The Living age ... / Volume 107, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0107 /moa/livn/livn0107/

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The Living age ... / Volume 107, Note on Digital Production 0107 000
The Living age ... / Volume 107, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1374 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0107 /moa/livn/livn0107/

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The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1374 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 1, 1870 0107 1374
The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1374, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. E PLURIBUS UNuM. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Of Various, that the mind decultory man, studions of change And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. FOURTH SERIES, VOLUME XIX. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CVII. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER. 1870. BOSTON: LIT TELL AND GAY. L L7H-~ 0 TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME OVIJ. THE NINETEENTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE FOURTH SERIES. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, 1870. EDINBURGH REVIEW. The Baltic Provinces of Russia, Germany, France and England, Baron Hdbners Sixtus V., QUARTERLY REVIEW. Lord Palmerston LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW. Albert Diirer, CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. Past Sieges of Paris, I Thoughts on Quarrelling, 8 Some Recollections of a Reader, 515 MACMILLANs MAGAZINE. 643 771 259 707 Ba~cHwOODs MAGAZINE. Earls Dene 77, 385, 664 About how the Old Egyptians Lived and Died 97 Newmans Poems 131 Millys First Love 25 On Fiction as an Educator, . . . 307 Strangers in the House, . . . . 408 The Poetry and Humour of the Scottish Language, . . . . 612 Professor Huxleys Lay Sermo~is, . . 634 FRASERS MAGAZINE. The Planet Saturn, . . 112 The Dominics Sons 159 Fashions in Hair and Head-Dresses, 282 The Internal Relations of Europe, . 323 The Battle of Clontarf; or the Kings Sacrifice 488 GENTLEMANS MAGAZINE. The Edinburgh Reviewers. Lord Macaulay, 872 354 789, 807 Portraits and Memoirs, English Revolution of the Century, Ruskins Lectures on Art, Unconscious Cerebration, FORTNJGHTLY REVIEW. Political Reputations 155 TEMPLE BAR. 80 Nineteenth 67, 887 451 598 The Widow M6rand 41 Behind the Scenes 218 The Battle of Legnauo 472 The Prussian Victory at Leuthen, & .D., 1757, 685 SAINT PAULS. The Good La Fontaine 419 The Dowager Countess, . 429, 478 Wilfrid Cumbermede 724 SAINT JAMES MAGAZINE. The Abb6 Edgworth, . . . . 547 TINsLEYs MAGAZINE. The Later Labors of Mr. Morris, EXAMINER. Russias Opportunity, SPECTATOR. The Malmesbury Correspondence, The Revolution The ex-Emperor of the French, GOOD WORDS. Political Corruption and National Disaster, Dorothy Fox,. . . 145, 273, 562, 794 Flint Chips Fernyhurst Court, 207, 289, 362, 397, 461, The Riderless War-Horses, . 537, 588 The Conscience of Louis Napoleon Bona- parte Barbarians and Brutes 15 Science in its Condescending MoO(l, 300 The Princess Louise IlL CORNHILL MAGAZINE. Against Time,. The Suns Corona, 748 512 50 119 121 125 171 183 183 247 315 490 Iv Prussian Chaplains in War Time, American Travel The Decadence of France, The Hohenzollerns and the Revolution, Latent Thought The Philosophy of Profane Swearing, Count Von Moltke The Emperors Confession, Leon Gambetta Military Genius German Constancy, EcoNoMIsT. The Losses of Germany, Australian Federation, Stable Government in France,. The Danger in China, Our Position in China, The Russian Note The Culmination of Prussia, SATURDAY REVIEW. CONTENTS. 491 493 501 573 609 628 701~ 762 765 815 818 127 188 189 320 576 820 822 Shakspeare on Beauty 54 Russia and the War 62 Short-Sight 249 Italy and Rome 317 Village Politics in France, . . 382 Popping the Question on the Stage,. 440 Russell and Bismarck, . . . 443 German View of Alsace and Lorraine, 445 What Our Own Correspondent does not tell us 497 Terms of Peace 505 Robinsons Wild Garden, 631 Cowper 680 The Proposal from the Ladys Point of View 698 Popping the Question in Novels, 754 Epitaphs collected in Spare Moments, 759 What is France? 760 ATHEN2EUM. The Origin of Life Paris and the War Life in Paris PALL MALL GAZETTE. Passages from Hawthornes Note-Book, Some Political Aspects of the War, Military Lessons of the War, England and Prussia, . English Impatience, . The Story of a CLpitulation, How to fight the Prussians, Rome and Alsace, . Papal Rome The Guerrilla Warfare of the Future, Algeria and the French, . Officious People Gun-cotton for War Purposes, Russia, Prussia, and the Poles, In a Cellar at Strasburg, German Military Puritanism, CnAasnEas JOUaNAL. Anachronisms of Artists, ACADEMY. Christopher Marlowe, The Louvre Collection of Gems, 195 505 697 52 57 58 60 123 174 252 253 379 499 503 572 639 708 764 817 179 177 178 INDEX TO VOLUME CVII. AGAINST TIME Andes, Railroad across the, Anachronisms of Artists Australian Federation Alsace and Rome Adaptation in Marine Animals, Alsace and Lorraine, German View of, Art, Ruskins Lectures on, American Travel Algeria and the French BALTIC PROVINCES OF RussIA, Barbarians and Brutes, Birds, Swiftness of,. CORRUPTION, POLITICAL, AND NATIONAL DISASTER Capitulation, The Story of a, China, The Danger in Chagrin, Clontarf, The Battle of, . Correspondent, Our Own. What he does not tell us, Chaucer, by James Russell Lowell, Cenis Mont, The Passage of Commensalism in the Animal Kingdom, China, The Position in, Cerebration, Unconscious, Cowper Constancy, German, Culmination of Prussia, The, DOROTHY Fox, Dominies Sons, The, Diirer, Albert, Dowager Countess, The, 15~ 170 179 188 253 335 445 451 493 503 3 247 561 125 176 320 460 488 497 536 553 571 575 598 680 818 322 145, 273, 562, 794 159 259 429, 478 ENGLAND AND PRUSSIA, . . 60 English Revolution in the Nineteenth C~ntury 67, 387 Earls Dene 77, 335,664 Egyotians, Old, How they Lived and Died, 97 English Impatience 3 Europe, Internal Relations of, . . . 323 Edinburgh Reviewers, The, Lord Macau- lay 372 England, Germany and France, ~ 515 Edgworth, The Abbd 517 Epitaphs collected in Spare Moments, . 757 Emperors Confession, The, . . . 762 FLINT CHIPS 171 France, Stable Government in, . . 189 Fernyhurst Court, 207, 289, 362, 397, 461, 537, 588 307 382 501 515 760 768 Fiction as an Educator, France, Village Politics in, Decadence of, Germany and England, What is it? Fluid Lenses 127, 255 178 499 515 561 579 630 765 815 818 857 HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL, PASSAGES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF, . 52 Huxley on the Origin of Life, . 195 Hair and Head-Dresses, Fashions in, . 282 Hohenzollerns and the Revolution, . . 573 Huxleys Lay Sermons 634 Hiibners Sixtus V 643 Hemp, Effects of the Poison of, 704 178 195 4i9 472 490 570 609 685 768 771 50 76 177 225 372 701 748 V GERMAN LossEs, Gems, The Louvre Collection of. Guerrilla Warfare of the Future, Gernany, England and France, Grammonts Escape, Gersau, The Republic of, Gun-Cotton for War Purposes, Gambetta, Leon, Genius, Military, German Constancy, German Puritanism, LOUVRE COLLECTION OF GEMS,. Life, Origin of La Fontaine, The Good Legnano, The Battleof Louise, The Princess Liliputian Republic, A Latent Thought Leuthen, Prussian Victory at, A.D., 1707, Lenses, Fluid, . Lord Palmerston MALMESBURY CORRESPONDENCE, THE, Muller, Max, in Defence of Bismarek, Marlowe, Christopher, . Millys First Love, . Macaulay, Lord, . Moltke Morris, Win., Later Labors of, VI INDEX. Military Genius 815 Riderless War-Horses, The, 183 Puritanism, German,. . . 817 I Rome and Alsace 253 I Rome and Italy 317 Rome, Papal 379 Russell and Bismarck 443 Ruskins Lectures on Art, 451 Republics and Monarchies, 471 Prussias Opportunity 512 Revolution, The, and the Hohenzollerns, . 573 Robinsons Wild Garden, 631 Reuter, Fritz 679 Russia, Prussia, and the Poles, . 704 Recollections of a Reader, 739, 807 Russian Note, The 0 SHARSPEARE ON BEAUTY . 54 Seeley, Prof., on the English Revolution of the Nineteenth Century, 67, 387 Saturn, The Planet 112 Short-Sight 249 Suns Corona, The 300 Science in its Condescending Mood, 315 Strangers in the House 408 Scottish Language, Poetry of, 612 Sixtus V., Hflbners 643 698 Strasburg, In a Cellar at, 768 704 707 TALKING MACHINE 76 754 Thought, Latent 609 771 822 ULTRAMARINE, ARTIFICIAL, 460 Unconscious Cerebration, 598 355 Uncongeniality 7 3 W~~ow MERAND 41 62 War, The, Some Political Aspects of, 57 119 War, The, Military Lessons of, 58 155 Wilfrid Cumbermede 724 NAPOLEON Ill. 121 Napoleon III, Conscience of, 184 Newmans Poems 131 Newman on the Internal Relations of Eu rope 323 OFFICIOUS PEOPLE,. . . 572 PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS, 80 Prussia and England 60 Political Reputations 155 Pepys Diary 218 Prussians, How to Fight the, . 252 Popping the Question on the Stage, 440 Prussian Chaplains in War Time, 491 Paris and the War 505 Peace, Terms of 508 Poetry of the Scottish Language, . 612 Profane Swearing, The Philosophy of, 628 Prussian Victory at Leuthen, A.D., 1757, 685 Paris, Life in, 696 Proposal, The, from the Ladys Point of View, Poles, Prussia, Russia and the, Paris, Past Sieges of, Popping the Question in Novels, Palmerston, Lord, Prussia, The Culmination ~f, QUARRELLING, THOUGHTS ON, RussIA, THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF, Russia and the War, Revolution, The Reputations, Political, AUGUST TWILIGHT Autumn Song Autumn Woods Autumn Time, . Autumn Morning Bubbles, Binding Sheaves, Christmas in Au~tralia, Clontarf, The Battle of, Churning Song, . Elves and the Children, Een brings a Hame, Epitaph upon Mr. Ashton, Faded Flowers Fall of the Year Falling Leaves, . Falling Leaf, The Frost Isabel POETRY. 66 I Isle of Purbeck 322f 514 June Memories 578 Jacobite Song, . 642 Lay of the German Lint-Makers, 130 Lyme-Regis 258 Long White Seam, The, Life 66 Lifes Philosophy 488 Longer Life 642 Musician, The, . 49 My Love 450 Moors, On the, . 514 My Love Might and Right: A Dialogue, 194 386 OnlyaWord 396 450 514 64! Paris Prayer-Book Red Leaves and Dead Leaves, 578 192 450 2 191 258 642 706 706 66 145 386 386 770 64 194 322 386 INDEX VII Snowdrop Monument, The . . . 180 1 Tree, The 770 Sonnets . 268, 1 The Loner Sendeth Sighes to Mone his 822 I Sute 770 Summer Time, . Skylark, The,~....322 Singers, The 2 Voice of Nemesis 194 Stages of Life, 706 Vacation, In 578 Sleeping Beauty, A, 770 Whither, 194 To Thee, 258 TALES. AGAINST TIME 15 I Fernyhurst Court, 207, 289, 863, 897, 461, 537, 588 Dorothy Fox, . 145, 273, 562, 794 Dominies Sons, The 159 Millys First Love 225 Dcwager Countess, The, . 429, 478 Widow M6rand 41 Earls Dene 77, 335, 664 Wilfrid Cumbermede 724

The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1374 1-64

LITTELLS LIVIN~G AGE. No. 1374. October 1, 1870. CONTENTS. 1. THE BALTIC PROVINCES or RusSIA, 2. AGAINST TIME. Concluded, 3. PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS, 4. TEE WIDOW MERAND 5. THE MALMESBURY CORRESPONDENCE, 6. PASSAGES FROM HAWTHgRNES NOTE-BOoK, 7. SHARSPEARE ON BEAUTY, 8. SOME POLITICAL ASsEcm OF THE WAR, 9. MILITARY LESSONS OF THE WAR, 10. ENGLAND AND PRUSSIA 11. RUSSIA AND THE WAR, . POETRY. THE LAY OF THE GERMAN LINT-MAKERS, . 21 ONLY A WoRD! THE ELVES AND THE CHILDREN, . . 49 ISABEL, .8 15 SO . 41 50 52 54 57 . 58 60 62 1~UEBEES OF THE LIVING AGE WANTED. The publishers are in want of Nos. 1179 and 1180 (dated respectively Jan. 5th and Jan. 12th, 1867) of THE LIVING AGE. To subscribers, or others, who will do us the favor to send US either or both of those numbers, we will return an equivalent, either in our publications or in cash, until our wants are supplied. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. Fou EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free ofpostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, In Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 80 The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS. For 5 new subscribers ($40.), a sixth copy; or a set of HORNES INTRODUCTION TO THE BIBLE, un- abridged, in 4 large volumes, cloth, price $10; or any 5 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in num- bers, price $10. Edinburgh Review,. Cornhill sVlagazine, Macmillans Magazine, Temple Bar, Spectator, Pall Mcli Gazette,. Saturday Review, Pall Mall Gazette,. Pall Mall Gazette,. Pall Mall Gazette,. Saturday Review, 64 64 2 THE LAY OF THE GERMAN LINT-MAKERS. THE LAY OF THE GERMAN LINT-MAKERS. T.~IL the smooth linen, pull out the pale threads That were woven so deftly, so firm, and fast, For an hour is coming, that each heart dreads, As we sit here lonely, bowing our heads Oer the thought of the sweet, calm Past The Past that, when present, we knew not other Than its earlier brethren, born of one mother, Children of Peace, that each lived his day And in mild monotony passed away We knew not their beauty, but now we know, As the last has fled at the blast of the foe, And a stern dark Present over us broods, Just dropping a word in her churlish moods Ye call me harsh, but a harsher than I Stands under that cloud-built canopy A Future drawing terribly nigh, Whpm many must greet with a bitter cry! So work, aye work ere worse may hap . And the lint-heap rises up in the lap. The lint-heap rises like a white foam On the crest of the deep dark billow, That zione dare track down its awful gloom, But we know that it sunders the youth from his home, The husbands head from the pillow. Ah, fair white napery, soft bed-drapery, Given by our mothers when each was bride, The young girls vision, the matrons pride! Your slender threads, as we rend them apart, Seem like a tearing of heart from heart They were woven together in the web of our life, For life to endure, but the mighty strife Hath smitten us, as with a thunder-clap And the lint-heap rises up in the lap. The lint-heap rises is it this, is it this, The best we can do for our men, our own (Save the prayer..flung up from the hearts abyss), For those who left us with quick warm kiss, Our young men strong fr~ brain and in bone, Whom the handwork craft, or the desk, or the spade Awaits, to take up the task down-laid Is it this we store up for their coming again? Their coming? Oh how? ask the men who re- main Why they bind the white badge with the red cross wrought IRound each stout arm, when sounds the alarm To go meet their fellows, the men who have fought, Helpless now, all wearily brought ~ The marriage-stock of linen in Germany is sup- posed, in ordinary cases, to require no replenishing during the lifetime of the couple. One by one like these pale, pale threads To rest the torn limbs and the fevered heads In a refuge of hard-won ealm. Ah! how endure when that worse shall hap? Work on: let the lint-heap rise in the lap. For what is War, but a rending asunder All the fair gifts of the years gone by? The looms that wrought comfort, and pleasure, and wonder Lie shattered beneath the shock of its thunder, The blooming plantations languish and die. Pestilent wind, smiting nation from nation, Uptearing the highways of civilization, And plunging us back in the rude long- ago, Each time thy harsh cry bids gentle arts fly, The savage triumphs, with scorn in his eye For the race who know all secrets below Of world-wide mastery, yet can show For a moral wrong no fitter reply Than blindfold mutual butchery! Yet while kingly strife must be quenched with life, Honoured be they who fight bravely and long, Maintaining ~he glory of Fatherlands story Thro the steadfast will and the sinew itrong. Honoured the friend, ay and honoured the foe, Whom Duty in terrible garb lays low Where he came to scatter death, but finds Perchance, in a sympathy born of pain, A deeper chord in the worlds wide strain Than the passion of patriot minds. Tear the smooth linen, pull out the pale threads, Mete out the bandage, make ready the beds; It is come, the hour we dreaded is come, And the call to act strikes our terrors dumb. No time for doubting, no leisurefor sorrow, To God we must leave the care of to-morrow; For the men who have lost, the men who have won, Are brought on their litters one by one. Tis the awful Future we knew was near Now turned to a Present! yet stay that tear; For the hand may bind and the voice ring kind Oer the shattered forms as they slowly wind Along, on their living bier. Well wres~tle and strive to save them alive, The men who for us would die; So work, work on, lest the life-thread snap Snap, as the fateful moments fly. We know not to-day what to-morrow shall hap, And still must the lint-heap rise in the lap. Macmillans Magazine. THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. From The Edinburgh Review. THE BALTIC PIIOVIYCES OF RUSSIA.* UNTIL recently the Russian Baltic Prov- inces have been chiefly known to the British public as a vast granary of corn, and a storehouse of flax, hemp, linseed, and tab low. Latterly, however, news has reached us from that quarter of a fierce struggle, carried on by the German inhabitants against their Russian masters, who are try- ing to suppress the Protestant faith, the German language, customs, and laws of these provinces, and to supplant them by the faith of the Orthodox Church, the Rus- sian language, and more especially by the peculiar village-tcnure of land which pre- vails in Russia. This struggle represents a phase of the larger conflict now going on in that comparatively narrow tract of land, which separates the Germanic and the Rus- sian world, and stretches under the same longitude from the White Sea to the Transyl- vanian Alps. This battle-field of hostile races consists of three distinct territories: one Swedish in Finland; another German in Curland, Livland, Esthiand; and a third Polish in Lithuania. The three together forming the western boundary of the Rus- sian Empire, but being severally as strange to each other as they are to the race which has incorporated them in its dominion. Each of these territories has a mother-coun- try at its back, on which it leans for sup- port, but the relations between the outposts and the main army are not alike in the three. While the intercourse between Fin- land and Scandinavia is carried on with energy, and Sweden still cherishes the hope of regaining her former province; while Poles and Lithuanians wrestle united against the common foe; the Baltic Provinces stand nearly isolated in this strife, defending the bulwark of their ancient civilization against the ever-rising tide of Panslavism. Ger * 1. Die baltiscken Provinzen Russlands von Dr. J. EcKARDT. 2te AuIl. Leipzig: 1869. 2 Geschichtsbilder aus der lutherisciten Kirche Liviands von V. H AxLES5. Leipzig: 1869. 3. Der deutscli-russische (Jonfiuict an der Ostsee von W. v. Bocx. 1869. 4. Der russisch-battische Kustenstrich in der Gegenwart von Jon: SAMARIu. Prag: 1868. 6. Livlandische Autwort an Herrn Jun Samarin von Prof. Scsnuuzu. 3te Aufl Leipzig: 1869. 6. Modern Russia. By Dr. JuLIus EOKARDT. London: 1870. a many until lately cared little for the fate of this forlorn and distant colony, and it is only the hardships of the last few years which have re-awakened the sympathies of the mother-country. Considering the Ger- man enthusiasm which manifested itself in the Schleswig Holstein quarrel, it is remark- able how slow the Germans have been to show their sympathy with their kinsmen liv- ing under the dominion of Russia, and ex- posed to pressure infinitely more severe than any the Danes could inflict. The works placed at the head of this article show, however, that the question has now been taken up with some vigour, and Dr. Eckardts excellent volume in English con- tains an able summary of it. The Baltic provinces of the Russian Em- pire, Curland, Livland, and Esthiand (more commonly called by us Livonia and Esth- onia), were colonized in the twelfth and thirteenth century by German merchants, knights, and priests, whose number in- creased so rapidly that the original inhabit- ants of the country were compelled to ac- knowledge these Saxons * as lords of the country, and to accept from them the Chris- tian religion. Gradually there arose a fed- erative State, designated by the collective name of Livland (Livonia), which owed allegiance to the Emperor as its liege lord, and to the Pope as its spiritual head. Five bishoprics, Riga, Dorpat, Gesel, Curland, and Lemgallen, shared the dominion of the land with the knightly Order of the Sword and the Teutonic Order, whilst the cities, especially Riga, Reval, and Dorpat, main- tained an independent position as members of the Hanseatic League. Between these members of the confederation continual cohtests went on, in which they expended their best strength. The Bishops waged war with the Orders; the cities with knights and bishops~ and even while Russians, Swedes, and Poles threatened to invade the land, th~ rival powers of the country could not heal their differences or cease their quarrels. In the sixteenth century two events happened which caused the inevit- able overthrow of this complicated structure the Reformation and the Russian inva- sion. When the Lutheran doctrine rapidly * The Esthnio language designates by the same word, Sara, master and Germeji. 4 THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. spread from Germany over the Baltic prov- inces, the continuance of this feudal eccle- siastic form of government became impossi- ble. At the same time an invasion of the country by Ivan the Terrible gave an out- ward shock of equal force to the old order of things. The devastation which the un- fortunate provinces suffered by the inroad of those Tartar hordes surpassed the mis- eries which the Thirty Years War brought on Germany; it could only be compared to those Mongol inundations which, under Zengis Khan, changed the flourishing lands of Central Asia into a desert, and scattered the ruins of once prosperous cities over a wilderness. Down to this present day the numbers of the population of Livland have not again reached the height at which they stood previous to Ivans invasion, and at the close of the sixteenth century not a fourth part of the cities which once enriched and adorned the provinces were left in ex- istence. At the same time, the forces of Sweden and Poland threatened to take ad- vantage of the Russian invasion; and as no help could be obtained from the Emperor and Diet of Germany, the only question for the different parts of the confederation was, to which of the aggressors they should sub- mit. Esthland, the most northern territory, surrendered to the King of Sweden; Cur- land, the most southern part, became a Po- lish vassal-dukedom, whose wise Prince, Gottbard Kettler, formerly Grand Master of the Teutonic Order, was able to protect his subjects from Polish encroachments, and to maintain with rare skill a comparative independence; the country remained in this condition more than two hundred years, and enjoyed during thi~ time, at least, a much happier lot than its sister provinces. Livland, by a solemn treaty the famous Privilegium Sigismundi, which was to guar- antee for all time her Lutheran faith, the German language, and internal self-govern- ment acknowledged the King of Poland as her master. But if the unfortunate prov- ince had hoped to buy a happier fate at the price of its independence that hope was craeily disappointed; no sooner was the treaty of 1561 signed than it was violated in nearly every particular. The Jesuits, who were then all-powerful at the Court of Poland, introdtu~ed the Catholic religion, established Catholic bishoprics, and degrad- ed the privileged Protestant faith into a tolerated sect; rights and customs were trampled to the earth by hostile generals and Polish officials. For thirty years Liv- land had to endure the lawless and unjust rule of Poland; and that period was marked by universal ruin and decay; trade and in- dustry were nearly destroyed; the high- ways which had formerly distinguished the country were broken up and infested by robbers; the peasants were reduced to the utmost degradation of serfdom; the nobility impoverished and decimated by the endless wars; the churches and schools were dilapi- dated. At length the Swedo-Polish war of succession brought about a more endurable state of things by uniting Livland to the Swedish crown, whose supremacy Esthland had already acknowledged thirty years before. Under the humane sceptre of these Protestant Kings, who carefully re- spected the rights and privileges of their new subjects, Livland was restored to the influence of order and civillzation. Gusta- vus Adolphus re-established the Protestant churches and schools, inaugurated a uni- versity at Dorpat, remodelled the adminis- tration of justice, and took effective measures for limiting the serfdom of the peasants, and settling the amount of their forced labour at a fixed proportion to the land they occupied. Unfortunately the reign of that great and good Prince scarcely lasted long enough to allow the country to recover from the state of utter misery to which the Polish rule had reduced it. Charles XI., in his financial straits, ventured upon a meas- ure which, under the pretext of overhauling the defective titles of the nobles, con- fiscated nearly five-sixths of all the Livo- nian estates to the Swedish exchequer. The resistance of the Livonian nobility against this arbitrary proceeding was des- perate, and when oppressed beyond endur- ance, its chief, Reinhold Patkul, fled to Peter the Great, and directed the Czars attention to the importance which an exten- sion of his boundaries to the Baltic would have for his new empire. Again Livland became the battle-field of two hostile na- tions in the great Northern war, until at last, by the Peace of Nystadt (1710), THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. 5 Sweden yielded this provin~e and Esthiand to its more powerful neighbour; but by that same treaty Peter renewed for himself and his successors the engagement which he had taken some years before by a for- mal capitulation with the Baltic Estates, to acknowledge and respect in these provinces the ascendency of the Lutheran Church, of German law and language, and of the he- reditary institutions of the land. In spite of the goodwill which the Czar manifested towards his new German sub- jects, mistakes and misunderstandings oc- curred from ignorance of the customs and institutions, ~vhich the provinces prized as the dearly-bought result of their long his- tory and of their ancient civilisation; and more than one generation passed away be- fore the Russian Government had learnt to understand the claims and wishes of its Baltic coast lands. The Swedish interfer- ence with the existing tenure of land was immediately cancelled by Peter, and the nobility were again acknowledged as pro- prietors; but the war had reduced the country 5 utter destitution, from which it slowly emerged in the second half of the eighteenth century. Catherine II. endeav- oured to evade the engagements which her ancestors had taken by the Peace of Ny- stadt, and to supplant the old constitution by an autocratic bureaucracy; but her son Paul restored the rights of the provinces under that treaty. When, after the final division of Poland, the maintenance of the quasi-independent position of Curland had become impossible, this dukedom, after a separation of 231 years, was once more reunited to the other two provinces, and thus the old B-altic Confederation, inaugu- rated by the restoration of the University of Dorpat, was again re-established under the sceptre of Alexander I., with whose reign a new and hopeful epoch for the Baltic provinces began. Their history from 1~95 to 1845 is not marked by any striking event; but during that long epoch of peace the country rose gradually to a well-being unknown since the middle ages; serfdom was abolished; the cities flourished again with all the activity of commerce; the clergy, roused by the influence of evan- gelical enthusiasm and subsequently of rationalism, took up the cause of popular Qducation; the higher classes participated eagerly in the literary movement of Ger- many; the university rose to importance; a provincial press sprang up, and the lib- eral ideas of the age struck root abundantly in so favourable a soil. Yet nowhere in his vast dominions could the Czar boast of more faithful subjects, so long as the Rus- sian Government respected the acknowl- edged rights of the provinces. Their nobility furnished the Russian army and diplomacy with the ablest of their generals and ambassadors. The names of the Lievens, Rosens, Pahlens, Brunnows, Kriid- ners, Budbergs, Stackelbergs, are insepar- able from modern Russian history. These excellent relations between the Government and the people, this peaceful development of the resources of the country, have un- fortunately been deeply disturbed by the Panslavist propaganda, which towards the close of the Emperor Nicolass reign began to attack the peculiar institutions of the Baltic provinces of Finland and Poland. But before we enter upon the contest which the present generation has to sustain for their national civilisation, we must try to give a sketch of the country itself. Its external appearance has not much changed since the graphic description Lady Eastlake gave us of it in her charming Letters from the Baltic, we are afraid to say how many years ago. Curland, Livland, and Esthland form, with the islands belonging to them, a flat terri- tory of about 7,000 English square miles, broken up by no mountain range, but in- tersected by numerous little rivers and two large ones, the Duna and the Windau. The climate is in the south that of North Germany, in the north that of the corre- sponding parts of Russia, but tempered by the vast extent of the forests and by the neighbourhood of the sea. The popula- tion, amounting to about 1,850,000, is di- vided into three parts the Germans and two primeval races, of which the Esths are a Finnish tribe, the Letts a Lithuanian race, whose language has more affinity with Sans- crit than any other spoken in Europe. These aboriginal inhabitants of the country were in former times undoubtedly heavily oppressed by their German masters, but the common sufferings which both endured un 6 THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. der a foreign yoke, and the voluntary eman- cipation of the peasants, which the nobles began even before serfdom was extinguished in Germany did much to blend the various strata of the popglation into one people. Everything that does not belong to the peas- ant class is German in its character. The peasants, indeed, still retain their language, but the Baltic provinces present a striking example of the truth that language is only one of the constituent elements of national- ity. In everything but language the Letts and Esths tire Germans; they are as thorough Lutherans as their former masters; they know none but German ideas of law; they regard the introduction of the German forms of culture and improvement as the only track which leads to a higher position on the social scale. The well-to-do Lettish farmer still speaks the provincial language of his ancestors, but he sends his son to the Ger- man university of Dorpat; the former serfs daughter passes as a German into the ser- vice of a noble lady; the clever lad who has been taught by his clergyman, and makes his way in business as apprentice or clerk, is essentially German. The social gulf which formerly separated masters and ser- vants is thus filled up dayby day, and the common interest of resisting the encroach- ments of the Greek Orthodox Church and the Russification of the country effectually unites both races. Undoubtedly the Lettish and Esthish population are still numerically in the majority, but that majority is fast dwindling away, and it is impossible to state what is the exact proportion of the pure German population and of the aboriginals. Of these provinces, Curland, the south- ernmost, is also the most fertile and wealthy, for it has suffered less from wars and civil disturbances than the adjacent districts. The traveller proceeds from the Prussian frontier to the southern slopes of the iDiTha, through carefully cultivated plains; corn- fields alternate with rich meadows stocked with cattle and sheep, well-kept roads con- nect the manorial seats and little market- towns; the churches, parsonages, and schools look comfortable; the inns are clean, the people courteous and contented, and everything seems to breathe prosperity. There are no villages; the land is held in large separate farms which are often miles distant from each other. The nobility is a real aristocracy, generally rich, proud of their ancient descent; but not so narrowminded and pretentious as many of their German cousins. The Curland nobleman is an en- thusiastic sportsman, yet he highly prizes intellectual culture, and has always bestowed particular care, on the education of the peo pIe. The gentry have supported for the last twenty-seven years a training or normal school for teachers, and it would not be eas~ to find a lad of fourteen who is not ac- quainted with the rudiments of arithmetic and geography, besides reading, writing, and a thorough knowledge of his Lutheran catechism. The misfortune of the country is the want of an independent middle class; there are but two cities of some importance, Mitau, the seat of the governor, and Libau. In the small market-towns the Jews pre- dominate, but the whole political power and influence is in the hands of the gentry: their delegates alone form the diet, and elect the judges and country magistrates. A state of things utterly unknown in other parts of Russia, and not common in Germany, where bureaucratic administration by the petty servants of the State has for the most part swept away the very springs of self-govern- ment. When the Th~na is passed, which forms the boundary between Curland and Livland, the scene changes; endless dark pine forests remind the traveller that he is going north- ward; the farms are more thinly scattered and look less prosperous; the thatched roof is becoming general; wheat, which was pre- dominant in Curland, yields the place to rye and barley, and north of Riga begin the flax-fields, which form the peculiar wealth of the country. A general survey shows at once that the soil is less productive, and that the inhabitants have suffered more than their southern neighbours by frequent change of rule, and by wars and confiscations. The nobility are much poorer, and the younger sons nearly all go into the military or civil service of the Government. On the other hand, we find here a powerful middle class, which from the middle ages until now has ever played a conspicuous part in the prin- cipal and more independent cities. Riga, the ancient, and the proud, with its 103,000 inhabitants, is the centre of Baltic commerce and the seat of the governor-general, .who still inhabits the old castle founded by the grandmasters of the Order. This city re- tains completely the character of an old German town, with those narrow angular streets of gabled houses, granaries, and brick churches which we meet with in Lubeck, Wismar, or Dantzic; whilst in the more modern suburbs, the dwelling houses of the wealthier merchants have sprung up, who carry on a lively commerce in the timber, flax, hemp, tallow, linseed and corn, which come in never-ending masses down the Dm~na on huge rafts from the interior. Riga is the only town in the Baltic provinces which contains a considerable Russian pop- THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. 7 ulation, mostly belonging to the poorest classes, and all being sectaries of the old faith, who, persecuted in the Empire by the Orthodox Church, took shelter under the protection of the Protestant authorities. The constitution of the city, moulded upon that of Hamburg, is to this day strictly aris- tocratic, all power being in the hands of the three estates. The town possesses an ele- gant theatre, a splendid exchange, guild- halls, mansion-house, a polytechnic school, a navigation school, and a particularly fine harbour, which by a huge mole is protected against the quicksands that threatened to choke up the Duna. In recent times Riga has become the centre of the struggle against the measures taken by the Russian Govern- ment for the Buss~fication of the provinces, the Rigaer Zeitung and the Baltische Monatsschrift being the principal organs of the provincial press, which defend the German civilisation of the inhabitants. Travelling northward, we reach the University of Dorpat, the intellectual and scientific centre of the three Baltic prov- inces. Founded by Gustavus Adoiphus, but soon afterwards destroyed, its re-estab- lishment was stipulated in the capitulation of 1710; but the country had been so im- poverished by constant wars that it was unable to collect the resources which such an institution required. During the whole of the eighteenth century those who sought an academical education were obliged to go to Germany. The greater number of the physicians, clergy, and lawyers in the prov- inces were immigrants, and it may be be- lieved that those individuals did not always belong to the elite of their respective pro- fessions. The want of a native seat of learning was therefore sorely felt, and when in 1802, the liberality of Alexander I. at length filled up the gap, the young estab- lishment speedily rose *o prosperity; hence- forth it became necessary to everybody who aimed at a position in political or judi- cial life, in the clerical or in the scientific world, to have studied at Dorpat. Scat- tered throughout the Russian Empire there are physicians, chemists, and clergymen who have received their scientific training in the Baltic university: a Dorpat diploma is the best recommendation for a physician who settles in a Russian town, be it on the Volga or on the Amoor. Most of the stu- dents, indeed, remain at home. The uni- versity has become a national bond for uniting all classes of the community; the sons of noble houses mingle freely there with those of the Riga citizens and semi- German peasants, and contract friendships which often last through life. Passing from Dorpat over the frontier of Livland to Esthland, the character of the landscape becomes more and more northern. Swedish names betray the Scandinavian rule, to which the province was for a long time subjected. The unfavourable condi- tions of the climate, the poverty of the soil, and the rivalry of St. Petersburg have checked the progress of the principal towns Reval possessing a fine port on the rocky southern shore of the Gulf of Finland and the last outpost of Baltic German civilization, the ancient but decay- ing city of Narva, looking down on the Russian fort Ivangorod, which points the way to the capital of the Czars. We have said that with the accession of Alexander I. a more happy period began for the Baltic provinces; the country en- - joyed the long-desired peace, the Emperor respected the privileges of the provinces, and did what he could to promote their welfare. A decided change for the worse took place in the reign of Nicolas. Com- plete seclusion from western civilization, the prohibitive system, stagnation of intel- lectual life, a brutal censorship, which laid its ban upon almost all the tiotable produc- tions of foreign literature, and the arbitrary rules of a stupid bureaucracy gave to that period of Russian history a sullen despond- ent character, which was nowhere more sorely felt than in the Baltic provin- ces. The system became the more intolerable, as with. advancing age the arrogance and self-will of the autocrat rose to an insuffera- ble height. Praised by a servile Court and foreign admirers as the shield of legitimacy and the great bulwark against revolution, elated by his military and political success in the inglorious contests he was doomed to wage against the cause of liberty and pro- gress, the Emperor considered himself as the nucleus of conservative interests. No- body dared to oppose his most extravagant opinions, nobody ventured anything which looked like acriticism of the Government. Dr. Eckardt relates that the censor of the Northern Bee received a reprimand be- cause a paragraph had been suffered to ap- pear in that journal complaining of the cast -iron garden-seats in the park of Tzarsko- Selo; they had been cast after a design ap- proved by the Emperor. The Crimean war freed Europe and Russia from the incubus of this system. The terrible power which blighted every progress was discovered to be hollow; the godlike authority which seemed to tower over all human frailties suffered a sudden downfall, and the sovereign who but one 8 THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. year before was considered all-powerful, died defeated and broken-hearted. After peace had been restored, an altered tone made itself apparent in the public life of Russia. The Government indeed hesi- tated before entering upon larger reforms, but the abolition of a number of absurd restrictions which Nicolas had issued sufficed to rouse the long-slumbering energies of the people. It began to hope for a better future, and with the greater liberty of the press all the desires which had been sup- pressed for generations broke forth. When the Government, encouraged by the enthu- siastic gratitude of its subjects, began to put its hand in earnest to the work of re- form, more especially when the Emperor declared his intent of abolishing serfdom, the excitement became universal, and noth- ing appeared impossible. A witty Russian remarked at the time, says Dr. Eckardt, that if Nicolas had for- bidden his subjects to appear in the streets, and if Alexander bad only revoked this prohibition, he would have been immedi- ately regarded as one of the most free- minded monarchs of his day. But the first measures of the Government were regarded as the precursors of greater changes. The opening the universities, the abolition of high, fees on passports, the pardon of the surviving conspirators of 1826, and, above all, the concessions made to the press, transported the nation to a pitch of,ecstasy which carried all before it and has changed the aspect of Russian society. For Russia passed, as it were, at one bound from a servile obedience to despotic power to all the license of democratic agitation. Indeed the moment the pressure of the hand of Nicolas was removed, the essentially demo- cratic land tenures of the Russian village system hurried along public opinion to ex- tremes which it has not yet reached in any part of Western Europe. Some of the boundary provinces also re- ceived their share of the blessings of the new era. The Emperor restored the old Swedish constitution to Finland, and Poland obtained a provincial government under a national Minister, the Marquis Wielopolski. The Baltic provinces alone seemed to re- main untouched by this universal reform movement. If their constitution had been previously abolished and now re-established, the event would have roused them from their torpor; but according to the letter it had remained in force, although Nicolas had violated it whenever it suited him. Those old institutions had alone seemed to afford any shelter against the chilling blast Qf autocracy. The word reform7 h& d been proscribed; the Baltic gentry knew that if they tried to put their administration on a better footing, or to give political rights to their peasants, the Emperor would have at once made a clean sweep of their powers of self-government. So they clung to the old ordinances and privileges, the loss of which they considered as tantamount to the calamities of revolution. It was, however, a decided political mis- take that the leading men of the country did not avail themselves of the appropriate moment for the salutary remodelling of their ancient institutions. If during the first years of Alexanders reign the diets of the duchies had asked the Government to sanction a reform of their constitution and of the provincial administration, in con- formity with the principles of the age, the Emperor would not have been able to refuse this demand, and numerous abuses which unqucstionably existed might have been re- dressed. But the country had lost the habit of political action, and it failed to seize upon this favourable conjuncture, which rapidly passed away. Ere long the Russian democratic press began to attack the aristocratic organization of the Baltic communities, the ponderous corporations of the cities, and the knightly assemblies dis- integrated into the several estates. Herzen, who at that time ruled supreme over publie opinion in Russia, called upon the Govern- ment to clear out all this medimval rubbish, and to restore to the origfnal proprietors, the peasants, the soil, which the Germans had taken from tnem. Intimidated by thes,e attacks and frightened by the difficulties of reform, the Conservatives remained pas- sive; and it was not until the year 1862 that, at the Livonian diet, formal proposi- tions were introduced for remodelling the constitution, for placing the administration of justice on a better footing, for abolishing antiquated privileges, and for establishing a closer union between the three provinces. But the propitious moment for effecting a reform, at once liberal and yet maintaining the autonomy of the provinces, had been allowed to slip away. The internal difficul- ties which had to be overcome were great; the boundaries between mere class priv- ileges and national privileges were exceed- ingly awkward to determine. Was it not to be feared that if the gentry gave up the right to elect the judges, the, State would press in and send Russian judges unac- quainted with the local circumstances P The Lettish peasants, the special favourites of the Russian democracy, had made great progrese; serfdom had been abolislwd among them more than a generation before TIlE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. 9 the measure was thought of in Russia; but were the lower classes sufficiently advanced to be entrusted indiscriminately with the suffrage? Upon what footing was the re- form of the borough corporations to be established? were all the Russia.. heterodox handicraftsmen to be admitted to a share of municipal power in the provinces? Was it not necessary to insist upon the repeal of the Russian laws which were introduced against the provincial charter, and entitled the Orthodox Church alone to convert to its creed those who did not belong to it? But would not such a demand be ill received at St. Petersburg? These instances may suffice to give an idea of the internal and external difficulties with which the Baltic reformers had to struggle. But before they had come to a conclusion, an event took place which changed the whole aspect of things in the Empire. The Polish revolt, which broke out in January 1863, not only frustrated the only serious attempt towards reconciling Poland with the Russian rule which had been made since 1832, but com- pletely annihilated the sympathies of the Russian opposition for Poland. In the first years of the new era the cause of the op- pressed sister-country was in decided favour among young Russia. Both had languished under the old system, they both had com- bated a common adversary. But when the insurrection broke out and rapidly spread into Lithuania; when the dangers of an in- tervention from the Western powers and a foreign war became threatening, Russian patriotism awoke, and with the instinct of self.preservation, claimed before all things to save the unity of the Empire. Hitherto the question had been, whether more or less liberal concessions ought not to be made to the Poles; the point now became, whether Russia would have to recede be~ hind the Vistula and to give up not only the important frontier-land which she had con- quered seventy years ago, but also the neighbouring Lithuanian provinces? Whilst Herzen, Bakunin, Ogareff, and other Lon- don exiles passionately took up the cause of Polish independence, the national party, led by Michai~l Katkoff, the editor of the Moscow Gazette, declared that the time was past when Russia could play at liberal- ism and cosmopolitanism. In the presence of a danger which menaced to reduce Rus- sia to a Grandduchy of Moscow, every patriot had but one duty namely, to save the State; freedom without a country was but an empty phantom. The Russian Empire, wrote Katkoff, is a reality which has bee~i built up laboriously during a century and a half, and has obtaiued a place among the great powers of Europe; the maintenance of this State is the basis and the hope of all liberal Russian plans for the future. It is foolish to speak of the future world-wide sway of a Panslavonic empire, and at the same time to break into ruins that State which is the sole personification of Slavonic ideas. The name of citizen will henceforth only belong to him who acknowledges this reality, who devotes all his strength to it, and who renounces all per- sonal predilections and party schemes, until the boundaries of this Empire are secured. The national party was not stisfied with re-establishing the status quo ante, they wanted to prevent the possibility of the re- currence of such events as a Polish insurrec- tion. They raised the cry Russia for the Russians; they declared that the hostile or lukewarm boundary provinces must be Russianised; that their aristocratic organi- zation ought to be destroyed and replaced by the influx of Russian democracy. The nation, they said, was disgusted with the varnish of Western civilization which had been forced upon it by German rulers. The country could only be regenerated by re- turning to those genuine national institu- tions which distinguish Russia from the de- caying states of the West. Germany, France, and England, had each in its time played a prominent part, but they were old and had outlived their fame; the times of the nobility and the bourgeoisie were past; the future belonged to Russia and to democ- racy. But the, foundation-stone of this fu- ture was the consolidation of the present Empire; to crush the foes who endangered the national existence was therefore the first duty. The sympathetic analogy which appears to govern the destinies of the people of Russia and the people of the United States was never more manifest than on this occasion. The Poland of the one was the Southern States of the other. In both rebellion was to be extinguished with an unsparing hand because it threatened the pride of national existence, and represent- ed the decaying influence of an aristocratic party. Expressed with the energy of patriotic conviction, seconded by the orthodox clergy, these views soon obtained consider- able weight, and Katkoff quickly acquired a more powerful sway over public opinion than even Jierzen had exercised from his abode in Bayswater. The Government, seriously embarrassed by the wide-spread rebellion and the menacfng language of the Western powers, saw immediately what an advantage it might reap from an alliance with this movement, by enlisting into itS service the keenest passions of the people. 10 THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. It adopted the new programme of the Moscow Gazette, and invited all patriots to take part in the national work of defending the menaced independence of the Empire. The combined forces of the Government and of Katkoffs party then addressed themselves to the pacification of Lithuania and White Russia. These prov- inces, which now form the Russian govern- ments of Kowno, Grodno, and Vilna, had lived under Russian rule till the middle of the sixteenth century, and had once be- longed to the Greek Church. They were then conquered ~y Poland, and the upper classes became thoroughly Polish and Cath- olic; while the peasantry, reduced to strict serfdom, remained faithful to their national and orthodox traditions. In the uprising of 1862, the Lithuanian nobility made com- mon cause with the Poles; the streets of Vilna and Grodno witnessed the same rev- olutionary demonstrations as those of War- saw. From that moment the Russian war-cry became Recovery of the original Russian character of the Lithuanian lands; re-establishment of the Russian peasants in their rights as legitimate possessors of the soil, and disfranchisement of their oppressors, the Polish nobles who had re- kindled the fire of rebellion. We cannot foMow here the consequences to which this policy led; we cannot trace the history of that terrible system by which Muravieff undertook to restore the Russian character of the Western provinces, and how the same system was introduced by degrees into Poland. It may suffice to say that up to this day the success of the exper- iment of trampling down by brute force a nation of more than five millions, remains undecided. The Polish revolt is noticed in this place, as an essential element in the question before us, simply because the national excitement which it provoked was soon directed against the institutions of the Baltic provinces. This may seem strange at the first glance, as these provinces had not shown the slight- est sympathy for the Polish rebellion, nor could they be expected to do so, having themselves had ample experience of the evils of Polish rule in former times, and the German element in these provinces being even more uncongenial than that of Russia. to the Polish character. But it must be remembered that the turn which Russian public opinion took under Katkoffs guid- ance was directed to the annihilation of all non-Russian institutions in the Empire, and to the establishment of one compact Russian peasant State. The Moscow school regards It as the task assigned by Providence to Russia, to crush the aristocratic elements in Lithuania and Poland as well as in the rest of the western provinces. In the name of this principle war was declare.d against the Swedes in Finland and against the Germans in the Baltic provinces. The Finnish peasants were to be the lords of Finland; Letts and Esths the undivided masters of Livland, Esthland, and Curland. The original inhabitants of both countries were represented as cruelly oppressed by the landlord class, and desiring to be saved by the Russian democracy. The peasants were promised a general division of land. After the example of Lithuania, all the occupiers were to be transformed into proprietors, and the estates of the nobles were to be divided among the tenants and day-labourers. But this was not all. In- dividual property in the soil itself was to disappear, the equal rightof all to an equal share of the land, the communistic system of tenure which prevails in Russia, is proclaimed to be the world-redeeming mes- sage, destined to solve the social question before which the outworn societies of West- ern Europe stand helpless and despairing. We are indebted to Dr. Eckardt, in his work entitled Modern Russia, for the moat accurate and authentic account we possess of the land tenures of Russia, which we strongly recommend to the considera- tion of our readers. Suffice it here to say that by ancient custom, which has been more extensively applied since the abolition of serfdom, all the common village lands are periodically distributed every ten or twelve years between the families constitut- ing the village community, in which alone the property is vested. The tenant or occupier has no more than a limited tem- porary right in the land he tills; the noble or landlord has no rights over these common lands at all. The consequence is that the tenant has no interest in improving the land he occupies in this manner; and as the village is collectively responsible for its dues, the industrious and wealthy pay for the idle and the indigent. By this Russian rural system the essential conditions of property in land are destroyed. Neither landlord nor tenant is interested in the improvement of the soil, and the conse- quence is that, since the abolition of all forced labour, there has been a frightful deterioration of the husbandry of the Empire the peasants living on tracts of. ground without either the rights or duties of property. But neither the Finnish nor the Baltic peasants showed any desire to participate in a system which seemed to them fatal to THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. 11 the interests at least of those who had any- thing to lose. They had indeed been serfs, and had suffered much in former times from their masters ; but those times were gone, and they were emancipated long before the abolition of serfdom bad been proclaimed in Russia. They had now become peasant-farmers and proprietors, and they lived on the very best terms with their former lords. Agriculture was in a prosperous state; the Diets advanced money for improvements, particularly for draining the marshy soil. When therefore the Moscow party promised them a new agrarian era, under a system diametrically opposed to that to which they owed their present state of progress, they naturally asked how it was that in the Baltic prov- inces, where personal property in the soil prevailed, land fetched thirty times and more the price of what it sold for in Russia, where agrarian communism was practised? They knew and saw that in the neigh4our- ing Russian provinces where the principle of equal and periodically-renewed distribu- tion of the soil is established, the peasant cannot raise himself above the level of his fellow-brethren, that no advantage accrues to him by industry and intelligence. Why tken should they adopt a tenure which seems inevitably to cast a blight on all national agriculture wherever it exists? It is possible that the new gospel of Rus- sian democracy found a favourable recep- tion among the Lithuanian peasant-serfs, to whom the estates of their former masters were distributed by. Muravieff; if a man has nothing, he will not reject a doctrine which places something within his reach. But by the same reason the Lettish and Finnish peasant was not allured by the bait offered to him, and the Moscow press has hitherto vainly endeavoured to convince him of the advantages of the Russian sys- tem. Their daily clamour for an agrarian revolution in the Baltic provinces has in- deed done great harm to the landed interest, because the incessant assurances of the Russian papers that the Imperial Govern- ment was about to act on their principles created numerous perturbations in the exist- ing conditions of property, particularly after two unusually bad harvests. But in consequence of the urgent representations of the Governor-General, Count Albedin- sky, that the sweeping measures advocated by Katkoff and his disciples would throw all the agrarian relations of the provinces into bottomless confusion, the Government remained passive. The result of the com- munist campaign against the tenure of land ia the Baltic provinces has therefore thus far been to connect the peasants more closely with the nobles and the larger landowners for the defence of their common interests, and this state of feeling will probably con- tinue, unless a forcible confiscation takes place. The second attack of the Muscovite press was directed against the Lutheran Church and the German schools in the Baltic provinces. The capitulation of 1702, by which Livland and Esthland had become members of the Russian Empire, guaran- teed to them the right of Protestant wor- ship, whilst in all the other provinces the Orthodox Church alone was recognized. The Russian code, the Swod, forbids mem- bers of the Greek Church to pass over to any other religious community; mixed mar- riages are to be solemnized exclusively according to the orthodox rite; a Lutheran or Catholic priest who admits a member of the Greek Church into his community loses his benefice. Proselytism is punished by banishment to Siberia; the Greek Church alone has the right of converting to its creed those who do not belong to it. Till 1838 these intolerant enactments were never applied to Finland and the Baltic provinces; but at that time they were introduced in spite of the undoubted and established privileges of the people, and a Greek bishopric was founded in Riga for the express purpose of conversion. Promises of every kind were held out to those who would pass over to the Orthodox Church exemption from military service, remission of taxes, free grants of land in Southern Russia, free education of the chil- dren at the expense of the Crown, and ad- vantageous employment in the public ser- vice. It is not surprising that many of the poorer classes were deluded by these pros- pects, particularly as there had been a famine in 1840, and great destitution pre- vailed in the country. Misled by the deceitful promises of Russian itinerant preachers, about 100,000 of the poorest Letts and Esths passed over to the For- eign Church, as they called it, in order to purchase a better future. These deluded people had to pay dearly for their apostasy; none of the promises made to them were fulfilled, and they found themselves ex- cluded from the educational institutions of their Lutheran brethren. Living in the midst of a Protestant country, they were separated by their nationality from the Rus- sian people, whose crude system of worship soon became disgusting to them; and the Greek priests showed a contemptuous indif- ference to their fate when once they had 12 THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. been enrolled as members of the Orthodox sation of the Letts and Esths, was immedi- Church. They had contracted an obliga- ately deposed. The national party is con- tion which they soon found it difficult to stantly endeavouring to prove that the in- shake off. Nevertheless, a mighty reaction terests of the Empire demand the degrada- soon occurred, the converts poured in tion of the Lutheran Church in the Baltic crowds to the secular and religious authori- provinces to the position of a tolerated ties of the country, imploring to be re- heresy, which it holds in the rest of Russia. ceived back into the Lutheran Church; but They therefore encourage different sects they were met by the inexorable law that which have recently appeared, particularly whoever belonged to the Orthodox Church the Baptist immigrants, who, molested in could not leave it again. When the re- Prussia, have come in considerable numbers quests and remonstrances of this con- to Curland. science-troubled multitude met with a flat Especial zeal was displayed against the refusal, the indignant proselytes declared German tendency and character of the Bal- that nothing at least should ever compel tic school-system. Russian schools were them to attend the service of the Orthodox established, not only in Riga, but in other ritual. The Lutheran clergy being forbid- towns, where scarcely any Russian popula- den under severe penalities to administer tion exists, and in all national schools in- to them the sacramental rites, they thronged struction in the Russian language is ren- in disguise to the Lords Supper. They dered obligatory. The provost of the Uni- introduced a sort of civil marrriage amongst versity of Dorpat, who is at the head of the themselves, and baptised their own chil- educational department in the provinces, dren. The government resorted in vain to has bt~en coupled with a Russiarj colleague, means of persuasion and violence, but it specially appointed to watch over the inter- was at last obliged to let the matter drop, ests of the Russian language i. e., its and to check the misplaced zeal for con- extension, and the gradual extinction of version which had produced such deplora- German in the schools. The University ble results. The law against mixed marri- itself, as one of the strongest bulwarks of ages remained in force, however, and in German civilization and Protestantism, is spite of all the representations of the Rus- of course an object of particular hatred to sian governors, children were torn forcibly the Moscow party. No pains are spared from their parents who wished to educate to undermine it, and to transform it event- them as Protestants. At last, in 1864, the ually into a Russian institution. The nat- Government tacitly allowed the inhabitants ural consequence of these principles is that of the Baltic provinces freedom of confes- the introduction of Russian language in the sion with regard to children born in mixed Courts of law and in the administrative de- marriages. The Moscow press attacked partments is demanded in the name of this decison as a wilful injury done to the equality and progress. The old law of the most sacred interests of Russia and her country, confirmed by the capitulation of Church; and in spite of the complaints of 1702, distinctly established a purely Ger- the wretched converts, who vainly implored man administration. Even a decree of permission to return to their original creed, 1845, regulating the civil administration the Russian party never ceased to complain of the Baltic provinces, acknowledged that of the oppression of the Greek Church in public affairs were generally to be transact- Livland. The Greek clergy opposed a ed in German, except that in the parish yes- passive resistance to every concession, by tries the prevailing local idiom i.e. the refusing to perform the marriage ceremony Esthnic or Lertish language was to be between persons of the Orthodox and the adopted. In 1850, for the first time, the Lutheran faith; and in the following year Ilimperor Nicolas prescribed that in all the Government sanctioned this refusal as transactions of the Government authorities against the Lutherans. In 1867 the Ortho- the Russian language was to be introduced. dox Archbishop of Riga publicly insulted I This decree remained a dead letter, because the Lutheran Church in a pastoral letter not one in fifteen of the civil ftsnctionaries which put the whole country in commotion; could speak or write Russian. In 1867 the but he was simply translated to a bishopric edict of 1850 was renewed; henceforth only in Southern Russia. But a Protestant persons conversant with the Russian lan- clergyman was deposed from his office be guage were to be appointed as officers of cause many years before he had censured the Crown. The Governor-General notified the worship of pictures. In like manner, I that for the future letters written in Russian the Lutheran Bishop of Liviand, Dr. would alone be received by the public au- Walter, having ventured to allude in a ser- thorities. This notification was sent in mon to the necessary and natnral Germnani- Russian to the senates of the cities, to the THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. 13 local courts and justices of peace, who in against a German race; nevertheless she is their turn sent back these r.escripts, because anxious to remain on good terms with they could not understand them. After Russia. It is however remarkable, that much dispute the Government wa~ obliged Peter the Great, after the peace of Ny- to give way so far as to send a German stadt, claimed a vote in the German Diet translation with the original text. In St. at Ratisbon, because he had become soy- Petersburg, indeed, men were not wanting, ereign of a province which belonged to the able to discern how deeply the forcible in- Empire and had never ceased to do so; troduction of a difficult foreign language and the time may come, perhaps it is come must disturb all private and public interests, already, when the Germans will seek to and injure the transaction of business, resist this odious persecution of the prop- They saw that it was impossible to enforce erty, the religion, and the language of their such a system from want of a staff of northern brethren. But the final issue of officials who could speak and write the Rus- this struggle will depend mainly on the sian language; and they knew that it was internal policy of Russia. Whilst railways equally impossible to introduce into the are progressing, agriculture is fast retro- Baltic provinces the ignorant and corrupt grading in the Empire. The communist functionaries of the interior of the Empire. tenure of land and the system of temporary But these more moderate men were few distribution of holdings, above described, and isolated, whilst Katkoffs party num- was possible only as long as the peasants bered numerous adherents at the head of were serfs and could be forced to work in affairs, and exercised great influence. The the fields by their masters. But now being remonstrances of the moderates and the free to do as they like, they only work as indhrnant protestations of the Baltic popu- much as is necessary to keep themselves lati~i have alike been overruled; and thus from starvation; the rest of their time, one by one the intelligent and highly-de- which formerly belonged to their masters, serving Baltic statesmen have been re- is spent in the brandy-shops. Drunken- moved from the higher posts and replaced ness is increasing in frightful proportions. by Russians who know nothing of the coun- The peasant moreover knows that his bank- try. When the magistrates and the Diets ruptcy does not place him in embarrass- complained of breach of privileges, their ment, but the village; according to the addresses were answered by severe rebukes communist system, the community, not the or not received at all. The Baltic press individual member of it, is responsible. was restricted from any effectual defence This is enough to check all assiduity and of the interests of the country; for whilst improvement. The nobility is nearly ru- the press of Moscow had unlimited liberty ined; it has lost immensely by the aboli- of attack, the censorship was maintained in tion of serfdom; and the highest wages Riga, Dorpat, and Reval. The provincial will not induce the peasants to un- newspapers could therefore only answer dertake the regular cultivation of the lands their opponents so far as the Russian censor of their former lords. In short, if the would allow it, and whoever resorted to picture drawn by Dr. Eckardt and the foreign journals was declared a traitor, con- other writers before us is correct, Russian spiring with Count Bismarck to sever the landed society is in a state of moral and provinces from the Empire. For the economical dissolution, which sooner or Esthnic and Lettish prints there is only one later must produce a terrible crisis. censor in the three provinces, the manu- To this disordered society, instead of scripts of all books, papers, prayer-books, trying to cure the dangerous disease which & c., edited in those languages, must be consumes its best forces, the Moscow party sent to Riga, to receive his iinprimatur. is preaching a crusade against the hetero- How long the Baltic provinces will be dox boundary provinces. Five millions of able to stand this siege of the democratic Catholic Poles, two and a half millions of party, backed by the autocratic authority Protestant Swedes, Germans, Finlanders, of the Czar, nobody can tell. They have Letts, and Esths, are to disappear, in order little to hope for from foreign intervention, to realize the Emperor Nicolas shibbo- Sweden, which would have a right to in- leth, one God, one Czar, one language. terfere as a party to the peace of Nystadt, We doubt the success of the experiment, by which the privileges of the provinces even though it be attempted by all the were confirmed, has neither the power nor power of the Court of St. Petersburg, the interest to quarrel with so dangerous a backed by the enthusiasm of the Russian neighbour for such a cause. Prussia has democrats. The absorption and assimila- no right to interfere, but looks of course tion of nationalities is one of the slowest with pain at this war of extermination and most difficult processes in history. It 14 THE BALTIC PROVINCES OF RUSSIA. has not been accomplished in these islands. It has not even been accomplished in France. Least of all can it be effected by persecution or by the brute ascendency of an inferior over a superior and more civi- lised race. But the nationalities against which the Moscow press declares war in the name of democratic progress, stand on a much higher level than the Russian people. Professor Schirren, in his able answer to Jun Samarin, who accuses the Baltic provinces of conspiring against Rus- sia, says with perfect justice: Our culture is our conspiracy: we have always been faithful to the Emperor; we have never shrunk from the greatest sacrifices, even when they were required of us in support of a bad system; we even are willing to be Russified if you can do so by legal means, and by con- vincing us of the superiority of your intellectual culture; but we protest against the method which you adopt. As long ~s you have nothing to offer but an agricultural system, which would turn our country into a wilderness, a Church which sanctions the most abject Ctesaro-papism, and as long as you have no other means of pro- pagandism but brute force, we shall maintain our institutions and our autonomy to the very last. We have not been incorporated, by con- quest, but by a bilateral contract, by which the country acknowledged under certain and well- defined conditions the Russian Czar at its mas- ter, whilst he solemnly promised to maintain these conditions. Our ancient privileges were confirmed by the Capitulation of 1702, which is published in the general collection of Russian laws, which has been acknowledged by all the Emperors of Russia, and which, up to this day, forms the only basis of our political relation to the Russian Crown. You may induce the Gov- ernment to violate our rights, and we may be obliged to submit, but whilst obeying the as- cendency of force we shall never cease to protest against it. What you attempt now has been equally tried by Polish and Swedish kings both in their tura the most powerful rulers in Eastern Europe; we have been obliged to give way for the moment, but our right proved stronger than the power which had curbed it. We are convinced that also in this century it will be strong enough to outlive your aggression. The inhabitants of a country which for seven hundred years has lived under German influ- ence, cannot in a few years be transformed into Russians; you may cripple the strength of an aged tree, you may cut it down, but you cannot transplant it like a sapling, nor compel it to produce another kind of fruit by compulsory grafting. The rage which Schirrens pamphlet pro- voked in the Moscow press, compelkd the Government to dismiss him from the professorship of history in Dorpat, hut his answer has never been refuted. The respectful petition which the Diet of Livland has lately addressed to the Emperor, enumerating the violations of the constitution and praying for its re-estab- lishment, has received a negative answer. The country is obliged to suffer in silence, and bide its time, but no pressure will ex- tort from it. a voluntary abandonment of its right. The people of the Baltic prov- inces are confident that the experiment of Russifying by compulsion five different nationalities must in the long run prove a disastrous failure and recoil on its authors. They maintain that their cause is that of Western civilization, against Russian bar- barism, to which the theories of Herzen and Katkoff have only given a superficial varnish, and they answer to every new ag- gression of the Moscow fanatics, You may oppress us, but you will not subdue us. Iv will be well if the Francophobia~ now rag- own language. This does no permanent injury ing in Germany puts a stop to the deterioration j to the mother tongue, and Dickenss well-known of the German language by the incorporation objection to the use of any foreign words what.- of French words. The Cologne Gazette, speak- j ever was carried rather too far, but a German ing of the Emperors proclamation to the fleet, I Dickens would have sound cause for complaint. is guilty of this offence, as well as of incivility, when it remarks that this production is as ____________ colourless and affectirt as though he had drawn it from the soul of his wife Eugenie. The naturalization of French words in Germany has reached an absurd pitch. Such expressions as Ich bin frappirt, Er ist hochst amus- ant, & c., are of constant occurrence. Many English writers, it is true, use French words too often, but they only employ them as quota- tions, and do not amalgamate them into their A cunious discussion has arisen in Bombay. Tigers having come to Salsette and killed several people, the magistrates applied to increase the reward, but the Government have refused, thinking that the report of the presence of tigers there will attract English sportsmen from Bombay. AGAINST TIME. 15 CHAPTER XXXVII. dent hope of netting by it, from first to last, SIC TRANSIT. some 30,OOOt. Yet he trusted they would find elements of comfort in the case, to Fou the last time we assemble with the soften a blow that must fall heavily at best, members of the fallen Company. A differ- and he should have been cheered indeed ent gathering it was from the days when, when first taken into their melancholy con- blooded to gold, they gathered to listen to fidence, could he have hoped the state of flattering tales, vote themselves dividends things he had a certain satisfaction in re- and honuses, and cheer their Governor to porting, would have been half so favourable. the echo. A liquidator, with tongue drop- In the first place, he had the pleasure of ping gall instead of honey, looked down on informing them, that a member of their blank and black, instead of beaming faces, body and a fellow-sufferer, who, it ap- There were visages the last month or two peared, laboured under the additional mis- had drawn out by inches like the india-rub- fortune of being related by ties of blood to ber ones that change as you press them, their absconded Manager (yells, howls, from smiles to unutterable woe. There and groans of execration), that this gen- were pale cheeks and sunken eyes, quiver- tleman had exerted himself, and exerted ing lips, and slovenly toilettes, and hands himself successfully, to recover much of the that trembled as they fumbled with docu- abstracted property. Moreover, independ- ments that had been officially circulated ent of its very considerable actual value, one of them containing a general review of that recovery had enabled him to fbrm a the situation, the other formally calling tolerably reliable estimate of their pros- upon the contributors to show cause why pects. In making it, he had been naturally they should refuse to listen to a 61. call. led to examine cursorily into their prospect- Gonticuere omnes, intenti~ue ora tenebant. ive assets. Here he was happy to have it In the suspense of the coming explanation, in his power to pay a high tribute to the late pregnant with his fate, no man felt much management. He could assure the meeting disposed to talk or even to grumble: the that advances, generally, seemed to have room was pervaded with the rustle of papers been made with excellent judgment and on and a murmur that might have come from ample security. What most unfortunately souls moaning in the dull pains of a distant compromised them, was the wreck of those purgatory. subsidiary companies they had promoted, On the elevated platform behind the and, on the other hand, it was the ruin of liquidators, their solicitor, and a secretary the parent which had involved its progeny detailed to read papers and minutes, sat a in the common misfortune. It might, in melancholy group of ex-Directors, unfor- one way, add a poignancy to natural re- tunates detached alike from the sympathies grets.; but in justice to their late Directors, of one element and the other: like the flying and in elucidation of their present position, uish, threatened at once by the monsters he was bound to tell them that the collapse who goashed on them with savage teeth could only be attributed to that abnormal from the swelling ocean below, and by the condition of the commercial atmosphere liquidators who hovered over their heads which had made all credit unsubstantial as with calls and outstretched claws. There vapour, coupled with the most unfortunate was Sir Ralph, the mere shadow of his quarter in which they had reposed their former state; McAlpine grave arid anxious; confidence he alluded of course, to their and Rushbrook alone, to outward seeming, defaulting Manager (Cries of The Gov- as unconcerned as ever, twisting the paper ernor too, No, no, Yes, yes, in his fingers into a foolscap, and suggest- Shame, Go on : through which our ing to the unappreciative Schwartzchild that friend Hugh, although his cheek might have he should move its adoption by the meeting. flushed and his brow darkened, sat other- And there sat Hugh Childerslcigh, his ex- wise as unmoved as if his late worshippers pression not out of keeping with the deep had still been vociferating his praises). mourning he wore, yet looking round with After a most elaborate condescension on clear steady eye that bore down, in spite facts and figures, Mr. Auditt approached of them, the angry glances it encountered the engrossing question of the call. It had from all sides. been the opinion of his colleagues and him- Mr. Aucktt broke groundwith the accus- self that a call was imperative; that it was tomed phrases of regret, as obligatory on eminently advisable, moreover, in the inter- similar occasions as her Majestys health at ests of the shareholders themselves, as the a public dinner. No one could deplore only means of avoiding a wholesale sacrifice more sincerely than he the calamity that of assets which, with time and care, might brought them together; he had a confi- realize the full value they stood for in the 16 AGAINST TIME. Companys books. He need hardly say it had been their earnest desire to press as lightly on the contributories as practicable, but mature deliberation had forced them to the conclusion that 61. per share was the lowest figure which would meet the exi- gencies of the occasion. If payments were prompt and general, he would venture to hazard a pcrsonal opinion it must be dis- tinctly understood he committed himself to nothing further that the shareholders might dismiss from their minds any appre- hensions of further liability. Mr. Auditt resuming his seat was the sig- nal for a score of excited orators bounding to their feet. For three-quarters of an hour there was nothing but abuse, lamentation, and recrimination, varied by questions where the general ignorance of business evinced by the querists was only surpassed by the special innocence of facts exhibited by the professional respondents. At last Lord Rushbrook seized the ears of the meeting. His Lordship reminded them that on the last occasion on which he had had the honour of addressing them, he bad failed in an attempt to persuade them that a motion urged by a reverend gentleman, he was happy to see him present, had been ill- advised and wholly uncalled for. He be- lieved, in fact, he had even ventured to de- nounce it as a gross and gratuitous insult to his near relative, their late Governor, who, he was glad to say, was also with them upon this occasion to speak for himself. The motion of submitting the conduct, and consequcnt liability, of Mr. Childersleigh for the opinion of council had been carried, and it would be satisfactory to himself, and doubtless to the shareholders, to learn its result from the reverend gentleman, who had been chairman of the committee he had moved for. If that opinion were of the tenor he had been given to understand it was, he was quite sure no one would re- joice more at the opportunity of proclaim- ing it than the reverend gentleman himself. Dr. Silke Reynardsons own professions must have convinced them that, next to Mr. Childersleigh and Mr. Childersleighs immediate friends, he had suffered more intensely than any one from the language only an imperative sense of duty could have driven him to employs and that he would feel a pleasure equally intense in availing himself of this public opportuni- ty of retracting it. If Dr. Reynardson felt the pleasure his lordship credited him with, he must have had his countenance in bm~tter command than his tongue; certainly none of the numerous gentlemen who turned to regard him sus pected anything of it. Amid shouts of Hear, hear! Beynardson! Dr. Reynardson! he deliberately raised him- self to his legs. Although the Doctor had an impetuous not to say evil temper, one which had been so constant a snare to him, that at last he had come to let it trip him up when it pleased with the passive resignation of a martyr, yet he was largely gifted with intelligence and common sense. He was conscious his philippic on the former occasion had hurt himself much more than Childersleigh, and, so far, he sincerely regretted it. Besides, no man had a more religious respect for dignitaries, and he re- pented having invited the thrusts and en- mity of a man in the position of Rushbrook. But, then, he bad seen the fruits of a life- time consecrated to sacred eloquence and good works, all swamped in the Cridit Foncier, and he was profoundly moved against those who had robbed him of his painfully-garnered stores. So it was with curiously blended feelings he rose to ad- dress the meeting; a straw would have turned the torrent of his words one way or the other. He laboured, moreover, under a sense of awkwardness, from which lashing himself into a passion appeared the readiest means of extraction. Standing in that shat- tered temple of Mammon, the sinner was in the ascendant for the time, and the chances were he would sorely buffet the saint, and leave him with ample matter for repentance. His lordship only did him justice, said Dr. Reynardson, in giving him credit for hav- ing suffered more keenly than any of his listeners while he discharged the most pain- ful duty he had ever been driven to. Whereupon even Childersleigh smiled, while as for Rushbrook, when he composed himself comfortably for the expect~d treat, his face expressed appreciation, amounting to enjoyment. Other gentlemen looked or whispered in a similar sense; and Dr. Rey- nardson, feeling that in his noble nature he had soared high above the sympathies of his audience, came tumbling back to the earth, and cast himself savagely into the clutches of the powers of passion and evil. But his lordship was egregiously in error, he proceeded, in assuming it to be his de- sire or intention to retract one word he had uttered then. His words had been too con- scientiously weighed to be lightly with- drawn. On a single point he had erred, and he was not ashamed to confess it. He was a clergyman, and no lawyer, untrained to split hairs and catch at words, to sever equity from justice, and separate the laws of conscience and morals from those of St. Stephens and the statue-book. It was his AGAINST TIME. 17 desire to revere the law and respect its in- terpreters, and he had fondly trusted that for flagrant wrong the law had fitting rem- edy. That illusion was dispelled. In the interest of the widow and the orphan, of the desolate hearth and the shivered roof- tree, he had urged that Mr. Childersleighs clear moral responsibility ay, he repeated it boldly to his face, as he had said it hon- estly behind his back that Mr. Childers- leighs moral liability should be enforced by the machinery of justice. If that machinery were not radically defective, it had lament- ably hroken down. The counsel they had consulted eminent, he believed, they were considered bad given it as their opinion that the late Governor, sheltered behind a rampart of technicalities, might enjoy as best he could the riches he had filched. May I ask the rev, gentleman if he quotes the precise language of the opinion? interposed Rushbrook. Or if it is brief, as I am given to understand it is, perhaps he will forgive me if I request him to read it. The rev, gentleman seemed strangely loth to gratify this reasonable request, but the feeling of the meeting was unmistakable. The opinion, signed by her Majestys Soli- citor-General and a learned brother, was clear and concise: On the statement sub- snitted, we are of opinion that no action whatever can lie against Mr. Childers- leigh. I have to apologize sincerely for having troubled the rev, gentleman, resumed Lord Rushbrook, blandly; his singularly candid rendering of the sense and scope of the document in question ought to have satisfied me. To return to where I broke off when the noble lord interrupted me, resumed Dr. Reynardson in some confusion, and with a look of poison. I was referring to the wealth his honourable relative, the Chairman, had gathered in our service, I will not say from our pockets, although the system of commission by which he enriched himself seems to me little better than legal- ized pilfering. I am satisfied to waive all allusion to the colourable suspicions engen- dered by his close friendship with our worthy Manager, although they are enter- tained, as I have reason to know, by many of the most intelligent of our body. I will content myself with asking whether your verdict endorses that of the lawyers, whether it argues unblemished honour, or does not rather imply some slight degree of moral turpitude, when a man founds a Company like this, courts public confidence LIVING AGE. VOL. xxx. 888 to it by representations strangely belied by results, transforms himself in two brief years from a pauper to a millionnaire, arid finally slips like a rat from the house he has too good reason to know is falling. Gentlemen, it would appear that we cannot drag our Governor to the bar of juz.tice, or invoke the civil power to compel him to the surrender of his gains. Yet something we can do we can force him before that tribunal of social opinion, which holds the issues of life or death for men like him. We can poison the enjoyment of his wealth which has been to him swelled by the mites of the widow, steeped in the tears of the orphan; and I, for one, solemnly pledge myself to uplift my humble testimony in my lowly sphere until trials and sorrows shall stifle my feeble accents. In one way or another, the clergymans peroration brought down the house. There were indignant utterances indeed, but.they were rare, and while a good many of his auditors sat silent and doubtful, a great number applauded vociferously. Some of the more sensitive had dissolved in tears, and regarded Rushbrook, who was evidently in a most enviable state of enjoyment, as a mocking Mephistopheles. Dr. Reynardson had thrown down the glove, and Hugh hastened to take it up. The violent personal attack had given him the opportunity for personal explanation he felt his advantage and meant to use it. The champion of the sufferers had hit hard, yet the spirit of fair-play was gen- eral enough to assure him a more patient hearing than he could otherwise have hoped for, and the mass of the audience forgot, for a moment, the disagreeables of their situation in the interest always excited by a fair stand-up fight. As Hugh rose before him, with head slightly thrown back, and kindling eye that swept the room, the Doc- tor was troubled by some inward qualms, and glanced uneasily from the Governor to the reporters. - He knew he had laid him- self terribly open. So far as his fears went of having vio- lence met with violence, and personalities retorted with personal sarcasm, he might have spared them. If Hugh was tempted he refrained, although his reply was per- haps none the less telling for its studied moderation. Lightly touching on the tone, he thanked his assailant with dignity for the matter of the remarks which gave him an opening he had ardently longed for; which cheered him with the hope of freeing his mind from the weight which had long oppressed it. He had laboured hard to deserve their good opinion, and the feeling 18 AGAINST TIME. that he had lost it, however innocently, had been, he owned, to them, very painful. He had suffered deeply from the knowledge that his profound sympathy with their misfortunes was suspected, that there were circumstances that gave some faint colour to the dishonouring accusations that had been launched at him. Of these, Dr. Rey- nardson had no doubt conscientiously made himself the exponent, and he repeated he had reason to be grateful to him. The expres- sions of dissent elicited by so many passages of Dr. Reynardsons speech had assured him he could still count on friends among those he had the pleasure of knowing neither by sight nor name; that there were members of their body who still refused to believe he would lightly stain a stainless name or belie the conduct of a lifetime. In consenting to defend himself he felt something of the hu- miliation of pleading guilty, but he would pray of them to suspend, as a body, the judgment some of them might have hastily passed; to strive to imagine that the relation which had once existed between them was yet unchanged, to let him believe them still his friends, while he addressed them with perfect candour. If they condemned him when they had heard him to an end, he could not say he would bow to their sentence, but, acquitted by his conscience, he would bear it as best he might. He would ask them, to begin with, was there a conceivable motive for his risking himself in questionable transactions? He had made a large fertune by their Com- pany; he was wealthy still; and, as he was unbosoming himself, he would tell them he could look forward with reasonable cer- tainty to inheriting a great succession in a few weeks time. (Here there was a gen- eral murmur, and even Hughs friends looked blank. He had been candid with a vengeance, and now actually touched on the very point that had stirred the bitterest animosity.) Ihave alluded advisedly to the subject of the money I have gained by you, and intend, with your permission, to return to it; in the meantime let me defend the means by which I have made and kept it. Then he took up charge after charge with a detail into which we shall not follow him; but, although he spoke not unsuc- cessfully to their reason, their hearts were effectually closed to him by the wealth he acknowledged to have saved from the common wreck. He went on: You have discovered, gentlemen, that the system of remunera- tion by commission was a mistake, and my share of it an exorbitant one. Possibly; yet let me remind you that it was you who ratified the one and the other, and let me assure you, laying my hand on my heart, that self-interest, if I know myself, never influenced me in any of the transactions I arranged on your behalf. The highest legal authorities have told you in the plainest terms, that what I have gained I gained honestly. (Murmurs and expressions of dissent.) Gentlemen, I claim a patient hearing as a right, and I am assured you will not deny it. They have decided it was gained honestly, and for myself I will ven- ture to add honourably, as well. In brief, gentlemen, the sole points on which I am disposed to reproach myself arise from my connectijn with our defaulting Manager. That connection, from first to last, was a purely business one. Yet, while I dis- tinctly repudiate any responsibility for that unhappy man, I do feel that in the eyes of the public our connection may well have ap- peared closer than it was; that such repu- tation as I possessed may have plausibly been made to stand guarantee for his. Lat- terly, indeed, I had to a certain extent withdrawn my confidence from him, and done my best to limit his exercise of power; but in that, I must add, I was guided merely by suspicion which might well have been prejudice, and I was in possession of no tangible facts which would have justified me in bringing the matter officially before your Board. Still, enlightened after the events and after the unfortunate chances which prolonged my absence, and although a Chairman, with an able body of coadju- tors and an efiThient staff of subordinates, might well consider a few days of relaxa- tion fairly earned by months of painfully assiduous application; still, I say, enlight- ened after the event, I shall never cease to reproach myself with that absence as the indirect cause of the ruin of a noble busi- ness. Upon my heart and conscience that I hold to be the head and front of my offending, and for that I stand here will- ing to make the extreme compensation the law could have exacted of me had I been criminal ten times over. I cannot abso- lutely promise to spare you entirely the painful necessity of a call, for my means may be scarcely equal to my will. But what I can do I will, and I intimate my intention of sealing my unwavering devo- tion to your interests by an immediate transfer to your liquidators of my entire property real and personal. With the ex- ception of family pictures, and a few heir- looms I shall beg permission to select, I pledge myself the cession shall be absolute. And now, gentlemen, may I express a hope AGAINST TIME. 19 that we part on terms at least as friendly as perhaps not sorry at heart to think he might those on which we began our unfortunate be spared the worst of the sacrifice. acquaintance, and may I take leave of the But Dr. Silke Reynardson stood before Credit Foncier in the belief that I have con- them again. With heartfelt satisfaction he vinced you of the integrity of my conduct had listened to the speech of a man he was and the purity of my motives? proud again to entitle his honourable friend, So thoroughly was the meeting stunned and, imitating Mr. Childersleighs frank- by the startling climax of the Governors ness, he begged to retract every word that, speech that, for a space, they sat gaping on Mnder erroneous impressions, he had felt it him and each other open-mouthed, as if his duty to utter to his disparagement. As questioning whether their ears had played they had seen in the generous nobility of them false. Then their feelings vented his nature, Mr. Childeraleigh had been themselves in Protean variety of form. obviously eager to disclaim the well-inten- There was cheering and waving of hats. tioned but he would say it the most ill- pounding of feet and umbrella-ferules, advised interference of his colleague, Mr. weeping, blessing, praying, and swearing McAlpine. He would venture to interpret that the Governor was something greater Mr. Childersl~ighs mind, and implore of than the divinity they had always taken him them, in Mr. Childeraleighs name, not to for. The peroration of Hughs speech was dim the lustre of a grand sacrifice. Mr. well worth that of Dr. Reynardson. Some Childersleigh had freely offered them his of the more suspicious and saturnine shook family place, and for Mr. Childe~sleighs their heads; they would greatly like to see own sake, he would entreat of them as the deeds executed that should give effect freely to accept it. (Cries of No, no, to the eloquent orators intentions; to be hear, hear.) He was sure they could persuaded of the existence of the property not misjudge his motives, and he would re- he so generously transferred; and althQugh call to them the statement of Mr. MeAlpine his speech had otherwise sounded rational that the estate was so heavily burdened enough, they were nuch inclined to share as to reduce its value to a minimum a Lord Hestercombes doubts as to his sanity. reason the more, he must remark in pass- Rushbrook and McAlpine seized him by ing, for hesitating to impose on Mr. Chil- either arm arid dinned remonstrances into dersleigh the costly burden of maintaining his ears. Too late, altogether too late, my it. (Expressions of dissent and disappro- good fellows, was the reply; and dont bation.) But one other word, and he had forget I gave you an opportunity of argu- done. if he were rightly informed of cir- ing me out of my intention. ~rimstances only known to him by hearsay, A wilful man will have his way, Mr. Childeraleigh might be entitled in a moaned McAlpine, feeling he might just as few weeks to claim a valuable property well attempt to move the pillar behind him, upon certain conditions. Might he put it and acknowledging, moreover, that Hugh to Mr. Childersleigh whether, in~ the inter- was irretrievably committed by his speech. est of the shareholders, he would not see But you must let your friends do what it his duty to make good his claim to that they can for you in spite of yourself; and property previous to executing to them a with that he sprang to his feet and ad- transfer of the whole? (An emphatic dressed a stirring appeal to the meeting. No from Mr. Childersleigh.) Then he Mr. Childersicigh had taken a course of would not press that delicate point, but he absolutely unparalleled generosity, and beg- would conclude with an amendment to Mr. gared himself yes beggared himself in McAlpines motion That this meeting obedience to the dictates of an over-sensi- accept with cordial gratitude the liberal live honour, and, in answer to reproaches proposals of their late Governor, and de- which his conscience told him were utterly sire to enter on their minutes an expression unjust. Were they to take a paltry advan- of their profound esteem for his character tage of him, and clutch at the uttermost and conduct. farthing he offt5red? He pled earnestly for Rushbrook was whetting the razors of the old place that had been in the Childers- his sarcasm when MeAlpine stopped him. leigh family for centuries. Mortgaged as it Trust me, the best way of disposing of was, the difference would be little to them that is to leave it to the vote; better they although immense to the owner; and he should condemn that scoundrel Reynardson concluded with a motion that it, at least, than you. I see, Budger seconds him should be left him. Hugh would have and just like him; but theyll scarcely find risen again, but his friends almost angrily a third man to go along with them. insisted he was out of court in the matter, The worthy chieftain had hardly calcu- and literally forced him to keep his seat lated on the feelings of impoverished share- 20 AGAINST TIME. holders dreading a farther drain on their pockets, voting practically anonymously en bloc, and encouraging themselves by mutual example and kindred sentiment. The show of hands was clearly in favour of the amend- ment, as the liquidator reluctantly an- nounced. MeAlpine impetuously dcunanded a vote, but there Childersleigh insisted on interfering. He regretted much the pro- posal had ever been suggested to the meet- ing at least, he would not stoop to have it pressed on them. What did I say to you about pearls.and swine? exclaimed Rushbrook as they left together. Oh, Hugh, Hugh! are you not ashamed of your selfish avarice in sticking by your family pictures? They deserve everything you can give them, poor grate- ful souls! Well, you are a maniac, assur- edly; but I will say you are a fine fellow all the ~ame. McAlpine said nothing at all. To his practical common sense the action seemed even more portentously absurd than to the more reckless Rushbrook. As to Hugh, with a strange mixture of melancholy and content, keenly alive to all he had given up, and stillwavering in faith as to what it might do for him, he drove off to the society of Lucy. Next morning he woke with the world before him, but with the companion he had secured for the journey, he almost enjoyed the prospect of his coming travels. I had hoped to have seen her rich, but at least I can make her happy, and, as for a compe- tency, fair play and a few years will give her that. Perhaps, who knows, we may build a Childersleigh elsewhere, carry our Lares with us, and hang the pictures of the Childersleighs on other walls. And like a hound rousing himself for the chase, he stretched and shook himself mentally in the glad consciousness of his strength, and only longed to be slipped on the work. In the last few weeks I have found some friends I shall be sorry to part from, he went on to himself; but after all, I suppose it is the nature of things that love should swal- low friendship. I take my world where I go, even if friends and Childersleigh remain behind. He had seated himself at breakfast, when the door was thrown open and Mr. Barring- ton announced. Mr. Barrington came for- ward with both hands extended, and took Hughs cordially in his own. I came here twice last night to no purpose, so I de- termined to make sure of you this morning. Well, you look pretty comfortable, I must say; the events of yesterday dont seem to have put you much out. Why should they P If you may have to rough it soon on halt rations, it is surely a reason for making yourself comfortable while you may. So you have heard of the folly I perpetrated. Heard of it! I should think so, indeed. The world has been talking of nothing else. For the matter of that, there are leaders on you in half the morning papers; so my man told me while I was dressing; and what else do you imagine brought me here at this hour? I cant say. It would have been an excellent reason for most people staying away. You dont mean that for me, Childers- leigh? asked Barrington, reproachfully. Of course not, returned Hugh, hastily; as I may very soon take means of proving to you. God knows I ought to have learned to understand you by this time. But what are they saying about me ? not that it much signifies. Pat you on the back withont an excep- tion. I do believe you are more the fashion than ever. One would fancy all the world capable of doing the same thing, your gen- erosity is so universally appreciated. I dont so much wonder at my chiming in with the rest, for you spoiled me for life when you saved me with that good deed of yours at Homburg. An old stQry now, and little worth re- peating at best. I, at least, am never likely to forget it, although it is not much in my way to talk of things of the kind. But I tell you, Ilugh, when this latest one gets from the clubs to the drawing-room, when the women hear it from the men, you will be positively the rage. If your arrangements had not been made elsewhere, you might have picked and chosen among heiresses. Ive done with drawing-rooms, and if my arrangements had been still to make, my crotchets would never have awoke the enthusiasm of the fair sex. What I gave up to the Crl~dit Foncier yesterday was really my wedding present to my wife, made at her own request. She is a girl in a thousand, I do be- lieve, and, upon my word, when all is said and done, Im almost inclined to call you a lucky man. Evil communications, you know, and assuredly you must have demo- ralized me. But we have discussed our money matters before now, Hugh; and you will forgive my asking how you mean to live. A question I have asked myself often, you may be quite sure. Perhaps it would have been more strictly just had I showu AGAINST TIME. 21 yesterday less of what people call generos- ity. But if I had kept anything back, charit- able tongues would have swelled tens to thousands; and I fear, as far as my good name went, the sacrifice would have been thrown away. I desired to crush not crip- ple the wasps that were stinging me.~, Yes, you showed your usual good sense there, even when for once you did a foolish thing; and then, doubtless, you remembered I should be greatly cut up if you had not that George Barrington was rich, and his fortune as much yours as hiseb, Hugh? Not exactly that, Barrington; but I assure you I felt I had friends I could count upon, and I neither contemplated giving up Lucy nor marrying her to starvation. I would sooner come to you and Rushbrook for a thousand or two, than leave my hon- our at the mercy of the men I parted from yesterday for ever. Nor should I borrow quite as a beggar after all; my Holbeins and Vandykes mean the thousand or two, and something more a security to my friends, while I live a provision for my wife if I die. Upon my word, Childersleigh, for a man capable of such romantic actions, you have the queerest ideas of friendship. Had that loan you forced on me at Homburg escaped your memory altogether, and the language with which you pressed it? Un- less you mean our friendship to die a~sudden death and then the murder lie at your door, I wash my hands of it unless you mean that, I say, pledge yourself forthwith to come to me, and to no one else. Very likely Rushbrook would be glad enough, but then Rushbrook is always hard up, and would probably have to borrow. Now, thanks to you, I have a balance at my bankers I dont know how to invest, and I owe you that and a great deal more. And one thing more I have to say when you do come to bank with me, it shall be on condition you give yourself a fair chance, and dont spoil this new voyage of yours by starving the stores. For Miss Winters sake you must act liberally by me. But of course you will. You cant seriously mean to hurt my feelings. Come, Hugh, say its a bargain, and offer me some breakfast; for let me tell you it is no light proof of friendship, turning out at this most un- christian hour. On my word, Barrington, its almost worth losing a fortune to find such friends, exclaimed Hugh, stretching out his hand. Im not quite so sure about that. At least, for my own part, I should rather make the discovery cheaper, returned Barrington; but now that matter is dis- posed of, Ill trouble you for a cup of coffee. CHAPTER XXXVIII. MARRIAGE, LOVE, AND LEAVE-TAKING. AFTER his violent divorce from all that had engrossed him in the most eventful years of his life; after his return from the City, infinitely more naked than he had entered it; after the wrench that tore his heartstrings from the remains of his pater- nal acres, Hugh had looked for consolation with Lucy. He was married now, and had seated himself by a domestic hearth, when it was become matter of grave speculation how he was to keep in the fire. He had no idea of hanging on in his altered circum- stances to shiver through an English winter of discontent. He found his susceptibilities jar him at each step he took, for after all he was a mere mortal, and not a hero of romance. The people he had lived with had plied him with insidious flattery, yield- ing him insensible deference as to a con- summate man of their world. It fretted his philosophy to find himself regarded diM- trustfully as a brilliant maniac, whose eccentricities it was impossible to count on; as a vagrant from exalted spheres, of essence too refined for earth, hurried along by caprice or conscience in most erratic orbits. He had moods when the old leaven fermented, and he sneered at himself from force of habit, as at a child rapt up in its latest toy while all around it went to wrack and ruin. But these moods were few and brief. Generally he recognized that it was only now he had gained firm standing- ground for an earnest start. If his present position were embarrassing, he was but paying the inevitable penalty of early errors. He had found but little difficulty in woo- ing Lucy to an early wedding-day. Never had courtship been more flattering, for each word and act of her lovers told her he left his fate and happiness in her hands. She had turned the current of his life, and stirred his nature to its depths. lie had proved the strength of their sympathies, by submitting his convictions to her influences, and deliberately laying his most cherished project at her feet. Of course when Hugh decided to sacrifice wealth and ambition, Lucy went into scarcely smothered trans- ports over their narrow means amid doubtful future. The haze that hung over their destinies was the choicest sweet in the cup that Providence was filling to the brim. The wedding had been as private as 22 AGAINST TIME. might be. The Childersleighs, the Hester- combes, MeAlpine, and Barrington, the guests. The sombre dress and subdued demeanour of those who stood nearest to the bride were not inappropriate to the crowning of a love whose course had flowed by shoals and shocks, the better omen, a5 Hugh whispered to his bride, that the broken waters would run smooth at last. Worn in mind and body, Sir Basil was there to give the bride away. The quiver- ing lip and starting tear showed how keenly he felt the parting. As Lucys eyes filled in sympathy, she would have reproached herself for her desertion, but when she looked on her husband, she remembered the claims he had bought so dearly. Sir Basil would have made handsome provision for one he had come to cherish as a daugh- ter, but. Hugh would hear nothing of it. lIe was hopeful of a speedy competency, and, in the passion of his independence, shrunk from laying himself or his wife under unnecessary obligations. Perhaps he might have thought it graceful to admit $ir Basils paternal claims, arid let him act in the mat- ter as he pleased. But he had reason to know that Childersleighs had felt the panic; and Purkiss, who had been beggared by it, so far as his private means went, took care to put his fathers proposals in so pleas- ant a light, that acceptance became out of the question. Itwas but too easy to parry them, for Sir Basils mind had been weak- ened past insistance on anything. At Maudes instigation, he was content to vent his affection characteristically in a long se- ries of cheques; and Mrs. Childerslcighs trousseau was much better suited to her position as her position might have been, than as it was. Lord Hestercombes first movement had been indignation at the crowning folly which had sealed the surrender of Childersleigh by marriage with a beggar, when an heiress had become ii~dispensable. But second thoughts, and the practical logic of Rush- brook, had brought his lordship to regard his nephews conduct from a more chivalrous point of view. He dared not counsel the nian who had given up all to honour to break his plighted word, because it was passed to a penniless orphan. That posi- tion once taken up, he behaved with cor- diality and delicacy, and claimed the right of a near relative to act with the magnifi- cence of a grand seigneur. His daughter volunteered to be twin-bridesmaid with Maude. The jewels presented by himself and the countess were so priceless, so sparklingly unsuited to the wife of an emi- grant, that they ruffled Hughs over-sensitive susceptibilities. He could regard them as nothing but an alms bestowed on the desti- tute. For Mr. and Mrs. Childerslcigh proposed to reconstruct their fortunes in Queensland. The Peninsular and Oriental Companys steamer Tanjore was to sail from Southamp- ton on September 28th as it chanced, the very morrow of the day appointed for the opening of THE WILL. Before they sailed, if they cared to hear it, they would learn the destiny of the money that had been Hughs first love and Lucys rival. Hugh had been thorougl~y off with that old love before taking up with the new one. With the property he had lately called his own, he had shifted his business cares on to the shoulders of the liquidators of the Cr6dit Foncier. Anticipating abdication, he had made over to Mr. Rivington the house in Harley Street. He had carried his bride to honeymoon it in one of those old-fash- ioned hostelries that still shelter in wooded nooks by the banks of the Thames, peaceful and rural still, in spite of excursionists by rail, and the rowing rowdyism of the river. An hostelry with deep thatched eaves, quaint casements, and eccentric gables, close- clipped hedges, and short-shaven lawns ablaze with scarlet geraniums. Thence he made those dashes to the City in search of an emigrants paraphernalia, that sent him back with redoubled zest to their Arcadia, to their strolls thrcigh furze and heather, and their saunters in fragrant woodlands; to the lazy paddling up long reachesof the river, and the floating back in a golden haze of love and dreams. One thing weighed up6n him, and that was the inevitable farewell to Childersleigh. There the past seemed to have buried its dead out of sight, and he shrank from wakening slumbering memory with her thou- sand stings. But there are bitter duties that are pleasures in their way, and leave-takings it would be sacrilegious to neglect; and one bright morning saw Mr. and Mrs. Childer- sleigh on the garden-terrace by the old yew hedge. On just such a morning by that very path he had approached his home the memorable day of the funeral. Then, for the first time, he had looked on his place as really his own, now it was gone from him for ever; all the interest he reserved in it was vain regrets and melancholy associations. The house, with its down-drawn blinds, seemed in mourning now as then, and its cheerless face was reflecting the depression on its late masters. The unlucky Marxby had passed with the multitude into the insolvent court. Pressed by shareholders eager to escape a AGAINST TIME. 23 call, the liqu1dators had forced the sale, and Childerslcigh had been knocked down to a West End solicitor at the very moderate upset price given him in a gift, that gen- tleman triumphantly observed, when the bargain was fairly closed. In the fulness of his seWgratulation he had made an off- hand offer to take furniture, fittings, & c., at a reasonable valuation, an offer promptly closed with for reasons akin to those that had sacrificed the place. Patterson, warned beforehand, was in waitin, to do the dismal honours, with a heai-t in sad harmony with the occasion, and a visage more melancholy than Childers- leighs own. fhe old man had no love- dreams to comfort him in his sorrow, and although the new purchaser had assured him his services would not be dispensed with, the light of his life seemed to be going out in darkness. His garrulousness was hushed, and inclination as much ~s natural delicacy kept him in the background. A self-posted patrol, he hovered round his master in the distance, to see that no profane stranger intruded on the leave-taking. What a heaven earth would be could we always appreciate all we have as keenly as we do when on the point of~ losing it. Chil- dersleigh Park lay flooded in the mellow lights of late summer. The scent-laden breeze breathing from the flowers was stir- ring the masses of foliage in waving lines of beauty; the shadows of golden boughs were dancing on the turf below to the drowsy hum of the bees. Everything ani- mate and inanimate seemed so thoroughly at home in the enjoyment of its existence, from the sheep that grouped themselves lazily in the elm-shade to the jackdaws that clamoured among the fantastic stacks of chimneys. Hugh envied the very swallows that dipped in the rippling water. They were going abroad like him, but, unlike him, they at least would be there again the succeeding summer. It was a relief to take refuge from the laughing beauty without doors, in the black ball and long dark-panelled corridors where the sunlight filtered so dimly through stained window-panes or heavy blinds. But as his eves accustomed themselves to the obscu- rity, they lighted at every turn on objects that riveted them with painful fascination. Not a table nor chair, but had its story to tell; claims of its own to put in for a part- ing pang. Remembering he looked his last on them all, in room after room, he stood lingering upon the threshold. Her eyes timidly following her husbands, guiltily avoiding them when they turned her way, Lucys heart was throbbing in painful sympathy with his. Th~ crowding sensa- tions that were grief to him were anguish to her. While all her being seemed unnatur- ally absorbed in his3 fbr the first time since their marriage he moved utterly unconscious of her presence, and to the jealousy of her love the first shadow of a cloud seemed settling between theni. Her self-reproach told her that in Childersleigh he might well feel resentfully to her, and for the moment she would have given the world to have r~- called the past and influenced him different ly. What right had she to set her childish impulses in opposition to the counsels of his sagest friends. She rested her trembling fingers in mute appeal on his arm. As he turned at the touch her doubts vanished, but only to leave her more bitterly self-reproach- ful than before. Forgive me, Hugh; but, indeed, I fan- cied I had guessed the sacrifices I longed to share with you. I swear to you, darling, much as I feel them, I never regretted them less than now. While I am tasting the bitters of your teach- ings, I know that the sweets are all to come. It might have been the other way, but what then? Better go to honourable exile than live on here in ceaseless remorse or, worse still, dishonourable unconsciousness. And then, he said, with an unclouded smile as he took her in his arms, you cant have everything in this world; and, heaven knows, although we leave Childers- leigh behind, I carry with me more thaa my share of Paradise. When Mr. and Mrs. Childersleigh em- erged on the gravel, Patterson was hurt and scandalized at their smiling faces. Hugh, in his awkward consciousness that cheerful- ness must seem singularly out of place just then, humbly strove to deprecate the old mans indignation. He did not, indeed, enter precisely into detailed explanation. But Patterson, under his impenetrable rind, had the shrewdness and some of the suscep- tibility of his nation; and~ looking at the flush on the downcast face of the bride, something like the bleak smile of a Novem- ber sun flickered over his own sorrowful features. Deed but shes bonny, he muttered, .sotto voce, as if the words had been inspired by conscience rather than sentiment. Gin there were mair lassies like her there would maybe be mair fules than Mr. Hugh. AGAINST TIME. CHAPTER XXXIX. RADLEYS. THERE are hotels where the same roof- tree covers the house of mourning and the house of mirth; where, as in the scene in Bigoletto, a thin partition separates the corpse from the carnival; where sighs an- swer to laughter, and the dirge blends with the joyous refrain. The old Falcon at Gravesend was one of them, with the vener- able panes in its bow-windows scribbled over with memorial names panes through which so many streaming eyes have watched the sea-hound Indiamen melting into the river fogs. Radleys at Southampton is another; and houses, perhaps, in the course of the year as many aching hearts as any city poor-house or hospital. In proportion even to its ample accommodations, it con- tained a most disproportionate amount of sorrow the night before the Taitjore was to sail for Alexandria. There were Rachels being reft of their children, who utterly re- fused to be comforted, and lifted up their voices till the passages echoed to their wails. There were children being orphaned, and fathers leaving all they cared for behind them, going to boil the family pot in sad solitude in the scorching tropics. Lucy Childersleibh, as she met upon the stairs close-veiled figures clinging convulsively to the arms of sad-eyed men, and pale-faced mothers looking wistfully after laughing children they were seeing the last of for years if not for ever, became very melan- choly, with a grateful sense of subdued con- tentment. As for Hugh, with the greater selfishness and callousness of men, he could hardly keep down that rising buoyancy of spirits which made Lucy so ready with her smiles when she felt tears would have been more in place. He had all but broken with the painful past, and was emerging at length from the night of uncertainty he had so long been groping in. Already he breathed the free air of the ocean; and raised his eyes towards the limitless horizon that stretched before them. To see them doing the hon- ours at their late dinner when the meal was drawing to a close, you would never have taken them for a couple of poverty-stricken adventurers, whose bark was on the shore and getting up her steam. McAlpine and Barrington, who had come to comfort and see the last of their friends, began to think. they might quite as well have stayed in London. Like Patterson, indeed, they felt rather aggrieved at the serenity with which the others bore up against the coming sep- aration. I tell you what it is, Hugh, grumbled I the former, to look at you and Mrs. Chil- dersleigh now, one would say you were pruning your feathers for the flight home again.~~ Well, so we are, McAlpine. At least we must be gone before we can come back, and, moreover, after tossing about among uncertainties, one is much inclined to find a home in the first firm land you set your foot on. But you need not remind us of the friends we leave behind us; be sure we shall remember and regret them soon enough and often enough. And I dont forget your promise and Barringtons to come and look us up whenever we may have a roof to offer you, and the sooner the bitterness of parting is over the sooner we shall have our merry meeting. So we shall, Hugh, but in the mean- time when I go north next week, there will seem to be less sunshine at Baragoil. Where you have little enough to spare, as Mrs. Childersleigh knows, remarked Barrington, striving to be cheQrful. As for coming to see you, Hugh, I never made a promise I meant more religiously to keep. I think I shall charter a steamer for the cruise to the antipodes. The Rushbrooks would join us, I know, but Lady Rushbrook to be wont leave Sir Basil. I tell her change of scene and sea air would set the old man on his legs again, and I verily be- lieve we shall see the Killoden circle re- united in Queensland. Never complete again, murmured Lucy, while a deep shadow fell on her hus- bands features. Barrington bit his lip, and cursed his stu- pidity, and blundered on with good-na- tured presence of mind No, Purkiss, I fear, will not be there, but that we must bear as we best can. He keeps his own secrets, and Sir Basil never meddles with business now-a-days, but by all accounts he will find it hard work to pull things round at Childers- lei gAs . Im greatly afraid the destination of Miss Childerslejghs money is likely to con- cern him as little as us. Poor Purkiss! I dont know any one who would have valued it more, but the language of her will and the amount of his legacy do not make me very hopeful for him. Queer, you should be talking it over this way, Hugh, remarked MeAlpine, as if you, of all men, had no concern in the matter. That is precisely how it is. The one thing 1 am sure of is, that none of it comes to me. Any one else may hope, even Lucy there. 