LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No3 1621w July 3, 1375w From Beginning Volume XI. Vol CXXVI. CONTENTS. I. MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. By F. W. Newman, II. Tom MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGIJS. Con- clusion, III. THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. By Robert Brown, MA., Ph.D., F.L.S., F.R.G.S., etc IV. TIlE ARCTIC SHIPS V. GIANNETTO. Conclusion VI. LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS VII. THE INFLUENCE OF THE COURT, VIII. ITALY AND THE POPE IX. Two VIEWS OF ANNIHILATION, . Spectator, To LUE ETHEREAT IN MEMORIAM, RUSKIN, Frasers Magazine, Cornkill Magazine, Popular Science Review, Spectator, . . - BZackwoods Magazine, - CornId/i Magazine, Spectator, - Pall Alall Ga ette,. POET R V. 2 UNGATHERED LOVE, - 2 A SEQUENCE OF ANALOGIES,. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to Me Publiskers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of Iostege. All extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Il 27 33 35 45 . 57 59 - . 2 2 TO THE ETHEREAL RUSKIN, ETC. TO THE ETHEREAL RUSKIN. THERE lies above our grosser air A region of blue heaven fair, Too thin a feathers weight to bear, And there to souls like white snow driven From earths rough waves a rest is given, A harbour locked by lands of heaven. Ah, to reach to it! Only one Of men I know beneath the sun Who to this homc of rest has won. All shapes of beauty he can see, All hues of bright divinity. Trust him ! He cannot lie to thee For though betwixt dull earth and him Such clouds and mists decep That to his eyes lifes ways tive swim, look dim; Yet when on high he lifts his gaze, He sees the stars untroubled ways, And the divine of endless days. To us this star or that seems bright, And oft some headlong meteors flight Holds for a while our raptured sight. But he discerns each noble star; The least is only the most far, Whose worlds, ma be, the mightiest are. lie marks not meteors that go by, Fired for one moment as they fly; He heeds not, knowing they must die. How should he care what men may say, Who see no heaven day by day, And dream not of his hidden way? He cares not, though they call him mad. Yet who would see his fellows glad, From sympathy with woe is sad. And he is sad, not for himself, But for the inhuman lust of pelf; All knees bowed to one Baal, Self. Tis vain to preach, and no men know The sweetness twere with him to go, Leaving our beaten life below. So like a lovely vine he stands, That stretches sympathetic hands, To cling with all its thousand bands. Yet, though, because no prop be nigh, Its yearning tendrils droop and die, It stands, for it is stayed on high. Spectator. R. L. 0. AN AUTHOR WANTED. To (ke Editors oft/ic Evening Post.~ CAN any of your readers give me the name of the author of the following verses? I cut them from a newspaper, where they bore as their original date March i~, I867 IN MEMORIAM. Farewefl! since never more for thee The sun comes up our eastern skies, Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. There are who for thy last, long sleep Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore Shall weep because thou canst not weep, And grieve that all thy griefs are oer. Sad thrift of love! the loving breast On which the aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest, But kept the aching for its own. New York, May, 1875. R. J. UNGATHERED LOVE. WHEN the autumn winds go wailing Through branches yellow and brown, When the grey sad light is failing, And the day is going down, I hear the desolate evening sing Of a Love that bloomed in the early spring, And which no heart had for gathering. I and my lover we dwell apart, We twain may never be one We shall never stand heart to heart, Then what can be said or done, When winds, and waters, and song-birds sing Of a Love that bloomed in the early spring. And which no heart had for gathering? When day is over and night descends, And dank mists circle and rise, I fall asleep, and slumber befriends, For I dream of April skies. But I wake to hear the silence sing Of a Love that bloomed in the early spring, And which no heart had for gathering. When the dawn comes in with wind and rain, And birds awake in the eaves, And rain-drops smite the ~vindow-pane, And drench the eddying leaves, I hear the voice of the daybreak sing Of a love that bloomed in the early spring, And which no heart had for gathering. