs and haruspices on both sides had predicted nothing but amity and concord. Game, fruit, and venison, went and came, Much good may it do your good heart. It was ill-killed, & c. Master Shallow and Master Page could n ~ have been more courteous on such occasi~s. But on the ffe chamnp~tre had descended a sudden pro- cella. The roses were whirling high in the darkened air, the flatteries and laughter were drowned in thunder, and the fiddles smashed with hail-stones as large as pota- toes. A general election had come and gone, and in that brief civil war old Vane Ether- age was found at the wrong side. In Lord Verneys language neighbour meant some- thing like vassal; and Ethierage, who had set up his banners and arrayed his power on the other side~ was a rebel. The less THE TENANTS OF MALORY. forgivable that he had, as was authentically demonstrated, by this step himself inflicted that defeat in the county which had wound- ~d Lord Verney to the quick. So silence descended upon the inter- change of civil speeches; the partridges and pheasants winged from Ware in a new di- rection, and old Vane Etherage stayed his friendly hand also; and those tin cases of Irish salmon, from the old gentlemans fish. eries, packed in ice, as fresh as if they had sprung from the stream only half an hour before, were no longer known at Ware; and those wonderful fresh figs, green and purple, which Lord Verney affected, for which Hazieden is famous, and which Vane Etherage was fond of informing his guests were absolutely unequalled in any part of the known world. England could not ap- proach them for hulk and ripeness, nor for- eign parts and he had eaten figs wher- ever figs grow for aroma and flavour, no longer crossed the estuary. Thus this game of beg~ar-my-neighbour began. Lord Verney recalled his birds, and Mr. Ether- age withdrew his figs. Mr. Etherage lost his great black grapes; and Lord Verney sacrificed his salmon, and in due time Lord Verney played a writ, and invited an epi- sode in a court of law, and another, more formidable, in the Court of Chancery. So the issues of war were knit again, and Vane Etherage was now informed by his lawyers there were some very unpleas- ant questions mooted affectin~, his title to the Windermore estate, for which he paid a triflin~ rent to the Verneys. So, when Larkin went into Verney House he was closeted with its noble master for a good while, and returnin~ to a smaller library devoted to blue books and pamphlets where he had left a de- spatch-box and umbrella durinc~ his wait for admission to his noble client, he found Cleve busy there. Oh, Mr Larkjn! How dye do? Any- thing to say to me? said the handsome young man, whose eye looked angry though he smiled. Ah, thanks! No, no, Mr. Verney. I hope and trust I see you well; but no, I had not any communication to make. Shall I be honoured, Mr. Verney, with any communication from you? Ive nothing to say, thanks, except, of course, to say how much obliged I am for the very particular interest you take in my affairs. I should be eminently gratified, Mr. Ver- ney, to merit your approbation; but I fear, sir, as yet I can hardly hope to have merit- 169 ed your thanks, said Mr. Larkin mod- estly. You wont let me thank you; but I quite understand the nature and extent of your kindness. My uncle is by no means so reserved, and he has told me very frank- ly the care you have been so good to take of me. Hes more obliged even than I am, and so, I am told, is Lady Wimbledon also. Cleve had said a great deal more than at starting he had at all intended. It would have been easy to him to have dismissed the attorney without allusion to the topic that made him positively hateful in his eyes; but it was not easy to hint at it, and quite command himself also, and the result illus- trated the general fact that total abstinence is easier than moderation. Now the effect of this little speech of Cleces upon the attorney was to abash Mr Larkin, and positively to confound him, in a degree quite unusual in a Christian so armed on most occasions with that special grace called presence of mind. The blood mounted to his hollow cheeks, and up to the summit of his tall bald head; his eyes took their rat-like character, and looked dangerously in his for a second, and then down to the floor, and scanned his own boots; and he bit his lip, and essayed a lit- tle laugh, and tried to look innocent, and broke down in the attempt. He cleared his voice once or twice to speak, but said nothing; and all this time Cleve gave him no help whatsoever, but enjoyed his evident confusion with an angry sneer. I hope, Mr. ~leve Verney, at length Mr. Larkin began, where duty and expe- diency pull in opposite directions, I shall always be found at the right side. The winning side at all events, said Clove. The right side, I venture to repeat. It has been my misfortune to be misunder- stood more than once in the course of my life. It is our duty to submit to misinter- pretation, as to other afflictions, patiently. I hope I have done so. My first duty is to my client. Im no client of yours, sir. Well, conceding that, sir, to your uncle to Lord Verney, I will say to his views of what the interests of his house demand, and to his feelings. Lord Verney has been good enough to consult me, hitherto, upon this subject a not quite unnatural confidence, I venture to think more than you seem to suspect. He seems to think, and so do I, that Ive a voice in it, and has not left me absolutely in the hands in a matter of so much im THE TENANTS OF MALORY. portance and delicacyof his country lawyer. I had no power in this case, sir; not even of mentioning the subject to you, who certainly, in one view, are more or less affected by it. Thank you for the concession, sneered Cleve. I make it unaffectedly, Mr. Cleve Ver- ney, replied Larkin graciously. My uncle, Lord Verney, has given me leave to talk to you upon the subject. I venture to decline that privilege. I prefer speaking to him. He seems to think that I ought to be allowed to advise a Little in the matter; and that, with every respect for his wishes, mine also are entitled to be a little considered. should I ever talk to you, Mr. Larkin, it shant be to ask your advice. Im detaining you, sir, and Im also a little busy myself. Mr. Larkin looked at the young man for a second or two a little puzzled; but en- countering only a look of stern impatience, he made his best bow, and the conference ended. A few minutes later in came our old friend, Tom Sedley. Oh! Sedley? Very glad to see you here; but I thought you did not want to see my uncle just now; and this is the most likely place, except the library, to meet him in. Hes gone; I saw him go out this mo- ment. I should not have come in otherwise, and you mustnt send me away, dear Cleve, Im in such awful trouble. Everything has gone wrong with us at Hazleden. You know that quarrying company the slates that odious fellow, Larkin, led him into, before the election and all the other an- noyances began. You mean the Llandrwyd Company? Yes; so I do. But thats quite ruined, von know, sit down. I know. lie has lost frightfully and Mr. Etherage must pay up ever so much in calls beside; and unless he can get it on a mortgage of the Windermore Estate, he cant possibly pay them and Ive been trying, and the result is just this they wont lend it anywhere till the litigation is settled. Well, what can I do? said Cleve, yawning stealthily into his hand, and look- ing very tired. I am afraid these tragic con- fidences of Tom Sedleys did not interest Cleve very much; rather bored him, on the contrary.~~ They wont lend, I say, while this liti- gation is pending. Depend upon it they wont acquiesced Cleve. And in the mean time, you know, Mr. Etherage would be ruined. Well, I see; but, I say again, What can I do? I want you to try if anything can be done with Lord Verney, said Tom beseech- ingly. Talk to my uncle? I wish, dear Tom, you could teach me how to do that. It cant do any harm, Cleve it cant, urged Tom Sedley piteously. Nor one particle of good. You might as well talk to that picture I do assure you, you might. But it could be no pleasure to him to ruin Mr. Etherage! Im not so sure of that ; between our- selves, forgiving is not one of his weak- nesses. But I say its quite impossible an old family, and liked in the county, it would be a scandal for ever! pleaded Tom Sed- ley distractedly. Not worse than that business of Booth Fanshawe, said Cleve, looking down; No, he never forgives anything. I dont think he perceives hes taking a revenge; he has nof mind enough for repentance, said Cleve, who was not in good humour with his uncle just then. Wont you try ? Youre such an eloquent fellow, and theres really so much to be said! I do assure you, theres no more use than in talking to the chimney-piece; but, if you make a point of it, 1 will; but by Jove, you could hardly choose a worse advocate just now. for hes teasing me to do what I cant do. If you heard my miserable story, it would make you laugh; its like a thing in a petit comedic, and its break- ing my heart. Well, then, youll try wont you try? said Tom, overlooking his friends description of his own troubles. Yes, as you desire it, Ill try; but I dont expect the slightest good from it, and possibly some mischief, he replied. A thousand thanks, my dear Cleve; Im going down to-night. Would it be too much to ask you for a line, or, if its good news, a telegram to Lluinan. I may safely promise you that, Im sorry to say, without risk of trouble. You mustnt think me unkind; but it would be cruel to let you hope when there is not, really, a chance. So Tom drove away to his club, to write his daily love-letter to Agnes Etherage,in 170 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. time for post; and to pen a few lines for old Vane Etherage~ and try to speak comforta- bly to that family, over whose roof had gathered an awful storm. CHAPTER LVII. That ni~ht a child might understand, The dcii had business on his hand. I ENDED my last chapter with mention of a metamorphoric storm; but a literal storm broke over the city of London on that night, such as its denizens remembered for many a day after. The lightning seemed, for more than an hour, the continuous pulsations of light from a sulphurous furnace, and the thunder pealed with the cracks and rattlings of one long roar of artillery. The children, waked by the din, cried in their beds in ter- ror, and Sarah Rumble got her (Iress about her, and said her prayers in panic. After a while, the intervals between the awful explosions were a little more marked, and Miss Rumbles voice could be heard by the children, comforting and re-assuring in the brief lulls; although, had they known what a fright their comforter was herself in, their confidence in her would have been impaired. Perhaps there was a misgiving in Sarah Rumbles mind that the lightuings and thunders of irate heaven were invoked by the presence of her mysterious lodger. Was even she herselfguiltless, in hiding under her roM-tree that impious old sinner, whom Rose- mary Court dis_ orged at dead of night, as the churchyard does a ghost about whose past history, whose doings and whose plans, except that they were wicked, she knew no more than about those of an evil spirit, had she chanced, in one of her spectre-see- ing moods, to spy one moving across the lobby. His talk was so cold and wicked; his tem- per so fiendish; his nocturnal disguises and outdoings so obviously pointed to secret guilt; and his relations with the meek Mr. Larkin, anti with those potent Jews, who, grumblin and sullen, yet submitted to his caprices, as genii to those of the magician who has the secretof command, that Mr. Diu~well had in her eyes somethin~ of a supernatural horror surrounding him. In the thunder-storm, Sarah Rumble vowed se- cretly to reeousider the religious propriety of harbouring this old man; and amid these qualms, it was with something of fear and anger that, in a silence between the peals of the now subsidin~ storm, she heard the creak of his shoe upon the stair. That even on such a night, with the voice of divine anger in the air, about his ears, he could not forego his sinister excursions, and for once at these hours remain decorously in his rooms! Her wrath overcame her fear of him. She would not have her house burnt and demolished over her head, with thun- derbolts, for his doings. She went forth, with her candle in her hand, and stood at the turn of the banis- ter, confronting Mr. Dingwell, who, also fur- nished with a candle, was now about mid- way down the last flight of stairs. Egeria, in the thunder! exclaimed the hard, scoffing tones of Mr. Dingwell; whom, notwithstanding her former encoun- ter with him, she would hardly have recog- nized in his ugly disguise. A hoffle night for any one to go out, sir; she said rather sternly, with a cour- tesy at the same time. Hoffle is it ? said~~~r. iDingwell, amused, with mock gravity. The hoffiest, sir, I think I ever ave re- membered. Why, maam, it isnt rainirtg; I put my hand out of the window. Theres none of that hoffie rain, maam, that gives a fellow rheumatism. I hope theres no unusual fog is there? There, sir! excl& mcd she, as a long anti loud peal rattled over Rosemary Court, with a blue glare through the lobby window and the fanlight in the hall. She paused, and lifted her hand and eyes till it subsid- ed, and then murmured an ejaculation. I like thunder, my dear. It reminds me of your name, dear Miss Rumble; and he prolonged the name with a rolling pronun- ciation. Shakspeare, you know, who says everything better than any one else in the world, makes that remarkable old gentle- man, King Lear, say, Thunder, rumble thy bellyfull! Of course, I would not say i/tat in a drawing-room, or to you; brat kings are so refined they may say things we cant, and a genius like Shakspeare hits it otL I woulti not go out, sir, on such a night, except I was very sure it was about some- thing good I was a-going, said Miss Rum- ble, very pale. You labour under electro-phobia, my dear- maam, and mistake it for piety. Im not a bit afraid of that sort of artillery, mad- am. Here we are, two or three millions of people in this town; and two or three mil- lions of shots, and well see by the papers, I venture to say, not one shot tells. Dont you think if Jupiter really meant mischief he could manage something better? I know, sir, it ought to teach us 171 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. here she winced and paused; for another glare, followed by another bellow of the thunder, long, loud, and deep, interposed. It should teach us some godly fear, if we has none by nature. Mr. iDingwell looked at his watch. Oh! Mr. iDingwell, it is hoffle. I wish you would only see it, sir. See the thunder, eh? My poor mother! She always made us go down on our knees, and say our prayers she would while the thunder was. Youd have had rather long prayers to- night. How your knees must have ached egad! I dont wonder ye~ dread it Miss Sarah. And so I do, Mr. Dingwell, and so I should. Which I think all other sinners should dread it also. Meaning me? And take warning of the wrath to come. zlere was another awful clap. Hoffle it is, Mr. Dingwell ,and a warn- ing to you, sent special mayhap. Hardly fair to disturb all the town for me, dont you think? Youre an old man, Mr.Dingwell. And youre an old woman, Miss Sarah, said he, not caring to be reminded of his years by other people, ~though he playfully called himself on occasions an old boy, as old as Abrahams wife, whose name- sake you are, though you have not lighted on an Abraham yet, nor become the mother of a great nation. Old enou~h to be good enough, as my poor mother used to say, sir. I am truly; and sorry I am, Mr. Diugwell, to see you, on this home night, bent on no good. Im afraid, sir oh, sir, sir, oughtnt you think, with them sounds in your ears, Mr. Ding- well ? The most formidable thunder, my dear Sarah, proceAs from the silvery tongue of woman. I can stand any other. It fright- ens me. So, egad, if you please, Ill take refuge in the open air, and go out, and pat- ter a prayer. And with a nod and a smirk, having had enough fooling, he glided by Miss Rumble, who made him an appalled courtesy, and, setting down his candle on the hall-table, he said, touchiur his false whiskers with his finger-tips, Mind, not a word about these By youd better not. She made another courtesy. He stopped and looked at her for an answer. Cant you speak? he said. No, sir sure not a word, she fal- tered. Good girl ! he said, and opened the door with his latch-key in his pocket, on pitchy darkness, which was instantaneously illuminated by the lightning; and another awful roar of thunder broke over their heads. The voice of heaven in warnino I she murmured to herself, as she stood by the banisters, dazzled by the gleam, and listen- ing to the reverberation ringing in her ears. I pray God he may turn back yet. He looked over his shoulder. Another shot, Miss Rumble missed again, you see. He nodded, stepped out into darkness, and shut the door. She heard his steps in the silence that followed, traversing the flags of the court. Oh, dear! but I wish he was gone, right out a hoffle old man he is! There s a weight on my conscience like, and a fright in my heart, there is, ever since he camed into the onse. He is so presumptuous! To see that hold man made hup with them rings and whiskers, like a robber or a play-actor! And def~in the blessed thunder of heaven a walking hout, a mockin and (larin it, at these hours Oh law! The interjection was due to another flash and peal. I wouldnt wonder no more I would if that flash was the death o im! CHAPTER LVIII. THE PALE HORSE. SALtY RUMBLE knocked at the usual hour at the old mans door next morn- ing. Come in. maam, he answered, in a weary, peevish voice. Open the window- shutter, and give nie some light, and hand me my watch, please. All which she did. I have not closed my eyes from the time I lay down. Not ailing, sir, I hope? Just allow me to count, and Ill tell you, my dear. He was trying his pulse. Just as I thougfit, egad. The pale horse in the Revelation, maa~n, hes running a gallop in my pulse; it has been threaten- ing the last three days, and now Im in for it, and I should not be surprised, Miss Sally, if it ended in a funeral in our alley. ~ forbkl, sir. Amen, with all my heart. Ay, the pale horse; my heads splitting oblige me with the looking-glass, and a little loss light will answer. Thank you very & od. Ju~t 172 173 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. draw the curtain open at the foot of the bed; please, hold it nearer thank you. Yes, a ghost, maam ha, ha at last, I do sup- pose. My eyes, too Ive seen pits, with the water drying up, hollow ay, ay; sunk and now did you see? Well, look at my tongue here and he made the demonstration; you never saw a worse tongue than that, I fancy; that tongue, ma am, is eloquent, I think. Please God, sir, youll soon be better. Draw the curtain a bit more; the light falls oddly, or does it? my face. Did you ever see, maam, a face so nearly the col- our of a coffin-plate? Dont be talking, sir, please, of no such thino said Sally Rumble, taking heart of grace, for women generally pluck up a spirit when they see a man floored by sickness. ill make you some whey or barley-water, or would you like some weak tea better? Ay; will you draw the curtain close aoain, and take away the looking-glass? Thanks. I believe Ive drunk all the water in the carafe. Whey well I suppose its the right thing caudle when were coming in, and whey, maam, when were going out, Baptism of Infants, Burial of the Dead! My poor mother, h6w she did put us through the prayer-book, and Bible Bible. Dear me! Theres a very good man, sir, please the Rev. Doctor Bartlett, though hes gone rather old. He came in, and read a deal, and prayed, every day with my sister when she was sick, poor thing. Bartlett? XVhats his Christian name? You need not speak loud it plays the devil with my head. The Reverend Thomas Bartlett, please, sir.