24 AGAINST TIME. 25 So she may, to be sure, murmured MeAlpine, meditatingly. And why should not the old lady have put her in? She had adopted her, as you all thought. She saw far more of her than any one else. An excellent reason why she should not, returned Hugh, laughingly. Look at the opportunities she gave herself of ap- preciating me, and see what has come of them. Besides, Mr. Hooker had his finger in that pie of that I am very certain. Very likelylittle doubt of that, as- sented McAlpine, relapsing into silence and profound reflection, as if he had found the end of a clue in his fingers, and was setting himself to disentangle it. What, tea already! ejaculated Hugh, consulting his watch as the door was thrown open. Lord Rushbrook Mr. Rivington, announced the waiter, bending himself double, with the handle in his hand. By Jove, I said so! exclaimed McAl- pine. He had only thought it. Hugh himself turned slightly pale, and although he did stand up, forgot all about welcoming the arrivals, an omission which his wife, in blushing embarrassment, set herself to repair. Thank you, Mrs. Childersleigh, as Hugh has nothing to say for himself; hut the truth is, as Rivington found himself obliged to see you, on some pressing busi- ness, before you sailed, I thought I might as well have another look at you too. Rushbrook, who seemed unusually excited, paused, and then burst out, Oh, non- sense, its no use beating about the bush joy never hurts Hugh half guesses it, and McAlpine knows it all. Besides, you are both at one in your contempt for riches, as in most other things, and her elam push- ing myself forward where I have no business whatever, and taking the words out of Riv- ingtons mouth. Well, said Mr. Rivington, I wont deny myself the satisfaction of making an announcement, which has given me no ordi- nary pleasure, although, as Lord Rush- brook says, I see you more than half anticipate it. I have to congratulate Mr. Childersleigh then in being even more for- tunate than he believed himself, in having married a lady nearly as richly dowered with worldly wealth as with all other gifts. You mean to say? That Mrs. Childersleigh inherits every- thing some 160,0001. in round figures the house in Harley Street, furniture, plate, and family jewels. Lucy made a movement, as if then and there she would have thrown herself into her husbands arms, symbolically vesting him with all her newly-acquired goods and chattels; checked it; looked the proposed transfer, and hurried from the room. Her husband threw himself back in a chair. It was not the weight of the money he suc- cumbed to; what stunned him was this sud- den upset of all his carefully elaborated plans. A rich man in spite of yourself, al- though you made such an undeniable pau- per, observed Rushbrook, and very hard it is upon you, I must say. Fortune never will give you a chance. Youve taken your wife for better for worse, you see, chimed in McAlpine. You cant well help yourself; and, after all, you must remember she didnt mean it, so you had better go and make it up with her. Hugh took advantage of the thoughtful opening, and, with a brief apology, followed his bride. Which fully accounts for all Mr. Hook- ers and Mr. Hemprigges attentions to Miss Winter, remarked McAlpine, as Hugh left the room. Yet, do ~ou know, until some five minutes back, it never oc- curred to me which way the money was going.~~ Precisely, said Rivington. Hooker and that scamp of a son of his were in the secret all along, and at the bottom of the whole swindle. They would have done anything in the world for the orphan, assured beforehand that their charity would have its reward in this life. But why should Hemprigge have helped Hugh towards winning the money he meant for himself? He was too clever by half, and did not give Hugh credit for being half so clever, I fancy, suggested Rushbrook. He grasped at too much, and hoped Hugh might help him to one fortune while he won another in spite of him. To do him justice, he soon found out his mistake, and did his best to retrieve it. What proves Hooker knew all about it, is his keeping himself out of the way to-day; but~you ought to have seen Purkiss Childersleigh. Why? I am sure he can never accuse Miss Childersleigh of not doing her best to prepare him against disappointment. So one would have ima~, ined, but drowning men catch at straws, and I fear I greatly fear the partners of Chil- dersleigh are floundering in very deep water. Poor Sir Basil doesnt trouble his head much about it, but Purkiss, who was always thin, is shrivelling visibly into thread-paper. I watched him when Riving 26 AGAiNST TIME. ton broke the seals, and he had to hold on by the arms of his chair; while the memo- randum was being read, his jaw dropped, and his face turned to livid through half the colours of the rainbow. You would have called it a sudden spasm of cholera. But here comes supper dinner which you like, and very thoughtful it is of Hugh, for I never ordered it. When a fellow thinks of the happiness of others in a sudden flush of prosperity, why he deserves all lie gets. Sit down, Rivington. Hugh himself, the bearer of many apolo- gies from his wife, cariie back to do the honors. If he had.screwed up his reso- lution to contemplate the antipodes with positive pleasure, his mind flew naturally enough back to old habits of thought, when the heavy pressure that had borne on it was removed. Then he was given a fresh lease of those home friendships that had stood such fiery tests, and spared a fresh series of experiments on colonial human nature. Considering how honestly his heart had been set on the toil and adventures that awaited him, it was strange how little he regretted them. He resigned himself with complacency and good temper to ex- tending himself once more on a bed of roses, and it only seemed the more tempt- ing that the rose-leaves were strewed for him by the little hands of his wife. Upon my word, for a man so bent on emigration as you were yesterday, you hear up wonderfully, said Rushbrook; for I dont suppose you intend to occupy cabin No. 7, or whichever the number was in the Tanjore? No, I fancy we shall defer our visit to Queensland till Barrington gives us a pas- sage out in his steam-yacht. And I am sorry for it. The Tanjore cabin was so snug, and the steward and stewardess tipped in advance. But I must say, now I dare to think of it, Hants and Surrey did look lovely to-day, and I dont know that I shall be sorry to see them again to-morrow. Heigho His face clouded slightly as he closed the sentence with a genuine sigh. The truth is, his thoughts had travelled back by the South-Western to Childers- leigh, gone beyond recall. Afte~ all, the Childersleigh money had come too late. To him England could never again be all it might have been. Did Barrington divine what was passing in his mind? Was he on the watch for cer- tain symptoms, for certainly in general he was no very quick observer. At any rate, the others thought he might have spared their friend a painful subject when he said, Pity now you parted with your place eb, Childersleigh P I always told yomm you would repent that hit of Quixotry. At least you have the satisfaction of knowing yourself a true prophet, returned Childersleigh, impatiently. I said you would be sorry for it, and I was sure you would. But in those days Mrs. Childersleigh led you by the heart- strings, and there was no use arguing with you. Well, well, said Childersleigh, who had mastered his passing irritation; If I was a fool to listen to Ibolish counsels, you must confess we have come off better than we deserved. As for Childersleigh, I ~wn I would rather talk about anything else. It used to be a pleasant subject, but now You followed your own line, pursued Barrington, imperturbably, as if Hugh had never spoken, and all your friends could do Was to take theirs. You would not care to buy it back, would yoi, if it came into the market by any chance? Hugh looked at him in silence. Joys are like sorrows, he thought, and you often flush theni in coveys. Because if you did, I dont mind leb- ting you have it for what I gave. You see I have one place in Norfolk already, and dont much care about another. The Ii- quidators were in such a deuce of a hurry to sell, that I was tempted to sink my spare capital at Childersleigh, and they tell me I had it reasonably enough. You are not trifling with me, Barring- ton? Not I, indeed. I should have prepared a dramatic surprise for you and Mrs. Chil- dersleigh~, when I had persuaded you to pay me a visit. But in the first place, I thought it was n~o use letting you fret yourself use- lessly. God knows you have had bother enough lately. And then MeAlpine, whom I took into the secret a few minutes ago, suggested there would be nothing original in it, that I should find the idea in Wat~er- ley. So Childersleigh is yours whenever you like, my dear fellow. You ought to find everything from the weathercocks to the doormats just as you left it, and if you choose to rough it on a scratch establish- ment, I see no reason why you should not go there to-morrow, and wind up your hon- eymoon under the ancestral trees. Bless you, my dear fellow, I was convinced you would want the place sooner or later: it was only a question of timne. I had hoped to have been out of pocket by the arrange- ment, but it is fated I shall never pay off that Homburg debt of mine with its com- pound interest. And now, said Barring- AGAINST TIME. 27 ton, concluding the longest and most suc- for the day, although he nominally occupied cessful speech he had ever made, suppose his rooms at Hestercombe House. we leave him to sleep on the events Lord Hestercombe arrived in the course of the day. Im afraid you are not quite of the afternoon in a state of visible ex- out of your trouble yet, Hugh, and are in citement, and took an early opportunity of for a broken night after all you have gone claiming his nephews services to do him through in the evening. the out-door honours of the place. I have not seeii it since your fathers CHAPTER XL. time, except that evening when I ran down for the funeral. I should like to know that HOME AT LAST. things have not changed much for the worse in your absence. And when he got his IT was bright autumn, and all was life at nephew out of earshot his lordship broke Childersleigh. The house had cast off its out: You dont lappen to have heard the weeds and put on the garments of gladness. news from Wurzelshire? The gravel was scored with wheels and What news? dinted with hoof-marks, the stable-yard I thought not. I only chanced to hear lumbered with dusty carriages, smoking it as I passed through the town. Poor Ro- horses and hissing grooms. The triumphal per, who came in for the county when you arches that spanned the gates of the park declined, shot in the thigh at a battue at and church-yard had cost Patterson many a Worsley. Couldnt stop the bleeding sleepless night, and Childersleigh some went off in a couple of hours. little vexation. The church-bells rang out Ah! those doleful merry peals that gave a tinge Yes, most melancholy business; leaves so sad to English merry-making. Without, a young widow and half-a-dozen children. the house was en fete; within, there was So we must have a man in the field forth- literally house-warming, for Mr. and Mrs. with, and the address must be ready for the Childersleigh had come down to take day after th~ funeral. The Liberals have formal possession of their home. Assur- been hard at work with the registration edly no one would have looked to see Lord roll. Im only afraid your refusing last Hestercombe staying calmly on the borders time may have hurt you with Dunstan- of the London postal dietrict in October, burgh. or his son lingering in the metropolis while I really dont think it did. I dont the cock pheasants were crowing peacefully fancy I spoiled any chance I may have with in the Hestercombe coverts. But Rush- him. brook, resolved on matrimony, was not the And this time you would stand if he man to stand loitering on the threshold of were to repeat his offer? the temple of Hymen. Moreover, philo- Nothing in the world I should like bet- sophically evoking good from evil, in the ter, now I am back at Childersleigh, and an failing state of Maudes fathers health, he idle man. had seen a golden chance of being married Gad, Ill send off a special messenger in rational fashion, without having his mod- to Dunstanburgh this very day before din- esty shocked by the demonstrations with ner. They told me at The Travellers he which, in normal circumstances, the heir of was expected in town. the Hestercombes would have been pa- And in high good-humour his lordship raded before the altar. His own mind passed his arm through his nephews, built made up, he easily imposed his will on his castles in the air and in estminster, father, for the Earl was haunted with the j praised and admired everything he saw, apprehension that his only son might slip and finally launched into the future of his back through his fingers to hopeless bachel- son. ornood. Lady Hestercombe herself was I wish Rushbrook could be persuaded made the intercessor with her destined to try public life. I do wish yor example daughtcr-in-law for advancing the day, for, I would tempt him to that as well as to that in Sir Basils state of health. Maude was other absolutely her own mistress. Hugh backed I fear it will not, but theres no saying. her ladyship with all his interest and elo- I am quite sure he would distinguish him- quence, so did Lucy; and when their joint j self if he cared to try. Few men have entreaties had prevailed, it had been settled sounder sense, and I can imagine no one the wedding should be combined with the more likely to be ready in debate. How- Childersleigh house-warming. The circle j ever, he is active by nature although idle assembled there limited itself to our inti- I by habit; and once married and settled mate friends, Lord Rushbrook joining it~ may want a pursuit. - 28 AGAINST TIME. I suppose marriage is the best thing that could happen to him? No question of it. Rushbrook is just the sort of man that marriage is the making of; he wants an anchor to keep him from drifting. By the way, as it turns out, I fear Maude will have little more money than what she takes under her mothers settlements. We have married heiresses too often in our family that money should be an object with us now-a-days. The worst of it is, if one does go to the City, people will give you credit for finding a fortune there. My feeling is, that it is a pity, in the circum- stances, Sir Basil does not retire in name as well as re~tlity. Retiring is the one thing that would touch him now, and moreover, the new partners pay heavily for taking over the name of Childersleigh with the business. The difference it makes in the purchase- money may involve the present firms es- cape from insolvency. Then what becomes of the son? I confess I dislike him infinitely more than anything else in the connection. I assure you I dont quarrel with your taste. Purkiss, I believe, remains in the house, ostensibly a partner, actually a cy- pher, the new men are much too shrewd to trust his vaunted talents. And I dont envy his lot. What with the loss of for- tune, occupation, and prospects, and the perpetual fret to his vanity, the bitterest enemy he has made might be content with his punishment. You may bear with him in the meantime, for if ever I read a mans future in his face, poor Purkiss will not trouble you long. As the pair strolled towards the house in friendly chat, a servant bustled out to them with a letter for Mr. Childersleigh, marked immediate. Hugh opened it with an apology to his uncle, and then passed it to him with a smile. So you were right about Dunstan- burgh, exclaimed the peer, and I con- fess nothing can be more handsome or flattering. If Dunstanburgh comes after you a second time, he believes you will do him credit, and I never knew him deceived in a man yet. You may possibly have to fight the seat this time, but there can be no rational doubt of our winning it, and as for the expenses, they must be my affair. Nay, no words about it. I gave into you about Rushbrooks wedding and your house-warm- ing here, and I am quite determined to have my own way in this. It was natural enough that Mr. Childers- leighs oldest friends should make a point of offering him their congratulations on a day so auspicious. Nevertheless he was a little surprised when Mr. Hookers name was brought him, as he was on the point of retiring to dress for dinner. Send him up, he said, after a moments hesitation. And Mr. Hooker entered, his scrupulous- ly brushed garments bagging on his wasted form, rubbing his hands nervously in the old fashion; his worn face plastered with greasy smiles, distrust and suspicion lurk- ing in the corners of his lips and eyes, feeling the ground as he advanced into the room, like a highland pony picking its steps among moss-hags. Oh, Mr. Childersleigh, that I should have been spared to see this happy day! Thanks, Hooker, said Mr. Childers- leigh, rather brusquely. Well, now you may sing your Nunc dimitti8 I mean youd better go down and get some dinner before you go back to town. Oh, Mr. Childersleigh! Never mind them now. Ill take the rest of your congratulations for granted. But, sirMr. Childersleigh there may possibly be unfavourable impressions. I should be happy to take this opportuni- ty Ill spare you the trouble of discussing my affairs. If you have anything to say about your own, say on. Well, Mr. Childersleigh, if, as an old servant of the family, not that it was that brought me here, I need hardly say, if I might venture to request your countenance and recommendation in the new profession I have been constrained to adopt in my old age Which is? One, perhaps, you may think not altogether suited to a man of my standing. But resignation is a Christian duty, and my necessities would not be denied. I can as- sure you, Mr. Childersleigh It is ~ Well, then, its delicate inquiries, sir. Mr. Ferret, the eminent detective, of Cecil Street, retains my services on his staff; with a separate commission on any business I may be the means of introducing to the establishment. Should you, at any time, have occasion If I should take to underhand dealings at any time, I shall infallibly think of you. Good-evening. By the way, said Hugh to his guests, when the ladies had left the dinner-table by the way, I have just had a call from an old friend, come to beg me to advertise him. And he rehearsed his little dialogue with Mr. Hooker with much animation. 29 AGAINST TIME. The very best thing he could take to, observed Lord Rushbrook, now that he has been stripped of every shred of the character he took such care of. Ile looks so respectable, and is such a thorough- paced scoundrel! Suppose, Rushbrook, we set him ago- ing with an engagement, observed McAl- pine. Retain him to hunt down that precious son of his. He is more likely to run into him than any one else, and just the man to do it, if you make it worth his while! Ah, that reminds me! exclaimed Barrington, who had arrived by a late train before dinner. Will you allow me to ring for the evening paper, Hugh? There is something in it will interest you all, although it must deprive Mr. Hooker of the engagement you kindly intend him. He took the paper from the servant, and read aloud Horrible tragedy Murder of an ab- sconding Secretary. By the latest jour- nals from the Havannah, we learn the tragic end of the notorious Mr. Hemprigge. Hemprigge, it would appear, had taken his passage at Cadiz for Cuba. On board the Spanish mail-boat, the play at monti~ had been even deeper than usual, and heavy sums had changed hands, greatly to the advantage of the fortunate Englishman, who travelled under a nom de voyage. Arrived at the Havannah, it would seem Hemprigge had lingered on. giving his victims their revenge, until whispers of foul play were followed by threats that, doubtless, reached his ears. Literally on the eve of his intended departure for Aspin- wall, a stranger returning to the Fonda de lEspa~a stumbled over his yet warm body almost on the threshold of the hotel. The unhappy man had been stabbed under the arm from behind, and when picked up, life was extinct. As his watch and costly jewellery were found on his person, re- venge was presumed to be the motive of the crime. The arrival shortly afterwards of the English detectives, who had followed him from London, led to an identification, subsequently placed beyond all question by documents discovered in his lu~age.~ There was general silence. Except Lord Hestercombe and Barrington himself, all of them had known Hemprigge personally, and known him well. To Hugh it seemed but yesterday that he was loathing the dead man and longing to be rid of him on any terms. But now his thoughts flew back to the earlier days, when they had been allies and intimates, if not frienCs. In his un- feigned grief over the fate of his former ac- quaintance, he felt in genuine charity with his surviving enemy, and could hooker have penetrated his remorsefully generous intentions, the shock of his sons fate would, doubtless, have been softened to him. Hughs friends respected his evident emo- tion, if they did not altogether sympathize with it, and Lord Hestercombe broke in on a hush that was becoming painful, by mak- ing the move to leave the table. It was a relief when his guests, dispers- ing for the night, left Hugh alone with his wife to take actual possession of their home, and give free vent to their thoughts. Hemprigge dead, Purkiss and scores of better men beggared! I wish you could tell me, Lucy, why I should be wedded and rich and happy when so many have come to frightful grief in the rush for wealth? They were as they showed: you were always better than you seemed. They have had their reward, as you have. You helped Mr. Barrington in the first of your prosper- ity, and saved yourself Childersleigh. You thought of me in the shock of your own ad- versity, when no one else did, and No great merit in that, interrupted Hugh, thinking his wife looked more lovely than ever in her defence of her husband against himself. And as you took his happiness in charge and mine, you must really forgive us for doing something for yours in our turn. But how you would have resented anything of the sort, Hugh, when I first knew you! I believe you are right, Lucy, he laughed. But since then I have seen my best-laid schemes fail, and my wisdom turn to folly; even my honour might have gone in the match with time, had I not persuad- ed you to take charge of my education. And now I am quite resigned to accept yourself and your fortune, and everything else you and heaven may have in store for me as the price of my obedience. If Lord Rushbrook only makes Maude half as happy, murmured Lucy, half clos- ing her eyes in her ideal paradise. PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. Macmillans Magazine. PORTRAITS A~D MEMOIRS. BY H. H. H0R~E. THE wanderer in far distant lands who looks out of his window upon strange peo- ple and strange scenes; or, seated with his back to the trunk of a tree in the lonely wilderness, contemplates the throng!ng maze of trees and stems, till, dazed with the apparent sameness, his emotions and thoughts are driven back upon himself, ceases, in process of time, to compare these things with scenes in his native country, and gazes upon them for what they are in themselves, and with reference to his own isolated existence. Sometimes, when look- ing up at the stars, seen furtively through the ragged waving tops of lofty forest-trees, and also at times when standing in the shadow of some rock or other darkness, watching orwaiting on a special duty, with his horse silently feeding aroend him at the length of an unbuckled bridle, the wan- derer may say to himself, What is the dif- ference to me what does the reality amount to between this place and my far- off native land P Here, where I am stand- ing in darkness, or amidst the imperfect light of midnight woods, might be some part of England; and to-morrow morning I shall see my dearest friends. Yet how purely imaginary this is, for many of those friends have passed away. He will see them no more. The sense of personal identity misleads him; the mind is its own place, and yet the difference between an exiles dwelling and his native home may be that of the distance of half the world! land or water and, in many cases, it may be the yet greater difference and distance of a little narrow grave. Still, the vague idea of sameness, or of proximity, will occasionally present itself, and is in gen- e.ral a consoling influence. But an equally remarkable phenomenon becomes habitual with most of those who have been very long absent from their native land, viz, the loss of a true sense of the progress of time, and with it a loss of the anticipatiQa or prevision of those changes, by age or by death, which must inevitably have occurred at home, no news of which, in so many instances, will have reached him. He has watched the sun and moon rise again, and ever again, and rec- ognized them as the same he delighted in at home; but he has not foreseen the whit- ening of the hair of those he left in their youth, nor speculated with solemn inward tears upon the painfrl sunbeams across the grave-stone, and the cold moonlight and black shadows of the old village churchyard. He has never realized the effect of a dear familiar old room utterly metamorphosed by new furniture and strange pictures on the walls; or, far more stinging to the nerves, the same furniture and general appearance without those with whom they were associated the meLncholy table, the vacant seat. Every time the door of the room is opened by somebody outside, what a disappointment to the instincts of th~ heart! But he had not thought of that beforehand. Old walking-sticks, hats, um- brellas, old arm-chairs, how suggestive they are, how rife with the keenest emotions of personal associations and tender memories; yet how little had they been anticipated. No wonder at this and other mental pur- blindness, when probably he was almost unconscious of the deep-trenched lines in his own face, and the iron-crey, or solemn snow-fall, of his own hair. How clearly and vividwly, how minutely in all their circumstances and details do some persons we had formerly known, present themselves to the imagination, as though not years and months, but scarcely weeks or days, had intervened. A fragile form is now before my minds eye as distinctly as it was in reality more than twenty years ago! The slender figure is seated by a fire in the drawing-room of Mr. G. S., the pub- lisher of a novel which had b~ ought the authoress at one hound to the top of popu- lar admiration. There has been a dinner- party, and all the literary men whom the lady had expressed a wish to meet, had been requested to respect the publishers desire, and the ladys desire, that she should remain unknown as to her public position. Nobody was to know that this was the authoress of Jane Eyre. She was simply Miss Bront~i, on a visit to the family of her host. The dinner-party went off as gaily as could be expected where several people are afraid of each other with- out quite knowing why; and Miss Bront~ sat very modestly and rather on her guard, but quietly taking the measure of les mon~ stres de talent, who were talking and taking wine, and sometimes bantering each other. Once only she issued from her shell, with brightening looks, when somebody made a slightly disparaging remark concerning the Duke of Wellington, for whom Miss Bronti~ declared she had the highest admiration; and she appeared quite~ ready to do battle with one gentleman who smilipgly suggested that perhaps it was because the Duke was an Irishman. Now it should be premised, that the writer of these papers had sent a presenta- tion copy of a certain poem, addressed xi 30 PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. 31 complimentary, but very earnest terms, to~ the Author of Jane Eyre, the lady whose nom de plume was Currer Bell, and whose rcal name we were not to know. To this she had replied in a note, which concluded with these words: How far the applause of critics has re- warded the author of Orion I do not know; but I thiuk the pleasure he enjoyed in its com- position must have been a bounteous meed in itself. You could not, I imagine, have writ- ten that poem without at tlines deriving deep happiness from your work. With sincere thanks for the pleasure it has afforded me, I remain, dear Sir, Yours faithfully, C. BELL. On joining the ladies in the drawing- room, our host requested the writer to take a seat beside Miss Bronti~. The moment he did so, she turned towards him with the most charming artlessness, exclaiming, I was so much obliged to you, Mr. Home, f6r sending me your She checked herself with an inward start, having thus at once exploded her Currer-Bell secret, by identifying herself with the Author of Jane Eyre. She looked embarrassed. Ah, Miss Bront~, whispered the inno- cent cause of the not very serious misfor- tune; you would never do for treasons ~nd stratagems. She nodded acquiesently, but with a degree of vexation and self-re- proach. Shortly after this, Mr. S., over- hearing some conversation between us, which showed that the secret was out, took an early opportunity of calling rue aside, when he extended both hands, with an et tu Brute look and bevtn to complain of my breach of the generaT understanding. I of course explained what the lady had said, at the naivet~ of which he was not a little astonished and amused. A very gentle, brave, and noble-spirited woman was Charlotte Bronti~. Fragile of form, and tremulous as an aspen leaf, she had an energy of mind and a heroism of character capable of real things in pri- vate life, as admirable as any of the fine delineations in her works of fiction. Noth- ing she has ever done seems to me more truthful, more magnanimous, and more touching than the brieP preface she wrote to a new edition of her sisters novel of Wuthering Heights. Emily was dead; her novel had not been appreciated; not well spoken of by the critics; not well re- ceived by the public; and mainly in conse- quence of frequent violations, in no instance of the reality of the characters she had so wonderfully portrayed in their time and place, but violation of the so-called taste of the day, which does not permit coun- try squires and others to swear in oaths with proper spelling, but only by a first and last letter and a hushing-up dash, to mark the prudent authors disapproval of a pro- fane tongue. There were also some other startling excrescences, but only as the ex- cess of force in the reality of the pictures, all very pardonable in the first work of a young author. Wuthering Heights is one of the most powerful novels ever writ- ten in the English language, or any other language. It did indeed deserve a better fate. Emily Bront~ died without receiving any public recognition of her genius, and although the inward fangs of a fatal disease were doing their certain work, the world might perhaps have had another creation from that so potent spirit; and in any case the feeling of some public acknowledgment that she had not lived, and felt, and thought, and laboured in vain, would have helped to smooth her death-pillow, and to have made the brief remaining period of her generous sisters own life more happy. With what earnest emotion does Charlotte Bront~ strive in that preface to place her sisters fame beside, or above, her own; with what noble yet almost tearful energy she seems to keep down her reproaches of the shallow judgment, the prudery, an.d want of pert ception, which had refused to admit Emily to her rightful place among writers of fic- tion! The ancient Romans used to set up a statue to Success, and worshipped it as a god. What could the figure have been like, one wonders P Such a deity could not well be set up, admissibly and substantially as such, in modern tim~es; but, 0 Discre- tion! how often do we notice that for want of thee, the best things may fail utterly, while, with thine aid, mediocrity in all shapes may become most prosperous. But let us change the scene from London squares to the green lanes of Berkshire its cottages, its gardens; and, above all, let us contemplate the abode of one who, not many years ago, was the presiding spirit of the scene. There used to be, and there no doubt still is, if I had but the courage to go and look at it, a small, old-fashioned cottage at Three-mile Cross, near Reading, which stood in a garden close to the road. A strip of garden was on one side, a little bit of a pony-stable on the other, and the larger part of the garden at the back. It was a comfortable-looking, but still a real village cottage, with no town or suburb look what- ever about it. Small lattice windows, below and above, with roses and jasmine creeping round them all, established its rural charac 32 PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. ter; and there was a great buttress of a convey a true likeness of Mary Russell chimney rising from the ground at the gar- Mitford. During one of these visits, Miss den-strip side, which was completely coy- Charlotte Cushrnan was also staying at the ered with a very ancient and very fine cottage, and exclaimed, the first time Miss apricot tree. There the birds delighted to Mitford left the room, What a hright face sit and sing among the leaves, and build it is! This effect of summer brightness too, in several snug nooks, and there in all over the countenance was quite remark- early autumn the wasps used to bite and able. A floral flush overspread the whole bore into the rich-ripe brown cracks of the face, which seemed to carry its own light largest apricots, and would issue forth in with it, for it was the same indoors as out~ rage when any one of-the sweetest of their The silver hair shone, the forehead shone, property was brought down to the earth by the cheeks shone, and, above all, the eyes the aid of a clothes-prop, guided under the shone. The expression was entirely genial, superintending instructions of a venerable cognoscitive, beneficent. The outline of little gentlewoman in a garden-bonnet and the face was an oblate round, of no very shawl, with silver hair, very bright hazel marked significance beyond that of an ap- eyes, and a rose-red smiling countenance. pIe, or other rural character; in fact, it Altogether, it was one of the brightest faces was very like a rosy apple in the sun. any one ever saw. Always excepting the forehead and chin. Now, my dear friend, would she say, The forehead was not only massive, but if you will only attend to my advice, you built in a way that sculpture only could will get that apricot up there, which is quite adequately delineate. Mrs. Browning (at in perfection. I have had my eye upon it that time Miss Elizabeth Barret), in a note these last three weeks, wondering nobody to a friend concerning Miss Mitford, de- stole it. The boys often get over into the scribed her forehead as of the ancient garden before any of us are up. There Greek type, and compared it to her idea of now, collect all those leaves, if you will be Akinetos, or the Great Unmoved,* although so good and those too and lay them all wemay doubt whether the amiable authoress in a heap just underneath, so that the apri- of Our Village would have felt very cot may fall upon them. If you dont do much pleased or complimented by the unex- that, it will burst open with a thump. pected comparison. Howbeit, this brain- There! now push the prop up slowly, so as structure accounted to me for the fact that to break the apricot from the stalk, and Miss Mitfords conversation was often very when it is down, do not be in too great a superior to anything in her books. Having hurry to take it up, as its sure to have a on one occasion suggested this, she said, good large wasp or two inside. Wasps are smiling: Well, you see, my dear friend, capital judges of ripe wall-fruit, as my dear we must take the world as we find it, and it father used to say. A little lower with the doesnt do to say to everybody, all that you prop! more to the left now just push would say to one, here and there. And the prong upwards, and gently lift again presently afterwards, when alluding to sev down it comes! Mind the wasps! eral persons, without mentioning any names, three, four mind! perhaps thats not for she was a very polite lady of the old all~ five! I told you so! school, Miss Mitford added: One has to How angry they are! think twice before speaking once, in order Not more, my dear friend, than you to come down to them; like talking to and I would have been under similar cir- children. cumstances. This build of head, and strong oblate I had not known Miss Mitford very long outline of head and face, will go far to cx- at this time; but it was her habit to ad- plain the strength of character displayed dress all those with whom she was on inti- by Miss Mitford daring the early and most mate terms, by some affectionate expression. trying periods of her life with her extrava- For several years, however, I used to pay gant and selfish father. It may also equally a visit of a week or ten days to Miss Mit.. account for her general composure and fords cottage during the strawberry season, presence of mind, both on great occasions and again during the middle of summer, and others, trifling enough to talk and when her show of geraniums (she resisted write about, but of a kind to test the nerves all new nomenclatures) was at its height, of most ladies. For instance, in driving and sometimes later when the wonderful Miss Mitford one day in her little pony- old fruit-trees just retained some half-dozen chaise on a morning visit, she so riveted my of their choicest treasures. It would be attention on the special point of a story, impossible for any engraving or photo- graph, however excellent as to features, to In xr. Hornss poem of~ Orion. En. PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. 33 that I allowed one wheel to run into a little dry ditch at the roadside, and the pony- chaise must of course have turned over, hut that we were brought up by the hedge. Ilillo! my dear friend! said Miss Mit- ford; we must get out. We did so; the little trap was at once put on its proper course, and without one word of comment, the bright-faced old lady took up the thread ef her story. Her favourite seat in the cottage, in the garden, arid in the large greenhouse where she received visitors during the straw- berry season (her usual definition of certain months), I have not revisited, and had better never do so. What people fondly call a melancholy pleasure, is very intelligible, very expressive, and cer- tainly very English. Without being ad- dicted to deep sentiment like our cousin Germans, we certainly are very fond of courting gloom and sadness, not only in the performnnce of funerals, but in seeking sights and associations which are anything but a pleasure. Surelyit is the best philos- ophy to avoid them. But no doubt I shall go there some day. My first acquaintance with the authoress of Our Village was by a note from Miss Barrett (whom I only knew by literary currespondence, and had never seen), both so much regarded in private and in public, and now so lamented. This note enclosed one from Miss Mitford, expressing a wish to have a dramatic sketch for some annual, or other ornamental thing, she found it her interest, but no particular pleasure, to edit. That occasion was my first introduction to Miss Mitford; and my first to the learned and accomplished poetess the greatest lyric poetess the world has ever known was by a note from Mrs. 0., enclosing one from the young lady, containing a short poem, with. the modest request to be frank- ly told whether it might be ranked as poet- ry, or merely verses. As there could be no doubt in the recipients mind on that point, the poem was forwarded to Cotburns New Monthly, edited at that time by Mr. Bulwer (now Lord Lytton), where it duly appeared in the current number. The next manuscript sent to me, was The Dead Pan, and the poetess at once started on her bright and noble career. It may be generally understood that this equally gifted and accomplished lady, hav- ing been fort years confined to her rooms, like an exotic plant in a green-house, being considered in constant danger of rapid decline, occupied her time, not only in the arduous study of poetry, but in acquiring a knowledge of the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew UVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 837 languages. She was also well acquainted with all the greatest authors of France and Italy, in the original, and, ostensibly, with the poetry of the Portuguese. But it is not so generally known, and perhaps very little known, tlat she was a most assiduous reader of English literature, and conversant equally with the earliest authors, and the best of those of our own day. Her criticisms in the Athenarum, and in her private letters, are exquisite; discriminating and applaud- ing all the power and beauty; lenient to errors and shortcomings, and rich with imaginative illustrations. She had a subtle instinct as to character, the more remarka- ble considering her years of seclusion from the world. But these things can only be known to the very few who enjoyed the privilege of being in her society, or ranking among her correspondents. In the opinion of some of them, nobody ever wrote such letters and notes, not even the most cele- brated of the lady letter-weiters handed down for the worlds admiration. The general knowledge, the varied learning and reading, the fine taste, and the noble heart and mind, were only to be surpassed, if that could be, by her utter simplicity and charming colloquial carelessness. Of course no single letter would display all these qualities, but it would be difficult to pro- duce haWa-dozen which did not. Having only occasionally had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Ja,meson, the writer would have felt diffident in venturing to bring her upon the scene. Fortunately this can be referred to a better hand, Mrs. Jameson having visited Miss Barrett during her period of seclusion. The date of the follow- lowing letter appears to be December 3, 1844: Not a sound not a sign! . . . Tell me, for I do long to hear what is called now-a-days the real mesmeric truth. Orororoi in English we have nothing complaining enough, though we are said, here in England, to have the spirit of grumbling. Since I wrote last I have seen Miss Mitford again, and I have lately received her promise of an early visit. That is, she will come as she did before, for what poor L. E. L. used to call the super-felicity of talking, and stay with me from noon-tide to seven oclock P.M. Also I have seen Mrs. Jameson, ... and she over- came at last by sending a note to me from the next house 51, W St. Do you know her? She did not exactly reflect my idea of Mrs. Jameson. And yet it would be both un- true and ungrateful to tell you that she disap- pointed me. In fact she agreeably surprised me in one respect for I had been told that she was pedantic, and I found her as unassuming as a woman need he both unassuming and 34 PORTRAITS AND MEMOIi~S. natural. The tone of her conversation, how- ever, is rather analytical and critical than spon- taneous and impulsive and for this reason she appears to me a less charming companion than our friend of Three-mile Cross, who wears her heart upon her sleeve, and shakes out its per- fumes at every moment. She Mrs Jameson is keen and calm, and reflective. She has a very light complexion pale, lucid eyes thin colourless lips, fit for incisive meanings a nose and chin projective without breadth. She was h~re nearly an hour, and though on a first visit, I could perceive that a vague thought, or ex- pression, she would not permit to pass either from my lips or her own. Yetnothing could be greater than her kindness to me, and I already think of her as of a friend. Miss Martineau is astounding the world with mesmeric statements through the medium of the ./Ithenceum and yet, it happens so, that I believe few converts will be made by her. The medical men have taken up her glove bru- tally as dogs might do dogs, exclusive of my Flush, who is a gentleman. Well, have you received my poems? In the Pans you will observe that I accepted certain of your suggestions, and neglected others ne- glected some, because I did not agree with you, and some because I could not follow my own wishes. In fact, or rather by fantasy, that poem seemed to me to belong to Mr. Kenyon. In various manners, past describing, he has lavished so much interest and kindness on it, and on me through it, that he seemed to me to have all the rights of adoption. He wanted va- rious things altered, which I altered for the most part. Here and there, however, I - was obliged to resist though not without pain. And when I proposed having the Greek names (on which point I do altogether in my inward soul agree with you), he spurned the idea of turning Jove into Zeus, and I had not the cour- age to stand by my arms. The volumes are succeeding, past any expectation or hope of mine. Blackwoods high help was much, and Taits not unavailing. Then I continue to have letters of the kindest, from unknown readers. I had a letter yester- day from the remote region of Gutter-lane, be- ginning, I thank thee! . . . The American publisher has printed fifteen hundred copies. If I am a means of ultimate loss to him, I shall sit in sackcloth. . Here follows.a bit of admirable criticism on Leigh Hunt (and incidentally on Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Mil- ton), which Leigh Hunt himself, had he read it, would have been generous enough to forgive; and he would also have been wise enough to turn again to the pages of the great writers in question, in order to reconsider some of his previous objections. What is remarked, however, of the dead silence observed by modern poets concern- ing each other, as though no others even existed, would be almost as inapplicable to Leigh Hunt as to Ben Jonson. I have net heard a word from Leigh Hunt. I am grateful enough to him as it is, hav- ing, in addition to all former causes of grati- tude, the present delight of reading his new critical work upon poetry. The most delight- ful and genial of poetical critics he is assuredly. Not that I always agree with him. I have it in my head, for instance, that he knows Ben Jonson somewhat superficially, ana under- rates his lyrics immensely and accepts the pop- ular prejudice about his jealousy, & c., even blindly. Is there a poet of England, new or old, who has written so much praise of his con- tempraries as Ben Jonson? I know not. Does that fact prove jealousy in him? I infer not. Then, Beaumont and Fletcher he is niggardly in selections from, and for a reason I do not ad- mit, for he says that it is impossible to quote a passage longer than a very short one, without falling upon matter of offence. Respectfully, I abjure the reasonableness of such a reason. Then, again, I seriously am of opinion that even if he rejects, . . . he might, out of the broad sympathy of a poets heart, have had patience with Miltons divinity, as another form of my- thology. There may be sectarianism in the very cutting off of sectarianism. I am sorry (very) for some things said, and some things left unsaid, in the paper on Milton for instance, the omission of one of the very noblest odes in the English language (that on the birth of the Na- tivity), because it is not on the birth of Bacchus! Objections like these apart, the book is, however, a beautiful book, and will be a companion to me for the rest of my life. My brother George gave it to me as the most accep- table gift in the world. Talking of books of poetry, tell me the name of the poem you are writing. My American friends ask about your Gregory, Cosmo, and Marlowe, and want to naturalize them a little more. Mr. Tennyson is quite well again, I under- stand. Wordsworth is in a fever about the railroad which people are going to drive through the middle of the Lake School. So excited was he, that his wife persuaded him to go from home for a time, and compose his mind. He went, l~e an obedient husband but he came back with ten fevers instead of one and the time of his absence lie spent in canvassing for Members of Parliament who would not say aye to it. Fifty have promised, he says, to protect him al- though Monckton Milnes, having caught cor- ruption from the lJtilitarians, dares to oppose the master-pcet front to front, and sonnet to sonnet. Mr. Browning has not returned to England yet. And then I hear that Carlyle wont be- lieve in Mesmerism, and calls Harriet Martin- ean mad. The madness showed itself first in the refusal of the pension next, in the resoln * The above was written before Leigh Hunt had published all his remarks on Ben Jonson. PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. 35 tion that, the universe being desirous of reading DEAR HORNE, her letters, the universe should be disappointed Though your letter seems intended for Mr. and thirdly, in this creed of Mesmerism. I Reynell, yet, as the envelope is addressed to wish (if he ever did use such words) somebody myself, I choose to pretend I have a right to an~ would tell him that the first manifestation, at swer it, in order that I may express my thanks least, was of a noble phrenzy, which ia these lat- as quickly as possible for the frank and liberal ter days is not too likely to prove contagious. For manner in which you and your friends have my own part, I am not afraid to say that I al- met our wishes; and to say how happy we shall most believe in Mesmerism, and quite believe be, for our sakes as well as yours and theirs, to in Harriet Martineau. show all the sense that becomes us, of your own. May God bless you, my dear friend. Take Your obliged and faithful Servant, care of yourself, and be very happy. LEIGH HUNT. B. B. BARRETT. The foregoing with the exception of some passages of literary sympathy, which the present writer frankly expresses his re- gret at omitting was the substance of a single letter, sent to Germany, addressed to one whom the poetess had never seen; who was unlikely ever to see, and whom the lady never did see till after her return from Florence as the wife of his early friend. So far as one isolated letter can serve in illus- tration of the opinion expressed of the scope and style of epistolary composition (which, indeed, was no conscious composition at all, but obviously no more than easy intellectual impulse, natural grace, and richness of mind)~ the above, it is submitted, may be ac- cepted by the highest class of readers. With the delightful essayist and poetical critic, Leigh Hunt, my first acquaintance commenced when W. J. Fox, the late M. P. for Oldham, having become actively en- gaged in political life, wished to make over the proprietorship of his Monthly Repository to somebody of position, who would carry forward those principles of mental freedom, of reform, and of, science, literature, and art, of which, with the assistance of Mr. John Mill, Miss Martineau, Dr. Southwood Smith, & c. & c., it had for years been one of the very foremost champions. More especially Mr. Fox was anxious to disentan- gle it entirely from the Unitarian connec- tion, of which it had originally been the leading organ. With this view, the editor- ship had been undertaken by the present writer, and the magazine had been carried on during six months, when it was found that the odour of unsanctified sectarianism was still supposed to cling to it, because it had once been the chief organ of that class of Dissenters. Sitting in the cicumenical council, so far as our friend W. J. Fox and his four or five literary bishops could repre- sent the world in question, it was deter- mined to offer the magazine as a free gift to Leigh Hunt. It was eventually accepted jointly, at his wish, by Mr. Reynell, the printer of the Examiner and himself, in the following little note, dated Chelsea: Under such auspices there surely was every reason to anticipate that the Monthly Repository would be, at last, cut clean away from all imaginary remains of secta- rianism. Leigh Hunt started it with all his usual vivacity and pleasure on commencing anything of a novel kind. He quite dis- ported himself as in fresh woods and pas- tures new. Excepting Mr. Fox, whose absence was deemed politic, most of the principal contributors on the staff of the previous editorship joined Leigh Hunt. Landor sent him contributions, Carlyle did somethincr; Robert Bell, Thomas Wade, Egerton Webbe, and, if I reccollect rightly, Mrs. Jameson, Robert Browning, Miss Martinean, and others. It flourished for a season; but so absorbent and reticent is public opinion, that this always valiant, in- tellecthal, and energetic pioneer of most of the leading ideas and principles of progres- sion in our present day, having once been in the memory of the oldest inhabitant the chief organ of a dissenting sect that early fact still hovered and vapoured round it with a smothered atmosphere, and finally poor Leigh Hunt discovered that it was labour in vain, and so the brave little Repository died in his editorial arms: about as happy and honourable an end as it could have had. It is remarkable that so many literary men and women, more perhaps than any other class, give no dates to their letters and notes, or only imperfect dates, such as the month, or the day of the week. Hun- dreds are in my possession, to which the probable date can only be given from cir- cumstances mentioned in them, because the post-marks on the envelopes are generally illegible. Here is one from Leigh Hunt, which, of course, refers to the production of his beautiful and stage-neglected play of The Legend of Florence. What a de- lightful state of excitement he is in ! Friday, October 18. Mr DEAR TIORNE, The deed is done! and the play accepted! I received your letter the evening before last, and should have written yesterday morning, but PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. was whirled off in an unusual hurry to read my play at 12 oclock, having had notice to that effect, on Monday last, from Mrs. Orger, who at the same time said so many things about the difficulty of ever herself being present at the reading, of its being contrary to etiquette, & c., and of her doubting whether she should be able to muster up courage enough to ask permis- sion, that I was beaten off my intention to speak about your own kind offer. I was sorry for this when too late, as I thought I perceived I could have managed it easily enough. The reading, I must say, ( burning blushes apart), was re- ceived with acclamation, and all sorts of the kindest expressions, by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews, Mrs. Orger, Mr. Robertson (treasurer, an old friend), Bartley, stage manager, and Planch6 (I believe, reader), and the perform- ance is to follow Knowless, in the thick of the season. So I hope us other dramatizing men will be looking up.I will take my oh& nee of finding you in a few days. Mrs. Hunts very best remembrances. Love of both to Miss P , Mary, I mean; also to Margaret, if you see her before I do. Re- ceive again the thanks of yours ever most truly, L. II~~ Something very much to Leigh Hunts honour is not, I think, generally known; perhaps very few ever heard of it. Now, Hunt, said Madame Vestris, with a smil- ing hut earnest look, If you will change the movement and close of the last act, it will be far more popular and profitable. But how, madam? Thus: Agolante has been one of the very worst husbands, no doubt; but after his wifes supposed death, there would be good reason for him to reform; in fact, to become quite an altered man. If then, after he finds she is not dead, you let him present himself to her in short, if you will give him back his wife, your play will run for a hundred nights. Leigh Hunt at once answered: Impossible! So cruel, so exacting, and utterly selfish a domestic tyrant as Agolante, could never become an altered man. In a very short time he would be as bad again as before, and drive her really into her grave. I cant give him back Ginevra. Besides, he is killed in the end, the great probability is that she will be happy with one who truly loves her, and is worthy of her. The end, as it stands, suggests that. And so the play had only a moderate success of some thirty nights. Too bad too good. With the sudden discovery of so rare and rich a vein, and in a veteran author, it may naturally excite wonder at the present day, how it happened that only one other pro- duction of Leigh Hunts ever appeared on th. stage. And the more may this be won- dered at, when Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews had such high expectations of his next play, that the treasurer was directed to pay him 10001. in advance, by way of securing whatever piece he might write for the stage. Of his fruitless labours and vex- ations how little has he narrated. Things explicable in any other art and profession, seem often quite inexplicable with regard to the stage. A very similar result attended the production of the two fine plays by Mr. Browning, then a very young drama- tist. If not highly successful, they at least succeeded, and undoubtedly were of high promise. But we saw no more of him on the stage. This is not the place for any dis- cussion of the question; but one remark may be made, to the effect that the blame only lies with the public at second hand. The success of Mr. Robertsons comedies, and more recently of Mr. Tom Taylors historical play, is strong evidence that if there really be a fixed depravity of taste in large classes of the public, there are other classes eager to hail a superior order of drama, and the absolute reform of the stage. This is steadily advancing. Some of Leigh Hunts notes on literary business are amusingly adroit in dealing with oversights, delays, or other difficul- ties. Here is one : Chelsea, Feb. 6. [No year; but postmark on envelope legibly giving 1838.] Mit DEAR HORNE, Many thanks for Blanchards kind notice, for which I will thank him also. I shall be very glad to see you when you can break away. A due aad huge fire shall welcome you during this (indeed) terribly cold weather, which has half petrified my half-tropical faculties, and attacked me with rheumatism, liver-complaint, and other gentilities; but I endeavour to make the most of the present sunshine, and am taking a holiday or two of verse-writing. Did you miss some verses you were good enough to send me, in the current number? So did I, much more; for I had determined on seeing them there, and am ashamed to say that I have mislaid them. I must have been so occupied with something else at the time as to dispose of them hastily in soilie unusual corner. I have no doubt they wiR be forthcoming at their own good time; but may I ask if you can forestall them with an- other copy? Ever truly yours, LEIGH HUNT. P.S. Of volume of Repository (for which very many thanks), when I see you. I have given divers articles no sort of just perusal yet. Here is another, so elegant and courteous as to be really courtly. It might have been written ia a full suit of the time of so PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. 87 Lord Chesterfield, and the person addressed might almost feel that he ought to be in similar attire to read it with due bows, an- knowledgrnents, and protestations. And all about a small matter of literary re- vision Chelsea, August 2. (Probably about the same year as the last.] My DEAR Ma. Oprrzx, Pray favour me with an early Tuesday evening (not inconvenient to you, I think you said), in order that I may enter into a more de- tailed explanation of my reasons for venturing to omit a few lines towards the beginning of your beautiful tragedy. It was a great liberty, and I hope you do not fancy, for a moment, that I took it without great doubt and reluctance; but I finally warranted myself for three reasons: first, . . . and third, that in your interior you seemed to me to be so truly possessed of the good-nature properly belonging to genius, that I reckoned upon your forgiveness under the circumstances. The truth is, I took it for the only passage in which the malice of a critic might find anything to turn to discordant ac- count; and I hope I am not growing imperti- nent in my excuses when I add, that for your sake it was I was chiefly moved to venture upon the officiousness, having conceived foryou. Come then soon, if you can, and tell me you are not angry with LEIGH HUNT. The following, for its joyous vein of ro- mantic flattery, surpasses most ebullitions of the kind on record, when the inadequacy of the cause is considered. It is merely to excuse himself for neglecting or pro- crastinating the return of some printers proofs, which there was no great need for me to receive in haste : Chelsea, Feb. 18. (No year given, and no means of tracing it] My DEAR OPIFEx, A word from you is worth a thousand others from almost all other mea, let it have been ten times later; and I trust this acknowledge- ment need as little apologile for delay, knowing how much you and I constantly think of onean- other, with an intercommunication of spirit that can well let the post wait a bit. Your letter is as great a gem to me, as if the Jew of Malta himself had given me one out of his list; and I fancy I can appreciate it too, without its mak- ing the bestower a jot the less rich, but the re- verse more rich from his power to bestow, and to wait. God bless you. .1 will do all you wish with the proofs, and send them at the right time~ Your affectionate Friend, L~csou Henri~. In 1841 a project was set on foot for giving the world, for the first time, a true yet polished modernization of the Fathor of English poetry. All previous so-called modernizations of Chaucer (with the single exception of Lord Thurlows rendering of the Knights Tale) had been, at best, paraphrases, ad libituns translations, or gross parodies, and desecrations of the homely power, beauty, graphic richness, and quaint humour of the original. As to the fact that Chaucer was not only a versifier of wonderful variety, but that (so far as we can discover and imagine the actual quantities he used and intended us to read) he was a master of versification, and this in himself, and without considering the age in which he wrote, not the remotest re- cognition had ever been shown of it. Nor had such a fact ever been dreamed to be likely. It was agreed upon to carry out this project by Wordsworth, Leigh Hunt, Miss Elizabeth Barrett, Robert Bell, Monckton Milnes, and the writer of these papers, who was nominated as editor. Other contributors were also on the list. The following note by Leigh Hunt, coin- mencing in a state of great hilarity, about something else, refers with a very acute observation to one of the difficulties of the undertaking: Kensington, Nov. [Book published in 1841.] Mv DEAR HoaNE, Glory be to the glorification you have given me. It happened too to come upon me at a mo- ment when I was in great want of an agreeable sensation; and verily it supplied it, and did me a world of good, taking me into a region remote from my cares, and making a king of me, and a sort of Cambus. [Cambus Khan.] Many thanks to the kind heart which impelled you. But your letter, Signor mio, makes methink of the perplexity you speak of; and behold! I fancy I have. found out the critical reason and reconcilement thereof; to wit, that it is far easier to do something of a bit of literal justice to Chaucers serious poems than his merry; be- cause the language of mirth is apt to be the lan- g~uage of manners, and therefore comparatively figurative; while people remain in earnest pretty much in the same fashion for centuries. Take a common colloquial oath, and see how it has changed from his time to ours. When a man says Benedicite, we feel nothing in it or very little. It is an old Latin or Popish form of speech: we think God bless me is quite another iratter. This is a very small and slight illustration, but it will easily suggest to you all the rest. I send you a copy of the first part of the Seer (from London Journal, & c.,) because 38 PORTRAiTS AND MEMOIRS. you will find some characters in it which you might like to use. Ever faithfully yours, L. LI With the genial, hospitable, and ever kindly Robert Bell (author of A History of Russia, editor of the Annotated Edi- tion of the English Poets, and formany years editor of the Home News), the first acquaintance of the editor of Chaucer Modernized was made through Leigh Hunt, with a view to his co-operation in that work. All the contributors, previously named, were highly qualified for the un- dertaking, and all laboured at it with minute care and thoughtful skill more especially Wordsworth, who, besides his modernization of The Cuckoo and the Nightin,,ale, revised, almost throughout, the somewhat lengthy poem of The Flower and the Leaf, which had been done by another hand. Yet, in conse- quence of the principle proposed by the editor, and accepted by all, viz, that the work should be considered as best done by those who could retain, gracefully, the most of the original the contest, no less than the labour of love entailed upon the editor by the philological enthusiasts, and sincere as well as learned admirers of the Father of English Poetry, far exceeded, in the converse sense, his most sanguine ex- pectations. Whatever alterations were courteously suggested, queries made, or comparison of the texts of different edi- tions proposed, the majority of them were fought out by letters, or marginal and foot-notes all over the proofs. Some of these proofs have been preserved as curi- osities of literature. Even when a pro- posed, or suggested alteration, if only of a single word, was finally accepted, it was seldom without a preliminary contest all in the best possible feeling all showing the admirable earnestness of the great Poets translators but nevertheless a try- ing contest for the unfortunate one who felt it his duty to tempt his fate on all due, or doubtful occasions. As a slight illustra- tion, which is not unlikely to amuse the reader, here are a few scraps taken from a single note, by Robert Bell, who had mod- ernized Chaucers poem of The Complaint of Mars and Yenus2 My DEAR HORNS, I send you both proofs. My reason for asking for a clean proof was to avoid the dan- ger of confusing the printers by the numerous marks and references. . . . I have adopted the greater part of your alterations. Wherever I have differed from you, it is upon mature con- sideration and after a due balancing of argu ments on both sides. Your sunrise, in v. 1, although close to the sun uprist, is not (1 think), on the whole, so close a reflection of his meaning as my own line, in which the word upland gives us the picture complete. Be- sides, sun comes immediately after. In verse 7, I stand up for voluptuous joys. Pray let it remain. In verse, 8, loving compact is not so close to the original steven, which literally means an appointment, or assignation; be- sides, assignation is familiar. But if, on con- sideration, you prefer the compact, you have my assent to its adoption. . . . Verse 17 Corse means, in one sense, body but in another, course, which is, in my opinion, ob- viously the meaning here. .dvoiding the light by baffling turns, creeping and running in the shade, is in all respects better, in my opinion. I should be sorry to lose this. . - Verse 22: .Make is not intended for be- ing. By examining the other passages in which the singing bird uses it, you will find it means mate. I am tolerably certain that my transla- tion is correct, and I think it more poetical. This is no feigned matter that I tell, My lady is the veryspring and welt Of beauty, gentleness, and liherty.; Her rich array, a costly miracle, & c. Mars v. 3. Oh! leave the miracle, v. 5. 1 must plead also for the restoration of the original line, v. 9. I have brought in the morn in Chaicet a own words. Thanks for calling my attention to this. LRnvoye: You were right about (hanson [not grandson]. I am sorry yoi~ do not print the stanzas with the indented, lines. I have restored a full spelling in those cases where the final syllable is not pronounced. I am..afraid I have given you a world of troul le, but I have saved you as much as L could in my proof, which is now completely ready to be printed. Mrs. B. read your Reves Tale, and is decidedly of opinion that there is no objee tion to it. . . . I must see you soon to settle about the next volume. Ever yours, R. B. And all this, with much more omitted, after Bell had set out with the pleasing but too delusive amenity, that he had adopt- ed the greater part of the proposed alter- ations. But this is a trifle to what occurred with the proofs, as well as manuscripts, of more than one of the other loving transla- tors of the great old Poet. At this period Robert Bell was living in a fine old-fashioned house, with a large gar- den, some six miles out of London, and gave a cordial standing invitation to hi~ friends to dine there on Sundays. Tbe most frequent guests, that is, once eve~y month or two, were W. M. Thackeray, Samuel Lover, Laman Blanchard, Douglas Jerrold, Dr. Mayo, Felix Mendelssohn (when in London), Frarmk Stone, Father PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. 39 Prout, several artists and authors whose names do not occur to the memory at this moment, and the present writer; occasion- ally also, William and Mary Howitt, Dion Boucicault, Dr. Southwood Smith, Leigh Hunt, and Mrs. Jameson. The first time I met Mr. Thackeray (it will be seen that there are some reasoiis for definitely marking the individuals in this case) was at the office of the court Journal, then edited by my admired and lamented friend Laman Blanchard. Thackeray was seated at the editors desk. Oh! thank you! exclaimed Blanchard, who was al- ways glad to have to write as little himself as possible: what are you writing there? fd ont call it writing, said Thackeray, without looking up. so much as squirting a little warni water down a page of your journal. This compliment to his courtly readers delighted Blanchard more than it would have done most editors of a fashion- able journal. An amusingly characteristic anecdote claims a few words at this moment. Blanchard told me that he once ~tsked Col- burn if he liked his last article in the New Monthly ~ Like it! well, of course, I should have liked it. Not quite under- standing this equivocal compliment, J3lan- chard again made the inquiry. You see, said Colburn, with a grave business-look, when a new contributor sends us any- thing, I examine every page and part 9f it to find if its weight, you know; and I do this, less and less, till I can trust him; and then I never read him again. Now, in your case, I assure you I never read a word you write, and never intend to do so. Some time after this the length of the interval is forgotten a certain biograph- ical and critical work was published, in which several hands of eminent writers were engaged, the editor agreeing to stand fire for the anonymous brigade. This work was reviewed at some length in the Morning chronicle by Mr. Thackeray, then only known to the public under the incongruous pseudonym of Michael Angelo Titmarsh. In his critique, obviously writ- ten in a half~cynical, half-rollicking, Roys- ter-Doyster mood, he indulged in a variety of selfThontradictory observations, and not a few intended personalities, though really wide of the mark, as they happened to be in no one respect applicable. He selected sev- eral sentences of profound or graphic criti- c!sm (little suspecting that they chanced to be written by most admired authors), and gibbeted them as unintelligible follies; made a broad sign-board caricature of the editor, as a denizen of the city who had got omit of his depth; dressed him in an imagin ary suit of the vulgarest taste, including a waistcoat, splendid in the way of decora- tion, purchased in the vicinity of Bow Bells, & c.; and concluded, in the most astonishing manner, wit~h the~easy inconsis- tency of declaring that the editor, ~n the whole, was never ungenerous or unmanly, that his sympathies were honourable and well placed, and that he told the fruth as far as he kncw it. In the second edi- tion of the work, an introduction was writ- ten in which thanks were duly rendered to some reviewers, and unfair attacks an- swei-ed. Now, a gentleman of six feet two, and bulky form, with a large camus nose, and great round-glassed spectacles, should have been one of the last to venture upon fanciful personalities. In reply, his incon- sistencies were simply displayed; he was informed that the editor had known much more of the broiling sun of Mexico and the thunders of the Gulf of Florida, than of London mud, or the chimes of Bow Bells, and that if Mr. Titmarsh really were en- gaged to play the part of Adonis in the Morning chronicle, it would be nothing but a pleasure to witness such a performance. But with regard to his final remark as to honourable sympathies and love of truth, if Mr. Titmarsh sincerely meant that, the edi- tor would be happy to shake hands with him in public or private. A few weeks after this appeared, the editor happened to nieet Thackeray at the Royal Society. He immediately came forward, and in the most courteous and kindly manner extended his hand, saying, Mr. Home, will you allow me to take your hand? This was the feeling and act of a true gentleman, and it is a great pleasure to record it. Of course we were friends from that day. But all such personalities have since been very properly banished from the superior organs of liter- ature, and seem to be not readily tolerated in the humbler walks. Are you a writer of moods? said Bell one day to Thackeray. Yes, as- suredly, was the answer; and often not in the best moods. Then, sometimes you cant write at all ? Of course not; or not fit to be read. Thats strange, said Bell. Now, I can take out my watch lay it down upon the table and write, within a line or two, the same quantity in the samc given time. Thackeray was a frequent visitor at the old garden-mansion when Bell lived there, and would go on pleasantly for hours, talk- ing and making sketches in an album. Some of these were richly humorous, and accom- panied by scraps of prose or verse. This was before Thackeray had published the 40 PORTRAITS AND MEMOIRS. work which at once raised him to his well- deserved eminence, viz. Vanity Fair. He himself has related how this masterpiece of modern novel-writing was refused in the first instance, both by magazines, and as a substantive work; but it was reserved for Mr. Kents Footprints on the Road to make it more recently known that he had also offered himself as an artist, to furnish I sketches as illustrations for a popular au- thors stories, which,had been very promptly declined. Bell used to take the utmost de- light in seeing him make these fanciful sketches. The drawing-room was very large, and in winter there was a great log- fire. It chanced on a certain evening that the lamp suddenly went eut, so that the back part of the room was thrown into shadow; and there stood those huge figures one upwards of six feet two, and bulky in pro- portion, the other (Bell) being at least six feet four, stalwart and gaunt with the large log-fire at steady red heat in front of them, and their great shoulders and backs in dark shade. it suggested to the imagi- nation a scene of giants in a forest, holding high conference, or of the meeting between the Chancellor, tower-heavy Turketull, and Gorm the Scandinavian sea-king, in the fine chronicle play of Athelstan. What a pity that Bells amiable, and not un- frequently inspired visitor, Mendelssohn, did not chance to be at the pianoforte that evening! He would certainly have impro- vised some wonderful symphony on the oc- casion. The last touch has just hc~r-gi~rnn to the foregoing picture, when the sudden news of the departure of an early friend on his final journey, confuses the eye-sight with a doubt as to whether it reads the words aright. No portrait shall, at present, be attempted, and all memoirs must be postponed to a time when one can more steadily approach the subject, and more clearly recall the many genial and admirable characteristics of the private life of Charles Dickens. One brief anecdote is all that shall-now be offered. When flouseliold Words first started, and for a long time afterwards, the present writer had a room appropriated to him, in conjunc- tion with the late Mr. Hogarth, in the house where Ho& sehold Words, and some chronicle or record connected with that periodical, were published. There we read newspa- pers, wrote private notes, gossiped about Corelli and Sebastian Bach, and de omnibus rebus, & c., and should have done special work, but somehow, excepting the correc- tion of proofs, this generally happened to be done elsewhere. At that early date of the periodical, the only regular staff-contrib- utors of original articles, were Mr. Dickens, the acting editor, and myself; and, now and then, an article was jointly written. One day Mr. Dickens proposed to me a paper on Chatham Dockyard. Being much taken with the subject, a day was at once fixed upon, and we went down early to have the day before us dinner being ordered for the hour by which it was considered that our observations and notes could be coin- pleted. Now, said Mr. Dickens, tlii~ article will naturally divide itself into two parts, which we can afterwards dovetail to- gether, viz, the works of the dockyard, and the fortifications and country scenery round about. Which will you take? I at once replied, that the works of the dockyard seemed to me the most promising. He smiled, and said, Then well meet here again at a quarter to five. Im glad you make that choice, for this is a sort of native place of mine. I was a schoolboy here, and have juvenile memories and associations all round the country outskirts. The kindness and good nature, even more than the readi- ness for any kind of work, need no com- ment. How few literary men how very few would have suppressed a strong per- sonal feeling on such an occasion, before the choice was made. But while the long life of continuou~ literary work shall show so very few objectionable things, there will remain a large store of kindly acts, to be, from time to time, recorded. To the joint article in question, Mr. Dickens gave the title of One man in a Dockyard, thus again sinking his own personality in the matter. As important artistic discovery has just been perfect state of preservation, and has been reo.. made at Reichenbach, in Silesia. A portrait of ognized by the burgomaster, a well-informed Luther has been found, buried under a heap of j amateur, as the work of Louis Cranach. rubbish, in the passage leading from the school j Academy. to the Lutheran church. The canvas is in a THE WIDOW MERAND. 41 From Temple Bar, hard that, in this life, we cannot have things THE WIDOW MERAND. as we choose. A STORY ~ TWRLV~ ~ Having given birth to this surprising discovery of hardships, Monsieur Alphonse I. takes his way back into the Rue Notre IT is evening in St. Roque. Broad Dame, and then goes on past the Hotel August moonshine silvers the grey gables St. Barbe, to his lodging over the the shop of the quaint old Norman houses silvers of Madame Bobineau, that well-known per- the exquisite fl~che of St. Pierre and the fumer~and glover at the corner of the Place empty booths of the fruit-sellers in the St. Pierre. To his lodging and to bed, but market-place beneath, and briug~ into dark not to dreams of handsome-eyed widow M6- distinctness, at the far end of the long rand, the wealthy proprietor of the Hotel picturesque street, the twin spires of se- St. Barbe. The dreams of Monsieur Al- vere, frowning St. Etienne. phonse are of a young face with a pale I must take yet another turn, says M. clear skin and large woudering eyes, Alphonse Rendu to himself. He lights a eyes that have no fixed beauty in them, fresh cigar, and walks back towards St. though they haunt the memory, eyes Etienne. that take fresh meanings as fre2h emotions Moonlight and the reflection from a cigar lighten in them. Mimi! this young are neither of them flattering to the com- clerk murmurs in his sleep, and Mimi is plexion. not the name of Madame Mlrand. So it is better to follow Monsieur Rendu until he passes the old cathedral of St. Etienne and turns into the great square be- NEXT morning is a festival, and Madame yond; the square is full of lamps, and here M~rands dark oval face looks very hand- he is so obliging as to sit down on one of some as she hurries home from early mass. the benches under the lime-trees, and take She likes to be at home again, settled in off his hat, and we get quite a good look at her little parlour opposite the salle-fl-man- his face. ger by the time her regular visitors come Pas si mal! And yet he is not what can be in and breakfast. This parlour is a little calLed handsome. He has honest blue eyes room for so queen-like a woman, but it and a benevolent forehead, and a good commands the whole of the arched entrances mouth a little severe, perhaps, but his and she can overlook from it the courtyard moustache and beard curl over it so play- of the inn. fully that you cant find much fault, as your She looks very handsome, as she sits eyes go wandering up and you note how near the open door; her plain black stuff well the crisp auburn waves of his hair gown fits her perfect shape so easily, and match with the beard. If his face were the tiny cambric collar and cuffs are snowy not so flat aiid his nose so broad, Monsieur in their fineness, She wears coral earrings Rendu would, after all, come under the and a brooch to match, of the simplest objectionable denomination, handsome. form; a rich plait of dark glossy hair cir- He does not think the word objectionable. cling her well-shaped head; and yet Ma- Listen to his thoughts as he sits smoking, dame Mt~rand cannot look simple with in the broad moonlight of the Place St. all this plainness, she is like a queen. Etienne: The guests pass in and out: she bows to Yes, she is handsome! Her eyes are some, to one or two she rises and curtsies as bright as diamonds, and as dark as but, generally, she gets up and retreats velvet; but they have the hardness of into her little room. diamonds. But why am I a fool? can it A young man is coming out of the salle; signify whether a womans eyes be hard or he bows to madame, and smiles. soft, so long as they are full of love for She curtsies and then her lips move. He me? and Madame M~rand gives more than cannot hear, and has to go into the little love to her husband, she gives him a home parlour before he can understand what she an ~tat. Well, what do I want with says. these? have I not enough to pay for lodg- My neighbour, Monsieur Le Petit, is ing and clothes, and food enough and to going to Cabourg-les-bains on Sunday, spare, out of my ~own earnings? He says madame; he has room in his char- rises and paces up and down till he has fl-banc, if you, monsieur, will accept a finished his cigar, and then he still paces up place; it is very pleasant at Cabourg. and down, whistling softly. If I could And then the bright dark eyes look at think but no, no, no! ,Ske is as cold as Monsieur Rendu with an intensity of ex- a little stone, and as proud as ah! it is pression that troubles him. 42 THE WIDOW MERAND. Only for a moment, M.onsieur Rendu thinks of the fresh sea-breezes in contrast with the furnace-like heat that comes in through the arched entrance. Ma foi! yes, it must be pleasant. Madame, I return many thanks to Mon- sieur Le Petit, and I am enchanted to accept his offer. Monsieur Rendu bows and smiles de- votedly and then sallies forth to the bank- ing-house. The widow looks after him, and she sighs. Madame M~rand can quit her parlour now and go up to her own room. There she paces up and down, a different woman altogether from the calm, self-possessed owner of the little parlour of the Hotel St. Barbe. Does he love me ~ or has he no feel- ing, or does he love some one else? He likes me he never shuns an opportunity of talking to me but there it ends. Oh, mon Dieu! how much longer is this torture to goon? She stops before the looking-glass; a proud smile curves her lips, usually too firm in their chiselling. He must love me! the beautiful woman murmurs; but he dares not show his love because he is poor. And yet her heart aches still, aches with that incessant hunger so hard to ap- pease the hunger of a love which has given itself unsought. Looking at Madame M~rand, it is difficult to think this can be her case, more difficult to realize that she will fail in attaining anything on which she has determined. There is power as well as passion in those dark, flashing, resolute eyes. III. OLD Madame Bobineau makes a good contrast to Madame M,5rand. She is Nor- man born, and has long ago lost every tooth inher head. Her face, in colour and wrinkles, puts one in mind of a peach- stone; while the face of the young girl she talks to, on this sunny August morning, may serve as counterpart to the bloom on the peach. The girl is very fair; as she lifts her large wonderin.g eyes to the old womans face, a tinge of soft rose steals through the transparent skin. There is a mutinous movement in the red full lips. I tell thee, Mimi, it is neglectful and intolerable an orphan, with her own liv- ing to earn, to consider herself above her duties: it is thy positive duty to fit each glove across the knuckles, so, the old lady doubles up her skinny claws by way of illustration, and from the point of the finger and the thumb tip, so. I will have it done, I say! Madame Bobineau stamps her foot, and her voice rises into that exasperating pitch of shrillness which, to some feminine minds, represents power. Bien, madameI hear you, Mimi says. Her heart swells proudly; she would like to put on her bonnet, and seek another employment; but she is an orphan. Her father, Christophe Lalonge, an unsuccess- ful musician in Rouen, married one of his pupils, for love, against the wish of her parents, and reaped the bitter fruit. When he and his young wife died of the same fever, their one child was left destitute. Through the intervention of the priest who had ministered to them, little Mimi was brought up carefully and kindly by some of the good religieuses of Rouen; and, later on, Madame Bobineau, a far-off cousin of the dead musicians, agreed to take the orphan as shop-woman in her business, at St. Roque, provided Mimi established no expectations on this offer, and found her own lodgings; for Madame Bobineans house was close to the beautiful church of St. Pierre and the market-place, and her lodgings were sought after and well-paid for. She had now, au premier, an invalid lady staying at St. Roque for the sake of its famous library; an second, Monsieur le Capitaine Loigereau; an troisi~me, Mon- sieur le Vicomte de Foulanges, sons-lieu- tenant both attached to the 7,5th of Ia ligne, now quartered in the town; and, an quatri~me, in the front room, Monsieur Al- phonse Rendu, clerk at the bank of Carmier, fr~res, in the rue St. Jean: all good customers, who took their meals at the table of Madame Bobineans gossip and friend, widow M~rand, of the Hotel St. Barbe. In Madame Bobineans orderly and well-regulated household, a young girl could not be located among so many men, two of them soldiers, so Mimi had a lodg- ing in a by-street. There was a private door to the house of Madame Bobinean; if the locataires came into the shop, it must be from the street, and as customers; and it is about one of these very locataires that she is now so angry as to raise a storm of controlled rebellion in Mimi Lalonge. Madame Bobinean gives another stamp with her carpet-shod foot, and retreats to her den, whence, spider-like, she can watch through the semi-curtained glass-door. Mimi sits down behind the counter, and leans her head back against the rows of compartmented shelves, so as to get beyond the range of the glass-door. There is a far- off seeking look in her grey eyes a look THE WIDOW MERAND. 43 that easily becomes imploring; it does so now the red lips part, and the lower one droops. What can I do? Madame Bobineau is not kind; I cannot love her; but she might be worse; and if I leave her sbe will not give me a recommendation, and how is a young girl to find employment without one? Why am I so silly? why is it nothing to me to try on the gloves of others, and yet with him ah! with him it is quite different. I cannot: my fingers tremble they all be- come thumbs. Oh, what is it? Iv. MADAME BoBINEAu went to mass at St. Etienne, on her way home she called in on Madame M~rand. In her calm, quiet way, madame related to her sympathizing gossip her domestic grievances: how the new femrne de chambre would spend her time in chattei~ug with the gar~on de salle; bow the up-stairs gar~on Ferdinand, bad been lost for three hours yesterday, and was then discovered sound asleep in the bed be was supposed to be making; how a plum-pudding had been served in honour of sonie English travellers, and how the English had grimaced, and re- fused it, because of the rum the rhom, Madame M~rand affirmed, being the only good point about it. Having related these grievareics in her calm, assured voice, Madame M& and inquired after Madame Bobineaus lodgers. Ma foi! the two little black beads in the peach-stone face of Madame Bobineau twinkle into slyness; it seems to me you see as much of them as I do: as I went to la messe, Monsieur Rendu was coming out of your parlour. He is favoured; but he is a well-mannered, discreet youth. Tenez! only this morning I had a discussion about him with Mimi I have told you of Mimi, the orphan of poor Christophe? The pupils of Madame M~rands eyes contract, and then they blaze on the with- ered old crone with fierce intelligence. Mimi, your shop-girl? what should sbe know of Monsieur Rendu? Madame Bobineau, your good sense should teach you to keep her out of the way of your lodgers. Madame Bobinean has outgrown pas- sion, except when she is disobeyed. More- ovor, she is unwilling to offend a friend who can give away sometimes a ris de veau, sometimes the remains of a vol-au- vent aux truffes and Bobineaus old mouth waters at the thought of such dainties, so Bhe answers meekly: Yesyes, I am careful! but the girl must serve customers. I have seen Mon- sieur Rendu come into the shop often lately for gloves, and Mimi stands there useless; she lets him choose and try for himself. It is not respectful; it may give him offence, and he may seek another lodging. Madame M~rand listens, and then she falls off into a reverie. She does not hear what Madame Bobinean is saying about the uncertain habits of the literary lady an premier, who forgets her dinner, and spends the whole day in the dusty old library of the Mus~e. Madame Bobinean, says the calm voice on a sudden, Mimi is too pretty to serve in a shnp. Why dont you marry her? Bon! the old, brown face is more puckered than before; who will marry a girl without a dot? And I have none to give her; I am a poor old womaii, Madame M~rand, and shall scarcely leave enough behind me to pay for masses for my soul. The old woman, so hard and callous to her fellows, grows sentimental over her friends canary bird: it is a jewel a pet; but the endearing names which Ma- dame Bobinean has at command are not many. She stands peering between the gay gilded wires, and Madame M~irand sits thinking. She is bending forward; her handsome face rests in the long slender hand; the eyes are so veiled by the sweep- ing dark lashes, that only an occasional glitter betrays their light. I will find a husband for Mimi, she says, after awhile; and there is a hurry in the calm voice a voice that has a way of snubbing excitement in others by its ordi- nary repose. I take charge of it. Tenez, I know of one already your lodg- er, the Captain Loigereau. Monsieur Loigereau! Bobineau shrieks in her shrillest falsetto: a full captain a gentleman! he marry Mimi? My friend, you are laughing! I tell you No! Monsieur Loigerean is a good man; he is humble; he tells me everything; he has risen by his own merits; he can read, but his writing is that of an ignorant person. Well, Monsieur Loige- reau is more than forty; he will have com- pleted his full term of military service in October; he has been prudent, and he will then buy a little property in the Auvergnat. He wishes to take a wife, and lie has asked me to choose him one: she must be young, and pretty, and amiable. Are you con- vinced now? He must be a fool! but Madame Bobineau looked round her cautiously as she said it. He might find a woman with 44 THE WIDOW MERAND. a nice little sum to add to his. Ah! my friend she puts her skinny fingers im- pressively on the fair widows plump arm there is nothing like money but I must go home. They kiss each other on both cheeks Madame Mfirands glowing skin, like a nectarine in its rich dark tint, seems more even and velvet-like than ever against Bobineaus wrinkles. Au revoir, says the younger woman, I am coming down to the Place pres- ently. Nothing like money! she murmurs, while her dark eyes follow Madame Bobi- neau. Old imbecile! nothing like hap- piness she means. At seventeen Madame M~rand had mar- ried her first husband, aged seventy, for money, and nothing else, so she was quali- fied to give her opinion. V if she did not care for my company. She only wanted to do me a kindness. She reached her little room, au cinqui~me in a back street, close to the Place St. Etienne. She sate down wearily, and threw her bonnet on the bed. I am like the child in the story-book: I cant get cake, so I wont eat galette. What would the good smurs think if they saw me so ungrateful for kindness. I have grown wicked since I left Rouen; he may not be at Madame M~irands, and if he is there he will bow to me, and then it will be over. Afternoon comes next day, and Madame Bobineau mounts up to her own bedroom to lay out her cap of real valenciennes lace, with it,q blue bows, and her black silk gown, and old-fashioned shawl. She is only up- stairs half an hour; but much may happen in thai; time. Mimi sits in the shop as usual not quite; she is sewing some lace on to a hand to make a frill for her throat to-night, and Monsieur Rendu comes in before she sees him. Oh I hope he will not come to-night, she thinks; but he comes up to the counter MIMI goes into the den and says, Good- evening to her employer. Madame Bobineau looks at her sharply with those unfringed eyes of hers, and nods her head, then she calls Mimi back again in her shrill rasping voice. The girl turns, but she does not come and asks for a pair of lavender gloves, and back. Mimi feels there is no hope of his absence. Come here, child. Why dost thou not It is strange that this want of hope should tell me of Madame Mdrands goodness to make her feel so happy. She does not fit thee? his gloves, but she bands him those he has A flush steals over the delicate face, and chosen neatly wrapped in paper. deepens there till Mimi is rosy red. Mademoiselle, says Rendu, his quick There is nothing to tell. Madame eyes have detected Madames absence asked me to go and see her to-morrow through the open door, I . Here evening, but she did not wait for my he stops, as embarrassed as the blushing answer. She went away. I am not going girl behind the counter. Mademoiselle, to see her. I will have, if you please, another pair. Rein, the old wrinkled face falls on He looks so confused, so embarrassed, one shoulder; this whim of Mimis is incom- that Mimi smiles. She cannot help it; it prehensible. is so wonderful to see Monsieur IRendu ner Chut! madame cries, shrilly; thou vous and blushing like herself. art only a child, or I should be angry. He sees the smile and grows yet redder Such an honour may not come again in thy takes the gloves, pays for them hastily, life. Besides, simpleton, thou art not and leaves the shop with a formal bow to asked alone thou wilt go with me. I Mimi. will not listen to refusal; to-morrow at Cold! the young man says to him- eight we visit Madame Mfirand. self; she is a thousand times worse: she Mimi turned away; her high spirits rosetis sarcastic, she laughs at me she is against this tyranny, and then the natuval I heartless! I will buy my gloves somewhere feelings of youth pleaded its cause. There else. I will not be laughed at. was something exhilarating in the idea of Mimi is puzzled at herself. this her first soirfie at St. Roque. Why I He changes so! I was quite feeling should she refuse? j glad that he would be at Madame Mfirands, I know why it is; Madame M~mrand is and then when I saw his proud face I was a person I dislike. Why need she fix her more afraid of him than ever. Why do I great black eyes on me as if she thought I think of him at all? It is always him had done something wrong; it seemed as .1 him him! I hope he will not be there. THE WIDOW MERAND. 45 VI. AT Madame Mlrands, where the young girl, in her simple white dress, is only stared at by the guests, she feels as if a damp dull mist has fallen on her enjoyment. There is no one in the room nearly as young as Monsieur Rendu; there is deaf Monsieur Le Petit and his chattering wife, and Monsieur Leroux, who takes snuff every five minutes, while little fat Monsieur Martin holds him by the button and talks politics, rising to the tips of his boots and sinking his voice to a whisper each time he quotes a dangerous opinion. These are all; but a little later the door of the large low room is thrown open, and in walks an officer in full uniform. Mon- sieur le Capitaine Loigereau, shouts Ferdi- nand. The captain is short and stout, with a face like a full moon. He is bald, too, and has little hair besides his moustaches; and as he holds his head very erect, he has the air of a grocer~ s image in the act of making a summersault backwards. Mimi is surprised, and a little elated, when this gentleman with the epaulettes is presented to her still more when he con- verses. She has not seen him in the shop. Mon- sieur Loigerean does not affect gloves and perfumes; his idea of happiness is to be in the open air, within sight of green trees and fields, if he can find them. Does mademoiselle like tree~? he puffs out each word separately like the snort of a steam-engine. Yes, but I have seen so few. Mademoiselle has been in the Cours Caffarelli ? No, monsieur, Mimi sighs. She has often longed for an evening walk beside the river; but Madame Bobineau has told her she cannot go there alone. She is sur- prised when the old woman joins in I will take thee there on Sunday, Mimi, after vespers. Mimi Wonders why the captain smiles and looks pleased. Certainly I have enjoyed myself, says Mimi, when she reaches her lodging that captain is a kind old man. How good of him to take the old Bobineau home! VII. NEXT morning is market-day. Monsieur Rendu meets Monsieur Loigereau with an enormous bouquet. Aha, Monsieur le Capitaine, that is for some fair lady! and Renda laughs a little too merrily perhaps at the round cap- tam, with his crimson trowsers and full- coloured nosegay. Monsieur, says the captain, scarlet to his ears, it is indeed for the lady who is to be my wife. Monsieur Rendu asks pardon, and goes on without even wondering who is the object of the captains devotion. The captain stumps along on his sturdy little legs to the corner of the Place; he will be late at breakfast, but he must do his duty. Bon jour, mademoiselle! he goes into the shop and presents the bouquet to Mimi, with a grace that could not have been ex- pected from him. Mimi is delighted. The captain is neither confused nor hesitating. Good man! He is taking a preliminary step in his wooing; he means to get that over quickly, but he will do it all en r~gle. He talks to Mimi, asks after Madame Bobineau who peeps at him meanwhile from an ingenious little hole in the curtain, gives a military salute, and departs. Madame Bobinean enters all agog to know what he has said. See, the Young girl blushes with de- light, is not this a beautiful nosegay? The Captain Loi.gere.au is a kind, good gentle- man. Ma foi ! I think so; Bobineau frowns a little. It is wasteful; a one- franc bouquet would have pleased thee just as well, and he has paid at least three. Put it in water, child, it will die else. Mimi places her precious treasure near her, so that she can take her fill of gazing, and enjoy the exquisite fragrance the roses are so sweet; she had never had such a nosegay of her own before. Mimi is a child yet, spite of her sad, l3nely life and when madame retreats to her web, the girl dances for joy behind the counter. VIII. IT is that serious moment in the life of a Frenchman, the dinner hour the five oclock table dh6te, at the Hotel St. Barbe; the bell is ringing loudly. In troop the regular town diners, far outnumbering the denizens of the inn itself. Some of these last are English; they come into the room as if they were ashamed of them- selves, and take the place the waiter points out, as if they got them by favour, but having accomplished the agony of entrance and placing, they cock ~their chins up and snuff the air, and give the company to un~ derstand, by pitying glances and disparag- ing remarks made aloud, but supposed only to be heard by their own party, that this is a very different sort of thing indeed to what 443 THE WIDOW MERAND. they are used to. If these observations are made in French, they are safe to be unintel- ligible to the natives; but if the Britisher speaks English, he has a way of disguising his language in a hope of thus making him- self comprehended, especially when he asks for pell-ell. Monsieur Loigereau looks more like a full moon than ever to-day, he is so beaming. As he goes out from dinner a few significant words pass between him and the widow. Madame, says the captain, with effu- sion, I am a happy man, and you must allow me to thank you for my happiness. The widow places her slender fingers in his chubby palm, and a solemn shake hands is exchanged. I congratulate you from my heart, says the widow, as he rolls away. Her eyes come hack from following the captain and meet the honest blue gaze of Monsieur Rendu. He is puzzled. He has only half-heard; is the widow then the ob- ject of Monsieur Loigereaus adoration? Madame M& and reads his thoughts as easily as print. Is hc not good, our captain? I am so happy in his happiness! I must not tell secrets, she puts her head on one side, and steals a long soft glance from under her lashes; and yet I would like to tell you. I think you know the girl; and you, per- haps, take an interest in her, as I do. She watches his face, and she draws her hreath hard at the cager intelligence that flashes in his eyes. Yes, it is the shop-girl of Madame Bobineau. Poor little thing! she is so glad and grateful. He was telling me of her de- light at a present he made this morning. But Rendu is looking at his watch. Pardon, madame, I have an appoint- ment this evening. The widow does not like this haste; hut The sharper the medicine, the sooner the patient is cured, she says: if he once realises that Mimi belongs to some one else, his infatnation will be over. Ix- MONSIEUR RENDU hurries along; he feels almost savage joy when he sees the cap- tains crimson legs rolling into a caf6. At any rate, he shall find Mimi alone. But he feels stung sore all over. He knew she was a sbop-girl, but it is different to hear her called one by Madame M~rand; shop- girls are not always as guileless as he had imagined Mimi to be. This man is old enough to he her father, aid she is going to sell herself to him. Rendu grinds his teeth as he reaches the shop. Yes, there is the bouquet, and as he stands on the doorstep, hesitating, Mimi bends her face over the flowers and seems to kiss them. But Madame Bobineau is not upstairs to- day; she sees the young mans approach, and comes out into the shop to greet him. How is the weather, monsieur? she asks. I am praying for a fine Sunday. I have promised to go for a walk; and you, too, monsieur, you care that it should ~e fine on Sunday? I? says Rendu, and then; oh, yes, I am going to Cabourg. Aba! says Bobineau, slyly, we know all about that, Monsieur, we wish you a happy day, dont we, Mimi ? Mimi looks up, with her innocent wonder- ing eyes, at the furiously blushing Alphonse. She wonders a little at madames unwonted notice. Yes. she says, simply; I am srn-e you will be happy. The poor child has never seen the sea, hut she is glad for him to have such a pleasure. He turns on her in hitter anger: I wish you happiness, too, mademoi- selle. You love flowers, I see. Oh, yes; so much so very much! His look and words stir her heart strangely; she is frightened, and yet she wishes Ma- dame Bobineau away. If she and Monsieur Rendu could be left alone just one little five minutes she would get courage, and he would be again as kind, as gentle as he used to be. He n-inst not be angry with me, thinks the poor child; if he is not kind I shall die. By way of hiding her great trouble she hides her face in her roses. When she raises it iRendu has turned away; he is speaking to some one on the steps. Aba, my friend! says the captain, I congratulate you. I hope you and Ma- dame M6rand will have a fine day at Ca- hourg. Dont you congratulate me? This is said lower, and ends in a hearty laugh, in the midst of which the captain advances into the shop. It seems to Mimi as if she and the world are turning round: Madame M~rand that proud, beautiful woman! then all this while Monsieur Rendu has loved her her, ab! sighs the child, He has been loving her while I thought oh, what have I not thought! The captain talks to Madame Bobinean: That will be a. fine marriage, will it not? I have for some time had my suspicions; but now it is, I believe, decided she is very handsome, and he is a worthy young THE WIDOW MERAND. 47 man. Do you consider Madame M~rand handsome, mademoiselle? Mimi does not know how she answers: her heart swells and nearly chokes her, she wants to run away. She could push the captain aside in her despair and rush along the street without her bonnet. The captain requests permission to shake hands with her, and she hears him ask madame, in a grave, formal voice, if he may call on her to-morrow evening. x. MIMI, Madame M~rand, and Alphonse Rendu sleep little that night. The widow is easy as to Mimi ; she feels sure that the orphan will he compelled to marry the cap- tain, but she is uneasy about her lover. Chut! she said, it is my love that makes me distrustful; a man does not yield himself up for love alone, and I have much to off~r besides myself; she winces, and then she smiles. I know I am enough for any man, but if every one looks for some- thing besides the wife in marriage, why should not he? I am too guarded with him to-morrow ah, to-morrow! in that long drive we shall he all iu all to each other. Saturday is a long weary day to Madame M~rand. In the evening comes Monsieur Le Petit to say ho will be at the door at nine oclock next morning. It is a gray, misty morning, and as they drive along beside the Orne, the many spired city looks phan- tom-like, looming between the long poplar alleys. The drive is silent, Monsieur and Ma- dame Le Petit in front, Madame M~rand and Monsieur Rendu behind. But after a hearty good breakfast at Monsieur Le Petits cottage, the party stroll on to the sands in a more sociable humour. Monsieur Le Pe- tits cider is potent, ~nd Rendu has drunk freely of it. He is so miserable, so at variance with the whole world, that he feels the need of stimulating his spirits. As he sits by mada.me on the plage, he grows more and mare interested in her talk; he takes more and more pleasure in looking into those dark deep eyes soft as velvet be- neath his glances; and as he gazes she be- comes silent, confused, her lashes droop, a soft warm blush rises on her cheek. Why at that dangerous moment does a vision of wondering gray eyes, with a yet softer tint rising in a fairer skin, pass between Al- phonse and the widow? He cannot tell, and the involuntary question escapes him Are you sure she will marry the Captain Loigereau? He does not see the widow; he sees only the fair mist-like face out of which shine those pure liquid eyes it is the contrast between a spring morning and the hot glow of an autumn sunset. He does not see the lightning glance of the jealous woman be- side him flashing from the dark eyes, fierce and stormy now; he only shrinks from the stern answer Come with me this evening into the Cours Caffarelli, and I will give you proof. XI. BUT, madame, I took the bouquet be- cause I love flowers, and because it was so kind of Monsieur Loigereau. La, Ia, la ! shrieks Madame Bobineau; thou art not a baby, Mimi; did anyone ever before offer thee a bouquet? but for my bounty thou mightest be sweeping the streets of St. Roque ! Ma foi, non! says Mimi; I could have stayed with the good sisters, and have professed. And then her fresh warm youth kindles, and she shivers at the thought of the white-washed convent and its peaceful monotony. This talk is at madames breakfast-table on Sunday. Yesterday she announced to Mimi that Monsieur Loigerean was her fu- ture husband, and Mimi wept and en- treated, and was threatened and stormed at. She would not submit; but when Madame Bobineau represented that, as her nearest relative, the law gave her power over her, and that-if she proved stubborn she would have her shut up in the Asyle (the Asyle of St. Roque is a refuge for fallen women), the poor child grew terrified at the threat. So she sits, with a shy downcast face, when Monsieur Loigereau comes; and with much disgust she lets him kiss her hand when he goes away. Poor desolate child! she has cried all through the night, and now she sits writhing beside Madame Bo- hineau. She balances her life while she listens: is it so very happy, that she should shrink from the prospect of a nice little house and garden, with flowers flowers as plentiful as her heart can desire? And life will be worse than ever when site is his wife, she sighs. Yes, madame, says Mimi desperately; cest bien leave me in peace, and I will marry the captain. She endures a rasping of her smooth cheeks by those fac-similes of the peach- stone, and much good advice. The day drags along wearily; after vespers they find Monsieur Loigereau in the church porch. 48 THE WIDOW MERAND. He gives one arm to madame, the other to Mimi, and they march off to the Cours Caffarelli. The band is playing here, and people are moving up aad down, chatting and laughing under the trees. Mimis heart is heavy, or she would enjoy the merry scene: groups of laughing ehildren jumping round their mothers, young girls and their sweethearts whispering in the shade, old people sitting on the henches, watching the lights of the town twinkling in the water twinkling first like rare glowworms, or, as Mimi thinks, like the first blush of love then, as darkness grows and lamps multiply, the radiance shoots along the waters in rays of living fire, and the water does not quench it, sighs the poor heart-struck child, nothing can quench it till death. Madame Le Petit seizes on her gossip, and Mimi walks up and down alone with Monsieur Loigerean. He is more intent on showing off his prize than on talking. Presently they turn, and come face to face with Madame M~rand and M. Rendu. The two eldest greet each other warmly; Mimi and Rendu are dumb. Come, says Loigereau, have you not a word of congratulation for me and made- moiselle? Rendu bows, and then passes on. Mon- sieur Loigereau is hailed by two comrades; he turns to look at Mimi, but she is gone. She does not like being stared at, the little dove, says the good captain; but she should not run away. XII. MEANTIME, Rendu walks up and down with the widow in moody, determined si- lence, till she expresses a wish to go home. Adieu! monsieur, she says when they reach the inn. I am sadly unfortunate. I thought to give you a days pleasure, and I have given you pain. Forgive me; I tried to make you happy. Her shining eyes are full of tears; she holds out her un- gloved hand. Rendu is moved. Here is a woman lay- ing her heart at his feet, and he neglects her for the thought of one who has never shown him any kindness, who openly pre- fers the Captain Loigereau. Madame, forgive me! I will try and deserve your goodness. He prints a warm kiss on the slender hand, but he is gone before the widow answers. He goes on heavy-hearted, to the Place St. Etienne. It is late, the Place is in utter solitude. He is too full of tumult and anxious thought to light a cigar. The moon is fuller still than on the first night we saw Monsieur Rendu; but she is hidden behind a mass of dark clouds. The young man paces up and down up and down; but his tumult does not calm. presently the clouds drift, and the pure, bright moon shines down. But there is no comfort in her light; he wishes the clouds would come back; he found a refuge in the darkness. Surely he hears a sob! But the Place is empty; no one could hide from the broad moon-light. Suddenly Rendu remembers the double row of limes, forming a bocage all along the Place. He darts into it, and the sobs grow more distinct. But it is so dark that at first he does not make out a figure crouched on-a bench, some way down the-bocage. CONcLUSION. MIMI does not return, and Monsieur Loigerean grows anxious, and he is not sat- isfied by Madame Bobineaus assurance that Mimi has gone home tired. He resolves to go to her lodging and ascertain her safety. No; Mademoiselle Lalonge has not been home since the morning, says the little girl who opens the door to him. Loigereaus face flushes scarlet; hut he has not taken twenty of his rolling steps from the house when he meets Mimi herself, arm in arm with Monsieur Alphonse. The captain grows redder still, and be- gins some very angry words. lie is not allowed to finish. Rendu grasps one hand, and Mimi clasps the other between her lit- tle soft fingers. Monsieur! iRendus voice trembles with feeling; forgive us, we beg your pardon, you have been hardly used. I have been a blind fool, and And I, monsieur, says the trembling girls voice, am much worse, for I only said I would marry you because Madame vowed to send me to the Asyle The captain stares, but he behaves like a wise man. He forgives the young couple heartily; bids them go home, and promises to make peace with the Bobineau and with Madame M~rand. The first achievement was not very diffi- cult; and the good captain did not .quit Madame Bobineau until she had named a day for the marriage of the young couple; but when he told his news to Madame M~rand and saw the widows flashing eyes and quivering nostrils, Loigereau grew in- dignant. Madame, I have given up my hopes, why should you be less generous. Mon- sieur Rendu is not actually your fiance would- you retain a man who loves another? THE WIDOW MEBAND. 49 He draws closer, and looks seriously in j and the other on his sword, his small eyes the angry face. I hiaze, and then he smiles. Chattering, meddling fool! says the Ma foi! madame, I thank you. I am widow, take that; and she gives him a consoled; if a calm woman of thirty can so box on the ear, which sounds even out on imitate a tiger-cat, what might not my little the ~street. untrained shop-girl have done? I have the The captain puts one hand to his face honour, madame, to wish you adieu! From All the Year Round. THE ELVES AND THE CHILDREN. Tuuiue little ones sit in a flowery mend, In the twilight grey; At home their mother is making their bed, Where linger they? With laughing cheeks rosy They skip to and fro, Where the flowers upgrow, In a dewy Whitsun posy. Down, down the mountain three Elf maids reel, From the fir-crownd height. Mists thicken, each rides on her spinning wheel; Their raiments white In the air are flowing; Each fairy shoe Just brushes the dew From the tops of flowers fresh blowing. They sing so sweetly; they sing to the three, Hail, children at play! Come, put your hands in ours, and flee To a home more gay, Under the mountain olden; And the ivory row Of nine pins throw Over with bowls pure golden. Join ye! 0 join ye us maidens three, O join ye, and all Shall pluck the blossoms o gold, and see The song birds small, While merrily, merrily, singing; Building their bowers Of lily flowers, And pearls like seeds upspringing. The little ones wax so heavy in mind, Smile so dreamily, They are whirled along on the rising wind, But sleep all three. The earth shuts above them, As swiftly they fall, To the Elfin Hall, Ah, woe to the folk that love them! Upon the morrow the fatber runs To the fir-orownd hill, The elfins have stolen his little ones, And guard them still! Green grass is creeping Above their golden hair; Soundly they slumber there. But above there is wailing and weeping. LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 838 RAPIDITY AT wnicn EXCITATION 15 PROPA- GATED ALONG THE MOTOR NERVES or MAN. PROF. HELMHOLTZ has communicated to the .Monatsbericht of the Berlin .dcademy, 1870, p. 184, the results of some new measurements which have been carried out by M. Baxt, which can claim a greater exactness than the earlier re- searches of Helmholtz, Schelske, Hirsch, Kohl- rausch, de Jaager, and von Wittich, owing to the entire elimination of the physical activity of the experimenter. The ascertained rapidity of the excitation varies between about 30 and 90 metres por second; and the rapidity is alsG found to be greater in summer than in winter. This result led to a more exact observation of the influence of temperature, which is ascer- tained by the artificial cooling or warming of the arm. By this means the accelerating influ- ence of a higher temperature has been clearly determined; so that the interval of time between an impulse of the voluntary power and the cor- responding movement of the muscle is greater in winter than in summer. THE JEws PRAYER-BOOK. The Jews are revising their Prayer-book. At the late Jewish Synod, held at Leipsi~, the following was resolved No bitter or harsh expression shall be contained in any of the prayers under revision or to be newly composed; the contents~ shall embrace all human beings of the universe, and nothing shall be said therein with regard to the chosen people which might in the least offend our brethren of another creed. On the other hand, the new prayers, or those under revision, shall lay stress upon the religious mission of Israel, the providential guidance in its history, the fundamental Mosaic principles of progressive development, a future universal knowledge of the Almightys commands, a love of peace, justice, and humanity. Tnx most terrible mot yet uttered about this war is one reported by the correspondent who supplies Biackwood with a spirited original de- scription of Forbach: LEiapire cest La paix; certainernent ce ne pa~ la guerre. 50 THE MALMESBURY COftRESPONDENCE. From The Spectator. THE MALMESBURY CORRESPONDENCE.~ DURING the leisure of Opposition, Lord Malmesbury has followed up his publica- tion of the Political Diaries and Corres- pondence of his grandfather, the first Earl, by that of a second series of letters, on topics social as well as political, from amongst his family papers, it having been, he tells us, the habit of his house during three generations to preserve and arrange almost all the letters which they received from their relations and acquaintances. The result is a work of much more varied interest than the foritier one, perhaps espe- cially as respects the first volume. The three-quarters of a century over which it extends exhibit a more extraordinary change in the condition of the Western world than probably any other severity-five years in its previous history, e~xcept perhaps, so far as relates to this country, the first seventy-five of the seventeenth century. Of the series itself it is enough to say that it begins with Lady Shaftesburys picture of Handel, de- jected, wan, and dark, sitting by, not play- ing on, the harpsichord, and closes in the midst of Queen Carolines trial. It would require a much larger space than a weekly journal can spare to do jus- tice to the political correspondence in these volumes, much of which, both as respects matters of internal interest, such as Can- nings duel and resignation, and as respects the Continental xvar, is of considerable value. We shall, therefore, confine ourselves here to the sc~ial side of the work, which will be probably the most interesting to the greater number of readers. It is in the first volume that details of social interest most abound; and it affords a vivid and, on the whole, very pleasing picture of the %lode of life of a well-to-do English gentle- man, well connected and mixed up with public affairs, in the middle of the last cen- tury. James Harris, the scholar, the fa- ther of the first Earl, was M.P. for Christ- church, and entered office as a Lord of the Admiralitv in 1762, holding various other places till his death in 1780. He and his were passionate Handelians, and at their family mansion in Salisbury held, the present Earl tells us, by the Harrises under the Church since the Restoration they used to receive the best artists, give con- certs, and have private theatricals, on an apparently elaborate scale. But we must * A Series of Letters of the First Earl qfMalmes- bury, his Family and Friends, from 1745 to 1870. Edited, with Notes, & c., by his Grandson, the Right Hon. the Earl of Malmesbury, G.C.B. 2 vols. London; Bentley. 1870. say that what there is of interest seems to us chiefly to centre in or cluster round the mother of the first Earl, Mrs. Harris, a Miss Clarke, of a Somersetshire family. Indeed, it is not too much to say that from henceforth it will be impossilAe to do justice to that remarkable series of clever Englishwomen who figure so con- spicuously in the social life of the eigh- teenth century without including in it the name of Mrs. James Harris. For a long time we see her only as a name (like her immortal homonym in Charles Dickens), more particularly through the letters to her of her brother-in-law, the Rev. W. Harris, a courtly parson, chaplain and secretary to the Bishop of Salisbury, who keeps the lady well informed not only as to the pro- gress and defeat of the rebellion of 45, the debates in the House of Lords on the Con- tinental war, the trials of the Jacobite rebels, or, again, as to the matches and breaches in high life, but as to the ladies and gentlemens dresses at drawing-rooms, telling her, for instance, how, on Octo- ber 30, 1745: The Princess Amelia had on a white silk, flowered with all sorts of colours, very gay, but not fine nor elegant; Princess Caroline s was a pink, with flowers of green, yellow, and silver, which looked extremely beautiful, and was, in my poor judgment, by far the handsomest suit of any I saw; Lady Gower was the richest in her dress Lady Cardigan excelled as to jewels The Venetian Ambassadress drew most peoples attention by somewhat of singularity both in her air and dress Lord Kildare was unexception ably the finest of any gentleman there,~~ & c. It is only in 1763 that we meet with a letter of Mrs. Harris herself, addressed to her son, the future Earl, then at Oxford; and the last one from her which is inserted dates from 1780. Though fond of all her children, James seems evidently to have been her darling, as is indicated by a pas- sage like the following: I am greatly obliged for your intended present; I am impatient to see it; whatever comes from you is a treasure to me. She keeps him informed of everything, from drawing- rooms, theatres., concerts, visits, to minis- terial appointments, debates, and divisions in either House, dubious political trials, Ranelagh or Winchester riots, and even to the figures of the budget. So fresh, and bright, and varied, indeed, is this series of letters, that we could suggest to Lord Mal- mesbury the reprinting it in a separate vol- ume. Let us cull some extracts from it at random for the reader: THE MALMESBURY CORRESPONDENCE. 