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. Macmillana Magazine. MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GTREAT 3 From Frasers Magazine. MORAL ESTIMATE OP ALEXANDER THE GREAT. BY F. W. NEWMAN. MR. AUBREY DE VERE opens his pref- ace to Alexander the Great, a Dramatic Poem, by informing us that in the last century it was thought philosophical to sneer at the Macedonian madman, and moral to declaim against him as a bandit. The ancients, he says, made no such mistake. He proceeds to pane- gyrize Alexander as uniting the highest military genius with a statesmanship in- stinctive and unerring. His intellect, he tells us, was at once vast and minute. His aim was to consolidate the whole world into a single empire, redeemed from barbarism and irradiated with Greek science and art ; an empire such that its citizens,frorn the mouths of the Ganges to the i5illars of Hercules, should be qualified to learn from Plato and to take delight in Sophocles. It is not necessary to quote further from Mr. Aubrey de Vere. The above sufficiently shows what a picture he aims to hold up for our admiration, what impressions he desires his drama to leave on the minds of readers. In this article it is not pur- posed to discuss its poetical merits, which must be left to another pen and time, but to enter into the historical questions whether Alexander the Great was a beneficent or a malignant star to Greece and to mankind, and what senti- ments are just concerning him. But it may concisely be said at once that the present writer is intensely opposed to Mr. de Veres avowed judgment. No one ever has grudged, and no one will ever grudge, praise to Alexander for military talent; but the talent was not that of a scientific general who plans a campaign, as a Von Moltke or even a Napoleon ; it was only that of a quick- eyed Garibaldi or Cond~. Generalship of We highest modern type was then im- possible, for the plain reason that maps did not exist, and the roads which Alex- ander traversed were in every instance unknown to him. Not only was he with- out the means of forming previous plans~ of operation ; he was also destitute of storehouses and stores for feeding his troops, and of gold or silver to purchase food and remunerate their services. The Romans, who methodized war, ac- counted money to be its sinews (ji5ecuniam nervos be//i); but all agree that Alex- ander entered upon war against the opu- lent Persian monarchy with resources of money and stores of provisions utterly inadequate, so that nothing but instant and continuous success could save him from ruin. But, says Plutarch gaily, though his resources were so small and narrow, he gave away his Macedonian possessions freely to his comrades houses to one, a field to another, a village to a third, harbour-dues to a fourth ; and when some one asked, 0 king, what do you leave for yourself? he replied, Holes! This was very spirited, no doubt. In the midst of a martial people, and from a prince barely of age, it may be thought very amiable; but with Gre- cian statesmen and philosophers the d& u- siveness of hope was a frequent topic. Nothing is plainer than that from the be- ginning Alexander was a gambler play- ing double or quits, and that causes over which he had no control, and knew he had none, might at any moment have involved him in sudden overthrow. The unexpected death of Memnon as much as anything (says Arrian) ruined Darius~ s fortunes. No doubt it was just to count on the great superiority of Greek armcur, Greek discipline, and Macedonian miii- tary tactics; also on the feebleness en- tailed on Persia by royal luxury and half- independent satraps. The successes of Xenophon and of Agesilaus had long familiarized the Greeks to the belief that a moderate Greek army was superior to a Persian host. Experienced Greek gen- erals did not esteem the invasion of Persia to be a wild expedition ; the con-~ gress of Greece, from which only the Spartans were conspicuously absent, de- liberately sanctioned it. No one could foresee such a commencement as was the battle of the Granicus; every one in the retrospect judged Alexanders conduct rash in the extreme. That it succeeded We know, but Mr. de Vere has not said a 4 MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. word to produce conviction that such conduct is that of a wise general. The Persian satraps had assembled a force, powerful in cavalry, but in infantry very inferior to the Greeks, to prevent his crossing of this river, which, by the uncertainty of the bottom and steepness of the banks, was in itself formidable enough. The day was far gone, and Parmenio urged that the enemy would not dare to pass the night in proximity to Grecian infan- try so superior. (Persian cavalry always dreaded a night attack, and systemati- cally, according to Xenophon, passed the night some twelve miles distant from an enemy.) Hence the Greeks ~vould be able to cross by night without Opposition. The young king replied that, after cross- ing the Hellespont, it was disgraceful to be afraid of the little Granicus; and presently plunged into the stream, bid- ding his thirteen squadrons of cavalry to follow. The violence and depth of the water, the rugged banks, and the enemy awaiting him, rather incited than ap- palled Alexander. It seemed, says Plu- tarch, to be a strategy of despair, not of wisdom, and indeed to be the deed of a maniac. But the young king was certain of one thingthat wherever he led, his Macedonians would follow; and this fact was the impetus to all his military conduct. The Macedonians, from their long spears had advantage in close coin- bat over the Persians who fought with swords; but darts and arrows from above were severely felt while they were in the river. Struggling up with difficulty through the mud, they could not keep any ranks and lines of battle, and the Opposite squadrons became mixed, horse pushing against horse. The