~, Of Jesus? What, sir, please? Jesus College. Dont know, Im sure, sir. Is he old? Yes, sir, past seventy. Ha well I dont care a farthing about him, said Mr. Dingwell. Will you, please, have in the apothecary, sir? Ill fetch him directly if you wish. No no apothecary, no clergyman; I (Iont believe in the Apostles Creed, maam, and I do believe in the jokes about apothe- caries. If Im to go, Ill go quietly if you please. Honest Sally Rumble was heavy at heart to see this old man, who certainly did look ghastly enough to suggest ideas of the un- dertaker and the sexton, in so unsatisfacto- ry a plight as to his immortal part. Was he a Jew ? there wasnt a hair on his chin or a Roman Catholic ? or a mem- ber of any one of those multitudinous forms of faith which she remembered in a stout volume, adorned with woodcuts, and enti- tled A Dictionary of all Religions, in the back parlor of her granduncle, the tallow- chandler? Give me a glass of cold water, maam, said the subject of her solicitude. Thank you thats the best drink, Slop, I think you call it, a sick man can swallow. Sally Rumble coughed a little, and fidg- eted, and at last she Id, Please, sir, would you wish I should fetch any other sort of a minister? Dont plague me, pray; I believe in the prophet Rabelais, and je men vais chercher un grandpeut itre the two great chemists, Death, who is going to analyse, and Life, to recombine me. I tell you. maa i, my head is splitting; Im very ill; Ill talk no more. She hesitated. She lingered in the room, in her great perplexity; and M . Dingwell lay back, with a groan. Ill tell you what you may do: go down to your landlords office, and be so good as to say to either of those dd Jew t~llows I dont care which that I am as you see me; it rnaynt signify, it may blow over; but Ive an idea it is serious; and tell them I said they had better know that I am very ill, and that Ive taken no step about it. XYith another weary gi-oan, Mr. Dingwell let himself down on his pillow, and felt worse for his exertion, and very tired and stupid, and odd about the head, and would have been very glad to fall asleep; and with one odd pang of fear, sudden and cold, at his heart, he thought, Im going to die at last Im going to die at last Im going to die. The physical nature in sickness acquies- ces in death; it is the instructed mind that recoils; and the more versed about the un- seen things of futurity, unless when God, as it were, prematurely glorifies it, the more awfully it recoils. Mr. Dingwell was not more afraid than other sinners who have lived for the earthy part of their nature, and have taken futu- rity pretty much for granted, and are now going to test by the stake of themselves the value of their loose guesses. No; he had chanced a great many things, and they had turned out for the most part better than he expected. Oh ! no; the whole court and the adjoining lanes, and, in short, the whole city of London, must go as he would lots of company, it was not THE TENANTS OF MALORY. to be supposed it was anything very bad and he was so devilish tired, over-fatigued queer worse than sea-sickness that headache fate the change an end what was it? At all events, a rest, a sleep sleep could not be very bad; lots of sleep, sir, and the chance the chance oh, yes, things go pretty well, and I have not had my good luck yet. I wish I could sleep a bit yes, let kingdom-come be all sleep and so a groan, and the brain duller, and more pain, and the immense fatigue that demands the enormous sleep. When Sarah Rumble returned, Mr. Dingwell seemed, she thought, a great deal heavier. He made no remark,. as he used to do, when she entered the room. She came and stood hy the bed-side, hut he lay with his eyes closed, not asleep; she could see hy the occasional motion of ~is is, and the fidgety change of his posture, and his weary groanings. She waited for a time in silence. Better, sir? she half-whispered, after a minute or two. No, he said wearily. Another silence followed, and then she asked, Would you like a drink, Mr. Ding- well, sir ? Yes water. So he drank a very little, and lay down again. Miss Sarah Rumble stayed in the room, and nearly ten minutes passed without a word. What did he say? demanded Mr. Din~well so abruptly that Sarah Rumble fancied he had heen dreamino. Who, sir, please? The Jew landlord, he answered. Mr. Levis a-coming up, sir, please he expected in twenty minutes, replied she. Mr. Dingwell groaned; and two or three minutes more elapsed, and silence seemed to have re-established itself in the darkened chamber, when Mr. Dingwell raised him- self up with a sudden alacrity, and said he Sarah Rumble, fetch me my desk. Which she did from his sitting-room. Put your hand under the bolster, and youll find two keys on a ring, and a pocket- book. Yes. Now, Sarah Rumble, unlock that desk. Very good. Put out the papers on the coverlet before me; first bolt the door. Thank you, maam. There are a parcel of letters among those, tied across with a red silk cord just so. Put them in my hand thank you and place all the rest back again neatly neatly, if you please. Now lock the desk; replace it, and come here; but first give me pen and ink, and bolt the door again. And as she did so. he scrawled an address upon the blank paper in which these letters were wrapt. The brown visage of his grave landlady was graver than ever as she returned to listen for further orders. Mrs. Sarah Rumble, I take you for an honest person; and as I may die this time, I make a particular request of you take. this little packet, and slip it between the feather-bed and the mattress, as near the centre as~ your arm will reach thank you remember its there. If I die, maam, youll find a ten-pound note wrapped about it, which I give to you; you need not thank that will do. The letters addressed as they are you will deliver, without showing them, or saying one word to any one but to the gentleman himself, into whose own hands you must deliver them. You understand? Yes, sir, please ; Im listening. Well, attend. There are two Jew gen- tletnen your landlord, Mr. Levi, and the old Jew, who have been with me once or twice you know them; that makes two; and there is Mr. Larkin, the tall gentleman who has been twice here with them, with the lavender waistcoat and trousers, the eye-glass with the black ribbon, the black frock-coat heigho! oh, dear, my head! the red grizzled whiskers, and bald head. The religious gentleman, please, sir? Exactly; the religious gentleman. Well, attend. The two Jews and the religious gentleman together make three; and those three aentlemen are all robbers. TV/tat, sir ? Robbers robbers! Dont you know what robbers means? They are all three robbers. Now, I dont think theyll want to fiddle with my money tillIm dead. Oh, Lord, sir! Oh, Lord! of course. That will do. They wont touch my money till Im dead, if they trust you; but they will want my desk at least Larkin will. I shant be able to look after things, for my head is very bad, and I shall be too drowsy soon knocked up; so give em the desk, if they ask for it, and these keys from under the pillow; and if they ask you if there are any other papers, say no; and dont you tell them one word about the letters youve put between the beds here. If you betray me youre a religious woman yes and believe in God may God dn you; and he will, for youll be accessory to the villainy of those three miscreants. And now Ive 174 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. done what in me lies; and that is all my last testament. And Mr. iDingwell lay down wearily. Sarah Rumble knew that he was very ill; she had attended people in fever, and seen them die. Mr. iDingwell was already per- ceptibly worse. As she was coming up with some whey. a knock came to the door, and, opening it she saw Mr. Levi, with a very surly countenance, and his dark eyes blaz. ing fiercely on her. Howsh Dingwell now? he demanded, before he had time to enter and shut the door; worse, is he? Well, hes duller, sir. In his bed? Shut the door. Yes, sir, please. Didnt get up this morn- ing. He expected you two hours ago, sir. Levi nodded. h XVhat doctor did you fetch? he asked. No doctor, please, sir. I thought you and him would choose. Levi made no answer; so she could not tell by his surly face, which underwent no change, whether he approved or not. He looked at his watch. Larkin wasnt here to-day? Mr. Larkin? No, sir, please. Show me Dingwells room, till I have a look-nt him, said the Jew gloomily. So he followed her upstairs, and entered the darkened room without waiting for any invitation, and went to the window, and pulled open a bit of the shutter. Whats it for? grumbled Dingwell indistinctly from his bed. So youve bin and done it, you have, said the Jew, walking up with his hands in his pockets, and eyeing him from a distance as he might a glandered horse. Dingwell was in no condition to retort on this swarthy little man, who eyed him with a mixture of disgust and malignity. how long has he been thish way? said the Jew, glowering on Sarah Rumble. Only mo-day in hed, please, sir; but he has bin lookin awful bad this two or three days, sir. Do you back it forftcer? ithink itsfecer, sir. 1 spose youd twig fever fasht enough? Sheen lotsh of fever in your time? Yes, sir, please. It ish fever, ten to one in fifties. Black death going, maam my luck! Look at him there, d n him, hesh got it. Levi looked at him surlily tor a while with eyes that glowed like coals. This comsh o them dd holes youre always a-going to; theres always fever and every thing there, you great old buck goat. Dingwell made an effort to raise himself, and mumbled, half awake Let me Ill talk to him how dare you when Im better quiet and he laid down his head again. When you are, you cursed sink. Look at all weve lost by you. He stood looking at Dingwell savagely. Hell die, exclaimed he, making an angry nod, almost a hutt, with his head to- ward the patient, and he repeated his pre- diction with a furious oath. See, youll send down to the apothe- carys for that chloride of lime, and them vinegars and things or no; you must wait here, for Larkin will come; and dont you let him go, mind. Me and Mr. Gold- shed will be here in no time. Tell him the doctors coming; and us and Ill send up them things from the apothecary, and you put them all about in plates on the floor and tables. Bad enough to lose our money, and d bad; but I wont take this come out o this room if I can help. And he entered the drawing-room, shut- ting Dingwells door, and spitting on the floor; and then he opened the window. Hell die do you think hell die? he exclaimed again. Hes in the hands of God, sir, said Sally Rumble. He wont be long therehell die- I say he will by he will; and the little Jew stamped on the floor, and clapped his hat on his head, and ran down the stairs, in a paroxysm of business and fury. CHAPTER LIX. IN WHICH 1115 FRIENDS VISIT THE SICK. Mu. LEVI, when Sarah Rumble gave him her lodgers message, did not, as he said, vallv it a turn of a half-penny. He could not be very ill if he could send his at- tendant out of doors, and deliver the terms in which his messages, were to be communi- cated. Mr. Levis diagnosis was, that Mr. Dingwells attack was in the region of the purse or pocket-book, and that the dodue was simply to get the partners and Mr. Larkin together for the purpose of extract- ing more money. Mr. Larkin was in town, and he had written to that gentlemans hotel, also he had told Mr. Goldshed, who took the same view, and laughed in his lazy diapason over the weak invention of the enemy. Levi accordingly took the matter very 175 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. easily, and hours had passed before his visit, which was made pretty late in the afternoon, and he was smiling over his superior sa- gacity in seeing throu~h Dingwells little dodge, as he walked into the court, when an officious little girl~ in her mothers bonnet, running by his knee, said pompously ~Youd better not go there, sir! And why sho, clsickabiddy? inquired Mr. Levi derisively. No, you better not; theres a gentleman a.s has took the fever there. Where? said Mr. Levi suddenly in- terested. In Mrs. Rumbles. Is there? how do you know? Lucy Maria Ramble, please, sir, she told me: and hes very bad. The fashion of Levis countenance was chanced as he turned from her suddenly, and knocked so sharply at the door that the canary, hanging from the window in his cage over the way, arrested his song, and was agitated for an hour afterwards. So Mr. Levi was now thoroughly aroused to the danger that had so suddenly overcast his hopes, and threatened to swallow in the bottomless sea of death the golden stake he had ventured. It was not, nevertheless, until eight oclock in the evening, so hard a thing is it to col- lect three given men [what then must be the office of whip to Whig or Tory side of the House?] that the two Jews and Mr. Larkin were actually assembled in Mr. Dingwells bed-room, now reeking with dis- infectants and prophylactic fluids. The party were in sore dismay, for the interesting patient had begun to maunder very preposterously in his talk. They lis- tened and heard him say Thats a lie J say, Id nail his tongue to the post. Bells wont ring for itlots of bells in England; youll not find any here, though. And then it went off into a mumbling; and Mr. Goldshed, who was listening dis- consolately, exclaimed, My eyesh ! . Well, how do you like it, govnor? I said hed walk the plank, and so he will, said Levi. He will he will; and Levi clinched his white teeth with an oath. There, Mr. Levi, pray, pray, none of that! said Mr. Larkin. The three gentleman were standing in a row, from afar off observing the patient, with an intense scrutiny of a gloomy and, I may say, a savage kind. He was an unfortunate agent no energy, except for his pleasures, resentfully resumed Mr. Larkin, whQ was standing fur- thest back of the three speculators. Indo. lent, impracticable enough to ruin fifty cases and now here he lies in a fever, contracted, you think, Mr. Levi, in some of his abomi- nable haunts. Mr. Larkin did not actually say d him, but he threw a very dark, sharp look upon his acquaintance in the bed. Abawminable, to be sure, abawminable. Bah! Its all true. The hornies has their eye on him these seven weeks past curse the beasht, snarled Mi. Levi, clinching his fists in his pockets, and every da a am muff that helped to let mc in for this here rotten business. Meaning me, sir? said Mr. Larkin, flushing up to the top of his head a fierce pink. Levi answered nothing, and Me. Larkin did not press his question. It is very easy to be companionable and good-humoured while all hoes pleasantly. It is failure, loss, and disappointment that try the sociable qualities; even those three amiable men felt less amicable under the cloud thau they had under the sunshine. So they all three looked in their several ways angrily and thoughtfully t the gentle- man in the typhus fever, who said rather abruptly She killed herself, sir; foolish oman! Capital dancing, gentlemen! Capital dan- cing, ladies ! Capital capiL I admirable dancing. God help us! and so it sunk again into mumblin Capital da-a-ancing, and who pays the piper? asked Mr. Goldshed, with a rather ferocious sneer. It has cost us five hundred to a thousand. And a doctor, suggested Levi. Doctor, the devil! I say; Ive p Id through the nose, or as he pronounced that organ through which his metallic declama- tion droned, noshe. Its Mr. Larkins turn now; its all da-a-am rot; a warm fellow like you, Mr. Larkin, putting all the loss on me; how can I sta-a-an that sta-a-an all the losses, and share the profits ba-a- ab, sir; that couldnt p y nonow. I think, said Mr. Larkin, it may be questionable how far a physician would be, just in this imminent stage of the attack, at all useful or even desirable; but Miss Ruin- ble, if I understand you, he is quite compos I mean, quite, so to speak, in his senses, in the early part of the day. He paused; and Miss Rnmbl from the other side of the bed contributed her testi- mony. Well, that being so, be,~an Mr. Larkin, but stopped short as Mr. Dingweli took up 176 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. his parable forgetting how wide rd tho mark the sick mans interpolations wc Theres a vulture over thrn. ~aid Mr. IDingwells voice, with an un1 r;~aut dis- tinctness; you just tie aturba crt a stick, and then he was silent Mr. Larkin cleared hi~ voi e, and re- sumed Well, as I was sayarv 1~e the attack, whatever it is, has devele~ 1 , a medical man may possibly be a~ ii but in the mean time, as he is spar~~ the possession of his faculties, and we all agree, gentlemen, whatever particular form of faith may be respectively ours, that some respect is due to futurity, I would say, that a clergyman, at all events, might make. him advanta- geou~ly a visit to-morrow, and afford him an opportunity at least of considering the interests of his soul. Oh! da-a-am his shoul, its his body. We must try to keep him together, said Mr. Goldshed impatiently. If he dies, the moneys all lost, every shtiver; if he dont, hes a sound speculation: we must raise a doctor among us, Mr. Larkin. It is highly probable indeed that before long the unfortunate gentleman may require medical advice, said Mr. Larkin, who had a high opinion of the speculation, whose pulse was at this moment unfortunately at a hundred and twenty. The fever, my dear sir, if such it be, will have declared itself in a day or two; in the mean time, nursing is all that is really needful, and Miss Rumble, I have no doubt, will take care that the unhappy gentleman is properly provided in that respect. The attorney, who did not want at that moment to be drawn into a discussion on contributing to expenses, smiled affection- ately on Miss Rumble, to whom he assigned the part of good Samaritan. Hell want some one at night, sir, please; I could not undertake myself, sir, for both day and night, said brown Miss Rumble, very quietly. There! Thatsh it! exclaimed Levi, with a vicious chuckle, and a scowl, extend- ing his open hand energetically toward Miss Rumble, and glaring from Mr. Larkin to his partner. Nothing but pay; down with the dust, Goldshed and Levi. Bleed like a pair o beashtly pigs, Goldshed and Levi, do! Theres death in that fellows face, I say. Its all bosh doctors and nurses; throwing good money after bad, and then, five pounds to bury him, drat him! Bury? ho! no, the parish, the work- LIVING AGE. VOL. VL 224. hodshe, the authorites, shall bury him, said Mr. Golished briskly. Dead as a Mameluke, dead as a Janizary bowstrung! exclaimed Mr. Dingwell, and went off into an indistinct conversation in a foreign language. Stuff a stocking (Iowa his throat, will you? urged Mr. Levi; a (luty, however, which no one undertook. I see that coves booked; h~ looks just like old Solomons look- ed when he had it. It isnt no use; all rot, throwing good money arte r bad, I say; let him be; let him die. Ill not let him die; no, he shant. Ill ma/ce him pay. I made the Theatre of Fas- cination pay, said Mr. Goldshed serenely, alluding to a venture of his devising by which the partnership made ever so much money in spite of a prosecution and heavy fines and other expenses. I say tisnt my principle to throw up the game, by no means no with my ball in hand and the stakes in the pocket never! Here Mr. Goldshed wag~ed his head slowly with a solemn smile, and Mr. Ding- well, from the bed, said Move it, will you? That way I wish youd help b-bags, sir sacks sir awfully hard lying full of ears and noses ega(l ! why not ? cut them all off, I say. Dn the Greeks! Will you move it? Do move that sack it hurts his ribs I never got the bastinado. Not but what you deserved it, remark- ed Mr. Levi. And Mr. Dingwells babbling went on, but too indistinctly to be unravelled. I say, continued Mr. Goldshed sub- limely, if that ere speculative thing in the bed there comes round, and gets all square and right, Ill make him pay. Im not funk- ed whos afraid? wiry old brick! I think so, acquiesced Mr. Larkmn, with gentle solemnity. Mr. Dingwell is certainly, as you say, wiry. There are many things in his favour, and Providence, Mr. Goldshed,~ Providence is over us all. Providence, to be sure, said Mr. Gold- shed, who did not disdain help from any quarter. Where does he keep his money, maam? Under his bolster, please, sir under his head, answered Sarah Rumble. Take it out, please, said Mr. Gold- shed. She hesitated. Give the man hish money, woman, ca-a- ant you? bawled Mr. Levi fiercely, and extendino his arm toward the hed. You had better yes maam, the money 177 178 belongs to Messrs. Goldshed and Levi, said Mr. Larkin, ihterposing in the character of the vir pietate gravis. Sally Rumble, recollecting Mr. Dingwells direction, Let em have the money, too, if they press for it, obeyed, and slid her hand under his bolster, and under his head, from the other side, where she was standing; and Dingwell, feeling the motion, I suppose, raised his head, and stared with sunken eyes dismally at the three gentlemen, whom he plainly did not recognize, or possibly saw in the shapes of foxes, wolves, or owls, which LThop would have metaphorically as- signed them, arid with a weary groan he closed his wanderin~ eyes again, and sank down on the pillow. Miss Rumble drew forth a roll of bank- no~es with a string tied round them. Takethe money, Levi, said Goldshed, drawing a step backward. Take it yourself, Govnor, said Levi, waving back Miss Sally Rumble, and edging back a little himself. Well, said Goldshed quietly, I see youre afraid of that infection. I believe you, answered Levi. S am I, said Goldshed uneasily. And no wonder! added Mr. Larkin, anticip ~ting himself an invitation to accept the questionable trust. Put them notes down on the table there, said Mr. Goldshed. And the three gentlemen eyed the precious roll of paper as I hitve seen people at a chemical lecture eye the explodable com- pounds on the professors table. I tell you what, maam, said Goldshed, youll please get a dry bottle and a cork, and put them notes into it, and cork it down, ma am, arid give it to Mr. Levi. And count them first, please, Miss Rum- ble shant she, Mr. Goldshed? suggested Mr. Larkin. What for ? isnt the money ours? howled Mr. Levi, with a ferocious stare on the attorneys meek face. Only, Mr. Goldshed, with a view to distinctness, and to prevent possible confu- siou in any future account, said Mr. Lar- kin, who knew that IDingwell had got money from the Verneys, and thought that if there was anything recovered from the wreck, he had as good a right to his salvage as another. Mr. Goldshed met his guileless smile with an ugly sneer, and said Oh ! count them, to be sure, for the gen- tleman. It isnt a hapenny to me. So Miss Rumble counted seventy-five pounds in bank-notes, andfourpounds in gold, THE TENANTS OF MALORY. two of which Mr. Goldshed committed to her in trnst for the use of the patient, and the re- mainder were duly bottled and corked down according to Mr. Goldsheds grotesque pre- caution, and in this enclosure Mr. Levi con- sented to take the money in hand, and so it was deposited for the night in the iron safe in Messrs. Goldshed and Levis office, to be un- corked in the morning by old Solomons, the cashier, who would, no doubt, be puz- zled by the peculiarity of the arrangement, and, with tbe aid of a cork-screw, lodged to the credit of the firm. Mr. Golrished next insisted that Ding- wells life, fortunately for that person, was too important to the gentlemen assembled there to be trifled with; and said that sage ~ Well have the best doctor in London, six pounds worth of him dye see? and under him a clever young doctor to look in four times a day, and well arrange with the youn~ un on the principle of no cure no p y that is, well give fifty pounds this day six weeks, if the party in bed here is alive at that date. And upon this basis I believe an arrant~e- ment was actually completed. The great Dr. Langley, when he called, and questioned Miss Rumble, and inspected the patient, told Mr. Levi, who was in waiting, that the old gentleman had been walking about in a fever for more than a week befpre he took to his bed, and that the chances were very decidedly aganst his recovery. A great anxiety overcame Mr. Larkin like a summer cloud, and the serene sun- shine of that religious mind was overcast with storm and blackness. For the re ~overy of Mr. Dingwell were offered up, in one syn- ogogue at least, prayers as fervent as any ever made for that of our early friend Charles Surface, and it was plain that never was patriarch, s int, or hero mourned as the venerable Mr. Dingwell would be, by at least three estimable men, if the fates were to make away with him on this criti- cal