51 Cottenhasn and the Fen-country in 1768. Your father and I both agreed we would not spend a summer at Cottenham to have the Deans parsonage; it is surrounded with fens, and you are teased beyond expression by the gnats. When we got here, about nine on Sat- urday, the Deans butler came to your father with a pair of leathern stockings to draw on so as to protect his legs; which in hot weather is dreadful. Besides this, the beds have a machine covered with a silk net which lets down after you are in bed, and covers you all over. With- out this, there could be no sleoping; for not- withstanding all these precautions, we were most miserably stung. There are 1,400 cows kept in the parish of Cottenham, which feed on the. fens in the summer. The water is, in this dry season, up to their bellies. The natives dry the cow-dung for firing in the winter, so tis kept in heaps about the fields, as is also the dung of their yards. So when you walk the stink is inconceivable. Mr. Harris talked with the natives, who told him that dur- ing the winter the water was constantly above their andes in their houses. A Ban .Mot of Wilkess (1763). Mr. Wilkes never loses an opportunity of ridiculing the Scotch. Some one observing that as there were no trees in Scotland there could be no birds, he replied, Gd, sir, not at all, I have seen three magpies perched on one thistle. A Bath Riot of Ladies and Gentlemen (1769). There has been a most violent combustion at the Bath; a Major Brereton and a Mr. Plomer were candidates to succeed Mr. Der- ricks [as Master of the ceremonies]; Brere- ron was chosen, and Mr. Plomers friends pro- tested against it; the subscription was opened again, and Plomer was chosen. I am not clear as to the particulars, but there was a prodi- gious riot in the rooms last Tuesday sennight, in which the ladies joined as well as the gentlemen. Mrs. Hiliman, our acquaintance, and Mrs. Orme (Lady Townshends daughter) had a fi~,ht, and Mrs. Hillman was knocked down; in short, things were carried to such a pitch, that the Mayor, his brethren, and a number of consta- bles entered the room. The proclamation was read three times; tis said that the last reading was to the ladies only. Masquerades (1771). Your sisters and I were last night at the masquerade at the theatre in the Haymarket, given by the gentlemen of Arthurs I, by choice, like always to go where they go, but I make no merit of attending them to a masquerade, for it amuses me more than any diversion, thanks to my friends in my younger days; for had I been permitted to go to them at that time, my relish for them would have been ended long before this. A Horsey Squire (1771). The day after we spent at Dinton. Noth- ing is done there, except disparking a pretty park which his father had made. The squire came into the court to survey our horses not us; the first salutation he gave us was, You hare broke one of your splinter-bars, fixed his eyes on the horses, and left us to get out of the coach as we could. . . . Not a single person at dinner but we five; our conversation was chiefly of grass and dogs. We were relieved soon after dinner by the arrival of a Parson Waterman, who is a droll kind of animal, was perfectly easy, and was as soon asquainted with us as if he had been a Frenchman. He is well versed in all the Salisbury journals, but he says by living so much out of the world he is at a loss to fill up all the blanks relative to the scandal in that [sic] paper, so we gave him all the proper information on that head. So much for rural felicity! Highway Robbery in St. Jamess Square (1778). A most audacious fellow robbed Sir Francis Ilolburne and his sisters in their coach, in St. Jamess Square, coming from the opera. He was on horseback, and held a pistol close to the breast of one of the Miss Holburnes for a consid- erable time. She had left her purse at home, which he would not believe. He has since robbed a coach in Park Lane. Ladies Feathers (1775). Lady Harriet Stanhope. . . . has lately been in France with Lady Ailesbury and Mrs. Damer; they have returned in fine feathers, but the Duchess of Devonshire has still the high- est. One lady tried all places to get one longer than the Duchess, but without success, till she luckily thought of sending to an undertaker; he sent word his hearses were all out, but they were expected home in a few days, and then he hoped to accommodate her ladyship. Dr. Johnson and Rozzy (1775). Tuesday, Dr. Johnson, his fellow-traveller through the Western Isles, Mr. Boswell, and Sir Joshua Reynolds dined here. I have long wished to be in company with this said Johnson; his conversation is the same as his writing, but a dreadful voice and manner. He is certainly amusing as a novelty, but seems not possessed of any benevolence, is beyond all description awkward, and more beastly in his dress and person than anything I ever beheld. He feeds nastily and ferociously, and eats quantities most unthankfully. As to Boswell, he appears a low-bred kind of being. An Incident of the Duchess of Kingstons Trial (1776). Mrs. Egerton . . . spared nobody. She said that the night before the last day of trial, after Sir Francis Molyneux [Usher of the Black Rod] had been some hours in bed (for 52 PASSAGES FROM THE ENGLISH he slept at Kingston house), he got up in a most the editing of this work. Of course, there is violent fright, ran out of his room with nothing no index. The misspellings (they cannot al- on but his shirt, caught a housemaid in his ways be misprints) in the names of places arms, crying out, The Duchess is gone off! are afflicting; Giurgego foi~ Giurgevo, The maid said he might see the Duchess, for she Witspek for Witepsk, Vimiero was not undressed, as the Councillors had just for Vimeira, Guimeralns for Guim- left her, but recommended his putting on some Ovieda for Oviedo, Sam- other garment. So, in his hurry, he threw his arnens, powdering dress over his shoulders, and went to borge for Saintonge, & c. Sir Harry the Duchesss room, aftt,r which he went down Burrards name is printed Burrand twice and saw that all his tall beastly fellows were in one page, and Lord Malmesburys no- on duty, and then went to bed again. tions either of time or of English are so peculiar that he speaks of the Duke of We will extract ~no further, but simply Wellington having avenged the retreat of add that the reflex action of the mothers Corunna (January, 1809) by a victory fresh cheerfulness may be observed in her at Vimiero (Vimeira, August, 1808). son himself, whose letters to her are often However, he has given the world a valu- positively lively, though such a quality is by able work, and we must not be too severe no means characteristic of his general cor- upon a Peers spelling or grammar. respondence, and altogether vanishes in later days. It must, indeed, be observed ______________ that but few private letters from the first Earl during his diplomatic career abroad are recorded, the editor assigning this cu- From The Pall Mall ~azette. rious reason for their scarcity that at that PASSAGES FROM THE ENGLISH NOTE- BOOKS time our Ministers abroad dared only to OF NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. * write the most insignificant matter by post, Fort the sake of the author as well as of and that the Foreign Office had a depart- the subject, these volumes deserve and will ment through which alt letters brought by doubtless obtain a hearty welcome in this official messengers passed an ordeal. Our country. Mr. Hawthorne as a writer of public servants could write freely to one no- fiction reminds us of Charles Lamb as an other at their respective missions by their essayist. Both authors have produced work couriers, but were very shy of the Gabi- of first-rate quality, but of a kind which is net noir at home, and corresponded in caviare to the multitude. Neither Elia England chiefly through chance travellers. nor Hawthorne will ever be as popular as Though we have been obliged to leave Scott, and Dickens, and Trollope are popu- the second volume on one side, we cannot lar. To enjoy them keenly a special taste help recommending to our readers the able is needed, but let the flavour of their genius and lively letters of Captain (now Sir be once appreciated, and it will ever after- George) Bowles, sole survivor, the editor wards be pronounced exquisite. Lanib in tells us, of the writers as well as of the re- his own line is unapproachable, and the cipients of the published correspondence author of the Scarlet Letter is not likely from the Peninsula. Those to whom the to meet with a rival in his peculiar t~eld. Dukes Peninsular career, as seen in the To our thinking these Passages from Mr. light of the Wellington Despatehes, appears Hawthornes Note-books are even more in- but as one trail of glory, may perhaps be teresting than the work which he published surprised at seeing the shadow cast upon it, during his lifetime under the title of Our to the eyes of his contemporaries and fel- Old Home. There is a freshness about low-soldiers, by such operations as the dis- the notes that is missing in the finished astrous siege of Burgos, undertaken, against work, while in both it is easy to trace the all advice, with three eighteen-pounders personal characteristics of the writer his and four howitzers. Some letters of an sensitiveness, his love of all natural beauty, early date from Lord Palmerston are also his tender and reverent feeling for what is vcry curious and interesting, particularly old, combined with an appreciation, scarcely those relating to his declining the Chancel- a part of himself perhaps, but forced upon lorship of the Exchequer, and even a seat him by his nationality, for the forms of life in the Cabinet with the War Depart- and government prevailing in the States. ment (which he eventually took) under If Hawthorne had been born among us, his Perceval in 1809, as well as one on the at- heart, if not his intellect would have been tempt to assassinate him in 1818, an mci- in favour of whatever is established and of dent in his life which will be new to most readers. * Passages from the English Note-books of Nathaniel kjewthorn& 2 vols. (London: Strahan We are afraid we cannot say much for and Co. 1510.) NOTE-BOOKS OF NATHANiEL HAWTHORNE. 53 whatever bears upon it the mossy greenness of age. He lacks language to express his delight in our cathedrals, in the quaint architectural charms of such cities as Ox- ford, Chester, and Warwick; in the old customs that still prevail in those rural dis- tricts; in the respect shown in England for whatever carries with it an authority that originated in bygone ages. It is wicked, he writes, to look at these sol- emn, old churches in a hurry; and again he says: Cathedrals often make me miserable from my inadequacy to take them wholly x~ and, above all, I despise myself when I sit down to describe them. And again, I admire this in Gothic architecture, that you cannot master it all at once, that it is not a naked outline, but as deep and rich as human nature itself Of all English things that I have seen methinks the churches disappoint me least. I feel, too, that there is something much more wonderful in them than I have yet had time to know and experi- ence. Then he notes with admiration and, we fear, gives us on this account more praise than we deserve the careful manner in which our meadow paths and footways are preserved from generation to genera- tion. An American farmer, he says, would plough them over without a thought. Mr. Hawthorne observes somewhere that it is impossible to describe scenery, but his Eng- lish note-books belie the a3sertion. No writer that we know of has ever described the special, and in a sense peerless, charms of English landscape with greater accuracy or with more tenderness of feeling. His accuracy is that of the draughtsman, his tenderness that of the poet; and it is curious to observe as he passes over the country how the landscape, although new to him, is not strange, but rather a familiar adjunct to the Old Home which he had seen in visions and dreamt of in dreams, and gained acquaintance with from many books in the new country of his birth. Of one beautiful spot he writes: It is entirely English, and like nothing that one sees in America, yet I feel as if I might have lived here a long while ago, and had now come back be- cause I retained pleasant recollections of it. The contrast between the scenery of America and that of England strikes him at every turn, and almost always to the advantage of our country. Two or three instances of this may be worth quoting; in language as well as in thought, they are singularly characteristic of the writer. The following passage was written in the Eng- lish lake district: I question whether any part of the world looks so beautiful as England this part of England at least on a fine summer morning. It makes one think more cheerfully of human life to see such a bright, universal verdure; such sweet. rural, peaceful, flower-bordered cottages not cottages of gentility, but dwellings of the labour ing poor; such nice villas along the roadside, so tastefully contrived for comfort and beauty, and adorned more and more, year after year, with the care and afterthought of people who mean to live in them a great while, and feel as if their children might live in them also; and so they plant trees to overshadow their walks, and train ivy and all beautiful vines up against their walls, and thus live for the future in another sense than we Americans do. And the climate helps them out, and makes everything moist and green and full of tender life, instead of dry and arid, as human life and vegetable life is so apt to be with us. Certainly, England can present a more attractive face than we can. The next passage we mean to quote was written from Newby Bridge: The roads give us beautiful walks along the riverside, or wind away among the gentle hills; and if we had nothing else to look at in these walks, the hedges and stone fences would afford interest enough, so many and pretty are the flowers, roses, honey-suckles, and other sweet things, and so abundantly does the moss and ivy grow among the old stones of the fences, which would never have a single shoot of vege- tation on them in America till the very end of time. But here, no sooner is a stone fence built than Nature sets to work to make it a part of herself. She adopts it and adorns it as if it were her own child. A little sprig of ivy may be seen creeping up the side and clinging fast with its many feet; a tuft of grass roots itself between two of the stones where a little dust from the road has been moistened into soil for it; a small bunch of fern grows in another such crevice; a deep, soft, green moss spreads itself over the top and all along the sides of the fence; and wherever nothing else will grow lichens adhere to the stones and variegate their hues. Finally, a great deal of shrubbery is sure to cluster along its extent, and take away all hard- ness from the outline; and so the whole stone fence looks as if God had had as least as much to do with it as man. In another place he remarks in the same strain, Nature is certainly a more genial playfellow in England than in my own country. She is always ready to lend her aid to any beautifving purpose. It would be easy to multiply passages like these, and others in which, with passionate enthttsiasm, Mr. Hawthorne dilates upon the rare charms of English landscape, and of the art which has grown incorporate with it. The beauty of English scenery, he says, makes me desperate; it is so impossible to de 54 SHAKSPBARE ON BEAUTY~ scribe it, or in any way to record its im- pressions, and such a pity to leave it unde- scribed. And so in writing his notes on Oxford he remaks I am in despair about the architecture and old edifices of these Oxford colleges it is so impos- sible to express them in words. They are them- selves as the architect left them, and as time has modified and improved them, the expression of an idea which does not admit of being otherwise expressed or translated into anything else. Those old battlemented walls around the quad- rangles, many gables, the windows with stone pavilions, so very antique, yet some of them adorned with fresh flowers in pots a very sweet contrast; the ivy mantling the grey stone, and the infinite repose, both in sunshine and shadow, it is as if half a dozen bygone centuries had set up their rest here, and as if nothing of thd present time ever passed through the deeply recessed archway that shuts in the college from the street. Not but what people have very free admittance, and many parties of young men and girls and children came into the gardens while we were there. All this is charming writing and delight- ful reading; but it is impossible by brief extracts to give an adequate notion of the picturesque interest of these volumes. It is pleasar~t through the unrestrained utter- ances of this diary to gain a knowledge of the thoughts and feelings of an accomplished American gentleman and a great literary artist with regard to the land of his fore- fathers. We Englishmen are so apt to dis- regard that which lies nearest to us that it may~-be well to be reminded by a foreigner of the treasures we possess in this island. Home-travel no doubt has its draw-backs; but that it has an infinite charm for those who will pursue it leisurely and are not in too great a hurry for enjoyment is evident from these delightful volumes. Mr. Haw- thorne, like every man of strong feelings, has very decided predilections and anti- pathies. He can see little beauty in Eng- lishwomen. He acknowledges that although there are some Englishmen whom he likes, a cold thin medium intervenes between our most intimate approaches. He de- clares, which may possibly be true also of the States, that our nation is prone to arro- gance and conceit. He thinks that Ameri- cans possess a quicker and more subtle recognition of genius than the English peo- ple; and, in short, as is perfectly reasona- ble and fitting, he prefers his own land and countrymen to ours. In conclusion~ we have a remark to make with regard to the publication of these pri- vate journals. Mr. Hawthorne, be it re- IBembered, wrote them for his own benefit, not for that of the public; and the responsi- bility of the published statements rests, therefore, with the editor. It is difficult to say exactly how far it is wise and right to produce a mans private opinion of per- sons whom he met with in society, and who are still living among us. Mr. Hawthorne, albeit an American, had no taint of what he terms American obtrusiveness. He was a thorough gentleman, and would never for the sake of literary capital have betrayed the confidences of private life. That this is done to any great extent in these volumes we do not say; but there is occasionally a freedom of expression with regard to the character and personal peculiarities of living men and women which we think Mr. Haw- thorne would have avoided if he could have foreseen this publication of his Notes. From the Saturday Revie#. SRAKSPEARE ON BEAUTY. Tans admiration that we render to the genius of Shakspeare is not all consciously paid. As with a great building, so with a great genius, wherever excellence or curi- osity in the parts is lost in the harmony or perfectness of the whole, admiration is un- consciously or tacitly expressed. In Shak- speare, overpowered by his dramatic force and completeness, we often lose sight of his reasoning ability and his analytical acute- ness. No man leaves behind him in quan- tity so large an intellectual legacy as Shak- speare left, especially when the quality is rare and the variety great, without having put on record incidentally many marks of the detailed workin~s of his mind; and not only of his special intellectual processes or principles, but also of his tastes and sympa- thies. But who can say much on these matters respecting Shakspeare P Who does not feel himself t6be better informed about the likes and dislikes of Falstaff, Romeo, Othello, or even Hamlet, than he is about the views and sentiments of their originator? The reason is that the genius of Shakspeare was not only profoundly dramatic, but pro- fouridly faithful to dramatic requirement. And thus he becomes individually lost; lost doubly, in the completeness and the variety of his dramatic creations. But though lost to surface study and undiscrim- mating observation lost, in short, to that hasty and unsatisfactory character known as the general reader there is no reason why he should not be found, if carefully searched after. In other words, the works of Shakspeare do actually contain traces, SHAKSPEARE ON BEAUTY. 55 more or less distinct, of what he thought It provoketh thieves sooner than gold and felt on a great variety of subjects, and it often makes women proud, and men by setting these indications side by side a effeminate. On the other hand, it can and united whole may be gained which tells us ought to exercise a sovereignty for good a good deal about his mind and heart in this sovereignty, because it is itself hedged or that. We propose in these remarks to round with a kind of regal divinity. examine how he wrote, and to infer as nearly as may be how he thought, on the subject of personal beauty. We think it was Lord Chesterfield who once described personal heauty as a good letter of introduction. Good looks cer- tainly do the work of such letters very well in a great number of instances hut the de- scription will he felt to be mean, feeble, and inadequate. Shakspeare would not have endured it for a moment. He might have put it for dramatic purposes into the mouth of a calculating lago or a cynical Jaques; but it is the last thing that he him- self would have accepted as a description of beauty, for his thoughts ran altogether on another level. They may not win gen- eral acceptance just now. It is possible that they may incline some readers to ask, as George III. once asked of Miss Burney (in confidence), Was there ever such stuff as a great part of Shakspeare? But they are, notwithstanding, on a level which no one would he the worse for trying to reach once more. Beauty, in his concep- tion, was, in the first place, one of the great prime gifts of life. He is continually given to rank it among these. He classes it with Wit, High birth, vigour of hone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity with education, youth, honesty, worth, cour- age, and wisdom. Like all of these, it is to be regarded more as a trust than as a gift. It may be disfigured and wasted, a thing which it is criminal to allow; or increased and transmitted, which is not a matter of caprice, but a duty. Whatever view may be held about the Sonnets in general, no one who knows well that exquisite and diffi- cult series of poems will have much doubt that the reiterated injunctions to perpetuate the great endowment of beauty by trans- mission, which abound in the first twenty or thirty sonnets, are something more than Vhc expression of a wish regarding a par- ticular case, and represent general and per- manent persuasions. Like those other prime personal faculties or acquisitions, heauty is also, in Shak- speare s view, a potent influencer. It is sometimes mysteriously powerful for evil. Beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. Beautys princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. If it drove Angelo into insane and reckless villany, it more often reclaims the tyrant, and wins respect and privilege. It can shame the purse-proud into submission, and it can annihilate time. A withered hermit, fivescore winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye: Beauty doth varnish age, as if newborn, And gives the crutch the cradles infancy. We have so far spoken only of the rela- tions and the influence of beauty. There is no dramatic poet who writes so clearly, so consistently (within reasonable limits), and so nobly as Shakspeare does about its na- ture and quality. Every now and then it suits him to write hyperbolically, as when the servant in Troilus and fiJressida calls, not beauty in the abstract only, but the actual embodied Helen, loves invisible soul. But Shakspeare~s own thought and feeling about the nature of beauty was ex- actly the opposite of this. A score of pas- sages show that he habitually conceived of it as a kind of semi-corporeal essence, the soul or vital principle of which is goodness. We do not care to inquire how far this was due to the higher influences of Euphuism, or to the mysticism of Italian poets. For, like everything else that he touched, he had made these thoughts essentially his own; and they had been removed by l;im (though at this time of day they may look almost too delicate for common use) out of the region of the transeendental, and worked into the relations of actual and practical life. In Measure for Measure, the loftiest in some respects of all the Shakspearian dramas, the Duke tells Isabella that the goodness that is cheap in beauty (in other and less appo- site words, venality in beauty) makes beauty brief in goodness (shortlived); but grace,. being the soul of your complexion, shall. keep the body of it fair for ever. Antonio,. in Twelfth Night, mistaking Viola for Se-- bastian, and bitterly believing himself dis- owned, tells the supposed fair traitor that he has done good feature shame : In nature theres no blemish but the mind; None can be called deformd but the unkind;; Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous evil Are empty trunks oerflourishd by the deviL. 56 SHAKSPEARE ON BEAUTY. Elizabeth of York, in a quick agony of sus- pense while discoursing with Richard of her daughter, talks in the same hreath of staining her beauty and corrupting her manners. Troilus dreams of con- stancy, the embodiment of goodness in many kinds, as Outliving beautys outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays. And the living death of false beauty is likened in Bassanios lips to the display of borrowed tresses, The crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, when all the while they are dissevered from what was their original and only source of life the skull that hi-ed them in the sep- ulchre. These with Shakspeare are not transient whimsical phrases. They are his habitual thoughts. They are put into the mouths of the most various characters, and they are intensified by some of his most powerful writing. They differ from the Platonic and Spenserian phantasies so pleasantly dis- coursed upon by Charles Lamb in the essay on Mrs. Conrady. Delicate and true as these are, there is an air of ingeniousness about them by reason of which they strike less directly home. In them the virtuous soul is the cause of a beautiful exterior, provided always that the material is plastic enough. But the doctrine that the exterior beauty is proportioned to the internal intel- lectual light is too glaringly contrary to facts to be impressive; and the saving pro- vision that some material is so obstinate that it cannot be worked upon is too general and too elastic. In Shakspeare the beauti- ful exterior is not attempted to be accounted for; but the laws of its life and death, its durability and decay, are delineated with a fineness and precision of thought which genius might inspire, but which nothing but virtuous soundness of nature could dictate and render habitual. If, however, we have mentioned Spensers Hymne in Honour of Beautie with a slightly unfavourable contrast on a particu- lar point, it is impossible to end without stopping again to extol it. There is one thought pervading it in which the two great Elizabethan contemporaries could not but agree in which perhaps all the greatest mediieval and modern poets have agreed and that is, the immortality of beauty. The line in Keats A thing of beauty is a joy for ever has performed such severe and unremitting duty as a quotation that we are ashamed once more to recall it. But perhaps it is not very common to recollect that the words, and the whole passage where they stand, indicate a thought which is instinctive in natures of a certain degree of feeling and perception, and which has been seized and embodied by the loftiest minds in their lof- tiest moods. Keats is possessed primarily by the thought of the abiding effect of things beautiful; but he also conveys what Shak- speare and Spenser and Milton exoress again and again the idea of permanency in beauty itself, its association in the mind, not with what is transient, but with what is eternal. We all know what it is to grudge even the passing of a beautiful day The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die; we wish to hold fast the shapes of sky or plain ; and, moved by a stronger instinct still, we cannot lose without unwillingness the present light and glory of personal hu- man beauty. Permanency is not only the thought or emotion of reflecting minds on fronting beauty; it is more than that; it is the blind intuition even of natures that never were and never will be able to com- pass in thought such abstractions as beauty or permanency at all. Reflection, stim- ulated perhaps rather than dulled by fre- quent loss and faniila.r disappointment, casts about to find what the elements of perma- nency may be, and the great poets, in clear dream and solemn vision, have found it, and declare it to be the prime germ of beauty, its life and soul. Call it what you will grace, virtue, goodness this luce intellettual, piena damore is the real rem- edy of lossor of decay in beauty, the guaran- tee of perpetuity; it casts a beam upon the outward shape, And turns it by degrees to the souls essence, Till all be made immortal. And Shakspeare, whenever he has occasion to do more than merely transmit the name of beauty through his verse, is never far from thoughts like these. He is always ready to pass from the outward to the in- ward; from the form to the idea; from the corporeal reflection to the inextinguished ray which Is heavenly-born and cannot die- Being a parcell of the purest skie. SOME POLITICAL ASPECTS OF THE WAR. 57 From The Pall Mall Gazette. SOME POLITICAL ASPECTS OF THE WAR. FIRST of all, Europe has been confronted by a new and startling fact. A colossal military Power has unexpectedly risen up among us. We say has unexpectedly risen up, because the most favourable estimates of the Prussian military organization had not prepared us for anything like the re- ality. Many people thought that the result of a war between Prussia and France would be to displace the latter from the position of military pre-eminence she was supposed to have regained under the Second Empire. But if the contest ends as it has begun, it will do very much more than this. It promises to place Prussia in a position such as France has never held except under Louis XLV. and under Napoleon I. There is much the same sort of difference between this and the position France has lately claimed to hold as there is between the Ultramontane theory of St. Peters su- premacy and the Anglican theory of his primacy. As a military Power France has been, as theologians would say, primus anter pares, and the utmost that was looked for from the war was the tranffer of this pre- eminence to Prussia. But the utter col- lapse of the French army, supposing it really to take place, carries with it some- thing very different. With France dis- posed of, Prussia will be the possessor of an unchallenged supremacy over every other Power taken singly. England cer- tainly could not stand up against her. Aus- tria failed to do so when Prussia was weaker than she is now. Russia may some day have the necessary strength, but at present, according to the best accounts, she neither has nor thinks that she has it. It is too soon to determine how this sudden aggrandizement of one Power may affect the politics of Europe, but it is quite time to point out that the state of things to which it introduces us is one for which we were quite unprepared. It may be all that it is described, but certainly there cannot yet have been time enough to allow a cool ob- server to come to any final conclusion upon the subject. There are some reasons, no doubt, why Englishmen may fairly rejoice in a great accession to German strength, but it remains to be seen how far these special grounds for self-congratulation on their part will have to be qualified by the commonplace reflection that even Prussians are but men, and that uncontrolled power will still perhaps be capable of abuse, though it may be wielded by Teutonic bands and guided by Teutonic brains. It will not, however, be in England that this fact will be soonest or most keenly felt. The victories of Prussia must awaken a far more lively interest in Russia than in any other of the neutral States. For some years past it has been the policy of the Berlin Cabinet to keep on goo~terms with the Czar. Family alliances made it natural and decent to do so, and there was an obvious prudence in not provoking Russian hostility until it was possible to provoke it without danger. Consequently, Prussia and France have been allowed to bid against each other at St. Petersburg, and as it was not the aim of the Russian Gov- ernment that either of them should become much stronger than the other, the Czars Ministers have been careful to encourage both a little, and neither very much. Each rumour of an alliance to be ,,concluded be- tween France and Russia has been followed at no long interval by hints that the rela- tions between Russia and Prussia were never more friendly, and these again have been the forerunner of significant suggest- ions as to the great things France and Russia might do if they could but recognise the real identity of their interests. Now Russia has been deprived without any warn- ing of the second string on which she has relied for the success of her archery. She will have to confront Prussia in future with no strong Power in the background ready, as well as eager, to take advantage of Prussias attention being engaged elsewhere in order to undermine her position in Ger- many. If the policy of the two Govern- ments were really one and the same, this might not be altogether disagreeable to Russia. They would agree to go their own way and to use their common strength for the attainment of their separate objects. But with the consolidation of Germany un- der Prussian rule the reasons for employing their common strength in this way will cease to have any weight at Berlin. So long as Prussia wanted to extend her influ- ence in Germany Russia might have offered her the inducement of being left to do so in peace. But now that the process is virtu- ally completed, now that Germany south of the Main as well as north of it is virtu- ally one nation and one army, Russia has no longer this bait at her disposal. Prussia has secured all she wanted by her own un- assisted strength, and any designs that Russia may entertain in the East will be judged at Berlin with no reference to the bribe that she could once have held out in the shape of a full permission to Prussia to work out her own designs nearer home. We may look, therefore, for the assump- tion of a far more independent attitude 58 towards Russia on the part of the Berlin Cabinet as one of the most immediate re- suIts of the war, and it happens that so soon as Count Bismarck has any time to turn his thoughts in that direction he will not be without an opportunity for making this result apparent. For some time back Russia has been engaged in a species of crusade against her German subjects in the Baltic provinces. She has set herself to root out the German language and the Lu- theran religion to destroy, in fact, all the marks which have hitherto distinguished the German nationality in these provinces from the Slavonic type which she has suc- cessfully established throughout the rest of her empire. In this respect her policy ha~ been identical with that attributed, whether truly or falsely, by the Germans to the Danish Government in Sleswick-Llolstein, and consistency has already demanded that the same ultimatum should be presented at St. Petersburg as was presented at Copen- hagen in 1864 the full recognition, that is, of German claims, or the compulsory severance of the German territories. Hith- erto Count Bis~narck has been prudently blind to this logical necessity. He was not prepared to fight Russia, and he justly ar- gued that Russia would listen to no inter- ference in her internal affairs which could not be backed in the last resort by an appeal to force. The mission of Prussia as the protector of German interests in all parts of the world was therefore suffered to lie in abeyance, apd the Russian govern- ment went its own way. It is not likely that this policy will be pursued any longer. The Germans of the Baltic provinces are keenly interested in the events of the war, and when they say to their Russian neighbours, on getting the news of a Prus- sian success, Our troops have beaten yours, there may be something prophetic in the instinctive identification of Russia with the defeated army. From The Pall Mall Gazette. MILITARY LESSONS OF THE WAR. THE absence of military correspondents with the French and Prussian armies of critical, professional observers of the inci- dents of the great struggle between the two greatest military nations of Europe is to be regretted not merely on account of our present loss, great as that is, but because we thus run a risk of wholly missing some of the more important lessons of the war. It is surprising how little r,ea.lly detailed MILITARY LESSONS OF THE WAR. military information of the past and present events has yet reached us. No diligent military correspondents have hovered about the battle-fields to cull from them the in- struction which they were capable of afford- ing; the facile pen which told of the Bohe- mian triumphs, and which taught us so much, is perforce idle. Even the well- known eorrespondent who accompanied the Crown Prince has as yet been able to re- cord little of permanent military value and interest. And yet day by day in the Alsa- tian battle fields lessons of the highest im- portance to the soldier and to the nation are being spelt out. We may be told that it is too soon to attempt to generalize from the present struggle, that a days events may upset all our conclusions, that, after all, the campaign is scarcely opened, that nothing absolutely decisive has yet been done. In this there is no doubt much truth. It is too soon to attempt to generalize ex- haustively, or to pronounce (logmatically as to the ultimate solution of all the great problems now being worked out upon the Meuse and Moselle. We have, of course, much more to learn, and many questions are still in suspense. But it is not too soon to appeal to the experience of the present war as establishing certain facts, or as affording indications, more or less decided, of important conclusions of grave military import. We have got, at any rate, to the words of one syllable, and these it will L3 well to make our own before we at- tempt to master the more difficult lessons. For the present, we shall confine ourselves to setting forth the points which seem to he plainly proved. The instruction to be de- rived in thisway groups itself naturally into several large divisions. There is, for ex- ample, that division which connects itself with the personnel of the contending armies, and the organization under which that per- sonnel is directed. There is, again, the question of material of war, its efficiency and application; there is the large ahd im- portant division which comprehends the va- rious tactical considerations; there is the strategy of the compaign; there is the home application of these and various other les- sons to ourselves and our soldiers. To ex- haust these subjects would be to write sev~ eral treatises, and no attempt of the sort will be made here. All we propose to do is to note down from time to time the points which become more or less decidedly estab- lished; thus accumulating as the war pro- ceeds some raw material of instruction which xuay hereafter be usefully applied to the strengthening of ou~r own system. It is surely not too soon to bear testimony MILITARY LESSONS OF TILE WAR. 59 to the excellence and efficiency of the Prus- sian soldiers. This is the more important because those who, like ourselves, have ad- vocated a reorganization of our military system on something approaching the Prus- sian basis have been frequently met with the statement that the reputation of this army rested upon no solid foundation. The supporters of the old standing army system, as contra-distinguished from what we may call the national military system, have urged that the successes of the Prussians in Den- mark, or against an internally divided and badly administered military Power like Austria, afforded no guarantee of the suc- cess of the Prussian arms against a really first-rate military Power, against a well- trained, vigorous, compact standing army, such as that of France. All advances to- wards the Prussian system have been met by a depreciation of the performances of the Prussian army in Bohemia and else- where. Prussia was ready while her oppo- nents were not; or she happened to be bet- ter armed; or she was inherently stronger; or the generals opposed to her were weak and incapable; or there were dissensions in the enemys camp; or the campaign was too short to admit of sound conclusions be- ing drawn. In fact, the Prussian military strength was hollow. Prick it with a French bayonet, and who should say that it would not go to pieces? The past few weeks will have supplied a complete an- swer to this criticism. The Prussian arms have achieved a series of extraordinary suc- cesses against a French army. And the French army, be it observed, has fought in some respects under what may be. regarded as great advantages. It has been animated by all the first fire which lights up and al- most sanctifies a popular campaign by all the confidence of men who anticipated ade- cided victory. There were new and won- derful weapons, too, to exhibit their prow- ess; there were French generals of Italian and Algerian reputation, who for years had been studying the question which this war was destined to solve; there was an army numerically stronger, we believe, than any which France has before placed in the field. If there was numerical inferiority, there was the compensating advantage of position. There was, in brief, a military machine be- lieved to be the highest quality, which for years had been undergoing all sorts of pol- ishing and improvement specially in view of the occasion which had at last arrived. This was the force against which the Prus- sian soldier was called upon to fight. flow has he acquitted himself? No one will de- ny that be has shown a determination, an intrepidity, a coolness, a discipline which place him at once in the very highest mili- tary ranks. While full of a deep fury and intense national dislike of his foe, he has yet carefully subordinated his fecdings to his discipline. He h4s not been betrayed into neglecting the lessons so admirably taught him during peace. He has not fired away all his ammunition like a feu de joie, or at impossible ranges; he has not trusted to unreasoning or unnecessary onsets for victory; he has not omitted to fight under cover as far as possible; he has not fought indiscriminately or blindly, although when required, as at Spikeren, he has been ready to execute assaults of the most desperate and bloody kind, and he has throughout exhibited a certain gentleness which is ad- mirable. It seems to us, if the accounts which we have received may he relied upon, that the Prussian soldier has approached as near perfection in his conduct on the march and in action as it is possible to attain to. In gallantry he may n9t have surpassed the French, but he has equalled them, and he has coupled that gallantry with a discretion and a moral sobriety and quiet earnestness of purpose which the French soldier does not always seem to have exhibited. His very enthusiasm also is of a totally different character from that of his foe. Much of all this, no doubt, is natural to the Prussians; but much of it is the direct offspring of an excellent discipline. And that discipline begins, not in the army, but in the national schools. The Prussian soldier is an important fac- tor in the results which we have described. The military system completes and com- pacts what the national education has com- menced. That system is essentially an in- telligent one in its two main features. In the first place, it draws into the ranks a large proportion of superior recruits; in the second place, it subjects the whole army to a training of the highest character. The expression superior recruits is sometimes sneered at in this country by military men. They tell us that we want a soldier to do what he is told neither more nor less. But we have never been able to compre- hend why an intelligent recruit should be less likely to be amenable to discipline than one who recognizes in it nothing more than a mechanical coercive force. Is it not from our superior recruits that our non-commis- sioned officers are made? And we may also fairly urge that the Prussian army, which is without doubt the most intelligent in the world, is also probably at this mo- ment the most efficient As to the system of training, we have spoken Qf this on many 60 ENGLAND AND PRUSSIA. occasions. No one who is interested in these subjects can be ignorant of the method of field instruction in vogue in Prussia, and which we have lately happily adopted to some extent for our troops the method of bringing large bodies of men together, not for sham fights, but for a series of military manmuvres which are made as real as the absence of ball cartridge and of an actual enemy will permit manoeuvres by which not merely the rank and the file but the officers and generals are practised and informed. Nor can any one who is ac- quainted even slightly with the Prussian army believe that the discipline is otherwise than stringent. No soldiers least of all such soldiers as the Prussians can be made without discipline. And the product of this system of this intelligent disci- pline and training acting upon a com- paratively high personnel, is the army which is now rolling back an attempted invasion by what has hitherto been regarded as the greatest regular military Power in Europe. There is another point to be observed with regard to the Prussian columns now advanc- ing into France. They are not, as a rule, old soldiers. The older soldiers of Prus- sia are at present in her second line. The first lines the columns which conquered at Saarbriicken, Woerth, and Mars-la-Tour are composed mainly of men iii their first term of short service; and yet these men seem to~lack nothing of the finer qualities of veteran soldiers. Further, these col- umns derive much of their momentum from the fact that they stand in relation to the nation from which they issue forth, not as a class apart, but strictly as national repre- sentatives. The Prussian army is essen- tially a national army a national micro- cosm. It is not a mere isolated body of trained men; it is a vital part of the nation, which beats with the same pulse and is ani- mated with the same emotions. Such a force is, we will not say irresistible, but, well directed, it undoubtedly forms as pow- erful a military engine, whether for attack or defence, as can be conceived. We call attention to these things, not as being new, but because they have derived from recent events a new emphasis and increased strength, and because, while we are striv- ing to remodel our military system, it be- hoves us attentively to observe the results of that system which appears to combine at once the maximum of efficiency with the minimum of cost. If standing armies are unendurable, if daily they are becoming more of an anachronism, and if, at the same time, it is daily becoming snore and snore necessary to have always at hand a numer ous body of trained men for the defence of tl~e country a force which, while not al- ways on foot, can spring into active, effi- cient existence at a moments notice then surely it is important to note the suggested and apparently satisfactory solution of this problem which is presented by the Prussians. This is the first great lesson of the present war. From The Pall Mall Gazette. ENGLAND AND PRUSSIA. WE fear that the sense of the necessity of pressing on our naval and military prep- arations has grown less keen since Parlia- ment broke up. The event which gave such a sudden impulse to these preparations was undoubtedly the publication of the Draught Treaty and the light it was sup- posed to throw on the designs of France. Now all danger from this quarter may be considered to have passed away. France is in no position to conquer Belgium; she has enough to do to escape being conquered herself. Fortune has favoured and prom- ises still to favour the arms of Prussia, and most of the organs of English opinion are in such a hurry to make their obeisance to the rising sun that they do not stop to con- sider whether his rays may not later in the day be found to scorch those exposed to them. We cannot see that the French reverses have made any change in the duty of the English Government. From what- ever point of view the war is regarded it seems laden with danger to the tranquillity of the rest of Europe. Let us assume in the first instance that the close of the pres- ent campaign will be as triumphant for Prussia as its beginning. We put this simply as a supposition. We have no wish to prejudge the result of the gallant efforts which the French nation are making to retrieve their defeat; but, as impartial observers, it is impossible to doubt that the odds are still greatly in favour of the Prus- sians, and consequently, in calculating how the future will affect our own policy, it is natural in the first instance to start from this hypothesis. We pointed out the other day what a tremendous military Power Prussia would become in the event of her completely overthrowing the French ar- mies; and we cannot profess to derive much comfort from the reflection that the Prus- sians belong to the Teutonic race. No doubt distinctions of race are very import- ant, as summing up the action of many ages on particular sections of mankiild. ENGLAND AND PRUSSIA. 61 But the identity of the human nature under- 1 Englishmen from comprehending the policy lying these distinctions is more important which can alone secure the true and lasting still; and one of the best ascertained facts interests of the British Empire. Let Eng- about human nature seems to be that mod- land the Bbrsenhalle goes on remain in eration is rarely the offspring of sudden her isolation. United Germany has no need success. Looked at in this aspect there of her alliance; rather it will be England are other aspects pointing to a different that will by-and-by p resent herself as a. conclusion, on which we may dwell at some mendicant for the aIlian~e of Germany. ot.her time the supremacy of Prussia in But when that day comes when England Europe may be apt to generate future asks for German co-operation in keeping aggressions, and if this is so, it becomes of Russia out of Constantinople let Ger- some moment to know what are the feelings many remember 1870. which the Prussians cherish towards Great We have given the substance of this arti- Britain. It has been too much taken for dc, because it seenis to embody in a very granted in this country that the success of telling way the estimate in which we are our fellow Teutons can be nothing but a held in Germany, and because it is cx- benefit to England; that it will be rather tremely desirable that Englishmen should an advantage than otherwise to have the not delude themselves into thinking that dictatorship of Europe in the family. because the aggrandizement of Prussia is So far as can be judged from the most the aggrandizement of our ethnological influential German newspapers, this is not kinsmen, it is therefore indirectly a rise in altogether the view of the case that prevails the world for ourselves. It is clear that so in Germany. England seems to be re- far as views similar to those we have quoted garded there with a mixture of dislike and prevail in Prussia the temper of the nation contempt. This sentiment is mainly due to is likely to be hostile towards England. twi causes: one a belief that England could With our high opinion of the middle classes have prevented the war, if she had chosen, it is difficult for us to realize what the term by intimating to the Emperor of the French bourgeoisie conveys to a people like the that any readjustment of the French frontier Prussians, proud of their military sue- on the Rhine would be opposed by Great cesses, accustomed to military organ~a- Britain at all hazards; the other, a feeling tion, and subject to an intensely military that the German effort to destroy the pre- government. There is in it all the con- ponderance of France ought to have found tempt implied in Napoleons old taunt, A an ally in England. The inaction of Eng- nation of shopkeepers; and the contempt land under these circumstances is attributed in this case is strengthened by the convic- to the fact that she is no longer a great tion, which was probably wanting in the Power in Europe. She is entirely given former case, that the taunt is literally true. up, these journals say, to the pursuit of When the Germans say that England. is commercial interests. Her rulem~s belong governed by its bourgeoisie they are speak- to a middle class which has neither the ing to themselves, not to us. Their object courage nor the willingness to make the is not so much to hurt our pride as to con- sacrifices which are demanded by a great vince their own people that in all future policy, and they themselves have all the political combinations England may be left indecision which marks statesmen sprung out of the account. She will never act from the bourgeoisie. The Hamburg Bor- vigor~usIy except where her business inter- senhalle, itself a commercial organ of great ests ar~e concerned, and then, if she is only weight, sets out this view with remarkable left to herself, she will be toz weak to act plainness and precision. The England we to any purpose. have hitherto believed in, it says, has been It is not our intention at present to in- an ideal England, ruled by an intelligent vestigate the accuracy of this estimate of and energetic aristocracy, which is in its the position and character of England. turn supported by a vigorous and patriotic How far our policy for some years back population of country gentlemen, sailors, has tended to justify it, and what consider- and merchants. The German people have ations must be supplied by way of modify- wilfully shut their eyes to the progress of ing these sweeping conclusions, are points that social decomposition which now threat- to which we may return some other time. ens the existence of England. It needed All that need be insisted on now is the their recent experiences to convince them probability that a nation which holds us so how deeply the canker of ~ mercantilism cheaply will pursue its designs in utter dis- has eaten into the national character, and regard of any effect they may have upon to how great an extent the ferocious self- England. What these designs are likely ishness of the 8hopkeeper incapacitates to be is another question . They may havo 62 RUSSIA AND THE WAR. nothing in them that threatens us in any a new society have been laid, and while all way whatever. But the existence of a this internal renovation was going on, never Power in Europe able and willing to take was the foreign policy of Russia more de- its own course, no matter whether that J cided, more dignified, or more self-pos- course does or does not involve injury and sessed Sebastopol was scarcely taken dishonour to England, ought to be a suffi- when the Emperor Napoleon was meditat- cient reason for resting our future policy j ing his own terms of peace with an enemy upon an adequate basis of material force. who, having served his purpose in obtaining If England has not ~et abandoned the claim one alliance, might be the ~onfldential to be a great Power, the knowledge that partner in another. At the opening of the ~he is supposed to have forfeited the title Italian war in l8~l9 a Franco-Russian alli- ought to incite her to such an effective ance was in the air. Louis Napoleon revision of her military and naval arma- courted it, nor was it from any want of ments as may enable her to speak when she warmth in his courtship that his inten- thinks fit with the weight and calmness tions were declined. What be wanted it which is the accompaniment of conscious for, or what was the ulterior object of his strength. intentions, is less clear. Probably his intentions were only half-formed con- spiracies agairst some Power whose alli- ance was no longer indispensable to him. Russia knew very well that while he was From The Saturday Review, courting her alliance he was coquetting, like RUSSIA AND THE WAR. his uncle, with the inexhaustible credulity AFTER the Congress of Paris in 1856 of Poland, and holding in reserve the the policy of Russia was authoritatively de- dreams and hopes of that everlasting victim dared to be one of strict isolation and of French revolutionary jargon. When, a reserve. England, it was announced, had few years later, the Polish insurrection betrayed the confidence of the Emperor broke out, and that fantastic and impracti- Nicholas, and repelled his offers of a share cable nationality threw away the last chance in the confiscation of the Turkish Empire, of a government and administration of its in order to throw herself headlong into an own, the French Emperor felt himself alliance with the Second Empire, and to obliged to make some show of active sym- secure the friendship of a dangerous con- pathy. But the moment Prince Gorts- spirator by lending him her own prestige. chakoff replied to covert menaces by a dis- Austria had played an obscure and shifty dainful despatch, the heir and successor of part as a neutral; Prussia had looked more the man for whom thousands of brave Poles kindly on her old ally, but declined a closer had fallen in battle drew back, and held his and more active sympathy. Russia had peace; and ever since that signal diplo- learnt a severe and bitter but profitable matic discomfiture he has assiduously culti- lesson from her heroic efforts and glorious vated the most friendly relationa with the reverses; to live her own life, to recruit Power that slapped his face, and has almost and renovate her unexhausted though shat- obsequiously studied to please the restorer tered energies, to devote herself to the of order at Warsaw. His ostentatiously material interests of peace -~ in a word, to affectionate welcome to the Czar in Paris collect herself for the sure but not pre- during the International Exhibition a cipitate fulfilment of her destinies. Se welcome so inauspiciously interrupted by a recueillzr that was to be the whole duty Polish pistol was bitterly remarked by of Russian statesmanship for years to come, French Republicans. During the four years according to Prince Gortschakoff. That of preparation for the attack upon Prussia, duty has been faithfully observed, and a Louis Napoleon has persevered in his new Russia, more Muscovite and more dis- assiduities at St. Petersburg, through one creet, though not less despotic, has been of the most devoted of his personal agents, created out of the ruins of the old Russia whose favoured position at the Court of of serfdom and silence, of intervention and Alexander II. is a favourite topic in the intrigue. In the two great centres of the Official Journal. This laborious affectation Empire something like national opinion has of friendship has not, htwever, estranged sprung up and spread from a few salons to him from his other alliances, with England, the colleges, and from official circles to with Austria, arid with Turkey. It has public journals. Foreign capital has been rather assumed the character of a warning attracted by high interest and punctual to his other allies to beware of the possi- dividends to investments in railway enter- bility of that Russian alliance which he prise. The foundation nf a new polity and could never obtain. AleEander II., if lea. RUSSIA AND THE WAR. 63 disdainful than his father of these advances, is scarcely more solicitous of their sin- cerity. While the Journal Officiel was dwelling with eager satisfaction on General Flourys successes as a courtier, the Czar was publicly and formally exchanging with King William of Prussia congratulatory reminiscences of a memorable defeat of the First Napoleon in Germany. Such were the relations between the Gov- ernmcnts of France and Russia when the Duke of Gramont read to the Chambers the declaration of war, and such to all appearances they are now, when the German armies under the Prussian standards are marching upon the French capital. For the best of reasons Russia is watching the frontiers of the Posen, and holding Austrian neutrality in check. In the Baltic Russia observes the movements of the French squadrons with anxious attention. Russia advises and sustains the neutrality of the Scandinavian kingdoms. Russian influence restrains rather than encourages the rash intrigues of the King of Italy. Russia recognizes the justice of the retribution which Prussia is inflicting upon Imperial France. But when we say Russia, we mean the Russian Court and Government. Nothing less probably than the appearance of the Sultan in the field as the ally of France against Germany, or the armed intervention of Austria, or perhaps the for- mation of a Polish legion, would tempt the Czar to swerve from his neutrality, or to abandon the common interest of all the neutral States in circumscribing the area of hostilities. For if Russia, in the sense of the Russian Government, is certainly not unfavourable to the German cause, very different is the public opinion of Russia, so far as it finds expression in the journals of that party which is supposed to represent the national sentiment of the Russian peo- ple. These journals and especially the most independent and influential of them all, are loud and emphatic in their sympathy for France in her present trials and trou- bles. They complain of the partiality of the official telegrams which exaggerate the successes and disguise the losses of the German armies. They swear as valiantly as the Gaulois or the ,3oir that the victories of France are yet to come, and rejoice by anticipation in the disastrous retreat of King William and his confederates across the Rhine. To what are we to ascribe these Muscovite sentiments? To chivalrous compassion for the gallant heroes of the Malakoff, the descendants of the heroes of the retreat from Moscow? To a belief in the democratic and socialistic ideas of Louis Napoleon? To the love of the Russian aristocracy for Paris? Or is it to the Mus- covite hatred of all that is German of German statesmen, German generals, Ger- man administrators, and German bureau- crats? Or to the natural antipathy of near nei~,hbours? Or to jealousy of the coparti- tioners of Poland? Or to a dim fear of a future revindication by united Germany of the Baltic provinces? The last we take to be the best of all the good reasons and bad passions that may be found in the Prusso- phobia of the Russian press, especially in the organs of the old Russia party. If we add the spirit of resistance to whatever may be the course of the Government, this extreme tenderness for the hereditary patrons (and betrayers) of Polish national- ity is perhaps sufficiently explained. Without attaching too much importance to the stories, in which the French official press appears to take comfort, of the ex- traordinary social successes of General Fleury at the Russian Court, of the Em- peror Alexander leaning on the arm of the Ambassador and putting him on terms of confidential and almost affectionate intimacy, there is reason to believe that these lively demonstrations have a more than personal significance. The Emperor Alexander is a kind-hearted man, and he must feel for the woes of the ruler of France. Common generosity not to speak of Im- perial magnanimity would, under existing circumstances, recommend one of Louis Napoleons nearest and dearest friends to the sympathies of the Sovereign to whom he is accredited. Personal courtesy is not necessarily an act of policy, and personal kindness to a reconciled enemy and a hos- pitable friend who has fallen upon evil days is grateful to ones feelings without compromising ones interests. Alexander IL. may be glad to break the fall of the French Emperor by lavishing attentions upon his favourite agent. To suppose that all this enforced ceremony means a deliberate design on the part of the Czar to relinquish a secure and profitable neutrality in favour of France, to exchange an old and tried alliance for a new and hazardous one, to stand, armed and menacing, be- tween a liberated Germany and a defeated aggressor, as France stood between Austria and Prussia at ~ikolsburg, to snatch from King William the result of hard-won vic- tories, and to save the disturber of Euro- pean peace from merited retribution this appears to us a very wild hypothesis. The Russian people or, rather, the knot of eccentric politicians who impersonate a people may be jealous of the triumphs of RUSSIA AND THE WAR. German arms and of her vast defensive military organization, which is henceforth to be supreme in Central Europe. Looking to the present, and not into some far and shadowy future, the military supremacy of Germany; united under Prussian leadership, in Central Europe should he a guarantee, rather than a danger or an obstacle, to the peaceful growth and prosperity of Russia, so long as Russia remains a defensive Pow- er. An alliance with France is an alliance with the Revolution. This might please the communists, hut what have the old Russian party, the exterminators of the Polish nationality, what have the new Rus- sian party, the Panslavic agitators in Bo- hemia, to hope from it? If by an alliance with France the old Russian party means a division of the empire of the East, it can hardly be the common interest of the pres- ent neutral Powers to prevent Prussia from exacting full securities against such experi- nwnts. Russia may regard with evil eyes the development of German naval power, but this development is only the natural and inevitable consequence of the terri- torial extension and unity of a nation whose mercantile marine is already the second in the world. If Russia dislikes the unity of Germany, she must learn to accept one more accomplished fact. The Russian Gov- ernment is in no condition to go to war to prevent it; and if it tried to do so, it would seek in vain for allies, and would provoke disasters compared with which the retribu- tion that is falling upon the inordinate ambi- tion and the firebrand policy of Napoleonic France would be but a passing cloud. ONLY A WORD! A ruivoaous word, a sharp retort, A parting in angry haste, The sun that rose on a bower of bliss, The loving look and the tender kiss, Has set on a barren waste, Where pilgrims tread with weary feet, Paths destined never more to meet. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, A moment that blots out years, Two lives are wrecked on a stormy shore, Where billows of passion surge and roar To break in a spray of tears; Tears shed to blind the severed pair Drifting seaward and drowning there. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, A flash from a passing cloud, Two hearts are scathed to their inmost core, Are ashes and dust for evermore. Two faces turn to the crowd, Masked by pride with a life-long lie, To hide the scars of that agony. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, An arrow at random sped, It has cut in twain the mystic tie That had bound two souls in harmony, Sweet love lies bleeding or dead. A poisoned shaft with scarce an aim, Has done a mischief sad as shame. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, Alas! for the loves and lives So little a cause has rent apart; Tearing the fondest heart from heart As a whirlwind rends and rives, Never to reunite again, But live and die in secret pain.. A frivolous word, a sharp retort, Alas! that it should be so! The petulant speech, the careless tongue, Have wrought more evil, and done more wrong, Have brought to the world more woe Than all the armies age to age Records en histrys blood-stained page. All the Year Round. ISABEL. IsABEL, Isabel! This is dreary work, ab, well! Dreary4work to weave in verse Something to bedeck thy hearse; I who fain would only weep, Gazing on thee laid to sleep By a spell the ages keep. Isabel, Isabel! When thy footsteps lightly fell On the May-day flowers, less fair Than thy virgin graces were, Little did I think the vow, Made to thee with laughing brow, Would be kept at last as now. Isabel, Isabel! Thus you said: 0 ring my knell! Never sing of any one, Till these mortal sands be run: Beauty flees, and leaves no trace; Honour changes to disgrace; Death alone can. crown the rn.ce. Spectator. 64

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The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1375 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 8, 1870 0107 1375
The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1375 65-128

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No. 1375. October 8, 1870. CONTENTS. 1. THE ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. IL By Professor Seeley, 2. EARLS DENE. Part XL. 3. ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED 4. THE PLANET SATURN 5. THE REVOLUTION 6. THE EX-EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH, 7. ENGLISH IMPATIENCE 8. POLITICAL CORRUPTION AND NATIONAL DISAS- TER, 9. THE LOSSES OF GERMANY, . CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALLi, THE MUSICIAN, Macmillans Magazine, Blackwoods Magazine,. .l3laclcwoods Magazine,. Frasers Magazine, Spectator, Spectator, Pall Mall Gazette, Spectator, Economist,. 67 77 97 112 119 121 123 125 127 66 POETRY. . . 66 I Ais AUGUST TWILIGHT, . . 66J NUMBERS OF THE LIVING AGE WANTED. The publishers are in want of Nos. 1179 and 1180 (dated respectively Jan. 5th and Jan. 12th, 1867) of THE LIVING AGE. To subscribers, or others, who will do us the favor to send us either or both of those numbers, we will return an equivalent, either in our publications or in cash, until our wants are supplied. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. F4~R FIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free ofpostage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, in Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 82 80 The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS. For 5 new subscribers ($40.1, a sixth copy; or a set of HOENES INTRODUCTION TO THE BIBLE, un- abridged, in 4 large voinmes, cloth, price $10; or any 5 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in num- bers, price $10. CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIA, ETC. CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIA. YEs! This is the happy Christmas-time, and yet how strange it seems! The crimson flush on the flowering brush, the flame on the splendid streams; The suns bold glance the mirage-dance of the bright Australian noon ____________ As the warm-breathd breeze just stirs the trees that girdle the broad lagoon. Still as I gaze on the blooms that fringe the wild creeks sunny flow, I think of faces far away where the fields are white with snow! And wonder and weep Will their memories keep, Mid the mirth of this gladsome day, A sacred place for an absent face Five thousand leagues away? Again I see the old elm-tree, with its branches bleak and bare, And the rustic seat where lovers meet Yes! lovers and seat are there; And [ fancy I know that arch bright smile, the turn of the glittering curl That hangs (like the spray of the fruitful vine) on the neck of a lovely girl! And the sterner face, above her bent, is lit with a softer light, As her voice falls low like a wavelets song when sunset fades to night. And they list to the merry Christmas chimes, And laugh. Ah! well-a-day! Does she ever think of a changeless face Five thousand leagues away? The snow may rest in last years nest that hangs on the hazel copse: But the birds will flit through the boughs, and sit again in the rocking tops Tho the cottage eaves are lone, and miss the flash of a welcome wing, We know the swallows will come again with the sunshine and the spring. And so, returned, an old, old love in each true ____________ bosom swells, When the sad sweet rhyme of an ancient time chimes in with the Christmas bells. Ab! then their memories turn to me, Now, while the evening mists above the ground And Gods blessing still I pray Rise shoulder-high, and spread with swift in On the eyes that dim when they think of crease, him How stealthily the twilight steals around, Five thousand leagues away! Infolding all in the sweet zone of peace! One white star blinks beside the calm-faced I know lifes time of golden prime the beau- moon, tiful time of yore And one above the bar of silvery gray Has faded away, like a fallen star that will With4n the west, which, slowly narrowing soon, shine in Heaven no more. Shews like a chink in the closed doors of day. And I sometimes yearn to backward turn my And, as for love of theses one passionate bird steps, and a day relive, Pours forth a passionate song so sad and sweet That my lips might sound the happy laugh that From the near dewy brake. The leaves are only a child can give! stirred But ah! tis vain; we can neer regain our With the faint pulsing airs that only beat, childhoods sand of gold~ And do not blow; while some sad dogs deep bay Tis well as our bodies fade and fail, if our spir- Goes oer the fields across the night away. its grow not old! I Chambers Journal. That heart to heart in love may start With the bells of each Christmas-Day; Lord, keep our memories green for those Five thousand leagues away! Athenieum. THE MUSICIAN. HE sweeps the strings: the children dance; In cadence true leap little feet; And brighter flashes childhoods glance, And louder echoes laughter sweet. The maidens smile, so coyly shrined, Neath rosy lip and drooping lid, Wakes, half revealing what her mind Deemed idle fancy, safely hid. He sweeps the strings, and hopeful youth Looks fearless out on coming years; There lie the golden days of truth, Undimmed by cloud of leaden fears. The dimples, half effaced, renew The careful mothers wasted cheek; As autumn leaves, made bright with dew, A borrowed beauty sometimes seek. He sweeps the strings; and saddened heart Dwells in the strain that brings her peace; Dreams of the blest who never part, And bids awhile her sorrows cease. The priest lays laws and Rubric down, And sheathes his text-besprinkled sword; Already sees the harp and crown, And hopeful waits the coming Lord. He sweeps the strings; and at the sound, The old man by the fireside stirs; Lifts palsied head to look around, And, mazed, the dear old music hears. His trembling feet in measure beat; His thoughts are far behind him cast; And young tears rise in aged eyes, And once more lives the golden past. Once a Week. AN AUGUST TWILIGHT. 66 ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 67 From Macmillans Magazine. are they caused by an increasing severity THE ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE MNETEENTH CENTURY. of oppression. Outbreaks of despair are ~ PROFE55E~ SEELEY. to be met with in history, but they are commonly unsuccessful. When oppression increases, it is generally because it knows I hAVE endeavoured to dQscribe the last itself strong, and in such cases if it pro- great movement in English politics by yokes rebellion it usually proves able to bringing out those great characteristics of crush it, so that actual revolution is it which are easily overlooked by those averted. There have been outbreaks of who are concerned in the movement itself, despair in Poland, but they have been un- because their attention is pre-occupied by successful; in America the unsuccessful details, but which immediately come into rebellion of the Southern States was an conspicuous prominence when the move- outbreak of despair. On the other hand, rnent is over a.nd has passed into history. the French Revolution was no outbreak of I have endeavoured to look at contempo- despair; it followed not an increase of rary history as the next generation will look despotism, but a relaxation of it. It at it, at least in one respect; that is, in happened not when the sufferings of the giving attention rather to the results pro- people were at the greatest, but when they duced, and to the changes actually wrought had been very greatly relieved, and when in the institutions of :~he country, than to oppression, comparatively speaking, had the striking incidents or characters that ceased to exist. It was caused by a feeling may mark the period. I have delineated a of strength and hope on the part of the revolution, transacted not without great ex- people, not by a feeling of despair. It citement at times, yet without anarchy or was the painful awakening from a swoon. bloodshed, limited in its range, leaving en- Lifes joy, reviving, roused a throng of tirely untouched the foundations and frame- pains. In the far less violent English work of the Constitution, and very slightly movement of our age the same thing may affecting those great institutes of civiliza- be remarked. It was not because monopo- tion which modern governments have lies had become more oppressive and in- learned the wise modesty of leaving to vidious forty years ago that the rebellion themselves, yet still a revolution deserv- against them began: they had, in fact, ing to be so called. I have endeavoured to become milder. In the preceding age a analyse the character of this revolution; I great many minor disabilities of the Catho- have found that it has had a uniform ten- lics had been removed, and Cobden had his dency throughout, and may be described in precursor in Huskisson. The excluded one word as a movement to abolish mo- classes were not roused by new provoca nopolies. tion, but by a new feeling of strength and It is impossible to consider such a move- hope. The first taste of freedom had made inent without raising the question of the them wish for the full enjoyment of it. causes which have produced it. When a They saw before them a new chance, which nation makes a persevering effort to snap lay in the growth of a new power in the some chain, some crainping restriction State the power of public opinion. under which it suffers, we may be sure that Few principles are better settled in the one of two things has taken place, either politics of the present day than the abso- the chain has been drawn tighter, and the lute sovereignty of public opinion. If the suffering of the nation has goaded it to nation demands a thing, there is no politi- resistance; or, oppression remaining the; cian or party of politicians that will now same, or even growing lighter, the spirit~ undertake to refuse it. Discussion may be of the nation has risen so as to burst raised on the question, What constitutes a through the restraint. We are apt hastily demand on the part of the nation? It may to attribute revolutions to the former cause, be argued, and those who are averse to whereas history shows that they are gen. change will argue, that what pretends to be erally due to the latter. Revolutions are a national demand is not really so, but not generally convulsions of despair, nor merely the demand of a section arrogating 68 ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. to itself the name of the nation; or that it- is not a deliherate and serious demand, but a fancy or whim on the part of the public that will not hold. This the opposite party will make a point of denying, and they will spend rather more rhetoric upon proving that the people desire the change in question than they will hestow upon prov- ing it to he beneficial. To prove it benefi- cial, if the change propused were of any magnitude, would advance it a very little way. The important question is, Is it want- ed P Laws now are like commodities; the supply of them is regulated by the demand. Politicians hold it almost as disrespectful to the nation to outrun its wishes as to thwart them. In former times they had the same feeling towards Parliament. To catch the spirit of Parliament, to jump with its hu- mours, not to he behind it nor too much before it, was the study of many politicians of the last century. Now it is public opinion that has to he watched and studied, and it is wonderful how large a part of our parliamentary debates is now devoted to the question, What do the people want, and how much do they want it, and do they want it now, or will they wait P Aris- totle told us, long ago, that the question in deliberative oratory is not of right or wrong, but of expediency. With us even expedi- ency has begun to seem too abstract a con- sideration; the question now is rather of opportuneness. It is not, Will the measure be useful, and will it work P but, Do people want it, and are they calling out for it P The House of Commons, which we are accustomed to call supreme in the State, has in fact always been under one master or another. In the last century it never talked of the influence that ruled it. The debates are silent of that which was always uppermost in the minds of the Members. Parliament was devoured by a secret pas- sion: it never told its love. But as soon as it escaped from this spell, from the do- minion of the great pension-giver or place- giver of the day (the Minister in the first half of the century, the King himself in the last), it fell under the influence of public opinion an influence which it was not so much ashamed to acknowledge. The last Resolution directed against the overpower- ing influence of the Crown was moved by Brougham in 1822; and ten years later the new Monarch Public Opinion was installed with the passing of the Reform Bill. Now where was public opinion in the last cen- tury P Had it no power, no existence P From the time that it was aroused by Wilkes and Junins, i.e. from about 1770, it had certain4y a power, though a power in- definite and seldom exercised. That was the beginning of the new time, though the dial was afterwards put back many degrees in the panic of the French Revolution. But, before that, what traces do we find of the influence of public opinion? There are one or two. Walpoles Excise was defeated by a popular clamour in 1733. The indig- nation gradually excited in the public mind by the pertinacious invective of the Patriots principally contributed to the fall of Wal- pole in 1741. But these isolated efforts rather served to make the general insignifi- cance of public opinion more striking. They were irresistible movements, but blind and irrational ones. They were dreaded by Ministers, and turned to account by the Opposition, as Shaftesbury turned to ac- count the hurricane raised by Oates; but they could impress neither party with any respect for the opinion out of doors. How strongly contrasted the wild clamour, to which Walpole, with secret contempt, yielded his Excise, and the popular agita- tiom~i to which another great Minister, a hun- dred years later, convinced and candidly confessing his economical error, yielded up the Corn Law! England has never been absolutely with- out a public opinion. There never perhaps was a time when an obnoxious tax threat- ening mens pockets, or some keen sense of public disgrac~, would not excite a formid- able clamour. As much public opinion as this, but scarcely more, there was in the first half of the eighteenth century. The most striking proof of its general powerless- ness is to be found in the fact that, whereas legislation now in all great matters invaria- bly takes the direction indicated by public opinion, in the eighteenth century it took, on the whole, the opposite direction. The constitutional development of that age was accomplished, for the most part, in defiance of the wishes of the majority. The Tolera- tion Act and the Act of Settlement were ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 69 passed, the Brunswick family introduced and supported, at a time when, as Lord Macaulay acknowledges, the effect of a Reform Bill would certainly have been a persecution of the Dissenters, and probably a restoration of the Stuarts. The Whig party of that age won their cause. They wished to limit the influence of the Crown and of the Church. These objects they at- attained. The Crown and the Church have been controlled not less, and probably more, than they wished. And yet through- out that century the nation was Tory. Pub- lic opinion, such as it was if we may give that name to a mere sum of individual opinions was uniformly on the losing side. The present sovereignty of public opihion is evidenced, as I have said, by the tone of parliamentary debate. Its insignificance in the last century may be shown by the same test. Instead of deference, the House of Commons in that age adopted a peremptory and despotic style in their dealings with the people. If now their temptation is to sink into delegates, then they rather assumed the airs of the fathers of the people. There was indeed a time when it seemed possible that there might be a revolutionary collision between the nation and its representative assembly. Parliament seemed entering upon the career of the Stuarts, and might have suffered a fate like theirs, had it been possible for the perversity of an assembly to be as desperate as that of a wrong-headed individual. Now, what is the change which has passed over the country to raise public opinion from insignificance to actual omnipotence? To speak of the spread of democratic senti- ments is not to solve the problem, but mere- ly to state it again in other words. Nor will it do to say that public opinion, having been invoked by the Whigs in the first Re- form Bill against their enemies, the Tories, has refused to give up the position it was allowed momentarily to assume. Public opinion must have changed very much since the last century to be able to hold so high a tone. The popular opinion to which Shaftesbury appealed, or that which Pul- teney inflamed against Walpole, was not capable of being dangerous to the statesmen that had taken it into their alliance. Had it tried to govern, it must have failed. We may think, if we will, that public opinion now does not rule wisely, and that there might be a much better ruler but the pop- ulace that ran after Sacheverell, and clam- oured against excise, were evidently inca- able of ruling at all. It is manifest that a great change must have passed over the character of public opinion. Such a change it is not difficult to discover, and it may be expressed in one word, by saying that in the interval between 1770 and 1829 the public opinion of the country gained organ- ization. Public opinion, as I have said, is not merely the sum of the opinions of the individ- uals composing the public. The individ- uals must be brought into relation with each other, and be formed into some sort of or- ganic whole, before anything worthy to be called a public opinion can spring up among them. It is by discussion and communica- tion that men arrive at a common under- standing. But supposing such a common understanding created, it could not become a commanding force in politics except in certain conditions. It would require, first, some means of obtaining a constant supply of information upon public affairs, and, secondly, some means of making its con- clusions known. Public opinion is organ- ized when it has three things sources of information, means of discussion, organs of expression. The.se three things are enough for organization. Wanting them, public opinion is powerless: possessing them, it becomes a power, and is in a condition to govern. Perhaps something more is re- quired to make it wise as well as powerful to make it govern well, as well as govern. All these three conditions of power pub- lic opinion in the eighteenth century may be said practically to have wanted, though it did not want any of them absolutely. It acquired them in the period between 1770 and 1829, through the extension of the newspaper system, through the rise of the practice of association and public meet- ing for political purposes, and through the extension of the old practice of petitioning. That period may be called the period of the organization of public opinion. The newspaper supplies to public opinion all the three requisites at once, though in very unequal degrees. It furnishes the 70 ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. people with the means of discussion. Con- troversies are carried on in it; facts are marshalled on one side and the other; elo- quence is displayed in the examination and application of the facts. Every paper by itself is equivalent to a parliament; all the newspapers taken together constitute a par- liament, which, for the mere purpose of dis- cussion, is far more efficient than any Par- liament that ever sat at Westminster. It is far more efficient, because the newspaper discussion is always going on; at every minute of the day it is occupying some minds; whereas the parliamentary discus- sion ceases during half the year, and half the day. The parliamentary discussion is localized, but the newspaper discussion is ubiquitous no corner of the kingdom that it does not penetrate; and every man may take as much or as little of it as he pleases, and at the time when he finds it most convenient. This Parliament, in fact, is always sitting, and its strangers gallery seats conveniently the whole nation. Much more of the same kind might be added, if it were necessary to show at length, what in fact, is obvious, that considered merely as a machinery for the investigation and dis- cussion of political questions, the press far surpasses the Parliament. Parliamentary debates have, in fact, become little more than brief extracts or recapitulations of the debates of the press. Parliament has a province of its own, and does for us much that the press could not do; but its special province is no longer that of discussion. Besides being a machinery for thatdiscus- sion out of which public opinion springs, the press is also a machinery for giving public opinion, when it is formed, that expression which makes it a power. Administrators directing special departments with special knowledge may despise the Press even while they fear it, and may count its interference merely mischievous and unreasonable; but where no special knowledge is required, and the question is not of general scope and tendency of measures, the Press speaks the word which, under the present regime, is authoritative. I am afraid of wearying my readers by repeating what is so well known. What is more to the point here is to remark how recently public opinion has gained the use of this speaking-truippet, and how help- less it was in the last century, with its dumb Toryism in the presence of its Whig rulers. But as a machinery for discussion, and as an organ of expression, the Pres~ is not the only nor always the most efficient instrument of public opinion. The charac- teristic function of the Press is to furnish it with information. Without constant and good information about what is going on, we cannot conceive a ruler. In past times public opinion was only in any sense a ruler in communities that were collected in single towns, like Athens or Florence com- munities, that is, that were always within reach of the latest information, and that were actual eye-witnesses of most public proceedings. In the first French Revolu- tion public opinion could not have exerted the power it did, had it not been concen- trated in Paris, gained its information in Paris, formed its determinations in Paris, and from Paris dictated to France. As accessibility of information is the common characteristic of all popular governments, so in despotisms there is always a profound general ignorance of public affairs. In- scitia reipublicm tanquam aliente is the token .by which a despotically ruled commu- nity may be known. Now, this mark was to be found upon England in the last cen- tury, and the consequence was that in the midst of free institutions public opinion was powerless. It was powerless from its ignorance, and that arose from the mere want of the machinery necessary for con- veying knowledge to it. Except in London, there could be no prompt intelligence of public affairs. News except it were such news as the Pretenders march to Derby travelled so slowly, that had public opinion been then accustomed to ex- press itself, it would have been constantly too late. And what is more important, the kind of news which for this purpose is most necessary was not accessible at all. It is by the habit of reading the parliamentary debates that the English public acquire a control over Parliament. If the publicity of these debates were taken away, the newspapers remaining in all other respects the same, it is probable that the empire of public opinion would be at an end. In the times, then, when the debates were not yet regularly reported, or were imperfectly re- ported, so that you did not know whether you were reading the words of Pulteney or those of the reporter, Samuel Johnson, or so that they were kept back till the end of the session in order that the editor or printer might escape the vengeance of the House, in such times what control could public opinion have over statesmen? Now, the leading politicians are to every one among us like intimate acquaintances; we know the course they have taken in a mul- titude of cases; we can quote what they said on this occasion and on that; and therefore, in speaking, they too learn to consider the nation as listening, and cannot ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 71 help acquiring that deference for the whole nation that a speaker who hopes to he suc- cessful must always feel for his audience. We know our statesmen now as well as the Athenian theatre knew the face of Cleon, as familiarly as the Roman forum knew the features of the old Cato; hut the Pelhams and Butes of the last century must have heen personages as unknown to the mass of the nation as a Kaunitz or a Metternich to the Austrian peasantry. So much has been done by the spread of journalism alone. But all this might leave public opinion still a somewhat passive thing, however enlightened. To read the newspaper makes no demand upon the will and the active energies. Men might read of public affairs and become well acquainted with them, and yet from the habit of inac- tion might not be induced to interfere ener- getically in them, or their discontent might evaporate in unregarded newspaper com- p laints. Free and abundant newspapers have perhaps never yet existed where public opinion was not sovereign; but then they have hitherto always been accom- panied by certain other things, from which if they could be separated, it seems con- ceivable that they might he reconciled with despotism or with class government. In England, at the same time that the Press began to make a business of reporting the parliamentary debates, and began to acquire courage to coinme nt freely on public affairs, public opinion possessed itself of another great organ. This new organ is com- plex; its potency is derived from the union of two things which, separately, would have been feeble; just as the steam locomotive and the railroad could have done little sen- arately, but combined have changed tl~e face of the globe. What answer in this case to the locomotive and the railroad .are political leagues and political meetings. It was about 1770, the date I have already had to refer to, that societies were for the first time organized for the purpose of promul- gating particular views on public questions; in other words, for influencing and modify- ing public opinion. Had such societies confined themselves to the old methods, they would perhaps never have found out how much they were capable of achieving. But about the same date the political meet- ing, that institution so native to England, that the French have adopted the word meeting into their language, began to be common. This, too, by itself, was no great political invention. The speeches delivered at such meetings are commonly not half so good as the leading articles of those newspapers that are in the hands of every one, while to hear them it is neces- sary to struggle with a hot and disagreeable crowd. But it was gradually discovered that there was a particular crisis in the dis- cussion of political questions; the moment when literary discussion is over, when in argument nothing more remains to be done, when every one is convinced that is open to conviction, and when the question is of transferring the matter from the ground of speculation to that of action; at this moment it was found that there was some- thing more potent than the Press, and that it consisted in a combination of the princi- ples of the league and the meeting. So long as facts and arguments have to be col- lected, so long as able, sincere, and thor- oughly disinterested opposition has to be overcome, so long there is work for the Press; but when this time has passed away, when there is nothing to be said but what has been said over and over again, and when the opposition has become hollow, or obstinate, or ignorant, or merely interested, then the Press gives place to an engine suited to the particular case. A league ap- pears, which works by public meetings. All over the country these meetings are called. Addresses are delivered which are not like essays, nor like leaders, nor like parliamentary speeches, but like general orders in a camp or the iiiilitary cohorta- tions of a Roman imperator. These ad- dresses presume immediate action; and to heighten the impression, they are not pub~ lished, but spoken by the living voice, and men are called upon to be present on a given spot at a given time to hear them. There men assemble, and there they hoot and stamp. It is disagreeable, but so is all making and forging of things that are to endure wear and tear; and in the midst of that heat, and by means of all that hooting and stamping, shapeless opinions are hammered into definite measures, and thoughts are forged into substantial facts. If the characteristic political acts of this period are, as I pointed out, acts abolish- ing monopolies, this is the mode of action which most remarkably characterizes it. The great meeting of the Anti-Corn Law League in Covent Garden Theatre, or those meetings of the Reform League, which are still fresh in all our memories, may have seemed to many, even of those who sym- pathized with the promoters of them, not edifying, not delightful. Perhaps they were not, but they were more characteristic of that time than most gatherings we have witnessed. An Englishman of the seven- teenth century, could he return, would be interested and astonished by few things so 72 ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. much; and a future poet who may live in a different age, when shall we say P the reign of public opinion is over, and some other power can we fancy it P is en- throned, a future poet, writing a poem about this age, would seize instinctively upon such incidents. He would feel in- stinctively that in these public meetings he had the truest image of government, such as it was, in the period he was describing; that in painting them he could paint the age itself; and doubtless he will paint them with such an exquisite choice of words, and in such delightful numbers, that everything about them that was vulgar and unpleasant shall disappear, so that the youths and maidens of that future time shall learn the passage by heart, shall repeat it to them- selves in solitary walks, and shall say, Oh, to have lived in those times! Oh, to have been present at the breaking of those Park railings! These leagues may be considered as a kind of occasional system of government set up for a particular purpose beside the permanent government of the country. Not satisfied with its assembly at West- minster, public opinion creates new deliber- ative assemblies all over the country to debate a particular question. The public meetings are like a rival parliament, and the leaders of the league are like a rival ministry. Cobden was Peels rival in the government of the country, but his author- ity extended only to one measure; he was dictator for the purpose of repealing the Corn Laws. Equipped, then, with this wonderful apparatus of occasional parlia- ments communicating with the Parliament proper, not only by the published reports of their proceedings, but also hy the mechanism of petitions (which also received a great extension during the same period), and at the same time possessing a free press of unrivalled activity and variety, what a power has public opinion now become! How changed must needs be the condition of the country in which such a power had grown up! Politics must indeed be different now from what they were when they were the secret of a few hundred gentlemen who debated without reporters at St. Stephens, and when a placid agricul- tural population nevbr concerned them- selves with them, but when they were afraid of a new tax, and then had no means of expressing their drscontent, hut riot. When, then, the question presents itself of the causes which have given to the present age its peculiar character, which have made it so much more revolutionary and agitated than the last, we might be contented to remember this new power, and that at the moment when the pressure of the war-time was removed it began for the first time to play freely upon public affairs. The coincidence of dates is evi- dently pretty exact. But it is easy to bring the two things into much closer connection, and to show in detail how the power of organized public opinion actually intervened and decided the course of things. I fixed the beginning of the present period in the year 29. What was it that made that year so memorable? It was the capitulation of the Government of the country to a popular clamour. Now such a capitulation was nothing new in itself. Walpole had yielded to a popular clamour a century before. But there was all the difference in the world in the manner and occasion of the surren- der. What he yielded was nothing funda- mental; he simply withdrew an unpopular financial scheme. What he yielded to was a confused and senseless outcry. The concession of 1829 surrendered the funda- mental principle of the Tory r~gime. It was a concession that evidently carried with it a whole series of other concessions, a concession that was felt everywhere to be equivalent to a revolution in government. Walpole conceded one point that he might retain the substance of his power; the ~XTellington Ministry surrendered the sub- stance of its power and retained only the shadow. This it did while still in secure possession of a parliamentary majority. What could make it attach so much import- ance to a popular feeling, a feeling, more- over, which was strictly confined to one part of the empire? The answer is, that the public opinion against which they strug- gled was orgarrized. Being organized, it had a respectable and reasonable character, which had been wanting to the popular movements of the last century. Without being less vehement and impassioned, it was rational in argument and prudent in behaviour. It was no mob, but a disciplined popular army, not to he intimidated, and not likely to abandon its purpose. And how was it organized? This was a case in which the Press could not do much, for contro- versy on the Catholic claims was pretty~ well exhausted. A league was wanted. The Catholic Association came into exist- ence; OConnell was its prime minister; its parliaments were held all over Ireland. Opposed to the constitution of the empire stood now the extemporized constitution of Irish public opinion. The new power, which had been growing up ever since 1770, stood confronting the old powers ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 73 of Government. A duel between them began. Those old powers had every in- ducement to fight well; they had a great party at their back, and, if there was danger of war, a great general at their head; the principles of their party were at stake, nay, the dignity of Govern- ment itself, which, it might be considered, was lost if Parliament so openly acknowl- edged a master. In these circumstances, the surrender of government, made not in panic or haste but with deliberation and under a sense of duty, becomes one of the most pregnant and memorable acts of modern times. It was an act of abdication, and an irrevocable one. It was the reluctant but still decided recognition of a power in the State superior to all the powers recognized by law. This power of public opinion had been h~eated, by the immemorial custom of statesmen and philosophers, as a thing to be controlled and chastised. Nor did the ministry that now crowned it for a moment think that it deserved to reign in right of any compe- tence or wisdom that it possessed. But they found it necessary to treat it as sov- ereign, however capricious, and as not to be disobeyed even when least to be re- spected. The results of the great surren- der I do not undertake here to reckon up or measure. I am concerned only with one result of it, which was inevitable. It was inevitable that public opinion, thus installed as sovereign, and possessed of such a pow- erful organization, should for a time at least have everything its own way. It was easy to foresee that a time was opening of government by public opinion, a time when Parliament would in a measure fall into the background, and the outside organization that is, the Press in quiet seasons, and at every crisis the machinery of leagues and public meetings would have an excep- tional and almost tyrannous power. I need not stop to demonstrate at any length that all this has taken place. We know well that in the present age the newspaper has had a far greater power than it ever had before. Journalism at- tracted far more ability than in former times. The higher style of journalism became now easy to a multitude of pens. As the smoothness of versification, that was once the secret of Pope, has passed long since within the reach of every schoolboy, so every clever journalist has now mastered the terseness and point that made the celeb- rity of Junius. Historians will have to recognize the ascendancy of the Times newspaper, during the greater part of this period, as one of the most important phenomena of the age. They will also have to note that in the later part of the period journalism made a further pr%ress, and added to the trenchant vigour and pol- ish of its higher style a richness of knowl- edge and thought that would have seemed recklessly wasted had it been spent upon forming the uninfluential public opinion of earlier times. Still less necessary can it be to detain you by describing the vigour and authority with which leagues have acted at every critical moment since their first victory in Catholic Emancipation. The Anti-Corn Law League had the same success as the Catholic Association, and it exhibited all the same features. Its achieve- ment was in one respect greater. OConnell had appealed almost entirely to the feelings. It was no new thing for a great orator to rouse and stir the hearts of multitudes, though the prodigious extent of OConnells influence was a new thing. But it could hardly have been guessed beforehand that the machinery of popular agitation could have been adapted to the purpose of teach- ing political economy, and that the Govern- ment could have been brought to confess itself not intimidated, not merely induced to change its course, bul actually convinced and converted by the arguments addre~sed to excited mobs. Since the success of that movement, agitation has been less energetic only because its power is less resisted. Par- liament has become so obsequious that agi- tation need no longer be violent. Public opinion is now so confident of its power that it contents itself with silently pointiwr a finger, or with dropping a few tranquil words, where before it declaimed and de- nounced with vehement excitement. Nothing can be more evident than the cause of the great changes that characterize the present age. We see a power growing up that was unknown to the last century, and we can distinctly see this power at its work. The great monopolies that have fallen in the last forty years have fallen by the vis- ible stroke of organized public opinion. It remains to show why this particular power should occupy itself with this particular kind of work. No one, perhaps, could have foreseen that the result of elevating public opinion to supreme power would have been precisely this. We should not have pre- dicted that the new r~qime would leave many evils untouched, would be singularly inert and negligent in many departments of re- form, but would work with persistent relish and enjoyment in the abolition of monopo- lies. I shall endeavour to give some explana- tion of this in my next lecture. I will close 74 ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. the present by considering the great change in the character of political parties that has heen produced by the introduction of the r~gime of public opinion. Deliberation of whatever kind, and con- ducted under whatever conditions, has for its first result the formation of parties. When a multitude of individuals for the first time compare their opinions, it will be dis- covered that though, perhaps, no two pre- cisely agree, yet the types of opinion are not more than two or three. Like instinc- tively aggregates itself to like, and in doing so hecomes more like. Minor differences disappear, and general agreement becomes complete agreement. As the passing of chaos into cosmos is described by the words, God divided the light from the darkness, so in the political world mere confusion and isolation be~,in to pass into order through a great sundering or division. Now that or- ganization of public opinion, which I have described, was equivalent to the creation of a new and universal Deliberative Assembly. It was as if the people of England, who he fore had lived apart from one another, each man with his own political views, which he compared but very seldom and imperfectly with those of his neighbours, had been called to a great National Parliament, which was always sitting, and of which he became a life member. Instantly there would be a great sorting and comparing of opinions, and it would have been strange if a great party division had not been the result. But then there existed already a great party di- vision. Long before public opinion had hegun to organize itself in the way I have described, the nation was divided, and every man called himself Whig or Tory. Was it, then, to be expected that any new parties would now form themselves P Would not rather the old party contest still continue, though perhaps with increased animation P Yes, if the old division was a genuine and real one, and if it accurately expressed the two leading types of opinion that existed in the nation. But I believe that it was no real division in the nation, but merely a faint reflection in the nation of a division which belonged properly to Parliament. I believe there is this great difference between the old r~gime and the new one that in the latter parties spring up in the nation, and gradu- ally make their way into Parliament; whereas in the former they formed themselves in Parliament itself, and had a kind of faint reflection out of doors. This, indeed, is only natural, if we consider party division as arising out of discussion and debate; for, in the old time, the only arena of political debate, and therefore the natural place for party divisions to show themselves in, was Parliament; whereas now discussion, as I have said before, is much more abundant and more thorough outside the walls of Par- liament than inside. At any rate, what we observe is, that under the new r~gime there springs up a party division which is not identical with the old one, though at the same time it has a certain analogy with it. Whigs and Tories were both alike, prop- erly speaking, Conservative. Both alike stood upon the Constitution; both alike sought to support their cause by precedents. The Whigs searched in our history for pre- cedents limiting authority; the Tories, for precedents of a contrary kind. The notion of changing or improving the Constitution was repugnant to both parties alike, and to resist such a notion as soon as it was broached the Whig Burke instantly forgot his quarrel with the Tories. It may seem strange that constitutional change should have had no partisans, no advocates at all; that politicians, who agreed in nothing else, should have been unanimous in wishing to maintain the Constitution. But this is not unnatural if the Whigs and Tories were rather parliamentary than na- tional parties. If we hold that public opin- ion was a mere languid acquiescence in one or other parliamentary doctrine, and then remember how Parliament was composed, we shall not be surprised to find that Con- servatism was universal. For, by religious exclusions and by the system of nomination- boroughs, Parliament was confined to a class which must necessarily be Conservative. Whatever discontent there might be in the country could not find its way into a Parlia- ment returned by the very class against which discontent was most likely to be di- rected. Again, Whiggism was, no more than To- ryism, a popular scheme of politics. I speak of Whiggism proper, not of Whig- gism as it became in the hands of Charles Fox. And I do not mean to affirm with some writers that Whiggism was an anti- popular system a system of oligarchical narrowness. Some Whigs were ohigarchi- cally disposed, as Sunderland; and some popularly, as Chatham. The rational de- duction from this is that their system was one in which the relation of the Government to the people was left an open question. And this is the truth. Whiggism is a doc- trine about the relation of the nation to the Crown. It limits the royal prerogative, and because, in England, the Crown had found its main support in the Church, it is jealous of the Church. But about the people it has no doctrine at all, and every shade of opin ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 75 ion, from the oligarchy of Sunderland to the democracy of Charles Fox, is consistent with it, though in the hands of the latter the accidental appendage to the doctrine began to ohscure the doctrine itself. Such was our old party arrangement. The political world was dominated by two parliamentary factions, both essentially aris- tocratical and essentially conservative, both entirely alien from the people, but the one under the dominion of Church traditions of loyalty and obedience to the Crown, the other possessed with classical maxims of liberty. The nation outside ranged itself with one or the other parliamentary party, having as yet no political consciousness, properly speaking, but swayed towards To- ryism by the clergy, and towards Whiggism by the great towns and the Dissenting inter- est. Such an arrangement of things could not but be entirely altered when a political life was first created and then developed and educated in this hitherto torpid nation. When it, in its turn, felt the impulse to di- vide into parties, they were not Whigs and Tories. There were two good reasons for this. The first was that the old controversy of Whig and Tory was over and settled. The power of the Crown, which was the real bone of contention, had now been lim- ited as the Whigs wished; and public opin- ion, when its reign began, was occupied with quite different questions. The other reason was, that the nation, when it took up politics, had not the same inducementthat a privileged class sitting in an ancient ball and debating according to the precedents of centuries had to accept the Constitution as unalterable and sacred. The question of altering the Constitution, which under the old rlgime had been carefully sup- pressed, or, if sometimes actually debated, yet always debated under a disguise, was now pushed into the foreground by one large party, aVid not rejected from consideration by a still larger one. The general result is, first, that whereas the name Conservative was before equally applicable to both sides, it has now become the name of one side; and, secondly, the 01(1 quarrel with the Crown being at an end, and the notion of altering the Constitution to suit some ideal of national well-being haviog been admitted into politics, there has sprung into existence a great party of Reform. Such a change seems simple and natural, and I believe it can be traced in history. But it has been somewhat obscured by the fact that the old parties were not content to pass out of date without a struggle. In particular the Whig party, which, though not a popular party, had more affinity for the popular movement than the Tories, could not watch in idleness that vast pro- cess of the organization of public opinion that I have described. To meet the new r~gime that it instinctively foresees, it modifies itself. There appears what we may call a Whiggism of transition, the founder of which is Charles Fox. It is Whiggism inoculated with democracy and inspired by the French Revolution. It so happened that this new Whiggism, at the very beginning of its career, was met by that violent tide of reaction which put off for thirty years the era of Reform. In- volved in this misfortune, it made matters worse by conceiving an admiration for Napoleon Banaparte, and making common cause with that incarnation of evil. But as soon as the war-time was fairly left behind, the transformed Whigs emerged from their unpopularity. If we used these politi- cal epithets with any exactness, we should not call them Whigs any longer. Some of them had been Whigs, and most of them were the sons of Whigs, but their doctrine was different from Whiggism. It was a doctrine no longer about the Crown, but about that other power with which their forefathers had had little to do, viz, the people. It was the doctrine of the new national party of Liberals or Reformers that was forming, adopted by one of the old parliamentary parties in the moment of disappearing. Between the old Parlia- ment at Westminster and the new universal parliament of public opinion, that had ac- quired by this time its vast organization, and was in the act of creating new parties and beginning a new conflict of opinion, the transformed Whigs built a bridge. They prQvented the two organizations from becoming permanently hostile; they intro- duced the new party division into Parlia- ment; they found a place and function for Parliament in the new dgime; and they fixed the deliberative power of the nation in the form which it has retained throughout the present period. They became a sort of Upper House in the new National Par- liament. A voice in Parliament we all have now, if we consider it for there must be few of us who cannot command occa- sionally the space of six lines in the cor- ner of some newspaper, and how many of us have a right to greater prominence than that in the national debate? We have all been admitted to the National Parliament, but there is an inner chamber in which the old House of Commons still sits, revising, resuming, arbitrating, and deciding with responsibility. It is like nothing so much as Miltons Pandemonium. There, you re 76 ENGLISH REVOLUTION OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. member, there was a spacious hail, freely an editor, and thus reduced they are at open to the multitude. It was so im- large, thoiagh without number still, amidst mensely spacious that it is compared to the hall of that infernal court. But this A covered field, where champions bold is not all. There is also an inner chamher Wont ride in armed, and at the Soldans chair of deliberation, where there is more dignity Defied the best of Paynim chivalry and more ceremony. The old historic Co mortal combat or career with lance. Parliament still meets, and still preserves its superiority Uhis is the image of our free and swarming Far within Press. It is brusht with the hiss of rust- And in their own dimensions like themselves, ling wings. It is so crowded that the in- The great seraphic lords and cherubim comers have to he miraculously diminished. In close recess and secret conclave sat, fhey are squeezed into small print and A thousand demigods on golden seats, mercilessly abridged by the magic wand of Frequent and full. THE German people in general and Count I war; I feel convinced they never will be, they Bismarck in particular have found a champion never can be. Pall Mall Gazette. in Mr. Max Muller, who in a letter to the Times, which fills two columns, contends that the Prussian Premier has done nothing to for- feit the good opinions of England. It does not 4~ TALKING MACHINE. ON Saturday an ex. follow, Mr. Muller says, that he approved hibition of quite a novel character was opened Count Benedettis proposals because he did not at the new building called the Palais Royal, Ar- instantly repudiate and make them public. A gyle-street, Oxford-circus. It is an exhibition Foreign Minister is not like a private individ- of a talking machine, which by mechanical ap- nal. He stands iu the osition of counsel for his . . P ~ pliances is made to give forth utterances resem country, and is bound by the simplest rules of a human being. It is the inven prudence not to disclose many a secret of whic hung those tion of Professor Faber, of Vienna, and has been as a private person, he might decline to become constructed and patented by him, and is cer- the depositary. Do you suppose, Mr. Max tainly a wonderful specimen of human ingenuity, Muller asks, that Lord Palmeiston had never It is true, the question may arise, where is the to listen for a moment to suggestions about Tur- d utility of it? seeing that every man, woman, key and Saxony, about Savoy and Nice, an and child possesses a talking machine, more or was he driven from office by an indignant peo- less perfect, of his or bee own. But the ma- ple? Professor Muller maintains further that chine has its utility nevertheless, for it i]lus since 1866 Count Bismaroks policy has been trates a much neglected science of acoustics. patriotic and peaceful, sans reproche, though, Moreover it is highly interesting as showing no, doubt, also, sans peur. Germany had to be how far united; everybody who had tried to unite it had ingenuity may go. The machine has a failed; Bismarck succeeded. His procedure was mouth, with tongue and lips, which are set in not in all respects strictly regular, but there motion by a mechanictd apparatus which sets free are in the history of all countries great convul a portion of air from a large bellows, and so con- sions which one cannot criticize according to the trois it as to produce the sound required. It ordinary rules of right and wrong. We do not pronounced, with great clearness, every letter criticize thunderstorms that darken heaven a d of the alphabet, many words, and a few sen- strike down palaces, and carry off ~i~ tences perfectly; not merely set words, but any earth, e words the audience chose to name. It also harvest of peaceful villages. Mr. Max Muller laughed, and uttered other cries expressive of refuses to believe that England and Germany can human passions, to the astonishment, appar- ever be at enmity. If Germany conquers, a ently, of all who heard it. Public Opinion. new era of peace will dawn on Europe; for Ger- many, if once united, would tolerate no war of ____________ conquest. An army in which every second man is the father of a family is the best guarantee for the peace of the world. There need be no AT a recent auction sale in New York, the formal alliance between England and Germany. finest known copy of Elliotts Indian Bible The two nations are one in all that is essential, (Cambridge, 1663), printed in the Indian lan- in morality, in religion, in love of freedom, in guage, was sold for 1050 dollars, about 2101. respect for law. They are both hard workers, There is one copy of this celebrated Bible in the hard thinkers, and, where it must be, hard hit- British Museum, one in the Island of Nantucket, ters, too. In the whole history of modern Eu- and a third on Gardners Island, or Long Island rope Germany and England have never been at Sound. Nature. EARLS DENE. 77 TART xl. CHAPTER V. IT was the very first time that Fdix had come across Angdlique since her marriage and he had of late been so much in the habit of visiting her cousin without seeing herself, that he was never prepared to meet her now, and had quite forgotten that the frequency of his visits had originated in his desire to see her and not Marie. The situation was therefore more than sufficiently embarrassing for a man who like him had never graduated in the school of society that teaches its scholars never to find any situation in the world embarrass- ing, from the extrication of an army from an enemys country, up to the extrication of ones foot from a ladys dress in a ball- room. Certainly there was no reason on earth, in the nature of things, why he should be dissatisfied with himself. He had been the victim, she the betrayer; and he had therefore every right, if he was so minded, to claim the dignity that is the privilege of the injured party in such mat- ters. And so, had he been Ang~lique and had she been Felix, he would have both felt and acted. But being as they were he the man and she the woman it was he who somehow felt as though it had been he and not she who had been the one to blame. A woman who is no longer a child is always mistress of such a situation, and if she has only a very little tact may al- ways shine in it to advantage, however much she may in reality be in the wrong; while, on the other hand, a man requires to have both experience and genius in such matters to come out of it witheven as much as decent credit, however much he may be in the right. Perhaps Felix was also weighted with the feeling that, when all was said and done, he had sinned against the gospel of romance by not having been altogether so true to the memory of his old passion as he had once vowed to be; for inconstancy on the one side is not, in the creed of such as he, held to be a set-off against inconstancy on the other. On sounder grounds there was plenty of excuse for him, no doubt; but then, Qui s excuse . Not that Ang~liques large eyes supported any such self-accusation by the faintest touch of upbraiding. She did change colour for one imperceptible moment; for there are some things which the least worldly and practical-minded of women is incapable of forgetting, or at least of re- membering without some shadow of regret. The less of true romance that there is in the composition of any one, the more apt is the voice of false sentiment to make itself heard; and of false sentiment Madame Lester had always had her full share no less now that her reading consisted of little that was more sentimental than butchers bills, than when she used to identify her- self with Byronic heroines. Moreover, it did not by any means seem to follow in her eyes that because she chanced to be so un- fortunate as it had turned out to be mar- ried, she should lose her sway over any of her adorers, even though, as in the case of Fdlix, she should gain from them nothing more valuable than a little adoration. And then she felt kind to him for old recollec- tions sake, and as a woman cannot help feeling towards one who has once loved her and whom she supposes to love her still. But still sh~ was far from allowing any trace of her emotion to be visible; and indeed it was far too slight, such as it was, for her to be conscious of having felt any whatever. On the contrary, she at once frankly held out her hand with the air of welcoming an old friend, and said, Miais, Monsieur Cr~ville, you come in time to convince this doubter. Is it not true that Miss Raymond is to be mar- ried? What! my old pupil? I had not heard it. Her manner had put him at his ease, so far as she was concerned; and so it could not be that his pre-occupied air had been caused by embarrassment alone. Ang& . lique noticed his worn appearance; and, taking it as a compliment to herself, felt more kindly towards him still. And you do not ask to whom? But I forgotyou would not know him. We provincials forget that there are people in the world to whom our little celebrities are unknown. And yet you might know him, though you are a friend of~ Mr. Bar- ton? Of Barton? Yes; and so is he. I should scarcely have thought that any friend of Barton would have fallen in Miss Raymonds way.