single helmet displayed Alexander to the enemy, aad three eminent Persians hurried into personal conflict with him. According to Arrian, Alexander slew the first, re- ceived from the second a blow of the sword which cut off the crest of his helmet ; nevertheless him too he slew with the Macedonian pike. The third would undoubtedly have killed Alex- ander had he not himself first been pierced through the body by the Mace- donian Cleitus. Not unlike was the conduct of the younger Cyrus in the battle of Cunaxa, as narrated by Xenophon ; but Cyrus egregiously miscalculated in expecting his mercenary, the Spartan Clearchus, to obey orders. Cyrus impetuously rushed against the Persian kings body-guard, commanding Clearchus to support him. But Clearchus thought this a rash pro- cedure, disobeyed, and allowed Cyrus to be surrounded and killed ; thus sactific- ing the whole object of the expedition, and exposing all the Greek trool)s to difficulties so severe that their ultimate escape appeared miraculous. Alexan. ders troops and Alexanders generals were of different mettle ; on that he counted, and was never deceived. Fear- less exposure of his own person was his mode of inciting them ; but they quite understood the error and the iriischief of such conduct. Even after the final over- throw of Darius, if Alexander had been slain in battle no one could measure the calamity which such an event might en- tail. Nevertheless he retained this habit of acting the part of soldier as well as of general, being many times severely wounded with swords, darts, arrows, and stones, until he narrowly escaped with life in his Indian campaign. Arrian gives the account in great detail. The wall was difficult to ascend. The king thought his soldiers deficient in spirit, seized a ladder, and himself climbed to the top. Alarm for his exposure made so many hurry tumultuously that their weight broke the ladders. Finding him- self alone on the top of the wall, he leaped down on the other side, and, in spite of prodigies of valour, received a very dan- gerous arrow-wound in the breast. The Macedonians poured in after him just in time to save his life, which for days after was accounted doubtful. His friends severely reproached him for an impru- dence which might have been the ruin of them all; and (says Arrian) he was great- ly vexed, because he knew that their re- proaches were just; but as other men are overcome by other vices, so was he by this impetus to fight. This being his habit, surely no more words are needed to show the character of his generalship. MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. to perceive at the moment whatever the moment admitted. On this account he will ever be named among the greatest generals of antiquity, although he was never matched against troops at all to compare to his own, nor against any ex- perienced leader. Without for a moment undervaluing his high military qualities, we must not put out of sight the pre-eminent army which his able father had bequeathed to him. The western world had never be- fore seen such an organization. A reader of Greek accustomed to Thucydides, Xenophon, and Demosthenes finds it hard to translate the new Greek phrases made necessary in King Philips army. The elaborateness of modern times seems to come upon us suddenly. We find Guards, Horse-Guards, Foot-Guards, the Kings own Body-Guard, the Vanguard, the Kings Horse, the Cavalry, Equestrian Tetrarchies, the Ag~ma (which may seem to be the Gras, whether of an army or of each brigade), the Horse Darters, the Lancers, the Horse Archers, the Archers, the Forerunners (or Scouts ?), besides all the Infantry common in Greece ; and an apparatus for sieges, such as the old Assyrians and Egyptians display to us in sculpture and painting. Tb e history of the transmission of this art is curious. We have no reason for supposing that the Persians ever used its higher mech- anism, but the Ph~nicians carried the knowledge of it to Carthage. The Cartha- ginians practised it elaborately in some of their Sicilian wars, and from them Dionysius of Syracuse learned it. Philip 11. of Macedon is said to have imported it into Greece from Dionysius ; but his temperament was adverse to the use of force where bribery could effect his oh. ject. To him is imputed the saying, that he deemed no fortress to be impreg- nable if an ass laden with gold could climb up to the gate. He must have in- corporated with his army sappers and miners, and men furnished with engines and ladders, skilled also in cx temtore construction; for in his sons campaigns, Speed of movement, urgency in pursuit, these agencies come forth whefiever they were his two marked peculiarities ; but are wanted. It is quite unexplained how to these he added a marvellous quickness in his rapid marches through mountain- ous countries (as Caubul) he could carry with him huge machines that rained arrows on an enemy from a distance farther than a human arm could send them. The speed with which his en- gineers make bridges to cross rivers, even the great river Indus, takes on~e quite by surprise. Long skill and train- ing is here presupposed. Under Alex- anders successors the