occasion. The three gentlemen, as they left his room on the evening I have been describing, cast their eyes upon Mr. Dingwells desk, and hesitated, and looked at one another, darkly, for a moment in silence. Theresh no reashon why we shouldnt, drawled Mr. Goldshed. I object to the removal of the desk, said Mr. Larkin, with a shake of his head, closing his eyes, and raising his hand as if about to pronounce a benediction on the lid of it. If he is spared, it might become a very serious thing I decidedly object. THE TENANTS OF MALORY. Who wantsh to take this mansh desk? drawled Mr. Goldshed surlily. Who wantsh to take it? echoed Levi, and stared at him with an angry gape. But there will be no harm, I shay, in looking what papersh there, continued Mr. Goldshed. Does he get letters? Only two, sir, please, as I can remember, since he came here. By po-sht, or by ha-a-an? inquired Goldshed. By and, sir, please: it was your Mr. Solomons as fetched em here, sir. He lifted up the desk, swayed it gently, and shook it a little, looking at it as if it were a musical box about to strike up, and so set it down again softly. Theresh papersh in that box, he hummed thoughtfully to him self. I think I may speak here, said Mr. Larkin, looking up sadly and loftily, as he placed his hat upon his bald head, with some little authority as a professional man, if in no higher capacity, and I may take upon myself to say, that, by no possibil- ity, can the contents of that desk affect the very simple, and, in a certain sense, direct transactions in which our clients interests, and in a degree ours also, are involved; and I object on higher grounds still, I hope, to any irregularity as respects that desk. If youre confident, Mr. Larkinsh, theresh nothing in it can affect the bushi- ness were on, I would not give you a can- cel Queens head for the lot. Perfectly confident, my dear Mr. Gold- shed. llesh perfectly confident, repeated Mr. Levi in his guvnors ear, from over his shoulder. Come along, then, said Mr. Goldshed, shuffling slowly out of the room, with his hands in his pockets. Its agreed, then, gentlemen, theres no tampering with the desk? urged Mr. Lar- kin entreatingly. Shertainly, said Mr. Goldshed, begin- ning to descend the stairs. Shertainly, repeated Mr. Levi, follow- ing him. And the three gentlemen, in grave and friendly guise, walked away together, over the flagged court. Mr. Larkin. did not half like taking the arms of these gentlemen; but the quarter of the town was not one where he was likely to meet any of either the spir- itual or the terrestrial aristocracy with whom he desired specially to stand well. So he moved along conscious, not unpleasantly, of the contrast which a high-bred gentleman must always present in jaxtaposition with such persons as Goldshed and Levi. They walked through the dingy corridor called CaIdwell Alley, and through lyes Lane, and along the market, already flaring and glar- ing with great murky jets of gas wavering in the darkening stalls, and thence by the turn to the left into the more open street, where the cabstand is; and then, having agreed to dine together at the Three Ho- ses in Milk Lane in half an hour, the gen- tlemen parted Messrs. Goldshed andLe- vi to fly in a cab to meet their lawyer at their office, and Mr. Larkin to fly westward to his hotel, to inquire for a letter which he expected. So smiling, they parted; and, so soon as Mr. Larkin was quite out of sight, Mr. Levi descended from their cab, and, with a few parting words which he murmured in Mr. Goldsheds ear, left him to drive away by himseW while he retraced his steps at his leisure to Rosemary Court, and find- ing the door of Miss Rumbles house open with Lucy Maria at it, entered and walked straight up to Mr. Dingwells drawin~room, with a bunch of small keys in his hand, in his coat-pocket. He had got just two steps into the room towards the little table on which the pa- tients desk stood, when from the other sid~ of that piece of furniture, and the now open desk, there rose up the tall form of Mr. Jos. Larkin of th~~ Lodge. The gentlemen eyed one another for a few seconds in silence, for the surprise was great. Mr. L arkin did not even set down, the parcel of letters, which he had been sorting like a hand at whist, when Mr. Levi had stepped in to divert his attention. I thought, Mr. Larkinsh, I might as well drop in just to give you a lift, said Levi,. with an elaborate bow, a politeness, and a great smile, that rather embarassed the good attorney. Certainly. Mr. Levi, Im always happy to~ see you always happy to see any man I have never done anything I am ashamed 01; nor shrunk from any duty, nor do I mean to do so now. Your hands looksh pretty full. Yes, sir, pretty tolerably full, sir, said~ Mr. Larkin, placing the letters on the desk and I may add so do yours, Mr. Levi; those keys, as you observe, might have giv- en one a lift in opening this desk, had I not, preferred the other course, said Mr. Larkin loftily, of simply requesting Mr. Dingwells friend, the lady at present in charge of his papers, to afford me, at her own discretion, such access to the papers possibly affecting my client, as I may consider necessary or, expedient as his legal adviser.~~ 179 THE TENANTS OF MALORY. You have changed your view of your duty somewhat; havent you, Mr. Lar- kinsh? No, sir, no; simply my action on a point of expediency. Of coarse, there was some weight, too, sir, in the suggestions made by a gentleman of Mr. Goldsheds experience and judgment; and I dont hesitate to say that his his ideas had their proper weight with me. And I may say, once for all, Mr. Levi, Ill not he hectored, or lec- tured, or bullied by you, Mr. Levi, added Mr. Larkin, in a new style, feeling, per- haps, that his logical and moral vein was not quite so happy as usual. iDont frighten ush, Larkin, pray dont, only just give inc leave to see what them letters is about, said Levi, taking his place by him; did you put any of them in your pocket? No, sir; upon my sou Mr. Levi, I did no such thing, said Mr. Larkin, with a heartiness that had an effect upon the Jew. The occasion is so serious, that I hardly regret having used the expression, said Mr. Larkin, who had actually blushed at his own oath. There was just one letter possibly worth looking at. That da-a-am foolish letter you wrote him to Constantinople ? I wrote him no foolish letter, sir. I -wrote him no letter, sir, I should fear to have posted on the market cross, or read from the pulpit, Mr. Levi. I only wonder, knowing all you do of Mr. Dingwells un- From the London Review, Sept 7. THE TWO GREAT POWERS OF THE FIJ- TURE. ALTHOaJTGH the remote future of the world has no very direct bearing upon our present interests, and may, indeed, be very well left to take care of itself, men have at all times loved to busy themselves with it, -and to plan it out according to their fancies -and their hopes. It is natural enough that this habit should be peculiarly stron0 in a new country like the Iiljnited States, whose citizens, having no ancient glories to linger fortunate temper and reckless habits of as- sertion, that you should attach the smallest weight to an expression thrown out by him in one of his diabolical and and la- mentable frenzies. As to my having ab- stracted a letter of his an imputation at which I smile I can, happily, cite evi- dence other than my own. He waved his hand toward Miss Rumble. This lady has, happily, I will say, been in the room during my very brief examination of my clients half-dozen papers. Pray, madam, have I taken one of these or, in fact, put it in- my pocket? No, sir, please, answered Miss Rum- ble, who spoke in good faith, having, with a lively remembrance of Mr. Dingwells de- scription of the three gentlemen who had visited the sick that day, as three rob- bers, kept her eye very steadily upon the excellent Mr. Larkin, during the period of his search. Mr. Levi would have liked to possess that letter. It would have proved possibly a useful engine in the hands of the Firm in future dealings with the adroit and high- minded Mr. Larkin. It was not to be had, however, if it really existed at all; and when some more ironies and moralities had been fired off at both sides, the gentlemen subsided into their ordinary relations, and ultimately went away together to dine on turtle, sturgeon, salmon, and I know not what meats, at the famous Three Roses in Milk Lane. over, naturally turn their thoughts the more intently towards the career which lies open to them, and to the achievements by which they anticipate for their country a great and leading place in the worlds history. It is equally natural that their ideas of their manifest destiny should have been con- siderably enlarged by the result of the late civil war; and that, finding themselves at last in a fair way to consolidate their loosely compacted States into one strong and con~ sohidated empire, they should look with in- creased eagerness to fields of labour and of -conquest beyond their own borders. If 180 TWO GREAT POWERS OF THE FUTURE. their speculations on these points had no in- fluence on their actions, we should scarcely think them worth more than a very cursory notice; but speculations on what is likely to happen often lead to efforts to bring about the thing desired or expected. The policy of a nation is coloured by its hopes; and it is therefore not unimportant to see what are the hopes of educated and thoughtful Americans. Some insight into this matter may be gained from a couple of articles which have lately appeared in our able New York contemporary, the Round Table, articles which we are inclined to think rep- resent very faithfully the visions of the fu- ture which are floating before the eyes of our cousins across the Atlantic. The writer of these articles is of opinion that there will be only two great Powers of the future, Russia and America. All the European States, with the exception of the Tartar des- potism, are, in his opinion, waning, wearing out, and becoming effete. Slowly, but cer- tainly, Russia is to extend her boundaries and her power over nearly the whole East- ern hemisphere, which will owe mainly to her its advance in Christian progress and enlightenment. From her is to proceed a fresher and more vigorous form of civiliza- tion than any of which we are yet in posses- sion in the effete Old World; and,so far as we can gather, the crowning triumphs of liberty are to be won in Asia and Europe by a nation and a race which has not yet at- tained the most rudimentary notions of free- dom, but bows down before its Czar as to a fetish or an idol. In the Western world the course of events is not less plain. The con- stitution of the United States, of which ten years ago men . talked in a strain which seemed to make it of considerably greater efficiency than Gods constitution of the world, is no longer to stand in the way of that destiny which calls upon the country to become an empire. The founders of the Republic did their best to render conquest impossible, by mak- ing no provision for maintaining govern- ments in conquered countries, and by enact- ing, that, if territories were at any time an- nexed, their denizens should become at once not subjects, but citizens, of the United States. All that, however, is now to be changed. The Great Republic is hence- forth to take her place amongst conquering nations, and rival the Powers of the Old World in her subject races. Canada, of course, will he absorbed; becoming an in- tegral portion of the Union if the Canadians are wise enough to apply in time, or a sub- ject dependency if they hesitate too long to 181 renounce an independence which is incon- venient and annoyin,~ to the nci~hbouring State. Any notion of consulting their wishes or respecting their rights is utterly ignored. It seems to be thought quite a sufficient justification for compelling them to become, whether they will or no, citizens of the great Republic that our people are al- ready weary of the miserable impediments to commerce on their northern frontier and the teeming millions of our agricultural pop- ulation will ultimately demand with reason why the Lakes and the St. Lawrence should be held against them by one-tenth or one- twentieth of their number. With re- gard to the Mexicans, their fate may be easily anticipated. Now that the empire of Maximilian is destroyed and it is no lon- ger necessary for political purposes to pre- tend to a belief in an impossible Mexican republic the fellow-countrymen of Juarez are vigorously, and, we believe, quite truth- fully described as a horde of halfLdomesti- cated wild beasts, who are utterly incapable of governing themselves. There must be an empbe over them strong enough to rule them with a rod of steel; and we need hardly say that that empire can only be the United States. Yucatan and Cen- tral America will, as a matter of course, share the same fate. But not even yet is the conquering course of the great Repub- lic to be stayed. For some little time, she may be content to intervene and arbitrate between the peoples of South America in their cof~stant strifes; but intervention will infallibly, as in a hundred other instan- ces, become first occupation, and then do- minion ; and at last she will attain to the full heighth of her power and the extent of her dominion as the mistress of the Western hemisphere. such is the sort of dream in which it ap- pears that intelligent and educated Ameri- cans love to indulge. They may think that they disguise the lust of conquest which lies at the basis of such a programme as that we have just sketched, by strenuous profes- sions that it will be their aim and object to give to ~ inferior people the benefit of wise and beneficial Governments; but we have heard too much of that sort of thing before, as a defence of conquest and ag- gression, to place much confidence in it, or to be hoodwinked by it. It is impossible not to see that from first to last there is an entire putting aside any idea of right, or any notion that the inferior people may prefer their own bad Governments to the good ones which it will be the mission of the United States to enforce upon them. 182 TWO GREAT POWERS OF THE FUTURE. If, indeed, that mission was confined to a phecies so far as the Old World is concerned. people like the Mexicans, if the power of It is only a very prejudiced, and, we must the Republic was to be exerted mainly in say, a very ill-informed observer, who order to rescue one of the faireEt and most can see nothing but effeteness in the Powers productive regions of the earth from the of Western Europe, and nothin,, but growth dominion of a set of cut-throats, no one and progress in the great Empire of the would find fault with the pursuit of conquest East. It would be nearer the truth to say under such limits. But the profound im- that while the West of Europe is making a morality of the whole scheme is at once steady advance in wealth, in power, and in visible when we look at the manner in freedom, Russia is at the best stationary. which the Canadians are to be treated. It It is true that from time to time she annexes is not pretended that they cannot and do a fresh (listrict of Central Asia, and thus not govern themselves well; on the con- extends the boundaries of an alrea(ly over- trary they are pronounced worthy of imme- grown empire. But mere provinces consti- diate admission to the ranks of United tute no addition to the strength of a State States citizenship. But simply because it is which is not growing in material prosperity, annoying to the great State to have a small and in which social disorganization increases one in its neighbourhood, they are to be from year to year. Every class in Russia told, that, whether they like it or not, they is at the present moment discontented, and must consent to annexation. Whatever almost all have, more or less, cause to com- may be in store for us in the future, it is evi- plain of their condition. No one who knows dent that if the policy of great nations is to anything of the condition of the country be founded on principles like this, improved would be astonished if it were, within the ideas of political justice, and ~reater fidelity next few years, to become the scene of revo- to its teachings, ~vill not be included in the lution; and revolution in Russia would, in blessings to which we may look forward. all probability, lead to the disruption of the We can, however, hardly wonder that a empire. But, whether that be so or not, we nation which aspires to rule the world in cannot help asking our American contempo- partnership with Russia should display much raries what solid reason they can assign for regard for anything higher or better than the belief that Europe is now less able, or is force and strength. The admiration of the likely at any future period to be less able, Americans for that Power; their apparent than it has hitherto been to defend itself faith in her; their confidence (hat she not against the aggression of a semi-barbarous only is to be the mistress of the Eastern Power? Why, again, should England be world, but that it is good for the Eastern unable to hold her own on the frontiers of world that she would be so are, indeed, so India? Why should manifest destiny many indications of an unsound and un- which, in the New World, award rule and healthy state of public opinion. Russia predominance to superiority of race, confer has hitherto done nothing for civiliza- these things in the Old World upon an es- tion, and there is not the slightest reason sentially low, stolid, and brutal people; sub- to think that she ever will. So far as Eu- jecting to Tartars and Mongols the nations rope is concerned, her influence has always who represent the intellect, and carry on the been thrown into the balance adverse to progress of the world? For our own part, freedom; nor is there any ground for as- we are not at all alarmed at the bugbear of serting that she has done anything to raise a gigantic Russian empire; nor, for the matter the character of the rude Asiatic tribes of that, are we a whit more frightened at whom she has subjected to her sway. Wher- the thought of its still more gigantic com- ever she goes, she imposes a dull, leaden des- panion on the other side of the Atlantic. potism; and, so far as we can judge, there Observant American statesman have already is no probability of a change in the charac- remarked a tendency on the part of the ter of her rule within any period about Pacific States to treat very Ughtly their which it is worth while to trouble ourselves, connection with the Union; and although, It is certainly strange that the citizens in the full flush of their recent triumph over of that which professes to be the freest the South, the Americans may well believe country in the world, and which is certainly that nothing can imperil the unity of their one of the most intelli~ cut, should bestow State, it will be very strange if distance their sympathies upon such a nation rather from the seat of government, variety of in- than upon Englishmen, Frenchmen, or terests, and gradually developing differences Germans. It is, however, consolatory to of character, do not introduce elements of reflect that there is but little reason to fear dissolution into their empire long before it the realization of our contemporarys pro- has reached the colossal dimensions on SCOTCH GEMS AND JEWELLERY. which the Round Tcdile so confidently calcu- lates. Wild, however, as we deem thenotion that the United States and Russia are at some time to divide the world between them, the fact that such ideas are obtaining currency on the other side of th~i Atlantic must not be lost sight of when we are at- tempting to foresee the policy of the Re- public. It is sufficient at present to say that these influences cannot be of a pacific kind; and that they are not likely to infuse into the diplomacy of the States a conciliatory or moderate bearing towards other countries. From the Scotsman. SCOTCH GEMS AND JEWELLERY. HIsToRIEs of Scotland state, that there are considerable quantities of metals and minerals to be found therein, if the in- habitints would be persuaded to take pains to work them; and that tin, lead, copper, marble, alabaster, iron, and other ores were so abundant, that, after supplying the wants of the country, they mi~ht be largely ex- ported. We read in John Chamberlaynes Present State of Great Britain, with Di- verse Remarks upon the Ancient State Thereof, that there are several rich silver- mines in Scotland, and that James Atkin- son, Assay Master of the Mint of Edinburgh in the reign of James VI., assures us that natural or native gold was to be found in several places in this country, as one mine on Crawford Moors and Friar Moor, in Clydesdale; two on Robburt Moer and Mannock Moor, in Nidesdale; three in Glangabar Watter, in Inderland; in the Forest of Attirie; and in many other combs or valleys. It is commonly found, says he (Atkinson), after great rains, linked to the sappare-stone, just as lead ore and white spar grow sometimes together. This is cer- tain, that one Cornelius, a German, who at that time was by patent created Superior of the gold-mines of the King of Scots, discov- ered gold-mines at Crawford John, and in thirty days time brought into the Kin~s Mint at Edinburgh 80 lb. troy weight of natural gold, which was worth 4,500. However profitable the working of mines and the search in Scotland for gold and silver were in olden times,it is well known that they have not contributed much to the national wealth in recent periodsfthough the coareer metals and the stones of Scotland 183 have been sought for to much advantage in t~he extensive coal-fields in Mid-Lothian and Fife, the iron and coal formations in the West, the lead-mines of I~~adhills, the granite quarries of Aberdeensisire and Ayr- shire the pavement quarries of Forfar and Caithness shires, and the slate quarries in the North and West. Scotland can boast of her pebbles and fine specimens of quartz found in the form of perfect crystals, varying in colour from pure white to ambei- and a deep brown. Our native pebbles are of singular confor- mations, and are of all colours, red, green, gray, auburn, yellow, and also of the jasper kind with a mixture of colours. A curious phenomenon connected with the colour of pebbles is, that each colour is found only in distinct localities. Pebbles are