~~ Oh, I dont know. Marriages are made in heaven, they say. Mark Warden is the favoured mortal. Do you know him? For what purpose Felix, full of involun- tary suspicion of Marie as he was, bad still once more come to see her, is not difficult to guess, as long as moths will insist upon flying into the flame in spite of the warn- ing that ought to be taken from the fate of millions of ancestral generations. It may, however, be assumed that, as he himself 78 EARLS DENE. supposed, he had come to bid adieu to the last of his illusions before he cast the dust of England from his feet forever. Now Ang~Mique had been able to take great credit to herself for her passing gleam of sentiment. She was proud of it, and of herself for having been capable of feeling it. But Fidix, except for the feeling of embarrassment when he first perceived her, and of which he now felt almost ashamed, had felt not even a passing gleam. No sooner had he met her eyes, no sooner had she spoken, than it was plain to him that the Ang6lique whom he now saw before him was the Ang~lique of his grande passion no more; if, indeed, the Ang~lique of his grande passion had ever really existed in the flesh. In that moment he felt that something else besides his own heart had changed; or rather, that his heart had been false to her because it had never ceased to be true to the ideal he had sought in her and had found where? Where indeed? It was clear enough even to him, in the light of the flood of joy that rushed into his heart when he heard the last words of Ang~lique, and looked up suddenly at Marie. His doubts of her had then, after all, been as absurd as he had been trying vainly to persuade himself that they were, and Barton had in truth been slandering her as grossly as he had been trying, with equal ill-success, to force him- self to assume. had any sort of connection really existed between her and Warden, it was not thus and in her presence that An- g~lique who must have known of it would have spoken. Ah! he exclaimed, with a sigh of something more than relief. Do you know Barton, then? How long has he known this? Not long. It is only just settled, it seems. It is a curious match, is it not? Any way the bridegroom is to be con- gratulated. And how is Barton? I did not know you knew him. No more we did, till yesterday. Is it true that he writes the dramatic criticism for the Trumpet? and that you actually allowed him to insert that odious review of poor Miss Marchmont? For shame! Ah, you cared a little more about her than that once upon a time, did von not? What a couple of silly children we were; but they were pleasant days, all the same those delightful days when we were s~ miserable. We shall never have such pleas- ant ones again no, not when you have all the world at your feet, and when I well, I shall have dropped out of your life then, uest ce pas, Monsieur? Marie, my angel, now I must go and carry the news of your generosity to poor Hugh. Au revoir, donc, mon ange et vous, Monsieur, .sil vous plait and then we will talk about the old times once more, and you will not laugh at me if I cannot quite laugh at them, will you? And so, with a parting embrace to her angel and another presentation of her hand to the lover for whose death she had so nearly and so lately been answerable, she once more carried into the street her last purchase from Madame Jupon. But although FMix had received an un- mistakable lesson from the unspeakably joyful relief that the words of Ang~iique had given him, he was certainly no nearer reading what was in the heart of Marie. All that he could think of now was that she was in reality all that he had supposed her to be; that she had once more been re- stored to her pedestal above the altar. How could he ever have committed the treason, the blasphemy, of having even for a single moment cast her down? Surely, it now seemed to him, he could never really have done so he must always, in his heart of hearts, have remained loyal; the dis- turbance could only have been in his fancy in his mind. But Marie! Whether she still loved her husband or no, there is but one word to describe her state; and that word is desolation. What- ever her feelings towards Felix might be, they did not subtract from the force of the word. The state of nervous excitement, or rather exhaustion, in which she was, and in which the activity of the memory and of the imagination fully made up for the loss of calm reason, caused her to comprehend at once and to the letter every word that had passed between Mark Warden and herself in the course of her last interview with him, and that had then been so unintelligible. So plain had the meaning of it grown now, that the amount of truth that might lie in the report which she had just heard was al- together immaterial. Whatever might be the explanation of that report, the fact re- mained and stared her in the face not, perhaps, the fact that he was actually about to leave her for another that must be as she willed, to say the least of it; but cer- tainly the fact that he wished to do so, and that he had actually proposed it to her almost in so many words. At present, though she realized this, she was incapable of realizing how it affected her. It is weaker women than she whose feelings in such matters are sufficiently simple to find EARLS DENE. 79 at once a way into action, whether by the road of anger or by that of tears. Besides, the mind of Marie was always a little slow to bring itself into action whenever it was necessary to blame others, or even to think them in the wrong, while her eyes were not apt to weep for her own sorrows. So, for the present, she was simply turned to stone and the last words of Ang~lique had fallen upon deaf ears. F~lix. So my first pupil is to be mar- ried! How old it makes one feel! And the bridegroom is he the Mr. Warden whom I once met here, and to whom you introduced me? Marie (starting from her stupor, and suddenly). I beg your pardon Idix. Are you not well, dear Ma- rie? Marie (dreamily). Oh, I am quite well only a little tired, I suppose. I am not used to late hours yet, you see. Felix. And your head aches, does it not? Miarie. A little but it is nothing. F~lix. And I am boring you to death, I suppose. Marie. Oh no; why should you be? .Fdix. I am sure I must be, though. And I really came for no purpose in the world so Marie. Oh, you need not hurry to go: and yetyes, I really am quite well; I am only very stupid, as usual. There, drawing herself up with an effort, but with a smile fo son Guglielmo Tell! What was it you asked me just now and that I was rude enough not to answer? .Felix. Oh, only about my old pupils futur. Marie (bravely). Mr. Warden. You met him once here. They will make an ad- mirable match, though Ang~lique does not seem to think so. She has a great fortune, and is good enough for any body, and so amiable! and he has great talent and great ambition, and will make her the wife of a great man, as she deserves. .Felix (coldly). Indeed! Marie. Yes. He only wanted the means, and now he will have them. Edix. You seem to have great faith in him. Marie. I go by what I hear noth- ing more. Edix. But you know him? Marie. What can girls like me know about the lives and careers of men? We see them as they condescend to show them- selves to us the outside but as they are to each other and to themselves never. Edix. Never? ~ Marie. Or when we do see them as they are, it is only to find out that we stand in their way. Edix (unable to help observing the scarcely perceptible tinge of bitterness in her tone, and the involuntary comparison that she had suggested between herself and Miss Raymond). And you think, then, that Miss Raymond will not stand in the way of this friend of yours? Marie (alarmed for her husbands secret, and exaggeratedly alarmed about what her words, which she had forgotten, might have led Felix to suspect). I hope not. I wish him well, like all my friends. But have you no news of yoMrself? Edix. I? Not a word. I never have. I manage to kQep body and soul to- gether or at least the body without the soul which can scarcely be called news. That is about all and the process is not very interesting to lookers-on. Marie. But it is interesting to me, mon am~. I can read the stars, and like to watch how my prophecies come true. Edix. I am afraid that is not a very profitable knowledge. I thought I could once; but it was only to find them as ambiguous as earthly oracles, and even more treacherous. Marie. I want you to promise me something. Will you? Edix. If it is do anything for you. I owe you so much and have never, done anything for you yet. Marie. Yes, it is for me, if that is any satisfaction to you. But it is not be- cause it is for me that you must do it. Fdix. Why not? I am sick of try- ing to do things for myself and you, I think I hope are the only person likely to care about what I do. Marie. Will you promise? I am speaking seriously. Edix. Of course I promise. Marie. F6lix, my friend, I cannot help seeing that for some reason or other you are bent upon making a wreck of your whole life. Yes it is perfectly true. You have plenty of talent; and I have not known you all this long time so well not to know that you might easily in due time take the position that, as you have often told me, you were once ambitious of taking. Be- sides, is it not due to Prosper, to your old benefactors, to Moretti himself; to justify them in the interest they have taken in you, and the sacrifices they have made for you? I may speak plainly to you, I hope? Edix. Always. Marie. Do you remember telling me of your childhood, and of your first insight 80 EARLS DENE. into the existence of an art-world outside a man and not a woman! No wonder we and above the mere world of nature into women despise a weak man for no man which you had been born? Ah, you were need ever be weak. We are wrong per- fortunate, more fortunate than you can tell, haps in thinking so, for the battle of the in waking to it so early! Art was thus world is no doubt harder than we think for, able to become to you a second nature; it who know it not in all its strength. But did not come to you, as it came to me, too we are right in thinking that combat should late for me to find in it another and nobler give strength, not destroy it. world. Do not throw away this good for- F~lix. Marie can it be that you tune of yours, which comes to so few! too have suffered that you speak thus? Would you throw away your art, your Marie. I ! power of doing something for it and for the Fdix. Forgive me world, your duty, your true soul, the life Marie. My friend who has not suf- vhat nature and art and God have given fered? who does not suffer? Yes I do you, for the sake of the shadow of a suffer when I see you still a slave to a wo- memory? No, my friend leave such man. Shall I tell you something? Well, weakness to women; but let me believe then, learn from a woman that no woman is that there is at all events one true man in worth the loss of a mans whole life no, the world. nor even a part of it. is it not true that Filix. Marie! every man has a career into which no wo- Marie. Oh, I know what you mean man may enter? Is she not a hindrance I do not mean true to a woman. That and a stumbling-block to him in his true is something but I do not mean that now. life? Is he capable of entering into the And truth to a woman is worth nothing little trivial matters that make up hers? Is when it prevents a man from being true to not the kindest thing she can do for him to himself; and you are not being true to leave him free? Oh, my fricnd, be warned: yourself, if you can forgive me for saying recognize your career, for you have one; so. Romance is an ornament of life the do not be a slave to a fancy, for it is noth- gilding to hide its hardness, its coldness, ing more. I know you can be strong, if its grossness, its littleness, if you will; but you only will. Do you know what I would it is not true gold, and one must take life do were I a man? I would pray God every as it is, after all, and not as we would have day to save me from womens love not it seem. We are not in the world to make only for my own sake, but for theirs. love and make each other well, misera- F~lix. No, Marie I am no slave to ble; for that must be the end of all false- a woman. Those chains are broken for hood. ever if indeed they were ever whole. Edix. But there is such a thing as And you are wrong wrong a thousand love that is not falsehood and not misery. times. There are women in the world who I understand what you mean; but I have are worth the loss of any mans life; for learned a great deal lately. Marie, you they supply him with a nobler and a better. are only too right in one thing. I have in- The~re are women who are not only no deed been weak, blind, ungrateful, false to hindrance but an aid and a motive to the myself and to all that is good and true even noblest career. Yes, and there are men more than you think; but I will be so no who can appreciate the perfection of sym- longer. I promise you with all my heart pathy. Where how can you have that, with your help, with your sympathy, learned so bitter a creed as yours? I will go forward in the right path so far as Marie. Ah, if I could but think I may. I may never be a great artist so! Prosper is right: the great artist must be Felix. You do not know what love something more than man, and must use means, you who have never loved. emotions, not suffer or enjoy them. But to Marie. And you? he a man is better than to he an artist .Jiidix. I have found out what it means. and that, if you will help me, I will be. I am wiser than you. Marie. Man and artist too. I do not Marie. Then ask you to lose your sympathy with the Edix (warmly). Do not he afraid world and exchange your heart for a musi- such love as mine is of that kind which you cal machine God forbid! But artis work; deny. If I could but think so, you say and it is work worth a mans doing, without you, the truest-hearted of all women! respect to what he may enjoy or suffer by What is sympathy but that very kind of it. love in which you do not believe? Feiix. But Marie. I do not think so. And now Marie. Ab, it is a grand thing to be give me your promise. I am right I EARLS DENE. 81 know more than you do, after all. But I nature of the fever that had heen wearing do believe in sympathy; and if any feeling her so long. The storm that had been more on your part that there is ooe who sym- and more closely, day by day and hour by pathizes with you so far as a woman may hour, gathering within and about her so can help you to keep that promise, that many weeks, had at last broken, and torn feeling may be yours. aw~y the mist that had hitherto hidden her Felix. Oh, Marie if this is so, then even from her own eyes. The clouds, preg- I can keep it indeed! For your sake I will nant with the fblness of a first passion, had strive to be all things. Will you indeed been long ripe for bursting, and had needed help me? but a touch, a word, to set free the storm The conversation up to this point had with which they were charged. And now, been almost studiously calm in its tone, as without warning, that word had come. For of two persons who had suffered and ex- one instant her whole soul rushed out to perienced, and were now discussing in meet the soul which, like her own, had been abstract fashion the ways of the world so long seeking in vain for its fellow-spirit, rather than their own needs. But the and deluding itself, in the eagerness of barrier had been growing less substantial search, with mocking phantasms of the every moment, until, to Felix at least, it reality. But the tumultuous joy of the had passed away altogether, and left, as he sudden revelation which to a pure soul is thought, the soul of Marie as unveiled be- nothing less than a new birth, was as evan- fore his eyes as he felt that his must needs escent as it was intense; and, like the be before hers. lie approached her more lightning which it had resembled in its sud- closely, and went on with increasing den brigbtness~ left the night that it had energy, momentarily illuminated darker than before. I am not inconstant; it is now that I Hitherto she had been asleep; and there is prove my constancy to what I have loved but little difference between the effect of always to the truth and to the divine light and of dfrkness to sleeping eyes. But ideal for whose sake I have been chasing now she had at last awoke; and it is to shadows till now. It is the shadows that waking eyes that the darkness of the night have passed away and left the true light, is darkness indeed. which there is no mistaking. Marie, you But F& ~lix felt only the sympathy of joy, blaspheme yourself when you say what you and was beyond the pale of the reaction. said just now. If I have lost my life, do Marie, he went on earnestly, I can- you r~store it; and I swear to you, even not speak now in the common words of for your own sake, that you shall riot re- common love. It is my heart that is speak- store it to me in vain. You are already ing to you my real heart, that has never great, I know, and I ~m less than ~,, spoken until now. What is the need of but you are free, thank God! and if you words? You can understand all that I will give me hope, you shall see how wor- would say if you will. thy of you I shall, I must, become. Dear- Oh God! she cried out, far less t~ est Marie! I will live .for you, who repre- him than into the night that had once more sent to me all that is true and beautiful; fallen upon her; and must I ruin this man and life for you must needs be such as you also? And yet he loves me he loves would have me live. You know me too me! well, Marie, for you not to understand me. Yes, he does love you! Thanks~ dear- Have we not been, are we not friends? est Marie you have read my heart indeed.. And I will make no further claim till I have Yes he loves you wth a perfect love proved that I am able to be what you would Something in her face made him pause. have me be. But hope you must give me. How long he waited in eager silence ,per- That will be everything and if it fails, ceiving but not comprehending the blank. one can but die at last; and meanwhile despair that held her incapable-of struggling but you will, will you not? It is for your against destiny by a word or gesture, it sake not only for my own____ would be impossible to say. To him his. Marie (thunderstruck). Mon Dieu. single, uncomplicated impulse made the Like the first trembling gleam of light- time seem like a single moment; to her,, mug that announces at once to the fevered with her crowd of recollections, of regrets, earth the reason of the vague and heavy and of present emotions, it seemed like-an restlessness that has been weighing upon its hour. A drowning man, it is said, finds life durin~ the sultry hours that the sun time in the instant of despair which precedes should by right have made full of energy unconsciousness to live his whole life over and gladness, so, all at once, rushed through again, year by year, day by day, detail by Marie the sudden consciousness of the real detail; and so it was now with her. But LIYLNG AGE. VOL. XIX. 840 EARLS DENE. 82 at last, with a visible effort, she found! nothing less. Have you not yourself taught strength to speak. me what life means? Swear at least that Go, she said, I cannot answer you. you do not love me Go at once for ever. And then, after And you will believe me? another long pause, and suddenly holding You will swear it? Marie you dare out her hand, Adieu, dearest friend ! , not. He took her baud with both his own, and I swear to you that I can never, never held it there. You cannot answer me? be more to you than I am now than I She tried to recover it, but he Would not have been always. let it go. Adieu! she repeated; but Then I am absolved from my promise. this, he felt, was not the answer of her You have not sworn that you do not love heart. me. I do ask you more. No, Marie, he said; you must either All her false courage, all her pretence of give me hope, or you must tell me that I strength, were swept away at last in a pas- have been trusting to nothing more than sion of sincerity. The lightning was fol another dream. lowed by the storm. I can tell you nothing, except go! ~ Ah, F& ~lix, have mercy! You know not You cannot love me? You cannot what you are doing. save me? Marie, you cannot deceive me! You NoI cannot do love me, say what you will! Do I not Marie, he interrupted her passionate- read your heart as plainly, ten times as ly, this is not how you would answer me plainly, as you read mine? And if you if you cared nothing about me. I have love me, why are you ashamed, as though been blind enough in some things, God love were a sin? knows; but love such as mine is for you 0 God, why cannot I feign why can- makes one see. If you cannot read my not I he strong why must I sin? Felix heart I can read yours; and in yours I read if you love me anything but your words. Why cannot ~PJf I love you! you love me? One wh6se whole life, and if you love me leave me. more than life, is at stake has a right to In Gods name, Marie, what mystery is know. this? why should you wish to feign? She forced herself to speak with a spirit Why should you he weak? What sin lies that she was far from feeling that, in- in loving honestly and truly? Do you not deed, was far from natural to her. He was trust me? Are you afraid of your own right when he told her that had she cared heart? nothing about him it was not so that she Afraid of her own heart! It was true, would have answered him. There are and she knew her own fear and her own some things that cannot be told. I cannot weakness only too well. It was so weak be more to you than I am if I cannot, that it had already yielded; it was so weak what is that to you? that she, with all her strength, great as it If I love thee, what is that to thee? was, felt that she was unfit, unaided, to Yes; but that is the self-contained love of guard it for a moment more. She flung angels not of a human soul that hungers herself on her knees before him and after the love that it bestows. grasped his hand in a passion of supplica- What is that to me? Do you refuse tuon. me my life when I implore it of you, and There! she exclaimed. Do you refuse to tell me why? is that nothing? Do believe me now when I say Go? you show me the light and refuse to let me The voice and face of F6lix grew stern. enter in? Do you make me promise and Do you love me, Marie? That is the refuse to allow me to perform? only question between us. I have a right If you knew to know. And if you love me I will not Ab! he went on, with a sudden bit- go. terness, I will believe you. I will believe You do not, cannot love me as I that you cannot love me so be it, if it Do you not see how you make me humiliate must be so. But myself? Ab, if you really loved me you I implore you, ask me no more. would understand! Do you think it is out On one condition. Swear to me that of caprice that I implore you to save me our friendship has been a mere pastime from my own heart that sympathy is but a word that you are He stepped back suddenly, and regarded careless whether I live or die her intently. Marie, he began. Felix! But he could not continue in such a tone. Yes whether I live or die. It is With equal suddenness he raised her from EARLS DENE. 83 where she knelt and pressed her passion- whom it would, under any circumstances, ately to his breast. He at least had noth- wear a sinful guise. However she might ing to conceal, and was free to obey what suffer, however much he who had a legal his heart bade him. Ah, J understand! ri~ht to her self-sacrifice might have reason he exclaimed, joyfully. But you love to condemn her, Felix had a right to her me! That is all I care to know. The two consideration foifuded upon a higher law souls had met at last. than that made by men. It is true that she For long she rested upon the place that hesitated for long, and that when she did by right, though not by law, was now hers speak it was from no mere impulse. without making an effort to move. But, You are right, she said at last, sud- omnipotent as the passion of a strong denly. I must not let you suffer. And nature may appear, there is one citadel in then, more slowly, and with a last effort of every truly pure nature that it is powerless weakness, she added, Now, Felix dear- to conquer. The effort, though it came est friend ! you will help to save me now, late, came at last. I know. Yes I love you, Felix! and She broke from him with all her strength. I am a wife. Oh, for my sake, for Gods sake, go! May He pardon me may He protect you. CHAPTER VI. Felix, you must leave me there, you WHEN we read of the grosser and less know my heart now! subtle forms of crime and sin in distant Leave you, my dearest P Yes but ages and in distant lands, they seem to us to return! in no wise extraordinary, or even so much Nonever to return! Thank God out of the probable course of things as to for your love, Felix there is rio sin in need being accounted for. But when, as being loved! And you shall never be the they occasionally will, they make their ap- worse for mine. For I do love you, though pearance in our midst, in our own civilized not in the way y~u would have me. Do all country and time, we are astonished as if in things that are worthy of you do them sight of the impossible. We go on for the for my sake if you will, if that will aid you. most part in so even a groove that we talk Your love has made me very happy, and and think as though hate and envy and one day we will be friends a~ am. Till unscrupulous selfishness were extinct; or, then adieu! I will pray for you always. at least, as though they were so curbed and And do not you forget to pray to One who restrained by our modern social system as can aid you more than I. to be rendered, among persons of position Marie you have some secret that you and education, incapable of taking their fear to tell me. Do you trust me so little old-fashioned course freely and blindly. as to think I would not trust you that I When we are bound to recognize facts would seek to know anything that it would when we are forced by them to see that the give you pain to tell unless that I might world, the flesh, and the devil still contrive remove the pain P Let the past be the past to hold their own in spite of the feeble cir- to you as well as to me. What is the past cle of dykes and dams with which we strive to either of us now? to keep our level plains safe from the un- And suppose, she began, with diffi- tamable sea outside we have to resort to culty. theories of lunacy; or if these, as is often Suppose nothingbut that we love I the case, will not hold, to confess, if we are each other. I in an unusually modest mood, that our When to love you is a sin 1 psychology is baffled. A sin? In Gods name what can you But no: even as those who cross the sea mean? change only the sky above them and not I must not tell. their own souls, so it is not human nature And why? that changes; it is only places and times. Felix! It is true that I have a secret All that man has done, man may do, in a that I have been living a lie. And the far truer sense than that in which the prov- secret is not my own. erb is usually employed: and as long as the And have I no claim? Marie, I am passions of men endure, so long will endure waiting for my answer for my sentence the forms taken by their passions. It is of life or death. I must know what is the not only in the Litany that malice will fol- barrier that stands between you and me. low hard upon the heels of hatred, even in What was she to do? One thing only the hearts of sane men. to sacrifice all things, at any cost, for him Warden had met Alice Raymond only she loved. If that be in reality sometimes the ni~,ht before, and had made, as it seemed a sin, there is surely no true woman to to him, good way. Whether he had or not, 84 EARLS DENE. is another matter. Lie had never mixed much with women, and was not one of the initiated in the mysteries of hall-rooms; and so his vanity was easily gratified by noth- ings. He himself never did or said any- thing without a motive; and so he was not one to understand barren likings and flirta- tions that were honestly meant to he under- sto~d as pastime. Besides, he was not so genuinely in love with Miss Raymond for her own sake as to possess in himself and in his own feelings that infallible test wherehy a man knows by instinct whether he is loved or no. He only knew that, for his own part, it was not a mere flirtation that he was carrying on with her. She must, he was assured, see what his feelings were towards her, and what with gratified vanity, ambition, self-interest, and desire of possession, it was not in his heart to draw back. He had set his heart upon this thing, even as he had formerly set it upon his fel- lowship; and it had always been his way where he had set his heart to set his hand. Any way, the fox could not tear himself away from the sight of the grapes, for all that they were to all appearance so far out of his reach; nor did he even console him- self by calling them sour. But were they really out of his reach? What was the good of having brains and of knowing how to turn them to good account if~ he was to be baulked by the mere passive existence of a girl like Marie, who had now suc- ceeded in proving her stupidity to the full, if indeed anything had been wanting to prove it before? If he had but lived in the good old times of the water of St. Nicholas! He was conscious of the very thought, and did not shrink from it. Such a line of speculation may possibly be unusual; but it did not, at all events to him, seem to be so very horrible or so very un- natural when it first took the shape of an actual possibility. On the contrary, it car- ried with it that sort of pleasure which the first suggestion of something that may be done as well as dreamed of must always carry to a man of strong will, weak imag- ination, and few scruples: to a man, that is to say, whose nature leads him to take the shortest and most obvious road to the attainment of any given purpose, and whose eyes can see clearly but one thing at a time. It was at first a thought for Warden to caress and to play with as he sat over his breakfast preparing leisurely for the calls of the new day that, like every day, came to fix indelibly the results of the hours of candle-light and of darkness that had gone before. What was there in itself horrible in the thought? It was that of Marie lying, as sooner or later she must come to lie, silent and unconscious beneath the ground, out of the way of all evil, of all sorrow, of all trouble, and of Mark Warden. He re- called to mind, with a sort of approving ap- preciation, that hopeless summing up of all human things that he had read in ~he ~ZEdipus Coloneus, Surely the best thing for a man is not to be born; but, hem horn, the next best thing for him is to die as soon as he may. He had got into a very dangerous region of speculation indeed, in which consequences seem con- fused and unreal in the overwhelming shadow thrown upon them by the immedi- ate desire of self-gratification. He saw in Marie an evil spirit whom he had raised in a monient of folly, and who must be got rid of somehow, if not anyhow; and the purely moral means, now tried without result, had, in his practical mind, more than be- gun to blend with the physical, as is the way with men like him. It is difficult, if not impossible, to de- fine the limit between desire and determina- tion the point at which one ends and the other begins. And yet there must be some moment when the murderer in heart be- comes so conscious of his desire that he consciously takes means to bring about its fulfilment. Were it not that one knows it to be the case, it would be impossible to conceive of the possibility of murder to call things by their right names so tak- ing possession of a mans soul that the first actual step taken in accordance with such an idea however unconsciously taken should fail to drive away the thought at once, utterly and forever. But that it does sometimes fail is only too certain; and the crisis of this undefinable limit had now been reached by Mark Warden. Nor are chances and omens ever absent in such cases. The first book upon which he laid his hand, apparently by instinct, was an old work upon medical jurisprudence that hap- pened to form part of his legal library. tie opened it mechanically, and turned its leaves. He did not i~tcnd to do anything let that be understood clearly: but he none the less began to call to mind all that in the course of his life he had hap- pened to hear of the nature of poisons and of the difference of their several effects: how they acted upon the frame, and to what extent they left their traces upon it. There was matter and to spare for his meditation in that cold-blooded judicial treatise which changed into a collection of dry bones the fearful list of tragedies that had closed with the gallows. The gallows! yes, that had been the end of all EARLS DENE. 85 these. But the tragedies upon which no at the prospect of the long watch which sudden curtain had fallen where were they would have to keep over one another, they? What had been their denouement! and which would prevent them from enjoy- That there were such he was convinced. ing a moments repose for little short of a Everybody in the world is not i noran t thousand years, entered into a solemn corn- or stupid; and it is notorious that it is in- pact with each ot.her that they would divide variably through the ignorance or stupidity the watch that one should wake before of the slayer that foul deaths are brought deeds were committed, the other after to light. He, at least if it should become them. But the question arose which watch necessary to direct chance in the way it should belong wholly to the good and which should go, would not fail by reason of sto- wholly to the evil. The latter, having the pidity or ignorance. Nor did what met craft of the serpent, obtained the first by his eye as he turned the pages tend to the bribe of allowing his rival double power diminish his self-confidence. after deeds were done; and hence it is To him, in the state of mind in which he that, in the generation of Cain, conscience now was, such reading has the interest of warns in the shape of a dim and doubtful nothing short of fascination. He felt, as dream, and wakes, not to warn as eon- his eye began to dwell longer and more science, but to punish as remorse. systematically upon his book, as though Warden had never, as some people do he were entering a new world in which it is who would not without sentimental remorse the one object of human life t.o kill ones injure so much as a flea, amused himself fellow-creatures without being found out, with speculating as to how be should go to even as to a layman who reads a more work were he bent upon taking human life purely medical treatise, the disease of which without a chance of discovery. lie never it treats assumes at last such prodigious amused himself with speculations at all: proportions as to seem as if it were the those in which he indulged had always some normal and proper condition of the human practical end, nor could he otherwise con- race, in which he also must of necessity be ceive of any ones indulging his fancy in so a sharer. And the more Warden read, the useless a way. With him, to entertain an more lost in amazement he became at the idea meant to carry it out; and mental bungling fashion in which all who had been habits of this nature are almost omnipotent. discovered had, as it were with their own Was there not, was the next stage in his hands, knotted the rope round their own present course of speculation, in all that necks. Murder will out, people say; world in which his mind was now roaming but he could not help seeing that in point at large, some one drug which would an- of fact it is the murderer himself who will swer the purpose? Was it true, as he had out with it; that a man who quietly took heard his father say, that aconitine, for in- the ordinary pains which he would take in stance, if that was the name, would kill any ordinary.~ction of his life need scarcely with certainty and with speed would mini- be suspected unless he pleased. And then tate the natural symptoms of probable (us- he thought, as a natural consequence, how ease, and leave no trace of itself behind? many of those who are not suspected, As a matter of curiosity he searched the whom the world honours, who are without pages of his book, but could find no men- scruples and who profit by death every tion of it. Was it then merely a piece of day how many of these have taken the medical superstition, or was it that it had control of chance into their own hands? never found its way into courts of justice And why should I be more scrupulous than simply because it was so safe and so sure? other men, when it is all so easy? It was If there were such a drug, whatever its not even as though a life like that of Marie name might be, it must have been used: it would be missed cr thought of, or would was not likely to be known to Dr. Warden make a void in the ocean of society of the of I)enethorp alone. This very effort of smallest appreciable kind for an appreciable memory for when he had heard the name instant. Besides himself, to whom could he had let it slip by as a piece of useh~ss it matter whether she lived or died? knowledge unprofitable to him in the schools But where, it may be asked, was con- had the effect of still more closely fixing science all this while? Well, conscience and intensifying his thoughts and of giving was in the condition in which it usually is them a still more certain direction in theh when there is most need for it to act that dangerous path. is to say, fast asleep. For at the birth of He was thus engaged, like some necro- Cain, says a certain Rabbi, the two angels, mancer searching his books for some more one good and one evil, that attended upon potent spell to lay the fiend whom he had him as upon every man, wearied beforehand raised in the innocent form of Marie, when 86 EARLS DENE. his ears were startled by the fall of a letter from the slit in the outer door of his cham- bers upon the floor of the passage. He hastily closed the volume, put it hack in its place with a hurry for which he did not seek to account, and then picked up the letter, which was directed to him in a handwriting which he knew only too well, and which made him tear it open nervously. After all it was not even for Mark Warden to lay aside such a dream-book as he had chosen with a steady hand. Mv DEAR FRIEND it began When I last saw you the last time I shall ever see you you must have thought me very stupid. I coefess it; and am sorry that I did not under- s4and better what you meant. Do not be afraid. When you receive this I shall be where I shall trouble you and be in your way no more. Why, indeed, should I care to live when my life is of service to none, and is only an injury to you? My dear Mark forgive my calling you so for the last time for you have been very dear to me how can I ever pardon myself, even if you can pardon me, for having been a drag upon you for so long? Believe me it was unknow- ingly. I always lived and worked for you and you only ever since that morning when I came to you at B; what a child I was then! and my only thought has been how I could aid you and be as good a wife as I could to you till the time came which is never to come. And how could I tell that I was in your way unless you told me so? Thank you for having told me so now it is a kindness more than I can say. It would have been dreadful indeed to have found it out too late. Do not think I am complaining; I am only trying to do what is right by you, as I have al- ways tried to do. What your career may be henceforth when you are freed from me I shall never know. I pray from my soul that it may be prosperous that you may be happy. Only let me implore you with my last words let your life be true and honest, as I know that it will be brave and strong. It was not your fault, dear Mark, that we were obliged to deceive the world: but even so our deception, innocent and necessary as it was, has been the cause of all the unhappiness that ii have caused you. Perhaps had we been brave enough to despise the world as it ought to be despised, and to have followed our own hearts, we mighteven by now have been to each other what we once wished to be for you wished it once I know, and I am sure that had you thought fit to trust me and had been able I should not have been unworthy of your trust. And though I do not wish to stand in your way any more I may at least ask you if you do not understand me so much the bet- ter to climb the hill that is before you as a man should: not to stoop to aid which is un- worthy of any man, and above all, of you. A strong and true heart is worth all the wealth in the world. I should like to be able to say more to you but I canrict; and there is no need, now that I am nothing to you any more. Good-bye, my dear friend . for such I know you would still be if you could; and you have always been kind to me far more kind and considerate than I deserved. I have never heard from you a harsh word; and it was not your fault that the end had to come. You never had the chance of learning to love me: and so perhaps it has been best. Good-bye, once more: do not quite forget me think sometimes of your dead first love, who would have been so good to you if she had only known how, and who will pray for you al- ways. For the last time, good-bye. God bless you always, and bring us both to meet again in Him. MARIE Whether the train of thought in which he had been absorbed for the last hour or two had been nothing more than a vague and passing dream, or whether it was of a nature to ripen into actual deed, cannot be told. Such fancies are seeds which, though nox- ious, are oftencst barren; and so they might have proved with him. But they were so far in a way to promise blossom, if not fruit, that the reading of this letter gave him a shock such as a growing weed may, for the sake of comparison, be supposed to undergo when suddenly torn up by roots which it has extended far and firmly into the ground. Barren as such dreams for the most part prove, their fruit is after all not seldom gathered; and its harvest must always have been preceded by seine such dreams as these. But seeing that he had stopped at the sowing, let him have the benefit of any possible doubt. The fulfilmei~t of his wish for to the formation of a wish, at all events, he had come is almost too horri- ble to conceive; and it would be too hor- rible, not almost, but altogether, did not the history of the most desperate of all crimes amply prove that such wishes, have been fulfilled very often indeed that the father of the thought is very likely to be the the father of the deed also. Of course, with regard to such a question, every one must be left to form his own opinions accord- ing to his own experience of human nature. Only it is very certain that had Warden been born in some Italian city some very few hundreds of years ago, Messer Marco would not have been troubled lon~ with Donna Maria; and that, however much place and time may vary, human nature is a thing that does not change. He read and re-read the letter, however, precisely in the way that one would expect from a man of his nature, for men like him do not afford psychological surprises. He EARLS DENE. had not the imagination that was required to read the deep pathos that lay beneath the surface of the forced and lifeless words, or to connect himself, the Mark Warden of the present, with the boy of five years ago. One must be something of a poet to remem- her not only on& s childhood, but ones youth also and Mark, when he married, had been under his one short spell of real youth whieh had been over long ago, and he was no poet to recall its shadow when its substance had gone for ever. So it was not to be expected of him that he should real- ize in his memory the time when he had loved the girl who had developed into a wo- man even more rapidly than he into a man. But though the heart of such a man is proof against subtle touches, it need notbe callous to gross blows; and it is due to him to say that the first effect of the letter was to wake him from his dream as if from a nightmare. He felt now like a necromancer indeed, or rather like the servant of a ne- cromancer, who, ignorantly playing with his masters tools, has crossed the step that divides guilt imagined from guilt done. The letter could have but one interpreta- tion. Marie might at that very moment be lying dead dead for him, and, as he seemed to feel, dead by him. Could evil wishes travel with such lightning speed? Were they, indeed, so fatal? Conscience, when it does wake, scorns coincidences, and turns into a superstitious self-accuser the most practical of men. Had he ac- tually slain her with his own hand he would not have felt otherwise than he felt now. But this was in the actual moment of wak- ing, before reason, which always wakes the last, had woke also. He read the le1~ter again and its mean- in stared him full in the face, incredible as it still seemed to him. It could but have that one meaning, which he feared to rec- ognize. Or was it after all only a ruse to alarm him a womans trick a last resource to test him, if not to draw him hack? But even he, devoid of imagination as he was, knew Marie well enough to reject. such a suggestion as being more incredible than the other. But there might be time to save her. It is far more easy for people to talk of death than to act as they talk. At all events he must satisfy himself as to what she did really mean. He placed the letter in his pocket, and had put on his hat, and was turning the handle of the door, when some- thing restrained him. Suppose she were dead or dying, what then? lIe could not save her. And it was very possible that he should only succeed in mixing himself up with a very disagreeable affair, without the least necessity for so do- ing. No one knew of his connection with her; and that being the case, the best thing that he could do would be to ignore it alto- gether. Suppose, on the other hand, she were still living? In that case it was clear that the letter contained but an idle threat after all and it would never do for him, by allowing her ruse to succeed, to put himself hopelessly in the wrong. She must be made to see that he was in earnest, and that she could not bring him back to her side by so vulgar an artifice as a threat of sui- cide. Whether this were so or not, a very little while would show. On the whole, however, he was of opinion that the letter contained no mere threat, but was evidence of an im- pulse that had settled into a fixed deter- mination. Its whole tone, the absence of studied effect, brought him to the same conclusion. At all events, he might safely feel that she would trouble him no more and if so, was he answerable for anything that she might choose to do? Supposing that she had never written to him, not a shadow of responsibility would have been upon him, and why should he place himself deliberately in a worse position now? I~ would be ungrateful to his star, which bad now, as it seemed, so wonderfully freed him from the one burden of his life without obliging him to take the control of destiny into his own hands. The feeling of horror which the first perusal of the letter had given, gradually, as his spirits rose under the influence of relief, melted into one of positive satisfaction with himself for having resisted temptation. It was not long before he felt like a man who upon the eve of mar- riage has unexpectedly been disburdened of an inconvenient mistress. If he could only feel quite sure that she was actually no more, he would have been able, he flat- tered himself, to dismiss her from his mind altogether. For the first time the bugbear thought of If it were not for Marie! might pass out of his mind. It was so great a relief as to amount to the same kind of discomfort as that which a man feels, when he suddenly misses some dull chronic pain that has become so much a part of himself that when it first leaves him he cannot at first quite recognize himself without it. For, after all, whether alive or dead, it was plain that she would trouble him no more that was certain. There was really no need for him to fly to the idea of suicide, obvious as it was upon the face of the let- ter. He might fairly assume another theory by way of excuse for inactivity. 41 87 88 EARLS DENE. Well, he chose to think to himself and, from his own point of view, the idea was not by any means very wild people never do what they dont want to do. I thought she could not have been so stupid as she seemed; and so she has pleased herself and saved her credit as well. I daresay wherever she may be her friend the fiddler is not far off. But though he thus spoke to him~elf, he knew very well what he really believed in the matter, and what he wished in his soul to be true. if he could but have seen her when those few common-place words were wrung from depths of heart too deep to express them- selves in any words that were not weak and poor! When her lover, whom she now knew only too certainly that she loved with what was in truth her first real love, and with as much purity as if she had been as little a wife in law as in fact, had left her in a con- dition such as, seeing that the blossom of passion in such cases is always luxuriant in proportion to the hopelessness of its ever coming to its natural fruit, it would be bet- ter not to attempt to describe, the state of reaction in which he had found her returned with tenfold intensity. Unfortunately for it was unfortunate for once Marie was anything but a hysterical subject, while her heart itself was far too sound and healthy to give her the relief of temporary uncon- sciousness. But some relief her spirit must have; and though she had wept already in the presence of her cousin, the relief came once more in tears. But the tears evoked by words of kindness are very different to those that came to her now. Dry-eyed sorrow is said to be the worst of any; and so it is of all sorrows save one. The summer tempest of tears may save from death or worse, while a drought may do worse than slay. But with the summer tempest must not be confounded the storm in which the tears do not freshen and soothe the fevered ground, but scorch and scald; with which is not mingled the heaving of sobs, but the tense pain which seems as though it must end in strangulation; by which the brain does not seem:~eased of a load, but is changed into one leaden, aching pain, which excludes thought and reason and hope and memory, and all things but passive despair. It is with such tears as these that Niobe wept herself to stone. But he did not see her, so that t3 him this true agony of soul, made up as much of selfaccusation as of anything else, was inconceivable. And so alone, and utterly incapable of the exercise of volition or con- scions thought, she was left to seek for her- self the safety for which she instinctively longed. CHAPTER VII. WARDEN carefully folded up the letter and placed it in his pocket. He was fond of ruling circumstances; but at present there was nothing for him to do but to re- main passive, and to let circumstances take care of themselves. Satisfied with the pres- ent aspect of things, he must carefully avoid consciously drawing from them the conclu- sions that in his heart he was glad and re- lieved to be able to draw, for his own con- science sake. So that he might, as far as possible, separate himself from his hopes, and make them seem, even to himself, alto-~ gether external matters with which he had nothing to do, lie sat down resolutely to read, and actually succeeded in holding his book resolutely before him. It seenied to him, as it has seemed to so many, besides the ostrich, under like circumstances, that, by shutting his eyes to Mari& s fate, he thereby wholly disconnected himself from it and from all responsibility in connection with it; that by ignoring her letter he put himself in the position in which he would have been had it never been written at all. But yet, for the first time in his life, his thoughts were really enga~ed in one thing while he was outwardly engaged with some- thing entirely different. Every sound that he beard upon the stairs of the busy stair- case on which he lived seemed to him to mean something to be the forerunner of news, impossible as he knew it to be that he could hear any news indirectly, and even at third hand. He was thus absorbed in making believe to be at ease, while he was, in fact, stretched upon the rack of suspensethat is to. say, he was in a state of mind that he especially despised, holding, as he did fully, that all purposeless and unprofitable thinking, espe- cially when it took the form of doubting and dreamiiig, was sheer waste of time when he was disturbed and startled by the thun- der that was wont to herald the entrance of Dick Barton. But this with him was altogether a morn- ing of self-contradiction. The usually un- welcome sound was for once not unwelcome; it was a relief to be disturbed, no matter who the visitor might be. What he really wanted was to forget Marie altogether until her fate should prove itself beyond the shadow of a doubt. Barton was looking not quite so much out at elbows as usual: for such men as he EARLS DENE. 89 flourish in Cursitor Street as in their native air, and thrive upon what is altogether pros- trating to men like Hugh Lester. Why, Barton good morning, he said, more genially than usual, as he laid down his book. Erre es coracas! Good morning in- deed! Why, Ive just dropped in to wish you good-night. I say, he went on, throwing himself luxur.ously into the arm- chair just vacated by Warden, which groaned a protest under the unaccustomed weight, guess where Im come from this time a place youll never see the inside of, any more than you will of Elysium; not that theyre the same thing by any means rather the other way. Old Sb is not ex- actly a Jupiter, except in having his own way; though Miss Rachel has a very fair notion of playin~ Ilebe except in the matter of perpetual youth. You never heard of old Sb or Miss Rachel? Well, you dont know what you lose, you respect- able men. You have neverseen the hook- edest proboscis or the Iscariotest locks in all creation. I am quite content to he without that pleasure, I assure you. - Well they have their faults. For one thing, they are much more apt to welcome the coming as long as he has a stray half- crownthan to speed the parting guest when he hasnt; and for my society they have always shown a peculiar partiality. However, I am eating the crust of liberty once more, as you see. Quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes and now Im yours. Dont look so frightened, though. Ive got enough to buy my own crust to- day; and to-morrow one can but return to durance vile, tempered by champagne still viler. But to go hack to our flocks, as a friend of ours would put it pastorally. Im not going to ask you even for half-a-crown but have you such a thing about you as a stray fifty guineas? The devil! What! the immaculate Mark War- den swearing? Why, my good fellow Why, whats fifty guineas to you? Be- sides, youll ibe glad enough when I tell you with whom I have been conversin,, in the Elysian plains. Yes, Ive been keeping the best of company, I assure you, where I come from no less a being than an ex-M. P. What! with Lester? You dont mean to say Yes. I tumble across most people in time. But I dont wonder you stare, all the same. I dont; but then Ive seen too many things to stare at any of them, and have arrived at a state of ,v{araxia, which, by the way, proves the advice to Numicius to he wrong. Still, if any of the men of our time could have seen Lester in the same boat with Dick Barton! Its won- derful, though, how being down in the world brings out a mans good points. He rea11v isnt a bad fellow, only hes profoundfy green, and knows the world about as well as he knows his horace just enou,,h not to make a false quantity or do a dirty thing. And is it from him do you mean he asked you to apply to me? He? No. Didnt I as much as say just now that he was a gentleman, and therefore an ass, in all but thickness of skin? Then what is it you expect me to do? The devil! What does a man expect himself to do when the tables are turned and his friend is in want of a note or two? Pm very sorry indeed to hear this about Lester. And the fifty guineas? Why, you talk as if fifty guineas were the same as fifty pence You havent got so much, you mean? I certainly have not. WTell, that doesnt matter. You can join in a bill, I suppose? I never join in bills, on principle. Be- sides, you dont seem to know the circum- stances. Oh, circumstances be damned and principle too. Who cares for circum- stances? Heres a young fellow dropped by his natural relations, and not, I should say, a good hand at falling on his natural legs. Well, g~ranted hes been ass enough to quarrel with his bread-and-butter, better men do that every day. Barton, Im very sorry, as I said. But you must know that I havent a penny more than I know what to do with be- sides, I have other claims, lie was going to ad4, but stopped. And if I could do anything, he went on, still a man must accept the position into which he has put himself by his own fhult and with his eyes wide open, as Lester has done. Besides, I and he have never been the friends you seem to think. We scarcely knew each other at Cambridge, and since then I have been useful to him, as a matter of business, and that is all. Still, of course, if I could help him I would but this way of helping him would be childish; and not only childish, but wrong on every principle. EARLS DENE. 90 What! you wont then P Once more, Im very sorry. But it is always best to say what one means at once. No. Barton startedfrom his seat. Then Im damned if I ever speak to you again. Warden knew how to be an~ry on occa- sions. The punishment will not be greater than I can hear, I assure you, he said in answer. Cad! exclaimed Barton, with angry contempt, an(l stalked out of the room. Thank heaven for that riddance, at all events, thought Warden to himself. Of course he had been quite right not to throw away his money upon Lester, or to be tempted from his wholesome principles of not putting his name to hills: his refusal to do either did not trouble him in the least, and to say No was always so easy a thing to him that he did not even feel vain, as many men with less moral courage would have done, of his firmness in the matter. And if the thought had troubled him, the fact of his having at last fairly succeeded in quarrelling with his Old Man of the Sea would have been ample compensation. His mind having been thus not unpleasantly excited, he turned once more to the page in the perusal of which he had bepn inter- rupted, and this time worked away with only very little less energy than usual till it was time to prepare himself for the party in the evening at which he was engaged to be present, and where, of course, he expected to meet the lady of his love once more. Then, with no less care and attention than he bestowed upon what are usually, but most often wrongly, considered the more important concerns of life, he dressed him- self to resume the thread of his own second and certainly more important life, and dis- missed from his mind all thought of the branch of the law of contracts, which had been the ostensible subject of his days study. He was by no means one of that class of students who are haunted during a waltz by the ghosts of the Six Carpenters, or whose one idea of beginning a conversa- tion is contained in the words A agrees with B. And not only was Miss Raymond present, with her smile and her blue eyes, and the hair that was beginning to draw him into its innocent net for the sake of the uncon- scious angler herself, as well as for that of the metal of which it was woven, but Miss Clare also, to whom society was every day becomin~, more and more a necessary stimul- ant. It may seem strange that a series of evening parties should have the effect of a stimulant upon any one; but the sight of. even the affectation of pleasure is exciting to one who has never made acquaintance with its reality in any form. It was not so that Warden regarded it. He could scarcely be said ~o have enjoyed the details of the society into which he was now making such good way, any more than he could be said to enjoy the differential calculus or the law of contracts itself. But it was all in his days work, and so he never suffered himself to be hored: the result of which was that he bored no one. On what precise footing he stood it would be hard to say, seeing that he was neither a man of great fortune, nor a famous traveller, nor a man of title, nora dancing man, nor a sing- ing man, nor a wit. But then, whatever his footinb was, it was thus rendered all the more secure by the fact of his having noth- ing to lose. He could not well become poorer; he could not be expected to dance or sing, so that he was superior to the risks of gout and hoarseness; he was not likely to make enemies by his tongue, as wits do, and he was in no fear of being cast into the shade by the next new-coiner from Lake Tehad or Cape Lopatka. The truth is, that to enter what is called society, and to hold ones own in it successfully, demands on the part of a man who stands alone only three things: a good coat, a pair of gloves, and the power of holding his tongue. The great and safe rule is audi, vide, tace; and a man is called agreeable not by reason of what he says, but by reason of what he does not say. But if in addition to these three requisites he has the power of talking unobtrusively when there is occasion, then, so long as he carefully refrains from saying a single word that the hearer can remember for a single second after it is spoken, he can go where he will and do almost anything that he pleases. He will not often be talked about, indeed, hut he will be missed; and when he is mentioned, it will be with the sincere praise of those who are grateful be- vond measure to any one who will just abstain from boring them, as wits and lions are apt to do. After all, a prolonged roar is scarcely less fatiguing and wearisome than a bray, and is much more alarming. Such a man will not of course obtain a success of the very first order; but he will be accep,ted as a perfectly gentlemanly and agreeable fellow, and will be credited with all the good qualities which, because he does not show them, interfere with the m~tier of no one. The great mistake by which men with far better introductions and social qualities than Mark Warden lose their chance, is that of trying to make them- selves agreeable; for to try and to fail is to EARLS DENE. 91 he lost fcr ever, while to try and to succeed is only to make more foes than friends. But still, though the requisites are few, to make proper use of them is by no means such an easy matter. It demands a watch- ful eye, a steady hand, a cool head, and a genius for self-restraint, in order that the aspirant for social honour may make no false step and lose no opportunity. In a word, it demands Tact a comprehensive quality in which Warden showed signs of ere long hecoming a perfect proficient. He showed great tact, for instance, on this occasion, by not at once devoting himself to Miss Raymond, while he was what some uncharitable people might call obsequiously attentive to Miss Clare. To make a point of preferring the old to the young is in itself sufficiently graceful; and not only is it graceful in itself, especially on the part of a young man, in whom it may be supposed to imply some exercise of self-denial, hut it is very likely indeed to have its reward. To pay court to the mother is by no means a bad way of paying cdurt to the daughtcr; and it is a still better way of paying court to the daughters fortune. It is true that such a relation did not exist in this case; but then Miss Raymond Was so unselfish and so grateful for attentions paid to her old friend, that Warden by this means probably made much better way in her good graces that if he had hung about her for the whole of an evening. Had she only had, indeed, a little more selfishness in her, in the shape of a little more intensity of nature, she would have been a heroine with whom not Mark Warden only, but the reader of this also, would have been in love. As it was, however, she was far too good to take rank as a heroine. But these two were by no means the only noteworthy people present when Warden arrived. It was a very grand party indeed one of those which would supply a list of guests to the Morning Post of at least half a column in length. Such half columns, however, are not interesting reading, ex- cept to a few strangely constituted minds; and though the Trumpet may afford an occasional quotation, the Court Circular can scarcely be held to be worth transcrib- ing at the best of times. Of course the presence of a royal duke cannot be passed over in silence; but otherwise from such a mob of title~ as was there it is impossible to choose. It was just such a gathering as the ordinary human creature would cheer- fully give the whole length of both his ears to have seen but once in a lifetime; and it would have sent poor Lorry wild with ex- citement and wonder could she have sup- posed it possible that the Mr. Warden whose name crept in just before the & c., with which the list closed, was her own brother Mark. She would have hung up the sheet of the paper in a frame in the drawing-room, and have made her ninety- nine prostrations before it every day. Indeed it would have been the height of presumption on her brothers part had he at once made his way to Miss Raymonds side instead of patiently waiting his turn. She was at that moment the most envied of her sex in the room, for she had actually, with- out an effort, done what had hitherto been regarded as impossible. She had succeeded in making the young Earl of Farleigh, the great catch of that and of many other sea- sons, engage in something approaching to conversation with one who was neither a ballet-girl, an actress, or even a foreigner. Even Warden, sensible man as he was, felt an ~uncomfortable feeling, which in a less sensible man would have been jealousy, when he saw her thus engaged. Tory as he professed to be in his politics, he was at that moment as real a Radical as Mr. Prescot himself. Once more the great prima donna was singing, whom Angdique had not succeeded in driving from her throne. Miss Raymond was listening with all her ears: her com- panion, a feeble and rather worn-out-look- ing young man, with an affectedly foreign air, was looking languidly at the ceiling. Oh, is not that glorious? exclaimed Miss Raymond, with real enthusiasm, and not as a bait for the titled connoisseur. Hm! he answered, letting his eyes drop upon her from the ceiling for a mo- ment. Yes trls-bien. But you should have heard whats her name sing in Venice. Were you ever in Venice? Never. It must be very interesting. It is the most interesting place in the world. Why, when I was there last, there was a girl there who does the pas de Bonlas better than Pucini, on my honour: and as for whats her name ab, I wish you had heard her sino; but then English people are such asses. Dont you hate England, Miss Raymond P It would be very ungrateful in me if I did. Why? Because you were born in it? I should say it was England ought to be grateful to you, then, not you to England. By Jove, I dont feel grateful to England at all. I never could see why a man should be bound to like a fog just because he hap- pened to be born in November. And yet you are kind enough to come and look after us sometimes? I wonder a~ 92 EARLS DENE. that, after you have seen the pas de Bor~as and heard whats her name. Ah, Miss Raymond. do not taunt me with my misfortunes. I never was meant for an English peer. Nature intended me to he an Italian impresario I am sure of it. Corpo dun cane! One might live ones own life if it werent for ones confounded title and ones stake in the country, as they call it. Dont you hate the country, Miss Raymond? For my part, I like my steak in town. Its a pity one cannot make exchanges. I daresay ink friend Monsieur Prosper there would exchange places with your lordship with pleasure. Hed make a great mistake if he did. Ah, here he is the lucky dog! What have you got in England now, Prosper? Im fresh from la bella Italia, you know, where one drops before the age about what you call your theatres pig-styes, by Jove! And how are you? Its a long time since that big evening ak Paris when we came to such jolly grief, dont you remember? And hows Coralie and Deiphine, and that other little thing, you know? Miss Raymond, who was not interested in the health of Coralie, or of Delphine, or even of the other little thing, hastily turned to speak to some one else. Monsieur Pros- per bowed low. I am much honoured hy my lords re- collection. I am afraid there is not much going on. Your lordship sees Oh, damn my lordship! Why the devil cant you call me Signor Farlini? And why isnt there much going on? There ought to he. You fellows are not half up to your work! Papageno of Venice hes the man! Hes got the Ranuzza: of course you know the Ranuzza? Ranuzza? What! you dont? By Jove! shes the finest singer in Europe shake.s on F sharp in altissimo, and has a compass of six octaves, at least. Shed astonish you rather. And then you talk of Catalani! I thought of bringing her over with me here, and I would have, too, only we quarrelled the night before I left. I wish you could hear her swear, Prosper its positively charm- ing! But I think I must really take a house one of these days. Id have Corbacehione and Barhagianni and the Ranuzza, of course; and one might have Catalani for the small rOles Papageno should conduct, and you sho~dd lead the orchestra. What do you think? We should rather astonish the town, shouldnt we? Rather, my lord, said Prosper, dry ly. And havent you really got anything new? Shall I tell your lordship a secret? I have found a pearl of pearls only she does not sing. Dance, does she? Well, she wont do the pas de Bor~as like the Babhuina thats the name ! or Ill eat my head not if she swears like Ranuzza. Shes only a pianist, my lord. But it will he quite safe to believe in her. I mean her to he the first artist in the world before I have done with her, and to make people rave ahout fingers as much as they do about toes. Oh, damn your key-boards! I know short and fat, isnt she, with a German name all consonants, and spectacles ? Not at all, my lord. She is young and pretty, is ma petite Marie, and one raffoles about her even now. Young and pretty? Ah, thats differ- ent. Oki nasce bella nasce anything she pleases. But she isnt English, I hope? She is French, my lord. Then she might do if she takes an Italian name. Is she here to-night? Not yet, my lord. But she will be im- mediately. It is past her time already she ought to play the very next. Marie had established that most danger- ous of characters a reputation for punctu- ality. If any other public performer had not appeared for an hour, or even for three hours after her time, or had even not ap- peared at all, no one would have wondered, far less been alarmed about her. But Marie was a subdivider of minutes; and if her fixed second passed without her ap- pearing, something must inevitably have happened for which not even her milliner was of sufficient consequence to be held re- sponsible. It had by this time become the fashion for people to expect to hear Marie Lefort, and her presence was almost neces- sary to give distinction to any party in which music professed to he a conspicuous element; so that her absence was missed, at all events, to the extent of making people commeiit upon it, which is perhaps the greatest extent to which any one can expect to be missed at all. Prosper, for reasons of his own, perhaps not altogether unconnected with the pres- ence of so distinguished a patron of the fine arts as Lord Farleigh, was particularly bent upon Maries appearance on this particular evening; and when first half an hour and then an hour had passed by, and there was no sign of Mademoiselle Lefort, he went and spoke to Fldix. How is it that Marie is not here? EARLS DENE. 93 The heart of Felix gave a leap. Was she to have com? Of course. More than an hour ago. have you seen her to-clay? Yes; for a little while. And she said nothing about this even- ing? Nothing. She caunot have forgotten it she never forgets. It is not farI wish you would take a coach and go to Berners Street. It will put me out terribly if she does not arrive. This was his euphemism for I hope there is nothing the matter with her. Felix had his own reasons for a similar fear of a much stronger nature. It was anything but an agreeable commission for him to undertake in itself, but his anxiety was sufficiently powerful to prevent his thinking about himself. So he left the house at once and hastened eastward. CHAPTER VIII. HE reached Berners Street with all the speed that the first coach he found could carry him. The horse was not quite worn out, and the driver, with the prospect of a douhle fare before him, didhis best to make the whip supply the place of youth. But to Felix it seemed as though he were being drawn by a snail, and a hundred times he was on the point of stopping the carriage and of making the energy of exercise com- pensate for the tediousness of time. Even steam seems to creep along at the rate of something less than two miles an hour when the desire to be doing something is the last resource of the impatience of anxiety. Ox- ford Street seemed to have transformed itself into a sort of Teufets-Kreis, or dia- bolic circle, of which the apparent straight- ness was caused by the immeasurable length of its diameter. At last, however, his journey was at an end. He knocked loudly and rapidly at the door which he had left that morning in a state of mind that had then seemed to him the very climax of bitterness, but which now, if by so doing he could be relieved from his present sus- pense, he would have voluntarily recalled. Anxiously, and with an undefined expec- tation of hearing all manner of ill of a nature that he dared not put into shape, he asked the landlady of the house, who opened to him and who knew him well, if Miss Lefort was at home. During his ride his presentiment of evil had grown into almost monstrous proportions; and it seemed to have already borne fruit, when he was still further plunged into the sea of suspense by hearing that she had left the house that afternoon and had not yet re- turned. Knowing what he knew, and fearing what he feared, the news, trivial in itself, seemed to portend the worst; and he was not long in betrayin~ his alarm to the landlady. He was not too apt to be cool at the best of times, and it was scarcely likely that he should be able to conceal his anxiety now. Did you see her before she ~vent out? he asked. Did she say where she was goin~? Yes; she just said as she was going out for a bit. You dont think anything the matter, sir, do you? She wasnt like your play-acting folks in a general way no offence to you, Mr. Grevil as nobody knows which is their head nor which is their tail, as one may say; she were always so quiet, and always paid so regular. Did she seem disturbed unhappy? I dont know about disturbed exactly, Mr. Grevil. She seemed in a dream like but shed often be so. But Ive thought a good while she didnt be like she ought to. She didnt eat half enough for a mouses life, let alone a young womans, as ought to have their meals regular or they pays for it in the end; and she were always at prac- tice, practice, practice, from weeks end to weeks end _____ And she said nothing to you of where she was going? No, Mr. Grevil. She just went out, like as she might any day, though I did say to her She was to have been in Park Lane this evening, and she has not come. I daresay she has forgotten it, but Lord, Mr. Grevil, interrupted the landlady, like an echo of Monsieur Prosper, she never forgets nothing. And if any- thing was for to happen, as theres females knocked down before their very eyes by them coaches, as I well know, not to speak of that nasty orange-peel oh dear, oh dear And There thatll be her! suddenly ex- claimed the landlady, as a gentle knock was heard at the door. Thank goodness thats what I say. And she ran to open it, Edlix following her. Is my cousin at home? asked a voice from the dark door-step: and the heart of F~dix, that had been buoyed up by momen- tary hope, sank again within him as he recognized the voice of Angllique; and that voice which would once have been sufficient to raise him from an even deeper depth of anxiety, and to fill him with cour 94 EARL S DENE. age, now served only to make his depth of anxiety deeper still. But still all things were possible: and she might know some- thing of Maries movements during the afternoon. But this chance also proved to be vain. What Monsieur Creville! she ex- claimed. Can you tell me where I can go to look for Marie, if she is not at home? She had some husiness to do for me with Monsieur Prosper Ah, perhaps then she is gone to Golden Square, exclaimed F& ix abruptly, trying all he could to battle with the fear that had now almost developed into certainty. I will go and see. Wait for me here I will not he gone an instant. The idea was a mere straw, and he knew at. If she had wished to see Prosper she would not have gone where, knowing he would he in Park Lane, she knew he would not he. But still, hefore Ang~lique had time to ask a question, he was gone, and she was left to gather from the vague ap- prehensions of the landlady his fears for the safety of Marie, which were too genuine not to have proved contagious. This time he did not take a coachin- deed his pocket was onc~ more in its habit- ual state of emptiness. It was fortunate for him, however, that his pace did not call down upon him the cry of Stop thief! and at the end of about twenty minutes he returned. Miss Lefort, he began rapidly all out of breath, and with the sweat streamiiig from his forehead, I have the gravest fears about your cousin. And I am afraid I am the most to blame. You may not think there is much in her going out and not be- ing yet returned. But you know her regu- lar ways and her punctuality, and You fear an accident an accident to Marie? 0 mon Dieu! This morning I saw her, as you know and I heard from her something do you know her secret, Ang6lique? Of course Ang6liqne knew nothing about it; but even then she was sufficiently true to herself not to permit such a thing as a secret to escape her, if she could help it. So she went on, Of course I know all about Marie everything. We are sisters, and there is nothing but confidence between us in all thin~rs. t~o you know what I mean? I can guess. And you may speak freely to me, whatever it may be. Though she did not in the least know what he meant, she was perfectly honest in her belief that she possessed Maries whole confidence; that there in fact existed he- tween her and her cousin a partnership in confidences which was none the less complete because it resembled what the civilians used to call a societas leonina that is to say, a partnership in which all the profit was on one side. In any case this is no time for secrets now, said F~lix. What is the name of her husband? where is he to be found? Of her husband! Ang6lique exclaimed, in genuine astonishment. She told you she had a husband ? What! yo~i did not know it? 3Ion Dieu! But it is impossible When she herself told me so Ah, then it is true. And yet that I did not know it! To do her justice, she was really wounded by the thought that so important a confi- dence should have been withheld from her by the open-hearted Marie and given to a stranger. But a light suddenly broke upon her. In spite of her anxiety about the only creature whom she loved, and in whom she had, at all events till now, thoroughly be- lieved, a presage of triumph as complete as it was unexpected suddenly filled her heart with wh t was almost the eagerness of joy. Had she indeed caught her enemy upon the hip at last? Felix, she exclaimed rapidly, with all its usual hard listlessness gone out of her face, and supplied by an energy that was as fierce as it was hard Felix, you are right; the time for secrets has gone by. You love me no longer, then? Well, in that you are right too. Were I a man I would love where you love now. Oh, my poor Marie! Yes, I do know the name of her husband. It is that of the vilest villain upon earth it is Mark Warden. You hate him, do you not? But you cannot hate him more than I. lie looked at her for a moment amazed, and then the ground of Bartons suspicion grew clear. What! he said; Warden, the friend of Barton Warden, who is to marry Miss Raymond? Yes, that is the man. Who can tell what he has done with her when he has so much to gain by It was not this that he feared; and, in fact, the idea was almost too monstrous to be entertained c- too horrible even to he thought of. You mean he began. But no that cannot be. Ah, you do not know this man! Oh Marie! if you had but told me F~alix was far too excited, far too worn 6 EARLS DENE. 95 out to think, or indeed to dream of any- whom by sight and repute he knew well thing but blindly obeying whatever impulse enough. might seize him at the moment. Indeed, Mr. Warden, he said, in a tone that when he. had plunged into the chamber of could certainly be heard hy Miss Raymond fire to save the husband of her whom he if by no one else, I am sorry to disturb now loved so passionately, he was acting you, but I bring you grave news, if you do far more undcr the dictates of calm reason not know it already. Madame, your wife, than he was capable of acting now. He is missing from home; and I fcarit is was simply drunk with despair, and the feared, that something may have happened words of Ang6lique acted upon him like to her. 1)o you know where she is P If fresh draughts of fiery wine, not My God! he exclaimed, then there And so the message had come at last that is but one chance left. There is a chance Warden had ever since the morning been that he may knowand, if it is too late to longing yet dreading to hear. But so save her, yet many hours had now elapsed since he had Without another word he was gone. received Maries last words that he had be- Efilix! cried out Ang~lique, in real gun to feel at ease, and as though what he alarm, what are you going to do P Wait had been expecting had been indcfinitcly do not he rash ____ postponed. So, now that it had come, he, But her words were lost in the closing of for the first time in his life, felt his heart the street-door, and she was left to un avel sink with apprehension, and almost with a this new complication alone, guilty fear. But, as he had been steeling It was scarcely yet more than half-past himself all day long to receive the message eleven by the time that F~lix again reached when it came, he was not taken by surprise. Park Lane, where Prosper, not without He did not even start; and when he saw the more anxiety of heart than he cared to own bearer of it, his resolution was taken in a to himself for what, after all, is really moment. Not even the most scrupulous, he worth the anxiety of an artist hut art, and felt, could blame him for protecting himself of a speculator but money Phad to make now that she who might have claimed some the best excuses he could for the non-ap- self-sacrifice on his part needed it no more. pearance of his favourite lionne. The rooms As for grief or remorse, he felt neither. It were thus at tbeir flulest when the most oh- was part of his nature to he incapable of scure of their guests, all disordered by run- entertaining more than one idea at once; fling, re-entered them. The star was once and for these he had no space for the present. more displaying her brilliancy, amid a run- Pardon me, he said, quietly and po- fling accompaniment of conversation, which litely, are you sure that you are not mis- is so apt to languish when people are met taking me for some one else P to talk, but invariably grows lively when Are you not Mr. Warden P people are met to listen. Lord Farleigh That is my name. But you spoke of hadfound hisfavourite positionthe door; my wife; and as I do not happen to have and Mark Warden had at last been rewarded one by finding his, which was by the side of If this was not time tone of a murderer, Alice Raymond. neither was it that of a husband. And yet But, in spite of the incessant buzz of that he was, or rather had been, the husband what people are pleased to call conversation of Marie, could not be doubted for a mo- that filled tIme room, a semi-chorus of ment. He had heard that Marie was a wife ilush! as Felix entered it without too from her own lips; and Ang6liques cer- much regard to the quality of those whom tainty, confirmed by what he had heard from he was disturbing, recalled him for a few Barton, had become of necessity his own. moments to himself. It was not that he You are not married to Marie Lefort P was afraid of anything or anybody; but the he asked. immediate plunge of a man heated by ex- No. citement into a room-full of company who There was nothing now for Warden to do, for time most part are rather bored than now-that fate had shown itself so clearly to otherwise, is the sudden contact of red-hot be on his side, but to accept its kindness. iron with iced water. It would at all events be an act of the gross- But such contact hardens. if it cools. As est folly and weakness on his part to have soon as the cavatina had reached its final taken such pains to keep his secret while chord he took the opportunity, and the lib- Marie was 1ivin~, only to let it go now that erty, of disregarding the sacred line that it was past finding out. was drawn between the amusers and the Just then Prospe~, seeing Felix in the unamused by going up straight to Warden, room, came up to him. Well P he asked. 96 Fi~lix, however, replied to Warden. I do not pretend to understand you, he said. Do you me an to say tchat you were never married to Mademoiselle Lefort? Warden looked at him with an affectation of carelessness, pointedly taking note of his appearance from his boots, white with dust, to his disordered hair. Prosper, he said, if this is a friend of yours, had you not better get him away? He seems to have been at the sideboard once too often. The eyes and the attention of several in the room were drawn to where they were standing. Come, Fblix, said Prosper, come away. What is all this business? What about Marie? But F~lix did not stir. You accuse me of being drunk, he said in a loud voice, so that all the room might hear. That is all very well, though you know that I am no more drunk than you are. You are a liar at the very least, if not some- thing worse than a liar. The blood rushed back into Wardens face, which ordinarily only showed emotion by pallor, lie, too, had his ideas of honour, which rebelled at a public insult, though, to serve his purposes, he had habitually borne the insulting speeches of Barton when there was none by to hear. Besides, his situa- tion, however safe it might be, was at all events becoming ridiculous, and it was nec- essary, if possible, to avoid a scene about which people might talk afterwards. You drunken rascal, he said, half fiercely, half scornfully, if you were a gentleman I would knock you down. As it is, you may congratulate yourself that I do not have you kicked from the room. Go home quietly, and let us have no more of this nonsense, unless you want to be put out by main force. You submit then to be called a liar? Am I to call you coward also? Such a mode of resenting Wardens insult as this was of course as absurd and as im- politic as could be conceived. Morally con- vinced as F~lix was of being in the right, his conviction rested upon evidence that was nothing more than hearsay and circum- stantial, and was devoid of anything like EARLS DENE. proof. But he would have been more or less than human had he been capable of acting otherwise than absurdly now. It was not, after all, his own insult that he was thus re- senting though, that, too. stung through his. republican armour into the most sensi- tive part of his nature so much as the wrongs of Marie, however convinced he m ht be that she was now beyond the reach of all wrong for evermore. In short, had he kept his temper, he would have proved himself to be either a match for Mark War- den or else a stone and lie was neither. The latter laughed. Do you expect me to call out a tipsy fiddler? Some might think themselves bound to do that, if he called you both liar and eow~ ard. A fiddler may not impossibly be a gentleman, and a gentleman may most cer- tainly get drunk. But in any case, I fancy that a Mr. Warden is scarcely in a position to stand upon his noblesse with a Marquis de Cr~ville. The whole scene had been so far precisely like a regular comedy, of which this formed the climax. A laugh ran through the room, of which such of the occupants as had formed the audience, who, thanks to the unsubdued tones of Fidix, were not a few, had, accord- ing to their sex, been fluttered or amused, and now were amused outright. But, though what naturally~seeme d a crazy or drunken vaunt fell with the~effect of a blank cartridge upon him and upon those for whom it had been intended, there was one present of whose very existence Fi~lix had scarcely heard, through whose heart the name that for more than thirty years had not been spoken by man passed with the sudden sharpness of lead. A short, quick cry called the attention of the whole room from its immediate attrac- tion. Miss Clare had risen from her seat, and was standing with her eyes fixed upon Fdix in a rigid attitude, as though she were prevented from ruGhing forward by some unseen force, stronger than her own, that held her hack. In truth she was both deaf and blind to what was about her. Her ears were filled hy the roaring of water, and her eyes by the round summits of snowyhills. IT is proposed to erect a statue of Harvey, the he had made the great discovery that has im discoverer of the circulation~of the blood, in the mortalized his name. Verily the American Central Park, New York, and large subserip- sculptors have a pleasant task before them. tions~bave been received for that purpose. It is How does a philosopher usually look under suc~h to be of bronze, of colossal proportions, repre- circumstances? Nature. seating Harvey at the moment he felt convinced ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 97. From Blackwoods Magazine. ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. IT may be said concerning most of the races of men which have passed away, that our knowled~e of them does not extend to their ordinary lives and customs. Some few strongly-scored facts there may be, as that our Briton ancestors wore mustaches, and were so devoted to art that they never moved about except in company with some representation of heavenly or earthly bodies: but such facts give us only isolated points; the Briton as he really existed can never be revived to our apprehension. A conventional idea of a Briton may be pub- lished and accepted, but it can be only a fiction. Let us try to form a correct notion of the Jews, the Greeks, the Romans, the Cartha~, inians, as they were in their best days, or in any age, and we shall soon find ourselves without a true image and without a guide. Gifted men, by joining together traces of outline more or less marked, and by furnishing the connecting lines from their shrewd guesses or their vivid dreams, have sometimes amused us by revivals of scenes in the Acropolis or in the Colismum, or by the Sea of Galilee, .but they have not been able to show that their witness is true. Nay, to come nearer home and nearer our own age, is it not admitted that we have lost beyond recovery the impres- sion of what life in England was under the Norman kin s? We have lively percep- tions, it is true, of Cedric and the Templar and the Friar, but we perceive the phan- tasms of the enchanter, not the real im- press of the men of old. Neither is it pos- sible, the learned say, to produce now a true presentment of those times; they have left little more than a rack behind. If, then, the generations who left the scene two or three centuries ago have become so indistinct that we fail to recog- nize what manner of men they were in their lives, habits, and appearance, what chance have we of recovering and becoming intimately acquainted with the beings from whom we are separated by tens of centuries P By the foregoing theorems there is no chance at all, the attempt would be mere vanity and presumption. If we solve the question mathematically or logically, this is the inevitable answer. But it is not by reasoning that we will arrive at our truth; it is not proportion that shall convict this papers superscription of folly. An irrepressible, wayward fact, de- fying speculation, inverting axioms, shows itself; and philosophers are confounded, a new book is opened, the extremes of time LIVING AGE. VOL. xix. 841 are brought together. F or,as if in very derision of mundane belief, the oldest race of which history can speak is an exception to the rule of oblivion. Crusaders may have perished for ever the sons of Romu- lus and of Cecrops may have become dreams and fables; but some of them who saw Babel, and of the first generations who thence inherited the Coptic tongue, are living yet on the tableaux of E~,ypt! Was, then, the prescience of those primi- tive men as wonderful as their workman- ship and their invention? Did their vision pierce through barbarous misty centuries, and anticipate the time when far prosperity should yearn to them with awakening rev- erence, and seek for their remains as for hid treasures? It would seem that it did. But whatever their intention may have been, they have certainly left clear ela- borate records of themselves as they were once to be seen in their worship, proces- sions, ceremonies, in battles arid sieges, and in all the situations of domestic life. We may see for ourselves how they sacrificed, with what weapons they fought how they sowed, reaped, bought and sold, slaugh- tered, cooked, wrought at trades, feasted, danced, gamed, rejoiced, mourned, died, were embalmed and buried; nay, more, we know in what manner they fancied that their souls were disposed of after death. We can study their features, dresses, im- plements; and so mightily has nature wrought with them to preserve the memo- rials, that their domestic habits, their social institutions, their very modes of thought, are disclosed to us, and so mi- nutely, that we know more of the men among whom Abram dwelt and conversed in Egypt than of our own British and Saxon ancestors. * Carving and inscribing seem to have been the besetting infirmity of the ancient Egyptians. The desire of the diminutive, bandy-legged, noseless,, Plantagenet Mont- morency Smith, to be photographed, front and profile, and in all conceivable ungrace- ful attitudes, in every city of Europe, is not stronger than was the inclination of an old Memphite or Theban to carve out in detail, to paint, or to describe in writing his form and semblance, as on different occasions he went through the employment& of his life. His processes did~ not~ admit of seizing sudden expressions or effects;: but if be did not catch Cynthias of the minute, he gave typical Cynthias and types of every class of human. beings of the animals or things with which they occupied * Osburns Monumental History, end of vol 1.. 98 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED~ themselves, and examples of the manner in which they operated. If they consecrated a temple or stuck a pig if they held a sympo- sium or pickled a mummy if they danced or hunted, ate or foughtthe style in which the thing was done was stamped im- perishably. When the time comes for speaking of their burials and tombs, rea- sons will be given for much of this zeal in chiselling and limning. But there is much to say, and space is not ~z discretion, there- fore order must be observed, or we have no chance of fulfilling our design. So we will assign a place to each division of the sub- ject, and the first place is due to the great Pharaoh; let us therefore contemplate THE KING. Absolute power as executive entire personal submission to the laws this was the strange combination which characterized the office of a Pharaoh. All the vigour of despotism in the governor, all possible safeguards for the governed; the monarch irresponsible to any, and yet so thorough- ly restrained and advised that no man doubted his piety, justice, and discretion. And how was this brought about? Not by finely-spun theories inoperative in practice; not by intricate constitutional checks which in one age might enable the ruler to set at nought the rights and wishes of his people, and in another might transfer the whole power of the state to the lowest stratum of the populace, and so reduce the sovereign to a mere puppet; not by the institution of an antagonism, according to which it was the instinct of either side, governor or governed, to encroach on the liberties or prerogatives of the other; but by a far more refined and yet simpler method simpler in its elf, but possible for only a re- fined, highly-civilized people. The nation, in times beyond our ken, had made up its mind about the qualities of its ruler, and took its measures for securing such a one as should realize its ideal. The leaders knew the fallibility of checks and constitutions perhaps they knew it by experience and went nearer to the root of the matter, and looked for their security in the mind and disposition and life of the king. Their requirements call up the words of Cowper I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose words are pure, whose doctrine and whose life Coincident exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause. Let not any ardent purist, however, sup- pose that this hints in the darkest manner at competitive examinations: let us keep in mind that the aim of the Egyptians was far higher than simply to counter-check evil; they aspired to, and laboured for, positive good. They specially educated their ruler for his great career from early youth if they could; but, young or old, they would have him submit himself to a training and a routine of life such as were prescribed for no other. They made him comprehend the di,nity which attached to his position; the (literally in his case) divinity which does hedge a king. He could not be as other men were, but in all the acts of his daily life lie conducted him- self after a royal pattern, never forgetting that he belonged to the State. His toilette, exercise, meals, were settled by law; his amusements, both as to times and kinds, might be only such as became so distin- guished a person, the very quantity of his wine being regulated to guard against the possibility of excess. His associates and attendants were all of the first families, and of high education. These were blamed and punished if their august master should ever allow his passions to influence him in the exercise of his office. As was said in a former paper, * the king could do no wrong, but his ministers were held strictly responsible if any wrong was done, it being held that impropriety or injustice could scarcely be a solitary failing, but a sign of general circumspection havin~ been re- laxed. From the very birth of an heir- apparent to the throne, his future compan- ions, nurslings of the same age as himself, were set apart and trained. The king must have been bred a priest or a soldier. If he happened to be the latter, he was forced to become a priest on ascending the throne; and his priesthood was not a nominal or ex officio headship, but he had to study all the mysteries of re- ligion, the services of the temples, the laws and the moral code~of the country, and to be in all respects a capable and officiating pontiff. On days of high ceremonial the king himself publicly made offerings to the gods; but in ordinary routine he was only present at religious services during particu- lar hours. The viands of the royal table were limited to certain kinds of food. The king might not exceed a certain quantity of wine; he might not consort with whomso- ever he would; neither could he pass his time according to his own fancy. Hard condjtions these, one is apt to think; but yet if any nonsense had been talked about the monarch being denied the freedom that was permitted to the meanest of his sub- * Blackwoods Magazine for August, 1870. ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 99 jects if it had been said that, provided his public duty was accurately performed, he might surely turn his hours of relaxation to whatever account he might choose it would have been answered that what might be very good for an humble Egyptian was not at all suitable for Pharaoh; that the man they wanted must exist for the State, not the State for him; and that if he could not bear restraints himself, he was mani- festly incompetent to restrain and guide a whole nation! We do not find that political trouble ever arose from attempts of his Majesty to kick over the traces; indeed opinion was so strong and so invariable on the point, that the wise and well-trained monarch must have seen the ruin involved in such a course, supposing that he wished to pursue it, which probably he did not. The secret of how this was accomplished of how a mighty and absolute sovereign could be induced, without any apparent control, to walk within the very straitest limits, and to merge his personality in his glorious office is one that cannot be thor- oughly penetrated until some modern na- tion, as perspicacious as the Egyptian was, shall comprehend the general good as they understood it, and exhibit again the perfec- tion of government. We do, however, sometimes get glimpses of such finished or- ganization when highly-cultivated disposi- tions, by happy chance, come together in a family or other association. We are charmed by the devotion with which each member postpones his selfish inclinations for the general benefit, by the noiseless accuracy with which the machinery turns, by the ab- sence of all visible moving or regulating power, and yet by the consummate working of the whole. We know, nevertheless, that there must be a power somewhere, and that it is outwardly invisible, because it is ap- plied to the highest perceptions of our nature. So, also, there was a power, and an admirable one, cementing and guiding the powers of the State in Egypt very subtle, applicable only to the most gener- ous spirits, but in them more potent than the sternest tyranny. The horse that may he guided with a silken thread is alone per- fectly broken; the one moving straight under thongs and iron, and ever-more look- ing askance at the whip, does little credit to his trainer. The government of the Pharaohs was doubtless invented by the priests; the power which, like the force of gravity in nature, kept every member in his place, was in the national religion, into whose mysteries the monarch, as we have seen, was invariably initiated, and whose dictates were unquestioned by a surpassing- ly devout people. When we come to dis. cuss their religion, we shall see how hard it is to recognize this inward and spiritual power in it, and how much more we have to learn before we discover the mainspring of their wonderful system. In times of war the king generally took the field, and commanded the army. lie often took the heir with him (thus Sesostris, while very young, made his first campaign with his father, and had his bapt#~me de feu); but he could appoint a general to the chief command when reasons of State should show that course to be advisable. All l~ri- umphs, decrees, and national works were ascribed to him,.and the relations between sovereign and people appear to have been so good that his fame and theirs were iden- tical: they were satisfied that he was really and truly the impersonation of the State. Greek writers used to speak of the crown as elective; but the monuments which now supersede all oth~chronicles show that the succession i~7~ hereditary, except in case of the country being conquered, or the very rare occurrence of a successful re- bellion. An election took place only when there was no heir, male or female for a princess could inherit the sceptre. Although frequently the dome sovereign ruled both Upper and Lower Egypt, these were always regarded as two distinct kingdoms. Some- times each kingdom had its own separate king, and the two were at variance. The head-dress of the Upper country was white, a high conical cap terminating in a knob at the top: that of the Lower country was red; it encircled the head to the hei,,ht of the poll, and the back was prolonged to double the height of the cap. The king who might govern both countries wore both crown~ together, that of Lower Egypt out- side the other, and the composite head-dress of the two crowns was named the psehent. There were other royal head-dresses accord- ing to the particular office which the king might be discharging; but what will prob- ably be most astonishing to an inexpe- rienced reader is, that he often wore a wig. Modern speakers, chancellors, judges, and State coa& hmen may find comfort for their souls by a study of some of the monuments nay, of the relics; for specimens of the wigs are, it is believed, preserved. There would seem to be a popular belief that the Pharaohs were unfeeling and tyran- nical, a belief derived probably from the circumstances of the exodus; but it should be rembembered that the disposition of the Pharaoh who would not let Israel go was super-naturally vitiated. Some infatuation made him treacherous and cruel; but the 100 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. fact that his heart was hardened specially to make him act unworthily, goes to prove that in his normal condition he would have heen incapable of such conduct. The Pharaohs who knew not Joseph pursued an illiberal policy towards the children of Jacob, and the hook of Moses shows them in no very favourable light; yet they do not appear to have been personally odious, neither is there a hint of their government having been oppressive or hateful to the Egyptians. And then, when we come to regard the kings who did know and respect Joseph and his memory, their characters should form a counterpoise, and help us to an even judgment of these celebrated rulers. Josephs personal patron, who is more graphically presented in the sacred book than any ob~ioxious Pharaoh, was certainly wise and amiable, and his successors for some generations regarded Israel with favour. That Egypt throve as it did under their sway is a sufficient proof of the ability and integrity of the kings in general; and the mourning which the people made for Pharaoh when he died, and which the his- torians carefully distinguish from a formal prescribed manifestation, attests the esteem and veneration in which he was generally held. If we pass now from the monarch, who is a very intelligible figure, to that which doubtless contains the key to all the char- acter, wisdom, and exploits of the country namely, the national religion we are at once in a very thick atmosphere, where, though objects innumerable present them- selves, their connection and significance are difficult to trace Judaed by its outward and visible signs, this religion can be de- scribed as only gross idolatry and polythe- ism. The high reputation of t.he race has saved them from much reproach on this head; writers hardly ever mention the wor- ship without deprecating the readers inju- rious opinion of it, or without explaining its hidden spirituality. But the religion itself as we see it, is so loosely jointed and so in- definite, that an ingenious commentator, starting with a plausible idea or two, may speedily on this material foundation erect a structure of types and metaphysics reaching up to pure theology. To make good these words, let us for a while put aside the fan- cied or imputed meaning, and say what the worship was. The gods were so numerous that we can- not reckon them, neither can we say that we have now got, or that we shall ever get, to the limits of the pantheon. Gods crop up in all directions. Some have human figures and heads ; some have the forms of beasts, birds, fishes, and reptiles; some are com- pounded of heads of some of the above ani- mals joined to the bodies of men or women, being monsters of that class the idea of which made Horace exclaim, Ristim ten- eatis, amici? some are grotesque, de- formed, and shocking. A pair (male and fbmale) or a trio (parents and child) of gods were adored in the same temple; and of these, as of the Greek consonants, it is said, Inter se cognati sunt; but unfor- tunately, after one relationship has been noted, the same deities, or others suspicious- ly like them, are found in other places with an entirely new set of kinsfolk. Prince Hal * had an illustration that would have suited their affinities, but he was innocent of Egyptology. It was not only the images of animals, however, which the Egyptians ven- erated: live bulls, crocodiles, jackals, bee- tles, and one knows not what besides, were had in reverence. The worship of what were called the great gods, and especially of one pair, was wellnigh general on the Nile; but the smaller powers were wor- shipped in certain districts only, while in other districts they were abominations, and the setting up or putting down of one of them was as serious a matter as the exalta- tion of a German prince in these days it led sometimes to furious wars for ideas. There were several orders of gods, but it is not clear to us how the orders were di- vided which is not astonishing when the frequent interchatige above mentioned of attributes, symbols, and affinities is taken into account. It is, however, generally re- ceived that the gods creators and sustain- ers, and the sun and moon and elements, occupied the highest places under various names. Inferior gods all partook of the nature and functions of these, but were in- ferior in scope and degree. One god named Typho or Typhoon was regarded as the spirit of evil~ But of all these gods, two and they not of the first order are more celebrated than all the rest, and were of unquestioned sanctity from one end of Egypt to the other. The reader is already prepared for the famous names Osiris and Isis. The popular legend concerning them is that there was jealousy between Typho and Osiris; that Typho, by a man~uvre which recalls the ballad of the Old Oak Chest, or the story of The Fisherman and the Genie in the Thousand and One Nights, entrapped Osiris into a box, and, god as he was, confined him in the heart of * Page. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my masters Prince Henry. Even such kin King Henry Lv.,, ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 101 a tree, whence Isis got him out and carried him to Buto in the month Tybi (27th of December to 26th of January), and there concealed him but Typho, whose delight it appears to have been of a shiny night at that season of the year to hunt in the marshes, put him up by moonlight, and cut him up too, to make sure of him, into four- teen pieces.* Isis with great pains found thirteen of the pieces in different places, and buried each where she found it; the fourteenth piece had heen unfortunately de- voured by fishes. Afterwards, before the visit of the patriarch Abram, the whole country was convulsed for years by the act of King Meeche res or Mycerinus, who got the scattered limbs together at Abydos. The wars so occasioned ended in the reign of Acthoes of the XJth dynasty, as has been shown,t which, according to Mr. Osburn, is the true account concealed under the myth that Isis joined the body together once more. The alarms which the Pans and Satyrs felt while these dreadful adven- tures were proceeding became proverbial, and gave to wild terrors the name of Panics for all time. The high derivation, from the immortal gods, of this nervous condition, may he comfortable to gentlemen who were about the Stock Exchange and Capel Court last July. For their sakes it is recorded. Now, after all the pains and they have been very great which learned men have taken to discover some consistent theology of Egypt, it must be confessed that the whole subject remains a muddle, as one of the characters in Mr. Dickenss Hard Times is fond of saying; and that muddle (for, as we see it, it is not entitled to the name of system) cannot be defended against the charge of being the grossest and silliest idolatry. Then, as if the religion were not of itself difficult enough to be understood, it was further complicated by the vanity of the old Greek writers, who set to work to show that the gods of Greece were, under other names, the same as the gods of Egypt. Thus the great Arnun of the Egyptians was identified with Zeus or Jupiter, and in later day s became Jupiter Ammon, whose great temple was in the Oasis; Phthah, a god whom the Egyptians represented as a mum- my, was Vulcan or Hephmstus; Osiris was Bacchus; Anouke was Vesta; and so on But these comparisons were fanciful, and do not in the least assist us to a comprehension of the nature of the Egyptian gods as Egyptians regarded it. ~ Osburn says twenty-stx pteces. I Vide Maga, December 1869, p. 737 where, however, the word ttmtts, by a typographical error, stands for limbs. There can he no doubt that, viewed in certain of their phases, some of the gods may be seen to personify the powers or works of nature. Amun may be the sun, or, in another view, the atmosphere. Osiris and Isis may he, and in one acceptation probably are, the Nile and the land of E~ypt; hut attempt to follow up these allegories on the banks of the Nile (which are not the same that Mrs. Malaprop spoke of), and they will not half satisfy as to the character, power, or nature of any deity. For instance, assume Osiris to be the Nile, and a great deal of what is said of him seems to become clear, the allegory corresponding for some distance with known natural facts but in a while we find Osiris presiding as the judge of the dead, the great power of Amenthe or the shades be- low, and we are violently jerked out of the pleasant little groove in which our imagina- tions have begun to run at ease. There is nothing consistent or definite about any of these gods; the character of each is like a series of dissolving views, continually, as we regard it, fading to indistinctness, amid then reappearing in new colours and pro- portions. The boldest thing that has been said re- garding the whole tangled mythology is, that the Egyptians never really lost after the death of Noah, the knowledge of one supreme intelligence, almighty, inexhaust- ibly good, whom no man had seen at any time, who could not be represented by any- thing made with hands but that the priests attempted to show to the people, under the form of gods, His attributes, His creation, His ways of dealing with men, Ilis glory, His will. Each god, then, being a part or emanation of the Deity, which might mani- fest itself in various ways, had many figures and descriptions contradictory and often in- compatible when ascribed to a distiuct be- ing, but consistent and intelligible when applied to a quality or power. Thus divine love might be exhibited as cherishing, chas- tising, shining ever like the sun, outraged, averted, returning, delivering, animating, restraining. And this method of looking at the subject would in a sort explain the no- tion of Typho, who was thou,,ht to be in some things not unkind, he being the vio- lent power which convulses or destroys; but, inasmuch as these convulsions and destructions are very awful, and often con- nected with much apparent ~viI, his terrible aspect wellnigh eclipsed all other idea of him, and he came to be regarded as an ad- verse power. Now this daring theory cannot be proved any more than the tamer allegorical explana 102 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. tion. Both are followed because our minds genuine inspiration. The latter thought refuse to accept the outward and visible as supposes no more than we know to have the true religion of the Egyptians. The been true in the case of Balaam the son of high character of the people, our involun- Beor, who, though, like many another sanc- tary conviction of the superiority of their timonious rascal both of ancient and modern wisdom an~1 knowledge, forbid the accept- times, he wanted to combine the service of ance of the evidence as complete. We religion with rewards of place and power labour to clear the reputation of a people for himself, yet did undoubtedly receive whom we cannot but honour, and in so communications from on high. And, while doing possibly add to the difficulties of a we think of these matters, let it be re- a true understanding. When speculation marked that the books of Moses, intolerant has exhausted itself, and the mind is giddy as they are of idolatry, and little reason as with effort, we are no nearer than at first their writer had for being tender with Egypt, to our goal. Time may yet help us; let us do not anywhere denounce the religion of trust to time, the country as grossly pagan. On the con- One strong argument to support the opin- trary, much of the guilt attaching to ion that the Religion was not what it ap- Pharaoh and his people seems to spring pears, is the certainty that the people, far from the implied belief that they were suffi- from being blinded or debased, were en- ciently instructed to know that their conduct lightened, as we have shown, and civilized was indefensible. to an incredible degree. Let us remember A loose linen robe with full sleeves, what Wilkinson has said of their having secured round the waist, or else a robe cx- relinquished the habit of wearing arms when tending from the waist only to the feet, and not on service.. Something was elevating suspended by straps from the shoulders, and improving them, and if this was not was the ordinary dress of an officiating the religion, what was it P The rites were priest. He wore sandals or slippers on his not savage and cruel, the moral doctrine feet. The chief priest, and the king when was excellent. Old traditions existed, as he appeared as a high priest, wore a gar- they exist in most nations of any antiquity, ment made of a whole leopards skin. The concerning human sacrifices in early days. habits of the priests were calculated to A king named Amosis has the credit of hay- secure extreme purity; and though they ing abolished the sanguinary practice, and were very strict, they did not tend to im- of having su,bstituted a waxen image for poverishing the blood or depressing the the victim. But the religion, as we know system, but were judged to be highly salu- it, was mild and liberal somewhat too tary. Shaving, ablution, and great sim- liberal, if we believe some writers; advanc- plicity of living and dress, were most strict- ing knowledge, however, although it wholly ly attended to: the priests ate neither pork confirms the benevolent character, quite nor fish, but geese were plentiful, and contradicts the imputation of licentious- apparently not prohibited, and yet the un- ness. happy clergyman (for clerks the Egyptian Animals undoubtedly were sacrificed on priests may very properly be called) might the altars of the gods, but even the pure not for his life eat goose with onions: beans religion of the Jews prescribed this; and were an abomination the priest would besides living things, almost all the charac- not look at one if he could avoid it. The teristic productions of the country appear restraints which the priests prescribed for before the shrines, the papyrus, water- the people they imposed in a ten-fold melon, lotus, onion, fig, an interminable harsher degree on themselves. They oh- series. Incense was frequently used, but tamed and kept the respect of the people, it differed according to the hour of the we are told, by their highly benevolent day: that used at sunset in the temple of morals, and by their religious lives and con- the sun was named Kuphi, and was com- versation. pounded of sixteen fragrant substances.