engines of siege attain a magnitude and importance previ- ously unparalleled. Philip disciplined every class of troops to its own work, and from Thrace and Thessaly had men and horses beyond any ~previous Greek potentate. Greece had been accustomed to admire Spartan discipline; but Spar- tan troops were nearly all of one kind., heavy infantry. They had scarcely any cavalry, and, with all their solid armoui~, were unable to stand against arrows,o~ even against slingers and darters. Be- fore walls or ditches they were helpless. Yet Agesilaus had not found the Per- sians formidable. He never encountered such clouds of arrows as Mardonius showered on the Spartans at Plat~a; hence in general the Greeks feared Greek mercenaries fighting on the side of Per- sia far more than they feared Persians. Every Macedonian captain knew so well the superiority of a Macedonian army, that they counted on victory if only they could meet the foe in the field, whether ~ Philip, a Parm.enio, or an Antipater was to be the general. This must be remem- bered in estimating Alexanders vic tories. Plutarch desirous of exalting Alexan~ I der, makes much of his boyish utter- ances, among which is one of jealousy against his father for too great success. Why, boys, said he, my father will leave ME nothing to conquer. Every- thing which is told of him by his panegry. ists points to the same intense egotism.. To be a conqueror greater than his father, and to be a fighter equal to Achilles, and if possible to be celebrated by a poet as noble as Homer, was his ardent and con- stant aspiration. AlexandeE himself told 5 6 MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. Darius plainly what were his motives for persevering in hostility. At least Arrian (who follows the accounts of Ptolemy, son of Lagus, and Aristobulus, one of Alexanders commanders) professes to have before him the actual despatch.* After the battle of Issus, in which Da- riuss queen and young son and mother and other ladies had been captured, Da- rius wrote to ask Alexander that he would restore them, and accept from l~im friendskzb and alliance; for which he offered full pledges, and begged for the same in turn. Alexander had treated the captive ladies with ostentatious hon- our; therefore a mild reply might have been hoped. Instead of this, from begin- ning to end the letter breathes reproach and defiance. In conclusion it says: Since I have defeated, first thy gen- erals and satraps, and next thee and the forces with thee; since I hold the coun- try, and have now in my army numbers of those who fought on thy side, come to me as to him who is lord of all Asia; then thou shalt receive back thy mother, thy wife and children, and much beside, what- ever thou canst persuade me by asking for it. But in future do not send to me as thine equal, but as the lord of all that is thine ; else I shall regard thee as injuri- ous. Such a repulse of friendly over- tures, when Alexander had attained far more than any Greek hoped or wished, must surely be censured by every modern. Yet, before any new defeat was encoun- tered, Darius made yet another attempt at peace. As Arrian tells it, while Al- exander was engaged in the siege of Tyre, ambassadors came, offering to him ten thousand talents (say, two millions sterling) as ransom for the kings family; Darius was willing to yield to him the country as far as the Euf4rates; he pro- posed that Alexander should accept his daughter in marriage, and that they should be friends and allies. The only reply of Alexander was that he wanted no money of Darius, for he counted all Dariuss money to be his own ; he would not accept a part of the country instead of the whole ; and if he wished to marry a daughter of Darius, he ~vould take her by force without her fathers leave. The historian who tells this does not seem to be aware how very inhuman was such a reply; no censure escapes him. As far as we can learn, to make Alexander great and glorious, is Alexanders motive ac ~ The despatch of Alexander, says he, STANDS THUS: cording to his own account. Mr. de Vere would persuade us that his aims were philanthropic. The notion is in it- self wholly anachronistic. Ambition, not philanthropy, down to the present time is the motive for con- quest. Philanthropy does some lines lead to annexation ; we see an instance in the archipelago of Fiji, which has been accepted reluctantly, not conquered, by the rulers of England. So, we make no doubt, the incas of Peru benevolently accepted the responsibility of rule over various barbarian and scattered tribes, whom they presently attached to them- selves by benefits. Instances of this kind exist in history, enough barely to show what is possible to human nature but, alas they are very rare. Where the philanthropic object is sincere, the sense of duty and responsibility is keen, and there is no coveting of territory and power, no claim that might makes right, no violence is used to establish the claim. To make armed invasion and at- tack on another country is an avowal that you are not seeking the welfare of the invaded, but some interests or im- agined rights of your own or of your ally. Now, it is obvious in Greek