found in every county in Scotland, but more plenti- fully in Ayrshire, Argyleshire, Aberdeen- shire, Perthshire, Morayshire, Roxburgh- shire, and Mid-Lothian. There is the Arthur Seat jasper, found on Arthurs Seat; the Pentland pebble on the Pent- land Hills; the Perth bloodstone on the Ochill and Moncrieff Hills; the Montrose gray pebble at Montrose, and so on. A small rivulet in the land of Burns contrib- utes one of the richest and finest specimens of jasper that is to be found in Scotland. The Arthur Seat jasper deserves special notice, being rich in colour and variegated in streaks. It is fouiid in large quantities on the face of the hill. On the top of the Cairngorm ranges in Aberdeenshire, the Cairugorm stones or crystals are found in great abundance. Well does the shepherd know where to find the finest speciniens, for which he gets good prices. The Brazil topaz is not unlike the cairugorm; and in colour the one is often mistaken for the other. Not many years ago the Scotch amethyst could be plentifully procured and cheaply purchased; but now it is becoming scarce, and brings in the m rket from SOs. to 60s. an ounce. Scotch amethysts posse~s the same component chemical parts as the Oriental amethyst, but they are not quite so brilliant in hue. Another favourite Scotch crystal is the garnet. It has a red or port wine colour, an(l is found in very small quantities of no great size at Elle Point, and along the sands on the coast of Fife. Seaside visitors pick up many of them, by whom they are called Elle rubies; but they are real garnets. A jewel in which the yellow cairugorm, the lilac ame- thyst, and the pink or red garnet are harmoniously combined, is remarkably fine. LOVE OF SCENERY. Great difficulty not unfrequently lies in distinguishing between a true specimen of Scotch gems and a false; and hence many valuable stones and crystals are cast away as useless by inexperienced persons. Our moss agate is not the least beautiful and valuable of gems, anil, for certain styles of setting, it is peculiarly suitable. But the chief of our Sottish gems is the pearl. The benuty of lustre and form, and the flue opaque colour of the Scottish pear1~ attract as much attention as ever, not only among the fishers for and dealers in these precious gems, but among all in the vicinity of the rivers famous for pearls. There was a tiara finely set in gold and enamel in the Dublin Exhibition, valued at 500, made of Scotch pearls. Fine specimens of pearls are feu~d in the Rivers Forth, Teviot, Earn, Tay, Tweed, and the rivers of Ross and Sutherland shires. Country people often bring these treasures to town in a snuff-box or old stoking, returning home with prices varying for each gem from a few shillings to 907 A. flue specimen not larger tItan a pea will bring 25, and larger ones will command at times as much as 80 or 90. The manufacture of Scotch jewellery is almost exclusively confined to Edinburgh. In Glasgow, few gems are polished or set, and still fewer in Aberdeen, Dundee, Perth, Inverness, and Stirling. For some time, the mat ufa ture has been rapidly Increasing. This is per~icularlv the case with silver- mounted pebble ornaments. There is an endless variety of jewellery and other articles of Scotch gems produced in fine strings by tradesmen in Edinburgh. Brooches, bracel ts, pendants, necklaces, seals. lookers, pa per-cutters, vinaigrettes, q~a~as, ami cas~ers mty in particular be enumerated amongst the products. The gift froni the ladies of Edinburgh to the Prince~s of Wales, on the occasion of her marriage, was, it may be remembered, a casket manufactured in Edinburgh, con- sisting entirely of Scotch gems set in gold. One ornament has often as many as forty or fifty v:u-ious pieces of stone in its for- mation. Such articles vary as much in value as they do in use and design. While a simple ornament may be purchased for hilf a crown, the more expensive cannot be bon~ht for 1,000. Rough and valueless, as many of our gems appear when found on the mountain-side, in the river-bed, or on the seashore, their beauties shine out pleas. antly when cut by the lapidary and polished by his wheels and diamond-dust, an(l ar- ranged in order of their colours, and set in gold or surer. Another branch of Edinburgh fine art in ornaments is its enamelled work. This class of work is produced in numerous colours, chiefly, however, in dark blue, red and jet black. The designs are chiefly characterisric of Scotch nationality. Histor. ical representations associated with Queen M- ry, Robert the Bruce, and tile Maid of Norway, are in great demand. From the Saturday Review. THE LOVE OF SCENERY. MANY thousands of people are now em- ployed in visiting those parts of Europe which have obtained a reputation for natu- ral beauty. Germans are systematically following the precepts of the infallible Baedeker, a writer whose authority con- siderably exceeds even that of Murray amongst English travellers. Americans are doing tile Alps in a fortnight, having ex- hausted the Holy Land, Italy, and the Paris Exhibition in the preceding month. Englishmen are endangering and occasion- ally breaking their necks, and making des- perate efforts to get forty-eight hours en- joyment out of toe twenty-four. French- men are playing billiards and roulette in the best imitations of Parts that are consist- ent with beautiful scenery. Ecstatic ex- clamations in the proper tongues of each nation are being uttered at tite correct places, with the fervour of a Mahommedan visiting the shrines of Mecca. The view from the Rigi will be pronounced wunder- schdn and grossartiq and magn~fiqee; Ameri- cans will admit Mount Washington to be in comparison but a one-horse affair; and Englishmen will enthusiastically declare, by a happy commercial metaphor, that it quite trepays them. How much of all this enthusiasm is the real genuine article? how much is a mere sham, corresponding at best to the polite phrases in which we tell a visitor that we are so glad to see hun? Are we really glad to see Mont Blanc? or do we feel that, hay- in come so far and taken so much trouble, we really must be decently civil, and not hurt ~he monarchs feelings by confessing that we think him a bore? Are tourists tacitly fbrmed into a gigantic society for mutual imposition, a kind of huge involun- tary boiler, for getting up the steam of mock enthusiasm? This is a question which 184 LOVE OF SCENERY. every tourist would repel with indignation, and yet it is one which the slightly cynical observer can hardly help putting. For, to say the truth, there is much which throws suspicion upon the genuine ardour of the tourist genus. When we catch them on the spot, and listen to their expressions of ad- miration, they seldom strike us as genuine or discriminating, and they are not unfrequent- ly mixed up with references to dinner, or tobacco, or beds, of a distinctly nir poetical kind. Still more are we struck with won- der when we consider certain habits of the tourist genus. Their most marked propen- sity is a sheeplike habit of followin~ in each others tracks. There may be the loveliest expanse of fresh fields and pastures new on each side of the path which they super- stitiously follow; hut no man deviates from his predecessors footsteps; he follows as a bloodhound follows the traces of a sta~, or as a Fory member of Parliament follows Mr. Disraeli. He wears a pair of invisible blinkers that prevent him looking to the rcrht hand or the left, and seems to fancy, that if he once drops the clue, he will be hopelessly lost. Switzerland has heen for many years the favourite haunt of the genu- ine tourist; persons of a little more enter- prise than usual have investigated every valley and pass and mountain throughout the Alps. There are easy ways, with good inns, to innumerable points of surpassing beauty; and yet, close to tracks where hun- dreds of travellers pass every day, may he found (listricts where a tourist is stared at like a nig~er in an English country village. Almost within call of one of the most fre- quented Apine roads, we have found a most startling proof of the nncorrupte(l simplicity of the natives, a present of milk, with an absolute refusal to accept payment. At the foot of the pass where this portent occurred, a traveller would have as good a chance of getting milk gratis as champagne at the Star and Garter. Switzerland, it is true, is traversed by a pervading network of routes, but bet ween the meshes of the net are districts scarcely touched, or at least quite nnhackneyed. It seems as if the passage of tourists produced an effect like the in- tersection ol England by railways there is ~ great deal more locomotion, but it is more confined to certain special routes. The travellers are drained off down certain prepared channels, and toe intervening spaces are left dry. To take a single ex- ample, the Valley of Zermatt is now being annexed by ockneys. It has long been fre- qu~ nted, not merely by zealous. mnuntaineers, hut by every one who withes to do the Alps properly; the GLirnergrat is as notorious as the iRigi, and the Matterhorn is as great a lion as the hippopotamus was in his palmiest days. Bnt. on each side of the Zermatt Valley are other valleys even easier of access, which are comparatively a wilder- ness. Saas, for example, has been sung by Mr. Wills and other competent writers; and its beauties are in some respects unique. But, whilst Zermatt is crammed, the inn- keeper at Saas appears to live, like a spider on one fly a summer. A few travellers dribble in on their way to the Moro; hut it is rare for one of them to stay for a day to see some of the most characteristic of Alpine scenery. On the other side, again, lies the Einflscthal, whose very name is unknown to nine tourists out of ten; its scenery is scarcely inferior to that of Zermatt, and as little known, except to a few zealots, as the scetiery of the Atlas. We will not multiply examples; for every traveller who has once cleared the imaginary fence which restricts the domestic tourist to his prescribed course knows how, at a single bound, lie can leave the crowd behind, and yet lose nothing in natural beauty. A hundred yards to the right or left is often enough to reach an oasis where tourists cease from troubling, and those weary of crowds and cockneys may be at rest. Now, if the great mass of tourists had any genuine love of scenery, they would also have an independent judgment of their own. Those who, like most Animericans, come once and never expect to come again, may have some excuse for visiting the most celebrated points, and visiting them alone. If we were to be confined to one l)oet, we might fairly choose Shakspeare; and for one view we may he content with the Ritii. But with the great mass this passive obedience prob- ably indicates an absence of any choice in the matter, and an absence of choice gen- erally indicates indifference to all the ob- jects amongst which choice is made. In other words, people go just where they are told, because they take the enjoyment en- tirely on faith. They know tlh t they ought to be pleased, and they succeed in fancying that they are pleased; but there is an ab- sence of any active appetite for scenery, originated from within, which would natu- rally manifest itself in more vigour and ori- ginality in the pursuit. If everybody, or any large number of people, had a real passion, we should see more variety and energy in their efforts to gratify it. And this low es- timate is apparently justified by snch ordi- nary expressions of feeling as are not adopt- ed ready-made from guide-books. 185 LIGHT AFTER DARKNESS. The general mass prefers the odd and fan- tastic to the beautiful. A waterfall is sure to draw popular applause, because it is a good tangible exception to the ordinary state of thin~s, and because its height and weight can be measured and stated in guide- books. So many tons of water are falling every hour over such a height, and makinr a tremendous splashing as they do it. Ni- agara is the very ideal of a popular show; you undeniably get a great deal for your money, more calculable noise and force and fury than you can get for the same price anywhere else in the world. Now no one can deny that waterfalls are exquisitely beautiful; but it is as enforcing and enliv- ening the surrounding scenery that they are really admirable. The waterfalls, for example, give admirable expression to the lovely Valley of Sixt, though few of them taken as separate fragments are much worth examining. But this is precisely the way in which the ordinary tourist regards them; he likes the show waterf 11, such as may be seen in some German watering-places, where the stream is dammed up and kept under lock and key till the proper number of visitors have paid the fee. He likes to have staircases up to them; a path between the stream and the rock gives him unspeak- able delight; and his pleasure culminates at the Giesbach, where the natural beauties can be properly enforced by blue lights and a band of music. In fact he likes his water- fall caught and tamed and sophisticated, till it is as much like the genuine fall in a wild mountain- glen as the chamois kept in a back-yard for his delectation is like the chamois on his native precipices. Another tourists pleasure is the pano- ramic view the least impressive, as a rule, of all views to a cultivated mind, He is perfectly happy on the top of the Piz Lan- guard, where he can take out his Baedeker, and count up the number of little points on the far horizon that are identified with Mont Blanc an1 the Monte Rosa and the Finster A shorn. Here, again, he has some- thing definite for his trouble; he has seen so many hundred peaks, and that is a pleas- ure of which no one can deprive him; but of the exquisite views that may be seen half-way up, of the pictures of precipice and glacier with rich foregrounds of meadow and forest, and curtained by delicate moun- tain mists, he sees and remembers nothing. He cares little for the view till it is reduced as nearly as possible to the likeness of a map, with something definite for him to tell off on his fingers and write down in his journal. After a little contemplation of the per- verse bad taste which sees nothing except according to order, and admires nothing till it has received permission from the tourists fetish, the Guide-book, one begins to doubt the existence of a modern passion for scen- ery. Can there be anything genuine at the bottom of all this rant? To be fair, we have no doubt of it, thou~h it is certainly a zeal not according to knowledge. For, after all, no structure can be composed entirely of cant and hypocrisy. After clearing away all tbe nonsense, some residuum of genuine feeling is discovered. So universal a ten- dency as the rush to the mountains must correspond to some real want. All the inn- keepers of~ Switzerland do not cain their living by a mere combination of empty pre- tenders to taste. The enjoyment, indeed, is not simply founded upon a quick suscep- tibility to very refined poetical infinences. A great deal of itis the pleasure of getting free from the crowds ofgreat cities, the relief which every man must feel in breathing fresh air and bein~ amongst green fields and cold streams. The mountains give the little additional in- terest that is required, the small additional excitement that is necessary to prevent the repose from becoming stagnation. They at least ex ite curiosity, and give a certain end to what would be otherwise mere vague rambling. No very intelligent or keen ap- preciation of their beauties may exist, but they serve as something m~re than a good excuse for a holiday; they add a certain zest, which the tourist may riot be able to analyse or to examine critically, but of which he is dimly conscious. And it must also be added that, whatever we may say against the taste of the vulgar herd ,they have on the whole picked out the re hly most admirable scenes for popularity. If any one can succeed in closing his eyes to all his neighbours on the top of the Rgi, he will admit that, if it were not for those who see it, it would be one of the most admirable views in Switzerland. And in the faith that they really enjoy theinsdves a little, we will endeavour to pardon the tourists for their monopoly of a few spots. an(i be thank- ful to them for not intruding mb others. From the Athennum. Light after Darhnesxs: Re1~qious Poems. By Harriet Beecher Scowe. (Low & Co.) THESE religious effusions of Mr-s. Stow are very graceful and melodious. At times, we meet with a thought or an image that 186 THE SATCHEL AND THE WEDDING-DRESS. deserves higher praise; though the book, as a whole, is more remarkable for sweet and devout feeling than for imalnation. In- deed, the fact is certain, whatever be the cause, that nothing is more rare than the union of imagination with the advocacy of religious belief, or even with the expression of feeling which that belief sugeests. The canons of a faith may be as sublime as they are true; but it is seldom indeed that the highest graces of poetry attend upon their enumeration or upon the reflection of their influence. To the combination, however, of fancy and picturesqueness with religious sentiment, Mrs. Stowe does attain, as a few stanzas from her Day in the Pamfihi Doria will show And now for the grand old fountains, Tossing their silvery spray, Those fountains so quaint and so many, That are leaping and singing all day. Those fountains of strange weird sculpture, With lichens and moss oergrown, Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths l Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone Down many a wild, dim pathway We ramble from morning till noon; We linger, unheeding the hours, Till evening comes all too soon. And from or~ the ilex alleys, Where lengthening shadows play, We look on the dreamy Catupagna, All glowing with setting day, All melting in bands of purple, In swathings and foldiugs of gold, In ritands of azure and lilac, Like a princely banner unrolled. And the smoke of each distant cottage, And the fl:ish of each villa white, Shines out with an opal glimmer, Like gems in a casket of light. And the dome of old St. Peters With a strau~,e translucence ~ lows, Like a mighty bubble of amethyst Floating in waves of rose. In a trance of dreamy vagueness We, gazin~, and yearning, behold That city beheld by the prophet, Whose walls were transparent gold. And, dropping all solemn and slowly, To hallow the sofiening spell, There falls on the dying twilight The Ave Maria bell. With a mournful motherly softness, With a weird and weary care, That strange and ancient city Seems calling the nations to prayer. And the words that of old the angel To the mother of Jesus brought, Rise like a new evangel, To hallow the trance of our thought. From the Christian Register. THE SATCHEL AND THE WEDDING-DRESS; OR, A LITTLE TALK WITH MINORS AND THEIR MOTHERS. HAYING recently met with an admirable and discriminating extract from an article entitled A Model Woman, we copy a por- tion of it for the benefit of those who have not been so fortunate as to see it. It is prefaced by the remarks of another, as fol- lows Women do not excel in any trade, be- cause their ambition is not in thuir work. Work to them is only an expedient to bridge over an interval that lies between them and marriage. Whereas, man looks forward to work as the main incident of his life, and prepares himself for work as a career, not as a temporary expC(lient. This lack of ambition goes farther than to merely unfit women as general workers. It also makes them incompetent housewives, unequal partners for the men of their choice. The following extract, in this regard, is sharp, but just in its strictures But why does not her employer direct her? you ask; why does she not correct the faults of her erring hand-maiden, and show her how to manage a house? Because, my dear sir, she does not know how hersell Her brothers prepared themselves, one for a profession, the other for business. For this preparationrthey counted no time, no labor, too gi-eat. Even when not compelled to depend upon their own labor for subsistence, they feel a pride in doing something them- - selves, standin~ high in a profession or on change. Their sister expects to be mar- ried, to he the mother of a family, to pre- side over a household. What effort does she make to master the future situation? What years, what days, what hours, does she devote to learning how to prestde over a house, to rule her servants, to be indepned- ent of them, and, in case of need, to do without them? How does she prepare her- self to exercise judgment, economy, thrift; 187 THE SATCHEL AND THE WEDDING-DRESS. to dispense hospitality elegantly, yet Un- wastefully? What lesson does she take in the art of making a small income do the work of a large one, or in that frugality which is the condition of the means of be- nevolence? I know of one lady (I use the singular number, not unadvisedly), and she not com- pelled by her circumstances, who makes housekeepin,~ an art, who studies chemistry and physiology, that she may adapt her table to the health and comfort of her fami- ly; who is the mistress of her servants, not their unpaid dependent; who knows when the work for the house is done; is able to show the servants the reason of their fail- ure. And with all this she is not a drudge, with a soul confined to pots and pans, but a sensible, pleasing, and truly religious woman, who, while enhancing the happiness of her family and doubling the income of her hus- band, alike by reducing his expenses and freeing his mind from vexin,~ cares, yet is also reading the best books, is serving God and dispensing charity to man. One such woman I know; say, how many do you know? This, indeed, is the beginnino of a move- ment in the right direction: it touched a chord that responded in our hearts; and, as if by magic, the lid of our casket flew open, and revealed many a thought and feeling that lie hidden there, awaiting the trou- bling of the waters for the healing of our people. For oh! what a sin lies a~ our doors when we think of the desecration of marriage from countless causes, and the men and wo- men of our country crowding the court- rooms, and pleading for divorce, or daily resorting to separation. Why is it ? is the earnest question, and many times an- swered. One great cause is immature marriage, entered into lightly and un- advisedly. The