* We must not omit to state, although The celebrated magicians of Egypt were, there is not space to go at any length into no doubt, priests of the higher orders, who the subject, that innumerable sacred animals retained in their own hands the chief know- were maintained in great state in various ledge of the sciences. Either they wrought temples. Of these the bull Apis was their wonders and practised divination by probably the most remakable; but different the aid of ~hemistry, metallurgy, and optics; places had different fancies in this line, or else they really did enjoy, in their some taking to crocodiles, some to birds, partially enlightened state, a degree of and almost all to the scarab or beetle of the Nile. The real belief concerning these * Kenrick. animals is as much a matter of controversy ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 103 as the intention in worshipping the gods. tirely round it; and a succession of doorways It is impossible to say whether Apis him- communicated from the court with different see- self was considered divine, or whether he tions of the centre of the house, where the was but a visible emblem of some divine rooms, disposed, like those already described, being, power, or quality, around passages and corridors, served partly as The belief and practice which sprang sitting apartments and partly as store-rooms.1 from the religion of whose form the above The proprietor of such a seat as the is a very feeble outline, will be best learned above would have had his house-steward and from what has to be said of Egyptians his land-steward, and with the latter it may lives, and of Egyptians deaths and judg- be supposed that the principal business of ments. Let us therefore get out of the his life would be transacted. We see him temple for the present and look at some on the sculptures as he appeared when he scenes in the lives of the laity. Suppose took account of his stock, as he watched his we take a country gentleman of the period servants at seed-time, as he managed the (temp. Joseph to Moses), a tolerably well- irrigation, as they put in the sickle and to-do squire. We find this person had a gathered the ripe corn, as the oxen on the good idea of making himself comfortable threshing-floor trod out the grain, and as among his lands and beeves. His house, the farm-servants stored it in the granary. gardens, vineyards, artificial ponds, and Then he had his orchard and vine-yard cornlands were laid out very cleverly, and wherewith to amuse himself when the hu- in a style more or less costly, the larger mour took him. There were palms, syca- mansions having propyla and obelisks, mores, and vines to be tended, or their fruit like the temples. To give a general idea to be gathered; and one way of gathering of one of the houses, a quotation from the fruits rapidly was to employ monkeys Wilkinson is advisable, to help the servants. Jacko did help, it is About the centre of the wall of circuit, he true, but always with an unconcealed eye to the gratification of number one. There says, was the main entrance, and two side he is, well up the trees, and in the very gates, leading to an open walk shaded by rows of trees. Here were spacious tanks of water, coolest manner gorging himself, while the which fac the door of the right and left wing attendants wait below and he leers at them. of the house, and between them an avenue ted The grapes once off, the kids were turned from the main entrance to the stables, and to in to browse on the vines. The juice of the what might be called the centre of the mansion. grapes was expressed by putting them in a After passing the outer door of the right wing, bag, the opposite ends of which being you entered an open court with trees, extending twisted in contrary ways by means of poles, quite round a nucleus of inner apartments, and the liquor streamed through into a vase. having a back entrance communicating with the The extended arms of one man did not, garden~ On the right and left of this court however, give sufficient length of lever for were six or more store-rooms, a small receiving a pole, and hence we see a man at each end or waiting room at two of the corners, and at of each pole, putting his whole strength the other end the staircases which led to the up- into the squeeze, the bag being by this per story. Both of the innerfufudes were fur- xhausting degree; nished with a corridor, supported on columns, means wrung to a most e with similar towers and gateways. The interior while a fifth fellow, with his feet against of this wing consisted of twelve rooms, two one pole and his hands against the other, outer and one centre court, communicating by prevents the bag from shortening, and folding gates; and on either side of this last was throws all his energy into a most compli- the main entrance to the rooms on the ground- cated wrench, like that kick with which old floor, and to the staircase leading to the upper Tony Weller finished off the shepherd. story. At the back were three long rooms, and The wringing of the bag was sometimes a gateway opening to the garden, which con- done a little more scientifically by means of tamed a variety of fruit-trees, a small summer- a frame, and by having strong eyes attached house, and a tank of water. to the ends of the bag, one eye being then The arrangement of the left wing was differ- fixed to the post of the frame while the ent. The front gate led to an open court, ex- other moved freely, being passed through tending the whole breadth of the fa9ade of the a hole in the opposite post; the whole building, and backed by the wall of the inner part. Central and lateral doors thence commiF- squeezing party bent their strength on a mcated with another court, surrounded on three lever which passed through the last-men- sides by a set of rooms, and behind it was a cor- tioned eye, and so brought down in a ricior, upon which several other chambers shower the precious liquor. opened. There was also a foot-press (more used This wing had no back entrance, and, in Upper Egypt), where, the grapes being standing isolated, the outer court extended en- duly arranged on their proper floor, a lot 104 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. of trampers seized each a rope radiating from a knot in the centre of the ceiling, and, starting off centrifugally round and round, soon mashed the fruit, and let the juice stream through a sieve or colander into a receptacle heneath, from which it ran away into vats. We are obliged to pass over the different kinds of wines for fear of overrunning our space. The beer, of which mention has been before made,* was the genuine extract of barley; but as the Egyptians had not the hop, they gave a flavour with lupin, the skirret, or the root of a certain Assyrian plant not identified. This beverage was in general use throughout Egypt; and though there may have been a smaller con- sumption in the wine-growing than in the corn districts, there is reason to think that brewing was done very regularly on all the estates. Nevertheless, as in our day, the beer of every district was not considered equally good, and the favourite brand was that of Pelusium on the Levant their Burton-on-Trent. When we remember the great facilities for water-carriage which existed during the inundation, it seems probable that Pelusium (now Port Said) may have driven a considerable business in this commodity, as the wealthy would take care to have that of highest reputation; and the reputation of Pelusiac beer was not con- fined to Egypt, but was notorious in Greece. It may be an addition to our useful knowl. edge to learn that any unfortunate person who may happen to be what Mr. Weller called overtook, will, if he be drunken with wine, lie on his face; whereas, if beer has been his seducer, he will lie on his back. No apology is offered for advancing this dogma in a somewhat positive manner, as it sporting beast; the other the domestic cat, proceeds from no satirist or proftine person, which was educated to be a retriever in neither rests on the doubtful evidence of a fowling. toper who had made trial of both kinds, but Birds, besides being taken in snares, were is the grave assertion of Aristotle the phi- liable to be lulled by a decoy, and then losopher: we have only, therefore, to bow knocked down with sticks, or more sporting- the head and believe; and we English are ly slain with darts. It is very clear how it more strictly bound to this humility, as we was all done, and the zest with which the have no practical knowledge of the sub- sportsmen laboured. Fishing with nets and ject. baits and prongs went on in the days of But to return to our Coptic squire. It Joseph much as it does now. The kinds is not certain that he would be a thrifty of fish which were then caught may be seen man, always ccnferring with his stewards in representation to this day, as may also and inspecting his fields; and it is hardly the kind of knives with which they were likely that, however notable he might be, opened, and the modes of curing them. he would not sometimes amuse himself with Of fly-fishing there is no record, only of field-sports. Whenever it might be his netting, spearing, and angling with ground- pleasure to hunt, shoot; or fish, there were bait. glorious opportunities of having an exciting There were two sports to which we can- day or series of days. The game was not, not pretend to find parallels in our land and day, viz., hippopotamus-hunting, in * Blackwoods Magazine for August 1870. which a harpoon and reel were used, mak of course, exactly the same as that which a British sportsman, in the year of grace 1870, is at pains to destroy; but, except in regard to one or two circumstances, the modern reader is likely to marvel more at the extreme similarity of the Egyptian sporting expeditions and adventures to our own than at any striking peculiarity in the sports. And one may well marvel, when the immense distance of time is considered, at the strong similarities which are brought home to us, not by verbal descriptions alone, but by the most spirited sculptures, the chef.s-dceuvre, probably, of Egyptian art, where some conventional restraint which hampered the artist in portraying gods and men seems to have been removed, so that he could give a loose to his genius. The situations of the chase are generally such as are familiar to us the setting out of the hunting party, the beat, the find, the setting on of the dogs and o~her animals, the sportsmen assisting with their bows and javelins, the animals turning to bay, the death, and the return with the game. There were Landseers on the earth in those days. Foxes, wolves, jackals, hyenas, and leop- ards were destroyed for sport or for their skins; but gazelles, ibexes, oryxes, wild oxen, deer, wild sheep, hares, and porcu- pines, were hunted for their flesh as well as for amusement. The ostrich also was chased for his feathers, ornaments which were highly prized. Hounds and other dogs were the principal animals used in pursuit; but mention must not be omitted of two species of the genus felis, which, in such a connection, may rather astonish one is the lion, which was tamed for a ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 105 ing it, to that extent, like whaling and crocodile-hunting. The Tentyrites are said to have been so bold in this latter pursuit, that one of them would not hesitate to swim singly after a crocodile, jump on its hack, and thrust a bar into its mouth, which, being used as a bit, the gallant rider made the crocodile carry him to shore! Herodo- tus, however, tells us that theway to catch a crocodile in his time was to bait a hook with a piece of pork, then to set a pig screaming on the bank. The crocodile, running to look after the pig, would ob- serve the pork, and swallow it en passant, whereupon he was hauled ashore and blinded with mud, so that he could offer but little resistance to his fate. When our bucolic Egyptian got home after being afield, he took his bath, and was ready then for some refreshment, which was brought hini in separate dishes, and served upon a small round table with one leg, at which he sat on a high or low stool, but did not recline. His meal, the history of which may be read on the sculptures, from the slaughter of the animal or the gathering of the vegetable or fruit up to the moment of serving, was tolerably luxu- rious; and probably a bill, of fare might here he furnished, only that meals will be better treated of when we come to Enter- tainments, and before they are men- tioned something ought to be said of the thriving citizen of an Egyptian city. Town-houses, when small, touched each other, and formed the sides of a narrow street. Large houses were detached, and stood each in its own area, with entrance- doors on two or three of its sides. The plan of these detached houses was rectan- gular, and either the apartments ran round three sides of an inner quadrangle, or a spacious court was reserved on one side of the buildings joining them to the boundary wall. Low houses appear to have been the fashion, except in splendid Thebes, where, Diodorus says, the houses were four or five stories in hei~ht. They had a portico or porch before the front door (Janua), sup- ported on two columns, below whose capi- tals were attached ribbons or banners, the name of the person who lived there being occasionally painted within, on the lintel or imposts of the door; and sometimes the portico consisted of a double row of col- umns, between which stood colossal statues of the king. A line of trees ran parallel with the front of the house; and, to prevent injuries from cattle or from any accident, the stems were surrounded by a low wall, pierced with square holes to admit the air. . The height of the portico was about twelve or fifteen feet, just exceeding that of the cornice of the door, which was only raised by its threshold above the level of the ground. * The walls of the reception- rooms were raised to only a moderate height, and carried no roof, but an awning was stretched over them while the sun shone, and a stream of cool air was by architectural arran~ement carried through the rooms. These rooms were rich with columns, and decorated with banners. The distribution of the rooms of the family was various, according to taste or need, as we are informed by many examples. The doors had locks and keys keys, that is, which could be taken out of the locks how early we know not, but certainly as early as thirteen and a half centuries nc. There was a terrace on the top of each house covered by a roof on columns. The ceilings were beautifully painted as to both colour and design; and on Egyptian ceil- ings at least 800 years older than Homer or Romulus, Wilkinson found splendid ex- ainples of what we have been accustomed to call Greek and Etruscan patterns, the lotus, the square, the diamond, the circle, and above all, he says, the succession of scrolls and square within square, usually called the Tuscan border. The basement rooms were appropriated as offices and stores, and these were generally covered by regular keyed arches Roman arches, as it is the fashion to call them. Now these citizens seem to have been a remarkably sociable class, not fat chuffs, gorbellied knaves, that hated the long-ago- inummied men about town, who might in that day have described themselves as us youth, but liberal, open-handed fellows, giving of their abundance, and unwilling to eat their morsel alone. To see a few friends was clearly a great delight to them, and how they entertained their guests we may learn as accurately and minutely as if we had been present. We see the so- berer magnates borne, to the door in their palanquins, surrounded by a crowd of at- tendants, each of whom carried something which his master might possibly require during the visit; such as a stool to alight by, his tablets, and so on; we see the footman knocking at the door, and the servants within getting ready water for the guests feet; and then we see the young swells, evidently after time, dashing up in tLeir curricles, and making sensation among the company already assembled, while grooms run to the horses heads. And the * Wilkinsons Manners and Customs of the Au. elent gyptlaus. 106 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. water for the feet and hands was offered in the houses of people of distinction in a style becoming citizens of no mean cities; none of your deif, none of your porcelain even, none of your figured glass, none of your alabaster or such common wares to wash in, but golden ewers and basins beau- tifully fashioned. After he had washed, each guest was anointed hy a servant with perfumed unguents out of porcelain or ala- baster hoxes, then he was crowned or gar- landed with flowei~s, and so made fit to enter the reception-room, where he found ladies and gentlemen seated on ottomans, chairs, stools, and sofas. The entertainment began hy an offer of wine being made to all the guests, female and male, and then, while dinner was being prepared, the said guests conversed or listened to favourite airs played on the harp, pipe, flute, and tamhourine by pro- fessional musicians. Anon caine the re- past; but we are not asked to sit satisfied with seeing that there are dishes, and plenty of them we are taken through the slaughter-house and through the kitchen, and by the most minute description thor- oughly informed as to the preparation. There is to be seen the ox, gazelle, oryx, or kid hound for slaughter, and the butcher applying his fatal knife; and let it be re- marked that these ancient butchers wore in their belts and tied to their aprons steels for sharpening the knives. The whole pro- cess of preparing the animals for the table is then laid hare, and we are introduced to the head cook~and his assistants, who are seen to be spitting, mincing, pounding, garnishing, poking the fires, and blowing the bellows with their feet. Joints, hors- dyxuvres, savoury meats, were thus pre- pared, and not a few tasty messes made with geese and other poultry, while the most delicious vegetables entered largely into the composition of almost every dish. Who does not call to mind the murmurs of the Israelites at Taberab? We re- member the fish which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the gar- lic. The baking (including unmistak- able macaroni) and confectionery were in- trusted to another set of artists, of whom Pharaohs ill-fated chief baker was probably a director. Everything is shown us, down to the minutest circumstance; and we even know what parts, when that which was thought worthy to be cooked for the guests had been selected, were given to the poor. But we must not loiter, though the tempta- tiC)n to do so is strong. We find the guests (to return to the party) entertained sometimes by sexes sep- arately, though in the same room, and sometimes with the ladies and gentlemen intermixed at the same table. The table was generally, though not invariably, round; and the dishes with loaves of bread were placed on it, the table itself being removed with every course, and another substituted with the next course. But at other times the table remained all through the meal, and the viands were brought in baskets. Wine was freely handed about to ladies as well as~ gentlemen; and there is reason to believe that the former even liked it, and sometimes went so far as to take a thimble- ful too much, as the unmerciful sculptor has not scrupled to record. They not only could get merry and frisky, but one young lady (and we feel certain that not a practice of the girl of the period, but a particular accident, must have suggested the sculp- ture) is very unwell indeed, as if she were at sea, and you see all her distress, and the assistance rendered to her oh my!! Of course, where such a thing could be imag- ined of a lady, gentlemen were not unfre- quently elevated ~a va sans dire. But while we contemplate their hilarity and indiscretion, mention must be made of a most remarkable custom at feasts: medio de fonte leporum surgit amari aliquid; while they are at the height of their enjoy- ment, servants enter bearing in a mummy, or the semblance of one, and this hideous object is handed round to every guest. The application of this incident rested, of course, with each guest according to his disposition; some regarded it as Falstaff said he did old Bardolphs face saw in it a memento mon to recall them to serious reflection; while others looked at it much more as Falstaff really would, and drew the moral, Let us eat and drink, for to-mor- row we die. The intention was, no doubt, to restrain intemperance and levity. After dinner, music and singing were resumed. These were followed by dancing and feats of agility and tumbling. Almost all the achievements in this line which amuse us to-day are to be seen executed to the life on the sculptures, the effects of which on the mind, when the lapse of time occurs to it for a moment, are absolutely startling. Something that you saw last week, after it had been trumpeted as the most astonishing novelty, you may see to- day facing you in a museum on an Egyptian tableau of incalculable antiquity. Magi- cians, professors of gymnastics, and sleight- of-hand men were all occasionally intro- duced, the conjuring being, of course, a favourite amusement. Mr. Kenrick, being ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 107 for a moment a little simple or a little pom- pous, writes thus of one of the tricks: We see two men seated with four inverted cups placed between them, and it is evident that the game consisted in guessing heneath which of the cups some object was con- cealed. In homelier phrase, the noble science of thimblerig was understood and practised; and it is satisfactory to find, by subsequent reference to Wilkinson; who speaks less fastidiously, that this interpreta- tion is true. Draughts and dice were much played at, and wrestling and single-stick gave delight to some. Buffoonery seems to have been appreciated by all. Occasion was taken in a former paper * to speak of the art of making musical instru- ments, and incidentally to mention the later opinions concerning the musical taste of the Egyptians. But we did not say then nei- ther can we say now one tithe of what it is desirable to say on this subject. The intro- duction on the tableaux of music on every pos- sible occasion, shows how generally the sci- ence was appreciated; and the beautiful stringed instruments which even yet survive, tell us of themselves how devoted the people were to the hearing of sweet sounds. Spec- imens of the instruments as of most other things of general use or estimation were laid up in the tombs, where, unseen and un- disturbed, they were left to gratify the eyes of the spirit whose mummy, with its countless bandages, lay embalmed in the same sepul- chre. In one of these tombs, the date of closing which was ascertained to be more than a thousand years before Christ, a harp of many strings was discovered in 1S23. One of the exploring party laid his hand upon the instrument, and let him who may read it without emotion the chords which had been motionless and silent for upwards of three thousand years vibrated to his touch, and woke the echoes of the tomb with musical sounds! 0 wake once more! how rude soer the hand That ventures oer thy magic muse to stray. O wake once more! though scarce my skill com- mand Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay; Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, And all unworthy of thy nobler strain; Yet if thy heart throb higher at its sway, The wizard-note has not been touched in vain. Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again! From the few particulars, meagre though they be, which have been given, it may be understood that a tolerable degree of luxury * Blackwoods Magazhie for August 1870, p. 232. and a somewhat ostentatious taste existed in Egypt. Just as the wealthy moderns develop or invent all manner of fancies, and spare no expense to gratify their caprices, so did opulent Egyptians deny themselves nothing in the way of wines, equipages, works of art, pleasure-boats, slaves, ani- mals, trees, & c. But while the funds arising from extensive farms and the abun- dant produce of a fertile soil enabled the rich to indKlge extravagant habits, many of the les~ wealthy envied the enjoyment of those luxuries which fortune had denied to them; and, prompted by vanity and a de- sire of imitation, so common in civilized communities, and so generally followed by fatal results, they pursued a career which speedily led to an accumulation of debt, and demanded the interference of the Leg- islature. * Now the interference of the Legislature was remarkable, inasmoch as it was ordained that when a man had been so silly as to get deeply into debt, he should give his fathers (or, as Wilkinson supposes, his nearest relations, since his father may not yet have been mummified) mummy in pledge for payment. Not to have redeemed the mummy would have rendered the debtor infamous. He was therefore thus put under the strongest obligation to acquit himself of the debt, and generally did acquit him- self. The liberal creditor, not altogether caring to domesticate the mummy, was commonly satisfied with possession of the tomb. This was quite enough to brand the debtor and his family too if the account re- mained long unpaid; and the pledge and the penalty being so awful, it is suggested that some relation say an uncle would come forward and receive the precious de- posit, to keep the affair within the bounds of the family. Being too much occupied to follow up this suggestion, pregnant as it is, we hereby unreservedly present it to the etymologists, by whose labours we hope to see a remarkable but perplexing modern form of speech clearly connected with the earlier Coptic. The design of this paper being but to present some striking points of Egyptian life, with a view of inducing a comprehen- sive study of it, we pass now from the lives (most meagrely glanced at) of that ancient people to their deaths, or the circumstances connected therewith, premising that every- thing belonging to death and funerals was of immense importance, and thoughts of, and preparations (both material and moral) for death, appear to have occupied mdi- viduals as much as the requirements of their * Wilkinsons Manners and Customs, & c. 108 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. lives. Although they had a consciousness of the souls separate existence in a spiritual world called Amenthe, there was neverthe- less some strong idea, not yet clearly evolved, of communication maintained be- tween the soul and the mummy, as long as the latter should not be wholly dissolved. Hence they came to look upon the tomb in which a man was to lie for thousands of years as his real home, in contradistinction to his house, which, as a stranger and a pilgrim, he would occupy for some fraction of a century. Accordingly, a man of any means, from the king downwards, set about the provision of a tomb for himself as soon as he attained to independence, and he lavished his wealth in making his long home worthy of him. He furnished and he decorated it; architecture, sculpture, painting, all the arts contributed to its mag- nificence; furniture, instruments, utensils, jewels, records, were stored there in profu- sion; indeed it is in ~hese tombs that we find our most interesting relics, as the harp above spoken of, or the sculptures placed around the mummy to recall familiar scenes and pleasures. Now, mummification having heen, as we showed before,* an art so important and so well understood, people while in health would naturally declare their wishes, and make their provision in that regard. But although every man hoped to become some sort or other of mummy an Egyptian being always considered worth his salt yet it depended upon his means in what style he should he packed for eternity. Herodotus gives three principal methods, but it is probable that these admitted of modifications according to price. One can hardly realize the satisfaction of going into an embalmers establishment, and cruising about to choose after what pattern one would be a body, as Mr. Mantilini put it. But the quest must have had its fasci- nations. Genteel, well-cured mummy very sound, only 7 minte (~20), would meet the eve on one side, and seem very eligible; but then the price! Well, then, look at this 22 minte (~60), and a per- fect gem at the money. Extra natron warranted to last 10,000 years equal to first-class in duration difference in ex- ternal materials only. Or, if that does not satisfy, then In this style, finest that can be made, with latest improve- ments, one talent (C250). So, after a great deal of hesitation and balancing of expense against quality, a decision would be arrived at. Quack embalmers, of * J3lackwoods Magazine for August 1870. course, there were, heading their advertise- ments with Why give more P To persons about to perish. When you die send your body to us. A perfect cure; you last forty centuries or your money re- turned, and such ad captandum snares; but it was too serious a matter altogether for any discreet person to chaffer with char- latans in respect of it. For the confounded risk was this: the spirit would not be pro- vided with another body for 3000 years; and if in the mean time its old temple should be dissolved, what was to become of it, the spirit aforesaid P Now we quite remember that the spirit was understood to have gone to Osiris in Amenthe; we have just said that it stifl maintained its place in the old firm of which the body had declined into a sleeping part- ner, and that it hovered about the tomb, and didnt forget its old tastes and habits and we have now to add that, in the inter- val between the decease of the old human body and its entering a new one, it passed 3000 years in bodies of beasts, birds, fishes, and reptiles! How to reconcile these des- tinies P Well, it cant be done at present, but the fault, no doubt, is with us, who dont half understand as yet the things which have been transmitted to us. The Egyp- tians were certainly most earnest about the life hereafter, and they were too shrewd and too logical to be satisfied with any hocus-pocus doctrines on a subject so im- portant. We must wait for more light, remembering that a great deal of what is ascribed to the Egyptians, and what has been accepted by the moderns, is only the account of the Greeks who may have wholly misunderstood the theology of the superior people whom they professed to portray. Greek speculation must go down before the monuments. No sooner had a member of a family died than the females of the house plastered their heads and faces with rand, and rushed into the streets, striking their bare bosoms and uttering mournful cries. They were there joined by relations and friends, who all added their lamentations. This was the beginning of a woe which was continued with variations throughout a period of seventy-two days * i.e., while the corpse was taken to the embalmers, made a mummy of in due process, and returned impregnably corned to the wailing relations. After this last event, a new set of cere * See the account of the mourning for Jacob And forty days were fulfilled for him; for so are fulfilled the days of those which are embalmed: and the Egyptians mourned for him threescore cetd ten clays. Cien. i. 3. ABOUT 110W THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 109 monies was proceeded with. The mummy had assigned to it a closet in the house, where it stood upright against a wall, when entirely unoccupied. But the leisure of a vonug mummy was but scanty, there being innumerable ceremonies and domestic meet- ings at which it was required to attend. A small sledge was use(l for moving it about from chamber to chamber. It was taken out of its closet and anointed with oil or ointment; it was embraced and mourned over; libations, incense, and offer- ings of vegetables were presented to the gods on its behalf; liturgies were recited by priests. It sometimes even happened that the mummy was placed at table, as if friends desired to enjoy its society. For an indefinite period, ranging from a few weeks to a year, the mummy was an inmate of the house; but sooner or later arrived the time when it had to be deposited in the tomb, and then their was something like a stir. Not only are the funeral pro- cessions described but several have been depicted in all their details. The magnifi- cence with which people of rank were borne to the grave could not be exceeded. First came several servants carrying tables laden with fruit, cakes, flowers, vases of oint- ment, wine and other liquids, with three young geese and a calf for sacrifice, chairs and wooden tablets, napkins, and other things. Then others bringing the small closets in which the mummy of the deceased and of his ancestors had been kept, while receiving the funeral liturgies pre- vious to burial, and which sometimes contained the images of the gods. They also carried dag- gers, bows, sandals, and fans, each man having a kerchief or napkin on his shoulder. Next came a table of offerings, fautenils, couches, boxes, and a chariot; and then the charioteer with a pair of horses yoked in another car, which he drove as he followed on foot, in token of respect to his late master. After these were men carrying gold vases on a table, with other offerings, boxes, and a large case upon a sledge borne on poles by four men, superintended by two func- tionaries of the priestly order; then others bear- ing small images of his ancestors, arms, fans, the sceptres, signets, collars, necklaces, and other things appertaining to the king, in whose service he held an important office. To these succeeded the bearers of a sacred boat, and the mysterious eye of Osiris as God of Stability, so common or: funereal monuments the same which was placed over the incision in the side of the body when embalmed, was the emblem of Egypt, and was frequently used as a sort of amulet, and deposited in the tombs. 0the~s car- ried the well-known small images of blue pbttery, representing the deceased under the form of Osi- ris, and the bird emblematic of the soul. Fol- lowing these were seven or more men bearing upon staves or wooden yokes cases filled with flowers, and bottles for libathn; and then seven or eight women, having their heads bound with fillets, beating their breasts, throwing dust upon their heads, and uttering doleful lamentations for the deceased, intermixed with praises of his vir- tues. . . . Next came the hearse, placed in the consecrated boat upon a sledge, drawn by four oxen and by seven men, under the direction of a superintendent, who regulated the march of the procession. A high functionary of the priestly order walked close to the boat, in which the chief mourners, the nearest female relations of the deceased, stood or sat at either end of the sarcophagus; and sometimes his widow, holding a child in her arms, united her lamentations with prayers for her tender offspring, who added its tribute of sorrow to that of its afflicted mother. * The rich sarcophagus was decked with flowers. Sometimes the mummy rested on the outside exposed to view, but more fre- quently it was enclosed in the case a panel of which was, however, taken out on some occasions to show the head of the mummy. The procession wound up with the male relations and friends, leaning on long sticks, and either beating their breasts or walking in solemn silence. It was, no doubt, such a procession as the above which went wp to Abel-Mizraim with the remains of Jacob; and Canaan probably never before and never since saw a funeral conducted with such pomp and splendour. None can doubt that the funeral of Joseph himself, when he was consigned to the tomb wherein he lay until the exodus, was of un- paralleled grandeur. And here let us note, in passing, that there -is some reason to think that this tomb has been found.f It may he imagined that, having described the funeral procession, we have completed the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history, but such is not the case; there remains behind a custom more remark- able than any other part of the obsequies. Between the road over which the mummy travelled as above and the tomb which had been prepared for it, there intervened an obstacle. Every nome (or Egyptian prov- ince) had its sacred lake barring the passage to the tomb until he whose mummy sought to be at rest had established his character as one deserving to lie among the worthies of Egypt who had gone before him. There was a sacred boat and a boatman (the Egyptian word for which is Charon 4), but before the mummy could be embarked, or the boatman would pull a stroke, the permit * Wilkinsons Manners and Customs, & c. I Osburns Monumental History. ~ Of course the original of our Stygian acquaint- ance. 110 ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIETh of forty-two assessors, who had been ex- pressly summoned, and who stood in a grave semicircle on the bank, had to be obtained. There might or might not be an accuser or accusers present. If there were, he or they were bound to prove that the deceased had led an evil life, on pain of the severest pun- ishment in case of failure. If there were no accuser, still the character of the dead had to be examined on every point seriatim of Egyptian morality. His acts, his omis- sions, his example, were rigidly passed in review, and it was not until the assessors had decided that he was altogether worthy that his mummy could be lowered into the sacred ark. Should the sentence be against the dead, or should he be proved to be heavily in debt, the body had to be returned by the way it came, amid the confusion and grief of all the family, and kept concealed, until the production of further evidence, the ex- piation of any Qifences that admitted of be- ing cancelled, or, in the worst case, the lapse of time, enabled the afflicted family to obtain for it the shelter of the tomb. Pharaoh himself was not exempt from this ordeal, and there were certainly instances where the royal mummy was refused a pas- sage. By such cases we get a little insight into the moral forces by which a Pharaoh was kept in equilibrio. But supposing all to go well, no sooner was the testamur is- sued,, and the candidate pronounced to have passed this his great go, than the as- sembled crowd abandoning the mournings and lamentations and woe which they had so long indulged, broke out into acclamations, extolled the glory of the deceased, and re- joiced that he was to remain for ever in Amenthe with the virtuous and approved. In the entrance passage, usually, of the tomb, but certainly in some part of the tomb, was registered the whole acquittal of the dead: how he had been able, by his representatives, and to the satisfaction of his judges, to assert his innocence of all the sins known to the Egyptian law as they were called over one by one. The real import of the ceremony was of far more concern than could attach to any purely earthly verdict. The trial which was seen and heard was only the shadow or re- flection of the unseen awful challenge at the bar of Osiris; the result was believed to rcpresent the more terrible result which was recorded there. The fate of the soul has been depicted for us as much in detail as that of the body. We see it conducted to the gates of Amenthe where Cerberus is warder; we see it weighed in the balance; we see it, if accepted, taken into the blessed presence of Osiris, Isis, and Nepthys, where from the throne in the midst of the waters rises the undying Lotus, bearing on the mar- gin of its blossom the four Genii; we see it. if rejected, quailing before the sceptre of Osiris, inclined towards it in token of con- demnation, and doomed to return to earth under the form of a pig, or some other un- clean animal. Placed in a boat, it is re- moved, under the charge of two monkeys, from the precincts of Amenthe, all commu- nication with which is figuratively cut off by a man who hews away the earth with an axe after its passage; and the commencement of a new term of life is indicated by those monkeys. One of the sacred books, the Book of the Dead, often found in the wrappings of the mummy or about the tomb, is a most extra- ordinary document, having reference to the passage of the soul. It is certainly not yet understood perhaps it is not accurately read but it may contain valuable informa- tion on the subject of Egyptian belief. The wonderful pains which this people took to do battle with the worm and the elements, and the motives which incited them thereto, were probably known to the learned St. Paul, whose answers to the question, How are the dead raised up? and with what body do they come? may have been addressed not only to contemptible pagans, but also to this erudite people, whose desires were ad- mirable, but whose knowledge was warped and erring. How applicable to them the sentence, Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die! And now, all unsatisfied, first, that we may say no more, and, secondly, that we have so feebly and imperfectly presented a few glimpses of a most inteuesting subject, we take our leave of these mighty men of old of whom we have read and thought till they seem as well known to us as the char- acters in King Henry IV., or the actors in Ivanhoe. The pleasure of this ac- quaintance we recommend to all who may have taken the trouble to wander with. us through these pages, assuring them that it is no ignisfatuus, no lame and impotent con- clusion in pursuit of which we would engage them, but that the wonders inside the cara- van immeasurably surpass the promise of the wretched canvas which we have displayed; in support of which assertion let us close with these words of Mr. Kenrick: We possess means for ascertaining the form, physiognomy, and colour of the ancient Egyptians, such as no other people has be- queathed to us. We find in Greek, Roman, or British sepulchres only the ashes, or at most the skeleton, of the occupant; but the Egyptian reappears from his grotto, after ABOUT HOW THE OLD EGYPTIANS LIVED AND DIED. 111 the lapse of 3000 years, with every circum- stance of life, except life itself. Several learned and interesting works have been repeatedly referred to in this and preceding articles concerning Egypt. It would be painful to take leave of the sub- ject without an acknowledgment of the in- formation and pleasure which have been thence derived by the writer; and a reader who may have been attracted by the subject would hardly forgive the omission, if, after exciting a desire for Egyptian lore, we should fail to show how it may be gratified. As giving most graphic pictures of the times of old, in a free and lucid style, with incidents more startling than the most dar- ing romancer has imagined, and of an in- terest which never declines, The Manners and Customs of the Ancient Egyptians, by Sir G. Wilkinson, stands alone. This fas- cinating work is in two series the first containing an Egyptian history, with the manners and customs of the people gener- ally; and the second being an account of the gods and of religious ceremonies, includ- ing funerals. It is profusely illustrated. Mr. Kenrick, in his work on Ancient Egypt, goes over much the same ground as Wilkinson, but in a somewhat severer style. His division of the subject. is most convenient, and he has condensed into moderate space a large amount of informa- tion and inferences. The Monumental History of Egypt, by Mr. Osburn, traces the early history from the monuments alone or chiefly, and shows that there is a concord between the Scriptural accounts and chronolo~y, and the order of events as they have been recorded in the sculptures and papyri. It contains a full and interesting account cf the hierogly~ phics, and a detailed explanation of the in- scription of Rosetta. Its narratives and inquries are enlivened with the most inter- esting inferences and suggestions, all bold and independent. The volume of the Family Library on Ancient and Modern Egypt, by the Rev. M. Russell, is a short critical resum~ of the discoveries as they stood some thirty years ago, and of Egypt under Mebemet Ali. The second volume of Rawlinsons Her- odotus is in itself a repertory of Egypto- logical facts. The notes and appendices by the learned translator by his brother Sir H. Rawlinson, and by Sir ~G. Wilkinson, not only illustrate the text, but supplement the old historian so thoroughly as to make the reading of the Euterpe a full study of the subject. Lastly, we name with reverence the ex- haustive work of Bunsen, Egypts Place in History, in which the subjects of Egyp- tian history, chronology, theology, and writing are discussed. This profound work is in five volumes, and must be read by veritable students of Egyptology. The work of the Prussian Dr. Lep- sius is known to the writer of this paper only at second-band, but in pointing a fin- ger-post toward old Egypt his name must be prominently written. Mittheilungen aus Justus Perthes Geogra- phischer dustalt (voL xvi., No. 8) opens with a remarkably interesting paper illustrated by a map by Dr. G. Naclitigal, on his travels in Tibesti. He says that, in spite of Barths phi- lological investigations, he regards the question as to the nature of the Tibbu as still undecided. They are of middle height, are very well built, and possess elegant yet muscular limbs. The majority of them are of a deep bronze colour, but without a trace of what is usually termed the negro physiognomy. On the whole, their physical and psychical peculiarities, their social and political arrangements, and their manners and customs, resemble those of the Berber infi- nitely more than those of the Negro. Amongst other things, Dr. Nachtigal records some care- ful observations of the rivers Zuar and Marmar, the former of which he regards as incompara- bly the finest river in Tibesti. In M. Lejeans article on his travels in European Turkey in 1869, he corrects the existing maps in several points, embodying in an elaborate map the re- sults of his investigations. He expresses the greatest contempt for the modern Turks, inti- mating that those who believe they have recently made real progress are deceived by mere appear- ances. He says he has gathered full materials for a work or works on the ethnography and ar- chteology df the districts he describes. Profes- sor Pellegrino Strobel describes a journey from the Planchar Pass to Mendoza; and the rest of the number is made up of Geographical No- tices and translations of extracts from Mr. Robert Browns Physical Geography of the Queen Charlotte Islands, and from reports published in the South Australian Register, on Mr. G. W. Gogdens Measuring Expedition to North Australia. Nature. 112 THE PLANET SATURN. From Frasers Magazine. THE PLANET SATURN. BY RICHARD A. PROCTOR. THE planet Saturn now presents his most interesting aspect. As he sweeps around his widely-extended orbit, occupying nearly thirty years in circling once around the sun, that mysterious ring-system which distin- guishes him from all the orbs of heaven twice attains its widest opening. Fifteen years ago the southern surface of the rings was so much tilted towards the earth that its farthest part could be seen above the globe of Saturn. Then gradually as Saturn swept onwards towards the equinoctial points of his orbit, the rings became more and more fore-shortened, until in 1862 their edge was turned towards us. After that the northern face became visible; and during all the years which have elapsed since 1862 this face has become more and more fully turned towards us, until now, as in 1856, the outline of the planets globe lies wholly within the outline of the ring- systems outer boundary. It was while the southern surface of the ring-system was turned as fully towards us as now the northern surface is, that the dusky, slate-tinted inner ring was dis- covered independently by Bond in America and Dawes in England. At that time, too, the signs of divisions in the ring-system were clearly recognized by many ob- servers. It may well be that the present wide opening of the ring-system will be studied with scarcely less interesting resuhs by those observers who possess adequate telescopic appliances though, on the other hand, it is far from improbable that the low altitude which the planet now attains above the horizon will deter observers in our northern latitudes from studying Saturn so attentively as they otherwise would. Be this as it may, the present aspect of the planet is full of interest to the thoughtful. Much has been learned respecting Saturn during the last twenty years, and there can be little doubt that, independently of fresh discoveries, we may find much to reward us in the careful consideration of what has been so recently brought to our knowledge. And here I may be permitted to remark, in passing, that it sometimes seems to me as though the astronomers of our day were apt to let the full significance of observed facts escape their notice. In the continual search for fresh knowledge, that which has been already obtained is sometimes neg- lected. Our observers are so industrious and so skilful that new facts are being ac- cumulated with unexampled rapidity. But it is getting a little out of fashion in the present day to dwell thoughtfully on past observations, insomuch that I feel it almost necessary to apologize for inviting atten- tion to observations which were made many years since. Yet to anyone who thoroughly grasps what astronomy teaches us about the ringed planet, how impossihle it seems to exhaust the subject by any amount of study. That wonderful orb, circled about by the mighty mechanism of the ring-system, and the centre of a scheme of dependent globes equalling in number the primary planets of the solar system, may worthily employ many hours and days, nay, many months and years of thoughtful study. The more we consider the subject, indeed, the more amazing and inexplicable the economy of Saturns system seems to become. I can, at least for my own part, assert that I have never directed my thoughts afresh to the relations he presents without some hitherto unnoticed peculiarity attracting my atten- tion. I propose now to touch on one or two points which have not yet, so far as I know been dealt with by astronomers, and which seem to throw light on the physical constitution of this mighty orb and of his fellow giants, Jupiter, Uranus and Nep- tune. Regarding Saturn either with a powerful telescope, or as presented in the admirable drawings recently taken by De Ia Rue, Browning, and others, it seems natural to enquire what signs the planets disc pre- sents of those peculiarities which would characterize our own earth, could we see it from Venus or Mercury with suitable tele- scopic power. Setting on one side for the moment the division of the earths surface into large tracts of land and water, there are two most important relations which could hardly fail to be distinctly recogniza- ble I refer to the progress first of the day, and secondly of the year. To the astron- omer, contemplating our earth from Venus or Mercury, it would be no difficult task to trace certain changes characterizing the advance of day and the coming on of even- ing, in certain parts of the earth at least; while in a yet more distinct manner, sup- posing him to watch our earth, day after day, through the entire circle of the year, he would recognize the effects of the alter- nation from summer to winter in either hemisphere. If Saturn resemble our earth. in having the sun as the chief ruler of his days and seasons, we may look in his case, also, fo4~ some traces of similar relations. Let us now carefully consider what we might expect to find, and then enquire what the telescope actually reveals to us. THE PLANETt SATURN~ 113 As regards the progress of day upon the earth, a distinction must be drawn between the temperate regions and the torrid zone. Undoubtedly even in our own latitudes we may recognize day after day in summer, often for weeks together, the formation of clouds during the morning hours, their gradual increase up to a certain hour, and their subsidence (accompanied by a change in their form and structure) towards even- ing. Supposing for a moment that this took place at all stations in our latitude, then our imagined astronomer in Venus or Mercury would recognize in that latitude- zone corresponding peculiarities. Close by the edge of th~ disc towards the west, he would be able to see the actual surface of the earth in those latitudes; the sky being still clear during the early morning hours in progress there. Casting his eye along the zone towards the east he would find the zone grow whiter and whiter up to a part somewhat to the east of the middle point. This whitest part would correspond to the region where clouds were most numerous. Farther east the zone would still he whitish, and that to the very edge, since the clouds raised in the daytime (during such weather as we have been con- sidering) do not disappear before sunset, but sink down like a pall upon the earth. But, as I have said, it is not in temperate regions that the most marked diurnal changes are recognized. Let us consider the ordinary peculiarities of the equatorial day, or rather of the day in those regions of the earth where the sun passes almost to the zenith (the point vertically overhead) at noon-day. This is the region of greatest heat, and north and south of it lies the region of the trade-winds. Now lei~ us hear what meteorologists have to say re- specting the condition of the atmosphere, as regards the presence or absence of clouds during the day, in this region. In all places where the trade-wind blows con- stantly, Kaemtz remarks, it does not rain; the sky is always serene; but it often rains in the region of calms. The ascend- ing current (caused by the intense heat here) draws with it a mass of vapours, which condense as soon as they arrive at the line of junction between the upper and lower trade-winds. The sun almost always rises in a clear sky: towards mid-day isolated clouds appear, which pour out pro- digious quantities of rain. These showers are accompanied by violent gales. Towards evening the clouds dissipate, and when the sun sets the sky is perfectly clear. Buchan in his excellent Handy-Book of Meteorology similarly describes the progress of the UVJNG AGE. VOL. xxx. 842 weather changes during a day in the calm regions. He adds that the daily rains of the belt of calms are to some extent analo- gous in their origin and causes to the forma- tion of the cumulus cloud of temperate cli- mates. Now let us particularly note the position of a place where one of these diurnal rain- storms is commencing. Up to mid-day the sky has been relatively clear; the sun has passed to the point overhead before the clouds gather, and he is actually overhead at noon when the whole sky is covered with black clouds. So that if anyone could take up a station where the illuminated hemi- sphere of the earth at that moment was fully turned towards him, the very centre of that disc would be the place where this state of things prevails. There, then, he would see the bright light indicating that the spot was cloud-covered, he would see the silver-lining of the black clouds which at the moment are pouring down their contents upon the portion of the earth concealed from him. But now let us sup- pose that he had watched the region of the earth from the early morning hours, until it thus became concealed by clouds. It would come into view on the western side of the disc, and then travel across the disc (either in a straight line or along a curved path according to the season) until it reached the centre. All this time it would grow less and less distinct, and when actually at the centre would be lost to sight under heavy clouds. But still following its course towards the eastern side of the disc, our imaginary observer would see the bright light from the clouds grow fainter and fainter until, some time before reaching the edge of the disc, the region of the earth he had watched at first would reappear, for we have seen that the skies clear up towards evening. But what is true of one spot in this lati- tude is true of others. Every spot coming into view in the west would be clear of clouds, every spot crossing the middle of the disc would be hidden, and, finally, every spot passing off the disc on the east would be clear again. It is perfectly obvious, then, that the zone along which the spots lie would always present to our observer the same general aspect. This terrestrial zone of calms, which has been compared with the equatorial bright belt of Saturn, would appear to the observer dusky towards the west, where the earths duller hues are seen through it; bright in the middle, where clouds reflecting white light are gathered over it; and towards the east of the disc the brightness would gradually 114 THE PLANET SATURN. with a closely related peculiarity of the tropical year. We have seen that a heavy daily rainfall takes place in that particular latitude on our earth where the sun is overhead at noon. Now the position of this latitude obviously changes during the course of the year. In spring the equator is the region of greatest mid-day heat. After spring the latitude of greatest heat approaches us, and at midsummer the sun is vertical at noon in all places lying 23 1-2 degrees north of the equator. After midsummer, the region of the greatest mid-day heat withdraws from us, and at the autumnal equinox it again coincides with the equator. After autumn the latitude of greatest heat passes south of the equator, reaching its greatest south- erly digression at midwinter. And finally after midwinter the region of greatest mid- day heat returns to the equator, which it reaches ~t the vernal equinox. But we must assure ourselves that the weather changes correspond to these rela- tions; for it might be that the existence of a calm zone was a peculiarity not wholly depending on the position of the mid-day sun. I might quote numerous anthorities to show how the zone of calms in reality follows the sun, but will limit myself to two. Buchan, to whom I have already referred (as regards the progress of the diurnal changes in the calm zone), writes thus re- specting the nature of that zone and the annual changes in its position: The region of calms is a belt of about 4 deg.. or 5 deg. in breadth, stretching across the At~. lantic and the Pacific, generally parallel to the equator. It is marked by a lower atmospheric pressure than obtains to the north and to the south of it in the regions tratersed by the trade winds. It is also characterized by the daily oc- currence of heavy rains and severe thunder- storms. The position of the calms varies with the sun, reaching its most northern limit, 2t, deg. north latitude, in July, and its most south- ern, 25 deg. south latitude, in January. diminish, until close by the eastern edge the dusky light seen in the western half would reappear. These peculiarities of appear- ance would be rendered all the more marked by the circumstance that the central part of the disc is illuminated more bri~,htly by the sun than the parts near the edge. We turn now to Saturn and enquire whether his equatorial bright zone presents these peculiarities. We might expect that a zone so bright and conspicuous as to be visible in a telescope of tolerable power that is in a telescope such as would be found in any well appointed observator.y would exhibit some such characteristics as have been described. Assuming this belt to consist of sun-raised clouds, we might fairly look for signs of the Saturnian day, for the characteristics, in fact, of the morn- ing, noon, and evening sky of the Satur- nians. Nay, remembering how rapidly Sat- urn rotates, we might expect to find a more marked difference between the morning and the afternoon portions of the cloud-zone, since a part of the planets surface sweeps through a more considerable portion of its daily circuit in any given period, than a corresponding part of the earths sur- face. We may well he surprised, then, to learn that the great equatorial bright belt of Sat- urn is absolutely uniform in light and tex- ture except in parts so close by the edge of the disc that a difference of aspect is obvi- ously referable to foreshortening alone. Not the slightest trace has ever been dis- I cernQd of any peculiarities indicating the aggregation of clouds over the equatorial zone of the planet as the Saturnian day pro- gresses It would almost seem to follow from this fact alone that the Saturnian cloud-belts are not raised bythe suns action. Let us enquire, however, whether sea- sonal changes are not more marked than diurnal ones. Since the Saturnian year lasts for about twenty-nine of our terrestrial years, it should follow that seasonal changes would proceed much more steadily and cer- tainly. We have to consider what those changes would be in the case of our earth, and then to enquire whether any corre- I sponding variations are discernible in the aspect of Saturn. I After having crossed the cloud-ring [says Again I prefer to limit the consideratmo~ I Maury] the attentive navigator may perceive of annual processes of change to the tropi- how this belt of clouds, by screening those paral- cal regions, where a regularity of variation I lels over which he may have found it to hang, prevails which is wanting in the temperate j from the suns rays, not only promotes the pre- zones. It is further convenient to consider ci a ion which takes place within these paral- these regions because we have already ex- lels at certain periods, but how also the rains amined one marked peculiarity of the trop- are made to change the places on which they are - ical day, and shall thus be prepare& to deal to fall; and how by travelling with the calm The other passage I propose to quote is from Captain Maurys charming work, the Physical Geography of the Sea. The pas- sage is interesting as indicating the office which the calm zone seems to fulfil in the economy of the earth. THE PLANET SATU2RN. 1.15 belt of the equator up and down the earth this cloud-ring shifts the surface from which the heating rays of the sun are to be excluded; and how by this operation tone is given to the at- inospherical circcilation of the world, and vigour to its vegetation. Having travelled with the calm belt to the north or south, the cloud-ring leaves a clear sky about the equator; the rays of the torrid sun then pour down upon the solid crust of the earth there, and raise its tempera- ture to a scorching heat. The atmosphere dances, and the air is seen trembling in ascend- ing and descending columns, with busy eager- ness to conduct the heat off and deliver it to the regions aloft, where it is required to give dynam- ical force to the air in its general channels of circulation. The dry season continues; the sun is vertical; and finally, the earth becomes parched and dry; the heat accumulates faster than the air can carry it away; the plants begin to wither, and the animals to perish. Then comes the m~igat.ing cloud-ring. The burning rays of the sun are intercepted by it; the place for the absorption and reflection and the delivery to the atmosphere of the solar heat is changed; it is transferred from the upper surface of the earth to the upper surface of the clouds. This series of changes is not only most important to the inhabitants of the earth, but it is of such a character that any ob- server able to watch the earth throughout the whole course of a year, as we watch the planet Saturn, could not fail to become readily cognisant of it. The actual range over which the central line of the calm zone oscillates northwards and southwards is forty-seven degrees. (Buchans numbers referring to the extreme northerly and southerly limits of the zone.) Now if a globe be placed at some considerable dis- tance from the eye, and an arc of forty- seven degrees marked on the globe is so placed that its middle point seems to occupy the middle of the disc presented by the globe, then the apparent length of the arc will be as nearly as possible two-fifths of the globes diameter; so that the actual range of the calm zone viewed as we have imagined would correspond to no inconsid- erable portion of the earths apparent diam- eter. Only it is necessary to remember that if our observer always viewed the earth so as to see her whole illuminated hemi- sphere, then the calm zone would always cross the centre of the disc. Near either equinox, it would appear as a straight line across the centre. In July it would appear as somewhat more than half an ellipse, the two ends bowed upwards, and the middle point of the arc (which would correspond to an extremity of the shorter axis of the ellipse) coinciding with the centre of the disc. In January the calm zone would have the same figure as in July, only the two ends of the elliptic arc would be turned downwards. The curvature of the arc would be, for the reasons above alleged, most obvious; in fact the lesser axis of the complete ellipse would be two-fifths of the greater. Applying these considerations to the case of Saturn, on the supposition that his equa- torial bright belt corresponds to the calm zone of the earth, we may expect to find an even more marked change of appearance in this belt than we have inferred in the case of the earths calm zone. For the inclina- tion of the earths equator-plane to the path in which she travels is but twenty-three and a half degrees; the corresponding inclina- tion in the case of Saturn is nearly twenty- seven degrees. It will obviously be so much the easier to infer whether the belt exhibits the pei~nliarities of change corre- sponding to the theory that it is due to solar influences. Now the bright belt on Saturn doe8 change in its apparent shape (precisely as the Saturnian rings do) in the course of a Saturnian year. At the present time, for instance, the bright belt, seen in an ordin- ary astronomical (inverting) telescope, is bowed very obviously with its convexity upwards. But instead of the central line of the belt passing across the centre of Saturns disc, it has precisely the position which Saturns equator, if marked as a line upon the surface of the planet, would seem to occupy. In other words, the cen- tral line forms a half ellipse, the middle of whose greater axis occupies the centre of Saturns disc, instead of the extremity of the lesser axis being at that point. The bright belt is in fact, as its name implies, equatorial, now, during the summer of Saturns northern hemisphere; whereas the calm zone of the earth at the correspond- ing season is not equatorial, but coincides with the Tropic of Cancer. Here again, then, we have very clear and positive evidence against the theory that this Saturnian belt at any rate is due to solar action. It is also worthy of remark that the evi- dence is not affected whatever opinion we may form as to the general uniformity or diversity of the surface of Saturn. If the surface of Saturn be diversified, then the constancy and uniformity of the equatorial belt becomes so much the more surprising; if, on the other hand, the surface of Saturn is very uniform, then those seasonal changes which we have considered ought to proceed so much the more regularly. On the earth they are interrupted, as we know, in cer 116 THE PLANET SATURN. tam places, owing to the configuration of pour to rise continually from his surface to oceans and continents; and monsoon weath- be condensed into the form of cloud when er-changes replace the systematic progres- they reach the upper regions of his atmo- sion observed elsewhere. But the very sphere. Why such processes should take uniformity of the bright belt on Saturn for- place in certain regions rather than in bids us to regard such peculiarities as avail- others, it would perhaps be difficult to de- able to aid us in interpreting the phe- termine. We know so little at present of nomena we have been considering, the extent, constitution, and condition of It is further noteworthy, that an objection the atmosphere of Saturn, that it is difficult which might have been made to the agree- to reason as to processes of change, excited ment founded on the diurnal constancy of by heat whose seat lies perhaps hundreds the Saturnian equatorial belt, is not avail- of miles beneath the suface visible to us. able against the argument just dealt with. It may be remarked, however, that a simi- Saturn is so much farther from the sun lar peculiarity exists in the case of the sun. than the earth is, that a certain sluggish- Indeed, a somewhat surprising resemblance ness might be supposed to characterize exists between Saturn and the sun, as re- processes depending upon the suns action; gards many important characteristics. The and therefore it might be supposed that a planet, like the sun, is of low specific cloud-belt, once formed by the sun, would gravity very far lower than the earths; be carried round hy Saturns rapid rotation as the sun has eight primary .attendants, without being dissipated or in any way so Saturn has eight satellites; and as the modified, whether night or day prevailed sun has his attendant disc of minute bodies on Saturn. But in the case of the seasonal (seen in the zodiacal light), so Saturn has changes we have been considering no such his ring system, composed, in all probability, argument can be admitted; for whatever of multitudes of minute satellites travelling view we might form as to the possible con- in independent orbits around him.* Is it stancy of a cloud-belt during the ten hours not possible that the relation necessary to of the Saturnian day, it would clearly be un- make the analogy complete may be actually reasonable to infer that the seven-yearly fulfilled, and that Saturn is a source seasons (or quarters) of Saturn would be whence heat is supplied to the orbs which too short to produce their due effect on the circle around him? We have seen that position of the great cloud-zone. If the reasons exist for regarding the Saturnian sun during his slow passage northwards belts as resulting from processes excited and southwards from the celestial equator by the planets internal heat; and we are of Saturn cannot modify the position of the thus prepared to regard less suspiciously cloud-zone, it seems altogether incredible than we might otherwise have been disposed that his action can have been in any way to do, any evidence tending to show that concerned in the formation of that zone. such processes are of a very remarkable Yet further, it is wholly impossible for character. The same forces which can gen- any thoughtful student of the Saturnian erate belts covering a surface many times belts to suppose that the action to which exceeding the whole surface of our earth in they are due is of so inert and sluggish a extent, may also, it is conceivable, produce nature as would be implied by the suppo- other effects clearly recognizable from our sition just referred to. The changes which distant station. take place in the figure and position of the It is perhaps only after pveliminary evi- dark belts lying on either side of the equa- torial bright belt are sometimes singularly * The theory that Saturns rings are thus consti- rapid, especially when account is taken of the tnted has been so commonly attributed to myself of late years that I feel hound to take every opportonity enormous extent of surface belonging even of disclaiming all credtt whatsoever in the matter. to the least of these belts. I hold that ti has heen put beyond question that the For my own part, I confess I cannot Saturnian rings are neither formed of a continuous solid nor of a continuous ituid substance, and also but regard these facts as affording very that they are not wholly vaporous. But I have had strong evidence in favour of a theory to no~art in establishing this result, which is due which I had been led by other considera- have the labours of Bond, Pierce, and Maxwell. presented some of their reasoning in a popu- tions. If the sun is not the agent in pro- lar form in my treatise on Saturn, but it is distinctly ducing those cloud-masses which constitute, presented as their reasoning, not mine. One or two considerations helping to make the evidence more we may assume, the bright belts of Saturn, convincing perhaps to the general reader are due to we must look for the real origin of the belts me; and in particular the argoment founded on the in some action exerted by the planets own dusky spaces seen by Bond on the great middle ring. But though this last argnment affords in itself a mass. In other words, we seem led to the demonstration that we here see through this appar- consideration that the mass of Saturn is ently continuous ring, I can take no credit what- ever for demonstrating what had already been es- sufficiently heated to cause currents of va- tablished by the arguments of others. THE PLANET SATURN. 117 dence of this sort has been adduced, that most astronomers would be ready to listen even for a moment to such arguments as I have ad- duced in my treatise on Other Worlds than Ours to show that the apparent outline of Saturn is liable to change. Notwithstanding the wonderful caution with which Sir William Herschels observations were carried on, his unwillingness to accept conclusions even after a long series of apparently convinc- ing researches, and the clear-sightedness with which he reasoned out the interpreta- tion of his observations, astronomers had agreed to reject (as resulting from illusion) the views which he formed respecting the square-shouldered aspect of Saturn. Bessels exquisite measurements of the planets disc seemed to show convincingly that it is not square-shouldered, but truly elliptical, insomuch that, as Professor Grant remarks, no doubt could henceforth exist that the figure of the planet is that of an oblate spheroid. . . . It is impossi- ble, he adds, to contemplate Bessels numbers (as compared with what theory required) without a feeling of admiration of the theory which is capable of respond- ing so faithfully to the requirements of nature, and of the exquisite skill displayed by the illustrious astronomer who executed measures so singularly delicate as those above given with a success apparently so complete. Yet, while fully admitting the justice of these remarks, I have long felt that Sir William Herschels observations of Saturns figure are not to he summarily dismissed. To quote words which I wrote five years ago, the astronomer who examined Sat- urns ring for ten years before he would accept the theory of its being divided, and watched a satellite for two years before he would pronounce an opinion on its rota- tiun, was not the man to he misled by illu- sions, or to make confident statements without adequate reason. A suspicion~~ of either Sir William herschels or Sir Johns would counterbalance with me the most positive assertions of ordinary astrono- mers. But in this case it was no suspicion. Let us hear what Herschel himself says, and we shall be in a position to determine whether it is likely that- this eminent ob- server was deceived by a mere illusion, and that too when he was in the very zenith of his career as an observer. In order to have the testimony of all ~my instruments on the subject of the structure of the planet Saturn, he writes, referring to the observa- tions made in May 1805, I had prepare& the 40-feet reflector for observing it in the meridian. I used a magnifying power of 360, and saw its form exactly as I had seen it in the 10 and 20 feet instruments. The planet is flattened at the poles, but the spheroid which would arise from this flatten- ing is modified by some other cause, which I suppose to be the flattening of the ring. It resembles a parallelogram, on~ side whereof is [parallel to] the equatorial, the other [to] the polar diameter, with the four corners rounded off so. as to leave both the equatorial and the polar regions flatter than they would be in a regular spheroidal fig- ure. He determined by actual measure- ment the position of the protuberant por- tions which formed the corners of this square-shouldered figure, and placed them in latitude 43 1~3o north and south of the equator. He measured the amount of the protuberance, making the polar, equa- torial, and maximum diameters as 32, 35.4, and 36. He renewed his observations in 1806 with the same result. But what is most remarkable of all, he observed in 1807 that a change had taken place in the aspect of the planet, the two polar regions now presenting a different shape, the northern regions being most flattened, the southern curved or bulged outwards. Admiral Smyth remarks that this singularity was verified by the younger Herschel on June 16 of the year 1807, and is, I believe, his first recorded astronomical effort. ~Then to the above evidence is added all the evidence recorded in my Other Worlds the fact that such observers as Bond and Airy, using such instruments as the Harvard refractor (perhaps the finest in the world) and the refractor of the Greenwich Observatory, have noticed similar appear- ances; and that other practised observers less known tofame confirm their observa- tions we can no longer, surely, class the square-shouldered aspect of Saturn among the myths of an uncritical pe- riod. * Now, assuming that Saturn is liable to occasional changes of figure for undoubt- edly his ordinary figure is that of an oblate spheroid we have evidence of the exist- ence of forces of the most amazing character beneath the seemingly quiescent zones which we have been accustomed to regard as the true surface of the ringed pl,anet. We may be doubtful whether they be forces of upheaval, or whether an intense heat loads the atmosphere of Saturn from time to time (in the particular latitudes which * Let me note further that Sir William herschels measurement of the compression of Saturn in 1789 has heen found, Professor Grant tells us, to ac- cord exactly with that derived from the most recent micrometrical measures of the axes of the planet. 118 THE PLANET SATURN. seem to bulge outwards so strangely) with enormous quantities of vapour, to be con- densed at an exceptionally high level; or whether the sudden dissipation of cloud- masses existing in other latitudes causes these peculiarities of appearance. But it is in an~ case most certain that an energy a vitality so to speak exists out yonder, which we have hitherto been far from asso- ciating with this distant and dimly lighted world. No moderate processes of change would suffice to cause the figure of a planet to vary appreciably when observed from a distance of some nine hundred millions of miles. As seen from the satellites, the far- thest of which is but a million and a quarter of miles from Saturn, the planet must ap- pear the scene of a wondrous turmoil. It is probable,indeed, that the true substance of the planet, which may he, for aught we know, absolutely incandescent through the intensity of its heat, is always veiled, even from these relatively near regions, by the masses of vapour continually thrown off to condense into cloud-strata at higher or lower levels. But the evidences of intense action can hardly fail to be perfectly obvious even though the actual source of such action is concealed from view. Let me remark in conclusion that the theory here put forward is not urged from any desire to exhibit novel or startling views, but as serving to explain, better than any other theory I can imagiue, a series of observed facts which cannot judiciously be neglected or forgotten. I have preferred to give no consideration whatever to the question whether the larger planets have or have not as yet cooled down, by radiation, to a sort of normal temperature, because in the present state of our knowledge that question is purely speculation. My theory is directed to explain observed facts: if it happens to throw some light on the question of the original formation of various mem- bers of the solar system, that is merely by the way; the theory must stand or fall oc- cording as it can be shown to be in agree- ment or not, with past and future observa- tions.. THERE is one part which neutrals may take in the Continental war. With no sympathy for those who have caused the war on either side, our sympathy is all the more 4ae to those who innocently suffer from it on both sides. The fol- lowing appeal, posted on the walls of every mai- ne in France, will touch other hearts than those of Frenchmen : ./lppel it la France. Au nom de Dieu, au nom de la patrie, au nom de nos fils, de nos fr~res, de nos braves soldats tombds avec honneur sur le champ de bataille, et toujours hdroiques vaincus aujourdhui, nous faisons un appel it tous les eceurs fran9ais. De gritce, donnez-nous de largent, du linge, des chemises, des couvertures, des v6t~ments, de fla- nelle, etc. Lit-bas, sur nos fronti~res, ldlan des villes, les offrandes touchantes des villages ne suffisent ddjit plus it nos chers bless6s. Les besoins sont immenses. Le temps presse. Donnez, oh! donnez vite! Envoyez les dons en nature et en argent au si6ge de la societe it Pa- ris, Palais de lThdustrie, porte No LVI Here is a work in which all may unite French, Ger- mans, and neutral~, men of science, men of lit- erature, men of business; and above all, our wo- men. Nobly already have English, Irish, and Americans, surgeons, nurses, sisters of charity, come forward in the good work, but still it can only be as a drop in the ocean. To offer succour to the wounded and sufferers on both sides, to assuage as far as we can, the horrors of war, never exhibited on a more fearful scale than within the last few weeks, is now the duty of our more fortunate countrymen and country women. Nature. THE .dmerican Entomologist and Botanist publishes a double number for July and Au- gust, which is occupied by short descriptive ar- ticles of interest and value principally to Amer- ican collectors and students. The article of chief general interest is one on the Origin of Prairie Vegetation, consisting of an able criti- cism of Prof. Winchells theory that the prairies are of lacustrine origin, and that we must look to the source of the prairie vegetation from without, probably the remains of a pre-glacial flora, the germs of which have remained stored up during subsequent epochs, and come a~ain to life whenever the diluvial surface is acrain ex- posed. The writer of the article maintains that there is no need to go so far back as the diluvial period for the origin of the prairie vegetation. Dr. Hale, of Chicago, mentions the interesting fact that the Ranunculus cymbalania, an abun- dant plant of the eastern sea coast and of the salt springs in the State of New York, is found in great abundance at Chicago, and for several miles along the shores of Lake Michigan, though nowhere else on the Great Lakes. It appears, however, that it also grows on the muddy banks of some of the western rivers. Nature. THE REVOLUTION. 119 From The Spectator. THE REVOLUTION. Poox PREVOST PAEADOL! Six weeks longer of pain, forty-five days more of patience with the Almighty, and bis burden would have passed away, and he would have had a career, and all Europe would have honoured him for his wise prevision. It was during the agitation about the Pk~biscite that he warned England through the Times not to put too much faith in the mere military pressure on Paris, told her that the moment Paris was united the soldiery would be Parisian, affirmed that the brain of the wonderful city was acute enough to devise new and unexpected modes of over- throwing despots. It was all nonsense, said Philistia, and to his own sick brain and sore heart it all seemed nonsense too. There was the mighty army, there were the huge barracks, the smooth roads, the ready artillery, the cowed and disunited people, without leaders, or arms, or the tradition of self-government. France had re-elected C~esar, oppression would he perpetual, and he in his misery and his cowardice would quit the world which hope had quitted before. Only forty-five days, and then the hour for which he had longed for eighteen years struck loud, and amid a race of imbeciles he alone was proved to have been far-sighted, and he had fled from before his own triumph in impatient fear. The hour came, and with 50,000 troops within her gates, and a Cmsarist Government to use them, Paris, without firing a shot, without shedding a drop of blood, almost by an act of pure volition, swept the Bonaparte dynasty its Court, its satellites, its Ministers, its policy at one sweep out of France. Nothing is more wonderful in the whole movement than the way it has shown the foolishness of the wis- dom of the cynically wise. How often have we not been told that Paris is i~o longer France; but the emergency arrives, Paris rises, the representatives of Paris form a Government, they dismiss by decree the representatives of the country, and all France adheres with acclamations! How often havq we been assured by men who know France that the Army had become a caste, separated in feeling from the nation; that it would never again fraternize with the citizens; that Paris must yield to scientifically organized force; and when Paris has risen, the troops, with peremptory orders to fire and a certainty of success if they will but act, turn up tbe butt ends of their rifles, and are for that day and that emergency citizens again. How often have we been told, in spite of their unchanging votes, that the shopkeepers of Paris pre- ferred the Empire to a Republic, and cash to both; that as a force they were extinct, and that the only danger to the Empire came from the men in blouses; whereas it was the grocers, the shopkeepers, the men of the National Guard, whose battalions marched on the Legislature, and would, had the soldiery not joined them, have made Paris flow with blood. And finally, how often have we been told that the revo- lutionary tradition had been broken, that the Empire had altered all that, that Bonapartes would at all events disappear after the fight the Bourbons ought to have made ; and yet, when the time arrived, every movement was as strictly in accord with tradition as if Revolution were a con- stitutional formula. The tradition of France is that when Revolution has become need- ful, all citizens of Paris should see it all at once, and unexpecte(11y that the armed citizens should march on the Legislature; that the soldiers should fraternize; that the majority of members should propose some preposterous compromise; that the Left of the day should understand the logic of the situation, and should create a government; that the legitimate Government should be arrested, or fly to avoid arrest; that the Republic or the alternative fancy of the hour should be declared supreme; that Paris should sing for joy, and that the provinces should adhere enthusiastically; and so it all happened. On Saturday, the 3rd inst., Paris knew that an occasion of Revolution had arrived, that the tyranny against which it had fought for eighteen years had destroyed its own instrument, the Army, and its own excuse, the greatness of France, and instantly its resolve was formed. All that night the Government and the majority of the Chamber held counsel to devise means of averting the inevitable. Coont Palikao, soldier of the type which Cmsars love stern, competent, and greedy to excess had ~ordered his 50,000 men to protect the Chamber; and the Chamber, filled with pensioners, nominees, and rich Philistines eager for the social deference which attends courtiers, had resolved to announce the accession of Napoleon IV., and the Regency of his mother, the Empress Eug~nie. The plan was carefully laid, it was reasonable in itself, as far as that kind of plan is ever reasonable, and but that its scene was Paris, it would in all probability have succeeded. The streets would have run with blood, but the National Guard could not have beaten the troops; and the people were unarmed, but Providence and tradition were too strong for the military 120 THE REVOLUTION. household. The majority feared the Rev- olution, and skulked; the soldiery approved the Revolution, and fraternized. All that liight the Left also had been active the despised Opposition, which, said pros- perous Imperialism, might be carted home in a cab, and the unknown Orleanist mili- tary critic, the neglected General who had said that the Army was most of it a militia and when Sunday came the streets and squares were filled with citizen soldiery, and the regulars fraternized, and the major- ity in the Legislature proposed inane com- promises, giving the Minister at War a Dictatorship, in order that he might at a convenient season restore the Empire; and the Left understood the crisis, and through Gambetta, energetic person from Mar- seilles, of Genoese extraction demanded the Revolution; and the citizens streamed in, and the majority streamed out, and half a score members representing Paris, which represents France, passed some sort of vote; and there was the Republic in full swing, and good men breathed more freely because the tyranny was over-past. It was all informal, but no more thinkers would go to Cayenne because they claimed liberty to think. It was all informal, but no more men would be shot that Louis Bonaparte might be comfortable. It was all informal, but a nation invaded by a ter- rible foe was no longer handed over to Generals whose claim was fidelity to a chief against the nation, to rulers whose one policy was to sacrifice the nation as an offering to the chief, to contractors who bought with hribes to statesmens mistresses the right to betray France and to support her C~esar. It was all informal, but the Empress fled, and the Ministers fled, and the evil w6men fled, and France was once more free. We do not wonder at the delirium of joy which seized Paris, and seemed to sneering hut truthful English correspondents so portentously childish. It had seemed so strong, that tyranny; so compact, so certain to endure, and it had passed away in a day without the loss of a life. People kissed one another, and danced, and knocked off ea~les heads. Are we sure the Israelites danced no carma~noie when those trumpets worked their work, and Jericho, the impregnable city, so defiant and so strong, so impossible of capture, lay open to their march? That Paris in its triumph should be child- ishly gleeful goes without talking. That it should he utterly revolutionary, should claim not only to he France, hut above France; should send four persons of re- solved aspect but ridiculous credentials to shut up the House of Lords, and three other person.s to order the strongest military prison to deliver up Rochefort, who was ac- cordingly delivered and made a Minister; should sweep away Napoleonic emhlems, though respecting even on a chemists shop the arms of England; and should finally by a whiff of its anger hlow the Legislature into space, is of the well-known hahitudes of Paris in revolution; but there are some novelties, too. There is sense in the composition of this Provisional Govern- ment. That Government is Parisian, but the defence of Paris is its first task. It is revolutionary, hut it is only by revolutionary means that Paris can be defended. Consid- ering that for twenty years no Republican has had more chance of power than a hy~na of election by sheep, that every tried man is in exile or dead, that a jealous military force had to be conciliated and a timid bourgeoisie to be re-assured, the com- position of the Government is extremely able. It is a compromise, of course, be- tween three parties, Paris, the inorganic, anarchic, democratic force; the~ Orleanists, that is, liberty as understoood by the com- fortable; and the Republicans, that is, the thinkers of France, and the compromise is well managed. Them are just five offices of the highest importance to be filled, the military dictatorship, which will organ- ize defence; the Foreign Office, which will arrange peace; the Ministry of the Interior, which governs France from day to day; the Prefecture of the Seine, which governs Paris; and the Prefecture of Police, which accumulates information, and they were all fairly filled. Gei~eral Trochu was in- evitable, aiid as against Napoleon trust- worthy, and he was named Military Dicta- tor. The ablest and mest moderate availa- ble Republican, Jules Favre, was named Minister of Foreign Affairs, aiid may, as we have elsewhere pointed out, in that capacity redeem France both from herself and the Germans; the most energetic Re- puhlicari, the man nearest to a true Jacobin with faculty of administration, Gambetta, was selected for the Interior; the man nearest Danton, huge, bull-voiced, and competent, Etienne Arago, was made Pre- fect of the Seine; and the cool, cynical, daring M. de Keratry, persistent Repub- lican, who yet signs himself Count be- canse Count in his case is less of an affec- tation than Citizen would be, is named Pre- fect of Police, walks to the Prefecture, dis- cusses that little matter with Pietri, or, it may be, with recalcitrant lieutenant of Pietri, and in five minutes sits down serenely in the inner bureau master of that THE EX-EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. 121 situation, and of all dangerous persons in France. The success of the Republic, is of course, dubious, depending mainly on King William of Prussia, Providence, and the effect of the magnificent offer its chiefs for the first time in the history of France are able to make to the peasants, their ex- emption from the blood-tax; but, consider- ing its means, its hurry, and its necessities, Paris, we believe, has chosen well. They say the Government was self-chosen, and in a way that is true; and the men who, with a victorious enemy at their gates, France in Revolution, authority ended, and two millions of people on the verge of despair, decide in the teeth of the laws to take the helm, and do take it, are, in all human probability, the men to whom that helm, by a right higher than legality, ought to be- long. From The Spectator. THE EX-EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. THE sombre figure of Napoleoii III., for twenty-one years ruler, and for nineteen years Emperor of the French, will always seem to have been at once one of the most curious caprices of the historical fortune of France, and one of the most striking illus- trations of the immutability of the law of strict political retribution. That after two attempts on the throne of France, one of them the Boulogne attempt with the tame eagle theatrical to the most ludicrous de- gree, he should have actually succeeded in obtaining the suffrages of the people, and gaining for himself a real chance of seizing the power he so long coveted, seems strange enough. But that, after such ante- cedents, he should have succeeded per fas aut n~fas in governing France for twenty- one years with some repute in Europe, without any absolute disgrace, and then have thrown away his power, if not in quite so fanciful and conceited a fashion, yet in no less theatrical a fashion than that in which he attemptQd to gain it, is even stranger, because it furnishes one of those curious little bits of complete historical symmetry between the commencement and the close of a great political career, which is much more common in fiction than in act- ual life. In 1843, when Louis Napoleon was imprisoned at Ham, he published some striking remarks on the government of Louis Phdlippe, which conuiined the following sentences Some years ago, there was in the United States a man cal~led Sampatck, who went into the following trade: he con- structed, with a great deal of art, a 5caffold- ing above the falls of Niagara, and after having raised a heavy contribution from the immense crowd assembled from the whole neighbourhood to see him, he mounted ma- jestically to his platform, and then threw himself headlong into the boiling waves at the foot of the cataract. He repeated this perilous experiment several times, till at last he was swallowed up by a whirlpool. Alas! there are some Governments whose appearances on the scene of the world are in every respect analogous to that of the American juggler: their history is summed up in these words, fearful scaffolding, terrible fall! On a few stakes planted in the ground, they raise a shapeless building, composed of fragments and bits borrowed from the ruins of the past; and when their task is finished, their bastard building, as without utility as it is without foundations, has only served to throw them headlong from a greater height into the abyss. What this amounts to is that raising a scaffolding is not building. To appeal to the vulgar passions of the mob is not to govern. One cannot build solidly except upon the rock. Surely these words must now come back to the ex-Emperor as a curiously accurate pre- diction of his own great feat. He did, at great pains and with much ostentation, erect a scaffolding out of fragments of the ruins of the past his uncles past, which has served but for the same purpose as that described by him, to furnish him with an artificial elevation from which to cast him- self headlong into the gdlf beneath. Indeed, to none of the recent unstable governments of France has Louis Napo- leons parable applied with greater force than to his own. There has always been something of the juggler about his other- wise sombre and sedate impersonation of the Imperial character. From the descent on Strasburg to the telegram about poor little Louiss baptism of fire, there has been visible at regular intervals in the ex- Emperors writings and actions a certain amount not merely of theatricality, but of ill-judged and ridiculous theatricality, that sort of theatricality which arises not from social vanity, which is often very tell- ing, but from the indulgence of moody and solitary reverie. The laboured rhodomon- tade which he addressed, from his prison at Ham, to the Manes of the Emperor, on occasion of the removal of Buonapartes remains from St. Helena to Paris. is a very fair illustration of the purely intellectual side of this deep flaw in Louis Napoleon s mind. That any able man should have written such high-flown nonsense in the be- 122 THE EX-EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. lief that it would identify him in the popular mind with his uncle, we do not in the least believe. The rhapsody was written, we are persuaded, not out of contempt for vulgar minds which it was intended to please, but out of the unsound superstition in Louis Napoleons own understanding. He cried out to the Manes of the Emperor, The people have renounced your gospel, your ideas, your glory, your blood; when I have spoken to them of your cause, they have said to me, We do not understand it. Let them say, let them do, what they will. What matter to the mounting chariot the grains of sand which fall under the wheels? They have vainly said that you were a me- teor which left no trace hehind; they have vainly denied you political glory; they will not disinherit us of its fruits. Sire! the 15th December is a great day for France and for me. From the midst of your sump- tuous cortege, disdaining the homage of some, you have cast a single glance on my sombre dwelling-place, and remembering the caresses which you heaped upon my in- fancy, you have said : Friend, thou sufferest for me! I am satisfied with thee. That is not the sort of thing written to daz- zle the fancy of a mob. It is the sort of thing which occurs to a man apt to indulge moody reveries of the subtle affinities which connect him with a great creative mind, whose career he hopes, or at least eagerly wishes, to imitate. Like the Imperial get- up at Strasburg, so ill-sustained by Louis Napoleons actual demeanour when intro- duced to the troops there, like the tat~ie eagle at Boulogne, like many profound- ly superstitious references to destiny throughout his writings, this rhapsody shows a trace of spurious metal in the ex-Empe- rors mind, which is not assumed for pop- ular purposes, but is ingrained and inhe- rent. The prisoner at Ham was, like all solitary persons, deprived of the aid of that implicit social criticism on his own most marked thoughts which living in the world of itself insures, and therefore his writings then had much more of this extatic Bona- partism about them than his speeches or actions have since shown. But you can see the same kind of fixed and dreamy enthu- siasm about his idea of raising up in Mex- ico an empire of the Latin race to bal- ance the Teutonism of the United States, no less than in those dreams of destiny which have from time to time driven his slow and hesitating judgment into mad projects, like the Boulogne descent, and, let us add, the ill-prepared or unprepared invasion of Prussia. The special characteristic of the ex-Em perors policy has been the constant balanc- ing between long-headed caution and a craving for brilliant effects. At first he was very prudent. The war with Russia, which brought him intosuch close alliance with England, was a by no means dangerous stroke of tentative foreign policy: indeed, that such a Power as England joined him in it showed how comparatively safe, for a war policy, it was. But his next attempt, the liberation of Italy, far more original, far more really grand in conception the only act, indeed, of his reign on whi~h he can now count for anything like the deliberate praise of posterity was far more danger- ous; and this he himself knew, staying him- self in mid career, lest he should either incur a change of fortune, or by succeeding too completely give Italy more than he de- sired or intended. Indeed, he soon found that the main idea of his policy was one far too potent over the minds of nations to ad- mit of being applied just as far as he wished, and no farther; and the aim of the rest of his reign was to attenuate what he had done, strenuously supporting Rome against Italy. His next great conception, the foundation of a Franco-Spanish Empire in America, to balance the influence of the United States, was a failure on a great scale, an experi- ment not even founded, like his Italian ex- periment, on any sound knowledge of the forces actually at work. Perhaps it was this sense of half-failure in Italy, and com- plete failure in Mexico, to gain any profit by his attempt to build up his kingdoms founded on the same principle, which in- duced him to attempt in the case of Ger- many the opposite task much more wel- come to the counsellors he was most ac- customed to listen to of splintering in pieces a new Empire of this kind in the very moment of its crystallization. There, again, we probably see the capricious weight accorded by Louis Napoleon to his own subjective impression that he was dreaming a dream of destiny, and not merely indulg- ing his own political fancy. He saw him- self breaking up and overrunning Germany as his uncle had done before him, and he took no real pa-~.s to guage the solidity of the rock against which he has dashed his already decaying power to pieces. For, naturally enough, while be has dreamt these brilliant dreams of external glory, he has given himself a comparative holiday in the much harder task of driving deep the foundations of his power in the hearts of the people of France. On a few stakes planted in the ground, he raised a formLss building composed of bits and fragments of the ruin of the past, and never ENGLISH IMPATIENCE. 123 till within the last eight months did he even appear to attempt seriously the laying of deeper foundations; and then he found the task so difficult and disgusting that he quick- ly abandoned it for a dazzling stroke of foreign policy. In regard to the external comfort of the people, indeed, in relation to roads, commerce, and free production, the Emperor really did a good deal to make his people more prosperous. But beyond this he never got. Trusting as he did in universal suffrage, he never liked to edu- cate the voters, lest they should cease to be dazzled by the Empire. The free Press shook his power, and he never permitted it till it seemed even more dangerous to curb it. The only creative principle of his mind as a ruler was its dreamy imaginativeness, and this he was far too cautious to apply except in foreign policy. For all experi- ments in developing the confidence of the educated classes at home he was too pru- dent. Hence the eighteen years of his rule were utterly sterile in home policy, except in relation to the development of the physi- cal resources of France. All his tentative audacity was reserved for his foreign policy, and as that was not, on the whole, success- ful, certainly not flattering to the vanity of France in its general results, he never succeeded in gaining for the Empire the affection of the people, except so far as it was gained at once by the superstitious rever- ence felt for his name. in one of his curi- ous political reveries he once wrote : No one can escape his destiny. Every govern- ment condemned to perish, perishes by the very means which it employs to save itself. Espartero believed that he should strengthen his power by the bombardment of Barce- lona, and he only sapped its foundations. The Conservatives believed that by erecting the fortifications of Paris they should estab- lish for ever their doctrine of peace at any price; but they only imitated those kings of E,,ypt who raised immense tombs in their life-time, monuments so colossal for men so little, that they buried in their immense wombs, as well as the body, the very name, of the founder. What can better describe the ex-Emperors own fate? His Govern- ment, condemned to perish, has perished by the very means it employed to save itself. He took credit to the Empire for its army, and by the weakness of the Army the Empire has perished. He sought to save his foreign policy from the reproach that it had raised up great rivals to France, by crushing Germany to fragments, and the attempt has ground his own twenty-one years work to powder, and fearfully en- dangered the very independence of his realm. Certainly none of the unstable French Governments, which he described as raising ostentatiously a temporary scaffolding only for the sake of leaping from it into the abyss, ever took the leap with so strange an unconsciousness of the fatal whirlpools beneath, as he who is now, for the third time in his life, a political pris- oner, and for the fourth time an exile from his native land. It is melancholy that a man who has spent two-thirds of his life in dreaming of power, and one-third in the exercise of it, should have to spend the re- mainder in regretting that he carefully made all the mistakes which he had before his ac- cession so bitterly ridiculed others for per- petrating. From The Pall Mall Gazette. ENGLISH IMPATIENCE. WE wish there were any reason to expect that the war between France and Prussia will soon be over, and that then the affairs of Europe will return to their old comfort- able state. Evidently a great many Englishmen are very unwilling to admit that such a hope has no solid ground on which to rest. They quote the precedents of 1859 and 18645, and seem to take it al- most as a personal injury that 1870 has not turned out a war exactly on the same pat- tern. It is on this account, perl~aps, that they dislike for the most part the notion of France being deprived of territory. They have a sort of instinct that France might take some time to settle down after having to submit to such a blow as this, and that the Continent might be a good deal dis- quieted by her efforts to regain her lost possessions. The payment of an indemni- ty, they think, need have no such annoying accompaniments. It would simply mean an addition to the yearly expenditure and a corresponding addition to the taxation of the country consequences which would naturally be disliked by Frenchmen, but would entail no inconvenience upon the rest of the world. The sooner Englishmen dis- miss any anticipations of this kind the better it will be for their own peace of mind. We shall make no predictions as to the duration of the war, but we will venture to prophesy that, whether it be short or long, it will leave behind it elements of disturbance which may not be laid to rest for years to come. The conditions of the contest have no parallel either in the Italian war of 1859 or in the German war of 1866. In both these cases the object of the struggle was 124 ENGLISH IMPATIENCE. to fix the place of one of the combatants, not in Europe, but in a certain limited area of territory. The battle of Solferino de- termined that Sardinia was to be supreme in Italy. The battle of Sadowa determined that Prussia, not Austria, was to be su- preme in Germany. Each left the combat- ant mainly affected by the decision with abundance of employment on his hands. Sardinia had to fit herself for her new duties, Austria had to revise her aims and readjust her estimate of the comparative importance of the various races which make up her em- pire. But neither of these processes con- cerned the rest of Europe. The unification of Italy and the regeneration of Austria affected only the subjects of Victor Emman- uel and Francis Joseph. ~The war of 1870, on the contrary, threatens to change the whole face of European politics. For two centuries France has been the leading Power on the Continent. If she has been beaten, it has been only by coalitions, and the fact that a coalition has always been needed to do it is in itself a testimony to the paramount character of her position. The present war, therefore, is in the nature of a fight for the championship of Europe. If France had won, she would-have taken care to disqualify Prussia from challenging her supremacy for the future. If Prussia wins, she will~be equally anxious to prevent France from offering a return match. In neither case is it at all likely that so soon as the wager has been decided the two combat- ants will shake hands and forget all that has passed. And even if the war itself should come to an end after another battle or two, its consequences will be none the less last- ing. Thu Powers of Europe had learned to know France: they could in some meas- ure calculate her orbit, and guard against her eccentricities. If Prussia takes her place in the continental system, all these observations will go for nothing. Europe will have to begin the study of political as- tronomy over again. It is not reasonable to expect changes of this magnitude to be effected in the space of a few weeks, and to leave no disturbance behind them when effected. It is no matter for surprise that France has not yet ac- knowledged herself defeated, and asked to make terms with the conqueror. A great nation is not convinced in a moment that it has no choice but submission, and if the fortune of war means anything, it means that the end of the struggle often contradicts the be~,inning, that the second campaign is not necessarily cast on the same model as the first. Even if we allow that in the pres- ent war France will prove the force of this rule by being an exception to it, we have no right to suppose that the extraordinary suc- cess of Prussia will not give rise to great uneasiness on the part of other nations. Neither Austria nor Russia can regard her aggrandizement with much complacency. Austria has German subjects who will al- most certainly be attracted by the new Ger- man empire, and if she pursues her natural policy, and tries to increase her power in the east of Europe by way of compensation for its diminution in the west, she may arouse opposition which will have an echo far be- yond the limits of her own dominions. Russia, as we have already pointed out, will have her internal policy directly menaced by Germany as soon as Germany has a thought to spare for anything but her con- test with France; and whether she rejects all intervention on behalf of the Germans in the Baltic provinces, or comes to terms with Germany on that question in order to secure her support on the Eastern question, bodes equally ill for the continued tranquil- lity of the Continent. if Russia resists Germany she will have to fight her; if she compounds with Germany the two together may have to fight the rest of Europe. Nor are these by any means the only rea- sons for believing that we are still but at the beginning of sorrows. Those who take the most hopeful view of the situation in France admit that another great defeat will almost to a certainty put a final end to the Empire. We do not profess to grieve over this prospect. On the contrary, we hold that even defeat may be a blessing to the French people if it teaches them that free- dom at home is better than greatness abroad. But we see little probability that France will learn this lesson without a long course of previous suffering. The adversaries of the Empire often speak as though it had been a mere incubus upon the country, and that when once it is lifted off the nation will im- mediately display its natural powers of self- government and show itself none the worse for the long disuse of them. If this is so, it will be in ilat contradiction to all previous experience. The French nation has not been the mere innocent victim of the Em- pire. The majority of Frenchmen have been its willing accomplices, and even those who have offered an unavailing but consis- tent resistance show traces in every move- ment of the injuries they have suffered in the contest. Men who have lost the habit of self-government cannot resume their part in public affairs without blunders and short- comings of all kinds. The Empire has done nothing for the political education of France, and whenever it passes from the stage the POLITICAL CORRUPTION AND NATIONAL DISASTER. 125 problems left unsettled by the revolution of 1848 will once more present themselves for solution. We cannot see that France is likely to approach them in a better temper than then. The Provisional Government of February had faults enough to answer for, but there was an elevation of aim about its efforts which, we fear, would have no counterpart in a provisional Government formed to-day. Those who think that the Empire can be displaced without a revolu- tion, or that revolution when it comes will be found to have lost all its terrors, are likely we fear, to find themselves grievously disappointed. From The Spectatm. POLITICAL CORRUPTION AND NATIONAL DISASTER. A REMARKABLE letter in the Daily News of last Saturday the Daily News, by the way, has been by far the richest in corre- spondence of value, correspondence with nuggets of fact in it, since the war began, seems to afford the real key to the expla- nation of the gigantic failures of the French Army. The writer was told by two graziers of Picardy, as a matter within their own knowledge, that in a very considerable num- ber of instances which they could specify the military authorities had got only 1,800 men in a full regiment, instead of 3,000, though there were 3,000 names on the rolls. The modus operandi was this. Fourteen or fif- teen years ago, private societies undertook to find substitutes for such of those drawn in the conscription as could pay for a sub- stitute. While this was so, those societies received the conscripts money, and as it was, of course, the interest of the Army authorities to get the full number of men, the men were always provided. But since the law has required the money paid by those who can pay for substitutes to be paid directly into the military chest, it has be- come the interest of those who control the military chest to pocket the money and put sham soldiers on the rolls. These graziers of Picardy told the Daily News correspond- ent that they could point out many compa- nies which nominally consisted of 100 men, and could only muster 30, and as we have said hefore, they maintained that the aver- age French regiments could not muster much above half their nominal strength. Now, individual statements of this kind, made as they only could be made, from per- sonal knowledge of a few selected cases, would be utterly worthless as evidence, if they did not agree so marvellously with the conspicuous facts of the war. The French have been not only disastrously outnum- bered, but their armies have fallen ludicrously short of their nominal strength. Every one who knows anything of the war knows that of the 750,000 men whom the French Army should have numhered on a war footing, barely 400,000 fighting soldiers were to he found in France before the great defeats. And if this policy of embezzling the 80 paid by every French conscript as substi- tute-money, has been largely pursued in some regiments, there can he little doubt that it has spread more or less throughout the whole French Army. It is a real cause, z.e., one proved to exist, and also one adequate to produce the remarkable effects which have been produced; hence, we may fairly assume it as one of the most probable of all the hypotheses accounting for the French failure. That the same cause, gross corruption, was at work in the Commissariat department and the de- partments regulating the supply of Chasse- p6ts, every one knows. Everywhere the French Army has been starved to enrich individuals. This is the more serious a lesson to us, because pecuniary corruption is the. very root of the greatest and most menacing evils in every Anglo-Saxon society. It caused a great proportion of the disasters in the Cri- mea. It caused enormous waste and many disasters in the American Civil War. It still causes the greatest possible political evils in American society. It was certainly at the root of the monstrous waste of our Abyssinian campaign, where the published evidence goes to show, for instance, that a good million sterling was wasted on mules never wanted, or at least never used that Consuls and Vice-Consuls received huge commissions for a few weeks ser- vice in procuring mules, we quote from Allens indian Mail of the 23rd August, that a large batch of cain- els was bought at Suez the day after Magdala was known to have fallen; and generally, that several millions were wasted on what was known to be useless to the e~- pedition, for the gain of various classes and individuals. Unless there be some early and severe check to this sort of canker at the heart of all great organizations, the Germans, who seem at present to be almost completely free from the temptation to cor- ruption, will not only become the masters of Europe, hut deserve to be so. No na- tion can confess more plainly its complete unworthiness to be held as of any great ac- count in the political counsels of the world, 126 POLITICAL CO~IRUPTION AND NATIONAL DISASTER. than by giving evidence that its average disasters as those from which France is now citizens, those whose opinions build up suffering? Is not every peculation which the public life of the State, value their rohhed a single regiment of its full strength own private interests so far more highly now written out, as it were, in the flaming let- than the public interest, that they will cheat ters of burning towns and desolated plains? the State to serve themselves. It is quite Is not every little cheat by which the Army certain that people of this kind do not de- was deprived of Chassep6ts for which the serve to belong to a State which exercises a price had been paid, or the Commissariat wide control in foreign affairs, and that they defrauded of what was essential to the take the surest possible means to undermine health and comfort of the soldiery, magni- the very foundations of the controlling fled now into the sort of treason which power. A temperate, frugal, and laborious brings whole nations into mourning and Germany, in which every man really hon- provinces into subjection to a foreign yoke? oured the State as the true organ of what If such lessons as the disasters of the Crimea they call with so much love the Father- and of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870 will land, would have every right to what it not teach how unlimited is the consequence would certainly soon gain, a predominant of every immorality committed against the influence in Western Europe, if its only ri- State, how rapidly the infection of sins ~als were a selfishly and unscrupulously mer- against the State, or against any molecule eantile Great Britain, a false and gasconad- of the State, spreads till all its strength is ing France, and an intriguing, wily, pliant undermined, and it is left a mere name for Italy. There is no such thing as a great a rope of sand, what moral lesson can be State built up out of a people that is not taught at all? We cannot but believe that great. If any sort of corruption pervades it would be quite easy to diffuse a tone of public morality, this dry-rot must attack, morality in which cheating the State would and sooner or later, as now in France, go be regarded as the next thing to blasphemy, far towards ruining the State. in fact, as cheating of an infinitely deeper But there is undoubtedly in the present dye, instead of a less guilty kind, than the day a very large amount of political corrup- cheating of individuals. So far, of course, tion which does not imply anything like as as the mere dishonesty is concerned, there great an e~tent of personal corruption as it is no choh~e between cheating an individual would if the same deceptions were practised and cheating a community. But so far as on private persons and it is to the extinc- the consequences go, every man feels that tion of this that we look most hopefully, for stealing from a poor man is worse than when once the morality of a whole nation stealing from a rich to the same extent, and has become consciously indifferent to the that a theft which ruins is worse than a theft obligations of sincerity and honesty, in- the effect of which is hardly perceived. Is veighing against these sins is as unprofit- it impossible to teach children that stealing able as the most unprofitable of all the from the State is the stealing which ruins, exercises of the pulpit. No Englishman, is the stealing from the poor man whose however, can doubt that there is a great wages form the revenue of the State, that deal of political corruption which does not stealing from a corporation is stealing imply any equivalent amount of personal health and happiness from the population corruption, and so far, perha a remedy over whose health and happiness that corpo- is possible. Surely there is hope of teach- ration is the sole guardian, that stealing ing people, teaching children as a part from the army is stealing from the poor men of their ordinary school education, that who guard England, that stealing even instead of its being less wrong to cheat a from the Treasury is stealing from the re- corporation or a public department than it sources by which the poor combine to procure is to cheat an individual, it is, if you can for themselves a good government, that weigh guilt against guilt, a great deal more j stealing from any department of the State so? The thinkers of old time used to say is the wilful introduction of a most conta- that every moral rule was magnified a hun- gious disease which ends in death? One dredfold in relation to the State; and it is would think nothing easier than to make it only the unreality attaching to the State in evident, even to children, that the peculiar modern times, the comparative difficulty in defencelessness of the State, in the defi- realizing the definite wrong inflicted, in ciency among its guardians of that vivid seeing exactly who really suffers for your self-interest which protects private interests, meanness when you cheat a board, or a adds, like the helplessness of the blind man corporation, or a Government department, against those who would plunder him, a that makes it otherwise now. Yet what can new ignominy to any fraud committed upon illustrate the old axiom better than such lit. And if with this be combined the im THE LOSSES OF GERMANY. 127 mense area over which fraud against the public interests spreads, if it spreads at all, and the terrible destruction it breeds, one would suppose itquite possible to sow anew in the public the ancient feeling that any sin of this kind against the organ of the people is really more guilty, instead of less so, than a like sin against an individual. In truth, the religious feeling which substi- tutes God for the object of every guilty ac- tion, great or small, while it has done a great deal to strengthen private morality, has done a good deal also to weaken relatively the springs of public morality, by rendering those who have no religious feel- ing, comparatively indifferent to all offences which are not on the face of them produc- tive of immediate pain and suffering. Many a man who would not for his life rob a widow or an orphan, will think nothing of robbing a department. Surely it is pos- sible to introduce into elementary schools enough explanation of the result to innu- merable more helpless persons than widows and orphans, of robbing departments, the fearful result, too, in the way of making widows and orphans, to inspire all men who have any vestige of moral feeling at all with a certain sense that the State is far more sacred than any individual, that it really represents the strength and shield of millions of individuals, who will be not only less happy, but less noble, less honourable, less just, less generous beings, if the State be once turned to ignoble uses by selfish and vulgar men. From The Economist. THE LOSSES OF GERMANY. WE question if Englishmen are even yet aware of the immensity of the effort made by Germany, or of the extent to which she has staked her future prosperity upon this war. She has not, it is true, made a lev~le en masse no nation over did or could do that, not even the South in the last year of the American war, for ~he had still the blacks with whom to plough and reap, but she has placed in arms, in actual regiments marching or ready to march, her entire youth, all persons between twenty-one and twenty-six, physically competent to bear arms. It is asserted, and we see no reason for doubting, that 1,200,000 youths of every class in Germany, from the Kings eldest son to the meanest peasant, is engaged in the war either in front or in reserve a real reserve, be it remembered, immediately ready for action; and quite 200,000 more must be engaged in manufacturing, collect- ing, and forwarding, supplies. The disturb- ance of ordinary life caused by such a move- ment must be almost incalculable. Wehear of it most from the country districts, because the war began in harvest-time, but the dis- organization must be much greater in the cities, where the youth are in much greater proportion. The cities are full of smms- grants. The drain must, and as we know from a hundred accounts does, involve a partial suspension of energy in all factories, foundries, banks, shops, and city establish- inents of every kind, in all universities, in all mines, and in all but the most neces- sary operations of agriculture: and much of this paralysis must continue for some years. The lads just coming on will not begin to be available till 1874, for they must serve their three years in the army, which by that year will be completely renewed, and they will not be really of use till 1876, as they will need at least two years to ac- quire the necessary knowledge. So far as the soldiers now drawn away fail to return there will be a permanent gap in Germ.~n life continuing for nearly half a century. There will always be so many less of compe- tent persons of such and such an age in every class from peasants to princes. How great this gap may be cannot as yet be as- certained, the Germans publishing no hospi- tal returns, but in the very best event it can- not be less than a sixth of the whole body employed 200,000 men; it may very well be a fourth 300,000 men; and in the event of defeat, or of a pestilence breaking out, it may very well be half, or 600,000 men. Russia lost more than that in the Crimean War. Moreover, this loss includes an enormously disproportionate number of the highly educated classes. The death-rate among officers is almost incredibly high, quite double the proper proportion, and as the Prussian officers are indistinguishable by dress, this must arise from extra forward- ness, in which they would be imitated by the educated in the ranks. The deaths from wounds would be larger too in this class while the deaths from disease, from bad food, and from fatigue, would he incompar- ably greater among them than among the hardier peasantry. The harsh though effi- cient policy which refuses tents in the field, kills these men off in thousands, while they and they only feel greatly the weight they are compelled to carry. Taking all these circumstances into consideration, it is not an exaggeration to say that Germany will lose a third, perhaps a half, of her cultivated youth, an immeasurable loss even to a peo- ple among whom every man has some tinc 12~ THE LOSSES OF GERMANY. ture of instruction. The whole remainder, transmitting their cultivation to their de- besides, will come hack less powerful men scendants. and less fit for the work of life war, if it So far clearly war is an unmixed evil, and does not demoralize, making all other work it must he remembered that the great corn- seem insipid. pensations so often claimed for war really Nor is this all. The severe military or- belong exclusively to discipline. That mu- ganization of Germany has modified all hab- itary service improves the physique is cer- its until it has become unusual for men to tam. That when an entire nation is trained marry until they have served out their term, it improves the morale is very probable. and usual to marry shortly after, and the loss That it increases incalculably the capacity therefore falls almost exclusively among the for strict organization, that is, diminishes potential bridegrooms of Germany. We incalculably the temptation to waste labour, can make the effect of this clear in a mo- may be granted, though we think reasoners ment by taking an extreme case. Suppose on that side claim too much. But then all the whole army to perish, there would be- those advantages are due to discipline, not tween 1870 and 1874 be no youthful mar- to the war for which it is a preparation, th~ riages at all, and probably two millions less latter only undoing much of the effect of children born into the world a difference the previous training. Troops always which would be felt for generations. Even emerge from a war less healthy, less orga- as it is, the difference will in all probability nized, less moral, than their discipline)~ad be sufficient to arrest the tide of German made them when they entered it. The no- emigration, and thus to exert a marked in- tion that war hardens men, that old cam- fluence upon the prosperity of the United paigners live long, is probably a mere delu- States, who gain almost the whole benefit sion, arising from the fact that war acts as a of this outpouring of strong persons ready process of selection, and only spares the to labour hard. The general effect of the tough, whose toughness is then attributed to war, therefore, will be to diminish consid- the war which has only revealed its exist- erably and at once the population of Ger- ence. No race of Western Europe, trained many, to restrict its increase still more con- to sleep under cover, can sleep without siderably, and to inflict the heaviest propor- cover for a month under severe rains with- tion of both these losses upon the cultivated out suffering, and the soldiers of this war, classes, who have at all times in a country we may rely upon it, will die early. of subdivided properties much difficulty in IT must be confessed that at the present time England presents to the civilized world a~ spec- tacle which is less sublime than ridiculous. She is fully prepared to speak out her instincts, but finds that people are too busy sharpening their swords and cutting each others throats to listen to her. She has therefore wisely left off scolding and advising, and is now engaged in rubbing her spectacles. She can hardly be- lieve her eyes. She sees in the German army an engine of destruction such as the world has never seen before. A new first-class nation has arisen with a new first-class army, and she is beginning to realize the truth that if she her- self intends to be a first-class nation, as of old, she must conform to the new standard, and adopt the latest faahion in armour. It is a sore trial to be thus rudely awakened by Young Eu- rope from dreams of efficiency, economy, com- petitive examinations and marriage with our de- ceased wifes sister. Pall Mall Gazette. Wz asked why the Norfolk Island Pine, Arau- caria excelsa, a conservatory plant with us, was made to do duty for the Chili pine, .q. irnbricata; and we are told in reply that there is a fine specimen of the latter at Dropmore, which is quite true. it is equally true that the artist has drawn .11. exceisce, and not .1. imbri- cata; unless, indeed, the same line of defence be adopted as in the case of the man who sold rooks for pheasants, and who, when taxed with it, replied, Appelez-les comme vous voudrez, des corbeaux sll vous plait; mol, je les appelle des faisans. Athensium. Tuz Ecuador Government has decreed that in the capital and suburbs no house constructed of cane and straw shall be permitted, and that three months after the date of the decree all those existing shall be demolished. There was a for- mer decree to this effect, which is thus fully en forced. - Nature.

