The Living age ... / Volume 95, Issue 1220
LITTELLS LiVING AGE.
No. 1220. October 19, 1867.
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
Dub. University Magazine,
POETRY: The Answer. By J. G. Whittier, 130. A Fashionable Reform, 130. Light and
Shadow, 191. The Bird and the Baby, 192.
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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.
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!
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
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
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.
________ 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
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
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
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-
B. Animal Soul.
Has an immatarial part, with con-
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-
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
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
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.
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
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-
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
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
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
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-
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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-
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
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
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
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
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-
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
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
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
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-
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
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
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
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.
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.
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-
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
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.
Teach me, ye groves, some art to ease my
Some soft resentments that may leave no
On her loved name, and then I will coin-
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
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-
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
He wished she was not so pretty so
beaut!ful in fact. It pained him, and
somehow he had grown strange with
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Tom was going to say he cant, but
checked himself. however, I think he was
not sorry to have an opportunity of testify-
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
He found himself making excuse to the
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
Well, Agnes, I see the sun and the
flowers prevailed~ though we couldnt; and
Im glad, at all events, that you have had a
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
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 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
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
I dont understand you Im certain
I dont. I cant conceive what you mean,
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
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.
THE TENANTS OF MALORY.
They were all holding hands in a ring by
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
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
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
In a few minutes, they heard Vane Ether-
ages voice raised to a pitch of testy bluster,
and then Miss Charitys rejoinder with a
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
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-
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
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
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
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
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
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.
ARCADIAN LILAC AND LABURNUM AND
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-
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
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-
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
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
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~
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
Oh, yes Ill get it in a moment, said
active Anne Sheckleton.
Its too bad disturbing you ! said
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
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
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
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-
Now, wheres the good of saying that,
my little woman? Im or~ly talking of my
uncles teazing me, and wishing hed let us
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,
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
Does the House sit to-night, Cleve dar-
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
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
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
No, theres no dust here; it is the
quietest, most sylvan, little lane in the
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-
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
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
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-
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
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
As Cleve went into the House, he met
old Colonel Thongs, sometime whip of the
Youve heard about old Snowdon ?
In the Cabinet, by Jove.
Fact. Ask your uncle.
By Jove, it is very unlooked for: no
one thought of him; but I dare say hell do
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
Cleve sneered; but he felt very uneasy.
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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-
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
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,
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
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-
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
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
Mr. Larkin glanced toward the door, and
then toward the window.
We are quite alone ? said he mild
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.
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
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-
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
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
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
No, not to-day, murmured Mr. Gold-
shed, with a wink. And Mr. Tomlinsons
timid knock and feeble ring at the door
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-
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-
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
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.
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
Pray, sir, not so loud. Do do com-
mand yourselg remonstrated Larkin al-
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-
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
IN VERNEY HOUSE.
Mn. LARKIN got into his cab, and ordered
the cabman, in a loud voice, to drive to
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
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
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
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-
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
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
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-
ed your thanks, said Mr. Larkin mod-
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
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
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
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
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
A few minutes later in came our old friend,
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
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-
You mean the Llandrwyd Company?
Yes; so I do.
But thats quite ruined, von know, sit
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
They wont lend, I say, while this liti-
gation is pending.
Depend upon it they wont acquiesced
And in the mean time, you know, Mr.
Etherage would be ruined.
Well, I see; but, I say again, What can
I want you to try if anything can be
done with Lord Verney, said Tom beseech-
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,
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-
But I say its quite impossible an old
family, and liked in the county, it would
be a scandal for ever! pleaded Tom Sed-
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
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
So Tom drove away to his club, to write
his daily love-letter to Agnes Etherage,in
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.
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
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
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-
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
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
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
And so I do, Mr. Dingwell, and so I
should. Which I think all other sinners
should dread it also.
And take warning of the wrath to
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-
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-
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
I wouldnt wonder no more I would
if that flash was the death o im!
THE PALE HORSE.
SALtY RUMBLE knocked at the usual
hour at the old mans door next morn-
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,
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
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
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,
What, sir, please?
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
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-
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
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
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 ?
So he drank a very little, and lay down
Miss Sarah Rumble stayed in the room,
and nearly ten minutes passed without a
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
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
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
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
THE TENANTS OF MALORY.
done what in me lies; and that is all my
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.
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
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
Hes in the hands of God, sir, said
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.
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
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-
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
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,
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-
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
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
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-
Well, that being so, be,~an Mr. Larkin,
but stopped short as Mr. Dingweli took up
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-
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,
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
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
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,
Under his bolster, please, sir under
his head, answered Sarah Rumble.
Take it out, please, said Mr. Gold-
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
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
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
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
~ 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-
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
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
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-
llesh perfectly confident, repeated
Mr. Levi in his guvnors ear, from over his
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-
Shertainly, said Mr. Goldshed, begin-
ning to descend the stairs.
Shertainly, repeated Mr. Levi, follow-
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
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
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.~~
THE TENANTS OF MALORY.
You have changed your view of your
duty somewhat; havent you, Mr. Lar-
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
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-
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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;
A LITTLE TALK WITH MINORS AND THEIR
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-
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
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;
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-
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
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
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-
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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!
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.
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,
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.