mother is eager, or con- sents, to bring to market the crude and nuripe fruit; and sometimes the daughter hangs up the satchel with one hand, and takes down the wedding-dress with the other, forgetting or ignoring that the black- board does not solve the problem of life, nor fit her to be the companion of man. Do not defraud her, 0 mother! of the periods of life that come slowly, gently, surely, in the unerring intentions and min- istrations of Nature and Providence. Freed from the necessarily gregarious life of the public school, she is now to share the labours of her mother, who has sacri- ficed herself for her childs improvement, and to train herself for The duties of domes- tic life, and to begin an individual exis tence; or, in one word, to begin to find herself, and by a patient course of reading and study, learn to think and to feel aright, and to gather nourishment for the mental, moral, and.spiritual nature; to prepare her- self in sbme small measure, for the next stage, the entrance into society at the age of eighteen. Then comes the dawning of wo- manhood; and in a few years more if she has drank freely and earnestly at the foun- tain of life, she can be the companion, the helper, of one whom it is her glad office to sustain, to influence, and to refine; for the only true home is in the heart of those we love, for where the treasure is, there will the heart be also. Can we wonder that the wedding-gar- ment is so rudely torn off? for, if it fitted the girl, it will not fit the woman. And the wedding-ring should be a constantly- enlarging circle, enclosing the responsibili- ties and the charms of life; but the golden circle may become so small as to lo~ all its true significance. How few women can receive, how few men can pay, the follow- ing beautiful tribute! Thee, Mary, with hi ring I wed; So sixteen years ago I said. Behold another ring for what 3 To wed thee oer again 3 Why not 3 With the first ring I married~onth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth, Taste long admired, sense long revered And all, my Mary, then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead the double merit now To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure, With ardor as intense and pure, As when, amid the rites divine, I took thy hand and plighted mine), To thee, my love, my second ring, A token and a pled~e, I bring. With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart, Those virtues which before untried, The wife has added to the bride ; Those virtues whose progressive claim, Endearing wedlocks very name, -My soul enjoys, my song approves, For conscience sake as well as loves For why 3 They show me, hour by hour, Heavens high thou~ht, aff~ctions po~ver, Discretions deed, sound judgments sentence, And teach me all thiubs but repentance. In the perversion of the laws of Nature and Providence, the girl-bride loses three periods of life, never to be regained. There are mines never to be worked, depths of her being never to be sounded; ignorant of her- 188 MR. SEWARD AND LORD STANLEY. self, old before her prime, oppressed by the inevitable and unprepared-for cares of life, she can evade nothing, and can never regain the lost period of preparation. The highest gift of God is love in mar- riage. It is born of sorrow as well as joy. The true wife has an atmosphere about her which her husband and all that come within her presence feel. The human character, so sacred a trust, is the slowest in its growth; and we might take a lesson from the natural kinttdom so beautiful in its operations. The light and shadows of life must fall upon woman before she knows, before she can know, of the riches of love and mar- riage. Love is the infants instinct, the childs shelter, the maidens protection; but the highest, holiest love is born of tears as well as smiles, and is consecrated by both. What God has joined together let no man put asunder should apply as sacredly to the true nnion of hearts as in the presence of the sacred rites. But we have not looked yet at the saddest side of the picture. What is to become of the next generation ? The child-wife may become the child-mother (uneducated, except primarily, herself) before she is even capable of pertorming the physical duties, and before she has suspected even the depths of her own being and its responsibil- ities in this life and the life to come. This young immortal is to be trained carefully and thoughtfully and joyously for time and eternity. Almost with the infants first tear and smile come the first impressions, so carefully-to be watched, that are the germ of its future life. Guard it against falsehood as you would from a pestilential vapor; but let it ever see Truth in all her fair propor- tions! How the little lip will curl, the eye flash, and the tear start, at the smallest de- ceptions! How discriminately, courageously; and delicately should first impressions be watched! for upon them, with Gods bless- ing, depends the future of the child and tVe man. A mother who has thhougt earnestly and deeply often feels That the full fountain of a mothers love Avails not; but for angel ministry To guard the fair young cr~ature, she must plead. We will quote from a faithful picture of an interesting writer ; for we love to dwell upon the character of a true woman, and consider it her highest privilege to grace and gladden her home: To the man who knows the world, and understands what he should hope from it, what he should do in it, nothing can be more desirable than meeting with a wife who will ever co-operate with him, who will everywhere prepare his way for him, whose diligence takes up what he must leave, whose occupation spreads itself on every side, whilst his must travel forward on its single path. Order in prosperity, courage in adversity, care for the smallest, and a spirit capable of comprehendin~ and managing the greatest. These are such qualities as we find in the women of history; that clearness of view, that expertness in all emergencies, that sureness in detail, which brings the whole so accurately out. Just as we were closing this article, we saw a quotation from an English paper, in- dicating a very serious and earnest move- ment upon this subject by the authorities of Oxford University. They say, At present, as we take it, it is the want of a definite interest in some work or occupation of real moment, which sets girls speculating about marriage at so early a period. They do not ascribe it to the fear of single life or dissatisfaction with home, that the thoughts of a girl of eighteen or nineteen are so often turned to matrimonial contingencies. Then they speak of her want of occupation contrasted with the life of man. But when the average of girls have gone through the wretched course of studies prescribed by the school-mistress or governess, all comes to an end, and the next thino is to be married, or, at any rate, to be engaged. Her education has totally failed to awaken her interest in the subjects of mens studies, and to culti- vate her natural faculties to such an extent as to make her further cultivation and the acquisition of more knowlege a delight and a necessity. From the Economist, Sept. 14. MR. SEWARD AND LORD STANLEY. LORD STANLEY may be congratulated upon being the first Minister upon either side the Atlantic who has dealt with the Alabama question without committing a grave error. He agrees to refer the Alaba- ma case to arbitration without improper admixture, and refuses so to refer it with improper admixture. The English Govern- ment on two preceding occasions showed 189 MR. SEWARD AND LORD STANLEY. one of its most common faults, a want of quickness in new cases. That fault is, in- deed, common to all free Governments which appeal to the people and which live by discussion. A free people never can be quick, for it does not know the facts early, and its imagination takes time to act; and in discussion it is commonly safe to say, I did what has usually been done in cases like the present, I did not choose to take the responsibility of a(lopting (without the sanction of Parliament) a new policy, I followed the course which on previous occa- sions Parliament had approved. In appear- ance, the case of the Alabama was like many others which had oecu~red before, though it was not really like them. In most cases of prosecution for alleged infringe- ment of the Foreign Enlistment Act, it is quite enough fbr the Executive Government only to act when the legal evidence is thoroughly complete. Whether a man or two more or less in an ordinary war are en~ste(l, whether a ship more or less in an ordinary war is fitted out, scarcely matters at all. But in the case of the Alabama one ship did matter: the amount of harm which could be done by a single Confederate cruiser built abroad was so great, that our Govern- ment would have been justified in acting in the first instance upon insufficient evidence; upon evidence, that is, insufficient for exact legal proof though quite enough for grave, moral suspicion. We acted so afterwards in the case of the rams, and we ought to have done so in the case o~f the Alabama. But, if the phrase may be allowed, we tink- ered about legal proof; we were afraid of having, in a conceivable event, to pay damages to a possibly innocent owner; and, while we were indulging our scruples, the Confederates, who had no scruples, got the ship away. It is believed, and always will be believ- ed in America, that we let the Alabama go because we liked the South better than we liked the North. But this is wholly untrue. The Government of that day were anxious to obey the law, and only to obey the law. But so much as this is true, that if by chance a minister so strenuous, and, in his own way, so daring, as Lord Palmerston, had been a keen partisan of the North, he would have insisted that the ship should not go evidence or no evidence. His passions would have made him do what was ivise, though at the time it was not the law. in the same way, Lord Russell was slow to recognise a new expediency. He de dined to refer the Alabama case to arbitra- tion, and certainly there was no precedent. Lord Chatham would have called it dishon- our for the Queen of England to submit to an arbitrator the question whether she herself had been to blame. And it quite comes to that. This is no question of fault or no fault in some subordinate authority some outlying governor, or some eager naval captain, such points have often been referred to arbitration, and there is no difficulty about them. But here we deal with the Cabinet the Prime Minister the very Government of the Queen herself. All that was done or not done was done or not done by the supreme authority, and there the blame must rest, if blame there be. But, nevertheless, it would have been wise to submit even this question to arbi- tration. The highest functionaries of a State may act wrongly, just as its lower func- tionaries may act wron~,ly. A nation itself, for it comes to that, may. act wrongly. And the notion that a nation loses honour by admitting a liability to mistake is a mis- chievous delusion, surviving from a time when honour was thought to be in the dis- play of power, not in the reality of good intention. Real dignity can admit that it may have been in fault, whenever in truth it may have been so. But if two English statesmen have been wrong in dealing with the Alabama ques- tion, Mr. Seward is now more wron~. Ame- rican statesmen are accused of keeping at- tractive foreign questions in abeyance, in order to gain a point in domestic polities, or, as it is phrased, to make capital out of them. And, if Mr. Seward did wish to act thus, he would have written as he has writ- ten. Now, he will not refer to arbitration the Alabama case, unless we will refer, too, the question, whether we were right or wrong in the recognition of the South as a belligerent. Lord Stanley argues that the South clearly was a belligerent; for, if she did not make a great war, there never was a great war in this world; that the Ameri- can President recognized the fact by pro- claiming a blockade, which, in a mere riot, he could net do; that in cases, often referred to inthese columns and elsewhere, the Ameri- can courts have, in this very case, sanc- tioned this very doctrine; that they have decided that the secession of the Southern States, as set forth by the President with the assertion of the right of blockade amounts to a declaration that civil war exists; that blockade itself is a belligerenl 190 LIGHT AND SHADOW. right, and can only legally have place in a state of war; and yet Mr. Seward main- tains that our recognition was wrong. He sometimes, indeed admits, or seems to admt, that it may have been right at last to recognise the South, but that we did it too soon. But we did not do it till after the President proclaimed the blockade, and when, therefore, it was necessary at once to tell our people abroad what to do. The South- ern rebellion became at once of great magni- tude, and it had to be dealt with accordingly, both by Mr. Linc In and by the English Gov- ernment. Something is said about Mr. Adams being expected in London when we made the recognition, and that we ought to have waited for Mr. Adams; but what could Mr. Adams have told us which was material, or which could have altered our policy? When a house is on fire, you do not wait to see the owners attorney before you put out the flames: so in all cases of imminent danger. it cannot be put in a despatch, but com- mon Americans reason thus. They say, Mr. Seward was right not to reter the Alabama case to arbitration now; we do not want it ~settled now; England is at peace, and the Southern States are not yet settled; we prefer to wait till England is at war or in danger, and till all America is tranquil. We fear Mr. Seward means this, though he cannot in decorum say it; that he does not wish to create a sure peace between the countries, but to keep ready a good ground of menace for his own. The style of Mr. Sewards despatches has been praised, but we think very uudeserv- edly. Our great novelist describes a certain footman as one who by those who had not seen many noblemen, might be thought to give a good idea of nobility. Just so, Mr. Sewards writing is what those wh~ have not read many good books would think good writing. It is tawdry, indistinct, and dif- fuse, and has a very disagreeable air of van- ity all through it. Lord Stanley, on the other hand, writes like a highly educated man of business, who calls a spade a .spade, and does not spoil a good expression by using unnecessary words. LIGHT AND SHADOW. If love be sweet, then bitter death must be; If love be bitter, sweet is death to me TENNYSON. WHY should I not look happy, The world is all so bright l You know, he said he loved me; He told me so last night: He loves me so! Such words of love he whispered, I felt my blushes rise; But half (he said) he told not, The rest was in his eyes He loves me so! He said, to watch and guard me Would be his tenderest care; If I am hut beside him, Joy will be everywhere lie loves me so! If love will make life ha~pv, Mine will be very bright; His love will shed a lustre, And fill it all with light He loves me so! Then should I not be happy, The ~vorld is all so hri~ht You know, he said he loved me; He told me so last night: He loves me so! Why should I not look mournful, The world is all so sad Because, you know I love him; Such love is never glad: I love him so! Ive listened for his footstep All through the weary day; But, oh! t~vould not be weary If one word lie would say: I love him so! Sometimes I thought he loved me, Then all the world was bright; But now all hope is ended, Quite dead since yesterni~,ht: I love him so! Txvas in the crowd of dancers: I felt that he was nigh. I longed so for his coming; He came and passed me by: I love him so! 191 192 THE BIRD He turned to some one fairer I saw him flitting past; But me he never heeded 0 God! that dream is past I love him so! Then should I not look mournful Twill ueer be bright a,.,ain; For still, you know, I love him Such love is only pain I love him so Before Gods shrine she stands, A veil thrown oer her head; The priest now joins their hands, While holy words are said. Bathed in mellowed light, A wreath around her brow; Clad in robes of white A bride, behold her now! Music is stealin~ round The chant of holy hymn; Hark! how the solemn sound Steals through the arches dim! They sing, Blest may she he Her work of day by day Be blest! 0 happy she ! Tis thns for life we pray. Laid on her narrow bed, Clad in a garment white, A cross above her head, Shes taking rest to-night. Flowers are scattered round, Her hands crossed oer her breast; No more shall earthly sound Disturb that quiet rest. Sweet music steals aloft, The chant of holy hymn, Those notes, so low and soft, Steal through that chamber dim. They sing The dead are blest! Their work of day by day Has ceased, and now they rest: Tis thus in death we pray. Life to the joyous seems the best; The weary only long for rest. AND THE BABY. THE BIRD AND THE BABY. LET the Baby squall, Maam, Cruel l Not at all, Maam, Musical I call, Maam, Childrens shrieks and cries. Little chest expand, Maam, Give what lungs demand, Maam, Dont you understand, Maam, Proper exercise. But the other day, Maam, While I was away, Maam, Late in bed I lay, Maam, As I sometimes do. To my great delight, Maam, Down stairs out of sight Maam, Scream with all their might, Maam, Fancied I heard two. One against the other, Crying for their mother, Sister strives with brother; Twins, I thought, are those. But, when I descended, And the row had ended, They were, who contended, What do you suppose Of the two I heard, Maam, One turned out a bird, Maam, Tis a fact absurd, Maam; But the truth I tell. Parrot, green and yellow, Like an infant fellow, Trying to outbellow Other babys yell. Brown should have been there, Maam, Babies he cant bear, Maam, Parrots neck hed swear, Maam, Ought to have been wrung. Baby, with a curse, Maam, To all pets averse, Maam, Gag, hed tell the Nurse, Maam, Make it hold its tongue. He, now, bes a bear, Maam, No, were not a pair, Maam, I dont, I declare, Maam, Hate small girls and boys; Would not children shoot, Maam, That they mi,,ht be mute, Maam, Am not such a brute, Maam; Partial to their noise. Dublin University Meg. Punch.

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The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1221 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 26, 1867 0095 1221
The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1221 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No. 1221.October 26, 1867. CONTIHINTS. PAGE 1. Attitude of the Clergy towards Science 2. Old Sir 1)ouglas. Part xvii. and last 3. Inroads upon English . 4. Turkish Baths in Boston. 5. Critical and Social Essays from The Nation 6. Linda Tressel 7. Personal Statistics 8. The President on the Rapids 9. The Fenian Mosquito . 10. The Romance of Babington White. Contemporary Review, Macmillans Magazine, Blackwoods Magazine, Editorial, Saturday Review, Blaclewoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, London Review, Spectator, Saturday Review, 195 205 218 232 232 233 243 249 251 25-I POETFY. Tired, 194. The Sea-side Life, 194. The Crooked Path, 194. Monody on Stray, 204. Evenings at home, 256. NEW BOOKS. AN ESSAY ON MAN. By Alexander Pope. With illustrations and notes, by S. R. Wells. From a Phrenological stand-point. S. R. Wells: New York. OLD SIR DOUGLAS. By the Hon. Mrs. Norton. Is just published at this office in sep- arate form. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAYS BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. Fon EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Pubtishers, the Living Age will be punetuallyforwaraed for a year,free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year; ncr where we have to pay c~mmissiOn for forwarding the money. Price of the First Sertes,tn Cloth,36 volumes 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete work 88 220 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; LTnbound,2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. 194 TIRED. YES, I am tired, dear. I will not try To stem the ehhin~ current any more, Nor vex with fruitless prayers the iron sky, Nor dew with idle tears the barren shore. The rippling waves that kissed my happy hand, The waves with laughin~ music in their flow, Sadly I watch them oer the hroadcning sand; But I am very tired let them go. Too long my chafing pride has stooped to strive To fan the embers into life again; No faith can keep the flickering flame alive, The lingering vigil is hut lingering pain. Too late the voice assumes a tender tone; Too late the lip in loving smiles is drest: The tide is out; the last faint spark is gone, And I am very tired let me rest. Just tired neither angry nor ashamed; Each wretched mood has fret its feverish hour; Let the pale bud lie withered and unclaimed Dead, or to gracious sun or pitying shower. Perchance some little life may linger yet In the crushed stem and withered leaves we see; But what avails repentance or regret3 I am so tired tired let it he. I did so much; I am all worn and cold; I strive no longer; let what must he, must: I could not give your hand the strength to hold, I could not give your hea;t the depth to trust. How you will miss me! I could weep your want Of the close silent love that fenced you so; The cup I-filled was neither weak nor scant, But I am very tired let it go. Tinslegs Alagazine. THE SEA.SIDE LIFE. (In humble imitation of MR. POPE.) HAPPY the man who pays his fare, For Ramsgate or Llandudno hound, Content a tourist suit to wear, With felt hat crowned. Whose work is done, whose hills are paid, Who leaves behind him Town attire, And gets new milk, and eggs fresh laid, In Devon-shire. Blest, who the fair crisp notes can find A month at Scarbro to defray; Enjoying with a tranquil mind Long sails by day, TIILED.THE SEA-SIDE LIFE, ETC. Short whist at night, pastime with prawns Combined, Fictions at will to read, Strolls on the shore, and Croquet lawns, With one (sea) weed. Thus let me live, and lounge, and lunch, Thus let me take my annual dram, Steal from the Strand, and not een Punch Know where I am. Punch. THE CROOKED PATH. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Air, here it is, the sliding rail That marks the old remembered spot The gap that struck our schoolboy trail, The crooked path across the lot. It left the road hy school and church, A penciled shadow, nothing more, That parted from the silver birch, And ended at the farm-house door. No line or compass traced its plan, With frequent bends to left or right, In aimless, wayward curves it ran, But always kept the door in sight. The gabled porch, with woodland green The broken mill-stone at the sill, Though many a rood might stretch between, The truant child could see them still. No rocks across the pathway lie, No fallen trunk is oer it thrown, And yet it winds, we know not why, And turns as if for tree or stone. Perhaps some lover trod the way With shaking knees and quaking heart, And so it often runs astray With sinuous sweep or sudden start. Or one, perchance with clouded brain From some unholy hanquet reeled, And since, our devious steps maintain His track across the trodden field. Nay, deem not thus no earth-born will Could ever trace a faultless line; Our truest steps are human still, To walk unswerving were divine! Truants from love, we dream of wrath ; 0, rather let us trust the more! Through all the wanderings of the path, We still can see our Fathers door. ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. From the Contemporary Review. TILE ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY TOWARDS SCiENCE. IT cannot be denied, that, with many in- dividual exceptions, a good deal of mu- tual suspicion exists at present between clergymen and men of science. While Science is threatening to xvarn the clergy off its premises altogether, with a vigorous denunciation of theological prepossessions, the clergy are too often disposed to look with both fear and anger on the position assumed by their scientific assailants. In fact, they are angry because they are fear- ful. They cannot exactly estimate the dan- ger; and they are not sure whether the monster which threatens them is a bugbear or a giant, or whether he may not turn out after all to be a good angel in disguise. But the men of science seem at present to be the more aggressive party of the two. The clergy show signs of being cowed by the as- severations, which are echoed back from every quarter, that the cause of revealed re- ligion is obsolete and hopeless; while the irritation which they sometimes betray springs mainly from the feeling that their order has been made the object of a con- temptuous prejudice, which they cannot be convinced that it deserves. It may be worth while to examine what justice there is in the accusations which are, currently browrht against the clergy on the part of seienc~. Ys it true that, as a body, they are narrow-minded and obstructive be- yond the average of educated men? Have they always led the chorus of unreasoning remonstrance a~ainst every fresh influx of scientific light? Are they incapable, even at their best, of defining their position with anything like the same precision with which men of science can define their own? Have they reached their highest tide-mark of charity and intelligence, as soon as they have repudiated the earlier spirit of perse- cution, and assented to a few obvious pro- positions on the truth of science as the gift of God, and the certainty that no real con- tradiction can be established between the revelations of His Word and the discoveries of His Works. As there is nothing like a candid friend for telling you the worst of yourself, I will call in a clergyman to furnish the indict- ment against the clergy It is worth while to take the single instance of the use of science to our Clergy. Seem,, that the Bible, in page after page (to say nothing of whole books of it), is constantly occupied in di- recting profound attention to the power of God as proved by the magnificence of His creation, seeing that the Saviour of the world points, as the special proof of Gods love, to His care for the mountain lily, and the falling sparrow, and the ravens callow brood, is not our edu- cation, and especially that of our clergy, dis- tinctly irreligious in neglecting these things, and in elevating the poor words of man, as an instru- ment of training, unmeasurably above the mighty works of God 2 And with what results It would be hardly possible to cxa~gerate their disastrous iml)ortance. Not only do the clergy, who should he the leaders of thought, lose the advantage of assisting in a thousand ways their poorer parishioners, hut they find themselves actually inferior in these great fields of knowl- edge to many clerks and artisans in their own congregations, before whom they cannot venture to speak of them without the danger of raising a contemptuous smile. Let me pause to observe that I quote the above sentences only as an introduction to what follows. No one can dispute the great advantage of every kind of useful knowledge to the clergy ; nor need we discuss the transparent fallacy of depreciating the words of man in contrast with the works of God; as though the excellence of the crea- ture were not the glory of the Creator, to whose gift alone man owes the faculty of expressing noble thoughts in graceful lan- guage. This, however, he proceeds, is the least part of the evil. Science has interpenetrated to a wonderful degree the thoughts, the specula- tions, nay, even the common literature of the age, and yet the clergy are wholly out of sym- pathy with it; in many instances are suspicious of it ; in tuany more are its hitter and ignorant opponents. Scarcely has there been an en2inent philosopher, from Roger Bacon down to Comte, scarcely an eminent discoverer, from Galileo down to Darwin, who has not counted the clergy among his most ruthless opponents. I challenge denial of the fact. Against astronomy, against zoology, against chemistry, against geo- logy, against ethnology, against philology against well-nigh every nascent science in its turn has theological arrogance and self-styled orthodoxy marshalled their menacing array of misinterpreted or inapplicable fragments of Holy Writ. Just as of old fops refuted Berkeley with a sneer, so now some yoting ordained B.A. finds it easy to crush Darwin with a text. Is it, I ask, uncommon to hear some ignorant clergytnan, who has laboriously scraped into a poll degree, lay down the law as though he held the keys of all knowled e in his hand, and could afford to pity and look down upon those splendid students whose lives have been one long-continued heroism of candour and research 3 You may say that an op- position of this calibre usually ends in some 195 ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. 196 complacent avowal of the ardent friendship be- sive condemnation of a great and accom- tween science and theology, and in the accep- pushed society which is charged with the tance as axiomatic trnisms of what had pre- pro.notion of the highest interests of man. viously been denounced as atheistical and ab- It is against human nature to expect that surd. Bnt meanwhile what happens 3 Men of science, confounding religion with the anachron- changes can be brought about in old opin- ions without resistance from the body which isms of its most feeble and most violent expound- believes itself pled~,ed to support them. This ers, too often hold aloof from a Church whose inmost heart is intensely truthful, a Church VIS inertice exists in all professions: notably which well knows the delight that deeply reli- so in the case of medical science. Dr. Hooker gions minds have ever felt in reverent inquiry confesses that the medicine men in all into the laws of God, and which sees more of countries are apt to be divided amongst her own real spirit in the patient lahours of themselves; and he candidly adds, by the science than in unprogressive idleness and the- way, that many of them take up new ological hate. Rev. F. W. FARRAIt, On views solely from spite to the priests so some Defects in Public School Education, ~ that the unfairness is not all on one side.* 4648. Scientific men must also lay their account This invective exaggerates its small basis with provoking additional suspicion if they of acknowledged fact to a degree which is travel out of their province to assail the re- ligious con as unfair to men of science as to the cler- victions of their neighbours on gy. The highest praise which can he given alleged scientific grounds. Revealed reli- to any kind of education is, that it makes gion rests entirely on the basis of the super- natural. How then can the teachers of the judgment just, by training it to form that religion be expected to acquiesce in the a correct estimate of things which pass be- assertion that science has proved the super- fore us. So then Mr. Farrar pays a poor natural to be a. nightmare monster, linger- compliment to scientific education, when he darker ages into days of light? says that those who have enjoyed its full ing on from The whole machinery of that religion rests advantages are in the habit of passing ~ on our faith in the efficacy of prayer. How Lalse judgment on the most solemn of al then can the clergy refrain from remon- ~ ubjects, by confounding religion with the strance if the weakness of supposing that anachronisms of its most feeble and most prayer can influence the acts of God is violent expounders. There can scarcely be made a favourite commonplace with men of a scientific society in England which has not science? Let us try if we cannot consider numbered clergymen among its leading the subject without disturbance from the members. What excuse can be urged for unjust judgments of either side. The real their scientific companions, if they turn questions at issue may be stated in this from the recent memory or the living pres- form : Have the clergy contributed the ence of such men as Whewell and Buc k- full share of assistance towards the advance- land, as Sedguick and Pritchard and Har ment of science which might be expected court, to condemn the clergy in a mass, and religion along with them, because of the from a corporation of educated and influ- crude lucubrations of some ignorant cler- ential men? Do they look on the prog- ress of scientific inquiries which lie beyond gyman who has laboriously scraped into a poll degree? But at this point Mr. Farrar their special province with the candour and is touching on a different question on which interest with which one such body ought to many of us are very ready to agree with regard the successful labours of atiother? And can they formulate their own convic- him; I mean the impropriety of calling on tions in such a way as to make them harmon- men for sermons and other public addresses ise with those conclusions which science has immediately after their ordination. No pro- established beyond further appeal? fession could stand such a strain as this with credit. And it must be remembered I have no doubt that Mr. Farrar is happy that if young preachers take a liberal turn, in possessing a far wider acquaintance with the history of science than I can boast of. they are quite as likely to talk nonsense in But his challenge must sound harsh in behalf of science as their brethren are the ears of a generation which remembers against it. The mistake is, .to let them bear Buckland and Chalmers, and owes so much their testimony on such subjects at all; and the marvel is, that any one trained under to Sedgwick and Whewell. His reference to Berkeley is as inappropriate as it is mac- the exact discipline of science should take the crude prentice-work of the young begin- * Lecture on Insular Floras; Nottingham Re- ncr as sufficient ground for a comprehen- port of British Association, p. 227. 197 ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. curate; * for Berkeley became the most revered of bishops, and it will scarcely be maintained that all the fops who sneered at him were clergymen. The most irreva- lent rejoinder, I think, was given him by the layman Johnson, and the most contemptu- ous sneer was passed by the physician Arbuthuot; while the unlucky missile which Mr. Farrar has caught up to fling at the cler- gyturns out to be a line which one clergyman addressed to another in honour of a third. But let us look at some facts which are rather more in point than this, and which lie close at hand. In Mr. Groves inaugural address to the British Association at Nottingham, he rec- ognised the growth of scientific societies since the foundation of the Royal Society now more than two centuries ago, as an important cause of the rapid advance of science. What light is thrown on the question before us by the origin of those two bodies, the Royal Society which com- menced the movement, and the British Association for the Advancement of Sci- ence, which represents its latest develop- ment? The lists of those who founded the Royal Society give honourable prominence to the names of clergymen ; witness those of Wilkins, Bishop of Chester; Ward, Bishop of Salisbury; Sprat, Bishop of Rochester (its first historian); Bathurst, Dean of Wells; and iDr. Wallis. The British Asso- ciation was mainly originated by a clergy- man, the Rev. W. Vernon Harcourt, who planned its aims and working details, says Principal Forbes, with a complete- ness which took his hearers somewhat by surprise, but in which they found little to alter or amend; and the constitution pro- posed by Mr. ilarcourt remains in all its important details the working code of the Association to this day. An institution, Mr. Forbes remarks, founded by such men as Sir David Brewster and Mr. Ver- non Harcourt, and fostered in its very ori- gin by the enlightened patronage of the then venerable and beloved Archbishop of York, must have had its rise in the confi~ deuce that the prosecution of science in a right spirit must ultimately prove the bul- wark, and not the countermine, of religious belief. * For nine years out of the thirty- six of its existence, the Chair of the Asso- ciation has been filled by cler~ymen, viz., by Dean Buckland, Professor Sedgwsck, Dr. Lloyd, Mr. Vernon Harcourt, Dr. Whewell, Dean Peacock, Dr. Robinson, the younger Dr. Lloyd, and Professor Willis. Mr. Farrar will render no service to the Association if he helps to propa,~ate the idea that this fair alliance has been bro- ken, and that there is now a confessed an- tagonism between the clergy and that scien- tific body. No doubt there has been a great change since the days when, in spite of their dog- matism, their commentatorial disposition, and the other obstructive tendencies which Dr. Whewell records against them,t the whole domain of the human intellect, as Dean Milman says, was the possession of the clergy ; when the universities, the schools, were theirs and theirs only; when they were the canon lawyers, u.n for some centuries, as far as it was known or in use, the teachers and professors of the civil law; when they were the histori- ans, the poets, the philosophers. ~ Other classes have emerged, one after another, to claim a share in governing that intellectual empire over whie4l the clergy ruled so long with mixed results of good and evil. Law- yers and physicians, astromaners an chemists, engineers and soldiers, have all come forward on the basis of their several professions to make portions of that mighty realm their own. But it is unreasonable to talk as if the great body of the clergy * The British Association considered with ref- erence to its history, plan, and results, & c.. Dun- dee, 1806, pp. 7, 19. History of the Sciences, and Philosophy of Discovery, p. 45, & c. For a full statement of the case against the cler~y, we s sy turn to the works of Mr. Lecky and the late Mr. Buckle; and. to some chapters in Mr. G. H. Lewess History of Philosophy. * For Pops refuted Berkeley with a sneer, as Mr. Farrar, gives it, read And coxcom~s van- quish Berkeley by a grin. To misquote four words out of six is surely an unreasonahie degree of care- 4 History of Latin Christianity, ix. 3, ed. 1864. lessness. He leaves not a scrap of the original The theological spirit is, in a manner, the blood but a proper name and an article, The line is gen- which ran in tile veins of tile European world, erally cited more accurately (except with for down to Bacon and Descartes. For the first time, by I hut with a wron~ reference to Pope; e. g. hy Bacon in England, and Descartes in France, car- Mr. J. S. Mill, Logic, ii. 47i, ed. 1845 (reference ned intelligence heyond the p~ th of theology. afterwards withdrawn), and hy Mr. G. H. Lewes, . . . Upon the whole, this influence has heen sam- History of Philosophy, iv. 7, ed. 1846; ii. 283, ed. tary. Guizot, Civilization in Europe, i. 114, ed. 1867. It is taken from a piece often printed with Bohn. Professor Sedgwsck is fond oi repeating the Popes Works, by John Brown, D,D., entitled An words in which La Place, shortly hefore his death, Essay on Satire, ocasioned hy tile death of Mr. dwelt on the value of the clerical element in the Pope, inscrihed to Mr. Warburton; and will be universities of England; Discourse on Camhnidg~ found in Andersons British Poets, x. 879. Studies, 5th ed., pp. cccliii., 129. 19S ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. had passed from comparative light to dark- lacked its just proportion of those more for- ness, while the rest of the world has been tunate discoverers, whose discretion or emer,~ing from darkness into light. The calmness has preserved them from being names of the clergy are prominent at every ranked in either class. great crisis in the movement of thought; Let us mark down, for instance, the an4 whatever may have been the case names of churchmen as they come before us with many in the rank and file of so vast in the history of the scientific revolution an array, their leaders have seldom failed which lies parallel to the Reformation. As to grasp at last the torch of truth, and pass far back as the twelfth century, the great it onward with unfaltering hand. mystical theologian, Richard of St. Victor, The stock instances of clerical persecu- described the true method of physical in- tion prove the folly of committing the inter- quiry in terms which Francis Bacon him- ests of science to a needless assault on a self might have adopted. It would not great, powerful, and venerable system. he easy at the present day, says Dr. Whe- But they often bear witness also to more well, to give a better account of the oh- patience than we should expect on the side ject of physical science. * Raymond Lully of the persecutors, and niore indiscretion became a Franciscan missionary. Roger than is acknowledged on the side of the as- Bacon has all but lost his title of Doctor sailant. In the eiehth century, the Irish- mirabilis under the designation of Francis- man Virgilius was accused at Rome by St. can friar. Cusanus was a cardinal. Tele- Boniface for the heresy of asserting the cx- sins is said to have refused an archbishop- istence of the antipodes; yet he obtained nc. ~ Campanella was a Dominican; and and kept till his death the bishopric of so was the ill-starred Giordano Bruno. Salzburg, and afterwards was sainted. * Copernicus passed over from medicine to In the tenth century, the famous Gerbert the Church, and spent much of his life as a was suspected of glamour and necromancy; cathedral canon. It is the same in every but he rose through the arebbishoprics of branch of intellectual movement. Church- Rheims and Ravenna to St. Peters Chair. ~f men are ever foremost in the ranks, some Roger Bacon, though a Churchman, might originating reforms, and others protecting jiave escaped persecution if he had not in and assisting their promoters ; and some, it an evil hour taken the fatal %tep of be- must be confhssed, like other people, invit- coining a Franciscan friar, and so brought ing persecution by their want of judgment, himself within the reach of a narrower, or disturbing progress by their vanity and more rigid, more suspicions rule. ~ Gali- vacillation. The most conspicuous of our leo, the layman, was hiniself partly to blame (early) English geometers was Thomas for the persecution whieh the churchman, Bradwin, Archbishop of Canterbury. ~ Copernicus, had avoided. Under the Laurentius Valla was a canon of St John sagacious and peaceful sway. of Copernicus, Lateran. Erasmus is called The glory of astronomy had effected a glorious triumph the priesthood and the shame. The fickle over the dogmas of the Church; but under De Dominis was first a Romish archbishop the bold and uncompromising sceptre of and afterwards an English dean. Mauroly- Galileo all her conquests were irrecovera- ens and Maniotte were abbots. Male- bly lost. So far as persecution goes, the branche was an Oratorian. In Dr. Whe- Church has contributed its full share of vie- wells short list of leading names from Lord tims as well as persecutors; nor has it Bacon to Newton, I observe two doctors of divinityGassendi and Isaac Barrow 4 It has lately been argued that the error reall the latter one of the glories of Mr. Farrars charged against Virgilius was rather that of main- own college. Another great Master of ining a non-adamite race of men than that of the Trinity, Richard Bentley, claims the ian- antipodes. 8cc Christian Schools and Scholars, doubted merit, says Bishop Monk, of hay 1867, i. 1413. ino~ in his I Compare Dr. Newman, Scope and Nature of ~ Boyle Lecture Sermons been the University Education, p. 323. Lectures and Essays on University Subjects, pp. 24:3, 2~O. ~ Philosophy of Discovery, pp. 52, 53. ~ Milman, History of Latin Christianity, ix. tErucker, Hut Crit. Philos, iv. 451. There is 153. some difficulty about the chronology~ But the as- ~ Brewster, Martyrs of Science, p. 96. Dr. sertion, which comes from Thuanuf, proves the be- Whewell remarks on the series of misfortunes lief in his influence with the rei~ning pontiff. which assailed the reformers of philosophy, from It. Bacon to Brniio; l)ut he adds, Chic most unfor- ~ Hallam. Literature of Europe, i. 112. (But innate were, for the most part, the least temperate more for his rank, he adds, which, by the way, was and judicious reformers. Plulosophy of Discov- very short-lived, and for his theological writings, cry, pp. 3012. than for his geometrical speculations.) ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY, first to display the discoveries of Newton in a popular form. I need not continue the series to our own times, when it is scarcely necessary to remark that some of the clergy have taken a lead in free thought which has scandalized many others besides their brethren. The list could be enlarged in- definitely if we entered on the details of scientific researches which have been pur- sued in the cloisters of colleges and the se- clusion of country parsonages. As natural- ists, for instance, the clergy have frequently madegreat parts of the subject their own. * I have appealed to no names but such as are patent to every one. They are more than enough, however, to substantiate the denial which Mr Farrar challenges; and to leave him in the position of having cast an undeserved reproach on the order to which he has the honour to belong. But what are we to say of the residuum of fact on which it was admitted that the charge was founded? The truth is I be- live, that polemical antipathy was only one of three great obstacles by which the reformation of science was obstructed, the other two being political suspicion, and ~he jealousy of scientific men. One of these hindrances is now happily extinct; political suspicion seldom trespasses on scientific ground. A second, we may trust, is consid- erably modified; scientific jealousies do not often now take a worse form than that of controversy on priority in discoveries. And I am bold to maintain that the polemical spirit has undergone a proportionate im- provement throughout the really represent- ative ranks of the clergy. If it still lingers among the lower ranges, it is mainly, I must add, because scientific men are so careless in provoking it; and it is fully shared by many laymen, who are quite as ready to * One naturally thinks of Gilbert White and Bish. op Stanley. The following clerical names occur to me as bearinc~ more or less directly on the question. Naturalists, blir. J. G. Wood, Mr. R. I. Lowe, Mr. S. C. Malan, Mr. F. 0. Morris, Mr. H. B. Tristram; in botany, especially, Mr. Churchill Babington, Mr. NI. J. Berkeley, the late Professor Henslow, Mr. C. A. Johns in astronomy. Professor Challis and Mr. Prichard ; in geology, the American, Dr. Hitch- cock, and Mr. C. F. Watkins, not to repeat some ~older names, which are among the greatest on the geological roll ; in entomology, Kirby, and the late Mr. F. W. Hope in agriculture, Mr. Huxtable; in political economy, Maithus and Professor Rogers. The evidence of Dr. Hooker before the Public Schools Commission (in. 582) gives an interesting account of the way in which Professor Henslow in - troduced the study of botany into the village school of his parish in Suffolk. Their i..norance of natural history was the very first count in Mr. Far- rars indictment against the clergy. I should have thought that no men who have so little profession- al connexion with the subject had done so much as the clergy to promote that pursuit. pile the faggots of persecution as the most benighted of the clergy. People who do not judge from the last crude sermon which they happened to hear of, but who wish to ascertain what the clergy are really saying in sermons of a higher order, or in lectures, in pamphlets, at church congresses, and in the correspon- dence or reviews of such a paper as the Guardian, will be disposed to think that they are in far greater danger at present of giving way to an excessive anxiety for the establishment of peace on almost any terms between Revelation and Science. The Duke of Argyll has remarked on this in a tone of sarcasm; though I observe that he commends scientific men for the very same desire, to keep separate the language of science from the language of theology. * At the foot of the page I mention some specimens out of a large collection.t Al- most to a man, the writers are eager to deny the necessity of a collision between revelation and science. The point is in- sisted on still more zealously in treatises on special subjects, as in the views of creation which have been but forth by Mr. iluxta- ble, Professor Challis, Dr. Rorison, Mr. Quarry, and the annoymous Essex Rector. But I will close this part of the argument by quoting two clerical writers, whom all would conti~ss to be the last men in the kingdom to understate the claims of Revelation. It is evident, says Archbishop Manning, * Reign of Law, pp. 5~, 89. Archdeacon Pratt, Scripture and Science not at variance 4th ed. i861. Archdeacon Freeman, The Harmony of Scripture and Science, Exeter, 1861. Bishop of London, Harmony of Revela- tion and the Sciences, Edinburgh, 1864. Rev. E. P. Eddrnp, Scripture and Science, Salisbury, 1865. Dr. Pusey, The Miracles of Prayer, Oxford, 1866. Dr. Payne Smith, Doth God take care for oxen I Oxford, 1866. Rev. H. B. Kennard, The Unity of the Material and Spiritual Worlds, Oxford, 1866. Dr. Temple, The present Relations of Science to Religion, preached at the British Asso- ciation, 1860. Hon. and Rev. W. H. Lyttelton, Holy Scripture the witness to the Revelation of God in all facts, preached at the British Associa- tion, 1865. Rev. D. Moore, The Unsearchableness of God, preached at the Jiritish Association, 1866. Rev. C. Pritchard, The Continuity of the Schemes of Nature and of Revelation, preached at the British Association, 1866. Rev. H. P. Liddon, Fatalism and the Living God, Salisbury, 1866. Bishop of St. Davids, The present State of Rela- tions between Science and Literature, 1867. Dr. Hawkins The Pestilence in its relation to Divine Providence and Prayer, Oxford, 1867. I may refer also to Dr Newmans Lectures and Essays on University Subjects, and on The Scope and Na- ture of University Edncation;~~ to Mr. Maurice on The Claims of the Bible and of Science; to the debate at the Norwich Congress on The spirit in which the Researches of Learniug and Science should be applied to the study of the Bible; and to some of the Essays in The Church and the ~Vorld. 199 ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. that Holy Scripture does not contain a revelation of what are called physical sciences; and that when they are spoken of, the language is that of sense, not of science, and of popular, not of technical usage. The mistake in Galileos case, writes iDr. Pusey, was not in the language of the Bible, but that men argued from lan- guage adapted (as language relating to visi- ble phenomena must be) to the phenomena whereof it speaks, as though it necessarily contained scientific truth. The claims of geology do not even touch upon theology. * But these personal considerations have detained us long enough. I shall certainly not deny that the clergy are widely influenced by the soldierly feeling that they are bound to defend a position in which they believe that God has placed them, and which men of science seem too eager to assail. But, after all, the more important question is, not what the less o~ more distinguished representatives of the clergy really do say, but what their position logically binds them to say. Mr. Farrar is good enough to grant that the inmost heart of the English Church is intensely truthful. Have the sons of the English Church no power to formulate their opinions, with clear intellects, as well as an intensely truthful heart? It will be convenient to discuss this question under the two aspects of the text of Scripture and the doctrines of revealed religion. 1. It is one of the oldest of canons on the interpretation of Scripture that we are not to cling to a meaning which was pie- viously drawn from the letter, if the prog- ress of science has shown it to be erroneous. The reason is clear; because the scientific belief of an age must colour its language, and because every single book of Scripture is expressed in the language of its age. When science advances, the old terms must be translated; and to translate one set of scientific symbols into another is no more taking liberties with Scripture or dealing unfairly with its readers than to make a version in a modern langua,~e. Laid down explicitly and repeatedly by Augustine, by Aquinas, by Bellarmine, the principle has been re-stated under the high authority of Pascal, of Buckland, and of Whewell.t As * Manning, Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost, p. 165; Pusey, On Daniel, p. xvii. t St. Augustine, Confess., xii., passim; ,De Gen. ad Lit., i. 37, 39; Enchiridion, c. 15, & c. (Opp., i. 220, iii. 129, 130, vi. 218); St. rhom. Aquin., Summa, pars. 1., Qu. lxviii. 1, quoting St. Augus- tine; Pascal, Provincial Letters, p. 392. sqq.. ed. Pearce, quoting both St. Augustine and Aquinas (iii fact it is remarked that St. Au,,ustines words are cited in the same manner in every encyclopiedical maintained by the last two writers, it pro- voked the opposition of Goodwin and of Kenrick, and has probably roused the sus- picion of a good many others who had not apprehended its precise force and meaning. In the sense in which it was reaUy intended, the precept is as just as it is simple. The hesitation which has been shown in receiving it seems to have sprung from a confusion between two entirely different positions. To affirm, with the above au- thorities, that Scripture stands apart from all scientific theories, is incompatible with the attempt to explain its language in the service of a theory, or to change the ex- planation with a view to the support of fresh opinions. It is one thing to say that Scripture coiiflnes itself to the use of ordi- nary language, which is not concerned with science at all, except so far as it is coloured on the surface by the prevalent belief. It is exactly the opposite thing to catch at every fancied coincidence between Scripture and recent discoveries, as though the simple words of the Bible were laden with recondite anticipations of science, which can be extracted by the help of fresh and questionable translations. There appe r to me two opposite dangers, says Dr. Pusey, of which we believers have to beware in regard to any science which touches upon the contents of Holy Scripture; firstly, an uncautious adoption of any such discoveries as may seem to coincide with Holy Scripture; or secondly, a misplaced fear that any legiti~ mate results to which any science may come shall be adverse to Holy Scripture. In the one case we seem, as it were, to be underpinning our foundations and substituting sand for the rock; in the other we give an impression that we are ill at ease whether our foundations be solid We must beware either of bending the sacred text to conform it to some imagined result of history or physical science, or, on the other hand, of insisting upon our interpretation of it, as if; in such matters, it must certainly be the true one It was wise advice of St. Augustine: Since Moses is not here to tell us what he meant, we should be modest in pro. nouncin,, certainly that he meant this and did not mean that. Report of Norwich Con- grass, pp. 181-2. This address of Dr. Puseys gives suffi- cient instances of cases in which old and work of the middle ages;~ Whewehl Philosophy of Discovery, p. 56, from Digby); Whewell, quot. ing Bellarmine, History of Scientific Ideas, ii. 306; Goodwin, quoting Buckland, Essays and Reviews. p. 231; Kenrick, Essay on Primieval History, p. xvii. Compare Dr. Newman, Lectures and Essays on University Subjects, pp. 237, 242, sqq. 200 ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. once familiar interpretations have been, or may yet be, abandoned, propounded by an authority which on such points is beyond appeal. According to Dr. Pusey, then, it is not of faith to maintain that the world was made only 6,000 years ago; nor, in- deed, were the old interpreters unanimous in maintaining so recent an age. It is not of faith to reject the solution by which Hugh Miller explained the Mosaic cosmogony, that God spread before the mind of Moses pictures of His creative operation out of time. It is not of faith to demand a higher rise or wider overflow for the waters of the Deluge than that all the high hills in mans then world, which might fall very far short of the highest in the known world, were covered fifteen cubits, so that none could escape save those who chose Gods way of deliverance. It is not of faith that the genealogies from Adam to Abraham were meant as exact measures of mans existence on the earth. Prima facie, he adds, one should receive every- thing as it seems to stand; hut the ques- tion ha ving been raised, we ought to make clear to ourselves what is of thith, and what is not, lest those who are persuaded as to a differeet theory should inj ure themselves or others, by setting Scripture in opposition to the supposed results of science, when it is not. The truth of Holy Scripture is in no way concerned with these theories. it is true that there remains some scientific topics, such as the unity of mankind, which are really connected with Christian doc- trines. But the descent of all men from ~i common ancestor is precisely one of those points on which the position of revelation is supported by an influential body of scientific men; and I believe it will be found that questions which are mixed up with matters of faith belong, for the most part, to the class of subjects on which science has established- no right to tie us down to one conclusion rathcr than ano- ther. 2. With this explanation, the solutions suggested by St. Augustines rule seem perfectly clear and intelligible. It is diffi- cult to conceive a canon which admits of a more jistinct exposition and a more ready application. But we are met by fresh ques- tions when we pass from the form of Scrip- ture to its substance; from mere turns of language and isolated phrases, bearing only on collateral topics, to the spiritual revela- tion which the sacred writers were com- missioned to convey. On these fields there 201 I have been disputes between theologians and men of science which the above dis- tinctions seem inadequate to deal with. Must we admit that here at last the strife is internecine? Or must we say that now at all events the clergy are altogether in the wrong? Far otherwise. We certainly think the controversy needless; but we be- lieve that the blame does not rest in this case with the interpreters of Scripture. So far as the difference goes beneath the sur- face, the chief blame rests with unprovoked a,gressors, who have claimed the right of dictating within a province not their own on grounds which their success in science does not warrant. No mistake that was, ever justly charged upon the clergy can be areater than that which is made by men of science when they confound the provinces of observation and speculation, and claim the same authority in the latter as in the former. In the common use of the words, science is quite distinct from philosophy. We readily assent to the repoits of scientific men, when they are agree.d on their conclusions, throughout the whole range of material sequences. They are masters of a machinery by which they can reduce to order a vast mass of pheno- mena under certain grand and simple laws. But the case is altered if they proceed to theorise on the great problems of that spiritual world which lies everywhere beside and beyond the processes of nature, enfold- ing the whole realm of matter in a network of mystery to which no scientific method holds the key. We listen willingly to the physiologist when he gives us an analysis of the machinery of our bodies; when he traces out all the ropes and pulleys by which motion is conveyed from nerve to nerve, from limb to limb, from the resolu- tion of the brain to the action of the hand. But it is quite another thing if he declares that his analysis exhausts the subject; that mind is nothing but nerve force,~ and mental movements, nothing but the rapid coursings of nerve currents; that, in short, our na- ture cannot be proved to contain any spirit- ual element which is distinct from the ma- terial, and subject to entirely different laws. These negative conclusions do not rest on observation, but on the speculations of the sense-philosophy; which in this case ignores the higher facts of mental observations, and builds itself only on the lower series. It is open to any one who pleases to argue in their favour; but he must do so with the understanding that he is deserting observa 202 ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. tion for theory, and passing from his proper science has ascended as far as it can reach, province into a foreign domain, where the it finds a limit where its power of research writs of science run no longer.* comes to an end, and its information ceases; But is this rejoinder valid when we turn while the very disappointment hears wit- to cases less extreme? The claims of ness to the existence of some unknown science have been recently described by a sphere beyond. The highest abstraction of writer who is eminently qualified to speak science is that of unity; but to account for on his own subjects with authority. Tbe the universe we need spontaneousness; and, scientific mind, says Professor Tyndall, as Professor Tyndall elsewhere says, there can find no repose in the mere registra- is no such thing as spontaneousness in na- tion of sequence in nature. The further ture, ~ i. e., in Nature distinctively so question intrudes itself with resistless might: called. But there must be spontaneousness Whence comes the sequence? What is somewhere, or the great machine of the urn- it that binds the consequent with its ante- verse could never have begun its move- cedent in nature? The truly scientific in- ments. The absence, then, of spontaneous- tellect never can attain rest until it reaches ness from Nature is simply an indication of the forces by which the observed succession its existence out of Nature. And here rev- is produced. ~ We admit the interest of elation intervenes to show us where it may the question he proposes, and acknowledge be found; in the spontaneity of God, who that it intrudes itself with recistless giveth ~to all life, and breath, and all might; but we hesitate to grant that it things; a ad who bestowed on man that lies within the range of science to conduct secondary or derived spontaneity which we us to the final answer. A law of nature is call free-will, and which makes him at once but a formula for expressing the sequence a creature, yet a cause. The mind of which it has no power to originate. A man is not the highest term of the force of force of nature is itself but a medium and matter: rather it is the lowest term of the an instrument, and has no claim to be re- spontaneity of spirit; the nearest represen- garded as a cause. We can appreciate tative of that spiritual world in which the the great conceptions by which these ultimate cause of all phenomena must be forces have been elucidated, and can ad- sought. mire the beauty of the system which con- Professor Tyndall speaks (p. 646) as if nects the various chains of sequence under the preternatural, divided into miracles the uniformity of correlation and con- and special providences, exhausted the tinuity. But all these discoveries only whole field of unseen agency which we con- prepare~the way for a still more absorbing trast with the province of positive science. question,which intrudes itself with still But the preternatural, as thus limited, would more resistless might : What is the be only one phase of the supernatural, which First Cause which set all this array of force really covers the entire range of spiritual in motion, and which guides it throu~h the action so far as it rises above the sphere of complicated counterplay of nature? What man. The case on the side of miracles is ultimate Agent poised the stars, and fixed this, that they are only one mode of the no- the equilibrium of the universe, and adjust- tion of the supernatural, thou,,h the differ- ed and still controls the complexities of its ence of degree which distinguishes them interbalanced forces? To this far more from other modes is so great, that it almost engrcssing question science leads the way, amounts to a difference in kind. The term but can supply no answer. It must leave supernatural den6tes the presence of the the mystery unsdlved and insoluble, unless Divine agency, lying everywhere behind the it submits as,a learner to be taught of God. veil of sense. The modes in which it makes It leads the way, because it suggests the itself felt may be arranged under the three conviction that the myriad details of its great divisions of miracles, special provi- processes must have been designed by the deuce, and grace. The work of Gods spirit supreme intelligence of a Personal Being, on the soul of man has been well described of whose Mind the mind of man is only the by Dr. Pusey under the title The miracles image. But it can supply no answer. of prayer. But all repose alike on the Who and what that Being is, it is the spe- same foundation of Gods constant presence cial function of revelation to disclose. When though discriminated by the differences of form and circumstances under which that * Compare the Bishop of St. Davids, The Present State of Relations between Science and presence dis cioses itself to unman experi Literature, 257. ence. t Article on Miracles and Special Providences * Qnoted in the Duke of Argylls Reign of in Fortnigktly Renew, June~ 1867, P. 657. Law, p. 7. ATTITUDE OF THE CLERGY. 