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The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1376 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 15, 1870 0107 1376
The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1376 129-192

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No1 1376w October 15, 187O~ CONTENTS. 1. NEWMANS POEMS 2. DOROTHY Fox. Part LX. 3. POLITICAL REPUTATIONS, . 4. THE DOMINIES SONS 5. FLINT CHIPS 6. THE STORY OF A CAPITULATION, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, . 8. THE LOUVRE COLLECTION OF GEMS, 9. ANACHRONISMS OF ARTISTS 10. THE RIDERLESS WAR.HORSES 11. Tire CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS NAPOLEON BONA- PARTE 12. AUSTRALIAN FEDERATION 18. Do THE CONDITIONS REQUISITE FOR A STABLE GOVERNMENT EXIST IN FRANCE? . . Economist, POET R V. THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT, by Jean In- MY LOVE. gelow 130 AT LYME REGIS, BUBBLES 130 j JUNE MEMORIES, SHORT ARTICLES. Blackwoods Magazine,. Good Words, Fortnightly Review, Frasers Magazine, Spectator, Pall Mall Gazette, ./lcademy, Acadetny, Chambers Journal, A LEGAL VIEW OF REVOLUTION, . . 154 OBSERVATIONS OF THE ECLIPSE NEXT DE INTELLECTUAL CONDITION OF ECUADOR, . 154 CERBER, . RAILROAD ACROSS THE ANDES, . . 170 I Spectator, Spectator, Economist, NUMBERS OF ThE LIVING AGE WANTED. The publishers are in Want of Nos. 1179 and 1180 (dated respectively Jan. 5th and Jan. 12th, 1867) of TilE LIVING AGE. To subscribers, or others, who Will do us the favor to send us either or both of those numbers,~we will return an equivalent, either in our publications or in cash, until our wants are supplied. PUBLISHED EVERY SATUI$DAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. I~PR EIGHT 1X~LLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free o./postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. rAce of the First Series, In Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 32 SO The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS. For 5 new subscribers ($40.), a sixth copy; or a set of HORSES INTRODUOTION TO THE BIBLE, un. ahridged. in 4 large volumes, cloth, price $10; or any 5 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in num- bers, price $10. 131 145 156 159 171 174 177 178 179 183 184 188 189 144 191 192 170 130 THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT, ETC. THE SNOWDROP MONUMENT (IN LICH FIELD CATHEDRAL). BY JEAN INGELOW. MARVELS of sleep, grown cold, Who hath not longed to fold With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss, Those cherub forms that lie, With none to watch them nigh, Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss? What! are they left alone All night with graven stone, Pillars and arches that above them meet; While through those windows high The journeying stars can spy, And dim blue moonbeams drop on their un- covered feet? O cold! yet look again, There is a wandering vein Traced in the hand where those white drops lie. Let her rapt dreamysmile The- wondering heart beguile, That almost thinks to hear a cairn contented sigh. snow- What silence dwells between Those severd lips serene! The rapture of sweet waiting breathes and grows. What trance-like peace is shed On her re~lining head, And een on listless feet what languor of repose! Angels of joy and love Lean softly from above And whisper to her sweet and marvellous things; Tell of the golden gate That opend wide doth wait, And shadow her dim sleep with titir celestial wings. Hearing of that blest shore She thinks on earth no more, Contented to forego this wintry land. She has nor thought nor care But to rest calmly there, And hold the snowdrops pale that blossom in her hand. But on the other face Broodeth a mournful grace This had foreboding thoughts beyond her years, While sinking thus to sleep She saw her mother weep, And could not lift her hand to dry those heart- sick tears. Could not but failing lay, Sighed her young life away, And let her arm drop down in listless rest, Too weary on that bed To turn herdying head, Or fold the little sister nearer to her breast. Yet this is faintly told On features fair and cold, A look of calm surprise, of meek regret, As if with life oppressd She turned her to her rest, But felt her mothers love and looked not to for.. get. How wistfully they close, Sweet eyes, to their repose! How quietly declines the placid brow! The young lips seem to say, I have wept much to-day, And felt some bitter pains, but they are over now. Sleep! there are left below Many who pine to go, Many who lay it to their chastened souls, That gloomy days draw nigh, And they are blest who die, For this green world grows worse the longer that she rolls. And as for me I know A little of her woe, Her yearning want doth in my soul abide, And sighs of them that weep, 0 put us soon to sleep, For when we wake with Thee we shall be satisfied. Good Words. BUBBLES. A BUBBLE rises on the stream, And dances down the tide; Beneath the sun bright colours gleam, And glisten on its side. What though, before a moments past, It all must burst in air The little while that it may last, The sunshine makes it fair. I will not care although my dream Be what I neer may see; My hope at least can make it seem As though it yet might be. A little longer, and I know It all may pass away; Then, when I must, L~l let it go, But keep it white I may. Chambers Journal. NEWMANS POEMS. 131 From Blaekwoods Magazine. NEWMKNS POEMS.* THERE are two especial causes of the in- terest excited in us by the labours of a great mind in a sphere different to the one in which it is accustomed to work. In the first place, such ~rdpepva are valuable for their own sake. Even where left confessedly imper- fect,,a sketch by the hand of genius teaches us more than the most elaborate perform- ance which exhibits no higher quality than skill. The Sonnets of Michael Angelo, for instance, were the recreations of a man whose serious business it was to paint a Sis- tine Chapel, or to sculpture Medicean sep- ulchres. But the verse of the one leisure hour breathes the same serious and noble spirit that animates the f6rm over which the Titanic workman laboured. It is stamped more carelessly, perhaps, than they are; hut with the same ineffaceable impress of grandeur. And there is a second reason why we like to read a sculptors sonnets, a states- man s romance, a philosophers poetic fan- cies, or the fugitive pieces of a dramatist; and it is one quite independent of their intrinsic merits. It is this: Through them we find admission into that charmed cir- cle a great mans inmost mind. We appear to share with his intimate friends his hours of relaxation, while we read the thoughts which made those hours pass swiftly. Nay, at times we seem, through our survey of these confidential moments, to see further into his inmost soul than the very friends perhaps could do who joined in his diversion from business. Is not this especially the case in our study of the greatest of all poets? That unego- tistic genius which is the peculiar splendour of Shakespeare, veils his own personality in its excess of light; and renders him unap- proachable in proportion as it renders him admirable. The wondrous mirror of the Shakespearean drama, which reflects so impartially every type of character, gives us no glimpse of the mighty masters fea- tures as he stands behind it; and we are forced to abandon every, hope of penetrat- ing Shakespeares inner life through his plays. But not so when we turn to some * Verses on Various Occasions. By .1. II. New- man. London: Burns & Gates. 1868. of his Sonnets. There the curtain is lifted; there the heart, which seemed to throb with no other pulse than the current of universal humanity, discloses to us its own bitterness. And we mark, with no common emotion, how the eagle eye, which scanned untrou- bled (as we thought) the heights and depths of mans being, can grow dim with tears. We listen, and awe overcomes us as we hear the voice, which stirred all hearts with its trumpets call, faltering forth the sadly- changed accents, Wearied with these, for restful death I sigh. Now, it is to the class of works which we have described the occupation of genius in its horm subsecivm that the small volume before us belongs. The greater portion of it has appeared before in the Lyra Apostolica; but it now comes forth, with some significant omissions, and one most important addition, for the first time with the writers name. The appended dates show us how many of the most beau- tiful poems which it contains we owe to the enforced leisure of travel; and a glance at the contents of any theological library will tell how small a part of Dr. Newmans time can have been bestowed on poetic studies. It is, then, on both the grounds which have been already mentioned that his Verses on Various Occasions claim to arrest our attention; and they have yet a third, more peculiarly their own. For while they are the work of a powerful intellect, unbent for a season from sterner tasks; and while they offer us glimpses of a mind which friend and foe have often scanned with a perplexed curiosity; they also, in the third place, present themselves as contributions to con- temporary ecclesiastical history: as wit- nesses in the great cause which the nine- teenth century is being forced to try over again the justice and necessity of the religious Reformation of the sixteenth. The book which contains them will therefore certainly be read and pondered by many who do not belong to that small company the disinterested lovers of poetry. It has attractions for all who know, even only by hearsay, how great was its writers share in that movement which is still largely affect- ing, both for good and for evil, the spiritual life of our day. While his old hearers at 132 NEWMAN S POEMS. Oxford the men who (whether at the time the preachers peculiar doctrines pleased or displeased them) confess now that, after a quarter of a centurys lapse, his voice yet echoes in their hearts * must needs open this book with no common feelings. They must find pleasure, though perhaps sorrowful pleasure, in reviving, by its aid, their remembrance of their former teacher. They will see in the hidden life here unveiled to them the source of that strong influence which they acknowledge; they will here seek to trace out that path which he trod alone, even while his outward road ran as yet parallel with theirs. Most of all will they come prepared to look sadly on the scars which may bear witness to that great conflict in which they lost their leader; and to ask what have been the results of loss and gain to this gifted being, from the act 2f spiritual suicide by which ties still dear to memory were so violently rent asunder. We do not ourselves profess to be insen- sible to such considerations. Our first concern, however, is with Dr. Newman as a poet; our first inquiry, how far the sub- tile and fine science of logic, as Milton styles it, has yielded up her place in these pages to her more simple, sensuous, and passion- ate sister, poetry? And a few extracts from the earlier poems may enable us to discern * We quote the eloquent words of an unimpeach- able witness: His [Newmans] power showed it- self chiefly in the new and unlooked-for way in which he touched into life old truths, moral or spiritual, which all Christians acknowledge, but most have ceased to feel. . . - As he spoke, how the old truth became new! How it came home with a meaning never felt before! He laid his finger how gently, yet how powerfully! on some innel~ place in the hearers heart, and told him things ahout himself he had never known till then. - To call these sermons eloquent would not be the word for them high poems they rather were, as of an inspired singer; or the outpouring as of a prophet, rapt, yet self-possessed. And the tone of voice in which they were spoken, once you grew ac- customed to it, sounded like a fine strain of un- earihly music. Through the stillness of that high Gothic building [St. Marys] Ihe words fell on the ear like the measured drippings of water in some vast dim cave. After hearing these sermons you might come away still not believing the tenets pe- culiar to the High Church system; but you would be harder than most men if you did not feel more than ever ashamed of coarseness, selfishness, world- liness; if you did not feel the things of thith brought closer to the soul. Shairps Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. at once the presence of these three indis- pensable requisites in the poet. We shall find these verses marked by an antique sin- gleness of thought and simplicity of diction; we shall see in them (for the most part) a due preference for the concrete to the ab- stract; nor, though their themes exclude the ordinary sources of passion in poetry, and though their writers severe self-restraint may look cold to a superficial glance, shail we find them otherwise than the expression of genuine and strong feeling. The lamp which burns in this alabaster shrine is no painted fire; only it was not kindled at any earthly hearth. For instance, with what anfeigned and fervent indignation the poem entitled Pro- gress of Unbelief glows! What other poets have sung under the influence of strong personal feeling of their own wrongs is said here at the sight of the Faith dis- honoured by an unbelieving generation Now is the autumn of the Tree of Life; Its leaves are shed upon the unthankful earth, Which lets them whirl, a prey to the winds strife, Heartless to store them for the month of dearth. Men close the door, and dress the cheerful hearth, Self-trusting still; and in his comely gear Of precept and of rite a household Baal rear. But I will out amid the sleet, and view Each shrivelling stalk and silent-falling leak. Truth after truth, of choicest scent and hue, Fades, and, in fading, stirs the angels grief, Unanswered here: for she, once pattern chief Of faith, my Country, now gross-hearted grown, Waits but to burn the stem before her idols throne. An unjust picture, doubtless; as much too favourable to the past as too harsh a por- traiture of the present; though scarcely justifying Dr. Arnolds charge against its painter of hating the nineteenth century for its own sake; but an example of the simplicity of strong feeling, when, in the overwhelming sense of injury to what is dearer than life, all considerations but one vanish, and the mind has room for nothing but its grief. Now, contrast with this poem of indignation a poem of deep and quiet feeling, most simple in its tenderness as the NEWMANS POEMS. 133 former in its wrath an answer supplied beforehand to the longing cry Oh, Christ, that it were possible After long years to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be ! It is entitled A Voice from Afar: Weep not for me: Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with gloom The stream of love that circles home, Light hearts and free! Joy in the gifts Heavens bounty lends; Nor miss my face, dear friends! I still am near, Watching the smiles I prized on earth, Your conyerse mild, your blameless mirth; Now too I hear Of whispered sounds the tale complete, Low prayers and musings sweet. A sea before The Throne is spread its pure still glass Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. We, on the shore, Share, in the bosom of our rest, Gods knowledge, and are blest. There is a tranquil beauty in this little poem, like the shining of moonlight in some woodland glade. Its depths of feeling are still and unruffled; but they are more pro- found than many more ambitious waters. ~Then turnino once to Miltons again celebrated definition, we find that it is essen- tial to poetry to be not only simple and passionate, but sensuous, we naturally reflcct for a moment on the exact sense of the expression. And we find it to import that poetry should no more consist of soul with- out body than of body without soul. There must be the fire of passion to vivify; but there must likewise be the material frame at hand to receive the gift of life. Poetry may presuppose and ground herself on the deep- est philosophy; she should rarely discourse it. She may have metaphysics for her allies; she must not suffer them to be her rulers. Now, when we apply this definition to the book before us, we find it to condemn some of the poems which it contains. For there are several of them in which the poet is lost in the preacher, and of which instruc- tion is plainly rather the object than delight. Of this class the thxee brief stanzas enti- tled St. Paul at Melita, and the little poem called Flowers without Fruit, may serve as examples. The first is a sermon compressed into the limit of a short epi- gram; but the verse only gives it force and polish, it is not the necessary expression of an essentially poetic thought. The second, since we have read in Newmans Apolo- gia of hisearly friendship with Archbishop Whately, we shall always regard as its memorial; expressing as it does a favourite thought of that logical but unimaginative mind, in a manner which must have met with its entire approval. But for the most part it is otherwise with these poems. Their writer, if he sometimes presents the truths by which his soul has been stirred, too much as bare abstractions, yet oftener sees and presents them to us as real existences which reveal themselves under graceful and sym- bolic forms. Nowlit is some well-known event in sacred or in classic story, now it is some occurrence of daily life or some incident of travel, which furnishes a local habitation for the winged thought that flitted round the lonely student. He does not much seek for metaphors; they, unsought, seek him; for to him the invisible world is the real world, and the visible only precious as its exponent. In the picture-gallery which we have just entered, warmth and colour do not predomi- nate; its noblest characteristic is rather that fine severity of perfect light, which is so admirable in Ary Scheffers best pic- tures. And if tl~e roseate hue of youth and health is lacking in the saints and martyrs on its walls if their robe of flesh has grown too thin and transparent for one kind of beauty yet, for that very reason, an hour spent in their company may prove a welcome change to eyes wearied by seeing the spirit overpowered by the flesh, in more than one gallery of our present poets. The resemblance of Newmans poetry to Dantes in its high spiritualism, may have attracted notice the sooner on account of the outward traits of likeness between the two men; each blinded to the good of his own times by a too keen and scornful perception of their evil; each severed from community of purpose with his countrymen, yet yearn- ing to regain their sympathy; each, more- over, making war for an idea, sacrificing cherished local immunities to the phantom 134 NEWMANS POEMS. of a venerable central authority, and fear- lessly incurring the reproach of treason for that dear objects sake. Still, in his readi- ness to decorate the tabernacle with the spoils of Egypt, in his mastery over his own language, in a vivid realism which depicts scenes remote from human experience as might an eyewitness, above all, in his habit of taking the invisible for the basis of his operations on the visible, instead of; like other men, approaching the unseen by the seen, Dr. Newman is a kindred spirit of that great poets, to whom, in wide range of l)ower and magnitude of grasp, it would be an idle task to compare him. We shall presently see how his latest poem, The Dream of Gerontius, suggests several in- teresting points of contact between them. Meantime, there is already something Dan- tesque in his early sonnet on Concyra, that classic type of revolutions. Notice how speedily the antiquarys, the historians in- terest, is swallowed up in solemn reflection on the continued existence of each long- vanished actor in those once stirring scenes I sat beneath an olives branches grey, And gazed upon the site of a lost town, By sage and poet raised to long renown; Where dwelt a race that on the sea held sway, And, restless as its waters, forced a way For civil strife a thousand states to drown. That multitudinous stream we now note down As thoughone liP, in birth and in decay. But is their beings history spent and run, Whose spirits live in awful singleness, Each in its self-formed sphere of light or gloom; Henceforth, while pondering the fierce deeds then done, Such reverence on me shall its seal impress As though I corpses saw, and walked the tomb. Here it is the past which summons up the ghostly present. In the next sonnet we shall quote (faithful like the first in structure to the pattern of Petrarch and of Milton), it is the present which is the prophet of the future; the power of mem- ory, felt while journeying, is the pledge of its might in days to come; when the trav- eller shall have at last gone the way whence he may not return. In both, the light which plays on the picture is a gleam from the world of spirits; the dead yet live, the living is hastening on to join their ranks. MEMORY. My home is now a thousand miles away; Yet in my thoughts its every image fair Rises as keen, as I still lingered there, And, turning me, could all I loved survey. And so, upon Deaths unaverted day, As I speed upwards, I shall on me bear, And in no breathless whirl, the things that were, And duties given, and ends I did obey. And when at length I reach the Throne of Power, Ah! still unscared I shall in fulness see The vision of my past innumerous deeds, My deep heart-courses, and their motive seeds, So to gaze on till the red-dooming hour. Lord, in that strait, the Judge! remember me! The strict laws of the sonnet suit Dr. Newmans genius better than do bold Pin- daric flights. Of his two Tragic Cho- ruses, the best, Judaism, has the de- fect of consisting merely of strophe and two antistrophes i.e., of three precisely sim- ilar stanzas. The first of the three is, however, very fine. It makes a worthy use of the grand form of the ~IEdipus Coloneus, as the symbol of Gods rejected people in their woeful dignity; bearing, yet bringing, a curse; everywhere, yet nowhere at home; with their sad present, but mysterious hope for the future : 0 piteous race! Fearful to look upon, Once standing in high place, Heavens eldest son. 0 aged blind Unvenerable! as thou fittest by, I liken thee to him in Pagan song, In thy gaunt majesty, The vagrant king, of haughty-purposed mind, Whom prayer nor plague could bend; Wronged, at the cost of him who did the wrong, Accursed himself, but in his cursing strong, And honoured in his end. Whenever we think of either of those two pre-eminent tragedies which have ~IEdipus for their hero, these last five lines recur to our mind as the best possible summary of the strange contrasts in which the Sophoclean irony delights: the king of all men the most wretched while he seems the happiest, most full of might when lowest in estate. There is another fine ly- ric in this collection called Reverses, which blends with good effect, in its first two stanzas, the images of nature with symbols taken from history; summing up the particular exemplifications of the decay of splendour at its height, familiar to the student of sacred and profane story, by an appeal to the universal type with which all men are acauainted: When mirth is full and free, Some sudden gloom shall be; When haughty power mounts high, The Watchers axe is nigh, All growth has bound, when greatest found, It hastes to die. NEWMANS POEMS. 10~) When the rich town, that long Has lain its huts among, Uprears its pageants vast, And vaunts it shall not last! Bright tints that shine, are but a sign Of summer past. And when thine eye surveys, With fond adoring gaze, And yearning heart, thy friend Love to its grave doth tend. All gifts below, save Truth, but grow Towards an end. This climax is very touching. It sets before us friendship as at once the most precious and the most fragile of earthly goods; as affecting a noble heart by its evanescence far more than temple and tower in their overthrow can do; because when it dies a spiritual thing perishes, which had a right to immortality. Indeed the view of friendship given us in these poems is a very mournful one. To their writers mind the happiest friends are those severed in good time by the hand of death, so as to escape worse partings. The life- long sorrow which throbs and pulses on the many-chorded lyre of In Memoriam, is to his mind an enviable thing, since it is unmixed by any bitterness or self-reproach. It is in this spirit that he approaches the most famous friendship on record. DAVID AND JONATHAN. 0 heart of fire! misjudged by wilful man, Thou flower of Jesses race! What woe was thine, when thou and Jonathan Last greeted face to face! He doomed to die, thou on us to impress The portent of a blood-stained holiness. Yet it was well : for so, mid cares of rule And crimes encircling tide, ~ spell was oer thee, zealous one, to cool Earth-joy and kingly pride; With battle-scene and pageant, prompt to blend The pale calm spectre of a blameless friend. Ab had he lived before thy throne to stand, Thy spirit keen and high, Sure it had snapped in twain loves slender band, So dear in memory; Paul, of his comrade reft, the warning gives, He lives to us who dies, he is but lost who lives. Who can deem this last stanza otherwise than most unjust to the love of David for Jonathan? And as to the second, would it be too hazardous to conjecture that, what- ever good dreams, haunted like those of Achilles by Patroclus, may have brought the Hebrew monarch, he would have de- rived far more from his living friend? nay, that even from the most grievous sin of his life, he might have found a defence in the shield that was cast away with Sauls on the mountains of Gilboa, had its lofty- minded bearer hut survived to take the part of his better self against his worse? This mournful poem does not stand alone in its profound sadness. Here is the view of life which is its logical complement: Oun FUTURE. Did we but see, When life first opened, how our journey lay, Between its earliest and its closing day, Or view ourselves as we one time shall Ise, Who strive for the high prize, such sight would break The youthful spirit, though bold for Jesus sake. But Thou, dear Lord! Whilst I traced out bright scenes which were to come, Isaacs pure blessings and a verdant home, Didst spare me, and withhold Thy fearful word; Wiling me, year by year, till I am found, A pilgrim pale, with Pauls sad girdle bound. It would be hard to find a fault in these two stanzas; except the excessive allitera- tion (or rather awkward proximity of two similar sounds, pale and Paul), in its last line. Otherwise they are very perfect in themselves, and inexpressibly touching by their tone of resigned sorrow. We have often wished to ask their author whether the resemblance in sentiment between the first of them and one of the most pathetic passa,,es * in Shakespeare is a designed or undesigned coincidence. We have our- selves always supposed it to be the latter; well knowing how much more familiarly the banks of the distant Ilissus are haunted by Oxford men, than those of the nearer Avon. In that case its date of near forty years~ ago is worth noticing; as showing how a blame- less divine could pluck, ere the mezzo cammin was passed, the same hitter fruit of knowledge which our great dramatist repre- sents as the result of a whole life of care and crime. In the close of this poem, as in so many of Newmans, a scene familiar to Bible * 0 heaven! that one might read the book of fate; And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent (Weary of solid firmness) melt away Into the sea! and, other times, to see The heachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for Neptunes hips how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration. With divers liquors! 0, if this were seen, The happiest youth, viewing his progress. through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the door, and sit him down an& die. King Henry IV., Act iii., Scenet. 136 NEWMANS POEMS. readers is set before them as exemplifying laws which are still at work, and which may therefore reproduce the same scene in substance, although with changed acces- sories, in any mans experience. The apostle, going to Jerusalem to meet he knows not what evil, hut evil too surely of some sort, is the type of every sorrowing yet steadfast pilgrim, who has not parted with his firm determination for the right course, along with the joyful illusions which hailed its first entrance on it, but bore him company but a little way. Jn this constant illustrative use of the Scripture story, Newman treads the same ground with his early friend Keble. It is in their poetic treatment of kindred or identical themes, that their paths are wide apart. Keble delights far more in the play of the fancy often straying to gather its flowers till he finds it hard to recover his road. Newman centres his attention on getting at the heart of some one object, and develop- ing all that is really in it to his hearer. The very wealth of their poetic imagery gives some of Kebles poems a blurred out- line, a hazy light, confusing like some of Turners latest pictures: when Newman errs it is in the other extreme, by stimulat- ing the imagination too little; his defin- ite, sharp-cut outline stands sometimes in need of atmospheric softening. Readers of the Christian Year will understand at once what we mean by comparing the poem there for St. Jamess Day, and that for Easter Monday (on St. Peter at Joppa), with two upon the same subjects, far briefer and less poetical, in Newmans volume. If, on the other hand, we place Kebles beautiful poem on the recognition of Joseph by his brethren side by side with Newmans stately sonnet * on that patriarchs charac- ter, the comparison will give us a good view of the distinguishing excellences of each author. Best of what we may call the Scripture pieces in this book, we like the poem misnamed Desolation. Its severity of outline is illuminated by the gush of golden light in its third stanza; and no mean skill has concentrated around that vision of the Master in Glory four distinct scenes of His earthly life, all contributing without any confusion of thought to the main idea of this poem. * Keble was preaching at Torquay, a year or two before he died, on the history of Joseph His well- known verses were in the mind of most of his hear- ers; who, (forgetting for the moment who the preacher was), expected to hear them from his lips, as he began to cite a poem illustrative of his sub- .iect. When, instead, he repeated his long-lamented friends fine sonnet, all present felt deeply touched by the memories so evoked. 0 say not thou art left of God, Because His tokens in the sky Thou canst not read: this earth He trod To teach thee He was ever nigh. He sees, beneath the fig-tree green, Nathaniel con his sacred lore; Shouldst thou thy chamber seek unseen, He enters through the unopened door. And when thou liest, by slumber bound, Outwearied in the Christian fight, In glory, girt with saints around, He stands above thee through the night. When friends to Emmaus bend their course, He joins, although he holds their eyes; Or shouldst thou feel some fevers force, He takes thy hand, He bids thee rise. Or on a voyage, when calms prevail, And prison thee upon the sea, He walks the wave, He wings the sail, The shore is gained, and thou art free. Poems like this one look very easy to write, and are in truth very hard to imitate. It is always possible to be trivial and vulgar; hut to unite, as here, great sim- plicity of thought and great plainness of speech, to dignity, is a difficult task. But some of Newmans Poems are snore imagi- native, and less severely concise. Of this class, the following is (or rather was) a most beautiful example. We shall take the liberty to restore it to its earlier and better form. REST. They are at rest: We may not stir the heaven of their repose By rude invoking voice, or prayer addrest In waywardness to those Who in the naountain-grots of Eden lie, And hear the fourfold river as it murmurs by. They hear it sweep In distance down the dark and savage vale; But they at rocky bed, or current deep, Shall never more grow pale; They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know How long untired, unspent, that giant stream shall flow. * Theological (assuredly not poetic) considera. tions have caused the following change of this fine stanza in the present volume: They are at rest The fire has eaten t all blot and stain, And, convalescent, they enjoy a blest Refreshment after pain; Thus to the End in Eden s grots they lie, And hear the fourfold river as it hurries by. Each of these alterations Is an unhappy one Es. pecially is it a pity to see the well of English un- defiled perturbed just here by the drop of ecclesi. astical Latin in convalescent NEWMANS POEMS. 137 And soothing sounds Blend with the neighbouring waters as they glide; Posted along the haunted gardens bounds, Angelic forms abide, Echoing, as words of watch, oer lawn and grove The verses of that hymn which seraphs chant above. Here Miltons Eden in its bowery lone- linets stands forth the fitting emblem for a11 that pious minds love to imagine con- cerning the repose of the true paradise. We can well remember how, when the Lyra Apostolica first appeared, there were three poems in it, A Voice from Afar, one now omitted which commenced, Do not their souls, who neath the altar wait, and this, just quoted, of Rest, which found a way, with their soothing sense of repose and hope to many a mourners breast; and opened hearts which closed, grieving, against the unsparing de- nunciations of national guilt and gloomy prognostications of the future which were bound up with them.* Independently of their own merits, all poems which aspire to lift the veil from the life to come appeal to the strongest instincts of our minds: to their own personal hopes and fears; to their memories of the loved and their longings for reunion. When the lyre which had sounded the exploits of Achilles and Agamemnon in life, prepared with altered notes to follow their wraiths into the Cimmerian gloom, who can doubt that the listeners held their breath and re- doubled their attention? And when the strain was done, did not the blue sky of Greece look yet more blue, the rose-chap- lets round the feasters brows still redder, to eyes as yet privileged to go on b~hold * Would, however, that some warning voice had repeated these lines on Sacrilege in our states- men s ears last year! May the suffering Church~ of Ireland expeilence the good which they predict, as she has already the evil which they foreshadow! The Church shone brightly in her youthful days Ere the world on her smiled; So now, an outcast, she would pour her rays Keen, free, and undefiled; Yet would I not that arm ot force were mine, Which thrusts her from her awful ancient shrine. Twas duty bound each convert-king to rear His Mother from the dust, And pious was it to enrich, nor fear Christ for the rest to trust; And who shall dare make common or unclean What once has on the Holy Altar been? Dear brothers! hence, while ye for ill prepare, Triumph is still your own; Blest is a pilgrim Church! yet shrink to share The curse of throwing down. So will we toil in our old place to stand, Watching, not dreading, the despoilers hand. ing what these famous men of old might see no more for ever? And the great poem of medieval Christendom has doubtless been often studied less as a poem than as a reve- lation. Mourners and dying men have listened, and felt consoled, as Dante told of that company of rescued souls whom he saw disenibark chanting their In Exitu Israel, and set forth up the mount of purg- atory to the bliss beyond. But only a masters hand, like that of the first or second father of poetry, can be trusted to treat this great theme in detail. It imper- atively rejects the commonplace and the sentimental. And to modern thought, sug- gestive poems like the short lyric just quoted statements veiled by befitting imagery, which leaves the mind very con- siderable latitude in its interpretation are more agreeable than those precise descriptions which were the delight of child- like and unreasoning minds in earlier days. Nevertheless it is description of this dis- tinct and exact nature which forms the staple of Dr. Newmans latest and longest poem, the Dream of Gerontius. INo longer content with the fugitive pieces of his youth, he elaborates for us a drama in his age. Not satisfied, as heretofore, with guessing dimly at what Scripture leaves unrevealed, he has hearkened to a voice which professes to declare the secret which the risen Lazarus kept, and he now under- takes to disclose it to us. Under his guid- ance, if we will, we may learn, an hour before the time, the great mystery of how the spirit feels when its fleshly tie to earth is severed; and soar with it into those un- known and untried regions, which half a centurys meditation has cleared the poets inner vision to descry. We are invited to follow a soul through its last agony and in its upward flight; to leave it, where its guardian angel must leave it for a while, in the place of its final purification. And each stage of the amazing progress is set before us with a realism which makes this drama a psychological marvel; and with a power of divination so singular as to be- speak for the seer of this one department in Hades, a measure of that reverence which the people of his own time accorded to the man who had seen it all. Such, too, is the poetic strength put forth in it, that the Dream of Gerontius is a conspicuous example that the after- gathering may yield richer fruit than the vintage; an evident proof that the Muse of Zion is Ruth-like in her dispositions, and is more ready to visit and to bleas in age than in youth. And what gives this re- markable poem its distinguishing character 138 NEWMANS POEMS. is this, that while, to a superficial glance, it seems to tread a well-known and beaten track, it is, in truth, a vigorous flight of the imagination into a region scarcely entered before; for it occupies that subjective side of their common theme, which the fathers of poetry and their great followers let alone, to give to it an almost exclusively objective treatment. The ghost of Agamemnon in the Odyssey, the two Counts of Montefel- tro in the Hell and in the Purgatory, the spirit of Hamlets father, tell us each the occasion and consequences of his death; but they are silent as to what dying itself felt like. The departed soul of Faust re- mains mute while good and evil angels contend for its possession. But Gerontius unveils to us all the processes of his mind, in its emharkation and its voyage over the untried sea, with an air of soher reality which carries conviction of truth along ~yith it. By a strong effort of thought, the poet has so placed himself under new conditions of existence, so projected himself into his own future, that we do not dream of ques- tioning the accuracy of his description. It is otherwise with the forms hy which his principal personage is - surrounded. The high marks of genius which stamp the utterances of Gerontius are far less appar- ent in his respectable hut verbose angelic guardian; in the demons, grotesque rather than fearful, which beset his path; or in the choirs of angels who people the joyless heaven into which he finds a momentary entrance where they seem to pas~ their time, harmlessly but drearily, in singing improved editions of Watts Hymns. Never- theless here Dr. Newman fails in very great company. Who is satisfied with the heaven or with the seraphs of Milton? Or who fails to see that if Dantes angels are grand- er and more impressive than those of the Paradise Lost, this effect is mainly due to their dignified reserve to that silence which is so seldom broken by them, except in the very words of Scripture? More- over, in the Dream of Gerontius, as much as in the Prometheus of Eschylus, the principal character is everything, the attendant figures comparatively nothing. Gerontius himself interests us so much that we hardly notice the accessories of the pic- ture. For, as we have already said, he is the type of Man face to face with what medieval preaching styled the Four Last Things: in him we behold the image which is one day to be our own; and it is curiosi- ty about the region which lies at once so near to us and so far, that sharpens our ear to catch his every word. Nor is this all. Besides representing man in general, Ge- rontius is, in particular, the representative of that noblest style of man, the saint. Holy resignation to the Divine will, and ardent love to God, compose his character, so far as we are made acquainted with it. And thus, raised high in the moral order above the common spectator, while in the natural he occupies the same level, he is enabled to claim his admiration no less than his sym- pathy. Yet it is this selfsame spiritual ele- vation that makes the catastrophe of the poem shock our moral sense. Gerontius is declared sinless, yea, incapable of stn, after his death, by his guardian angel. He exhibits, as has been said, the most pious dispositions. Can the sentence, then, which dooms such a holy being to endure ages of purgatorial fire, fail to strike the mind (apart from theological subtleties) as unjust? We may try to resist the impres- sion by recollecting how imperfect is our best idea of goodness; by the reflec- tion that what seems holiness to us may to purer eyes be sin. But then, unluckily, for the validity of such an explanation, there is a standard of comparison at hand. An- gels must be presumed good, and fit to in- habit the regiDns of bliss; now to the an- gels of this poem Gerontius is in no respect inferior in goodness; nay, he is evidently their superior, inasmuch as his trust in God withstands a painful trial to which they are not exposed. Hence it is that our sense of justice which is not disturbed when the too daring Prometheus feels at last the thun- derbolt which he has challenged, which ap- proves when the gate of Paradise closes after Miltons Adam and Ev9 rises up here to protest against the sentence which excludes the righteous soul of Gerontius from the bliss which beings whose holiness is not more sublime than his are suffered to partake. We will try to enable our readers to judge of this, and of the justice of our other remarks, for themselves. When the drama opens, Gerontius is ly- ing on his death-bed. His soul is shaken. by the last enemys approach. He discerns his presence, not by the extremity of his sickness alone: Tis this new feeling, never felt before (Be with me, Lord, in my extremity)! That I am going, that I am no more. Tis this strange innermost abandonment (Lover of souls! great God! I look to Thee), This emptying out of each constituent And natural force, by which I come to be. Pray for me, 0 my friends! a visitant Is knocking his dire summons at my door, The like of whom, to scare me and to daunt, Has never, never come to me before; NEWMANS POEMS. 139 Tis death, 0 loving friends, your prayers, tis he! As though my very being had given way, As though I was no more a substance now, And could fall back on nought to be my stay, (Help, loving Lord! Thou my sole refuge, Thou,) And turn no whither, but must needs decay And drop from out the universal frame Into that shapeless, scopeless, blank abyss, That utter nothingness of which I came; This is it that has come to pass in me; o horror! this it is, my dearest, this; So pray for me, my friends, who have not strength to pray. I can no more; for now it comesagain, That sense of ruin, which is worse than pain, That masterful negation and collapse Of all that makes me man; as though I bent Over the dizzy brink Of some sheer infinite descent; Or worse, as though Down, down for ever I was falling through The solid framework of created things, And needs must sink and sink Into the vast abyss. It is amidst this shaking and passing away of all transitory things this vanishing of every external prop, and the last fierce on- set of the powers of darkness that the voice of faith is heard; the hand c~f faith is seen stretched out to grasp the things invis- ible and eternal. Gerontius gathers his re- maining strength together, and rouses him- self to make his last profession of faith. The friends who kneel around repeat their Litany, and call earnestly on the Deliverer of all His faithful of old in their time of trouble, to give help and comfort to His dy- ing servant now. Strengthened by their intercession, Gerontius commends his de- partihg spirit to his Lord, and yields it up in peace; while the assistant priest pro- nounces the Depart, Christian soul, and begins, with the others present, the solemn prayers for the dead. In the second division of the poem we accompany the now freed spirit into the un- seen world. SOUL OF GERoNTtus. I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed: A strange refreshment; for I feel in me An inexpressiva lightness, and a sense of Freedom, as I were at length myself, And neer had been before. How still it is! I hear no more the busy beat of time, No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse; Nor does one moment differ from the next. This silence pours a solitariness Into the very essence of my soul; And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet, Hath something too of sternness and of pain; For it drives hack my thoughts upon their spring By a strange introversion, and perforce I now begin to feed upon myself, Because I have nought else to feed upon. Am I alive or dead? I am not dead, But in the body still; for I possess A sort of confidence, which clings to me, That each particular organ holds its place As heretofore So much I know, not knowing how I know, That the vast universe, where I have dwelt, Is quitting me, or I am quitting it. Or I or it is rushing on the wings Of light or lightning on an onward course, And we een now are million miles apart. And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth I cannot of that music rightly say Whether I hear, or touch, or taste the tones. Oh, what a heart-subduing melody! The two sections from which we quote these lines are the highest effort of Dr. Newmans genius. The subtle analysis of the minds workings, the strange power of divining the unknown by the known which they display, exercise a stronger fascination each time they are read. All who care for psychological problems (and in this partic- ular problem who does not feel an interest P) must watch the sure hand, as it here searches out depths for which science furnishes no sounding-line, with an awe like to that which fell on the Hebrew monarch, as he watched the sorceress when she arose to call his de- parted reprover from the grave. There is much that is fine in the succeed- ing sections, though scarcely anything so striking. The soul is no longer alone. The mystic music has revealed to it the presence of its guardian angel, and from him it learns something of the marvels of its present state. It discovers that it is hastening to its Judges presence with a flight not ruled by space or time; yet rendered slow to its own impatient desire, through being meas- ured by the succession of thought. Though separated from the body, the spirit still fan- cies itself surrounded by its fleshly frame.; just as in the living man the lost limb long seems, to the severed nerves and muscles, to hold its place. Hast thou not heard of those, who af+er loss Of hand or foot, still cried that they had pains In hand or foot, as though they had it still? So is it now with thee, who hast not lost 140 NEWMANS POEMS. Thy hand or foot, but all which made up man. So will it be, until the joyous day Of resurrection, when thou wilt regain All thou hast lost, new-made and glorified. And now, as tke soul speeds onward to the goal of its long desire, it encounters those good and evil spirits whose lyric strains form, in our judgment, the less satisfactory portion of the drama. There are the thank- ful songs of angels to salute its advance; there are the spiteful mockeries of the baffled powers of evil, heard only to be despised. But the first lack all the bright, jubilant ex- ultation which we should have expected them to possess: the second make us smile when we ought to shudder. These wicked spirits, who accuse Gods servants of obeying Him only for interested motives (as their chief did holy Job), are as curiously like some sceptics of the present day in their affecta- tion of refinement as in their arrogant pre- sumption. The following lines would suit a conceited philosopher, while still in the flesh, much better than they do incorporeal spirits : DEMONS. Whats a saint? One whose breath Doth the air taint Before his death; A bundle of bones Which fools adore, Ha! ha! When life is oer; Which rattle and stink Een in the flesh. Well may Gerontius pass with silent con- tempt by beings fallen beneath the dignity of spirit far enough to have acquired noses to turn up at the poor, unwashed saint of Romish hagiology, when he chances to stray betwixt the wind and their nobility! And if the evil angels of the poem are thus plainly un-Miltonic, the good angels, who form its chorus, are Miltonic only in their faults. The didactic seraphs of the Par- adise Lost, have at least the excuse of dis- coursing to a human auditor. But what reason have those happy powers, who sing in the courts of the Most High, to recite verses so historical, so explanatory, so alto- gether suggestive of the long-renounced Tate and Brady, as the following? The foe blasphemed the holy Lord As if he reckoned ill, In that He placed His puppet man The frontier place to fill. For even in his best estate, With amplest gifts endued, A sorry sentinel was he, A being of flesh and blood. As though a thing, who for his help Must needs possess a wife, Could cope with thcse proud rebel hosts Who had angelic life. And when by blandishment of Eve, That earth-born Adam fell, He shrieked in triumph, and he cried, A sorry sentinel; The Maker by His word is bound. Escape or cure is none; He must abandon to his doom And slay His darling son. Or why, with no perplexing modern theolo- gian within hearing, should that tiresome personage, pre-historic man, occupy~ the at- tention of the seraphs, in these finer, but not more dramatically appropriate, verses Woe to thee, man! for he was found A recreant in the fight; And lost his heritage of heaven, And fellowship with light. Above him now the angry sky, Around the tempests din; Who once had angels for his friends, Had but the brutes for kin. 0 man! a savage kindred they; To flee that monster brood He scaled the seaside cave, and clomb The giants of the wood. With now a fear, and now a hope, With aids which chance supplied, From youth to eld, from sire to son, He lived and toiled and died. He dreed his penance age by age; And step by step began Slowly to doff his savage garb, And be again a man. And quickened by the Almightys breath, And chastened by his rod, And taught by angel-visitings, At length he sought his God; And learned to call upon His Name, And in His faith create A household and a fatherland, A city and a state. But far superior in lyric beauty to the best portions of the Chorus, is the song of Ge- rontius himself in the crisis of his fate: a sweet and tender strain, impassioned with divine love. It is in the sixth section of the poem that, amid the intercessions which ascend from earth as dew in summer even, the pleading of the great Angel of the Agony obtains for Gerontius the sight of Him whom his soul loves: that one mo- ment of the Beatific Vision which is to NEWMANS POEMS. 141 soothe by its sweet remembrance the com- ing ages of anguish. GUARDIAN ANGEL. Praise to His Name! The eager spirit has darted from my hold, And, with the intemperate energy of love, Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel; But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity Which, with its effluence, like a glory, clothes And circles round the~crucifled, has seized, And scorched, and shrivelled it; and now it lies Passive and still before the awful Throne. 0 happy, suffering soul! for it is safe, Consumed, yet quickened, by the glance of God. SOUL. Take me away, and in the lowest deep There let me be; And there in hope the lone night-watches keep, Told out for me. There, motionless and happy in my pain. Lone, not forlorn, There will I sing my sad perpetual strain Until the morn. There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast, Which ne er can cease To throb, and pine, and languish, till possesst Of its sole Peace. - There will I sing my absent Lord and Love: Take me away, That sooner I may rise and go above, And see Him in the truth of ever- lasting day. Then Purgatory opens. The souls within it are heard chanting their solemn psalm; and the Guardian Angel thus consigns his beloved charge to its healing sorrows Softly and gently, dearly-ransomed soul, In my most loving arms L now enfold thee; And oer the penal waters as they roll, L poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee. Angels to whom the willing task is given, Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest; And masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven, Shall aid thee at the Throne of the Most High- est. And carefully I dip thee in the lal~e; And thou, without a sob or a resistance, Dost through the flcod thy rapid passage take, Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance. Farewell! but not for ever! brother dear, Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow; Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here, And I will come and wake thee on the mor- row. So ends a poem, in our judgment as satis- factory in its subjective as it is the reverse in its objective, portions. Of its writer we may say far more truly than did Coleridge of his great predecessor Dante, that he does not so much elevate our thoughts as send them down deeper. For his subtle speculations on mans complex being, his daring researches into the abysmal depth of personality, carry us along with them far more completely than do his upward flights. And as it is with the thoughts on- which the poem rests, so it is with the verse which forms the superstructure. The iam- bics and the graver lyrics of the poem (two of which form our last quotations) have a peculiar and seriQus harmony of sound Tal qual di ramo in ramo si raccoglie Per la pineta in sul lito di Chiassi Quand Eolo Scirocco fuor discioglie: so that we may apply to Dr. Newmans best passages his own melodious words The sound is like the rushing of the wind-.. The summer wind among the lofty pines; Swelling and dying, echoing round about; Now here, now distant, wild and beautiful; While, scattered from the branches it has stirred, Descend ecstatic odours. But the Choruses to which Gerontius pays this beautiful compliment do not justify it. Would either of those which we have ex- tracted, the best or the worst, so affect any one? Who can judge them worthy to be chanted to the sound of heavenly harps, and to the rush of angelic pinions P Thus, when we compare Dr. Newman with the last great traveller before him on the same road, with Goethe, we find that his Gerontius has nothing to fear from the competition of that silent spirit, so arbitrarily rescued from his just doom by the German poet; we also see that the inestimable advantage of a strong faith has given to the less artistically per- fect poem an impress of reality which is wanting to the last two scenes of Faust; hut, on the other hand, set beside Goethes swift dactylic flights and his glorious Easter Hymn, the Five Choirs of Angel- icals in Gerontius make but a sorry show. Nor is the final catastrophe more satisfac- tory, though for a widely different reason than that of Faust. Each tramples on a deep-seated conviction of the human breast, on a strong foundation of natural piety. And though, in Dr. Newmans case, we consent to hold his creed, rather than his art, responsible for what revolts our moral sense in the conclusion of his drama, yet would it not have procured his exclusion, and with right, from the Republic of even a heathen philosopher P Can a poem which implies, as does the Dream of Gerontius, 142 NEWMAN~ S POEMS. that creatures can be more merciful than their Creator, stand the test of Platos cel- ebrated rule? From this reflection we pass by a natural transition to our last subject of inquiry: from the consideration of the poetic value of Dr. Newmans verse to the yet more in- teresting endeavour to learn from it, as a crucial instance, what it profits a soul to turn, as inadequate to its needs, from the voice which, once for all, went forth from the holy hill of Zion; and to seek to supple- ment its utterances by the oracle of the seven hills. Let us briefly sum up the evi- dence here presented of the consequences of such a course, and dwell for a moment upon them. The writer (in 1835) of the poem on Rest evidently believed with the elder Church (whose teaching on this point is adopted for her own by the English Church, and recommended to her children upon every All-Saints Festival), that the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them. The author of the Dream of Gerontius has learned, instead, to look forward, with an heroic but sad composure, to death as the beginning of sorrows even to the holy sorrows of unknown intensity as to their sharpness, and as to their duration indefi- nite. Can he point to one single verse of Scripture which will justify his new teacher in thus making sad a heart which the Lord has not made sad? In Rest, and in other poems (now wholly suppressed) of the Lyra Apostol- ica, their author rejected the invocation of saints to place exclusive confidence in the One Intercessor; he altogether refused to follow their example, who Seek to charms of man, or saints above, To aid them against Thee, Thou Fount of grace and love! He exclaimed, in accents of genuine and fervent affection Ah, Saviour, Lord! with Thee my heart Angel nor saint shall share; To Thee tis known, for man Thou art, To soothe each tumult there.~~ Is it well to have learned to divide this confidence? to look forward to a death-bed which others than He who died for us are to be called to soothe? For Gerontius calls on two names beside His in that last agony when the soul instinctively falls back upon its deepest certainties. His pious friends, and the good priest who kneels be- side him, commend him to other advocates, to other mediators; as though to supply by their intercession the deficiencies or the in- differences of the True One. The Angel of the Agony pleads on behalf of souls in purgatory with Him who endured that very agony for their sake; and meantime the great Intercessor remains mute the Re- deemer seems unmindful of His own sure promise * to admit all spirits faithfully com- mended to Him that day into paradise. Is not the loss to a Christian heart, implied in this lowered conception of the chief ob- ject of its faith, an inconceivably great one? Can any gain in inferior departments of the spiritual life be otherwise than trifling when set beside it? Is the gayer tone of the bal- lads in honour of the blessed Virgin and of the saintly founder of the oratory, which find a place in this new volume, a really more satisfactory symptom than the stern and sorrowful notes which came from the same lyre in earlier days? If the latter pointed to a deficiency as yet unsupplied, to a fear not yet cast out, do not the former mark a descent to a lower level, a relinquishing of high truths once held, which it is painful to contemplate? Nay, more: is not the theology of the later poems, after all, but the natural out- growth of that root of bitterness which a close inspection might discern springing up amid all the promise of the earlier? For in those, despite of the occasional flashes of a more childlike confidence, was not there very discernible a prevailing tendency to interpose an awful interval (which the Gos- pel interposes not) between the sinner and the Saviour? to bid those still stand afar off whom a gracious voice commands to draw near? That grand hymn of the uni- versal Church, the. Te Deum, claims for the Christian the high privilege of beholding his Redeemer in his Judge. Do not even the early poems tend to reverse the process, to renounce the blessing: and train the mind, instead, to see with Gerontius, The Judge severe, een in the Crucifix? Then, as in the original corruption of the religion of Christendom, so to the individ- ual also comes the Nemesis of faith; to claim for the many the trust refused to the One; to extend into another life the terni for the accomplishment of a work which it is felt to be impossible to complete in this. Nevertheless, the defects of Dr. New- mans theology must not render us insensi- ble to what is great and good in it. In * How this promise was interpreted by the prim- itive Church, Prudentius, the poet ofthe martyrs, bears witness to us in his grand hymn, In Exe quiis Defunctorum. NEWMANS POEMS. what he would (on far other grounds to ours) agree with us in calling its imperfec- tion thirty years ago, it stirred mightily the men of that generation, because its teacher held the truih that was in it firmly, and preached it boldly nay, perhaps its par- tial truth found a way into some hearts which would have closed against the truth orbed in completeness. Is it too much to hope that the light which burns behind stran,,e medieval shapes in the Dream of Gerontius, may attract some wanderer now, who might have found that same light too dazzling presented through a purer me- dium? In these days of materlalism every ex- pression of faith in the Unseen has its value. Now that the reality of moral evil is denied on every side, each testimony to mans need of deliverance from sin is precious. Nor can we read the Dream of Gerontius without envying its gifted author his clear perception that holiness is worth any sacri- fice and any suffering; and that to see the Lord is an unmistakable joy, which would be cheaply purchased by millenniums of anguish. For a mind more earthly, for a heart less faithful than his own to venture to reprove him for the dishonour (great, but uninten- tional) which he has done to his Master and ours, would be presumptuous. Let a voice from .the grave speak for us. Let Dr. New- mans friend in earlier and happier times, with whom, while it could yet be said of that little hand, Unh docta cohors arma tenet mann, Muros construit alter& , he stood shoulder to shoulder in the work of defence and construction, where he has since attacked and thrown down, the saintly author of the Christian Year, make answer in our behalf. Let him reply for us that it was the baseless dream of a dis- eased imagination, That showed the righteous suffering still, Upon the eternal shore. ~ Let him answer the strongest argument for purgatory the seeming impossibility of attaining here the holiness needful for the enjoyment of heaven by de6laring, that to doubt the accomplishment on earth of the work of sanctification in the saved, is to doubt the Word of Him who is Himself the Truth. Fear not, for He hath sworn; Faithful and true His name. * Christian Year. Surely the time is short; Endless the task and art, To brighten for the ethereal court, A soiled earth-drudging heart. But He, the dread Proclaimer of that hour, Is pledged to thee iu I~ove, as to Thy foes in power. His shoulders hear the key; He opens who can close? Closes and who dare open ? He Thy souls misgiving knows. If He come quick, the mightier sure will prove His Spirit in each heart that timely strives to love. * When the poem which contains these stanzas first appeared, its place in the Lyra Apostolica was just before New- mans David and Jonathan. How must its neighbours well-remembered line He bides with us who dies; he is but lost who lives, have rung in the deserted friends mind, as Keble sat down alone on the spot (ever after sacred to that bitter recollection) to read the letter which, as he said, ~ told me that Newman had left us! Of those two friends first and last meeting after- wards, we have the deeply interesting record from Newmans own pen.~ He has described how, after the lapse of many years, he entered Kebles door, and sat in converse with him, and with a third whose name has been often associated with theirs. Kebles playful exclamation at parting, When shall we three meet again? has a solemn sound now, as we remember that it was the last meeting of those three in this world. Yet when is infinitely less important, as applied to the final assem- bling, than how? And thinking of the faith, obscured by later accretions, but not destroyed, in the book we have been exam- ining, let us anticipate the manner of the meeting for the two wearied and scarred veterans who remain, in the words of their fellow-champion who has already entered into his rest 0 then the glory and the bliss, When all that pained or seemed amiss, Shall melt with earth and sin away! When saints beneath their Saviours eye, Filled with each others company, Shall spend th eternal day! St. Marks Day: Christian Year. So may the touching hnes which will fitly close our remarks on their great writer find fulfilment in his own case. It was while * Kebles Minor Poems. t Coleridges Life of Keble. ~ Ibid. 143 144 NEWMANS POEMS. he was girding himself up for the great work which he had to do in England * that Newman invoked that Light (by warn- ing fears of sinning against which he was then haunted), in a strain probably familiar to many readers who are strangers to his other works. Nevertheless we cannot omit what still, after the lapse of near forty years, constitutes its authors surest title to a place in the ranks of that goodly com- pany, the hymn-writers of the universal Church. In every prayer of this their lost leader, his fellow-Churchmen once, his fellow-Christians still, may not dare to join. But this one no man can refuse. May it be accomplished, as for those who now repeat, so for him who first framed, it, when the darkness shall at length be past, and the shadows flee away! * Newmans Apologia. Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on! I loved to choose and see my path, but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will remember not past years. So long Thy power bath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on, Oer moor and fen, oer crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. MY LOVE. Mv love is pale, but in her cheeks Faint rosy flushes come and go, That gather slightly when she speaks, And sometimes deepen to a glow. She seems most like a young white rose, Within whose heart a blush is set, Softly unfolding as it grows But ah, I have not found her yet! Her eyes are blue such sweet blue eyes! Her white lids veil them from your sight; But now and then a smile will rise, And fill them suddenly with light; And when she hears of some distress, And on the lashes tears are wet, They look with such pained tenderness But ah, I have not found her yet! Across her brow in even braids Is smoothly laid her glossy hair; My love has need of no false aids, Or tricks of dress to make her fair. She does not need from silken trains A gorgeous dignity to get; In her soft homely dress she reigns But ah, I have not found her yet! She wins your heart a hundred ~ays Laying a light hand on your arm, Shewing in all she does and says A native deferential charm, Moving about with quiet grace; Such little things you soon forget, Although they steal your love apace But ah, I have not found her yet! Her image in my heart I wear; My love, my faith, are all her own; I keep my life prepared for her When she shall come and take her throne. I dream of what the world will seem So much more bright when we have met; I wonder, is it all a dream? For ah, I have not found her yet! Chambers Journal. IN a recent number of Les Jtfondes Dr. A Bone calls attention to the fact that a great many scientific publications of the northern and easterly parts of Europe remain almost un- known, except in the countries where the lan- guages (Swedish, Danish, Finnish, Lithuanian, Russian, Czech, Slavonic, Magyar, Polish, Neo- Greek, and Roumanian, and even Dutch) in which they are published are spoken. The au- thor suggests that it would be an advantage if, for each of these publications, either a full trans- lation or an abstract of the papers were simul- taneously published in French, English, or Ger man. Nature. Tins Government of Nicaragua has sent an expedition under Mr. Sonnenstern, a civil engi- neer, to examine whether the River Coco can be made navigable. The report of Mr. Sonnen- stern, which is favourable, has been published in the Gazette of Nicaragua. The river has hitherto been little known. The Indians are stated to be indolent and docile, and might, by contact with settlers, be civilized. Nature. DOROTHY FOX. 145 CHAPTER XXVII. EQUAL TO THE OCCASION. WHEN Lady Laura Verschoyle left Dyne Court she promised to write to Mr. Ford on their arrival in Egmont Street, and said that she should then expect to hear when they might see him there. They had now been at home more than a week, and al- though she feared that Audrey was not yet in a state to receive her eligible admirer, she could not longer delay writing to Mr. Ford. Now, thought her ladyship, I must so word this note that his fears will not be unduly excited, for his anxiety might bring him to town at. once. But I should like him to know that Audrey is too unwell to bear any agitation. Dear me, how thank- ful I shall be when it is all settled, and she is married! I cannot stand these worries~ as I once did. She sat thinking thus for some time, and then wrote : My DEAR Ma. FORD, I have been want- ing so much to write to ~QU ever since my re- turn home, which was on Saturday. ( Per- haps, she said, hell think that means the day before yesterday.) I know you are very anxious to hear about our dear Audrey. What a comfort it is for me to remember that now I have some one who has a right to share all my troubles on her account! Dear girl, I wish I could give a more satisfactory account of her. Her nervous system continues in such a sensitive state, that Dr. Kenlis says the slight- est excitement might bring a relapse. Still, he assures me there is no cause for anxiety. By the end of another month, if his directions are attended to, and she is kept perfectly quiet, she will be quite her former self. Of course I feel bound to comply with his injunctions, although, I confess, I am greatly tempted to disobey them, and ask you to come and see us. I do not think she will put up with this restriction much longer. She is constantly speaking of your promised visit. I dare not tell her that I am writing, for she would insist on seeing the letter, and she has no idea of her own weak- ncss. This is the reason why you have no mes- sage from her. I cannot tell you, dear Mr. Ford, how eagerly I look forward to certan coming events, or how sure I feel that in en- trusting my beloved child to your keeping I am securing her happiness, and the happiness of her mother as well. Yours most truly and affectionately, LAURA VERsOstoTLE. Now I dont think I have said so much as will lead him to come; nor so little that he will fancy we dont want him. I think I shall have another conversation with Audrey. She must he brought round, of course. I cannot think what madness has LIVING AGE. VOL. XIX. 844 seized her. She gives no reason, but, like a parrot, senselessly repeats, I cannot help it. If you let him come here, I know I shall refuse him. It is really moro than human nature can endure. Job, indeed! I never read that he had a trial of this kind. However, she shall have no new dresses; and I am determined that I shall neither ask any one here, nor take her anywhere. I think if I can carry out this plan I am sure to succeed. I have put forth every effort to find out what she means, and I have tried Marshall in every way, but I dont believe she knows anything either, although shes as artful as can be. Never during the whole course of her life had her ladyship been so much puzzled. Audrey had tried by every means to avoid being left alone with her mother, as she was sure the conversation would turn upon the one subject. At Hastings these ma- n~uvres were comparatively easy; but now opportunities were constantly occurring, and she had to listen to long dissertations on the impossibility of their continuing to live in the same style; Lady Laura urging that she must give up her carriage. After despatching her letter to Mr. Ford, her ladyship went into the dining room, where her daughter was writing. She meant to try her skill once more. What a dismal day this is, to be sure! November in London is quite unbearable; one ought to be in excellent health to endure this continual fog and rain. I dont think we have had much cause to complain of the weather yet, mamma: yes- terday was a lovely day. Well, my dear, perhaps you are able to enjoy things more than I can. My spirits are so bad, that it makes little difference to inc whether the day be bright or gloomy. The disappointments I have had have been rather too much for me. But I am foolish to talk of them, for only sensitive people have any feeling for the sufferings of others. I often think of dear Lady Lascelles. She used to say I was the only one who could give her any comfort, because I so entirely sympathized with her. Poor thing! what a martyr she was confined to her room for years, and often for months not able to see one of her family! Ah! Mary had a great deal to answer for. Why? said Audrey; what had Mary to do with it? What had Mary to do with it! re- turned Lady Laura in an injured tone. Why, everything. Until she gave up Sir Henry Skipwith and disgraced herself by running away with the tutor, her poor mother was as well as I am. 146 DOROTHY FOX. Nonsense, mamma; Lady Lascelles was not taken ill for more than two years after Marys marriage. Besides, she had rheumatic gout. Excuse me, Audrey. From the time when that ungrateful girl left her home, Lady Lascelles never knew a moments peace of mind. Though the world chose to say she had rheumatic gout, those who loved her knew she died of a broken heart. Of course it was two years before her family noticed it. Just as it is with me. I might be walking into my grave, and until I was on the very brink of it, neither you nor Charles would imagine that I was weaker than yourselves. However, that does not much matter. When I am gone you may see differently. But I have not much to live for. I used to think that I should see my children settled and well established. I was foolish enough to think they would be pleased to see their mother happy; but all that is gone now. The one pretends that he cannot marry because he does not feel a proper amount of affection for a pretty girl with a handsome fortune. The other has not even that poor excuse; to an offer of every luxury and refinement that money can procure a country seat, a town house, horses, carriages, diamonds, and carte-blanche to spend whatever she pleases her only reply is: Dont let me see him. I cannot help it: I know I shall refuse him. I never knew that there was madness in the family, but this looks ex- ceedingly like it. Dont say any more, mamma, said Audrey. All the bitter things you could say would not equal my own surprise. If I do not marry Mr. Ford, it will be because I cannot, not because I will not. If you would give me some reason I could listen more patiently to these ravings. You must know the cause. Is there any one else you think of marrying? No. I do not suppose any one else will give me the opportunity. Well! laughed Lady Laura scornfully, I am glad to find you have so much sense left. I quite agree with you there. For the last three weeks you have looked five-and-thirty your eyes are dull, not half their usual size, and the lines under them are worse than mine. Your hair has lost its gloss, and has just that look hair always has before it falls off. Begging that Mr. Ford may not see you, indeed! I am not quite sure that you need alarm your- self. There are not many men who would care to ask you to sit at the head of their table as you are looking at present. Then, finding Audrey made no answer, she continued, Sometimes I think you must have a hopeless fancy for some one, or have fallen in love with a mauvais suet. Had I done so you would certainly have found it out, replied her daughter bitterly. See how very soon you dis- covered that Mr. Dvnecourt was dying to marry Miss Bingham. So he was, said Lady Laura; and I have no doubt that he will effect his pur- pose now. I saw him yesterday talking to her in Bond Street. He was leaning in at the brougham window, devouring every word she said. He turned to see who she bowed to, turned crimson, and gave me the stiffest salutation. I am sure he need not have troubled himself to be so distant. He may marry the niece, and the aunt too, for aught I care. Audrey closed her desk, and walked out of the room. She went slowly up-stairs, and, locking the door after her, sat down before the mirror pale and care-worn Would he care for her now? The tears dropped one by one until they fell in a thick shower. So soon forgotten: his love transferred to another! Devouring every word she said. It could only be her moth- ers exaggeration; it could not be true. But the thought rankled, and she found herself hating the girl who could look upon his face and hear his voice, while she sat hungering there as helpless as a prisoner bound hand and foot. Soon afterwards her mother tapped at the door. I have just had a letter from your aunt Spencer, she said; she wants us to go to Beauwood on Thursday for a few days. The Delvins are there. She is sure to be offended if we refuse; and yet I do not care about taking you from home just now.~~ Why do you not go by yourself? My illness is sufficient excuse for me. No- body ~ou care about need know you have gone. I should be back on Saturday, said Lady Laura. But how will you get on alone? Oh! I shall do very well. I would rather not go, but I think it may do you good. Well, I really hope so, replied her ladyship, for I require some change. So if you think you will not be very dull alone, I shall accept. She only asks me until Sat- urday, so I shall be sure to be home then, DOROTHY FOX. 147 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE EXCEPTION PROVES THE RULE. NEXT morning, when the letter-bag was brought to Mr. Ford, he disposed of all his correspondence before he opened the letter from Lady Laura. Having carefully read it twice, he slowly folded it up, and said to himself 1 believe this woman is playing me false in some way; and I cant help thinking that young Dynecourt is connected with it. I knew something had gone wrong in that quarter when he left in such a hurry; but I thought it was all on his side. The girl has been too well drilled into the idea of making a good match to allow her feelings to carry her away. Still, things dont look clear. I am very fond of Audrey, and, as I must marry, I would prefer her to any woman I have seen. Theres a great deal of good in her which that Lady Jezebel hasnt been able to root out. I know if she married me of her own free will shed try to make me happy; but I dont want her to be forced into it if she is attached to somebody else. During the day Ill think how I had best act to get at the truth. Be- fore I see her I shall just call upon Mr. Dynecourt, casually mention her name, and then enter into a little conversation about the Verschoyles. In this way I am likely to see if there is anything underhand going on not that I think its likely. I can trust the young folks, but not her ladyship; shes a slippery customer, and could wrig- gle herself in or out of anything. The result of these reflections was that Mr. Ford determined to go to town on the Thursday morning, and stay a few days. Arrived in London, he went first to the Temple, apparently on some business. Finding Geoffrey Dynecourt much occupied, he secured his company for dinner that evening, and then made some other calls. From Mrs. Winterton he heard that Miss Verschoyle seemed quite recovered. The Verschoyles had been in town about a fort- night, she thought; and she had met them driving, but they had not yet called upon her. When Miss Biugham came in, she could speak of nothing but an afternoon party her uncle was going to give. It is an idea of mine, Mr. Ford, and you must tell me what you think of it. You know, my uncle has an immense conservatory, which can be beautifully lighted. I proposed that he should invite a number of people; en- gage some musicians, give us some tea, and after that let us go about, and talk, you know. Aunt declares it will be a failure, but I am sure it wont. The conservatory can be nicely warmed, and some of the plants removed, and others grouped about. I think it is charming, and people will be delighted to come, because they have no- where to go at this time of year. It sounds very nice, said Mr. Ford. I am sure if you look after things it will go off well. Thats just it, said Mrs. Winterton; Selina always talks a great deal befoi~e~ hand. When once she gets there, she will sit down with two or three of her friends, and iiever so much as think how the rest are getting on. Now, aunt, I am sure I shall do noth- ing of the kind. You must promise to come, Mr. Ford; and, oh! I wish Miss Verschoyle would come, she talks so well. You might persuade her. My dear Selina, said Mrs. Winterton, you forget that Lady Laura has not called upon us yet. Oh! but I dont believe Miss Vers- choyle would mind that, and Lady Laura told us she intended to call. Ill tell her how much you wish it, re- plied Mr. Ford, smiling at Miss Binghams unusual enthusiasm. I dare say I shall manage something. When is it to be? This day week. I do not want the invitation to be a long one, because it is to appear quite an impromptu affair. My uncle is not married, you know, so I am sending out the invitations for him. Well, then, as I am likely to see Miss Verschoyle to-day or to-morrow, shall I take her a card? Thank you, that Would be much nicer than sending it; and you could explain matters to her. Mr. Ford did not intend to call at Eg- mont Street until the next day. He had determined, before seeing Audrey, to have a little conversation with Geoffrey Dyne- court. So that evening, as they sat to- gether over their wine, the elder gentlema*i introduced the subject in a very easy man- ner, although he saw that his companion tried to evade the subject and change the conversation. I shall call at Egmont Street to-mor- row, and then I must tell Miss Verschoyle that you dined with me, and chatted over the days we all spent together, said Mr. Ford. At that moment Geoffrey Dynecourt hated the old man. Why should Mr. Ford be his successful rival always? Why should he possess the old lands, and likewise come between him and the woman he worshipped? Dynecourt could not command his voice to 148 DOROTHY FOX. reply, fearing he might utter some of the bitter things it seemed so hard to keep back. I saw Miss Biugham to-day, Mr. Ford went on, taking no notice of his guests si- lence. She is a nice girl, and I think would make a very nice wife. You should have tried your hand there. Should I? answered Geoffrey. Well, its not too late yet; I have promised to go down to some party her uncle is giving at Ealing. How much money has she 1 What! is that to be the charm for you, Dynecourt? You see I dont expect you to be like most of the young men of the pres- ent day. I dont see how one can help it, said Mr. Dynecourt bitterly. Some one says, God made the woman for the man; the world rather makes the man for the woman. Only fools fall in love, and they are laughed at by the very idols they bow down to. Money is the charm by which a man can win a woman s heart. Perhaps Miss Bing- ham, having a fortune, may be willing to barter it for something else. Dynecourt is not a bad name, although it is threadbare. It and the family pedigree might weigh a little in the scale of an heiress, whose blood is not of the purest blue. Dont talk like that, my dear fellow, said Mr. Ford; there are true-hearted women as well as true-hearted men. Are there? he replied. I dont be- lieve it. They died out with our mothers. Women now teach us to have no faith in anything. If we are selfish, who is to cure us? If we are hardened, and worn by the world, who is to redeem us? The friends of a reckless man look forward to marriage as his salvation, his last hope; and if wo- men have no higher aims than we have, are our superiors in cunning, and at least our equals in want of heart, in greed, and in love of self, what is there but hopeless misery for both? Mr. Ford shook his head. You are too hard, he said; you must remember, women are human. Yes; and let them be true to their na- ture, and their very faults become dear. If you love a woman with your whole heart, and she loves you in return; and if, because of that divine bond, she is willing to make the best of you, and of herself, and of the life she hopes to spend with you, to others she may be stupid, weak, and frivolous, but she is the Eve of your Paradise. I be- lieve clever women are a snare to lead one on to destruction. Miss Bingham has not that drawback, so wish me success, sir. Not I, said Mr. Ford gravely, be cause I do not believe success would bring happiness. Happiness! replied Mr. Dynecourt, laughing; I blotted that word out long ago. But it is getting late, and I am keep- ing you up, sir. Good night, he said; but he could not help adding, When you repeat our tete4z-tete to Miss Verschoyle, do not omit the latter part. I feel quite safe in her knowing my opinion of her sex, as, of course, the exception proves the rule in her case. CHAPTER XXIX. BEST FOR BOTH. ABOUT two oclock next day Mr. Ford presented himself at 27A, Egmont Street, and inquired for Lady Laura Verschoyle. He was told that she was out of town, stay- ing at Beauwood for a few days. Miss Versehoyle was at home, however, would he see her? Cert~ainly, said he, very much pleased that he had timed his visit so well; and he was ushered into Audreys presence. Mr. Ford! she exclaimed, starting up, This is quite unexpected; I had no idea you were in town. Well, I am only paying a flying visit, he answered; and I was anxious to see if you were looking stronger. Oh yes! thank you. I am quite strong now. Then, trying vainly to ~regain her usual composed manner, she went on ner- vously, Mamma isnt at home; she will be so sorry not to have seen you; she is stay- ing with my aunt, Lady Spencer. Have you had luncheon? Yes, thank you, my dear. I did not look forward to having the pleasure of see- ing you alone. Are you not very dull in this house all by yourself? I! Oh no, I rather like it; though I am almost well, I am not quite strong yet, so I do no.t take kindly to gaiety. Mr. Ford then asked Miss Versehoyle various questions about her health, and the benefit she had derived from the sea-air. While seemingly engrossed by her account of herself, he was noting her unusual ner- vousness, her heightened colour, and an evident struggle to be at ease. These things were very new to the usual self-pos- session and repose of Audreys manner. After a time she began to recover herself, and to direct all her tact and energy to keeping the conversation from any but gen- eral subjects. Richard Ford was a keen observer. During his busy life he had been accus- tomed to watch men and their motives nar DOROTHY FOX. 149 rowly. From the time he began to take an may make a man or woman marry for money, interest in Audrey, he had gauged her and and as long as they have no other attach- her mother with tolerable correctness. He ment I should not blame them. But if some formed an opinion not wide of the mark, other person possessed their heart, I should when he thought, I believe for some rea- consider them to be acting wrongly. What son that this girl does not want me to pro- is your opinion? pose to her yet. Well! I will leave that to Why do you ask me P replied Audrey circumstances. But as I may not get such coldly. another opportunity as this, I will sound For two reasons: I should much like to her about Dynecourt ; so he said sud- hear your ideas on the subject, knowing denly, they would be mature and sound. Then, I have a message for you from Mr. Mr. Dynecourt made some very bitter re- Dynecourt. marks about women last night, especially as Audreys blood seemed to withdraw, that to their want of love and faith. He said that it might rush back with greater force to her they would sacrifice every feeling for money, face and neck, and dye them crimson. To and that it was the true elixir by which meet Mr. Fords gaze was impossible; so alone their hearts were touched. He after- she gave a little nervous laugh, and said, wards bade me repeat his sentiments to you, Indeed! how Qdd! saying that you might safely hear them, Odd! echoed Mr. Ford; why? I as you had proved yourself an exception to thought you were great friends. Are you the rule. not so? Then tell him from, me that it was mean Oh! I liked Mr. Dynecourt much; but and cowardly of him, said Audrey, flashing one does not always keep up acquaintance- up; I am neither better nor worse than ships formed when visiting. most other women. I devoutly wish I No, but I thou,:,ht he was going to call were; and so saying, she rose abruptly here often, and that you took a kindly in- and went to the window. terest in him. Mv suspicions were correct, then, But he has not called yet. thought Mr. Ford. I believe she loves I am surprised to hear that, answered him; at least there is something between Mr. Ford; I shall tell him you have been them that is hiAden from me. Should I be alone, and expected him. wise is asking her to be my wife? I think Oh, thank you, Mr. Ford, said Au- I could trust her, it may be only a pass- drey; adding, I would rather you wouldnt ing fancy she js struggling to overcome. say anything, but leave it to himself. But what if it should be more! I believe Audrey never looked up while this was I might trust her still. being said; for she felt Mr. Fords eyes In a minute Audrey turned round, say- were upon her. And she was correct; he ing, in her old gracious way, Pray for- was watching her narrowly. give my irritability, Mr. Ford; a little more I am afraid, he said, there has been allowance is made for invalids than for other some little misunderstanding between you people. that you will not tell me about. I am sorry My dear, dont speak of it. I do not for this, as I wanted your assistance about want you to be vexed with our good friend him. He is a great favourite of mine, and Dynecourt, for I am sure he has no inten- I fear he is going to do a very foolish tion of offending you. Perhaps, poor fellow, thing. he is only h~lting between two evils. What is that? said Audrey eagerly, When I saw hihci, he was determined to try forgetting herself in her anxiety for him. for an appointment in India, a horrid, I need not say I am only telling this to unhealthy country, and complete banish- you, Miss Verschoyle. ment. I suppose it is not decided yet, but She nodded in assent. I hoFe hell not. get it. Well, then, last night, over our cigars, Oh no! said poor Audrey eagerly; he told me that he thought of marrying. beg him not to try, Mr. Ford. You may Thou~,h he paused, Audrey could not say a ask him, from me, not to go there. word; she seemed as if turned to stone. I think it would have much greater Of course, that is quite as it should be. weight with him if you asked him yourself. The thing I object to is, that having appar- I am the bearer of an invitation to you, ently bad some disappointmeicit, which has similar to one which Mr. Dynecourt has al- made him bitter, he intends to propose to a ready accepted; and Mr. Ford told Au- certain young friend of ours, not because he drey of the afternoon party, at which Miss thinks she will make him happy, but because Bingham was so anxious Audrey should be she has a fortune. Many circumstances present. 150 DOROTHY FOX. Audrey was strongly tempted to accept the invitation. Her one longing now was to see Geoffrey Dynecourt again. Love had almost proved victorious. She knew what her decision would be had the choice to he made again between love and money. She had argued and taken herself to task in every possible way. Sometimes she had fancied her worldly wisdom had convinced her of the folly of her passion. But some trivial circumstance, some passing thought would bring it back with renewed strength. There had been times, too, when she felt she must write to Geoffrey, and ask him to come to her. She would tell him how she repented, how she suffered. But what if he had ceased to love her, if he hated, scorned her? No! she could not write. In times gone by she had not hesitated to show her preference openly, but now she could not make an advance, although the happiness of her life seemed to depend on it. But at a word or a sign from him she could lay her very heart bare. No wonder, then, that any chance of a meeting seemed to her like hope revived. Mr. Ford saw her hesitation, and said. Your mamma, I believe, intends to call upon Mrs. Winterton. I hardly know how to do, hut I think I will write a note and say I should like very much to go, but as mamma is from home I cannot positively accept, not knowing what engagements she may have made. When do you go back? To-morrow; hut I shall return next week, when I hope to make a longer stay. I feel rather dull at home, now that all my friends have left me. I am sure you must; a large house like yours always seems to need a large party in it, replied Audrey. Yes, said Mr. Ford; and yet I could be very happy and contented with a companion who would let me take a great interest in all she did, and in return kindly take some interest in my favourite pur- suits. Audrey gave a faint smile; they were nearing dangerou8 ground. Still she made no effort to change the subject, as she would have done at the beginning of Mr. Fords visit. The conversation regarding Geoffrey Dynecourt had stirred within her a host of conflicting feelings hitter anger, tender love, and dread of Geoffreys marrying or of his going abroad. She knew now that whenever Mr. Fords offer came she had but one answer that she could give to him. Mr. Ford greatly wished to have the mat- ter settled. He knew that if Miss Vers- choyle said No, he would be disappoint- ed. He did not for a moment expect such an answer. He thought he would at all events broach the subject, and then let things drift on or not, according to circum- stances. After a pause he continued, I am often tempted to be bold enough to ask some lady to marry me; 1 think that is, I would try to make her happy. I am sure you would, said Audrey en- couragingly. It was so much easier for her to speak now. Mv dear Miss Verschoyle, I dare say you will think it very foolish of an old man like me not to marry somebody of my own age. But I am ambitious enough to wish my wife to be a very beautiful young lady. Indeed, said Audrey. Yes. Do you think it shows great want of sense? asked the old gentleman, some- what nervously. I do not, replied Audrey. I am sure many young ladies would he very pleased to accept you. As young as yourself? Yes. I would rather marry you, Mr. Ford, than many young men I know. Then, my dear Miss Verschoyle, will you accept me? for I have been hold enough to hope I might see you mistress of Dyne Court. Audrey waited for a moment, and then said, gravely, Mr. Ford, you have done me an honour of which 1 am very unworthy. If I were to accept it, I should be still more unworthy of it. You know I value your wealth, and I think you know that I truly value your many good qualities. If I married you, I should wish to make you happy, and it is because I feel that I could not do it that I say No. Mr. Ford was silent. At length he said, Miss Versehoyle, you must not be offend- ed at my asking it, but are not your feel- ings altered in some way since you left Dyne Court? I think I should have had a different answer there; your mother wished me to consider your acceptance as certain. I believe mamma very much wished it; and at one time I greatly desired it myself. Even now I very much regret that it is best for both of us that I must decide as I do. I have not dealt quite fairly with you, and I am sorry you feel it. I f~ar I shall fall in your estimation, and lose a friend I truly value. One question more, Miss Verschoyle, and pray dont think it impertinent. Are you going to marry some one else? Then your heart is still free? I think my answers have come to an DOROTHY FOX. 151 end, Mr. Ford. I am very, very sorry I have misled you, but I do not refuse you in order to secure my happiness with another. Audrey rose, as if to intimate that the interview had best terminate. The old man took her hand, and said, My dear, I have no wish to pry into your secret; you have acted honourably towards me, and in keeping with the char- acter I always gave you credit for. If I could do anything to secure your happiness, believe me I would do it. I have had too many trials in life for disappointments to have the keenness and bitterness they have in youth. Yet this is a disappointment to me. But I shall strive to overcome it, so that I may rejoice with all my heart when I see you the happy wife of a worthy hus- band. Audrey could not speak. The tears were falling from her eyes, but she tried to smile on the kindly old man, who, she felt, had more goodne~s of nature than she had be- fore discovered. I shall come again ,he said, shaking her hand. Not just immediately, but soon; until then, good bye, my dear, good-bye. And he hurried away, saying to himself as he went, That girl has a noble nature, in spite of her up-bringing! 1 be- lieve now its something about Dynecourt. After pondering for some time, he sighed, thinking, Well, its all for the best, I sup- pose; but oh! if it had but pleased God to have spared my poor Patty! It is hard at my age to be trying to begin life afresh, as it were! CHAPTER XXX. I SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEE. DurnxG the week the fashionable chron- icle of the day announced that Lady Laura Versehoyle and Miss Verschoyle had ar- rived at their residence, 27A, Egmont Street, and that Captain C. Egerton Vers- choyle had taken his departure for the north. But it did not intimate that Miss Dorothy Fox had left Fryston Grange for Holberton Hall, Leeds. Still, so it was; and on the day fixed Mrs. Hanbury went to the Great.No~thern Railway Station to see Dorothy depart. Grace had observed with anxiety that there was a change in her sister. Her spirits had been uneven, and her gaiety forced, and there was a nervousness in her appearance quite foreign to her nature. I am so sorry to leave thee, Grace, she said. And I, dear, am sorry to part with you. We shall miss you dreadfully. You must write me all the north-country news. And, Dolly, after you have visited the Crewdsons let me know what they are like; and, she whispered, laughing, you must tell me whether you intend to marry Josiah or not. I can tell thee that now, said Dorothy, with a tremor in her voice, I have made up my mind I cannot like Josiah. Then, my dear child, why are you go- ing to Leeds! But there was no time to answer, the train was already in motion, and in a few minutes it was out of sight. Dorothys words added to Graces per- plexity. I have been wrong, she thought, to let her see so much of Captain Vers- choyle. But it hever occurred to me she would take any fancy to him. Perhaps he may have seen the impression he was pro. ducing, and so have hurried his departure. I am sure he is too honourable to take any advantage. But I am certainly to blame; I ought to have been more careful. Poor littile Dolly! And all the way home, and during the day, Grace was anxiously think- ing thus about her young sister. Nor was she the only person whose mind seemed to he filled and possessed with thoughts of Dorothy. Every day since his arrival at Darington Captain Verschoyle had gone into York to meet the train by which he expected that Dorothy would come, and each day he had been disappointed. He made up his mind to go once more, and then to call upon her aunt, and see if she had arrived without his seeing her. All the reflections and work- ings of Charles Versehoyles mind at this time it would be simply impossible for us to indicate. Sometimes he told himself that if he did not offer to marry the girl he would be an abominable vagabond, a black- guard who deserved to be kicked by every honourable man, and to be cut by every honest woman. At other times he said to himself that he was the greatest fool in the world. Who could believe that the grand- son of an earl, and an officer in a crack regiment, would give up everything and everybody to marry the daughter of a coun- try shopkeeper? The whole thing was ab- surd; and he must simply get out of the mess in the best way he could. When Dorothy did not arrive he worked himself into a fever, and finally made up his mind to call upon Miss Abigail Fletcher, who, to his surprise, was from home staying at Malton. The maid told him that she thought she had heard something about Miss Dorothy being expected. Jane would be sure to know; only Jane had a holiday, and wouldnt be back until Monday. So 152 DOROTHY FOX. until Monday Captain Versehoyle bad to Miss Crewdsons. She felt she had the wait, chafing in fear that something had courage to kill Josiahs hopes and crush his happened which would prevent him from dearest wish; hut how could she face seeing Dorothy again. Jemima and Kezia, after they knew she To Josiah Crewdson, Dorothys visit was did not intend to marry their brother? an event such as had never before occurred Yet what was to be done P She could not in his lifetime. As he stood waiting for stay a week there deceiving everybody. the train he felt quite sick and faint from No, it would he hetter to have it over excitement, oppressed with a nervous as soon as possible, and then go to Aunt dread that something unforeseen had de- Abigails at York. There she had fixed tamed her. But in another minute Dor- her longing hope of meeting Charles othy arrived, and soon Josiah was wildly Verschoyle once more only once. Dor- dashing against passengers and porters in othy was too young and unworldly to have order to possess himself of her luggage. any doubt of the man who knew that he - After the first greetings were over, Dorothy had her heart in his keeping. If it were was silent. Oppressed hy the feeling not for those dreadful sisters she would tell that she had nothing to say, she excused Josiah the very next day. But how would herself on the plea of heing tired, and they take it? what might they not do to Josiah, in his delight at seeing her, readily her P forgave her taciturnity. It was a pity that Dorothy could not Holberton Hall was a heavy-looking, have overheard the opinions which at that square, stone-built house. Josiah thought very time the sisters were exchanging with it had never hefore presented so dull and each other on their hrothers choice. Her gloomy an appearance, and he remarked, appearance they regarded with pious hor- apologetically, ror. She was a child, a baby-faced doll; My sisters dontt care for flowers, but and they charitably inferred that if she had the place might be made much more cheer- any sense, she took care that nobody should ful-looking. There is no occasion for my give her credit for it. They quoted the living here at all. We might get another Proverbs of Solomon so freely concerning house if thou liked, Dorothy. her, that had any one overheard them he Dorothy looked in the opposite direction, would have felt dubious as to Dorothys from coyness, as Josiah thought, hut moral character. Finally, they agreed in in reality to prevent him from seeing the declaring that they would not leave a stone tears with which her eyes were filled. Her unturned to prevent the entrance into the deception seemed to come before her in all Crewdson family of such a lackadaisical its fcrce, and she felt that she should be creature. miserable until she had told Josiah the real Next day, when Josiah had left, Jemima state of her mind, began to speak about Dorothys dress. The Miss Crewdsons came out to meet She said they were surprised to find that Dorothy, and delivered themselves of a set Dorothy had departed from that plainness speech of formal greeting. They seemed of apparel which it so much became Friends to regard her engagement as a settled to adhere to. Surely her parents could business; so that Dorothy felt herself to not approve of it. When Dorothy said be an impostor, felt as if she had come she had her parents sanction, both the into the family upon false pretences. Oh, sisters elevated their eyebrows with an air bow many times before the dreary evening of incredulity and astonishment. With no came to an end did. she wish that she had little emphasis, they said that such vanity gone direct from Fryston to her own home! would not be permitted in their brothers Josiah did all he could to amuse her, wife. She must be consistent, and wear a making, as Jemima afterwards said, a cap and bonnet suited to women whose complete mountebank of himself. But aims were higher than the adornment of it was all to iio purpose. The gloomy a miserable body which worms would soon house and the sombre room oppressed the destroy. girl; and the two stern, hard-featured Dorothy was silent. Only in this way women made her shy and timid. More could she keep down the tears which than all, the consciousness that she was threatened to come in a torrent. At an- acting deceitfully filled her with misery. other time her spirit would have been She rejoiced, therefore, when it was time roused, and she would have done battle to retire to her own room, although only bravely with the Miss Crewdsons for pre- for the satisfaction of indulging her grief, suming to lecture her for doing what she and sobbing herself to sleep. had her parents authority to do. But Dorothys chief perplexity was about the conscience makes cowards of us all, DOROTHY FOX. 153 and Dorothy knew she was acting wrongly. She felt she should never have placed her- self in this position. She could not defend herself without speaking of a decision which, until Josiah knew it, she had no ric~ht to mention to any of his family. Josiah was to return at five, and Dorothy thought that hour would never come. About three the sisters proposed to take her with them to visit the sick and poor. They said it was their day for ministering to the wants of their district. Dorothy, however, plucked up courage to refuse. This gave rise to many remarks on her want of charity and slothfulness. But the ckck warned them that unless they went off speedily, they could not return by the time Josiah would be home, and they left her. She was not long by herself, for the thought of Dorothy being at home to wel- come him had given such impetus to Jo- siahs usually slow and methodical move- ments, that his business was over hy three oclock. Before another hour had elapsed he was in his own dining-room, anxiously inquiring of Dorothy the cause of her tear- ful eyes and weary looks. Indeed, it is nothing, she answered, with quivering mouth; for even his tender- ness touched her now. For a moment there was silence, then with a sudden effort she said Josiah, I want to speak to thee very seriously. If we may he disturbed here, take me somewhere else. A sickly fear crept over Josiah. She does not like Jemima and Kezia, he thought to himself, and she is going to tell me that she cannot marry ~ Come into the garden, Dorothy; there is a summer-house there nobody ever goes to. On the way he said to her, ~ You mustnt mind sisthrs; they have not ways like thine. But then thou needst not see them often, and I would take care they should never worry thee. Dorothy did not answer. It would he quite different, he con- tinued. Here they are the mistresses, and they feel as if everything belonged to them. But when they only came as visitors it wouldnt be so, or if they were cross and cranky thou needst not mind, them. Oh! Dorothy, dont let them make any difference about me. Still she did not say a word until they reached the square formal summer-housq, with the bench along its sides, and the round table in the middle. When they were seated, she said,g Josiah, lam going to tell thee something which will make thee think very poorly of me. No, Dorothy, said Josiah, with a shake of his head, nothing can make me think poorly of thee. Thou knowest, she continued, that I like thee very much indeed. From the first time I saw thee I thought thee very good and kind, but I and here she paused. Do not love me, he said, finishing the sentence. I know that. I dont expect it to come all at once. Sometimes I fear that thou wilt find it impossible, I am so awk- ward and stupid: but, Dorothy, thou said thou wouldst try. Yes, I did; but, Josiah, and she leaned her arms on the table that she might cover her face with her hands, I cannot even try now. There was silence for several minutes, and then Josiah said in a husky voice, I ought to have known it. An uncouth fellow, not able even, to tell thee what I feel what else could I expect from thee? This thou might have expected, said Dorothy, looking at him fixedly, that hav- ing given thee and my father my word that I would try, I should have avoided all tempta- tion that might lead me to break that word. When I felt that I could never do as thou wished, I should have told thee, and not acted deceitfAly by coming here among thee and thy relations. Are sisters making thee decide thus? Thou hadst not made up thy mind before thou came here? Yes, I had. Josiahs face seemed to become suddenly sharp and old. Taking hold of her arm in his newly-awakened fear, he said, Doro- thy! Dorothy! it isnt somebody else? She gave him no answer. Oh! he groaned, resting his face upon the table, I didnt think of that, I didnt think of that. Josiah, dont give way like that, ex- claimed Dorothy, surprised and alarmed at the sight of his misery. Oh! what shall I do? she continued, as her tears fcll thick and fast upon his hands. Josiah immediately tried to recover him- self. I shall be all right in a minute, he said. Thou must not mind me only it came on me so sudden. Josiah, if I could only tell thee how sorry I am to grieve thee! I I thought it would disappoint thee, but I did not know it would pain thee like this. Didst thou not? he said, trying to smile. Ab! I have been a sad bungler, Dorothy. My love for thee made me dumb 154 DOROTHY FOX. when I most wanted to speak to thee. Does thy father know of this? Father! Oh no! But thou wilt tell him soon? Dorothy looked down as she answered slowly, I do not think I shall. II do not intend to marry anybody else. Not marry any one else, re- peated Josiah in amazement. Then have I misunderstood thee? Thou wouldst not willingly give me pain, I know, but, please Dorothy tell me the truth at once. Dost thou love some one, not only better than me but so well as to prevent thee from ever becoming my wife? Dorothy hesitated, but seeing his anxious face, she answered, Yes; hut, Josiah, oh! do listen. It is some one whom my principles forbid me to marry. I may never see him again, and if I do, I shall part with him for ever; and at the thought Dorothys firmness gave way, and she sobbed aloud. Josiah did not ask the name of his rival, hut he rightly guessed who he was. For- getting his own troubles, however, he now tried to soothe and comfort Dorothy. Thinking that she would feel more happy away from his family, he suggested, and she agreed, that it would be better for her to go to Au~t Abigail as soon as she could. Not the next day perhaps, because Aunt Abigail was still at Malton, but the day after. Her aunt would then be at home and aware of her movements. Jemima and Kezia were to be told nothing until after Dorothys de- parture, so that they might not tease and worry her with their cutting remarks. It was now considerably past five oclock, and they prepared to return to the house. Josiah, say that thou forgivest me, said Dorothy. With all my heart. And that thou wilt try to forget me? Never, I shall always love thee, Dorothy. Thou wouldst not wish to deprive me of that comfort? No, said Dorothy; and she felt, for the first time, that if she had never seen Charles Versehoyle, it would not have been quite impossible for her to have cared for Josiah Crewdson. A LEGAL VIEw or REVOLUTION. THE acts of a de facto Government are valid, whether it be or be not a de juTe Government. We do not, therefore, remarks the Law Journal, apprehend that the sudden revolution in France will lead to any practical difficulties. Yet the position of the Republic is exceptional, and from a legal point of view peculiar. A very few months ago 7,500,000 Frenchmen voted for the empire. The Corps Legislatif was elected according to the law of the Constitution. It ir yet acknowl- edged by the Provisional Government, as M. Rochefort is appointed a member of the Defence Committee because he is a deputy. The Cham- ber was Imperial by an overwhelming majority. We now find that an insignificant minority has proclaimed a Republic and set up a Provisional Government. Probably the Republic will be ac- cepted by the country, but we have no assurance that the opinions of the 7,500,000 who voted for the Empire are changed; and further, there is a protest of the majority of the Corps Legislatif against the republican coup-df tat. At pres- ent the de jure Government of France is the Emperor, and will continue so until the Repub- lic has been accepted by a popular vote. Can we say for the moment that the Provisional Government is the de facto Government of FrEnce? Are we right in assuming that twenty politicians inParis have rescinded the vote of 7,500,000 Frenchmen? The Provisional Gov- eminent ought to give foreign Governments some assurance that they are a defacto Govern- ment. We shall be told that the state of war- fare prevents an immediate appeal to the coun- try. But what did not prevent the turning out of the Imperial Government should not hinder the legal establishment of the new Government. At present a lawyer would rather hesitate to ad- vise that legally the French Government is either a de juTe or a defacto Government. PROFESSOR ORTON does not give a very en- couragin g account of the intellectual condition of Ecuador. He says Ecuador boasts one university and eleven colleges, yet the people are not educated. Literature, science, philoso- phy, law, and medicine, are only names: there is not a single bookstore in the city of Quito, and there are only four newspapers published in the whole of the Republic. In the schools the pupils study in concert aloud, Arab fashion. Yet Professor Orton adds that Chili has thought it worth her while lately to sign a convention 4vith Ecuador for an exchange of literary pro ductions! Nature. POLITICAL REPUTATIONS. 15~ From The Fortnightly Review. POLITICAL REPUTATIONS. IN one of the numerous tributes to the worth of the late Lord Clarendon which writers of every party have combined to render, it was said that few ministers can expect the posthumous fame which has some- times been won too cheaply in former g~n- erations. This statement is made in anti- cipation of the verdict of posterity, who are likely, it is supposed, to accord to the mem- ory of Lord Clarendon a less distinguished estimate than his solid services and great industry would have commanded fifty years ago. We have no intention of discussing either the past services or the future repu- tation of Lord Clarendon. But the theory which seems to rest a statesmans title to fame upon the practical work which he has accomplished, is suggestive of some inter- esting reflections, especially at a time when English ministers are so much before the public eye, and are so engrossed in legisla- tive work as they are required to be at the present day. It is a poor compliment, if not a mark of ingratitude, to the many able and meritori- ous politicians to whom England is indebted for the social and political progress of the last century, to say that it is not by services of this nature that the highest reputations have been won. Yet that is really the truth. It is surely a very striking circumstance that since the accession of the House of 1-lanover those statesmen who have made the deepest mark on their own generation, and have at- tracted most strongly the syInpathies of suc- ceeding ones, have not, as a rule, been men with whom the memory of great legislative measures is associated. The fame of Sir Robert Walpole is as fresh as it was a hun- dred years ago; yet what measure of con- sequence was passed during the whole of his long administration? Not one. Nor was this because no reforms were asked for, nor because public men in general were dis- inclined to take them up. When Lord Stanhope died in 1721, he had in preparation a measure for the relief of Roman Catholics, and lie had previously introduced one for the relief of Protestant Dissenters. The Peer- age Bill which had failed in 1719 was to have been revived in a less odious form; officers in the army were to be exempted from dismissal by the Crown except after trial by court-martial; and other measures of considerable practical importance were under consideration at the time, which at Walpoles accession to power were all quietly (Iropped, though having been in Stanhopes ministry he mtist have given an implied con- sent to them. Whether if Lord Stanhope had lived and carried all or any of these measures he would have enjoy~id the repu- tation of Walpole, is another question, and one we suppose which few would answer in the affirmative. But our present point is that Walpole did gain a high and enduring reputation as a great statesman and a valu- able public servant without troubling him- self at all about legislative work; without leaving behind him a single first-class meas- ure which bears his name. His fame is founded on his character. All the anecdotes of him that have been handed down to us are full of character. Nil te quwsiveris ex- tra was eminently applicable to him as to others of the same stamp. His influence upon the minds of all around him had not to be acquired by the tedious process of proving to them his legislative abilities. It was simply the moral ascendency of a strong character, with which neither the finest in- tellect nor most spotless integrity by them- selves can cope in the long run. He stands out as one of the most memorable figures in English history; and in one sense he did nothing. Let us go on to the next great name upon the list, Lord Chatham. Of course it will be said that he conducted the Seven Years War, and can we call that nothing? Cer- tainly not. But the glorious results of that war were due much less to Chathams prac- tical ability, than to the influence of his character upon the military and naval ser- vices. Lord Macaulay cannot discern in his arrangements any appearance of pro- found or dexterous combinations. His ex- peditions against the French coast, says the critic, were costly and absurd. All that Lord Stanhope can say in reply to the ob- jections which have been urged against his scheme for the capture of Quebec, is that it is easy to cavil. But it is difficult to refute the force of them; or to help be- lieving that it was to the genius of Wolfe much more than to the skill of Pitt that England was indebted for escaping a great disaster. After the conclusion of the war Puts career was certainly not one of legis- lative industry or even of administrative usefulness. He not only did nothing him- self, but was the cause of doing nothing in others. The secret of his power then lay in the man himself. From such characters as these no proof of their right to govern is required. They are accepted without question; and may do, or leave undone, exactly as much as they please. His son seems to have been the one man in modern times who, with the extraordinary force of character which distinguished Wal- pole and Lord Chatham, combined great 156 POLITICAL REPUTATIONS. legislative industry. That he had chances difficulty, when he was seeking to fortify which other men had not, may he true. the front hench hy every means at his But that is nothing to the present purpose. command. Lord Palmerston was never an The men who had not the chances succeeded idle man. On the contrary, he was fond in making an equally profound impression of work. But up to that time he had en- on the public mind, and have established as joyed no opportunity of demonstrating his firm a hold upon the admiration of future capacity. And it must have been from re- ages. Take Fox. Is it in virtue of his elo- ports as to what manner of man he was that quence that his name is imperishable? Men Mr. Perceval derived his conclusions. And scarcely, if at all, second to him as orators now, what was Lord Palmerstons career? are now known only to the students of How did he justify that confidence which Parliamentary history. Is it in virtue of the whole nation eventually reposed in him; his reckless prodigality, and the intrepid which no errors of judgment nor mistakes extravagance which created such social sen- in manner could disturb, and which has sations? Neither the one nor the other perhaps never been equalled since the days explains the quality of his reputation. The of the two Pitts? Was it hy the wisdom vivid idiosyncrasy of the man explains it of his measures? Was it by a long life all. Take again Pitts favourite pupil, Mr. devoted to the removal of abuses, the miti- Canning. He is only known as Mr. Can- gation of oppressive laws, the relief of a fling. A certain number of persons, no neglected population, and the improvement doubt, have a vague idea of his having of his countrymen in general? Such ques- called a new world into existence. But tions can only raise a smile in connection only a few know what the expression means; with the name of Palmerston. Was it the and of those few scarce a third admire him stainless honour and disinterested devotion for using it. He is likewise understood at of Lord Rockingham? was it the scornful one period of his life to have sent a magnanimity of Pitt, that won for him the British fleet to the Tagus. But that with homage of a nation? Of the political mo- the nation at large is a mere phrase. There rality of Lord Palmerston the best that are no distinct measures which are spoken can be said is, that it was not below the of directly as his own. We have no Can- average. His magnanimity was about fling Emancipation Act, or Canning Union upon a par with it. It was not, therefore, Act, or Canning Ecclesiastical Commission, by force of either his moral virtues or his or Cannin,, Parliamentary Reform Bill. legislative ability that he won the high His fame was won, not by his offspring, place among English statesmen which he but by himself. Subtracting from him ev- occupied at his death, and which, in our erything that clusters round him in the judgment at least, he will long continue shape of actual deeds, we have the individ- to occupy. It was pre-eminently, in his nal left distinct from and independent of case, by the force of character alone that them all. Now some men have no kernel. he rose without an effort over the heads They are, so to speak, all shell. Some of statesmen .who had long been his official ministers have no self. They are all superiors. When the nation was perplexed measures. And a mistake to which people it fell into the arms of the man who at the present day are peculiarly prone, is showed this predominating quality. We to estimate the former by the latter. Do yield to no one in appreciation of the any of the great men we have mentioned late Lord Derby, and had he, in addition deserve to have it said of them that their to his many other brilliant gifts, possessed reputation was won too cheaply? We this one essential quality, he would have dont suppose that any one of them was a been the most renowned politician of his man of such remarkable application as time. But force of character is exactly Lord Clarendon. But. consider their in- what he had not. He was unequal to the fluence over other people. Is not this the occasion. And the man who had it, infe- truest sign of greatness? nor as he was in many other important The last man upon our list is almost a qualifications, stepped into the place with- perfect illustration of our theory. What out a struggle. And how did he keep it could have induced a Prime Minister of when he had got it? It has been the England to offer an important cabinet fashion to compliment Lord Palmerston on office, requiring great knowledge of husi- his extraordinary astbteness, his knowledge ness, to a young man of three-and-twenty, of the House, and his skill in the manage- who had neither wealth, rank, nor family ment of - parties. We dont mean to say connections to support him? Yet such that these compliments were wholly unde- was the offer made by Mr. Perceval to Lord seried. But they have been carried a Palmerston at a moment of considerable great deal too far. These qualities did not POLITICAL REPUTATIONS. 157 save him from committing gross blunders, from giving great offence to members of bis own party, and from provoking against himself three hostile coalitions. The for- eign policy of his Cabinet is a byword. Its domestic policy was a blank. The bud- gets of Mr. Gladstone were the sole sign of vitality which this popular administration exhibited. On what, then, did it rest? On that one all-sufficient foundation which we have been throughout insisting on the foundation on which repose thc reputations of Walpole, Chatham, Fox, and Canning the character of the individual. It will be replied, of course, that all these men were celebrated foreign minis- ters, that a province comparatively with- drawn from the public gaze was the theatre of their greatness, and that in their des- patches and correspondence we must look for their political achievements, their re- form bills, their free-trade bills, their emancipation acts. Walpole, however, en- joys no particular distinction as a foreign minister, and even if be did it would be only putting our original proposition in an- other shape. For what was it gave their whole influence to the documents in ques- tion? Was it a profound acquaintance with continental affairs, personal knowledge of all the leading statesmen in Europe, ex- ceptional sagacity in foreseeing the course of events? If we look for the men ~who possessed these qualifications we shall not find them in the front rank of statesmen Lord Chesterfield, Lord Shelburn, Lord Castlereagh, might boast of them. But not Walpole, not Chatham, not Canning, not to anything like the same extent, Lord Palmerston. Their influence has still to be traced back to the same spring, their char- acter, which infused a meaning into all they wrote, incommunicable by mere intellectual cleverness, or practical experience, or even inflexible resolution. Without character the first wants weight, the second spirit, and the third nobility. Their power was the simple triumph of the abnormis sapien- tics, the congenital moral superiority, which i~arks the great man as distinct from the merely able one. But now we come to a still more important consideration. Not only were the statesmen we have mentioned something more than foreign ministers, but their administration of foreign affairs was not, with one exception, their chief passport to fame. We must not confound a war minister with a foreign minister. Chathams reputation rests, as far as it rests upon any active part which he played in the govern- ment of the country, on his successful con- duct of a great war, and we have seen to what he owed his success. Of his diplo- matic talents th~ nation has heard but little. The personal superiority of Canning which obliged him to be Prime Minister is what strikes one more in looking back on his career, than all his dispatches to the mon- archs. And as for Lord Palmerston, it may almost be said that the full bloom of his popularity only came when he left the For- eign Office. It was during the ten years that succeeded the fall of the coalition, that the reputation of Lord Palmerston took its final shape and magnitude. He had been greatly admired previously, but he had not been equally trusted. His energy was thought to border on officiousness, his viva- city on futility. If we were all proud of him, some of us were certainly suspicious of him. But when he settled, so to speak, and formed a cabineJ~ of his own, he speed- ily became the object of unbounded confi- dence. The reputation of Lord Palmerston as Premier, was not only greater in degree, but different in kind from, his reputation as foreign minister. And it is the former rep- utation that will live, instinct with a mean- ing of its own. The last ten years of his life, during which he did nothing, will weigh more with posterity than the whole three score and ten during a great part of which he was so active. Let us now look to another class of states- men, whose reputation depends more on what they did than on what they were. Lord Grey is the Reform Bill. That is what he is. To the popular mind he is nothing more. He carried one of the great- est measures of modern times. Ho power- fully contributed to others of hardly less importance. And yet where is he? If yoti mention Lord Grey to a commercial traveller, the man immediately thinks of Gatton and Old Sarum, and the bloated aristocrat who threatened to return his black footman to the House of Commons. If you mentioned Mr. Canning or Mr. Fox he would say, Ah, wonderful men, sir, wonderful men! He would remember them for themselves. Take, again, a name that we are sure no Englishman would wish to mention without sincere respect, Sir Robert Peel. His rep- utation belongs to the same genus as Lord Greys. Peel is the Bank Act, the Eman- cipation Act, the~ Ecclesiastical Commis- sion, the Income Tax, Maynooth, and Free Trade, an accumulation of measures under which the individual is lost. Nobody, cer- tainly, except perhaps his personal friends, remembers in him that distinct individuality which clothes the memory of the other great statesmen we have mentioned. The man is forgotten in his works. We are not now 158 POLITICAL REPUTATIONS. arguing the justice or the injustice of pos- terity. We simply assert what we believe to be the fact. And we must not be under- stood to mean tbat force of ebaracter and legislative industry are incompatible with t~ach other. We have brilliant exceptions which prove the contrary. All we say is that the second does not prove the first, and that it is the first and not the second which is the surest recommendation to pos- terity; where character and measures go together, the measures of course will bear the impress of the character. But there is nothing racy of the individual in anything that Peel did, unless perhaps it was his manner of doing it. He will certainly fill a smaller space in history than Mr. Canning, though he did so much more. And we should say a smaller space than Mr. Glad- stone, though Mr. Gladstone is sometimes called his pupil. Having mentioned Mr. Gladstone, we may be allowed, perhaps, to mention others still living, the contrast between whom is an excellent confirmation of our theory Earl Russell and Mr. Disraeli. Which of these two will hereafter be thought the greater man? They represent the claims of prac- tical utility and personal character even better than Palmerston and Peel. Mr. Disraeli, indeed, has left his name on one great measure of transcendent political im- portance, which is more than Lord Palmer- ston has done and he may yet leave his name on more. His final position, there- fore, cannot as yet be ascertained, any more than Mr. Gladstones. But if his po- litical career were to close at this moment, it is certainly rather on the superlative in- fluence of his character, than on measures of practical utility that his posthumous rep- utation would depend. May we not say of Lord Russell that with him it would be ex- actly the reverse? Will not his reputation be the same in kind as Sir Robert Peels, though possibly superior in degree? He will he remembered as the consistent ad- vocate and successful designer of numerous invaluable reforms, and likewise as a man not devoid of individual character. But the last is not marked enough to raise him into the higher rank, which we have as- signed to statesmen, as we think, of a dif- ferent calibre. And we may here perhaps remind our readers that we have been speaking throughout of fame rather than of merit. The most famous men have not always been the most serviceable, either to their friends or to their country; and the converse proposition is true. The quiet, unobtrusive services of a man like Lord Clarendon may have wrought far more good than the personal force of a Chatham or a Palmerston. The long course of corrective legislation which, beginning soon after the peace, was transmitted through the hands of Grey, Russell, and Peel into those which are still carrying it forward, may entitle its successive managers to a larger share of posthumous gratitude than is rightly due to Walpole or Canning. That is not the ques- tIon. The question is, Has more consider- ation been given to men of this latter stamp than is their due, taking human nature as it is? Has their reputation been won too cheaply? Our answer is, No. The force of personal character exercises so powerful an influence over all with whom it comes in contact that, like the dint of a cannon-ball, the marks of it survive for centuries. It may be barren; it may be destructive; or it may be eminently fruitful and healthy. But it cannot he forgotten. Quanturs instar in ipso eat. To complain of this i~ to com- plain that we are constituted a~ we are. We are formed to admire greatness in this shape; and to think it greater than in other shapes. And no doubt the chief reason is, that the man who has no force of character does not understand what it is that subdues him in the presence of one who has. And impressions which are made on the imagina- tion are, of course, deeper and more per- manent than those which are made on the understanding. The Emperor Nicholas said that Sir Robert Peel would be the Wal- pole of the nineteenth century. The re- mark showed more knowledge of the two epochs than it did of the two men. No doubt in 1840, as in 1720, the English people were prepared to welcome a states- man who, after a long period of political excitement, should give them repose and prosperity. And had Peel possessed Wal- poles character he might have played a sim- ilar part, and have abolished the corn laws, without breaking up his party. But he had not. He had no faith in his own personal influence. And this was fatal to him. He may deserve more pure approbation for the act of self-sacrifice which he consummated, than he would have done had he, by dint of personal ascendency, drawn the country gentlemen after him, even as Orpheus drew the oaks. But it does not show the same degree of power. And it is that which mor- tals worship. THE DOMINIES SONS. 159 From Frasers Magazine. THE DOMINIES SONS. A STORY IH THREE CHAPTERS. 9 CHAPTER I. CURTIUS. ANDREW and David Auchinleck, Sons of the parish schoolmaster of Auldacres, were about to keep their terms at Oxford. This result was th~ consequence of Scotch ambi- tion and love of learning. The dominie and his wife had both devoted themselves to the task. There had been something pathetic in the spectacle of the couple, in the middle of the birchwood and drugget of their little parlour, st.icking fast to their resolution. The dominie had no fancy for shop after shop hours, yet he denied him- self his uninterrupted perusal of his penny papers or his daunder with his pipe to look at his bees, that he might sit in readi- ness to help the Jaddies with an obscure case or an involved construction. Mrs. Auchinleck closed her mouth tightly on her tit-bits of gossip, and nodded dumbly over her knitting needles, sooner than break the thread of Andrew and Davids studies. Whatever had been grudged in the thrifty household, nothing had been spared on its sons education. Andrew and David, two gaunt, uncouth students with fine talents, had shown themselves worthy of the length- ened sacrifice, had worked at home and at College and won bursaries and grants, which had enabled them to aspire to the goal of young Scotlands ambition, Oxford or Cambridge. So proposed the Auchinlecks, but not so disposed the Ruls~r of strong men. The weed before the young men were to leave for Oxford the schoolmaster was seized with a sudden illness, and within twenty- four hours it was unmistakably evident, even without the doctors confirmation, that though the final stroke might be delayed, the sick man would never return to the active duties of his calling. Dumb consternation. fell on the school- house of Auldacres at the doctors sen- tence. Mrs. Anchinleck was the first who broke the startled, dismal silence. She spoke querulously in her despair. Youll no leave us, you twa callants. Your father yonder has laid out on your learning every penny he might hae put by. Now ane o you maun take his place; ane o you, gin it be na baith o you, snaun bide at hame a mann be keepit now for drugs and dainties. Youre gude lads, youll not grudge it to your father, who grudged nocht to you, but ~crimped himsell that you micht rise in the warld. In saying that, mind, Im far from saying that you havena done his wull and gladdened his heart. A proud and a pleased man youve made him mony a day, and youve your mithers thanks for t.. But bear wi me, laddies, for Im torn and wachted in my mind, and still a that I can see is, that ane o you mann bide at hame and take the maisters place, and we may do weel enough yet. It was but a day or two before that the mother had explained with some heat to her chief friend Mrs. Rymer, the widow of a minister, too poor and of too humble ex- traction to be raised above a schoolmasters wife, that to be a tutor or a master at the great University of Oxford was en- tirely another thing from being a tutor in the best lairds ~or lords family in Scotland, such as Mr. Rymer had been in his day, or from being master not to say of Auld- acres school, but of the biggest town academy. It was more like being a laird or lord himself; Mrs. Auchinleck had declared, and then had gone on to illustrate her text. They wear gowns, woman, Mrs. Au- chinleck had proceeded, no like the duds o some o our student lads, but ministers gowns wi leddies coloured hudes hinging down their backs. Im no thinking that my lads will like them sair, for they dinna affect fine claithes, at least no Andrew; Da~vie has snair o a turn that way; but they mann be neebour-like. The warst thing is that meddling folk may pretend that sic dress has mair to do wi prelacy even than the ministers lailac gloves up by, but since weve no thocht the now o our lads taking orders as they cat, or having ony thing to do wi the English kirk (though wi their abilities they micht weel win to be bishops gin they cared, or gin it was athegither be- coming in Scotchmen and a maisters sons), the gowns and the hudes are just a set aff to the outward man.~~ For her own part Mrs. Auchinleck would still have stitched her fingers to the bone and lived on oatmeal and water that An- drew and David might have their fine chance; but conjugal love and fidelity bade her forget everything but what would lighten her husbands trial. Her two sons did not blame their mother, but thought silently which of the two was to be the giver, what was to be the extent of the gift. David, who had been going restlessly out and in all day, now accompanied Andrew as if for a brotherly consultation; but after a few casual, half-idle words on the state of the weather, as well as on their fathers state, he strolled away along the road and through the bare fields, leaving his brother. 160 THE DOMINIES SONS. Andrew went no farther than the foot of I slowness, Mrs. Templetons light but not the little garden and sat down on the wall unkindly, condescending speeches (for she in a familiar half boyish attitude to think too was the proud mother of a successful over what had befallen him, and to make son) and the still airier flights, for the pur- up his mind what he should do. But the pose of interesting and amusing the clever first thing Andrew did was to look about louts, on the part of the yo~ng ladies. him and to take in half inadvertently but There had been no fault to find with the with a kind of morbid vividness every well- ministers wife and daughters in their pass- known feature of the scene. The chief fea- ing intercourse with the dominics sons, ture was their shabby, narrow, two-storeyed unless that Mrs. Templeton might have been house, the two stereotyped windows below too suave, and the Misses Templeton too and the two above on each side of the door affable. Thegirls in their pretty fearless- answering to the kitchen and the parl our, ness, graciousness, and gracefulness were the room which Andrew shared with David, dazzling to the youthful hermits, and the and his father and mothers room with its manse drawing-room a kind of half-pleasing window unwontedly shaded long before sun- purgatory-to the shy, proud brothers. down. A few yards apart from the un- Over the whole of these near objects, with adorned dwelling was the even barer and their swift, deadly-lively suggestions, as well more soiled and battered school-room. as over the dimmer, vaguer, more remote Across the road appeared the compara- features of the landscape, the scarcely tively sheltered and ornate manse and kirk, broken stubble and turnip fields, merging which had drifted apart in the social scale into the shoreless waves of the moor, cast- during a century and more from their old I ing up, as yet, no purple flush on its som- allies the school and schoolmasters house. bre surface, there brooded an unrelieved There flourished the dazzling drawing- pale, misty autumn sky. It was one of room, in which Andrew and David Auchin- those skies in which there is neither clear leck had been entertained as exemplary lads light nor darkness, below which gossamers who did the parish credit, by the minister, with their clinging haze wrap and veil every a slim man, with a face bearing a resem- branch and leaf. blance to that of a skull. The ministers Andrew gazed about him mechanically, wife-, Mrs. Templeton, retained the well- till there rose before him in a flash, with a preserved remains of a fair-haired, blue-eyed pang of comparison, the stately pile upon beauty, and was scrupulously in the fashion.. pile of noble college and hall, such as they The ministers youngest son, Cosmo Tem- had appeared when he and David paid them pleton, was like his father, with more flesh a passing, charmed visit to enter their names on his face as yet. ~lle had been sent away on the lists of students. Fleeting as had and educated at an English private school, been Andrew Auchinlecks experience of and had been successful in getting a Oxford the Christ-church meadows, the Government appointment. The ministers Isis, the cloisters of St. Johns, the toWers daughters were like their mother, but with of Merton, the dome of the - Radcliffe, the less pretensions to beauty than she had pos- galleries of the Bodleian Library, returned sessed. They were the siiigle specimens of to him as if he had seen them but yesterday. elegant girlhood that had come into close With these there came keen expectations contact with the Auchinleck lads, for their of learned leisure, improvin0 ccrmpanion- old playfellow Cecy Rymer, in her faded ship, rivalries and rewards, which would patched frocks and highly unfashionable open to the aspirants courses not unworthy straw hats, would. not bear that definition, of such training, clothing them with the The whole dramatis personce of the manse simple dignity and fine freemasonry of gen- passed before Andrew as he sat there. He tlemen. beard once more Mr. Templetons mangled If either Andrew or David Auchinleck quotations from Homer and Virgil, got up resigned Oxford for the present and took for the benefit of Andrew and David, at Auldacres parish school instead, neither of which the two scholarly young prigs had them had any hope of recalling their decision lau,.~hed sardonically in their sleeves. He and reaching the university at a more dis- received ane~v Cosmos off-hand, exultant tant date. It could not be. It would be account of his satisfactory examination, impossible for the brothers to recover the which had impressed Andrew and David lapsed bursaries. and grants which would with the cool conviction that they could have enabled them at present to keep their have met and surmounted it with ease any terms. day. All the same it had been a fact that As Andrew sat there pondering on the they could not meet and answer, without garden wall, David returned from his supreme mortification at their clownish stroll. THE DOMINIE S SONS. 161 David betrayed more traces of disorder and vexation than Andrew. It was with heat and passion stirring every feature of his long-lipped, wide-nos- trilled, drooping-eyebrowed face that David directly addressed Andr5.v on the question. I dont mean to blarre my mother, Andrew. Of course she is to be pitied next to my father, but this proposal that one of us should throw up our long-formed plans and take the school is unreasonable. Think of the waste it would he of all we have done. Of course a person must be found to fill my fathers place. No, Davie; even if we could find such a person, denied Andrew positively, my father has not retained the means to pay him, and neither you nor I could ensure it. For that matter you are well aware, con- tinued poor Andrew, in a dry and surly pro- test, that in any case we~should have had to scrape and pinch, and it would have been a close shave for us to keep our terms at Ox- ford. Then if we proposed a third party there would most likely he bother from the Presbytery, jealous of its privileges, but I dont think there would be any objection to one of us filling my fathers office. As Andrew said this with a tremendous effort at stolid common sense and stony in- difference, there rose up before his mental eyes Auldacres parish school on a summer or a winter day. He heard the dull drone of peasant children painfully climbing the first steps to knowledge in their tattered, scrawled-over first and second books, and the murder of syntax and pronunciation in the scant and rude fifth form. He fancied himself seated in the masters un- easy wooden chair at the common deal desk, over-looking the long hacked and blotted desk of the writing scholars. While in sharp and glowing contrast rose in his mental vision the historical and aristocratic common rooms, lecture rooms, chapels rich in carved oak and stained glass, infin- itely richer in their memories, where great English statesmen, lawyers, ecclesiastics were nurtured, with their crowd of polished for the most part pleasant, even in their exclusiveness and idle dissipation gentle- men commoners, and their dons, courteous in their severest curtness. There met and mingled the wonderful companies of gifted men; there waged vigorous and subtle in- tellectual contests; there shone the pure glory of scholarly honours. I dare say not, burst out David Auchinleck, indignantly, in answer to An- drews dogged statement that ~he presbytery to which Auldacres, with its kirk and school, belonged, would not object to him LIVING AGE. VOL. xix. 845 or his brother in the room of their father superannuated. It is easy for you to speak, Andrew; no doubt you are the eldest and you claim the right of choice, but think what you are dooming me to, how you are blasting my prospects. By Heaven I cannot do it! and the lad broke off in a quivering frenzy of despair. hold on, growled Andrew, with a mans growl, in reply to what sounded like a womans cry, I mean to stay and take the school. David stepped back, calmed down in an instant. It was some seconds more till he recovered voice to exclaim and argue, and till the colour which had retreated from his cheeks, leaving them blank and white at the immense relief and yet the great rebuke of his brothers announcement, returned to his face. Are you serious, Andrew P Do you really intend it? Have you thought what it will cost you? and he pressed up to his brother with greater freedom and closer attachment than the two young men, stiff and almost frigid in their iriercourse, and each full of his own difficulties and aims, had lately expressed. What is the use of thinking? pro- tested Andrew, gruffly, leaping down from the wall and walking towards the house. There is no other way if one of us is still to go to Oxford. But it might have been so arranged that neither of the Auchinlecks should have gone to Oxford then or afterwards. They might both have continued at one of the Scotch univePsities, where students of slender means could have lived more cheaply, where clever steady young men already known could have got teaching at once, and spared money either to have paid a competent assistant for their father, or in case of his retiring to have supplemented his retiring pittance, and maintained him and their mother. There Andrew and David could still have qualified themselves for a less ambitious future indeed, but for gentlemens professions. There was that third resource, and it had occurred to An- drew; though it is bare justice to state that in the excitement and confusion of Davids mind it did not suggest itself to him till Andrew had already dismissed this last alternative with the short conclusion, Ill stay. If one of u~ may make a spoon or spoil a horn at Oxford, it wouYd be a pity he should not have the opportunity. You are the finest fellow in the world, Andrew, exclaimed David, incoherent in his agitation. None can tell so well as I what you are doing. 162 THE DOMINIES SONS. Never mind, said Andrew, more as if he were aggrieved and annoyed than grati- fied by his brothers praise, I am the elder son, as you said, he added, with a touch of bitter irony, which brought David a little more to his senses. I ought not to allow the sacrifice, David began, with his colour coming and going. If I thought I could stand the reverse No, you could not, Davie, Andrew put his brother down summarily, squaring his own shoulders, it will take me to do it. And now, if you like, Id rather say no more about it. CHAPTER II. A LAXMAS LILY. Six years later Mrs. Auchinleck sat in the same Auldacres school-house parlour, presiding over the early tea of her son the master, as she had presided over that of her husband the master. The lean, active mother was little altered, though she wore a widows cap of some years standing, and when she put it on had mourned keenly. The son was in a measure changed. The ill-balanced, awkward student who had taken his fathers school had grown into a blunt, somewhat heavy-looking young man, with a threatening of still greater harshness and heaviness in his indifferent, bulky comeliness. Andrew, said Mrs. Auchinleck, youll give yoursel a brush up for your brither. She did not speak dictatorially, but neYther did she speak deferentially. She used the tone employed between equals in addi- tion, equals who are agreed to differ, and accustomed to have many a friendly dispute and trial of strength together. Not I, mother, answered Andrew, glancing carelessly at the sleeve of his shabby school-coat, and speaking in fiat contradiction, like a man who had a habit of contradiction in trifles. If Davie would thank me for making any difference on his account, he is no brother of mine. Besides, you know, I would not put myself about for the Queen coming to Auldacres. I do not want to argue with you, announced Mrs. Auchinleck, with some dig- nity; I ken what arguing with a man comes to, though your father was a hantle less thrawn and dour than you are, Andrew. But, any way, youll not go over to Upper Muirend to look after your craps in this weary allotment system, when your brother is expected to arrive on the first visit that has not been a fleeing ane, because of his reading parties and foreign tours, since your fathers death. Im ready to start, declared Andrew, doggedly; I have working-men to pay and working-women to hire, else I lose the harvest, and I leave you to judge whether I can afford that. If youre not content with giving up your room to Davie, making it so fine that he will not know it again, while you sleep in the kitchen, and if you cannot entertain him yourself for an hour, should he come before eight oclock, you must just send him across the moor to meet me. He knows the road, and the walk will be fine exercise for him after travelling by railway. Mrs. Auchinleck fidgeted on her chair and pulled the strings of her white cap; but though she groaned and sniffed a little she said no more. She was aware by experience that mere words would be of no avail here. She was not a foolish woman. All at once as Andrew was rising leisure- ly from the table, his mother, looking out of the window, exclaimed emphatically, If there is not Mrs. Rymer bringing Cecy to see us! When she hears that Davie is coming, shell never be so senseless as to bide still and be in his way. Women never mind being in folks way& ; it is my opinion they try to be in it, piroclaimed the young master in ungallant impatience, as he had to submit to give up his evenings business for the time. Good evening, Mrs. Auchinleck and Mr. Andrew. This is my daughter Cecil, if you please, a voice deprecated with mild boastfulness, as Mrs. Rymer quietly trotted into the Auchinlecks parlour, ushered by the school-house little maid. Mrs. Rymer was a soft, round little woman in black drapery, with an old-fashioned habit of curtsying like the dipping down of a pigeon. Men never bore malice long against so canny a woman as Mrs. Rymer a crea- ture who appealed to their protection. But Andrew kept his hands in his pockets, remained standing with his back against the tea table, and contented himself with nod- ding to his familiar guest, when somebody else came into the room somebody so completely different, so widely opposed to all the surroundings, that Andrew was fairly startled out of his shell. Andrew had been soured and hardened into increasing churlishness since, resigning his worldly aim in life, he had thought it best to turn his back on all the pursuits which he had followed for its sake, as well as loved for their own. What would you have P The sight of his books beyond the hackneyed text-books of his fathers school THE DOMINIES SONS. 163 stung and wrung his hidden sensibility; the touch of his mathematical instruments sick- ened him. Therefore poor Andrew was not able to pay the debt of his sonship and brotherhood without becoming in several lights, spiritually as well as socially, an impoverished man. He had not completed his offering as the heroes of romance com- plete theirs with cheerful grace, coming off, after all, with little loss. He had taken refuge as far as he could in what belongs to the bodily man, and developed only too much of the brawny rather than muscular Christian. He had resorted to gardening, of the delving and vegetable rearing kind, to farming, carrying out his operations on a batch of the strips of moorland that an enterprising laird had allotted to agricul- tural labourers; and he pursued such sports as golf and curling when there was ice on the moorland lochs. Andrew Auchinleck was less chary in bestowing his company on his neighbours of every description than his father and mother had been, though he was riot naturally a very social man. His quick- witted, shrewd mother dreaded in her se- cret soul, with reason, to what coarseness and excess the reactionary license of social- ity might lead and betray her son. It was before such a foiled, restive man, still on this side of the Rubicon, ere he had in his manliness stumbled into the slough of sensuality, and defiled himself with vice, that there appeared in the poor, plain little school-house parlour, not an honest, kindly but half-hoydenish Cecy Rymer, but a liv- ing, breathing St. Cecilia a brown-haired, liquid-eyed, Madonna-faced woman, tall and handsome, serenely beautiful and gra- cious. The effect was in the air, the gait, and the perfect bloom of womanhood. It was not in the uniqueness or expensiveness of the dress; for except that Cecys linen gown was fresh and unrepaired, and was made with some amount of quaint, out- landish plaiting and braiding, and that her hat, though it had seen a sea-voyage, looked, by comparison with Cecys shock- ingly bad old hats, a bran new silver-grey hat with a silver-grey band the dress had hardly cost more than that of the old Cecy Rymer. What had come to Cecy Rymer, who had gone away a round-faced girl, to change her so, in addition to her natural growth P Reports had travelled to Auldacres in Cecys letters, but they had been so slightly apprehended that nobody, not even her mother, had compassed their full import. The late dominie of Auldacres had designed that Cecy, his favourite girl pupil, should become his female assistant in the school, since female assistants had come into vogue. When that scheme fell to the ground with Andrews accession to the post of school- master, a distant relative of the Rymers had sent Cecy to Germany to qualify her for the higher order of governess. Word had come back again and again to the Whins of Auldacres that Cecy was doing exceedingly well in foreign class rooms and under strange lime trees, breakfasting off cherries, supping off pear and plum soup, and lying down to rest under an cider down quilt with a cuckoo clock at her elbow sounding her r~veill~e for morning practice and early lecture. Cecy had stayed on abroad, first teaching in hers academy and then filling a good situ- ation in a private family at salaries which had enabled her to keep her mother like a queen, as Mrs. Rymer had declared. Mrs. Rymer had been latterly inclined to cap Mrs. Auchinlecks crowing over her son David, his honours at Oxford and the company he kept there, with tiny crows over her daughter the rank of the family in which she was established and with which she saw a great deal of the Continental world, the favour that her employers showed Cecy, and the friendly terms which existed between the governess and her grown-up pupils. Poor silly, curtsbying body, reflected Mrs. Auchinleck in imperious disdain, to think of speaking of her royd lassie, grant- ing shes tamed now, a mere gouvernante looked down upon by butlers and futmen, housekeepers and leddies maids, in the same breath wi our Davie, a Felly o his college in the society o the grandest in the land who are proud to be Fellies along with him our Davie, who micht be a member o Parliament or sic like ony day his sel! The womans defnented! Notwithstanding Mrs. Auchinlecks scorn- ful incredulity, however, the process of like drawing to like had gone on. To fine, frank, naturally generous natures there is no insuperable difficulty (granted the model is provided) in the growth from a good, ingenuous, bright girl, to a good, considerate, in everything delicate-minded lady. Now that the work was complete and open to inspection, Andrew Auchinlecks first experience was a mixture of consterna- tion and intense, entire approbation. He instinctively took off the cap which he had put on to go and visit his leased land and its crops, and wished a passing wish for which he would have derided himself had he had time to reflect on its nature, that he had attended to his mothers suggestion, 164 THE DOMINIE S SONS. and given himself a brush up, though not for the benefit of the college fellow. Not that Cecy Rymer showed any hos- tile perception of Andrews rumpled grey coat with traces of ink on the sleeves, his coloured morning shirt, his faded neck tie, which were not caL~ulated to set off the massive, somewhat statuesque, figure and face of a man who looked old for his years, serious, a little saturnine truculent, his enemies might call it. Cecy did not appear disposed to be critical on the costume and hearing of her oIl companion. She seemed inclined to be a vast deal pleasanter and a world less pert than in the days of her non-age. She only looked as if she ad- mired his progress in stature and responsi- bility, as she advanced, holding out a willing hand to clasp his. I should have known you anywhere, Mr. Andrew, she said quite eagerly, though you are be- come a big man who can keep authority. A schoolmaster had need to keep au- thority but I should never have known you, Miss Cecy, returned Andrew yet he grasped her hand, and the relations estab- lished between them, difficult man as he was to deal with, were at once friendly relations. Mrs. Rymer and her daughter did not remain long at the school-house. Mrs. Auchinleck took care to let the elder visitor know the coincidence of the expected ar- rival of Mrs. Auchinlecks distinguished son. The unobtrusive widow was not only persuaded that the family reunion would be better without the presence of witnesses she was, whatever Mrs. Auchinleck might think, deeply impressed by the superior distinction of Davie Auchinleck. Bonnie and sweet, and altogether prettily behaved, like the privileged friend of ladies and~gentle- men, as her daughter had come back, filling Mrs. Rymers heart with pride and glad- ness, still Davie Auchinleck was far beyond any of them beyond Mr. Templeton and his son Cosmo, who was home from Canada, for health and a wife. Mrs. Rymer must mind to call Davie Mr. Dauvet, as Cecy had given her the example in say- ing Mr. to his brother, whom Mrs. Rymer had never thought of calling anything but Andrew. He was the master and had been so for the last half-dozen years, but he had come much about her house as a callant, and though he was gruff to other folk, he had aye had a canny enough word to her. Yet no doubt it was proper that Cecy should say Mr. to Andrew, as everything Cecy did was proper. While the mother and the daughter did stay, Cecy and Andrew found no want of words to say to each other. She told him voluntarily that she had just come home on a visit. She was going back to the Thorny- crofts. What excellent people they were, and how happy they made her Cecy as happy as she could be, save for the separation from her mother! There were old Mr. and Mrs. Thornycroft and their three daughters, each of whom had been and one of them still was Cecys pupil. The family hoped that the Squire would soon get clear of his embarrassments he was so kind an old man, only too kind which had condemned them to live abroad for the familys education, so as to enable them to return and live at the Hall in another year at the farthest. That would be nice, for Northumberland was but a step from Auldacres after Germany. Had not she Cecy been fortunate? Andrew shook himself half awake from the sluggish apathy which had possessed his mind while his body was having the pre- eminence, and talked on foreign literature, which he knew passably well, and of foreign places, with which, though he had never seen them, he was familiar by reflected light, until, before Cecy left, he had gone so far as to accept the loan of a new German book of note from her, and to vouchsafe a half promise that he would rub up his German and read it. Andrew had not done so much since he had been school- master of Auldacres. That lassie of Mrs. Rymers is no that braw, commented Mrs. Auchinleck, in a puzzled but candid tone to Andrew, yet somehow she is turned into a leddy, as fair a leddy as Miss Templeton or Miss Maye. Will Cecy Rymer no be unco out o place now at the Whins? Are ladies ever out of place? coun- ter-questioned Andrew. I thought it was their mission to walk up hill and down dale, refining if not reforming the world. Did you feel Cecy Rymer out of place the few moments she was here? This is a fell different place, Mrs. Auchinleck took up the cudgels indig- nantly. A scule-house is surely no like a widow womans little better than cot-house, though Cecy has paid the wage of a servant to her mother this twa year come Martin- mas. Cecy has been a dutiful dachter, I do not deny that. But the humblest scule-house, be it attached to a charity or a free, not to say a- richt auld parish scule, is the next thing to a seat o learn- ing. The time was, Mrs. Auchinleck continued, with an ostentatious flourish, as your father often telled me, that it rankit with the manse in a parish. THE DOMINIES SONS. The time has gone by, then, corrected Andrew, with a mans provoking com- posure. MaX je, acknowledged Mrs. Auchin- leek, impatiently.; but, my word, she continued, swelling into wrath, the place that is going to welcome Davie Auchin- leek. Felly o his college, may wed he fit to receive Cecy Rymer neither more nor less, however honourably tret, than a gouvernante. Mother, said Ceey Rymer, abruptly, as she and her mother paced home in the delicious twilight, deliciously balmy on this June evening on the unsheltered field road, and the pathway across the uncultivated moor, is Andrew Auchinleck so much changed, or is the change in me? Bairn, remonstrated Mrs. Rymer, with mild wonder, didna you say you would have kenned him onywhere? Ab! yes, as I would ken that cry of the corn-craik and now of the plover. But poor Andrew ! it was not his birthright which he sold for a mess of pottage no, it was the intellectual, and social pottage he gave up because of his birthright. My dear, objected Mrs. Rymer again, this time more uneasily, though with even more mildness than before, I dinna like new-fangled remarks on Scripter. I dare say Im auld-fashioned and preju- diced, but, if you please, well keep frae sic remarks. The minister has aye been cautioning me against the wild opinions and the religious unsounness of Germany till be has made my hair stand on end for your best interests, Cecy,~and you a godly min- isters bairn. The minister might have more charity to spare for the true, kind Germans, the truest, kindest folk in the world, exclaimed Cecy, in hasty indignation; but she calmed down in a moment, in order to reassure her mother. Mr. Templeton thinks only of my good: I know that, and I hope I am right, as you and he would have me to be. So you will t~ke my arm, deane, for your step is getting a little slower now that we have walked half a mile. How Mrs. Au- chinleck talks! I know our sharp friend is worthy and sterling a good, good mother,, but why does she speak so much of Davie and so little of Andrew? Andrew Auchinleck was softened by some subtle influence on the revival of his ac- quaintance with Cecy Rymer the new Cecy Rymer. He had been tempted, even while, poor fellow, he had been sufficiently pleased with and proud of his brothers ac- quisitions, to meet David cavalierly, rather to sport the contrast which had arisen be- 165 tween the two, and to take nothing off his successful relatives hand should the latter he so left to himself as to attempt to come over Andrew with patronizing counsel or fault-finding. After all Andrew smoothed down his rising temper, and was, to his mothers satisfaction, free and gentle with David when the hero stepped at last on the old stage of the school-house. David Auchinleck in the outward man was ill-knit, irregularly featured, but he was at the same time not only well dressed, but seen in the fine setting of grace, courtesy, and high intelligence. Farther, the com- paratively mature scholar was fifty times more at ease and simpler withal than when he was a raw student. It maun be his grand education and the rank he has risen to which makes Davie so pleasant, concluded his delighted mother, for I canna say that he takes it either frae me or frae his poor father, who hasna lived to see these days. Davie is a hantle pleas- anter than Andrew, and I shouldna wonder though Davie were easier to serve for a the dainties and fikes he has been accustomed to; no but that Andrews bark is waur than his bite, poor cheild. When David the Fellow took Andrew the schoolmasters measure after the two had come to closer quarters, in more pro- longed and interested intercourse than the brothers had held since they were boys to- gether, Andrew little guessed how favour- able was Davids estimate. David might have got his surfeit of superficial advantages so as to end by sinking them to their due level or below their level, and by turning back to and exalting the primitive qualities; or he might have had a lurking inextinguish- able regret and borne his brother a yearn- ing grudge because he, David, had allowed Andrew to play the part of Curtius, and had not interposed and himself taken the leap. David said to himself, as they parted for the night, A grand old fellow Andrew, sagacious and original! no boorishness in him can be more than skin-deep. CHAPTER HI. THE WINNER. THE novelty as well as the un-dreamt-of lustre of Cecys reappearance in her limited home circle had its results. In considera- tion of the temporariness of her stay, and oC the manner in which she had returned, as it were, franked and superscribed by her pa- trons and friends the Thornycrofts, and further verified by her artistic German music, her feats in water colours and illu 166 THE DOMINIES SONS. mination, and her familiarity with fresh cretion to the winds, and haunted Cecy German literature, the four or five Misses Rymer perseveringly, wherever he could Templeton called on Cecy. They had not, hope to meet her, during these June and save in a professional ministers daughters July weeks. Poor Mrs. Auchinlecks pride way, called on her mother, hut they extend- was laid in the dust, and she had great ed to Cecy the actual right hand of fellow- trouble to keep from groaning aloud under ship, which was only to be taken for two the reverse. The little rural world of months. Auldacres had not accepted with entire corn- During these long summer days in the placency the school-masters wife and dull country neighbourhood, two of Cecy widows conceit in her sons. It grinned Rymers admirers were birds of passage when human nature returned at a gallop in like herself, and were in that dangerous David Auchinleck. The men at the manse condition of idleness which is highly favour- shrugged their shoulders. The women, able to the growth of a flirtation, especially Amelia and May, and Bab and It must he admitted that one of these ad- Harriet, who no longer treated David de mirers entertained for her as she knew, and haut en baa on their own account, were a was content to know, a purely Platonic little scandalized by his prompt and pointed regard. selection of Cecy Rymer. They were Cosmo Templeton, who was so fond of forced to remind each other that gntter escorting and waiting upon his sisters blood has a long course to run before it friend, was publicly pledged to another waxes blue. The passing flavour of sour friend of his family who was not then in his grapes did not prevent the girls from feeling vicinity. He was not a bad sort of fellow secretly attracted to, and amused by, and as men go, a quick, gay, good-humoured, inclined to promote in a womanly way the smartish man of the world. He was the College Fellows devotion to the governess last man to be guilty of, not to say a breach at home for her holidays. of his word, but of the worldly folly of Mrs. Auchinleck tried her hand in arrest- an imprudent marriage. Cosmos father, ing David, on what she held his road to mother, and sisters, and the young lady ruin, without avail, and was reduced to whom he was going to marry, if it reached pouring her grievances into Andrews ear. her ears, could remain quite tranquil on At first, when David and Cecy Rymer had Cosmos fancy for Cecy Rymer: adfnitting returned, Andrew did something to re- that, Cecy was peerless as a Lammas lily. deem his position as their comrade. He More than that, the other one of Cecys ad- roused himself from his wilful mental mirers with whom Cosmo had run up in a torpor. He resumed with fresh relish the trice a conveniently agreeable intimacy, was tastes and habits of his earlier youth, not in an appreciable degree jealous of the criticised new editions of the classics, Colonial Government official, and of his and plunged deeper into metaphysics with fair income ready-made to marry on. David David. He read Cecys Freiligrath and Auchinlecks case was different from Auerbach, and listened, edified and enter- Cosinos. Scratch the Russian and you tamed by the womans quick, delicate opin- will come to the Tartar. In spite of Davids ions on character and sentiments, or he had elaborate culture, he betrayed in this matter the evil spirit charmed away from him by a Bo~otian brutality of earnestness which Cecys music, for it was Andrew and not might yet war successfully in all the crises of David who had a soul for music. All that his life with his acquired dilettantism. David was before Cecy was drawn away to speak was very soon very far gone indeed in a vi- German or gossip about art or botanize olent attachment to the witch, Cecy Rymer. with David and then driven to escape from In the teeth of his Fellowship, in reckless dis- such engagements and take refuge in help- regard of ways and means, he shocked and ing to form the Teinpletons croquet party affronted his mother, half flattered and at the manse, though David Auchinleck was wholly terrified timid Mrs. Rymer, while I also of the party. The croquet players he but slightly touched and hugely pro-i played and jested in the company of their yoked his mistress. Cecy had returned, in kind, amidst the bright sights and sweet the case of David Auchinleck, to the sau& - sounds of a summer garden, while Andrew ness of her youth, and was indignant at be- I Auchinleck toiled for his own and his moth- ing besieged, in her own mothers house by ers daily bread, and taught the young idea the most aggressive Fellow who could how to shoot, in the baked and buzzing at- forfeit a Fellowship for her sake. David mosphere of the school. Auchinleck, from whose knowledge and Andrew listened to the groans with manners, as his mother reflected bitterly, which his mother relieved herself in his ear, more might have been expected, threw dis- and turned towards her a still, impassive THE DOMINIES SONS. 167 face, white from exhaustion under the bur- den and heat of the day. He rarely spoke again or remonstrated unless the incensed woman slandered Cecy Rymer or accused her of beguiling David. Andrew Auchinleck had always been a just man, and when his mother was glaringly unjust to Cecy Rymer, or even to David, Andrew fired up and came down upon the speaker in not the most filial terms, though he was sorry for his rough words and sought to atone for them in his shy, dogged manner, the moment after they were spoken. It was by no means the blame of Andrew (who kept his mother back from the undignified and useless retali- ation so long as he was able, and was very angry and disgusted when he failed as a moral policeman) that Mrs. Auchinleck to whom the summer had brought a sore trial instead of the unbroken felicity which she had expected at last assailed Mrs. Rymer as a secondary cause of the misfor- tune which bed befallen David Auchinleck. Mrs. Rymer had been unswervingly loyal to Mrs. Auchinleck for a large part of both their lives, but now she was bewildered, hurt, and resentful: she flew, in tears, in trembling, and in anger, to her natural pro- tector. Cecy in her turn was, to begin with, what she called furiously angry, then unavoid- ably struck with a sense of the ludicrous, and at last simply fretful. I wonder Mrs. Auchinleck does not get so dangerous and wicked a person as I put out of the parish, since she cannot shut up her distinguished son! Never mind Mrs. Auchinleck, mother; she is nearly mad about Davie, and I am afraid she must lead Andrew a sad life. As for poor Mrs. Auchinleck, she had already discovered that her son Andrew also had come under the spell of Cecy Rymer. When the second blow struck Mrs. Au- chinleck, and she knew her two sons to be rivals, she crossed her arms, interlaced her work-worn hands, drooped her poor moth- ers vain, energetic head, and sat for hours unprecedentedly, ominously silent. She was vexed with her younger son; she deeply pitied her elder, and longed to help him or to console him. One eveniBg, after Cecys two months had dwindled to two weeks, and David Au- chinlecks vacation to exactly the same period, the manse became so generous in its hospitality as to contemplate a party which should include Andrew as well as David in the list of its guests. An important functionary, the parish schoolmaster, explained Mr. Templeton. Mr. Andrew Auchinleck is a respectable, talented young man, besides his connection with his brother. Ah! he is a very well- bred fellow, David, in addition to having his heart in the right place. But he is astoundingly soft, for a college man of standing, on a girl like Cecy Rymer. They say his brother the schoolmaster is also smitten with her. It is delightfully romantic, exclaimed Amelia Templeton. It is an awkward.chance, the minister pursued, but likely to lead to nothing very disastrous with a praiseworthy family like the Auchinlecks. Fortunately there is no old family here to have their pride out- raged by Davids choice of a wife. ~Oh dear no, assented Mrs. Templeton, emphatically. Mr. Andrew, as well as David, is a kind of old school-fellow of Cosmos, Mr. Templeton contir~ued. You remember we had both brothers some evenings, years ago, before the elder was schoolmaster, when we wanted to recognize them as a couple of exemplary lads. We remember, declared May, shaking her head, and dreary evenings we had of it how David Auchinleck is changed since then! Andrew was invited, and went, after he had nearly renounced the party, at the last moment, in consequence of the irritation caused by his mothers taking it upon her to superintend his evening toilet, while she cast glances on Davids faultless tie, boots, and studs. You are a braw man in girth and stature, Andrew, Mrs. Auchinleck took to compli- menting her much tried son. Gin you would hold yourself up, and wear a bauld front like your neighbours you are an inch taller on your stocking-soles than ever your father was, and that is a majestic man. Youll better tell me at once I am an Adonis, scouted Andrew. My mother is right, old fellow; you are really a well-built Colossus, chimed in gracious David. But Andrew was little grateful for his compliment, and more exas- perated than soothed by his brothers polite accents. It had so happened, in the morning of the same day, that, as if in the wantonness of idleness and prosperity, Cosmo Templeton and his sisters, Cecy Rymer and David Au- chinleck, having met each other accidentally near the spot, had looked into the school upon kndrew among his reading-books, writing copies, and peasant scholars. An- drew had received the company very shortly, 168 THE DOMINIES SONS. and on their lingering had threatened to turn them out and lock the door upon them for disturbing his pupils. David had tried ineffectually to smoothe down his brother; Cosmo Templeton and his sisters had slightly telegraphed to each other their opinion of the masters rudeness; Cecy Rymer, after having received a sudden violent impression of the seriousness and strain of Andrews life, had hung her fair wise head, and felt dreadfully ashamed of having been induced to join in the intrusion. But Andrew knew nothing of Cecys peni- tence; he only knew how inauspicious the visit had been, and felt also with how little of the coolness of a man of the world, how little of the courtesy of a gentleman, he had met the visitors. When Andrew was installed in the manse drawing-room, and seated on a remote sofa, the scene recalled forcibly that former dubi- ous reward for being exemplary lads which his brother had completely forgotten. David was as one at home on the hearth- rug, impressing the minister himself, who had not gone south of the Tweed for his humanities, by talking of Balliol, the last year~ s examinations, the Bampton lec tures, & c. - But Andrew felt anything save an exem- plary lad to-night. Certainly he told himself that he was the most morbid, malicious brute in creation. He did not free his neighbours altogether from the charge of aggravating self~satisfaction and veiled arrogance. But what could you expect of them? If he were as well armed and equipped for society, with as fair prospects as say Davie or Cosmo Templeton, and were not a soured, morose chap of a schoolmaster, doomed to drudge in obscurity to his dying day, no doubt he would have been as light and care- less as Davie or Cosmo Templeton, now buoyantly exuberant, now refreshingly pas- sive. All was much the same in the pleasant, slightly showy room, from its profusion of flowers contemporaneously with its cosy fire, to its mixture of dainty fragile china (to which Cosmo had added fur skins, models of canoes, specimens of mocassins) and its homely Dorcas work, little coats and muffa- tees, on which the ladies bestowed a portion of their leisure. There was Mrs. Templeton, still sitting in easy state behind her old-fashioned glitter ing urn. I Here was Andrews superior dominie, the I minister, loving to tackle Andrew, as of yore, with musty classics and false quanti- ties, which he was not at liberty to correct. Yonder were the Misses Templeton, not apparently six years older, still in airy floating garments, still with wonderfully ar- tistic heads; though the young ladies had changed their style of hair, and what had once constituted smooth shining rolls and plaits formed now massed chignons and ruffled waves. The Misses Templeton re- mained impressed with their duties as hos- tesses, consulting together, he thought, on his impracticability as a guest, and prepar- ing to show him over again, he verily be- lieved, the old photographs, and to sing to him the old Scotch songs. And Andrew was still blunt to Mr. Tem- pleton, and blundering to the ladies, though he was no longer so thin-skinned as of old to pin-pricks of annoyance. How could he be, when his skin bore the scars of serious battles? He did not think that he would have minded much now either the good folks patronizing or his own stammering and stumbling had she not been there to witness his uncouthness. As if for the purpose of contrast, she was surely supremely beautiful and bright to- night, with not only David and Cosmo Tem- pleton and the minister hovering on her steps and hanging on her looks, but the very women, in a tide of honourable enthusiasm sweeping away rivalry, combining to exalt and make much of her. Andrew Auchinleck kept aloof from the queen, convinced that she would not miss his homage, and not wishing to trespass on old friendly regard and sympathy, though he gave the feelings their due from Cecy Rymer, and did not writhe under the ex- pression of the last on her part. Amelia and May, Bab and Harriet, in spite of some acquired tact, in their resolu- tion to do their duty as their fathers daugh- ters, pestered Andrew with attentions, until Cecy Rymer interposed in his behalf. She was eager to hide the object of her interpo- sition, and so she was voluble, discursive, saucy to Andrew for the first time since they had resumed their relations after he was the parish schoolmaster. Amelia Templeton, wrapped up in the tradition that Scotch songs were the only songs adapted to Andrews taste, had car- ried out the programme by singing, to suit his supposed capacity, one of the most stilted, wishy-washy of modern imitations of old Scotch songs. And then Cecy Ry- mer sat down in the place which Amelia had vacated, and proceeded to sing with fine power and art her grand German Ade- laida, Andrews favourite son~ knew. ~, as she David Auchinleck and Cosmo Templeton stepped noiselessly to Cecys side to drink TEE DOMINIE S SONS. 169 in more fully melody in its passion; and Andrew, the ungrateful man, came lumber- ingly, and as it were unwillingly, drawn by an irresistible attraction, face to face with the singer. But he answered the unspoken appeal of her lustrous eyes. Cecy Rymer was entreated to sing again. She occupied herself with the pages of ~ piece of music, trying to steady it on the stand before her. Why dont you help me? she enquired of Andrew, almost with sharpness. I am neither useful nor ornamental here, half grumbled, half lamented An- drew, puz~zled, hurt because she was hurt, and with a dubious approach to a smile; you ha~ better get iDavie or Mr. Cosmo to help you. I dont want them. The answer broke forth quickly and sadly, and the accent supplied what the words kept back. If I cannot have you, it said, I will have none of them. The intimation was not the heartless de- ception of a coquette who would not be con- tent unless she had all kinds of spoil in her net it was the generous abandonment of a woman who is fit to break her heart because she is not let lift up the man who has chosen her, whom she has chosen, from his mis- taken, unmerited humiliation. Andrew Auchinleck would have been a dolt and fool if he had not understood the words. If you want me, Ill do what I can, he answered with a low laugh, bend- ing over and adjusting what was amiss. His eyes were opened to a flood of light which rendered his unpractised fingers dex- terous, and inspired him to hold himself up as his mother had recommended, the most towering figure with the boldest front in the room. It electrified Andrew; it melted and subdued him. It shri~relled up and con- sumed arJAtrary, accidental distinctions, and proclaimed him by sheer virtue of his man- hood with its defects, and of her tender- hearted, magnanimous election, the winner of a woman whose price was far above ru- bies. Andrew went home in the soft falling rain with Cecy Rymer, and when he returned to the school-house he found his mother waiting for him. I ken where youve been, and its all richt, she said to him, meaningly clapping him on the shoulder. As for Davie, he has been hame an hour syne, and he has been rummaging among his boxes and books; what you might expect, let it he midnicht, in a grand scholar. Andrew was aware that his mother had leapt to and approved of the conclusion. Moreover she had returned instantly to her allegiance to Davie her highest risen and rising son. am going, Andrew, said David next day, following Andrew when he went out after breakfast to the school. No, protested Andrew, in default of aiiything better to say. Yes, insisted David, I have nothing to stay for; and for that m~atter, I have stayed a deal too long already. After a moments silence, he added vaguely, with a shrug of his shoulders, I believe it is as it ought to be. Though David spoke calmly, his face showed haggard after a sleepless night, in the summer morning. He had been as unsophisticatedly in earnest, it might be because of that peasant blood of his, in his love as in his ambition. I shall probably join Evans and Ingle- dew in their reading party in Normandy, as they wished me, explained David, striving feverishly to be commonplace and cheerfully communicative, and naturally ending the struggle, gentleman as he was, by bordering on bravado. After that I shall be pre- pared to wish you and her every blessing, and stick to my college for the rest of my days. They are early days yet, Andrew re- minded him, gently; youll be our scholar, Davie, as our folk intended that you and I should he; whom we shall be proud of, whom the world may be proud of who knows? exclaimed Andrew, with a fond- ness which he had never shown to his broth- er before. It was Cecy Rymers task to reconcile her mother to her beautiful, accomplished, admired daughters marrying no higher than a parish schoolmaster; but Cecy rep- resented to Mrs. Rymer, first, that if Cecy had married Mr. Cosmo Templeton (who had never thought of asking her to marry him, and was bespoken ever so long ago in another quarter), Cecy would have had to go out to Canada, while the minister might never have spoken to Mrs. Ryiner again. I could never have stood that, eiacu- lated Mrs. Rymer, speaking as if even now guilty and condemned. And if Cecy had had Davie, she would have cost him his Fellowship and his living, the two would have been on the world with- out a certain bite to put in their mouths for all his learning, and Mrs. Rymers old friend Mrs. Auchinleck would never have spoken to Mrs. Ryiner again. An that could na hae been tholed, and hiz sae near connecet, and me wanting to consult her for she was aye a fell 170 THE DOMINIES SONS. smart woman, Mrs. Auchinleck where to win bread for my bairn, acknowledged Mrs. Rymer seriously. But since Cecy was so happy as to be going to marry Andrew Auchinleck, all was plainest and smoothest sailing in delectable sunshine. A living was provided, Auld- acres was next door, Mrs. Auchinleck was propitious. Then teaching was Cecys business as well as Andrews; she would help him as it had been projected she should help his father. Demean herself by teaching in a parish school! Demean herself by doing what her man did! Her Andrew had said a ladys mission was to go up bill and down dale, refining the world; and she, if she had any pretensions to be a lady, would refine Auldacres parish school. Would she lose her grand friends? Let her lose them, if they could be so lost. Her Andrew and her mother were her best friends, and she wanted none if she had them. Cecys dear mother must and did believe in her daughters great good fortune and uncloud ed happiness. - RAILROAD Acuoss THE ANDEs. WE are glad original projectors of a railway over the Andes to see that progress is being made with a scheme had at least the latter among their objects. The for crossing the South American continent by a line, it is said, would take four years to execute, railway, which may rival if not surpass in ac- but the Argentine Republic will be surer of suc- tual utility the great Atlantic and Pacific line cess if they do not try to go even so fast as that, across the North American continent. An en- but gradually extend their railways to the West. gineer, Mr. Rossetti, was appointed by the Gov- Economist. eminent of the Argentine Republic to survey the passes of the Andes, and his report appears ____________ to bring the undertaking within practicable compass. By the pass of the Planchors or Teno communication may be established between ex- isting lines on either side of the Andes by a con- necting line of about 1,000 miles (1,651 kilo- metres) in length. The highest elevation reached will be 3,300 metres, and apparently there will only be one very difficult section in the Vargara ravine, where there is a difference of level of 790 metres in a distance of 10 kilometres, which gives a grade of 70 in 1,000. Thus the under- taking will not be on the scale of the Atlantic and Pacific undertaking either for length or the number of the difficult engineering woiks. The whole cost is calculated at about 6,000,0001 sterling, that is about 6,0001 per mile, of which the greater portion will be in the territory of the Argentine Republic, which has prosecuted the survey, about a fifth only of the expense or 1,200,0001 falling to the Government of Chili. No doubt, small as the work comparatively is, it may still be too costly for any traffiothat may come upon it; but there are many objects of public utility thatwould be served. The Argen- tine Republic, we believe, has great expecta- tions, both from the emigration which is likely to flow into its great West, and the richness of the mining districts which will be opened up. There is a considerable trade besides between the Eastern and Western coasts, and the route would almost certainly command the mail and passenger traffic between Peru and Chili and Eu- rope possibly would supply another practicable road to and from our Australian colonies. The A WEEK or two ago we announced a rumour to the effect that the Government had refused to ?llOw a ship to convey the eclipse observers to Spain and Sicily next December. The rumour was too well founded; the Government has ao- tually refused to tell off a ship for this purpose. This decision in the teeth of the plainest prece- dents requires no comment on ourpart; in fact, it is beyond all comment, it is astounding. We are enabled to announce, however, that the American Government, more enlightened than our own, are ~making extensive preparations; and upon the results of their labours and those of the Continental Governments Englishmen must therefore fall back, in a research which is eminently English. The Americans will send three corpsof observation, to be stationed respec- tively at Malaga, Sicily, and some place in Tur- key most available for making the best scientific records and views. One of these corps will be sent from the Naval Observatory, and the other two will be composed of the most scientific men in the country, including the professors from Harvard University. Before the war broke out it was arranged that Rear-Admiral Glisson should extend to the corps at Sicily all the aid and co-operation in his power. But the origi- nal plan has been spoiled for the present by the troubles in Europe, Admiral Glisson being obliged to move his squadron to the Baltic for the protection of American commerce in that vicinity. Nature. FLINT CHIPS. 171 From The Spectator. FLINT CHIPS.* PRE-msroIuC, or rather non-historic, arch~ology has had many difficulties to con- tend with, but it is in a fair way to sur- mount them all. For a long while its ma- terials were either scanty or suspicious, though its conclusions were large and dog- matic. No sooner was it shown that th~ arrow-heads, celts, and curiously worked stones preserved in many a museum might he made to tell an intelligible and connected story, than these venerable though some- ,what dowdy curiosities became the starting- point for the wildest hypotheses. It seemed to he taken for granted that this hranch of archteology required hut little learning or scientific accuracy of thought. A few earnest workers, however, went on collect- ing, comparing, and reasoning, hut their labours, even when known, were often dis- credited. This result was due to the prev- alence of fraud and forgery, and to the un- fortunate impression produced by the rash conclusions of spurious archmologists, a fungoid growth which the study of ohscure antiquities has developed to an extraordi- nary extent. But at length, owing in a great measure to the labours of a goodly hand of really philosophic workers, English and Continental, pre-historic archteology is being rapidly consolidated into a satisfac- tory structure. One of the most important recent steps in tlis direction was the foun- dation of the Blackmore Museum at Salis- bury, another the production of a descrip- tive catalogue of its contents. To this cat- alogue we now wish to direct our readers Flint Chips, though a volume of 600 pages, refers almost exclusively to the Stone periods, and to the stone ohjects in the Blackinore Museum; a second book re- lating to the Bronze period, and to the ar- ticles of modern savagery, will complete the undertaking. The mode of treating his subject which our author adopts renders his volume a great deal more useful as well as more interesting than a mere catalogue. Mr. Stevens duly enumerates and describes the specimens, but he provides his readers in addition with a series of most instructive essays. So, for instance, the list of mam- malian remains found associated with works of man is prefaced by a well-composed pic- ture of the fauna of the Drift period. Again, before the individual specimens be- longing to the later Stone age are enumer- ated, a chapter on the methods of drilling stone is given. In a similarly readable * Flint Chips. By E. T. Steveas. London: Bell and lIaldy. 1870. manner very full information is furnished concerning lake-dwehings, shell-mo iinds, the ancient cultivation of maize, the use of tobacco, the animal-mounds of Wisconsin, and the tumuli of the Old World. From some of the chapters on these subjects we shall glean a few paragraphs, to show by samples the high quality and varied interests of Mr. Stevens hook. A strange scene is opened to our view in Dr. Blackmores account of the mammals of the Drift. During that period our Eng- lish Downs were the home of herds of rein- deer, of shaggy-maned bisons, and of a race of small and hardy horses, not unlike the ponies of Exmoor. The mammoth, the woolly rhinoceros, the lemming, and the musk sheep, animals peculiarly adapted for existence in an Arctic clime, were then liv- ing in this country, while sheltering in the caverns or prowling in the forests were hytenas, bears, and a species of lion larger than any of those now found in Asia or Africa. Many of these animals must have been extremely abundant, evidence of the existence of more than two hundred indi- viduals of the hytena having been obtained from the Kirkdale cave alone. Mammoth remains, too, have been frequently disin- terred in nearly all parts of England; still persons have not been wanting who ven- tured to attribute all these to the Jne elephant imported by Ctesar (p. 21). We may here cite an instance of the unexpected glimpses into the life of the past which the minute study of organic remains often affords. The second cervical vertebra, or axis, as it is named, of a bison, in the Blackmore collection shows necrosis of a small part of the boby of the vertebra, an in- jury which was most probably produced by a violent shock to the animal in using its horns in a tilting-match with a brother bison, and which resulted in its death. In France more especially a kind of evidence has been ob- tained from the animal remains of caves and rock-shelters which is of the deepest inter- est and importance, for it proves the con- temporaneity of man with many animals now extinct. Rude outlines of the mam- moth cave-bear and of man himself have been found traced upon pieces of mammoth ivory or fragments of reindeer antlers; at- tempts at sculptural figures have also been discovered. We trust that the evidences of cannibalism which some of the caves of France and Scotland seem to furnish will be explained away; still we fear that hu- man bones carefully split for the extraction of the marrow show that the cave-dwellers longing for marrow knew no bounds. The remarkable pit-dwellings at High- 172 FLINT CHIPS. field, near Salisbury, are described (p. 57) Some Ecuador Indians prepare their idol as dome-shaped excavations in the chalk, human heads by introducing a hot stone possessing a strong resemblance to many into the prepared head from which the pits existing in various parts of England skiull has been removed; drying proceeds and France. Pit-dwellings vary a good regularly, and a miniature head, preserving deal in size, some being five feet, others all the features, is the disagreeable result. fourteen in diameter. Sometimes they are As stone implements form the chief object solitary, sometimes in groups, with under- of the Blackrnore collection, so the modes ground communications. The circular form of working them, their various uses, and of these pits remind one at once of the form their peculiarities of shape and material oc- always used by savages. The lodges and cupy a very considerable proportion of Mr. huts of many tribes both of North-American Stevens volume. We cannot pretend to Indians and of the South-African races are give anything like a satisfactory account of round, and often sunk, partially at least, in our authors treatment of this part of his sub- the ground. All the earliest habitations of ject, yet we hope to be able to select from pre-historic times have been observed to be his pages ample proofs of the fact that a in like manner either circular or oval. Un- remarkable amount of human interest at- fortunately for the credit of arebmology, taches itself to the worked stones which numerous temporary shelters and cooking- have strayed down to us from remote places excavated on exposed hills and epochs. But we must guard our readers moors in this country have been set down against a common fallacy. The Stone age as pit-dwellings of ancient date, when they is often spoken of as a definite period, were in reality the temporary. contrivances sharply defined both in time and space. of encamping soldiers at no very remote Such statements are not borne out by the historic period. As a rule, nothing is found study of the contents of the Blackmore Mu- in them but a fire-marked stone, a little seum. The stone age of one country need wood charcoal, some burnt seeds, a button on no account be contemporary with that of or two, and a good deal of dirt. Had they another; indeed, the Stone age lingers still been houses long inhabited, they would in some parts of the world of to-day. Had have furnished, as those of Highfield and this not been so, the stone remains of re- other localities have, a less meagre cata- mote times, often the solitary records of logue of reniains. Genuine pit-dwellings past races, would have been far more diffi- belong to what is called the neolithic period, cult to interpret. The modern uses of tools and show both by their construption and of stone, shell, horn, and hone in many contents a decided advance upon the civili- parts of the globe have enabled archteolo- zation of the palmolithic or cave period. gists to classify numerous obscure objects, We turn now for a moment to the con- as adzes, hammers, knives, scrapers, net- sideration of an ancient method of cooking sinkers, & c. We indeed approach the of which early dwellings afford evidence, study of many of these weapons and instru- and which the customs of some modern ments under peculiar disadvantages. Doubt- savages serve to illustrate. This plan is less, many of the stone tools were fixed, in called stone-boiling (p. 50). A hole is wooden handles, which have lon~ since per- dug in the earth, dry wood is placed in it, ished. Evidence that sucn was the case and on that a number of stones. When the is afforded not only by the shape and mark- stones become red-hot the unconsumned fuel ings of the objects themselves, but by is removed, wet, green leaves placed upon modern examples of hafting adopted in the the stones, and upon the leaves the food to be mounting of similar tools. The exact uses cooked. More leaves are placed on the food, of many ancient stone implements remain, and a mat over all. Then some water is however, at present undiscovered; we only poured on the mat, and finally earth as an out- know tha.t they are human handiwork, and side coating; thus the food is cooked by a that they have such strong family likenesses combined baking and steaming process. But that arrangement in groups is quite easy. a simpler method of stone-boiiing than this Here we stop to point out the chief methods of the New Zealanders, was probably prac- of classifying ancient implements of stone. ticed by the pit-dwellers. Stones made The main bases of arrangement are form and red-hot in the fire were thrown one after finish. The unrubbed and unpolished speci- another into a vessel of water containing incus are, as a rule, older than the rubbed the food to be cooked. This is the plan and polished ones. Full details on this adopted by certain North-American Indians, point, and on the varieties of form in flint and traces of it still survive on the continent implements; as to how they were flaked of Europe. One less pleasing use of stone- into shape, usually by percussion, some- boiling is also described in Flint Qhip8. times by pressure as well; all this, and FLINT CHIPS. 173 much more, will be found in Mr. Stevens volume. Especially interesting are the notes on the efficiency of the flint irnple- inents in executing the work for which it is presumed they were fashioned (p. 68); on the exquisite workmanship of some of the stemmed flint arrow-heads from Ireland (p. 85); on the primitive methods of drilling stone (p. 96); and on the general distribu- tion throughout the world of stone imple.- ments (p. 112). In point of fact, this last subject introduces a difficulty. The vast quantity of stone implements real or re- puted has induced many persons to regard it as impossible that they can he all human work. The still existent gun-flint works, to which we recently alluded in the Specta- tor, offer proofs of various kinds as to the authenticity of the ancient specimens. Be- sides the vast quantity of flint flakes thrown off by the hammer in breaking up and fash- ioning a native mass of flint, there are numbers of abortive attempts and numbers of nearly finished pieces broken on the eve of completion. The modern productions and the modern waste-heaps of the workers in flint render perfectly intelligible those of pre-historic times. Let us, for illustra- tion, suppose for a moment an excavation made 1,000 years hence, on the site of the industrious town of Whitby. A doubt might easily arise as to whether the millions of fragments of jet there found were of artificial origin. But we know that 1,200 workmen are engaged year after year in fashioning this mineral into ornaments, just as the Romans 1,500 years ago worked the Kimmeridge shale about the Dorsetshire coast, and left abundant evidence of their manufactories in those waste cores of this material which have been ignorantly termed coal-money. We have no space to do more than refer to the compact and most interesting account (p. 119) of the Swiss and Italian lake- dwellings, with the curious evidence of the mode of life of their inhabitants which has been brought to light of late years. Nor can we linger amongst the shell-mounds of Denmark (p. 193), or the ancient and weird animal forms represented in the pot- tery of Peru (p. 269), or the gold images from the Huacas of Chiriqui (p. 281). There is, however, a most interesting chap- ter on tobacco (p. 315), which will proba- bly commend itself to some of our read- ers, and will serve to introduce a brief notice of one of the most important and characteristic suites of specimens in the Blackmore collection, namely, the pipes from the Ohio burial-mounds. However axmcient the custom of smoking some weeds, if not the weed, may have been, it does not appear that tobacco was introduced into Europe until about 1560. We are told that Fairbolt considers the tradition of the Greek Church that Noah was intoxicated by tobacco to have sprung from the brain of sor~e pious humourist. It is singular that the word tabaco appears to have been the native Haytian name for the pipe used in smoking the plant, which itself was termed rnahiz. We will now refer to the remarkable Ohio mounds and to the Ohio pipes, merely mentioning in passing that numerous subjects relating to ancient North America will be found ably handled in the sections devoted to maize and mealing- stones, Aztec mosaic work, and the pottery of Mexico. The Ohio mounds seem to have been places of sacrifice and worship rather than of sepulture. The sacrifice offered may indeed have formed part of the burial-rites, but though evidences of cremation are distinct, interments are rare, and occur in mounds destitute of the altars and other objects, probably offerings, which charac- terize most of these earth-works. In shape the Ohio mounds resemble some of our round harrows and tumuli, but are occasionally on a very large scale. In Mound City, on the left bank of the Scioto river, Ross county, Ohio, there are twenty-three mounds, the group being sur- rounded by a bank three or four feet high. One most singular point discovered in rela- .tion to the contents of the so-called altar- mounds was the occurrence of vast numbers of one sort of object in particular mounds. In one would he found two hundred pipes, in another numerous fragments of lead ore, in a third a collection of spear-heads, and so on. This peculiarity has not yet been satisfactorily explained. The pipes just mentioned are well represented in the Salis. bury series. Very faithful engravings of the most characteristic amongst them will be found on pp. 423 to 436. They are worked out of four different rock or mineral materials, none of them having been moulded or fashioned by pressure nor hard- ened by subsequent baking. In fact they are not pottery, though as such they are described by Sir J. Lubbock in his Pre-his- tone Man. Great skill has been shown in working the native materials into pipes, particularly in the case of those which have been made out of a peculiarly hard kind of slate, a sort of whetstone. The various specimens of pipes, though exhibiting con- siderable diversity in their ornamental de- tails are all formed on the same type of construction. The bowl of the pipe is 174 TUE STORY OF A CAPITULATION. situated on the middle of a curved, broad, and flattened piece, the extremities only of which touch the surface on which the pipe is placed. Through the middle of this broad stem a fine hole was drilled, by means of which the smoke was drawn from the central bowl. The chief artistic effort was reserved for the bowl. It usually rep- resented an animal so placed as te face the smoker. These animals, whether frogs (p. 423), birds (pp. 424 to 427), squirrels, beavers, seals, and sea-cows (pp. 428, 429), cats, bears, or wolves, are sculptured with singular force and fidelity. Only a few representations of the human face occur, and these are not very successful. We must pass by without notice the re- maining chapters of Flint (Jhip~. Abundant and trustworthy information concerning the tumuli of the Old World, toimens and menhirs, and scores of other matters of cognate interest, is afforded by this cata- logue of a collection of pre-historic remains which is inferior to none in the world. It is a happy circumstance for the beautiful city of Salisbury, that it should be able to reckon amongst its townsmen so enlightened and generous a benefactor as the founder of the Blackmore Museuiii, and so able and indefatigable an expositor of those remains of pre-historic times which it possesses, as the curator of the collection and the author of this book. From The Pall Mall Gazette. THE STORY OF A CAPITULATION. THE history of all invasions is so very much alike that the following account of the capitulation of Verdun in 1792 a capitulation memorable for the dramatic episodes which accompanied it will almost read like a story of to-day. Seventy-eight years ago that is, on the 3rd of September, 1792 the town of Verdun opened its gates to the Prussian army which had been besieging it for three days under the command of the Duke of Brunswick. The King of Prussia, Frederick William II., and his two sons, had just joined the army, and with them came a corps of French emigres, among them was Chateaubriand, then a corporal, unknown, wounded, and already half sick of the cause he was serving. The garrison of Verdun was allowed to march out with the honours of war, and it was a very young colonel, named Marceau, who was deputed to carry the letter of submission to the King. This officer is the same whom Byron has since immortalized, and who, as General Mer- ceau, was destined to acquire the reputation of being the most humane soldier and the bravest gentleman of his time. The garri- son were very dispirited as they marched out, and with good reason, for they,~bad just lost their general under circumstances peculiarly terrible and touching. Rather than be a party to the surrender he had blown his brains out. his name was Beau- repaire; he was the commander of the vol- unteers of Maine-et-Loire, and so far back as the 28th of July he had written to the Gov- ernment, saying, Verdun cannot be ex- pected to hold out if you do not help us. We ought tc have at least a hundred can- nons, and we have only forty-four. We ought to have forty thousand palisades, and we have not one. We have no muskets, no pouches, and scarcely any ammunition. To this he soon after received the following reply from Chondieu, one of the secretaries of the War Office: The most imposing ceremony took place last Sunday at the Tuileries. Funeral hymns were sung in honour of the patriotic victims of the 10th of August. More than 300,000 armed men defiled before the palace. These are your auxiliaries. There is a formidable reserve. Hold good; Paris is behind you! ! ! The three points of exclamation are in the origi- nal. One would almost fancy it had been written in the year 1870 by some cousin of Marshal LeBceuf. This letter was all the relief that Beaurepaire received. He was obliged to prepare for the siege as best he could, and the result was that when, on the 30th of August, the Prussian army opened their trenches, and balls and shells began showering into the town, there was an im- mense commotion among the inhabitants, who felt decidedly averse to being butch- ered for nothing. At that time Verdun possessed a mayor who was perhaps an an- cestor of that chief magistrate of Nancy who has just distinguished himself by ex- horting his fellow-townsmen to be meek and not to vex the Prussians. At the first sound of firing, this high-souled dignitary sent a number of roughs through the town with orders to rout out all the women and children and bring them to the market-place, where, under his valiant leadership, they constituted themselves into a deputation, and went imploring Beaurepaire not to hold out any longer. Now it so happened that some weeks before all the towns of France had sent delegates to Paris to make vows of patrio~ism, and the Verdun delegation had been headed by a sort of vestryman, named Cordier, who, being fond of the sound of his own voice, had thought the oc TUE STORY OF A CAPITULATION. 175 casion a good one for declaring in the face! no attention whatever to me. The table was of the Assembly, Le commandant de Ver- spread outside the Kings tent, and I looked dun et le bataillon de Maine-ct Loire ont on from a distance. What appeared to jur~ de ne se rendre qu~ Ia mort. Beau- strike the Crown Prince most on his entry repaire had sworn nothing of the kind, but into Verdun was the light-heartedness of he was chivairoos enough to considerhim- the inhabitants and the noisy welcome they self pledged by the tall talk of the vestry- gave him. They clustered round us, he man, and so, when the mayor and deputa- writes, and one of them, laying a finger tion caine whining to him to give in, he on my brothers coat at the spot where he replied, Never. Lamartine, in his usually wore his star, said, Ah, you must Girondins, here a~serts that Beaurepaire be a prince, here is the mark of an order. killed himself there and then, in the pres- They told us ~ey were very glad to see us, ence of the mayor, exclaiming, Survivez and professed great esteem for Prussia, ~ votre honte. Quant i~. moi, je meurs libre. comparing our kings with their own, and Je l6gue mon sang en opprobre aux l& ches saying many things that were highly com- et en exemple aux braves. This, however, plimentary. If I had stayed a few days was not the way which the commander of among them I believe they would have Verdun selected. Beaurepaire had nothing asked me to become their king. One of stagey in him. He let no one into the se- them did honour me with this proposition, cret of his intentions, but went quietly home which I presume was only a pretext for and shot himself in the silence of the night. talking; but it sounded strange to me in a The Duke of Brunswick was so much affected French mouth. Further on he observes at the recital of this suicide that on coming Their officers do not seem to be so well into Verdun he asked for the pistol with educated as ours. One of them, who I which Beaurepaire had done the deed, and learned was colonel of the Civic Guard, in- vowed that it should thenceforth have the formed me that he had a cousin in the Prus- place of honour in his armoury. sian service. I asked him where. He said Verdun having capitulated, the Prussian at Munich. However, the capitulation of general Kalkreuth was sent to take posses- Verdun was not to pass off in a mere cx- sion of it, and with him came the Kings change of civilities, for as General Kalk- two sons, who had obtained leave from their reuth and the princes were riding out of father to accompany the general on condi- the town on their way back to the camp, tion that they should take off their orders after ratifying the conditions of the surren- and pass as his aides-de-camp. The eldest der, an officer of their suite, the Count of of these two princes (afterwards Frederick Henkel, lieutenant in Kmhlers hussars, William III.) was then two and twent~. was shot dead in the street by somebody His rank in the army was major-general, firing out of a barbers window. Whether and he appears to have been a quick and this murder was the result of an accident, humorous observer as well as a clever or an idle freak, or a piece of misplaced officer. In a book of memoirs which he patriotism has never been correctly ascer- published later, under the title Reminis- tamed; but the occurrence led indirectly to cences of the French Campaign, he enters that most melancholy drama of the revolu- tionary into the minutest particulars of all he saw annals which Delille, Lamartine, and did in France, not even forgetting such and Victor Hugo have all sung as the details as the following: On the 30th I martyrdom of the virgins of Verdun. smoked a pipe with tolerable success. They were eight in number these virgins On the 2nd, when I was half dead with of Verdun, and their tale is indeed a pitiful hunger after a days march, the King sent one. The news of the murder had no me a plateful of lentils and pork. Ensign sooner spread through the town than im- Turbenheim, who brought the dish, laid it mense consternation seized hold of every- on a drum. I was changing my boots at body, and of course the Mayor was among the time, and before I was ready to eat a the first to gallop after Kalkreuth, and assure French dog belonging to M. dHerbelin put him that every reparation should be accorded his nose into the dish and went away with if only the Prussians would take a merciful the pork. Turbenheim was very much cx- view of the unlucky affair. But the General, cited, and wanted to go after the dog and who was scared and furious, answered that kill him, but I told him this wouldnt bring the rules of war were peremptory, that the back my dinner. I dined off the lentils. shot had been meant for him, and that Ver- On the 16th there were fowls at the Kings dun knew now what it had to expect. One table, and the officers appeared to think it can conceive the dismay of the Mayor and strange that, although his Majesty invited panic among the citizens, who at once made the Prince of Nassau and Luchesini, he paid sure that the Prussians would come and 176 kCHE STORY OF A CAPITULATI& N. massacre them all, and afterwards put their town to the sack no unlikely contingency as times went. In the midst of the confu- sion, while everybody was wringing his or her hands, and uttering lamentations, a lady stepped forward and suggested that, as a means of mollifying the King, a deputation of the prettiest girls of Verdun should be chosen to offer a corbeille of bonbons to his Majesty. The idea of presenting a basket of sweetmeats to a tough, grimy old soldier was not, perhaps, the most appropriate thing that could have been devised, but it was accepted by the Verdunites with enthu- siasm, and eight young ladies were immedi- ately designated as legates their names were Suzanne, Gabrielle, and Barbe Henry, daughters of M. Henry, President du Bail- liage de Verdun; Anne, Henriette, and Helene Watrin, daughters of a retired officer; Marguerite-Ang~lique La Girori- si~re, daughter of the Keeper of Woods and Forests of the province; and Claire Ta- bouillot, daughter of a magistrate. They were all of radiant beauty, say the Crown Princes memoirs; the eldest of them was not more than three-and-twenty, and the two youngest were only sixteen. A subscription was raised on the spot to buy a handsome casket, the Baroness de Lalance, aunt of the~ sisters Henry, offered herself as cha- peron, and the nine ladies were soon on their way to the camp in the Baronesss coach a fact which, by-the-by, speaks well for the capacity of vehicles in those days. One would scarcely imagine that in such a simple proceeding as this bonbon embassy to the King of Prussia lurked all the elements of a future indictment for treason; and yet so it was, ~nd the unfortunate box of sweet- meats was fated to cost three-and-thirty persons their heads. The King refused the present, but there is very little doubt that it saved Verdun from pillage; for, although Frederick William II. showed himself cold, and even harsh, to the deputation, there is his sons authority for believing that he was very much struck with the beauty of the young girls, and had not the heart to con- sign them to the fate which would inevitably have been theirs had Verdun been aban- doned to his soldiery. The French, how- ever, were then even fuller of the Prussian spy mania than they are now. Everybody who was not asans-culotte in those blessed days of freedom was accounted sold to the foe, and upon the evacuation of Verdun by the Prussians after Valmy and Jemmapes, the eight Virgins of Verdun, their moth- cr5, Mine. de Lalance, and twenty-one old gentlemen who had subscribed for the bon- bons, were arraigned hefore the revolution- ary tribunal on the charge of having de- livered the town of Verdun to the Prussians, aided and abetted the success of their arms on French territory, and conspired with them to destroy liberty, to dissolve the na- tional representation, and to restore despot- ism. It may be mentioned incidentally that the surrender of Verdun was one of the principal causes that sent Louis XVI. to the scaffold. Then, as now, it was pretty much the way with the French to believe that whenever they were beaten it was their kings fault, not their own; so that when the ill-starred monarch pleaded that he really could not help it if the bourgeois of Verdun had failed in endurance, this an- swer was treated as flippant, derisive, and an insult to the sovereign people. The same system of argument was adopted towards the Virgins of Verdun. After being carted about from prison to prison for two years, they were at last put upon their trial in Paris in 1794. Their beauty, their gen- tleness, and their resignation were such that a thrill of sympathy went throu~,h the audi- ence, and upon Fouquier-Tinville, the Pub- lic Accuser, rising to ask that they might be sentenced to death, one of the soldiers on duty, who had been kind to them through- out the trial, fell heavily forward and rolled on the floor senseless. Naturally they were found guilty guilty of being in league with the Prussians; and they were all con- demned to be beheaded. As a particular mark of Republican clemency, however, the two youngest of the virgins, Barbe Henry and Claire Tabouillot, saw their sentence commuted to twenty years penal servitude and one day of pillory. Barbe Henry was released after the fall of Robespierre, and subsequently married a Colonel Meslier; but both her sisters, her mother, and her aunt were executed, along with the other young girls who had carried the sweetmeats to Frederick William, and the twenty old gentlemen who had subscribed to the gift, five of whom were over seventy. Of course the mayor and the vestryman Cordier es- caped; those sort of men always do. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 177 From The Academy. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.* THE frequent republication of the works of our old dramatists, is a sufficient proof that the contemporaries of Shakspere to some extent still divide the attention of the reading public with their great superior. Yet it may be doubted whether, in spite of the labours of Lamb and Hazlitt among critics, of Dodsley, Gifford, Dyce, and others among editors, t.he works of men like Marlowe, Webster, Heywood, Chapman, Ford, or Massinger, can ever take the place they merit in the ranks of English literary worthies. These lesser lamps stars which are sufficient by themselves to adorn a national drama pale before the sun of Shakspere, and are swallowed in his main of light. Again, the very volume of our Elizabethan dramatic literature is an obstacle to its proper appreciation by any but enthusiastic lovers of old poetry, or students. None of the playwrights have either de- served or received more postbumous celeb- rity than Marlowe. He is justly honoured as the father of the English theatre. He made blank vcrse what it was for Shakspere, Jonson, and Fletcher, and he first taught the art of designing tragedies on a grand scale, displaying unity of action, unity of character, and unity of interest. Before his day plays had been pageants and shows. He first produced dramas. Before Mar- lowe it seemed seriously doubtful whether the rules and precedents of classic authors might not determine the style of dramatic composition in England as in France: after him it was impossible for a dramatist to please the people by any play which had not in it some portion of the spirit and the pith of Faustus, Edward JL, or Tambur- lame. When we remember that Marlowe, born in the same year as Shakspere, died at the early age of twenty-nine, while Shak- speres genius was still, as far as the public were concerned, almost a potentiality when we reflect upon the sort of life which Marlowe led among his disreputable friends in London, and estimate the degradation of the dramatic art in England of his day we are forced to acknowledge that his pro- duction, imperfect, unequal, and limited as it may be, still contains the evidence of a commanding and creative genius. About Marlowe there is nothing small or trivial: his verse is mighty; his passion is intense; the outlincs of his plots are large; his char- acters are Titanic; his fancy is extravagant * The works of ChristopherMarlowe, including his Translations. Edited by Licut. Cot. Francis Cun- ningham. London: Crocker Bro~rs. 1870. LIVIEG AGE. VOL. xix. ~46 in richness, insolence, and pomp. Mar- lowe could rough-hew like Michael Angelo. Speaking of Doctor Faustus, G6the said with admiration, How greatly it is all planned! It is this vastness of design and scale which strikes us most in Marlowe. His characters are not so much men as types of humanity, the animated mould of human thought and passion which include, each one of them, a thousand individuals. The tendency to dramatize ideal concep- tions is very strong in Marlowe. Were it not for his own deep sympathy with the yassions thus idealized amid for the force of his conceptive faculty, these gigantic per- sonifications might have been insipid or frigid. As it is, they are very far from de- serving such epithets. The lust of d?min- ion in Tamburlaine, the lust of forbidden power and knowledge in Faustus, the lust of wealth and blood in Barabas, are all terrifi- cally realized. The poet himself sympa- thizes with the desires which sustain his heroes severally in their revolt against humanity, God, and society. Tainburlaine s confidence in his mission as the scourge of the immortal God; the intrepidity with which Faustus, ravished by the joys of his imagination, cries: Had I as many souls as there be stars, Ld give them all for Mephistophules! the stubborn and deep-centred hatred of the Jew, who, in the execution of his dark- est schemes, can pray : 0 Thou, that with a fiery pillar lecldst The sons of Israel through the dismal shades, Light Abrahams offspring; and direct the hand Of Abigail this night! ~ These audacities of soul, these passionate impulses are part and parcel of the poets self. It is his triumph to have been able thus to animate the creatures of his imagi- nation with the reality of inspiring and inflaming enthusiasm. At the same time there is no lack of dramatic propriety in the delineation of these three characters. Tam- burlaine is admirably characterized as the barbarian Tartar chief, in whose wild na- ture the brute instincts of savage nations, yearning after change, and following con- quest as a herd of bisons seek their fields of salt, attain to consciousness. Faustus represents the medieval love of magic, and that deeper thirst for realizing imag- inations wildest dreams which possessed the souls of men in the Renaissance. Barabas remains the Jew, staunch to his creed, at war with Christians, alternately servile and insolent, persecuted and reveng~-~ 178 THE LOUVRE COLLECTION OF GEMS. ful, yet dignified by the intensity of his be- Iiefs, and justfiied in cruelty by the unnatu- ral pariah life to which he is condemned. Upon these three characters, and upon the no less powerful representation of the his- tory of Edward II., the pyramid of Mar- lowes fame is based. Hazlitt was not wrong in his assertion that the last scene of Edward. II is certainly superior to the similar scene in Shaksperes Richard. Nor was Lamb perhaps extravagant in say- ing that the death scene of Marlowes king moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or modern, with which I am acquainted. But there is one quality of Marlowes which his critics have been apt hitherto to neglect the overpowering sense of beauty which appears in all his finest works. It is by right of this quality that Marlowe claims to be the hierophant in England of that Pagan cult of beauty which characterized the Italian Renais- sance. We find it in Tamburlaines pas- sion for Xenocrate, upon whose shining face Beauty, mother of the Muses, sits And comments volumes with her ivory pen. We find it again in the visions of Faustus and his familiars: Like women, or unwedded maids, Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the queen of love. Or in his Helen: 0, thou art fairer than the evening air~ Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars. We find it in the jewels of Barabas: Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds. modern embodiment of fancy. Thought, passion, language, and rhythm all combine to give a Titianesque pomp and splendour to the pictures of Marlowes poem. With reference to Colonel Cunninghams edition of Marlowes works, it is enough to say that it is based, as every edition of Marlowe must be, upon that of Mr. Dyce, and that in his introductory notice lie sums up, briefly and agreeably, the few facts of Marlowes life, quoting the eulogies of his contemporaries and of subsequent critics, but not adding, as indeed how should he? any new material. The book is handy, and well printed, upon paper of good quality and pleasant tone. The notes are thrown together at the end and indexed. Altogether, this volume is likely to be the most popular edition of the complete works of Marlowe. From The Academy. THE LOUVRE COLLECTION OF GEMS.* THE collection in the Louvre of tups and vases cut out of rock crystal, or sardonyx and other semi-transparent stones, is, perhaps, the richest in existence, not excepting those of the Cabinet of Gems at Florence, and the Grline Gewiilbe and other treasure chambers in Germany. Arranged, with the enamels of Limoges, in the gor- geous Gallery of Apollo, it comprises the rarest specimens of the lapidarys art. Vases of precious materials formed, from the first centuries of the French monarchy, part of the royal treasures. The produce of Greece or Rome, they had been taken by the invaders of the Roman Empire, who had, in their turn, been deprived of their spoils by other barbarian tribes. That rock crystal was held as rare and curious is proved by the crystal ball deemed worthy to be interred in the tomb of the father of Charlemagne, together with what a war- rior most prized his sword. Again, the celebrated agate cup pre- served in the Imperial Library at Paris, on which is sculptured the mysteries of Bacchus and Ceres, was the gift of Charles the Sun- pIe to the Abbey of St. Denis, and when Eleanor of Aquitaine was affianced to Louis le Jeune, her present to the king on her betrothal was a vase of crystal, the sides carved in a honey-comb pattern, which the minister Suger, a patron of art, caused to be mounted in silver gilt filigree, and en- riched with precious stones. In the collec We find it in the sports described by Gaveston in Edward II. But it is in Hero and Leander that poem of exuberant and almost unique loveliness, left a frag- ment by the sudden death of Marlowe, but a fragment of such splendour that its elastic rhythms and melodious cadences taught Keats to handle the long rhyming couplet that the Pagan passion for beauty in and~for itself is chiefly eminent. We have no space to dwell upon the qualities of Hero and Leander. It is enough to indicate them. In the first and second Sestiads (Marlowes portion of this wonderful poem) may be seen how thoroughly an Englishman of the 16th century could divest himself of all religious and social prejudices pecu- liar to the Christian world, and reproduce * Les Gommes et Joyaux de Ia Couronne, par M. the Pagan spirit in a new and wholly Barbet de Jouy. raris, 1865-70. Folio. ANACHRONISMS OF ARTISTS. 179 tion are many other specimens belonging to the Abb6, a richly mounted cruet (burette), cut out of a single piece of sardonyx given to him by the king, and offered by Suger to the saints and martyrs, as an inscription round the foot sets forth. Another, an ancient amphora of porphyry, probably of Egyptian workmanship, has been ingeniously mounted by Sugers work- men in the form of an eagle, intended probably as an evangelistic symbol. There is also a representation given by M. Barbet de Jouy, of another ancient ves- sel, called the Vase of Mithridates, re- ferring to the vases and cups of precious materials, enriched with precious stones, which formed part of the spoils carried in the triumph of Pompey, and which first in- troduced a passion for these costly vessels into Rome. Passing over an interval of many centu- ries, the next period of the development of the lapidarys art is that of Louis XII. and Francis I. Rock crystal and jasper were thcn the chosen materials; oriental rock crystal was preferred from its purer water, but that of the Alps was extensively used, and Milan, where it was an article of com- merce, had a school for engraving upon crystal. The Louvre collection is rich in specimens exquisitely engraved with sub- jects, others fashioned in the form of shells, birds, and various grotesque devices. The Italian artists of the school of Fontainebleau introduced a taste fir mythological subjects, and we find the mounting and decoration of the cups, ewers, .& c., of this period, all adorned with pagan deities. Cellini intro- duced coloured enamels combined with the metal mountings, and under the sons of Henry II., translucent enamels of ruby red, emerald green, and sapphire blue, were in favour. Under Henry 1V. opaque enamels were added to the brilliant translucent gems of the Valois. From the Renaissance the specimens are numerous, and mounted in the richest style of decoration, gold, enamels, and precious stones. On a sardonyx cup of the 16th century, a cameo head of Elizabeth is introduced. The Minerva cup has been so often rep- resented as hardly to require alluding to the head of the goddess in gold, gems and enamels, the helmet of onyx, surmounted by a winged dragon. This cup, resembling in its style of decoration the beautiful sardonyx ewer belonging to Mr. Beresford Hope, was abstracted from the crown jewels of France at the end of the last century. But the time had come when the costly cups, ewers, drageoirs (sweetmeat boxes), and vases of rock crystal, bloodstone, lapis- lazuli, and jasper, decorated by a Cellini or engraved by a Bernardi or a Misseroni, were to give place to the productions of Murano, to whom Europe became tributary, for two centuries, for her enamelled vases, and her glass with filigree ornaments and of graceful forms. in the work before us, M. Barbet de Jouy, the lea~-ned conservator of the Louvre, de- scribes the most characteristic pieces in the Louvre collection, and shows that many specimens attributed t~ Italian art were the work of French artists. The illustrations are by M. Jules Jacquemart. and no great- er praise can be given to them than to pro- nounce them equal to his cugravings for his fathers ceramic works. While strictly pre- serving the form of each piece, he has so treated the materials of which the object represented is composed, whether it be the pelkicid crystal or the semi-transparent onyx, as to give to each its original and peculiar character. In this point, M. J. Jacquemart is one of the most remarkable artists of the day. Another number is wanting to complete this beautiful volume. From Chambers Journal. ANACHRONISMS OF ARTISTS. THE anachronisms of painters and sculp- tors must be divided into those which are purely unconscious, and those which are conscious and deliberate. The latter have their root in the fashion and prejudice of the age or the school of the anachronist. Thus, the neo-classical artists of the renaissance and of the eighteenth century, and the neo- medieval painters of the modern German art-colony in Rome and of England, opposed as they are to each. other, agree in a com- mon disrespect for their own age, and in a common taste for reproducing the character- istic of their ideal epochs. Think of Dr. Johnson as he stands represented in St. Pauls Cathedral. His brawny arms, broad chest, and herculean legs are naked; he has no shoes on his feet! He has apparently got out of bed in the middle of the night, merely throwing a blanket around him, to keep out the cold. It must have been after some indulgence in such an attitude and such a dress as this (for the statue represents nothing else that he ever did or said), that he was compelled to write the lines But me, alas! to beds of pain Arthritic tyranny confines! ANACHRONISMS OF ARTISTS. 180 The only way by which the sculptor could redeem such a statue of an eighteent.h-cen- turv scholar from anachronism would be to carvc a folded coat, waistcoat, and breeches as a cushion for his elbow on the pillar upon which he is leaning. The paiuters have been always the first to disentangle themselves from the bonds of a technical anachronism. The fact that they have the service of colour as well as of form at their beck makes it comparatively easy for them to do; but the sculptor, who has only form and light ahd shade (for colour if he had it, would in this case give him no help), is still unwilling to give up the dig- nified vestments of the Greek and Roman. He can indeed use with satisfaction any kind of male or female dress which arranges it- self into long and flowing lines, or which reveals the human figure, and affords occa- sion for exhibiting good anatomy. The modern dresses of Western Europe must be of necessity a perpetual torment to him. Long-lined dresses are eschewed, on account of the dirty streets and muddy roads through which the wearers have to drag them, and the impedimenta which they prove to that quick progress which civilized life demands from every one. The priest first tucked up his cassock, then permanently shortened it, and at last restricted it to the peg in the vestry. The undergraduate and the lawyer cast off their gowns the moment they are off duty. The trouser (invented, as old gen- tlemen of our younger days used to say, to hide bandy legs) has cruelly robbed the sculptor of that anatomical outline of the leg which the breeches of the past genera- tion still permitted him to render. At the present day, if he is to he free from all anachronism, he must represent his hero, so far as costume is concerned, as a well-made tailors block. He is driven to put what genius he has into the face, the hands, and the poise and attitude of his subject. It is well for him, indeed, if his subject be i~ judge, or a mayor, or a peer, or a Knight of the Garter, or any other occasional wearer of a long and flowing robe. A pictorial anachronism was inoffensive to the eye and the mind of its observer in the middle ages. The heroes and heroines of Holy Scripture and of hagiology were, of course, represen~~d in the dress which the artist saw daily f$t~fore his eyes in church, or hail; or court-yard, or market-place. This, at least, was one way of suggesting to the beholders that the patriarchs and apostles were men like themselves, of like passions and temptations. The changes of fashion were slower than they are now. Travel into Scripture lands was not followed by the pub- lication of illustrated books, and the trav- ellers had not the sense we have of this un- changing character of manners and fashion in the East. It was indeed the sense of a most tremendous change; a kind of upheav- ing of the whole past, which first carried Western Christians in great multitudes to the East; the East, the home of the Faith, had become Infidel. The Crusaders saw the life of the biblical lands daily before them in all its conservative completeness but they would hardly desire to see that life pictorially reproduced in their books of de- votion and their church pictures. The East had become, to their mind, alien from the God of the Bible and the old saints of the Bible; and it would have seemed theologi- cally false, and a kind of pictorial denial of the faith once delivered to the saints, to rep- resent Joshua and Gideon as Saracen knights, or Abraham and Jacob as miscreant (tbat is, Mohammedan) sheiks. Joshua and Gideon were enemies of Gods enemies, and could t.herefore only be truly represented by a devout painter in the forms of true Christian knights. For the same reason, a Jewish priest is habited as a Christian priest, and the Jewish high-priest as a Christian bishop. The similarity between the pictures of An- nas or Caiaphas and the living bishops whom the people saw in their churches, led to the interchange of the terms chief-priest and bishop in the miracle-plays: the soldiers who seize our Lord in the garden, and drag him before Annas and Caiaphas, always ad- dress the two high-priests Sir Bushoppes; and in the rubric, or stage direction ,they are also called the bishops. The successors of Aaron and the Christian bishops are iden- tical in appearance. Even so far back as Eli, the old high-priest is represented wear- ing an episcopal mitre, cope, and gloves, in a picture of the dedication of the child Sam- uel in Mr. Boxalls i3peculum. The want of travel, or the want of any other than verbal pictures from those who had travelled, was a cause of many anach- ronisms. If a city was mentioned in Holy Scripture, and the painter had to represent any part of it, he would put into his back- ground a faithful photograph of whatever city he knew best. This anachronism has proved of some value to us, as M. Ilauss- mann has shewn in his great folios on the history of Paris, who gives copies of French illuminations of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in which Paris does duty for Jeru- salem. There is a miniature of the shep- herds receiving the tidings of the birth of Christ, in which the Seine, the tower of the Temple, the Church of St. Jean-en-Grove, and the Petit Chatelet are translated into a ANACHRONISMS OF ARTISTS. Judea. The early monastic artist would read in the book of Genesis that Rebekah came from Padan-aram on a camel, and alighted from the camels back the moment she saw Isaac. This meeting has always been a favourite subject with artists. But what is a camel? the monastic painter asked himself. He had never seen one, nor eveii a picture of one. He gathered from the Bible that it was a beast of burden, and so took as his model for the unknown beast the horse or the ass, which were the only beasts of burden he had ever seen. It was at least a safer plan than that of Mr. Long- fellows German, who, when he had to write a description of a camel, having never seen one, sat down to evolve the idea out of the depths of his consciousness. So we have illuminations of Isaac hurrying to help down Rebekah from her horse or donkey. The medieval artists were far more stu- dious and conscientious than we generally think them, for we look superficially upon their quaint mistakes. The means of know- ing truth from falsehood which are open to us were closed to them, hot they often sought hard for science and knowledge, and used whatever they found. Their odd con- scientiousness is sometimes evidenced in the comical literalness of their conceptions. A modern caricaturist has made Britan- nia s-ule the waves with a pencil and ruler; and this is hardly less abs ~rd than some of the representations made by the monastic artists in all seriousness. To picture the blessing of the seventh day, they make six figures stand in front of the Almighty, while a seventh stoops down and receives a sacerdotal benediction (such as the painter saw given from the church altar) from the Creators uplifted hand. To illustrate the moving of the Spirit upon the face of the waters, the sea is actually drawn as a great human face, the waves forming its far- flowing hair and its beard. That we may understand the charge of the Creator to the first man, to dress the garden and keep it (cscstodiret in the Vulgate, which was of course the only text-book of these artists), they shew us a picture of ourSaviour hand- ing to Adam a well-made spade and a bunch of keys! In all these absurdities there is an inno- cent conscientiousness. They wished their pictures to convey the truth, and to be ex- act representatives to the eye of the thought which the Scripture conveyed by words to the ear. This conscientiousness began later to show itself in the gradual adoption nf such his-torical truth as opened before the artist through travel, or through ancient monuments, or through a more critical is study of the Bible text, until we find no more Moabites, Jews, or Romans dressed like Italians or Germans of the middle ages. It is easy to trace the development of the honest attempt of artists to synchronize their pictures; the first germ of a scientific historical art is shewn by adoption of cos- tume and scenery which do not appear in the traditional models. Herod the Great had a body-guard, they bear, of Gauls and Germans: on Trajans Column, the Italian painters at least had some means of know- ing how Gallie and Dacian soldiers were clothed; accordingly, in a picture of the Massacre of the Jnnocents, we find the murdering soldiery are dressed after these old hasreliefs. In others, Herod as a Paynim king, is turbaned like a Turk. An- gelico da Fiesole clothes Herod as a Chris- tian king of the middle ages, while his soldiers are habited after the antique Roman model. Giorgione, recognizing in the Egypt of his own day a Mohammedan nation, has (in his Choice of Moses,) dressed Pharaoh and his counsellors like Turks; all are tur- baned, though their physiognomy is too western to harmonize with their costume. In a picture seen by Captain Burton in the cathedral of Goa, Pontius Pilate. although an undoubted Roman, wears a huge Turkish turban. In a Nebuchadnezzars Dream of a Speculum of the fifteenth century, the king is lying in bed with his crown on enough to make any man dream. The anachronism is double; for, first, no king ever yet put on such a hard unwieldy night-cap before going to sleep; and secondly, no king of Babylon slept in a medieval bedstead under a load of bed-clcthes. But we see at once why the artist painted the crown; any con- temporary might otherwise have taken it for a picture of a nobleman of his own age in bed, as fit for a hook of romances as for a Speculum of salvation; especially as the dream-man hacking at the dream-tree, which is disturbing the sleepers mind, is a hushandman of the fifteenth century. Albert Diirers woodcuts of the Passion have been so widely popularized by copies that we only remind the reader that in them the Roman soldiers of Pilate are dressed like soldiers of the Holy Roman Empire, in the same costume as Retzsch adopted for Faust, Mephistopheles, and the German gentleman in his clever but mannered out- lines, which Mr. Selous has also, for some unknown reason, adopted as the proper dress of Christian and Faithful in the Pu- grims Progress. Diirer saw imperial sol- diers every day; they called the emperor. they served the successor of Tiberius, and 182 ANACHRONISMS OF ARTISTS. ~his was the dress they wore. The an- achronism of the medieval painters offends us the less, because they always give beauty, or dignity, or delicacy to the sacred char- acters. If they are copies of the persons about them, they are wonderfully refined and dc-sensualized copies. In the earliest and the most ill-drawn, there is little to disgust the pious beholder, or to degrade the subject. The same cannot he said of the Dutch and Flemish painters. They, too, outrageously anachronize Holy Writ; but the stout and sprawling dames of Ru- hens, and the coarse boors of Rembrandt, have not the slightest ideal affinity with the chaste and dignified saint they are meant to represent. Goethe has admirably said, that if Raphael were to paint peasants in an inn, he could not help making them look like apostles; while Teniers could not prevent thc persons he would paint for apostles from being taking for Dutch peasants. The fashionable realist may say that Teniers is probably nearer the truth, and that his. peasants may be something like the actual apostles; but we should nearly all say these drinking Dutch look very un-apostolical; those dignified and thoughtful men look apostolical. Our patience or impatience at any manifest anachronism depends upon its moral and intellectual spirit. Mrs. Jameson tells us that she has seen a clever picture by an unknown painter of the P. Veronese school in which Isaac is represent- ed as a gay Venetian cavalier. Can one imagine a grosser parody upon the most peaceful and quiet of the patriarchs, the meditative and retiring young man who went out to meditate in the fields at even- tide! An earlier painter, though he would have made Isaacs dress equally anachronis- tic, would shock us less, for he would have drawn the spirit of his subject from the study of the book of Genesis. Not the least astonishing anachronism in the medieval painters is the perfection which they attribut~e to the mechanical arts at a very early period. Thc handsome spade and the bunch of keys which we have seen our Lord presenting to Adam, must, we conclude, have been manufactured by angels. It may be that the presentation is a painted sermon, preaching that the origin of human arts is from God; but it is curious that the angels should have anticipated the shape of spades and the pattern of keys in medieval Europe. Adams spade, however. is nothing of a wonder when it is compared with his household furniture and his baro- nial castle, for the illuminators enrich him with both. I have seen a settee with turned columns, excellent carving, and decorated earthenware tiles, upon which Adam and Eve sat down, side by side, to weep over the dead body of Abel. What loom wove, and what tailor shaped and sewed, their long and beautifully made garments? In Raphaels picture of the First Family, familiar through its many copies, Adam holds a kind of rude adze: the painter recognizes no hint period, for its head is plainly of metal. The glorious meditative fallen Adam of Milan Cathedral is more fitly holding a stone-headed adze. In the pictures of the Eastern churches, Cain is slaying Abel with a dagger; in the West, his weapon of murder is usually a club; sometimes, however (perhaps with a refer- ence to the proto-martyr of the New Testa- ment), he is painted in the act of stoning his brother to death. Cain and Abel are generally well-dressed men in early illumin- ations. Lady Eastlake gives the copy of a picture in which Adams elaborate Gothic castle or mansion forms the background to the figures of the two brothers. A common instance of anachronism with a purpose is to be seen in many pictures of St. Jerome. The great Latin Father is generally painted reading or praying in his cave, the skin of some beast his only cloth- ing; butin some corner of the ce~ll, in odd contrast to the general wildness of the pic- ture, we discern the well-made red hat of a cardinal. Such a hat was never seen in this world until St. Jerome had been dead at least eight centuries; and it is needless to say that he was a very different cardinal from Cardinal Wolsey, or Cardinal Riche- lieu, or Cardinal Antonelli. The ascetic doctor would have thought it a sin to put such a gay tasselled thing upon his head, and the untaught might be excused for sup- posing that it represents those pomps and vanities of the world which he has renounced. Hartley Coleridge discovered a moral pur- pose in the anachronistic representation of early persecutors as Spanish bishops and inquisitors in the pictures in Foxs Book of Martyrs.