203 It is mere waste of time and trouble to What right have we to deny that matter fight points of detail which flow from was created, and may again be modified or irreconcilable ~,iffereices of principle. We partly swept away hereafter, merely be- ask, then, is there or is there not a super- cause we have had no experience, as in the natural world, governed solely by its own nature of things we could have none~ of laws, exercisin~, an all-pervading influence, either its creation or its destruction? ~ and claiming a far loftier sphere than be- Yet once again, what account must we give longs to what we call the natural? Till of revelation? Is it the Word of God ad- the disputants have defined their respec- dressed to man, or merely mans guess-work tive position towards this question, itis idle about God? So of the Resurrection, to argue over the special topics of miracles, which believers accept as the chief event in providential interferences, and acts of grace. history which is of paramount importance; Again, is the mind of man a unit of exist- the explanation of the darkest riddles ence, created to fulfil the solemn destiny of in the past and present, the assurance an eternal life, through which its individu- of the brightest hopes for the future. ality shall never perish; or is it a mere They cannot discuss it as though it were conceiitration of the highest grade of pow- some isolated marvel which rests on vague er within the noblest form of organism, a and questionable testimony, and could be natural force or energy manifested to us cut out of the Christian scheme without only through certain changes of matter, being missed. The truths of revelation and disappearing on the dissolution of the form one connected body of belief, based body into the reservoir of power from on the wide range of facts and experien- whence it came? This question also leads ces which bear their witness to the spiritual to positions so contradictory that reasoners world. The assault on them too often rests, who maintain the opposite alternatives are not on the assured facts of science, but on only wasting time on the discussion of the the groundless visions of speculation; not nature and effect of moral obligation, on the affirmative proof which is certified A~ain,is it legitimate for science, with the by observation, but on the negative suspi- old sophist, to make man the measure of cion that nothing can exist which the sense- all things ; or to insist, with the heathen philosophy refuses to recognise. world in general, that matter is eternal ; or, I will give only one instance of the con- in the teeth of even heathen philosophy at its fusion which arises from a neglect of those purest, to make our own aivum the standard fundamental questions. Scientific men have for eternity? Is it not more consistent been sometimes perplexed to find out on with the modesty of science to admit that their own principles a proper province for the world of mans experience is rounded prayer, the sentiment of which is too uni- off at each extreme by an eternal mystery, versal to be neglected, independently of as well as flanked throughout its course by direct revelation. They have generally the unfathomable depths of the unknown? * recommended us to confine ourselves to what is called its subjective value, its calming and purifying effects on our own desires and emotions. But others have felt that to suggest a limitation so inconsistent with the natural language of prayer is scarcely worthy of those who boast that they are above all things loyal to the real and true. It is, I suppose, from some such conscious- ness that a writer in the Pall Mall Gazette intimated that we might legitimately pray * Observe how this latter fact is everywhere rec- ognised by scientific writers. I take the following instances from the earlier pages of the Origin of Species: The laws governing inheritance are quite unknown. Variability is governed by many unknown laws. We know not exactly what the checks are in even one single instance. So profound is our ignorance, and so high is our presumption. Our ignorance on the mutual re- lations of all organic beings. Utterly ignorant though we be of the meaning of the law. -This (chance) of course is a wholly incorrect expression, but it serves to acknowledge plainly our ignorance of the cause of each particular variation. Why this or that part should vary more or less, we are profoundly ignorant; nevertheless, we can here and there dimly catch a faint ray of light, & c., & c. (pp. 13, 43, 67, 73, 78, 97, 131, 132, 5th ed. 1860). The same kind of remark is constantly sug- gested by the difficulties which arise in medical ex- perience. Compare now the language of professed theologians: The outburst of spring, in itself what is it? You give it a name: you call it vegeta- tion. And perhaps you are a botanist: you trace and you register the variety of its effects and the signs of its movement. But after all, you have only labelled it. Of attraction and gravitation, what do you really know about them? You name them; perhaps you can repeat a mathematical ex- pression which measures their action. But after all you have only named and described an effect; you have not accounted for, you have not penetrat- ed into, you have not unveiled its cause. Liddon University Sermons, pp. 172-4. t Our theorists, says Paley, having eternity to dispose of. are never sparing in time; and even Mr. Darwins enormous drafts will not break the bank of eternity. (Rorison, The Three Barriers, pp. 24, 36). But it is not so clear that time Sees the bank of eternity at its command. See Professor Sir XV. Thomsons note on KUhe Doctrine of Uniformity in Geology briefly refuted, Pro. ceedin~s of Edinburgh Royal Society, vol. v. p. 612; Mr. Pritchards Sermon at Nottingham, p.36; and Yes-tie British Review, No. xcii. p. 298. 204 MONO DY. that the efforts of science might succeed. But Professor Tyndall said some time ago, that if theolo,,ians think that scientific discovery may be the result of a prayer, the bearing of theology towards science at the present day is as unpardonable as it is unaccountable. * It seems to follow that it is right to pray for the success of science; but if that success takes the form of a dis- covery, it is as unpardonable as it is un- accountable to remember that the dis- covery was preceded by the prayer. Professor Tyndall closes his article on Miracles and Special Providences with the following words To the theologian, with his Wonderful theo- ries of the order of nature, I would in con- clusion says Keep to the region not, ho~v- ever, exclusively yours which is popularly known as the human heart: the region, I am willing to confess, of mans greatest nobleness and most sublime achievements. Cultivate this, if it be in you to so do; and it may be in you; for love and manhood are better than science, and they may render you three times less unworthy than many of those who possess ten times your natural knowledge. But, unless you come to her as a learner, keep away from physical nature. Here, in all frankness, I would declare that, at present~ von are ill- informed, self-deluded, and likely to delude others. Farewell ! (pp. 660.) Surely this. kind of language is a game that two can play at. I hope we have not the smallest objection to go as learners. Many of us would be only too happy if we could enjoy the opportunity of learning what Professor Tyndall can teach so clearly with the great advantage of his living voice. But in the matter of the present argument, we must take the liberty of retorting his advice on men of science. Let them keep to their rich fields of research and dis- covery, through the wide dominion of what they call physical nature; but until they are content to come as learners, in which character no men would be more welcome, they should resist the temptation which seems to beset them of dogmatising within the limits of an unfamiliar province. It can do no good to persist in testing the facts of the spiritual by the laws of the ma- terial; or to narrow our conceptions of the Divine Omnipotence by notions which are borrowed from the incapacities of man. J. HANNAH. * I take these two quotations from the Guardian, 1866, p. 988, and Dr. Puseys Miracles of Prayer, p. 21, Dote. [We can hardly judge these verses impar- tially. Not only from sympathy with the adopted father, but from grateful recojiections of Strays hospitable reception of ourself, his hearty, vo- ciferous welcome, and loving salutations.] MONODY. Multis lila tiebilis oceidit, nulli flebillor quam mihi. Bacxusu thou art a dog, they say I should not grieve for thee; But little do they know, 0 Stray, What thou hast been to me! Companion of my daily life Through six long years of care, Thou oft hast cheered me in the strife, And didst its burden share. Era yet within its wards a round The winding key had made, Thou caught, with ear attent, the sound, And the intruder bayed. I never raised the portals guard, But I received from thee, As thou within kept watch and ward, A greeting warm and free. But chief thy welebme was exprest In all its depth and height, When thou upon the traveller prest, Half frantic with delight Thy feats of necromancy, too, Thy sense beyond div kind Remembrance in her fond review Endearing themes will find. And thus thou art immortal grown; For lines on memory traced, More during than if graved on stone, Can never be effaced. Then shall I not in sorrow bend Above thy lowly bier, And pay unto so true a friend The tribute of a tear 1 Chilled were the heart by apathy, That would not heave a sigh To think such rare fidelity And so much love must die! Stray. Nat. 1860. Oh. 30 Aug., 1867. Ehen! OLD SIR DOUGLAS. CHAPTER LXXV. GERTRUDE IS CALLED TO A STRANGE SICK-BED. IT was some days after this strange scene that Gertrude was lying quietly on the sofa in Lady Charlottes drawing-room on a Sunday evening, reading extracts with Neil from an aihum lent to him by Mrs. Cregan. Mother, darling, the boy said with a smile, this is just the book for you. Heres a whole batch of things about the poor. Treatment of the Poor in Workhouses; Improvidence of the Poor; Texts recom- mending the Poor to our loving Care; Debts of the Poor, and Payment by Instal- ments; Amusements of the Poor. Oh! I say, I like that, amusements of the poor! Do they go to plays and pantomimes, I won- der? Oh, no ! here it is, its all about walks and fresh air, and opening of gardens, and so forth. Here, heres rather an inter- esting hit: Ill read it to you, darling moth- er; you lie still. Is your shawl over your feet? Not too heavy? Good. Now, then, here goes. It is somebody writing about opening the Botanical Garden in Edin- burgh on Sundays, and he says, I think that when the educated under- take, even on principle, to curtail the in- nocent pleasures of the uneducated, they should consider whether the deprivation is the same to the two classes. I affirm that it is not the same. The educated man, the scholar, has perpetual gardens in his memo- ry, in his books, in association of cultivated ideas. The uneducated or half-educated man depends on the positive, on the visual, for enjoyment; and in a still more intense measure do the poor require the positive and visual. An educated scholar may pass a Sunday in his study easily, in meditation and prayer. A poor mechanic cannot. The other is richer tlmn he. Not only richer in the fact that he has a warmer house, more adorned apartments, the power of ordering some vehicle, if the weather be downpour- ing when he wishes to shift the scene, but richer in ideas. The educated man con- demns the uneducated man to a certain number of blank hours when he deprives him of outward associations. Set a child to meditate. A child cannot meditate, nor bear the oppression of unoccupied time be- yond a very brief period. Neither can the poor man. His holiday is as neccessary to his soul as a meal to his body. His hungry spirit lives on simple things. Your educated mind feeds on complex things, which he cannot obtain. Like the sick man, The common air, the earth, the skies, To him are opening Paradise. It may be a fit occupation for you to sit through the day without such refresh- ment. You see the wonders of God in thought. Let him see them where God set them for his simpler creatures. The flowers that bud and die, holding a sermon in their very hearts, the grass that withereth away like a mans life, is the contempla- tion of such things a sinful pleasure, because to him a more intense and rare enjoyment than to you? When he beholds with won- der the pitcher,-plant, emblem of the fountain in an arid desert, can you make him consider it a common thing, as it is to you who have seen it and read of it a hun- dred times? Or will seeing that wonder of God on his one leisure day make him less pious, less inclined to muse on the works of God, the Creator, in such spare moments as he has? I repeat it, the educated and unedu- cated do not meet on even terms in these denials of recreation. That which is pleasure to you, to them is nought, a strain of thought that only perplexes. You cannot fill the weak vessel with that spiritual wine; it would break and burst. God made religion simple; a thing for babes and suckliugs; to comfort the dying cottager; to be a hope to the ignorant beggar. Man makes religion com- plex; and spins cobwebs of his own thin laws round the broad and manifest law of God. Those who take Scripture texts for warrant against innocent Sabbath recrea- tion are like those who take Scripture texts to prove that they know the set term and duration of this mortal globe. As, in the very book from whence prophecies are cull- ed to prove at what date our world shall be destroyed, we are expressly told that God k~ps that secret even from the an,,els, so in the very book Sabbatarians quote, they are expressly told that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. For those who would argue on the wretched narrow ground of mere task-work; who say, Oh! we cant have gardens opened where watchers and gatekeepers must be employed, there is an answer so easy, that it is a wonder so much dispute can be maintained on such a sandy foun- dation. Parks, gardens, lodges, houses with 205 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. gatekeepers, gardeners, porters, and serv- ants, are in constant occupation all over Great Britain on the Sabbath day. If the poor man may not have his walk in the Bo- tanical Garden because a gatekeeper must let him in, why should a fine ladys coach- man drive her to chni~ch, or for an air- ing? Why shonld any servant in any house be troubled with any common duty? Why should not the whole machinery of life stand still till Monday morning? If the answer be, These other things are necessary, the poor man or mechanics walks in these gar- dens are not, I say, Neither are the things of which I made mention necetsary: they are harmless, they are habitual; hut they are not necessary. Some are positive luxuries: all bear an exact analogy to the recreation for which the occupying of a few gatekeepers is required. In the city of Edinburgh, where so fierce a denunciation against harmless Sab- bath recreation is forever going on; group after group of filthy drunken creatures tie lounging in the public way, to the scandal and dread of the passers-by, even on and about flights of steps leading to chapels where their most eloquent and earnest preachers rivet the attention of more decent hearers. Such groups are never seen on conti- nental Sabbaths, not even in Paris, that most dissolute of cities; and, in the country towns and villages of foreign lands, such scenes are positively unknown. These stricter Sabbath rules, and the vehement battle of sects as to how to keep Gods day holy, do not make Scotland a moral country. Drunken in a greater measure than other countries, fierce in crime, she can scarcely point to the evi- dence of her training, as proof of the suc- cess of her theories; and, peradventure, it would be a blessed change there, if, in lieu of Sabbatarian discussion there was such Sabbath recreation as might lead the mind of man neither to sensual pleasure nor to burning disputation, but to those scenes which lift him From Nature up to Natures God. Well, now, I think that is all very true, observed Neil, as he paused to take breath. Dont you think it is true darling mother? Yes, I do, Neil. I think it true and just; and I heartily wish it would become the universal opinion. Ah ! yes; but are there such pig-headed people in the world? people whose under- standings really seem to be turned upside down. Lady Clochnaben, mother, is an up- side down woman. She is always wrong, and always thinks she is right. It is a pity we cant pack a few moderate sensible thoughts on the top of her mind, and then ticket her this side uppermost. But she will never be converted. Neil paused a moment, and then added, with a slight degree of hesitation, I think a woman should be very kind and gentle. I dont know what would be- come of the poor at Clochnaben and Torrie- burn, if it were not for Eflie and Mrs. Ross Heaton. They cant give much money, you know; but Effie reads, and Mrs. Ross Hea- ton makes capital broth fbr them; and alto- gether they are very good to them. And, mother, do you know I overheard Mrs. Cre- gan speaking of you yesterday to Lorimer Boyd, when he called after arriving in Lon- don from Vienna. She said shed thought you looked ill; but you were still busy, and she believed a special blessing from God would rest on your head, because of your unwearied goodness to the poor.~~ A slight flush tinged Gertrudes cheek and brow. My boy, Mrs. Cregan is a very gener- ous, warm-hearted woman; and she says many kind things of me and others. But dont you believe it, mother? dont you believe in the special blessing? I do. They thought I was not attending; but I heard her. Those were her very words. I do think, when your dear name is mention- ed, I sprout a couple of extra ears; I seem to have four instead of two. I can hear all down a long dinner-table if they speak of you. And I feel so proud of you, mother! I know you are so good, so far beyond all other women. I feel I could thank God every day for making me your son and my fath- ers. A moan escaped the pale lips he bent to kiss; and that wild appeal 0 my Neil 1 which Lady Charlotte had complain- ed was spoken in a tone that made ones heart ache, and was so unreasonable, and so unlike dear Gertie once more puzzled and pained the sensitive lad by her side. He was silent for a minute or two. He asked for no explanation, but bent anew over his book. A smile played presently round his full young mouth. 0 mother! here is such a quaint little bit ! I must read it to you. Listen now. I dont know what it is about, except that it is still some- thing respecting the poor. It is quoted from some very old pamphlet called the Petition of the Poor Starving Debtor, printed in 1691, and advising that we should 206 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. subscribe t& pay the debts of the poor. And it says, Such charity is an act of great piety towards Almighty God; who requireth it of us. For He hath left the poor as His pupils, or wards, and the rich as His stew- ards, or guardians, to provide for them. It is one of those great tributes that He justly requires from the rest of mankind, which, because they cannot pay to hIM, He bath scattered the poor amongst them to be His substitutes and receivers. And heres a little bit against pride; a curious little hit, saying, That, in Charles the Firsts time, noblemen and gentlemen thought it a very good provision for their youn,,er sons, to hind them apprentice to rich merchants. Well, I cant say I should like to be taking an inventory of bales of silk and sacks of coffee, instead of shooting and fish- ing at Glenrossie. I think, if I had lived in that mercantile day, I should have taken my cat, like Whittington, and gone to seek my fortune. It was the cat that went; Whittington stayed in London, said Gertrude, smiling; so you would have had to he patient and industrious before you even came to be Lord Mayor; which seems to have been then considered what the present population of Paris deem it now, the greatest dignity in the world.. Well, I trust I should have attained it; and Efile and I would have come to visit you in long crimson and blue robes as rep- resented in the story-hooks. Poor Effle! I hope a letter will come to-morrow. Cousin Kenneth was scarcely so well when she last wrote. Gertrude sighed, and leaned back on her pillow. Thought, which is lightning quick, once more took her throuoh those (lays in the Villa Mand6rlo and the more fatal scenes at Glenrossie, and so floated her soul away to her lost Douglas, and his health, and the singing of that unknown, whose vowe was one of the sweetest he had ever heard. Neil, too, sat musing. His ho~ish spirit was out far away over the hills, in the moonlight, bidding weary little Cousin Efile a sorrowful good-bye. So there was deep silence in that luxurious room, where the (lear boyish voice with its earnest intonation had been lately reading those extracts respecting the poor. silence deep and unbroken. All of a sudden, the door was hurriedly opened; and Lady Charlotte, with an open note in her hand, and an expression of anxiety and perplexity on her weak little face, came in exclaiming, Now I do hope and insist, Gertie, that you spare yourself, and dont go! Dont go where, little mother? It is a letter from that widow, the mother of Jamie Carmichael, who used to be at Torrieburn, you know, that poor Mr. Heaton was so good to Yes, dear mother. She has had to strug- gle for a livelihood lately. I have seen a good deal of her. She is doin~ better. Jamies apprenticed; and she takes in lodgers in an humble way. Thats just it, Gertie; thats just whats so ungrateful. I mean, after you have helped her, and put her in a way of having lodgers, to send for you in this sort of way to see one of them! Why should you see a lodger? I want you to rest, and take care of yourself; and she sends urgently requesting you to see lodgers. Pray dont see a lodger. Let her send for the doctor. Thats much better. Let me see her note, dear mother, said Gertrude, with a smile, half weary and half compassionate. If any one is ill, I ought to go it is in my district. District! Now, my own darling Gertie, are you a clergyman? Besides, a lod~er does not belong to any district; and you see she says he is strangely ill; well, is not that more the doctors business than yours? If hes strangely ill, you may not know what to do, or what is the matter with him, a bit better than she does; and it may he something catchin~. And its a man. I wouldnt mind so much if it were a woman; but really, after the Isle of Wight to be sure there are not so many smugglers in London, only I think oh, Gertie, dont go! exclaimed Lady Charlotte, getting quite entangled in the network of her own rapid sentences, and suddenly breaking off, Dont, pray dont! But Gertrude had risen from her sofa, and stood folding the note in her finders, and looking very grave and resolute. She stooped, and kissed her mothers cheek tenderly, and said, Do not be over- anxious for me, my mother. If it were Gods will that I should suffer for doing His work, I should not escape by neglect- ing it. I solemnly promised (and I am only one of many who visit in the same way) that I would come, when called, to the sick or dying. The person lodging with Betty Carmichael appears to be dying, and dying very miserably and uncomforta- bly~ he has told her he has not a friend in 207 OLD SIR DOUGLAS. the world. I must go to hi