* I have seen some of the Abyssin- ian church offices brought home by our sol- diers after the war; they contain the most curious anachronisms. St. John the Evan- gelist is figured (as Mr Curzon long ago described in his Visit to the Monasteries of the Levant, in some of which Mr. Tozer found Abyssinian monks in his recent visit) with woolly hair; and he even bears on each side of his face the two indelible gashes, with which the Gallas mark their * In a picture of the martyrdom of St. Lawrence, which is dated 258 AD., in the reign of the Empe- ror Vaterian, a Spanish bishop is presiding as chief persecutor. THE RIDERLESS WAR HORSES. 183 faces, hearts, and arms. Long before the Guard, 602 riderless horses answered to the Abyssinian war broke out, in his first edition summons, jaded, and in many cases maimed. of his Wanderings amongst the Fatashas, The noble animals still retained their dis- Mr. Stern described the famous picture of ciplined habits. The image of these poor the Passage of the Red Sea in the Church riderless, bleeding creatures going through Kudus Yohannes, in which the children of their drill to the last with punctilious pre- Israel wear the British uniform and carry cision, without any regard to the absence muskets on their shoulders! The church of the only hands which could have enforced was indebted for this picture toa gentleman the duty, and in utter unconsciousness who accompanied the mission of Captain that with the loss of their riders the reason Harris to the court of Shoa; but whether for their evolutions had disappeared, strikes this amateur painter committed the an- us as one of the most pitiful, though, of achronism out of ignorance or out of mis- course, far from the most grievous, of the chievous impudence, does not appear. incidents of the battle-field. The poor things themselves, of course, suffered no more probably rather less from their works of military supererogation, than they would have suffered if, with the same From The Spectator. wounds, they had been bearing about their THE RIDERLESS WARHORSES. proper riders; and yet there is something IN almost the last letter written by Lieu- that touches the heart much more in this tenant-Colonel Pemberton from the seat of evidence of complete failure to apprehend war before his untimely death, there was a their part in the system of things to which passage which strikes us as describing one they belonged, in connection with their of the most pathetic of all the incidents of unremitting efforts to discharge to the ut- war, though the pathos of it relates, not to most of their failing powers a task the oh- the human belligerents, but to their only ject of which had ceased to exist. It ex- active allies in the animal world, the horses. cites a less degree of the same kind of pity A Prussian hussar, who had got off his which we feel for alienation of mind, when horse to carry water to two wounded and the sufferer diligently makes preparation dying comrades, was killed, with the poor every dayat the same hour for the comfort soldiers he was relieving, by a shell, in the of one who is long dead. Of course, there very act of pouring the water down the is in it none of the contrast between undy- throat of one of them, and just then his ing love and dead intellectual power, which regiment moved off, his empty horse follow- makes scenes of the latter kind so profound- ing in the ranks, whereupon Lieutenant- ly pathetic. But then, on the other hand, Colonel Pemberton remarked: Only there is a. contrast between the admirable those who have seen a battle-field can form fortitude and discipline of which an animal a notion of the extraordinary way in which like the horse is capable, and the entire the horses, as long as they have a leg to absence of any of those intellectual or moral crawl on, will follow the regiment to which roots to fortitude and discipline which have they belong. I saw what evidently had fed them in human character, going beyond been serjeants horses keeping their position the analogy even of alienation of mind. in rear of their squadron, wheeling with it, That the implanted lessons given by man, and halting exactly as if their riders were and the new sense of collective order they on their backs, and all the time streaming have conveyed, although they have imever with blood. Poor creatures! they are carried their own drift and meaning with indeed to be pitied, for they have neither them, should triumph so completely over Vaterland, promotion, nor the coveted the animal impulses of pain and lassitude, medal to think of, whatever may be the and this, too, when there is no one left to issue; and few indeed are there which have appeal to the creatures spirit and command been in action which have not some hon- its obedience, fills us with pity, probably ourable sears to show. Again, the Ger- because it gives us so vivid a picture of a man Post relates, that after the slaughter creature whose characteristic nature is far at Vionville, on the 18th of August, a more than touched, absolutely controlied strange and touching spectacle was pre- and exalted, by the influences of a higher sented. On the evening call being sounded life in which, nevertheless, it can reach by the 1st Regiment of Dragoons of the to no full or satisfying participation. 184 TILE CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. From The Spectator. THE CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. THE question whether the Ex-Emperor of the French has been gifted with a con- science, and if so, what it is like, what he has done to give it keenness of nerve, in what fashion he has blunted its power of communicating with his brain, or in what degree he has listened to its promptings, threatens to take its place among the riddles of history, and to perplex the moralists of the future. On the one side stand the eulogists of the Emperor, who hold all his acts to be so many signs of wisdom, and of a wish to live for the good of his coun- try. Such men laud him as the best Sovereign that ever ruled over France; pronounce the coup detat to have been dictated by the necessity of saving France from anarchy; and, in a word, see in the Ex-Emperor, not only the most sagacious man of his time, but also one of the best. On the other side stands a phalanx of satirists represented by Victor lingo. The only colour on the palette of those artists is lamp black. Morally they paint the Ex- Emperor as dark as a negro, array him in the livery of the Devil, and then invoke the execration of history. Between the poles of blind eulogy and equally blind de- nunciation stand a crowd of critics, who confess that they do not know what to make of the man, and in that puzzled corps we find M. Renan. Writing on the politi- cal state of France, in the Revue des Deux Mondes, this subtle critic has said The character of the Emperor Napoleon III. is a problem on which, even when we shall possess data which are now beyond our reach, we must express ourselves with much caution Few historic subjects will stand so much in need of retouching; and if, within fifty years, we have no critic as profound as M. Sainte B& uve, as conscien- tious, as careful not to efface contradictions, but to explain them, the Emperor Napoleon III. will never be rightly judged. M. Renans historicalstudies must force him to view with profound suspicion the verdicts which the mass of people pronounce on those types ef men whose mental and moral organization is marked by subtlety of thought and motive. In real life a Hamlet would never be understood. His vaciUa- tiun. the intricacy of the path by which his mind travels from motive to deed, and the aberrations from what might seem to be the normal orbit of action, would all puz- zle that vast class of persons who shape their life at the dictate of a few plain max- ims, and do not see, or even suspect, that outside their own little world of duty there lies a whole universe of rIght and wrong. It would not be difficult for a subtle critic to write a plausible defence of all the worst acts done by Louis Napoleon. As hard a task was undertaken by Mr. Froude when he accepteti a brief for Henry VIII.; a harder task had been accepted by Mr. Lewes in his defence of Nero; and, by the side of De Quinceys apology for Judas Iscariot, an apology for the author of the coup d~tat might seem trivial. The first count in the indictment would be, that Prince Louis tried to make France rise in rebellion against Louis Philippe; but many good men have stirred up rebellions for good causes, and it might be plausibly ar- gued that the Prince had a good cause when he sought to replace a Government which was essentially ignoble, by a Gov- ernment which, in accordance with the tra- ditions of the great Emperor, should give France glory abroad and prosperity at home. Again, the Prince broke the oath which he swore as President of the Re- public, and destroyed that Republic which he had sworn to maintain. But the ques- tion whether politica4 oaths are as obliga- tory as personal, and whether circumstances may not destroy their binding force, is one of the most difficult problems in the whole range of ethics. By her coronation oath our own Queen was bound to maintain the Protestant religion in Ireland no less than in England; but when Parliament decreed that the grotestant Church of Ireland should be disestablished, she felt that, as re- spects Ireland, the people had released her froni the vow, and that they had the power to grant such a dispensation; nor will the soundness of her judgment be impugned, except by the blindest bigotry. All the members of the French Army took an oath of allegiance to the Emperor, which the remnants of the force are now keeping by lending allegiance to the Republic. The same oath was taken by M. Gambetta and M. Jules Favre, who were the first to pro- claim the downfall of the Empire, and the establishment of a Republic. Prince Louis, it is true, excused the breach of his oath on the plea that the National Assembly was filled with persons who strove by their plots to paralyze the authority which he had re- ceived from the people; and M. de Toe- queville asserted not only that the stare- ment was untrue, but that the Prince knew it to be untrue. Yet the word of the phi- losopher, although valuable as a proof that the members of the Assembly had not en- tered into a plot, does not prove that the President said what he himself knew to be THE CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 185 false. Perhaps he really fancied that if he did not strike down the Assembly, that body would strike down him. At last, M. de Montalembert, the most religious of men, feared so much that the action of the Assembly would bring anarchy to France and desolation to the Church, that he sang the praises of the author of the coo;p de Atat as the man who had put to flight the whole of the Revolutionists, the whole of the Socialists, and the whole of the bandits of France and Europe. The same devotee warned the religious men of France that to vote arrainst Louis Napoleon would be to invite the dictatorship of the Reds, in place of the dictatorship of a Prince who had rendered for three years incomparable ser- vice to the cause of order and catholicism. And even if we assume that Louis Napoleon did tell a lie to the French people, he would, alas! not stand alone among the political men whom the world has agreed to honour. Cavour told a lie to the Italian Parliament when he solemnly declared that he had not ceded an inch of Italian terri- tory to the Emperor of the French. On the subject of political lies, a subtle casuist might discourse for a year, and might plausibly argue that no statesman ever tells the real truth to a popular assembly; but glosses over ugly facts, or leaves false im- pressions by means of evasive sentences. Pitts whole system of oratory was a system of rhetorical lying. A Queens Speech might be described as an ungrammatical lie, if anybody expected such a document to tell the truth. The Prince-President how- ever, not only told a lie; but shot down the people in the streets of Paris because, hy erectin~ barricades and firing muskets, some few Parisians showed that they did not believe his words. But, perhaps, it was the subordinates of the President who were responsible for the massacre; or, perhaps, the massacre was unavoidable, and the shooting of innocent wives and children was only a misfortune, like the burn- ing alive of the women and children in the villainre of Bezeilles the other day, when the Bavarians opened fire on the houses for strategical reasons; or, perhaps, there is, no end of the perhapses which might flow from the pen of a clever casuist who had been trained inthe school of Loyola. The prisoners taken in the street fight, however, were shot down by scores in cold blood a full day after the battle had ceased; and surely the President must bear the re- sponsibility of those wholesale and deliber- ate murders, surely they. will cover his name with infamy until the end of time. Not necessarily, might be the reply of the casuist, for they may have been done by De Morny and J?ersigny, without the authority, or even the knowledge, of the man whom they called their master. The evidence is too scanty to allow of our accu- rately deciding the guilt. As M. Renan says we must wait for our facts and our Sainte Beuve. But, again, the Emperor declared war against Prussia on grounds which the whole civilized world pronounced to be a mere pretext. He dech~red war to save his dynasty. He deliberately sacri- ficed the lives of hundreds of thousands, and he brought misery to a million homes, rather than permit the throne of France to slip from the grasp of himself and his son. But, replies the casuist, that is an as- sumption which no court of law would re- ceive as evidence. France wished for war; and even such French statesmen as M. Thiers, who held the causes assigned for the present war to be insufficient, would gladly have welcomed a war with Germany if it had been waged to prevent her from becoming the rival of France, and been declared at a time when France was pre- pared to strike. Nay, it was the insane jealousy with which the French people re- garded a united Germany, and their immoral passion for la gloire, that forced the Em- peror to attack the Prussian troops. He was not his own master. He was forced to go with the stream. He went with it sorely against his will, and saddened by the pre- sentiment that he was going to meet political death. Thus he has been the victim of circumstances. Such are the pleas with which a clever casuist might defend Louis Napoleon at the bar of morality, and the case would give room for the display of wonderful subtlety. A casuist of the school assailed by Pascal would delight to hold a brief for the defence. He would delight to undertake the task, for the same reason that a dexterous surgeon might glow with pleasure when about to exe- cute an operation demanding such consum- mate delicacy and boldness of stroke that the life of the patient would be lost if the scalpel were to go a hairs breadth too deep into the mass of flesh and tissue. The casuist would delight to hold a brief in the cause of Morality v. Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, because the evidence against the prisoner at the bar seems so stron ~,, and the verdict of guilty so sure. And the arguments by which he would seek to turn the point of th~ - evidence, or to secure a mitigation of sen- tence., are precisely such as a skilful Old Bailey practitioner would employ to defend a man who had not only committed a murder, but had been so unfortunate as to 186 THE CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. be caught in the act. Such answers as we have suggested to the impeac hunent of Louis Napoleon are precisely similar to the pleas that might be suggested in favour of Bill Sykes. Caligula could be defended on similar grounds; so could Fouquier Tin- ville; so, whatever may have been the opinion of Macaulay, could Barr~re; and so could that paragon of activity and filial piety, Troppmann, who killed a whole French family in order to provide for his poor relations. However, it is a weary task to shriek out accusations against the Ex-Emperor; the task of interest is to understand the man, by looking into what he is pleased to call his conscience, as we should look into a curious watch, that always revealed its presence by loud ticking, and always told a lie, about the time of day. The real ex- planation of his acts is, we believe, to be found in the theory by which Prevost-Para- dol accounts for the moral aberrations of the First Napoleon. In perhaps the most remarkable passage ever penned by the un- happy journalist, it is contended that the great Napoleon wrote on the page of history an everliving record of selfish ambition and gigantic crime, not because he was morally worse than the mass of men, but because in point of intellect he was immeasurably greater. Morally, Napoleon I. was an average man, that is to say, he was selfish enough to prefer himself and his family to the nation, which had cast itself at his feet, and given its destiny into his keeping. He did, on a vast scale, what is none on a small by the average British Philistine, who fancies that to make ones family comfortable, and to pay ones rates, and to undersell ones neighbour is the whole duty of man. But the average British Philistine is so wretchedly endowed with brain, and so incapable of following any train of thought to its logical result, that he cannot conceive any aims grander than those of the counting-house, or any code of right and wrong other than that furnished by the parson. Thus his selfish- ness has little room to act. He is like a cow tethered in a field of clover, and with a bandage over its eyes, so that it cannot stray beyond a small circle, or see that the sweet clover stetches far beyond its little orbit in a billowy expanse of green. If the ordinary British Philistine were as richly enmlowed with intellect as with selfishness, these islands would be made uninhabitable in a week, and the children of light would be forced to beg that Von Moltke would smite the Philistines from the rising of the sun even unto the going down of the same. But the Philistine is so delightfully stupid as to be one of those good members of society who make a fortune, and live re~ spectably, or, at the worst die in the odour of sanctity and pecuniary debt. Napoleon the Great, on the other hand, added the selfishness of a Philistine to the intellect of a Titan. He was a monster, not because he lacked a conscience, but, as Prevost- Paradol justly indicates, because the strength of his conscience bore no relation to the strength of his brain. His aim was to make himself the first man in all the world, and then, let us not doubt, to give the world such justice of law, such success of commerce, such breadth of culture, and such grandeur of aim as it had never known before. All things were to be done for mankind, if only mankind would permit the work to be executed by Napoleon, and only allow the glory to be his. All things must be done by him. whatever might be the cost in tears and blood. And, indeed, how trivial must the tears and blood of a few million people, during one paltry gen- eration, have seemed to a Napoleon, with his eyes forecasting the results of a thousand years. and a time when history should speak of Napoleon in the same breath with Ctesar and Charlemagne! It was as natu- ral for such a man to waste a million lives as it is for a British Philistine to effect a huge transaction on the Stock Exchange, and thus to beggar his neighbour, if he receive early intelligence of the fact that France has declared war against Prussia, or that the army of Marshal MacMahon has capitu- lated at Sedan. The Philistine cannot un- derstand how a Napoleon can be so wicked, for precisely the same reason as he cannot understand Kants Philosophy of the Un- conditioned. He fails to follow the wind- ings, and the impulses, and the flights of a Satanic intellect, not because he himself is too pure to have a sympathetic comprehen- sion of the promptings of evil, but because he is too unimaginative to conceive crimes of Napoleonic grandeur, and too stupid to follow the reflective process of a Napoleonic brain. And yet there have been Philistines whose own career in the world of commerce had somewhat of a Napoleonic sweep. There have been speculators for whom the world has seemed too small. And as rail- way, or as cotton, or as stock-jobbing kings, those men have been mighty conquerors, with grand aims and without scruples, the artificers of colossal work, and the authors of the ruin which has fallen on a million homes. Such men, if they were able to analyze the motives by which they have been driven from the slum of the huckster THE CONSCIENCE OF LOUIS NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 187 to the throne of the commercial dictator, ligion, and in his uncle a Messiah. He could reveal with terrible vividness the worshipped at the shrine of Napoleon, and temptations that lure on a Bonaparte from the one aim of his life was to ride into su- the position of a humble citizen of the Re- preme power over France on the wings of public to that of an autocrat. Such men his uncles fame, his uncles system of gov- are seized with the idea that it would be a eminent, his uncles schemes fbr universal magnificent feat to bridge the Channel, peace. He found Louis Philippe in the since the link would make France and Eng- way, hut why should he permit his way to land friends for ever, and since, before all be blocked by a man who was the type of things, the iron highway from island to con- bourgeois vulgarity, and whose aims were whose cro tinent would ~ive undying fame and hound- desperately common-place; wning less power to him by whom it shonld be ambition was to enrich his family, and executed. So, in season and out of season, whose parade of love for the plebeians was the plans are thrust on the notice of the so hollow that, as Heine sarcastically said, world. The world is careless; it must be he always used the same old dirty glove to stimulated by eloquent prophecies. It is cover the hand with which he shook the sceptical; it must be convinced by facts. hands of his unwashed subjects? Louis lt is dull of comprehension; the facts must Philippe must be put out of the way. So be arrayed in the garb of that rhetoric which must the Republic, with its blustering, its uses adjectives only of the superlative quarrelling, and its inability to comprehend degree. The world fails to see the meaning the grandeur of the scheme which had been of facts; it must be taught truth by means unfolded by Prince Louis Bonaparte in the of lies. It does not know its own interest: comments on the ideas of his uncle. A so it must be treated like a baby by the coup d~tat must be effected, and the Re- Napoleon of the Stock Exchange. And public must bear the blame of the unfortu- yet one day the Napoleon finds that, in spite nate necessity. The subsequent massacre of all his good intentions, the mighty scheme was an unhappy incident; but the Republic for binding nations together by means of must bear the blame of that too; Persigny iron rods has signally failed; that the sea had sworn to that fact with abundant gusto. has washed the fabric away; that his If untruths must be told and lives sacrificed, schemes have driven a thousand families to in order to found the Empire, the plan, eat the bread of charity or toil; and that, after all, had the warrant of all time. For, strange as the fact may seem, he, the Na- whatever might be said by the theologians, poleon of his age, is pursued into exile by evil had uniformly been done in order to the curses of those to whom he meant to be bring forth good. That was Natures plan; a second Providence. that was the only plan open to a great Thus we get a fAue to the nature of the statesman; and that should be the plan of man who, after destroying the French Re- Louis Napoleon. When men talked of mo- public, and ruling France for twenty years rahity, he asked what they meant, and with sagacity and success, plunged into the showed, by a small expenditure of subtlety, most foolish as well as the most unprovoked that they were building houses upon the war recorded in modern history, and ended sand. It was easy for so able a man to de- his career in the mightiest capitulation molish the foundations of th~ Philistine known to military annals. The personal morality, and easy to laugh at the bugbears ability of Napoleon III. has been exaggerat- which the priests had instilled into his wife, ed by his admirers. He does not stand on a passion for masses as well as for crino- the same plane as his uncle, to whom nature line. And, moreover, the system of In- had given one of those originating amid or- perialism would shower such abundant ganizin~ brains which she fashions once in blessings on France and Europe as could a thousand years. Nor, in diplomatic sub- never rain down from the arid sky of a Re- tlety, fertility of resource, or sagacious au- public or a Monarchy. Italy should be free dacity of plan, is he the equal of such men and united; Mexico should beagreat Em- as Cavour and Bismarck. But he acquired pire, the representative in America of the immense power from the profound study of Latin races, and the rival of the United one political system, and the fanatical belief States; while France should be made as in one political idea. He was a Bonapartist rich as England by the influences of free- by conviction as well as by blood. The trade. The scheme did not lack grandeur; worship of his uncl& s name, and the study it lacked nothing but justice and truth. It of his uncles plans, had taught him to regard forgot but one thing the existence of a the system of Imperialism with some such moral law. It has failed, as all such schemes faith as the devotee regards the mission of will fail in a world of freedom. A high the Church. In Imperialism he found a re- priest of the religion of Selfishness, Louis 188 AUSTRALIAN FEDERATION. Napoleon now expiates in exile the sins which he committed in the day when the magic of his uncles name, and the worship of his uncles system, gave him such power as comes, perhaps, only once in a genera- tion to any of the children of men. From The Economist. AUSTRALIAN FEDERATION. THE movement reported from Australia in favour of federation has, we imagine, the full consent of the Colonial Office, even if it was not suggested from this side, and we trust that as it advances it will receive the warm support of the English public. From any possible point of view except one the federation of these colonies will be an ad- vanta~e to themselves, to Great Britain, and the world. It might be a disadvantage if Great Britain ever contemplated the idea of holding them by force, but as that is given up even by the strongest Imperialists the objection may be dismissed without dis- cussion. Federation will be an advantage to the Australians themselves, because it will introduce into their politics just that amount of complication which is necessary to produce statesmen. The defect of colo- nial politics as a training school for Govern- ment is a certain simplicity, or to take a phrase from a different region of thought a cert& in lowness of type, as of an organism not yet fully developed. The colonists have no frontiers, no foreign affairs, no ex- ternal yet ever present restraining influence; they have no one to consult but themselves, nothing to fear except a change in local public opinion. The consequence is that, like Anglo-Indians, they become very clever but very narrow reasoners, think niuch too little of obstacles, and are apt to grow into vehement doctrinaries of the parochial kind. Federation does much to correct all this. The relations between the provinces and the Central Government soon require deli- cate adjustment, self-restraint, a habit of regarding circumstances other than those of the immediate locality, which all tend to widen mens minds, and take them out of an otherwise narrow groove. The sense of im- mense and general responsibilities solem- nizes politicians, while the same sense in a different form enlarges the view of their electors, tempts them to overlook petty drawbacks in their representatives, and gradually fosters that first of political vir- tues, a readiness to make sacrifices. For instance, a central Government in Australia would very soon require the control and the produce of the Customs, now the sheet-an- chor of Australian taxation. Hence a new and a higher view of the pressure inflicted by tariffs, a readiness to endure direct taxa- tion, and a new and much-wanted apprecia- tion of the uses of economy. The pride of nationality moreover, sure to spring up in a federation with a special name and a sepa- rate place in the world, is an element in political culture, and so is the sense of community with other and allied States situated in the same region, united by similar interests, and having for a common object equal burdens. The Australians have hitherto had none of these things, their relation to England havihg been too much that of the grown-up child to its parent that is, no disciplinary relation at all, ex- cept in extreme cases recurrin~ but once in a generation. Then federation is better for England, because the colonies must either be allies or dependents, and in either case an increm~se in their power must be an addi- tion to ours. This is peculiarly the case in Anstralia, which is clearly adapted by its position to become a great maritime State; to maintain fleets rather than armies; to perform, in fact, functions which can be performed effectively only by considerable Powers. Any country can have an army if it will put its whole people into the field, but only a country of a certain width of re- source can keep an armed fleet at sea. Ireland could uiaintain a great army, but not great squadrons. And finally the ex- periment must, in the long run, be beneficial to the world. It is impossible to glance at the map and not see that the work of ex- ploiting, civilizing, and, may be, of con- quering the Southern half of the shattered Continent, which we call the Indian Archi- pelago, with its magnificent islands, savage races, and tropical products, must fall ulti- mately to the rulers of the Australian Con- tinent, that we are too far off, Holland too weak, and all other nations too occupied or too indifferent. That great task will be much facilitated by the creation of a central Government. STABLE GOVERNMENT IN FRANCE. 189 From The Economist. DO THE CONI)LTIONS REQUISITE FOR A SIABLE GOVERNMENT EXIST IN FRANCE? THE new Government in France was made according to custom. By long and painful experience, France has attained what may be c4led a routine in revolutions. First, the old Government breaks down, and everyone sees it must fall; then the sitting Assembly the Corps L~gistat~f, the Oham- bre des DepuUs, or whatever be the name at the time votes that the Government shall go and begins to occupy itself with the various substitutes ; it entertains such and such motions, and hears this or that speech upon the subject; when all at once the mob of Paris rushes in expels both speakers and hearers, and names a Provisional Gov- ernment such as suits it, or rather such as suits the views and wishes of the leaders who have, for the time being, the command of it. This process has been repeated so often that Paris expects it, and France yields to it; but, unhappily, this is not the end of the series. After a short interval, the Government, thus nominated by the mob of Paris, quarrels with that mob. The Government, as a Government, wishes to keen law and order, and then it becomes opposed to the mob which wants something else than law and order. The mob was urged to name the new Government by strong passions and vague hopes; in a few days it finds those hopes still distant, and those passions still ungratified; it soon be- gins to hate its own creature, in a little while after it is in arms against it. Every Government thus nominated by an insurrec- tion is soon presented with the inevitable problem shall we yield to a second insur- rection which wants to put new rulers in our place, or shall we resist it by force? The mob-named Government has to ask itself shall we yield to the mob or shall we resign? As long as Governments yield to the mob the Revolution continues ~ whenever the Government begins to coerce the mob the reaction commences. And that reaction, according to its strength, continues perhaps months, perhaps years, till a new opportu- nity comes, a new mob succeeds, and a new revolution begins. The Empire which has now fallen was but the end of a strong re- action caused by the terror of a long revo- lution. Is there reason to hope that the new Republic will be more lasting than its predecessors that the French nation has reached the end of its many changes, or is materially nearer to it? To this question we fear the answer that is much the most likely to be right is the negative. Event8 often confound probabil ity, especially in France (and we shall be glad to be wrong) ; but still every appear- ance shows that Europe has not now to deal with the permanent Government in France, but only with one of many ephemeral Gov- ernments that the Republic is not to be counted on for duration any more than its predecessors that, perhaps, the pre-re- quisites of a stable Government do not ex- ist in France, and that if they do they are very difficult to find and satist~. The commonest aid to stability an an- cient Government resting on recognized dignity and ineradicable veneration it is plain the French have not and cannot have. After eighty years of change their scene of politics is still a tabula rasa. They have had eleven Governments in that time, with their average duration of seven years each, and such an experience is fatal to hereditary veneration. The mass of the English peo- ple obey Queen Victoria without knowing why or wishing to know why, and England is coherent because they do so. The only approach to such a feeling in France was loyalty to the Empire. Much, very much, may he said against the first Napoleon, but after all this remains that scarcely any character and scarcely any career were more fitted to awaken and to live in the popular imagination. The French peasantry knew of nothing before and thought of nothing after him. The second Napoleon had no similar glorious qualities; but he had more homely attractions. For eighteen years he gave all Frenchmen all peasants and all working men a greater amount of happiness than any one before him. Though not fit to at- tract a race, it seemed as if he was exactly fit to rivet a race before attracted. But now that is over; the happiness of the Em- pire is turned into pain, and its glory into ignominy. The surrender of Sedan will be remembered as long as the sun of Austerlitz; and the memory of conscript sons, wrung from home only to die or be defeated, is sad and bitter in every French village. Only this spring there was a kind of vague hope that some kind of free or half-free Empire might cement the active mind of France with its inert mass of pre- judice. But now such a hope is so irrecov- erable that it is difficult, even to those who wrote and said so, to understand that they ever believed it. There is no government now possible in France that is helped by an hereditary attachment or the prestige of glory. The Empire was the only govern- ment which had a pretence of being such, and that has fallen so as to dispel its glory and to destroy all affection for it. a France is then left to ~ Government of STABLE GOVERNMENT IN FRANCE. 190 pure reason at least to make a Govern- two combined how can you make anything? ment on grounds of pure argument and The antagonism is as perfe~t as between reason. But at once conies the difficulty plus and minus; you can make up no com that there is in France a great want of what pound; you can find no intermediate term; Lord Bacon called dry light. Every you must choose between the two. opinion there is, in the Baconian language, The selection can, we fear, only be made steepe(l in the humours of the affections. by force; hitherto at least it has been so. There is no large number and no powerful Paris is France for the purpose of making a order of persons holding opinions on the Government, but it is not France for the pur- grounds of reason or argument. Poor pose of keeping a Government. The Par- Provost-Paradol used to maintain that the isians put in a Republic by revolution educated bourgeoisie in Paris and in a few resting more or less on socialism and the other towns was such a body, but he ad- artisans. The Republic, as its nature re- mitted its powerlessness, and he was him- quires, appeals to the people that is, to self an example of it. When he became a the country. In response to the appeal candidate for Nantes, he could not obtain back comes an assembly full of dislike to votes enough to make a decent minority, the socialistic Republic above all things Neither the party for the Empire nor the anxious for property full of the panic of party against it cared for him and his reasons. the proprietary peasantry. And then be- But in default of political reasons there are gins the strife between the conservative in France two intense political passions Chamber and the innovating mob a strife the passion of property among the country which is too keen and internecine to be peasants, and the passion for socialism confined to words only which soon takes among the town ouvriers. And, unhappily, to arms and to the streets, and settles the these passions are entirely opposed. So- victory there. If the Republic asks France cialismis an obscure term, and the idea not for a Chamber but for a President, the in the minds of those who cleave to it isof result will be the same in essence. The the vaguest and wildest kind; still, on the President will be, as Louis Napoleon was, whole, it means a system wishing to amend the nominee of the country; while the Re. property a system incompatible with public was, like the present Republic, th( present property. The passionate part of choice of the towns. the Republicans in 1848, the only part of And the worst is that the most desirabh them who were eager and many, meant Governments for France, as a philosopher. more or less distinctly what Louis Blanc or at any rate as an Englishman woul said distinctly. He aimed avowedly at a judge, are very popular nowhere. The system in which wages received should be political Republic the Republic without proportionate not to work done but to wants socialism the Orleanist monarchy ap- felt. He wonld have given a man with peal neither to the passions of the country many children much and a man with few nor to those of the towns. The peasant children little, and he would have taxed does not connect them with his terre; the without limit existing property for that ob- ouvrier does not connect them with his ject. A still more violent reasoner invented schemes. They rest on pure reason, and the celebrated phrase La propri~t~, cest are wcak accordingly. The Parliamentary le vol, or Property is robbery. And system the best form of free Government, this is only a strict deduction from the ele- as we believe is an exotic in France, and mentary wish of socialists that all men are has never yet thriven there. And the de- to start fair. In that case all inherited fect goes very deep. Frenchmen as yet property is unjust, and all gifts among the have never shown themselves able to bear living by which the children of the rich be- exciting discussion. A French Assenibly come better off than the children of the at a critical moment is not a deliberating poor are unjust too. Both violate the Senate, but a yelling mob. Everybody equality of the start; both make life ati speaks or cries; no one hears; and an in- adjusted and handicapped race an effectual President rings incessantly the bell existence where accidental advantages im- which calls members to order, but to which pair or outweigh intrinsic qualities. Rough- no member attends. Outside it is the same. ly it may be said that the main desire of Each man reads his own newspaper, be- the city socialists in France, on grounds comes more and more enamoured of its more or less honest, is to attack property; logic, but he does not read the journals and that the sole desire of the country of his opponents. He does not put his peasants is, on grounds more or less selfish, first principles side by side with theirs and to maintain property. And between the see fairly which is best. French parties are jwo how can you mediate? or, out of the more like sects in religion than like our Eng AT LYME REGIS. 191 lish political parties. For the most part they only examine deductions from admitted pre- mises, and as these premises differ, the hetter the logic the further the deviabion. Even if the nation were as much united as most nations, this habit of mind would he a serious hindrance to free Government. Even the common questions of policy and administration incident to a free country cannot properly he discussed in such a manner. But when the active political part of the nation is divided into two hostile camps, when one-half fear above all things what the other half above all things wish, what can anyone expect from a mode of arguing which of its own nature confirms each party in its own opinion, and widens the breach between them? Steady discus- sion is hardly possible in a nation which is naturally excitable, which is prone to hope and prone to terror, hoth to exaggeiation, upon questions causing fanatical passion, and by a logic which excites everyone and convinces no one. We have elsewhere spoken of the contin- gent possibilities of peace and war, and therefore need say nothing here. That the present crisis is soon certain to elicit the worst effects of these faults is very plain, and if it had not been so we should not now have dwelt, on them, for France has come to that pitch of misfortune at which it is painful to say anything hut good of her. AT LYME REGIS. SEPTEMBaR, 1870. I. CALM, azure, marble sea As a fair palace pavement largely spread, Where the gray bastions of th~ eternal hills Lean over languidly, Bosomd with leafy trees, and garlanded! II. Peace is on all I view; Sunshine and peace; earth clear as heaven one hour; Save where the sailing cloud its dusky line Ruffles alcng the blue, Brushd by the soft wing of the silent shower. III. In no profounder calm Did the great Spirit over ocean brood, Ere the first hill his yet unclouded crest Reard, or the first fair palm Doubled her maiden beauty in the flood. IV. Yet if the sapphire veil That rounds the verge were rent aside, what fast Flashings of flame blood-red, and blood-red smoke, What crash of steel-tippd hail, Across this calm what horror would be cast! V. Here, in her ancient home Peace, sovran set since Commons warrd with Ring: There, the fair plains where none has lived his life Unvexd by din of drum, Or clash of arms, or panic hurrying. VI. Here, Natures gentlest hues There, on the dinted field a crimson stream. River of death, once life, corrupts the turf; And the pure natural dews Rise rank and lurid mid the charnel steam. VII. Here, in Gods acre, death Smooths a green couch of rest for the white head, There, stackd in piles of tortured flesh, the young, Gasping a quick, hot breath, Envy the gentler portion of the dead. VIII. I see the dark array As a long snake unroll itself, and thrust Against a wall of flame; then decompose, Arrested in mid way; Writhing at first; now motionless in dust. Ix. Unswerving files! ye went Right on the gaping mouths of hail and fire, For God and Fatherland, as they, whose lives, Through glorious error spent, At Balaklava made the world admire! Or a beleaguerd town The floods of war out all around surveys, And holds on with stout heart, though the dread bomb In her mild streets rain down, And wolf-gaunt famine prowls through all her ways. 192 JUNE MEMORIES. XI. Fair France! Great Germany! What less than demon impulse, lust of ill, Could taint the natural love of man for man With hellish s v. gery, Its selfish aims through ruin to fulfil? XII. Was it for this your hands Masterd each kindly trade, each art in life? The mind explored nil knowledge, and the wit Flashd wisdom through all 1 nds; And all to glut the cannon and the knife? XIII. Not when earth soaks with gore, And man on man halloos the fiendish chase, Send forth your red-cross knights to nurse the dead! But going forth before, Staunch the mad jealousy of race gainst race. XIV. The boast of brotherhood, The pride of science, progress, skill, and wealth, Shame us for each hard-conquerd gain, the world Rolls back its weary road, And the kind makes no step to higher health. XV. He who against the slope Heaved the returning rock, and heaved again, Was mans true ancestor : ourselves to know, In hope to work gainst hope, This is the sole advance the Fates ordain. XVI. Peace! in the very word There seems a blessing; Peace! From thoughts too deep Turn to fair Natures teachings, and the calm, By fretful man unstirrd, Her gentle laws in even current keep. XVII. No fruitless strife she holds, No jealous war for bare supremacy; But Order binds the elements, and Love By strong attraction folds All atoms in one golden unity. XVIII. Nor fair Utopian plan Nor false horizons lure her from her road: Where Fate says Yield, she yields; and what she would Changing for what she can, Transmutes all evi into final good. XIX. Gods ways he best divines Who tracks it, frankly bold, yet calm with awe; To whom, through strife, and seeming waste, and death, The night of Nature, shines The central star of Reason and of Law. F. T. 1. JUNE MEMORIES. THE leaves drift down in forest ways; The wind moans with a voice of pain; But through the dim September days, Like chords of some sweet haunting tune, The memories of a happy June Come back to me again A June for evermore that lies, A pearl of purest, rarest bliss, Shrined in delicious memories: Sweet words and sweeter silence blest With dewy twilights, and the scent Of thick-flowered clematis; Long cloudless morning hours that pass Under oak-shadows cool and dark; The drone of insects in the grass, Through the hot noon-day hushed and still, Pierced only by the sudden trill Of one up-soaring lark; The plash of oars at eventide: The low clear rippling of the stream Against the boat. Faint breezes glide With lisping rustle in the reeds, And slowly from the bank recedes The sunsets violet gleam Lingering in many lanes to hear The nightingales first liquid notes Pour rich and fulL From meadows near, Mown newly, fragrant breaths arise; The moon across the tranquil skies A globe of silver floats; And all through the long summer days My heart thrills to the fervent tones Of one loved voice; a tender gaze Follows me ever. Strangely bright Life lies beneath loves mystic light. But now the wild wind moans: From their dead stalks the flowers are gone, The leaves are swept by autumn rain; I watch in silence and alone; And by the wood-fires reddening blaze, The memories of the sweet June days Come back to me again. Chambers Journal.

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The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1377 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 22, 1870 0107 1377
The Living age ... / Volume 107, Issue 1377 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No3 1377. October 22, 1870. 1. THE ORIGIN OF LIFE, 2. FERNYHURST COURT, 3. BEHIND THE SCENES, 4. MILLYS FIRST LOVE, 5. BARBARIANS AND BRUTES, 6. SHORT-SIGHT 7. How TO FIGHT THE PRUSSIANS, 8. ROME AND ALSACE, 9. WHAT THE GERMANS LOSE, FADED FLOWERS, WHITHER? CONTENTS. lithenceum, Good Words,. Temple Bar, Blackwoods Magazine, Spectator, Saturday Review, Pall Mall Gazette, Pall Mall Gazette, .u1nglo-.~rnerican Times, 195 . 207 218 . 225 247 249 252 253 255 POETRY. 194 THE VOICE OF NEMESIS TO TIlE REPUB 194 tIC 194 I PARIS 194 NUMBERS OF THE LIVING AGE WANTED. The publishers are in want of Nos. 1179 and 1180 (dated respectively Jan. 5th and Jan. 12th, 1867) of THE LIVING AGE. To aubsoribers, or others, who will do us the favor to send us either or both of those numbers, we will return an equivalent, either in our publiCations or in cash, until our wants are supplied. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. FoR EIGHT DGLLAP.s. remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for. warded for a year,free of postage. But we do not prepay postage On less than a year, nor where we have to pay commission for forwarding the money. Price of the First Series, In Cloth, 36 volumes, 90 dollars. Second 20 50 Third 82 80 The Complete Work, 100 250 Any Volume Bound, 3 dollars; Unbound, 2 dollars. The sets, or volumes, will be sent at the expense of the publishers. PREMIUMS FOR CLUBS. For 5 new subscribers ($40.1, a sixth copy; or a set of HORrixs INTRODUCTION TO THE BIBLE, un- abridged, in 4 large volumes, cloth, price $10; or any 5 of the back volumes of the LIVING AGE, in nuln- bers, price $10. 194 FADED FLOWERS, ETC. FADED FLOWERS. O FADED flowers! so lovely still in death, So fair, so frail, it seems as though a breath, A whispering wind, would all your beauty mar, How sad, yet 0 how true, a type ye are Of mans fast-fading life and hopes below! To my sad heart to-night ye speak, I know, Of cherished hopes, that in my youth seemed bright, But which, like ye, have faded in my sight, And drooped, and died, and passed away from earth With all the joys that in them had their birth. And as I gaze upon ye, faded flowers, My thoughts fly back to happy bygone hours, Until before me rise, as in a dream, The forms of those (sweet faded flowers they seem) Whom in those early days I loved and lost Like flowrets, killed while in the bud by frost! Alas, that in our lives it should be so! And yet is it the fate of all below; Oui~ hopes must fade, and friends must pass away, Until we reach a land of purer day;~ For there, 0 faded flowers! they all, like ye, Shall bloom afresh, and still more lovely be; The hopes weve lost, the loved ones whom we mourn, More bright and beautiful shall then return, And, like sweet everlasting flowers, shall bloom In regions where no fading eer shall come; Where friends, and hopes, and flowers shall live for aye, And lovely things, and sweet, pass not away. Tinsleys Magasine. WHITHER? ALL spangled are the beech trees, with motes of autumn gold, And neath their spreading red leaves is many a love-tale told; Oerclouds the sky with shadow, the thunder- showers fall, And fade away the sunbeams away beyond recall. The babbling brook oer-ripples the pebbles smooth and white, The water-lilies quiver, and tremble in the light; Arise the wind and tempest, from whence we may not know, The brook becomes a torrent, away the lilies flow! The prisoned lark is stirring his little throat to raise The song that once on green turf he sang to Heavens praise; His shrill sweet notes ascending, in melody up- rise, Reechoing till their n~.usic is lost amid the skies. Ah! Whither go the gold motes, and where the lilies white, Borne on ward by the torrent resistless from our sight? And whither goes the brooklet, and where the birdies lay, Is it unto that Hereafter, whither all must pass away? All The Year Hound. THE VOICE OF NEMESIS TO TILE REPUBLiC. THE Empires dead in open day France scans with dauntless eye her fate. But will your nursling freedom stay The swift avenger at your gate? Afield, a traitorshands were light, For bane at home his bonds were strong. Your ancient heritage of right Is foul with stains of upstart wrong. You laugh for joy of new-found light, For pride of new unfettered force Tis well: but first in all mens sight Come forth and carry out the corse. Spectator. PARIS. BY 5. G. BULFIEcH. And when the angel stretched out his hand upon Jerusalem to destroy it, the Lord repented him of the evil, and said to the angel that destroyed the people, It is enough; stay now thine hand. [2 Samuel, xxiv. 16.] DEsntovrEo angel! when beneath thy sword, For Davids guilt, his city trembling lay, Vengeance to Mercys gentle plea gave way, And thou, majestic servant of the Lord; Didst sheathe thy blade at his restraining word. Again a monarchs crime hath brought dis- may To those who bowed beneath his selfish sway. Oer France the invaders countless hosts are poured; Her brilliant capital beholds them near, And, gathering nobler beauty in the hour Of peril, bravely waits the impending doo~s. Oh yet again the voice of Mercy hear, Nor let the city, of all realms the flower, Become her ohildretis and fair Freedoms tomb. Cambridge, Oct. 8, 1870. Transcript. TilE OIUGI1~ OF LIFE. 195 From The Athen~eum. THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. ~EOY. HUXLEYS ADDRESS BEFORE THE BRITISH ASSOCIATIOR IN LIVERPOOL. M~ LORDS, LADIES, AND GENTLEMEN, It has long been the custom for the new- ly-installed President of the British Associ- ation for the Advancement of Science to take advantBge of the elevation of the posi- tion in which the suifrages of his colleagues had, for the time, placed him, and, casting his eyes around the horiEon of the scientific world, to report to them what could he seen from his watch-tower; in what dire~~tions the multitudinous divisions of the noble army of the improvers of natural knowledge were marching; what important strong- holds of the great enemy of us all, Igno- rance, had been recently captured; and, also, with due impartiality, to mark where the advanced posts of science had been driven in, or a long-continued siege had made no progress. I propose to endeavdur to follow this an- cient precedent, in a manner suited to the limitations of my knowledge and of my capacity. I shall not presume to attempt a panoramic survey of the world of Science, nor even to give a sketch of what is doing in the one great province of Biology, with some portions of which my ordinary occu- pations render me familiar. But I shall endeavour to put before you the history of the rise and progress of a single biological doctrine; and I shall try to give some notion of the fruits, both intellectual and practical, which we owe, directly or indi- rectly, to the working out, by seven genera- tions of patient and laborious investigators, of the thought which arose, more than two centuries ago, in the mind of a sagacious and observant Italian naturalist. It is a matter of every-day experience that it is difficult to prevent many articles ef food from becoming covered with mould; that fruit, sound enough to all appearance, often contains grubs at the core; that meat, left to itself in the air, is apt to putrefy and swarm with maggots. Even ordinary water, if allowed to stand in an open vessel, soon- er or later becomes turbid and full of living matter. The philosophers of antiquity, interro- gated as to the cause of these phenomena, were provided with a ready and a plausible answer. It did not enter their minds even to doubt that these low forms of life were generated in the matters in which they made their appearance. Lucretius, who had drunk deeper of the scientific spirit than any poet of ancient or modern times except Goethe, intends to speak as a phi- losopher, rather than as a poet, when he writes that with good reason the earth has gotten the name of mother, since all things are produced out of the earth. And many living creatures, even now, spring out of the earth, taking form by the rains and the heat of the sun. The axiom of ancient science, that the corruption of one thing is the birth of another, had its popular embodiment in the notion that a seed dies before the young plant springs from it; a belief so wide-spread and so fixed, that Saint Paul appeals to it in one of the most splendid outbursts of his fervid eloquence: Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened, except it die. (1 Corin- thians, xv. 86.) The proposition that life may, and does, proceed from that which has no life, then, was held alike by the philosophers, the poets, and the people, of the most enlightened nations, eighteen hundred years ago; and it remained the accepted doctrine of learned and unlearned Europe, through the Middle Ages, down even to the seventeenth century. It is commonly counted among the many merits of our great countryman, Harvey, that he was the first to declare the opposi- tion of fact to venerable authority in this, as in other matters; but I can discover no justification for this wide-spread notion. After careful search through the Exercita- tiones de Generatione, the most that ap- pears clear to me is, that Harvey believed all animals and plants to spring from what he terms a primordiurn vegetate, a phrase which may now-a-days be rendered a vegetative germ; and this, he says, is ov~forme, or egg-like; not, he is careful to add, that it necessarily has the shape of an egg, but because it has the con- stitution and nature of one. That this primordium ov~forme must needs, in all cases, proceed from a living parent is no- where expressly maintained by Harvey, though such an opinion may be thought to 196 THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. be implied in one or two passages; while, on the other hand, Le does, more than once, use language which is consistent only with a full belief in spontaneous or equivocal generation. In fact, the main concern of Harveys wonderful little treatise is not with generation, in the physiological sense, at all, hut with development; and his great object is the establishment of the doctrine of Epigenesis. The first distinct enunciation of the hypothesis that all living matter has sprung from pre-existing living matter, came from a contemporary, though a junior, of Harvey, a native of that country, fertile in men great in all departments of human activity. which was to intellectual Europe, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, what Germany is in the nineteenth. It was in Italy, and from Italian teachers, that Har- vey received the most important part of his scientific education. And it was a studen{ trained in the same schools, Francesco Redi a man of the widest knowledge and most versatile abilities, distinguished alike as scholar, poet, physician, and naturalist, who, just 202 years ago, published his Esperienze intorno alla Generazione degl Insetti, and gave to the world the idea, the growth of which it is my purpose to trace. Redis book went through five edi- tions in twenty years; and the extreme simplicity of his experiments, and the clear- ness of his arguments, gained for his views, and for their consequences, almost univer- sal acceptance. Redi did not trouble himself much with speculative considerations, but attacked particular cases of what was supposed to be spontaneous generation experimentally. Here are dead animals, or pieces of meat, says he; I expose them to the air in hot weather, and in a few days they swarm with maggots. You tell me that these are gen- erated in the dead flesh; but if I put simi- lar bodies, while quite fresh, into a jar, and tie some fine gauze over the top of the jar, not a maggot makes its appearance, while the dead substances, nevertheless, putrefy just in the same way as before. It is obvious, therefore, that the maggots are not generated by the corruption of the meat; and that the cause of thcir formation must be a something which is kept away by gauze. But gauze will not keep away a~rifbrm bodies, or fluids. This something must, therefore, exist in the form of solid particles too big to get through the gauze. Nor is one long left in doubt what these solid particles are; for the blow-flies, attracted by the odour of the meat, swarm round the vessel, and, urged by a powerful but, in this case, misleading instinct, lay eggs, out of which maggots are immediately hatched, upon the gauze. The conclusion, therefore, is unavoidable; ~he maggots are not generated by the meat, but the eggs which give rise to them are brought through the air by the flies. These experiments seem almost childishly simple, and one wonders how it was that no one ever thought of them before. Simple as they are, however, they are worthy of the most careful study, for every piece of experimental work since done, in regtrd to this subject, has been shaped upon the model furnished by the Italian philosopher. As the results of his experiments were the same, however varied the nature of the materials he used, it is not wonderful that there arose in Redis mind a presumption, that in all such cases of the seeming pro- duction of life from dead matter, the real explanation was the introduction of living germs from without into that dead matter (Redi, Esperienze, pp. 1416). And thus the hypothesis that living matter always arises by the agency ef pre-existing living matter, took definite shape; and had hence- forward a right to be considered and a claim to be refuted, in each particular case, before the production of living matter in any other way could be admitted by careful reasoners. It will be necessary for me to refer to this hypothesis so frequently, that, to save circumlocution, I shall call it the hypothesis of Biogenesis; and I shall term the contrary doctrine that living matter may be produced by not living matter the hypothesis of Abiogenesis. In the seventeenth century, as I have said, the latter was the dominant view, sanc- tioned alike by antiquity and by authority; and it is interesting to observe that Redi did not escape the customary tax upon a discov- erer, of having to defend himself against the charge of impugning the authority of the Scriptures (Redi, 1. e. p. 45, .Esperienze, THE ORIGIN OF LIFE~ 197 p. 120); for his adversaries declared that the generation of bees from the carcass of a dead lion is affirmed, in the Book of Judges, to have been the origin of the famous riddle with which Samson perplexed the Phulis- tines Out of the eater came forth meat, And out of the strong came forth sweetness. Against all odds, however, Redi, strong with the strength of demonstrable fact, did splendid battle for Biogenesis; hut it is re- markable that he held the doctrine in a sense which, if he had lived in these times, would have infallibly caused him to be classed among the defenders of spontaneous gen- eration. Omne vivum cx vivo, no life without antecedent life, aphoristically sums up Redis doctrine; hut he went no further. It is most remarkable evidence of the philosophic caution and impartiality of his mind, that, although he had speculatively anticipated the manner in which grubs really are deposited in fruits and in the galls of of plants, he deliberately admits that the evidence is insufficient to hear him out; and be therefore prefers the supposition that they are generated by a modification of the living substance of the plants themselves. Indeed, he regards these vegetable growths as. or- gans, by means of which the plant gives rise to an animal, and looks upon this produc- tion of specific animals as the final cause of the galls and of, at any rate, some fruits. And he proposes to explain the occurrence of parasites within the animal body in the same way. It is of great importance to apprehend Redis position rightly; for the lines of thought he laid down for us are those upon which naturalists have been working ever since. Clearly he held Biogenesis as against Ahiogenesis; and I shall immediately pro- ceed, in the first place, to inquire how far subsequent investigation has borne him out in so doing. But Redi also thought that there were two modes of Biogenesis. By the one method, which is that of common and ordinary oc- currence, the living parent gives rise to off- spring, which passes through the same cycle of changes as itself like gives rise to like and this has been termed ilomogenesis. By the other mode, the living parent was sup- 1)oSed to give rise to offspring which passed through a totally different series of states from those exhibited by the parent, and did ~not return into the cycle of the parent; this is what ought~ to be called Heterogenesis, the offspring being altogether, and perma- nently, unlike the parent. The term I-let- erogenesis, however, has unfortunately been used in a different sense, and M. Milne- Edwards has therefore substituted for it Xenogenes is, which means the generation of something foreign. After discussing Redis hypothesis of universal Biogenesis, then, I shall go on to ask how far the growth of science justifies his other hypothesis of Xenogenesis. The progress of the hypothesis of Biogen- esis was triumphant and unchecked for nearly a century. The application of the microscope to anatomy, in the hands of Crew, Leenwenhoek, Swammerdam, Lyo- net, Vallisnieri, Reauinur, and other illustri- ous investigators of nature of that day, dis- played such a complexity of organization in the lowest and minutest forms, and every- where revealed such a prodigality of provi- sion for their multipication by germs of one sort or another, that the hypothesis of Ahi- ogenesis began to appear not only untrue, hut absurd; and, in the middle of the eigh- teenth century, when Needham and Buffon took up the question, it was almost univer- sally discredited. ( Nouvelles Observa- tions, p. 169 and 176.) But the skill of the microscope-makers of the eighteenth century soon reached its limit. A microscope magnifying 400 diam- eters was a chef-do~uvre of the opticians of that day; and, at the same time, by no means trustworthy. But a inagnifving power of 400 diameters, even when defini- tion reaches the exquisite perfection of our modern achromatic lenses, hardly suffices for the mere discernment of the smallest forms, of life. A. speck, only 1-25th of an inch in diameter, has, at 10 inches from the eye, the same apparent size as an object 1-10000th of an inch in diameter, when magnified 400 times; but forms of living matter abound, the diameter of which is not more than 1-40000th of an inch. A filtered infusion of hay, allowed to stand for two days, will swarm with living things, among which, any which reaches the diameter of a human red blood-corpuscle, or about 198 TilE OIiIGiN OF LIFE. 1-3200th of an inch is a giant. It is only whirlpool; or to a mould, into which the by bearing these facts in mind, that we can water is poured. The form of the organ- deal fairly with the remarkable statements ism is thus determined by the reaction be- and speculations put forward by Buffon and tween external conditions and the inherent Needham in the middle of the eighteenth activities of the organic molecules of which century. it is composed; and, as the stoppage of a When a portion of any animal or veget- whirlpool destroys nothing but a form, and able body is infused in water, it gradually leaves the molecules of the water, with ali softens and disintegrates; and, as it does so, their inherent activities intact, so what we the water is found to swarm with minute ac- call the death and putrefaction of an animal the creatures, the so-called Infusorial Ani- or a plant is merely the breaking up of the malcules, none of which can be seen except form, or manner of association, of its con- by the aid of the microscope; while a large stituent organic molecules, which are then proportion b~dong to the category of small- set free as infusorial animalcules. est things of which I have spoken, and It will be perceived that this doctrine is which must have all looked like mere dots by no means identical with Abiogene.sis, and lines under the ordinary microscopes with which it is often confounded. On this of the eighteenth century. hypothesis, a piece of beef or a handful of Led by varions theoretical considerations, hay is dead only in a limited sense. The which I cannot now discuss, but which beef is dead ox, and the hay is dead grass; looked promising enough in the lights of but the organic molecules of the beef or that day, Buffon and Needham doubted the the hay are not dead, but are ready to man- applicability of Redis hypothesis to the in- ifest their vitality as soon as the bovine or fusorial animalcules, and Needharn very herbaceous shrouds in which they are im- properly endeavoured to put the question prisoned are rent by the macerating action to an experimental test. He said to him- of water. The hypothesis, therefore, must self, if these infusorial animalcules come be classified under Xenogenesis rather than from germs, their germs must exist either under Abiogenesis. Such as it was, I think in the substance infused, or in the water it will appear, to those who will be just with which the infusion is made, or in the enough to remember that it was propounded superjacent air. Now the vitality of all before the birth of modern chemistry and germs is destroyed by heat. Therefore, if of the modern optical arts, to be a most in- I boil the infusion, cork it up carefully, genious and suggestive speculation. cementing the cork over with mastic, and But the great tragedy of Science the then heat the whole vessel by heaping hot slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly ashes over it, I must needs kill whatever fact which is so constantly being enacted germs are present. Consequently, if Redis under the eyes of philosophers, was played, hypothesis hold good, when the infusion is almost immediately, for the benefit of taken away and allowed to cool, no animal- Buffon and Needham. cules ought to be developed in it; whereas, Once more, an Italian, the Abbt~ Spallan- if the animalcules are not dependent on pre- zani, a worthy successor and representa- existing germs, but are generated from the tive of Redi in his acuteness, his ingenuity, wfused substance1 they ought, by-and-by, and his learning, subjected the experiments to make their appeaiance. Needham found and the conclusions of Needham to a search- that, under the circumstances in which he ing criticism. It might be true that Need- made his experiments, animalcules always hams experiments yielded results such as did arise in the infusions, when a sufficient he had described, but did they bear out his tune had elapsed to allow for their develop- arguments? Was it not possible, in the ment. first place, that he had not completely ex- In much of his work Needham was asso- cluded the air by corks and mastic? And ciated with Buffon, and the results of their was it not possible, in the second place, experiments fitted admirably with the great that he had not sufficiently heated his infu- French naturalists hypothesis of organic sions and the superjacent air? Spallanzani. molecules, according to which, life is the joined issue with the English naturalist on indefeasible property of certain indestructi- both these pleas; and he showed that if, in ble molecules of matter, which exist in all the first place, the glass vessels in which living things, and have inherent activities the infusions were contained were hermeti- by which they are distinguished from not cally sealed by fusing their necks, and if, living matter. Each individual living or- in the second place, they were exposed to ganisin is formed by their temporary com- the temperature of boiling-water for three- bination. They stand to it in the relation quarters of an hour (see Spallanzani, of the particles of water to a cascade or a ~.Opere,~r vi. pp. 42 and 51), no animal- THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. 199 cules ever made their appearance within them. It must be admitted that the exper- ments and arguments of Spallanzani furnish a complete and a crushing reply to those of Needham. But we all too often forget that it is one thing to refute a proposition, and another to prove the truth of a doctrine which implicitly, or explicitly, contradicts that proposition; and the advance of science soon showed that though Needham might be quite wrong, it did not follow that Spallanzani was quite right. Modern Chemistry, the birth of the latter half of the eighteenth century, grew apace, and soon found herself face to face with the great problems which Biology had vainly tried to attack without her help. The dis- covery of oxygen led to the laying of the foundations of a scientific theory of respira- tion, and to an examination of the marvel- lous interactions of organic substances with oxygen. The presence of free oxygen ap- peared to be one of the conditions of the existence of life, and of those singular changes in organic matters which are known as fermentation and putrefaction. The ques- tion of the generation of the infusory animalcules thus passed into a new phase. For what might not have happened to the organic matter of the infusions, or to the oxygen of the air, in Spallanzani s experi- ments? What security was there that the development of life which ought to have taken place had not been checked, or pre- vented, by these changes P The battle had to be fought again. It was needful to repeat the experiments under conditions which would make sure that neither the oxygen of the air, nor the composition of the organic matter, was altered, in such a manner as to interfere with the existence of life. Schuize and Schwann took upthe ques- tion from this point of view in 1836 and 1837. The passage of air through red-hot glass tubes, or through strong sulphuric acid, does not alter the proportion of its oxygen, while it must needs arrest, or de- stroy, any organic matter which may be contained in the air. These experimenters, therefore, contrived arrangements by which the only air which should come into contact with a boiled infusion should be such as had either passed through red-hot tubes or through strong sulphuric acid. The result which they obtained was that an infusion so treated developed no living things, while if the same infusion was afterwards exposed to the air such things appeared rapidly and abundantly. The accuracy of these exper- iments has been alternately denied and affirmed. Supposing themto be accepted, however, all that they really proved was, that the treatment to which the air was sub- jected destroyed something that was essen- tial to the development of life in the infusion. This something might be gase- ous, fluid, or solid; that it consisted of germs remained only an hypothesis of greater or less probability. Contemporaneously with these investiga- tions a remarkable discovery was made by Cagniard de La Tour. He found that com- mon yeast is composed of a vast accumula- tion of .minute plants. The fermentation of must, or of wort, in the fabrication of wine and of beer, is always accompanied by the rapid growth and multiplication of these Torulie. Thus fermentation, in so far as it was accompanied by the develop- ment of microscopical organisms in enor- mous numbers, became assimilated to the decomposition of an infusion of ordinary animal or vegetable matter; and it was an obvious suggestion that the organisms were, in some way or other, the causes both of fermentation and of putrefaction. The chemists, with Berzelius and Liebig at their head, at first laughed this idea to scorn; but in 1813, a man then very young, who has since performed the unexampled feat of attaining to high eminence alike in Math- ematics, Physics and Physiology, I speak of the illustrious Helmboltz, reduced the matter to the test of experiment by a method alike elegant and conclusive. Helmholtz separated a putrefying, or fer- menting liquid, from one which was simply putrescible, or fermentable, by a membrane, which allowed the fluids to pass through and become intermixed, but stopped the passage of solids. The result was, that while the putrescible, or the fermentable, liquids became impregnated, with the re- sults of the putresence, or fermentation, which was going on on the other side of the membrane, they neither putrefied (in the ordinary way) nor fermented; nor were any of the organisms which abounded in the fermenting, or putrefying, liquid gen- erated in them. Therefore, the cause of the development of these organisms must lie in something which cannot pass through membrane; and as Helmlioltzs investiga- tions were long antecedent to Grahams re- searches upon colloids, his natural conclu- sion was, that the agent thus intercepted must be a solid material. In point of fact, Helmholtzs expei~iments narrowed the issue to this: that which excites fermentation and putrefaction, and at the same time gives rise to living forms in a fernientable, or putrescible, fluid, is not a gas and is not a diffusible fluid; therefore it is either a 200 THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. colloid, or it is matter divided into very! life in fluids highly fitted for that purpose. minute solid particles. But the important further links in the chain The researches of Schroeder and Dusch of evidence added by Pasteur are three. in 1854, and of Schroeder alone, in 1859, In the first place, he subjected to micro- cleared up this point by experiments which scopic examination the cotton-wool which are simply refinements upon those of Redi. had served as strainer, and found that sun- A lump of cotton-wool is, physically speak- dry bodies, clearly recognizable as germs, ing, a pile of many thicknesses of a very fine were among the solid particles strained off. gauze, the fineness of the meshes of which Secondly, he proved that these germs were depends upon the closeness of the com- competent to give rise to living forms by pression of the wool. Now, Schroeder simply sowing them in a solution fitted for and Dusch found, that, in the case of all their development. And, thirdly, he showed the putrefiable materials which they used that the incapacity of air strained through (except milk and yolk of egg), an infusion cotton-wool to give rise to life was not due noiled, and then allowed to come into con- to any occult change effected in constitu- tact with no air but such as had been ents of the air by the wool, by proving that filtered through cotton-wool, neither putre- the cotton-wool might be dispensed with fled nor fermented, nor developed living altogether, and perfectly free access left forms. It is hard to imagine what the between the exterior air and that in the fine sieve formed by the cotton-wool could experimental flask. If the neck of the have stopped except minute solid particles, flask is drawn out into a tube and bent Still the evidence was incomplete until it downwards, and if, after the contained fluid had been positively shown, first, that ordi- has been careflilly boiled, the tube is nary air does contain such particles; and, heated sufficiently to destroy any germs secondly, that filtration through cotton- which may be present in the air which en- wool arrests these particles and allows only ters as the fluid cools, the apparatus may physically pure air to pass. This demon- be left to itself for any time, and no life stration has been furnished within the last will appear in the fluid. The reason is year by the remarkable experiments of plain. Although there is free communica- Prot~ Tyndall. It has been a common tion between the atmosphere laden with objection of Abiogenists that, if the doc- germs and the germless air in the flask, trine of Biogeny is true, the air must be contact between the two takes plate only in thick with germs; and they regard this as the tube; and as the germs cannot fall up- the height of absurdity. But Nature oc- wards, and there are no currents, they casionally is exceedingly unreasonable, never reach the interior of the flask. But and Prof. Tyndall has proved that this par- if the tube be broken short off where it ticular absurdity may nevertheless be a re- proceeds from the flask, and free access be ality. He has demonstrated that ordinary thus given to germs falling vertically out air is no better than a sort of stirabout of of the air, the fluid, which has remained excessively minute solid particles; that clear and desert for months, becomes, in a these particles are almost wholly destructi- few days, turbid and frill of life. ble by heat; and that they are strained off, These experiments have been repeated and the air rendered optically pure, by be- over and over again by independent observ- ing passed through cotton-wool. ers with entire success; and there is one But it remains yet in the order of logic, very simple mode of seeing the facts for though not of history, to show that, among oneself which I may as well describe. these solid destructible particles, there Prepare a solution (much used by M. really do exist germs capable of giving rise Pasteur, and often called Pasteurs solu- to the development of living forms in suit- tion) composed of water with tartrate of able menstrua. This piece of work was ammonia, sugar, and yeast-ash dissolved done by M. Pasteur in those beautiful re- therein. Infusion of hay, treated in the searches which will ever render his name same way, yields similar results; but as it famous, and which, in spite of all attacks contains organic matter, the argument upon them, appear to me now, as they did which follows cannot be based upon it. seven years ago ( Lectures to Working Divide it into three portions in as many Men on the Causes of the Phenomena of flasks; boil all three for a quarter of an Organic Nature, 1863), to be models of hour; and, while the steam is passing out, accurate experimentation and logical rea- stop the neck of one with a large plug of soning. He strained air through cotton- cotton-wool, so that this also may be wool, and found, as Schroeder and Dusch thoroughly steamed. Now set tYme flasks had done, that it contained nothing corn- aside to cool, and, when their contents are petent to give rise to the development of cold, add to one of the open ones a drop TIlE ORIGIN OF LIFE. 201 of filtered infusion of bay which has stood fbr twenty-four hours, and is consequently full of the active and excessively minute organisms known as Bacteria. In a couple of days of ordinary warm weather, the contents 6f this flask will he milky, from the enormous multiplication of Bacteria. The other flask, open and exposed to the air, will, sooner or later, become milky with Bacteria, and patches of mould may appear in it; while the liquid in the flask, the neck of which is plugged with cotton- wool, will remain clear for an indefinite time. 1 have sought in vaiii for any ex- planation of these facts, except the obvious one, that the air contains germs competent to give rise to Bacteria, such as those with which the first solution has been know- ingly and purposely inoculated, and to the mould Fungi. And I have not yet been able to meet with any advocate of Abio- genesis who seriously maintains that the atoms of sugar, tartrate of ammonia, yeast- ash and water, under no influence but that of free access of air and the ordinary tem- perature, re-arrange themselves and give rise to the protoplasm of Bacterium. But the alternative is to admit that these Bacteria arise from germs in the air; and, if they are thus propagated, the burden of proof, that other like fornis are generated in a different manner, must rest with the assertor of that proposition. To sum up the effect of this long chain of evidence It is demonstrable, that a fluid eminently fit for the development of the lowest forms of life, hut which contains neither germs nor any protein compound, gives rise to living things in great abundance, if it be exposed to ordinary air; while no such de- velopment takes place if the air with which it is in contact is mechanically freed from the solid particles, which ordinarily float in it, and which may he made visible by appro- priate means. It is demonstrable, that the great majority of these particles are destructible by heat, and that some of them are germs, or living particles, capable of giving rise to the same forms of life as those which appear when the fluid is exposed to unpurified air. It is demonstrable, that inoculation of the experimental fluid with a drop of liquid known to contain living particles, gives rise to the same phenomena as exposure to un- purified air. And it is further certain that these living particles are so minute that the assumption of their suspension in ordinary air presents not the slightest difficulty. On the con- trary, considering their lightness and the wide diffusion of the organisms which pro- duce them, it is impossible to conceive that they should not be suspended in the atmo- sphere in myriads. Thus the evidence, direct and indirect, in favour of Biogenesis for all known torms of life must, I think, be admitted to be of great weight. On the other side, the sole assertions worthy of attention are, that hermetically sealed fluids, which have been exposed to great and long-continued heat, have some- times exhibited living forms of low organi- zation when they have been opened. The first reply that suggests itself is the probability that there must be some error about these experiments, because they are preformed on an enormous scale every day, with quite contrary results. Meat, fruits, vegetables, the very materials of the most fermentable and putrescible infusions, are preserved to the extent, I suppose I may say, of thousands of tons every year, by a method which is a mere application of Spal- lanzanis experiment. The matters to be preserved are well boiled in a tin case provid- ed with a small hole, and this hole is soldered up when all the air in the case has been replaced by steam. By this method they may be kept for years, without putref~ing, fermenting or getting mouldy. Now this is not because oxygen is excluded, inas- much as it is now proved that free oxygen is not necessary for either fermentation or putrefaction. It is not because the tins are exhausted of air, for Vibriones and Bacteria ive, as Pasteur has shown, without air or free oxygen. It is not because the boiled meats or vegetables are not putrescible or fermentable, as those who have had the misfortune to be in a ship supplied with un- skilfully closed tins well know. What is it, therefore, but the exclusion of germs?. I think that Abiogenists are bound to answer this question before they ask us to consider new experiments of precisely the same order. And in the next place, if the results of the experiments I refer to are really trust- worthy, it by no means follows that Abio- getiesis has takcn place. The resistance of living matter to heat is known to vary within considerable limits, and to depend,. to some extent, upon the chemical and physical qualities of the surrounding me- dium. But if, in the present state of science, the alternative is offered us, either germs can stand a greater heat than has been supposed, or the molecules of dead matter, for no valid or intelligible reason that is assigned, are able to re-arrange themselves into living bodies, exactly such 202 THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. as can be demonstrated to be frequently living things, giving rise to offspring which produced in another way, I cannot under- run through the same cycle as themselves, stand how choice can be, even for a mo- but also others, producing offspring which ment, doubtful. are of a totally different character from But though I cannot express this convic- themselves, the researches of two centuries tion of mine too strongly, I must carefully have led to a different result. That the guard myself against the supposition that I grubs found in galls are no product of the intend to surgest that no such thing as plants on which the galls grow, but are the Abiogenesis ~ver has taken place in the rcsult of the introduction of the eggs of in- past, or ever will take place in the fu- sects into the substance of these plants, was Lure. With organic chemistry, molecular made out by Vallisnieri, Reaumur, and physics, and physiology yet in their infancy, others, before the end of the first half of the and every day making prodigious strides, I eighteenth century. The tapeworms, blad- think it would he the height of presumption derworms and flukes continued to be a for any man to say that the conditions under stronghold of the advocates of Xenogen- which matter assumes the properties we call esis for a much longer period. Indeed, it vital may not, some day, be artificially is only within the last thirty years that the brought together. All I feel justified in splendid patience of Von Siebold, Van affirming is, that I see no reason for believ- Beneden, Leuckart, Kiichenmeister, and ing that the feat has been performed yet. other helminthologists, has succeeded in And, looking hack thi~ough the prodigious tracing every such parasite, often through vista of the past, I find no record of the the strangest wanderings and metamor- commencement of life, and therefore I am phoses, to an egg derived from a parent devoid of any means of forming a definite actually or potentially like itself; and the conclusion as to the conditions of its ap- tendency of inquiries elsewhere has all been. pearance. Belief, in the scientific sense of in the same direction. A plant may throw the word, is a serious matter, and needs off bulbs, but these, sooner or later, give strong foundations. To say, therefore, in rise to seeds or spores, which develope into the admitted absence of evidence, that I the original form. A polype may give rise have any belief as to the mode in which the to Meduste, or a pluteus to an Echinoderm, existing fbrms of life have originated, would but the Medusa and the Echinoderm give be using words in a wrong sense. But cx- rise to eggs which produce polypes or pectation is permissible where belief is not; plutei, and they are therefore only stages and if it were given me to look beyond the in the cycle of life of the species. abyss of geologically recorded tune to the But if we turn to Pathology, it offers us still more remote period when the earth some remarkable approximations to true was passing through physical aiid chemical Xenogenesis. conditions, which it can no more see again As I have already mentioned, it has been than a man may recall his infancy, I should known since the time of Vallisnieri and of expect to be a witness of the evolution of Reaumur that galls in plants and tumours living protoplasm from not living matter. I in cattle are caused by insects, which lay should expect to see it appear under forms their eggs in tho.se parts of the animal or of great simplicity, endowed, like existing vegetable frame of which these morbid fungi, with the power of determining the structures are outgrowths. Again, it is a formation of new protoplasm from such matter of familiar experience to everybody matters as ammonium carbonates, oxalates that mere pressure on the skin will give rise and tartrates, alkaline and earthy phos- to a corn. Now the gall, the tumour, and phates, and water, without the aid of light, the corn are parts of the living body, which That is the expectation to which analogical have become, to a certain degree, mdc- reasoning leads me; but I beg you once pendent and distinct organisms. Under more to recollect that I have no right to the influence of certain external conditions, call my opinion anything but an act of philo- elements of the body, which should have sophical faith, developed in due subordination to its gen- So much for the history of the progress eral plan, set up for themselves, and apply of Redis great doctrine of Biogenesis, the nourishment which they receive to their which appears to me, with the limitations I own purposes. have expressed, to be victorious along the From such innocent productions as corns whole line at the present day. and warts there are all gradations to the As regards the second problem offered to serious tumours which, by their mere size and us by Redi, whether Xenogenesis obtains, the mechanical obstruction they cause, de- side by side with Homogenesis; whether, stroy the irganism out of which they are de- that is, there exist not only the ordinary veloped; while, finally, in those terrible TilE ORIGIN OF LIFE. 203 structures known as cancers, the abnormal which the title of microzymes is applied. growth has ~cquired powers of reproduc- An animal suffering under either of these Lion and multiplication, and is only mor- terrible diseases is a source of infection and phologically distinguishable from the paras- contagion to others, for precisely the same itic worm, the life of which is neither more reason as a tub of fermenting beer is capa- nor less closely bound up with that of the ble of propagating its fermentation by in infested organism. fection, or contagion, to fresh wort. If there were a kind of diseased structure, In both cases it is the solid living particles the histological elements of which were which are efficient; the liquid in which they capable of maintaining a separate and inde- float, and at the expense of which they live, pendent existence out of the body, it seems being altogether passive. to me that the shadowy boundary between Now arises the quest.ion, are these mi morbid growth and Xenogenesis would be crozymes the results of Ilomogenesis, or of effaced. And I am inclined to think that Xenogenesis; are they capable. like the the progress of discovery has almost Torulce of yeast, of arising only by the de- brought us to this point already. I have velopment of pre-existing germs; or may been favoured by Mr. Simon with an early they be, like the constituents of a nut-gall copy of the last published of the valuable the results of a modification and individuali- Reports on the Public Health, which, in zation of the tissues of the body in which his capacity of their Medical Officer, he they are found, resulting from the opera- annually presents to the Lords of the Privy tion of certain conditions? Are they para- Council. The Appendix to this Report sites in the zoolo$cal sense, or are they contains an introductory essay On the merely, what Virchow has called heterol- Intimate Pathology of Contagion, by Dr. ogous growths? It is obvious that this Burdon Sanderson, which is one of the question has the most profound importance, clearest, most comprehensive, and well- whether we look at it from a practical, or reasoned discussions of a great question from a theoretical, point of view. A para- which has come under my notice for a long site may be stamped out by destroyii~g its time. I refer you to it for details and for germs, but a pathological product can only the authorities for the statements I am be annihilated by removing the .conditions about to make. which give rise to it. You are familiar with what happens in It appears to me that this great problem vaccination. A minute cut is made in the will have to he solved for each zymotic dis- skin and an infinitesimal quantity of vaccine ease separately, for analogy cuts two ways. matter is inserted into the wound. Within I have dwelt upon the analogy of pathologi- a certain time, a vesicle appears in the cal modification, which is in favour of the place of the wound, and the fluid which dis- xenogenetic origin of microzymes; but I tends this vesicle is vaccine matter, in quan- must now speak of the equally strong anal- tity a hundred or a thousand-fold that which ogies in favour of the origin of such pesti. was originally inserted. Now what has ferous particles by the ordinary process of taken place in the course of this operation? the generation of like from like. Has the vaccine matter by its irritative It is, at present, a well-established fact property produced a mere blister, the fluid that certain diseases, both of plants and of of which has the same irritative property? animals, which have all the characters of Or does the vaccine niatter contain living contagious and infectious epidemics, are particles, which have grown and multiplied caused by minute organisms. The smut where they have been planted? The obser- of wheat is a well-known instance of such a vations of M. Chauveau, extended and con- disease, and it cannot be doubted that the firmed by Dr. Sanderson himself, appear to grape-disease and the potato-disease fall leave no doubt upon this head. Experi- under the same category. Among animals, ments, similar in principle to those of insects are wonderfully liable to the ravages Helmholtz on fermentation and putrefaction~ of contagious and infectious diseases caused have proved that the active element in the by microscopic Fungi. vaccine lymph is non-diffusible, and consists In autumn, it is not uncommon to see of minute particles not exceeding .0005 of flies, motionless, upon a window-pane, with an inch in diameter, which are made visible a sort of magic circle, in white, drawn in the lymph by the microscope. Similar round them. On microscopic examination, experiments have proved that two of the the magic circle is found to consist of innu- most destructive ofepizooticdisease5~ sheep- merable spores, which have been thrown off pox and glanders, are also dependent for in all directions by a minute fungus called their existence and their propagation upon Empusa musccs, the spore-forming filaments extremely small living solid particles, to of which stand out like a pile of velvet 204 TilE ORIGIN OF LIFE. from the body of the fly. These spore- forming filaments are connected with others, which fill the interior of the flys hody like so much fine wool, having eaten away and destroyed the creatures viscera. This is the full-grown condition of the Empusa. If traced back to its earlier stages, in flies which are still active, and to all appearance healthy, it is found to exist in the form of minute corpuscles which float in the blood of the fly. These multiply and lengthen into filaments, at the expense of the flys substance; and when they have at last killed the patient, they grow out of its body and give off spores. Healthy flies shut up with diseased ones catch this mortal disease and perish like the others. A most compe- tent observer, M. Cohn, who studied the development of the Empusa in the fly very carefully, was utterly unable to discover in what manner the smallest germs of the Empusa got into the fly. The spores could not be made to give rise to such germs by cultivation; nor were such germs discovera- ble in the air, or in the food of the fly. It looked exceedingly like a case of Abiogene- sis, or, at any rate of Xenogenesis; and it is only quite recently that the real course of events has been made ojit. It has been ascertained, that when one of the spores falls upon the body of a fly, it begins to germinate, and sends out a process which bores its way through the flys skin; this, having reached the interior cavities of its body, gives off the minute floating corpus- cles which are the earliest stage of the Empusa. The disease is conta~ious, because a healthy fly coming in contact with a diseased one, from which - the spore-bear- ing filaments protrude, is pretty sure to carry off a spore or two. It is infectious because the spores become scattered about all sorts of matter in the neighbourhood of the slain flies. The silkworm has long been known to be subject to a very fatal contagious and infec- tious disease called the Muscadine. Au- douin transmitted it by inoculation. This disease is entirely due to the development of a fungus, Botrytis Bassiana, in the body of the caterpillar; and its contagiousness and infectiousness are accounted for in the same way as those of the fly disease. But of late years a still more serious epizootic has appeared among the silkworms; and I may mention a few facts which will give you some conception of the gravity of the injury which it has inflicted on France alone. The production of silk has been, for cen- turies, an important branch of industry in Southern France, and in the year 1833 it had attained such a magnitude ,that the annual produce of the French sericulture was estimated to amount to a tenth of that of the whole world, and represented a money value of 117,000,000 francs, or nearly five millions sterling. What may be the sum which would represent the money- value of all the industries connected with the working up of the raw silk thus pro- duced, is more than I can pretend to esti- mate. Suffice it to say, that the City of Lyons is built upon French silk, as much as Manchester was upon American cotton be- fore the civil war. Silkworms are liable to many diseases; and even before 1853, a peculiar epizootic, frequently accompanied by the appearance of dark spots upon the skin (whence the name of Nbrine which it has received), had been noted for its mortality. But in the years following 1853 this malady broke out with such extreme violence, that, in 1856, the silk-crop was reduced to a third of the amount which it had reached in 1853; and, up till within the last year or two, it has never attained half the yield of 1853. This means not only that the great number of people engaged in silk-growing are some thirty millions sterling poorer than they might have been; it means not only that high prices have had to be paid for imported silkworm eggs, and that, after investing his money in them, in paying for mulberry- leaves and for attendance, the cultivator has constantly seen his silkworms perish and himself plunged in ruin, but it means that the looms of Lyons have lacked employ- ment, and that, for years, enforced idleness and misery have been the portion of a vast population which, in former days, was in- dustrious and well to do. In 1858 the gravity of the situation caused the French Academy of Sciences to appoint Commissioners, of whom a distinguished naturalist, M. de Quatrefages, was one, to inquire into the nature of this disease, and, if possible, to devise some means of staying the plague. In reading the Report (Etudes sur les Maladies Actuelles des Vers ~ Soie, p. 53) made by M. de Quatrefages ,in 1859, it is exceedingly interesting to observe that his elaborate study of the Pebrine forced the conviction upon his mind that, in its mode of occurrence and propagation, the disease of the silkworm is, ifi every respect, comparable to the cholera among mankind. But it differs from the cholera, and, so far, is a more formidable disease, in being under some circumstances contagious, as well as infectious. The italian naturalist, Filippi, discovered in the blood of the silkworms affected by THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. 205 this strange disease, a multitude of cylin- get rid of and keep away the germs of the drical corpuscles, each about 1-6000th of an Panhistophyton. As might be imagined, inch long. These have been carefully from the course of .his previous investiga- studied by Lebert, and named by him Pan- tions, M. Pasteur was led to believe that the histophyton; for the reason that, in subjects latter was the right theory; and guided by in which the disease is strongly developed, the theory, he has devised a method of ex- the corpuscles swarm in every tissue and tirpating the disease, which has proved to organ of the body, and even pass into the be completely successful wherever it has undeveloped eggs of the female moth. But been properly carried out. are these corpuseks causes, or mere con- There can be no reason, then, for doubt- comitants, of the disease P Some naturalists ing that, among insects, contagious and in- took one view and some another; and it fectious diseases of great malignity are was not until the French Government, caused by minute organisms which are pro- alarmed by the continued ravages of the duced by pre-existing germs, or by ilomo- malady, and the inefficiency of the remedies genesis; and there is no reason, that I know which had been suggested, despatched M. of, for believing that what happens in in- Pasteur to study it, that the question re- sects may not takc place in the highest ceived its final settlement; at a great sacri- animals. Indeed, there is already strong fice, not only of the time and peace of mind evidence that some diseases of an extremely of that eminent philosopher, but, I regret to malignant and fatal character to which man have to add, of his health. is subject, are as much the work of minute But the sacrifice has not been in vain. It organisms as is the P~brine. I refer for is now certain that this devastating, cholera- this evidence to the very striking facts ad- like P~brine is the effect of the growth and duced by Prof. Lister in his various well- multiplication of the Panhistophyton in the known publications on the antiseptic method silkworm. It is contagious and infectious of treatment. It seems to me impossible to because the corpuscles of the Panhistophy- rise from the perusal of those publications ton pass away from the bodies of the dis- without a strong conviction that the lament- eased caterpillars, directly or indirectly, to able mortality which so frequently dogs the the alimentary canal of healthy silkworms in footsteps of the most skilful operator, and their neighbourhood; it is hereditary, be- those deadly consequences ~of wounds and cause the corpuscles entier into the eggs injuries which seem to haunt the very walls while they are being formed, and conse- of great hospitals, and are even now de- quently are carried within them when they stroying more men than die of bullet or are laid; and for this reason, also, it pre- bayonet, are due to the importation of sents the very singular peculiarity of being minute organisms into wounds, and their inherited only on the mothers side. There increase and multiplication; and that the is not a single one of all the apparently surgeon who saves most lives will be he who capricious and unaccountable phenomena best works out the practical consequences pr~sented by the P~brine, but has received of the hypothesis of Redi. its explanation from the fact that the disease I commenced this Address by asking you is the result of the presence of the micro- to follow me in an attempt to trace the path scopic organism, Panhistophyton. which has been followed by a scientific idea, Such being the facts with respect to the in its long and slow progress from the posi- P~ibrine, what are the indications as to the tion of a probable hypothesis to that of an method of preventing it P It is obvious that established Law of Nature. Our survey this depends. upon the way in which the has not taken us into very attractive re- Panhistophyton is generated. If it may be gions; it has lain chiefly in a land flowing generated by Abiogenesis, or by Xenogene- with the abominable, and peopled with mere sis, within the silkworm or its moth, the grubs and mouldmness. And it may be mm- extirpation of the disease must depend upomi agined with what smiles and shrugs practical the prevention of the occurrence of the con- and serious contemporaries of Redi and of ditiens under which this generation takes Spallanzani may have commented o~ the place. But if, on the other hand, the Pan- waste of their high abilities in toiling at the histophyton is an independent organisni, solution of problems which, though curious which is no more generated by the silkworm enough in themselves, could be of no con- than the mistletoe is generated by the oak, ceivable utility to mankind. or the apple-tree, on which it grows, though Nevertheless, you will have observed that it may need the silkworm for its develop- before we had travelled very far upon our meat, in the same way as the mistletoe needs road, there appeared, on the right hand and the tree, then the indications are totally on the left, fields laden with a harvest of different. The sole thing to be done is to golden grain, immediately convertible into 206 THE ORIGIN OF LIFE. those things which the most sordidly prac- FromThe Spectator. tical of men will admit to have. value, Professor Huxley, as President of the namely, money and life. British Association, which met at Liverpool The direct loss to France caused by the on Wednesday, adopted the excellent prin- P~brine in seventeen years cannot be esti- ciple of devoting his address to the discus- mated at less than fifty millions sterling; sionofa single subject, instead of to one and if we add to this what Redis idea, in of those perplexing r~sum~s of scientific Pasteurs hands, has done for the wine- progress on all its lines which few men are grower and for the vinegar-maker, and try competent to prepare, and fewer still to to capitalize its value, we shall find that it understand. His chosen subject was the will go a long way towards repairing the history of the controversy respecting the money losses caused by the frightful and origin of life, whether life is always gener calamitous war of this autumn. ated from a parent life actually or poten And as to the equivalent of Redis thought tially similar in organization, which he in life, how can we over-estimate the value called the hypothesis of Biogenesis (birth of that knowledge of the nature of epidemic from what is living) ; or whether life can and epizootic diseases, and, consequently, he produced from that which is not living, of the means of checking or eradicating under special conditions, Abiogensis (birth them, the dawn of which has assuredly com- from what is not living); or whether, finally, menced? forms of life of one kind (animal. for in- Looking back no further than ten years, stance,) can be generated from forms of it is possible to select three (1863, 1864 life of a quite different kind (as, for exam- and 1869), in which the total number of pie, vegetable), which the Professor called deaths froIn scarlet fever alone amounted Xenogenesis (or birth from a strange or to 90,000. That is the return of killed, the foreign organisni). The whole history of maimed and disabled being left out of sight. biolo~ical discovery during the last two or Why, it is to be hoped that the list of killed three hundred years points clearly, the Pro- in the present bloodiest of all wars will not fessor showed, to the first hypothesis, that amount to more than this! But the facts life is, under the present conditions of our which I have placcd before you must leave universe, gen~rated only from living organ- the least sanguine without a doubt that the isms actually or potentially of the same nature and the causes of this scourge will kind as the offspring. But he guarded him- one day be as well understood as those of self from being understood to assert, or the P~brine are now; and that the lorig-suf- even suppose, that this has always been so. fered massacre of our innocents will come If it were given me, he said, to look to an end, beyond the abyss of geologically. recorded And thus mankind will have one more time to the still more remote period when admonition that the people perish for lack the earth was passing through physical and of knowled,,e; a~d that the alleviation of chemical conditions which it can no mo~-e the miseries and the promotion of the wel- see again than a man can recall his infancy, fare of men must be sought, by those who I should expect to be a witness of the evo- will not lose their pains, in that diligent, lution of living protoplasm from not living patient, loving study of all the multitudi- matter. But Professor Huxley gave no noos aspects of Nature, the results of which sort of ground for his expectation, which constitute exact knowledge, or Science. appears to us pure conjecture. Surely we It is the justification and the glory of this ought to find even now producible evidence great Meeting that it is gathered together of what he calls Xenogenesis, i.e., the for no other object than the advancement production from one organic form of an- of the moiety of Science which deals with other radically different, if the origin of those phenomena of Nature which we call life is to be found in special combinations Physical. May its endeavours be crowned of that which is not living. We should call with a full measure of success! the Professors expectation not what he called it, an act of philosophical faith, but rather a philosophical coup detat, or act of revolutionary conjecture. FERITYHURST COURT. 207 From Good Words. FERNYIIURST COURT. I AN EVERY-.-DAY STORY.. BY THE AUTHOR OF STONE EDGE. CHAPTER I. LIFE IN A COUN~RY HOUSE. PAPA, look what a very black cloud is coming up, said May, perched upon a shaggy brown pony, and waiting at the back of some farm buildings for the Squire, who was overlooking the roofing of a cattle- shed,with the farmer by his side. Papas half-hour is very long, she sighed to her- self. It was very dull in the corner. For the first ten minutes her patience had been exemplary, her virtue having been much helped by the great black retriever; but Ranger had frightened away all the chick- ens, and driven the kitten into a tree, and having exhausted the limited resources of the place, could hardly be kept out of the neighbouring copse. Pansy, too, was grow- ing very fidgety; and May, liking quiet as little as her companions, suddenly saw with delight the thunder-cloud coming to her assistance. The Squire looked up at the weather. By Jove (the old schoolboy asseveration is not extinct in England), we shall be caught if we dont make haste. The churn- house must wait, Allen. And, to the equal pleasure of child, dog, and pony, they rode off at a great pace, Mays little Shetland cantering as fast as it could lay its short legs to the ground, to keep up with the stride of the long-limbed iron-grey old hunter, with its swinging trot, on which her father went along so rapidly without any apparent effort, that it was all the pony could do to hold its own. I believe that was the nineteenth re- quest old Allen has made this year, laughed the Squire. It was quite time to come away. Im afraid youll be wet through, Puss, as it is, he said, as the storm broke over them before they were half-way home. Oh, papa, it doesnt signify, its so nice, answered the child, shaking her brown wet locks (her mane, as her father called it), her cheeks shining in the rain, and her eyes sparkling. They lashed up in the pelting shower, past the old red-brick house, with its clustered chimneys and ogee gables, which looked warm and pleasant among the tall beech-trees, even in the midst of the rain; on to the stable-yard, and passed into the house by the back-door. And now, said her father, taking the bright little face between both his hands, and kissing it, run up:stairs directly, and get off your wet things, child. May was the youngest of a large family, and her fathers delight. He was supposed to have been rather stern to his other chil- dren, but she and he had been constant companions ever since she could walk, and the strictest friends and allies. Shes such good company, lie said one day to the rector, an old college friend, to whom he had given the Fernyhurst living, on the edge of the park, and who was nearly as fond of her as her father. Railroads have broken up all provincial centres, but this was before the time of railways, and the Squire was a great man in a smnall way. Hiss estate was one of the largest, and his family the oldest, in a part of the country where the properties were large and the pedigrees long. He was a shy, reserved man, though he had lived a good deal in the world. He attended, how- ever, to all magistrates, county, and poor- law business, and was respected and liked by his neighbours. He hunted regularly: the foxes were abundant at Fernyhurst, the pheasants plentiful enough ~though his sons complained of the want of preserving), and altogether he was esteemed an honourable gentleman, who did his duty both to man and beast. Mrs. Dimsdale was not so popular as her husband. She was somewhat of a fine lady, and her manners were cold, and what the village called hotty. She was extremely fond of London, which the Squire had en- 208 FERNYHURST COURT. dured and bated for six or eight weeks every season, posting up some eighty miles in the big coach in about ten hours at shortest. Having sadly submitted to be made member for the county, he had been three wretched years in Parliament, but the misery of the life was more than he could endure; the late hours, the fierceness of the faction fights in those days, when he had to vote with his party, right or wrong, while he possessed the unfortunate faculty of think- ing for himself, without the eloc~uence to explain his views. At last, having never been laid up in his life except from a broken bone out hunting, he fell really and honestly sick, and a general dissolution of Parliament having honourably set him at liberty, he hardly ever went near town for above a week or two at a time. His two elder daughters, rather fine and cold, like their mother, had had a governess, and masters, and proper advantages in London; but when the little May came into the world after a couple of brothers, and an interval of many years, it was really too much trouble to begin education all over again., and it was understood that her sisters were to teach her. The eldest, howeve~c, soon married, and Miss -Cecilia had no vo- cation whatever in the teaching line; and accordingly May grew up very much as Nature pleased. Her mother ordered her to learn a certain portion of French and music, and sent her to Cecilia when it was supposed to be done, who, languidly putting down her work or her hook, let the child gabble through her tenses all wrong, or play through her piece without two notes right in a bar. But there are other things to be learnt in the world besides French and music inti- macy with a high-minded, cultivated, clever man is of itself the best possible education. Her father did not like to have her long out of his sight, and accordingly, as soon as she could sit on ~ pony, she had followed him about, peffectly fearless, as is often the case with very young things too well guarded to have learned to take care for themselves, and too inexperienced to understand what they have escaped. There was plenty of sense and purpose under the mane of shaggy brown curls more, indeed, than most of the people round her knew of. As time went on, and she grew older, she nibbled at all~sorts of subjects, and had read more than her two sisters put together already, of the most heterogeneous kinds: it was done, however, in secret, lest her mother should put a stop to her proceedings, or Cecilia should be contemptuous. How is it that the most extreme varieties of character are to be found alongside in the same family, born of the same parents, bred in much the same circumstances? It ia as if Nature had a certain quantity of material given her and did not know how to mix it: all the sugar goes into one corner, all the suet into another, and the plums and the flour are hopelessly divorced. One is re- markable for caution and common sense, while all the romantic generosity, impulse, and poetry seem to have been taken by the next; a third is full of dogmatic self-conceit and love of intermeddling with other peo- ple; and the humility, tact, and self-denying kindness of the last are equally striking. The Dimsdales varied almost as widely, and there were so many of them, and of ages so widely apart, that, as in most large families, the different sets were hardly more to each other than common acquaintances. The eldest had married and left home so long before, that May only considered her a ma- tron whose children were nearly of her own age; next came the august Captain Dims- dale in a regiment of Guards, a surprisingly great man indeed, to be the son of so very modest and unassuming a father. Cecilia was succeeded by a boy at sea; and the two youngest, Toni and May, were so far cut off from the others that they almost seemed to belong to another family, and were a good deal thrown upon each other. Although, as being only a girl, and two or three years younger, Tom consideted it a great condescension to play with her in the holidays, yet she was better than noth- ing, i.e., a good deal piore inventive and intelligent than himself. The park was a beautiful mixture of for.- est and wild heathery ground, the knolls covered with picturesque twisted oak, bril- liant hollies, and old thorn intermnixed with fern, while groves of tall beech filled the hollows. On one of the- open spaces was a bright breezy pool, and- here with much- trouble Tom had launched a small flat-bot- tomed boat, built nominally by himself, i.e., he had stood with his hands in his pockets diligently over his fathers carpenters till it reached the painting stage, when it came out under his touch a bright blue picked out with scarlet, and May was brought down in triumph to the pool to christen it after herself. She was quite as much de- lighted and honoured as was expected of her, which is saying a great deal. It must be called the Mayflower, and well sail across to America, you know, Tom. Oh, we mustnt row, Im sure the pilgrim fathers sailed; she said, anxious for the local colouring.~~ Ive brought down the big red umbrella, FERNYJ~URST COURT. 209 and you must sit and bold it up as a sail; dragged violently in different directions by there, mind you hold tight, said her brother. admirers half mad with victory, but then Whatil mamma say? Its the old mentally what glory! French one. So Tom looked up to Scrope as a simple Its the biggest in the house, said mortal might do to those dernigods whose Tom. histories the schoolboy learned so Un- He was as innocent as other schoolboys wil4ingly; and he considered nothing good of all knowledge of pilgrim fathers, but one enough for so important a personage. name was as good as another, besides which Oh. papa, isnt it beautiful? Look, Im this one offered the double advantage of re- the pilgrim fathers, just got to America, and quiring attacks upon the boat by Indians Toms the ferocious Indians! screamed with spears, and then of its defence by him- May, as the Squire rode up looking tired self, in a noble attitude, striding across the with his five hours at a magistrates meet- seats. ing, some of that unpaid and unthanked I wonder whether Scrope will think work of which there is so much silently much of it, said he, sitting down rather done in England. It was a pretty group,. out of breath with his exertions. I want May squatting in the boat under her red papa to ask him; hes such a fine fellow, umbrella, Tom brandishing a long reed, the head of the Eleven. Yes, he has done evening light behind the great trees re- pretty well in the schools; but its the flected in the bright water, the grey horse games hes so good at. The boys dont and its rider, whose seat was so easy and think much of a sap, hut hes in the sixth yet so firm that they always looked as if form, so he can do as he pleases. Pui they had grown together. afraid he wont come. Im afraid my pilgrim fathers will go to What, is he too grand? said May, the bottom; Tom, you must have a safer with some awe. sail than that. What, youve got my old Well, you know, we havent any cricket Pyrenean umbrella! said he, getting off. here, and hes very near the head of the Come and walk home with me, May; its school, and a great swell, and theres noth- quite time for you to go in. ing to amuse him. And I may ride Nimrod when Ive put Why, surely theres shooting, put in up the boat, cried Tom. May humbly.