liter- ature that up to the time of Aristotle and Alexander no idea of international right existed. In the discourses reported by Xenophon we have no hint that Socrates thought a war of Greeks even against Greeks to need justification ; and Aris- totle lays down that, by the natural su- periority of the Greek mind, barbarians are made for subjection to Greeks ; and if they do not submit, they may rightly be forced to submission in fact, as brute animals. When Aristotle so rea- soned and so believed, we cannot ex- pect any Greek prince, or any Greek re- public, to have moral scruples against invading any foreigner. If, from a mod- ern point of view, any one now call Alex- ander a bandit, as Mr. de Vere com- plains, it is not on the bare ground that he was an invader; it must mean that he was a peculiarly reckless invader, who with no motive then generally esteemed adequate, marked his course with blood and devastation. That is a question of detail. But up to that time the world had seen no right of territory or of em- pire asserted on any other argument than that of simple force. The great Darius, son of Hystaspes, piously records on his monuments the names of the successive nations which God gave to his sceptre. Hebrew princes spoke in the same tone MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 7 concerning whatever conquests they could make on their narrower scale. None can now wonder or censure if Al- exander, after the battle of Issus, says to Darius, By my victory God has given me countries which were thine. The Persians had no title but force to the possession of Cilicia and Lydia; force might be repelled by force. From the earliest times the Greeks had swarmed out into colonies planted on the coast of Asia, without asking leave of Asiatic princes; but those princes no sooner became po~verful than they endeavoured to recover the possession of their sea- bord,* and the Lydian dynasty at length absorbed into itself these Asiatic Greeks. When the Persians conquered Lydia, they naturally regarded the Greek coast as an integrant part of their domain ; but the Greeks, rejoicing in the fall of the Lydian suzerain, hoped for intire inde- pendence, and had to be re-subdued. The Athenians imprudently assisted them against Darius, and sent a body of troops which took part in the burning of Sardis, the capital of Lydia. No modern empire could wink at such an outrage; nor could King Darius; yet the Athe- nians always speak as thouTh his war against them had been unprovoked. Each side knew the outrages it had suf- fered and forgot those which it had in- flicted a common case. Unless treaties and oaths forbade, war was received as the natural and rightful relation even in Greece itself between city and city. But when ambition is the real unde- niable motive of war, there are yet two kinds of ambitionpersonal and nation- al. However much we may palliate, ex- cuse, or even praise the latter, all good feeling, all morality, and all common sense unite severely to rebuke the for- iner. No moral reasoner can justify the deeds of Warren Hastings or of Clive, yet we do not stigmatize the doers as vile men ; Cicero may defend Fonteius, yet the reader sees that the defence amounts to this, that the oppressions complained of, if criminal, were violences perpetrated in the interests of Roman conquest, not for Fonteiuss own enrich- ment or aggrandisement. Each nation is strong by patriotism. Patriotism seldom escapes a tinge of national vanity, and generally is deep dyed in absurd nation- al self-esteem. One who sacrifices him- self for the exaltation of his own people has in him the vital elemeht of high vir * I3ord = edge, border; a different word from board. tue, even though he may injuriously overlook the rights of other peoples hence we can honour mere soldiers, faith- ful servants of a dynasty or of a power- ful republic, when they wholly decline all judgment of the right or wron,, of a var, and bestow their entire energies and their lives to exalt their nation and dynasty. The more signally the selfish element is sul)pressed, the higher is the honour due to them ; but just in proportion as the selfish element is combined with unjust war, our moral estimate is turned the other way. If the separate commanders are encouraged to love war because it enables them to become rich by plunder- ing the conquered, the war is demoral- izing to the victors. If the king who de- crees the war is aiming at the exaltation not of his own nation and race, but of his own individual person ; if he is ready to trample his own people under foot, and set up the barbarian as equal or superior, as soon as this, in turn, conduces to his personal magnificence; and if at the same time he is utterly reckless of hu- man life and suffering on both sides, ~vhenever he has a fancy or a whim of gloryit is rather too great a strain on our credulity to hold him up to moral admiration. Now, in the case of Alex- ander we have to enquire, of which class was his ambition ? Was he aiming to exalt himself, or his royal race, or to ex- alt Macedonia, or to exalt Greece ? None of these alternatives contents Mr. de Vere, who says that Alexander was aim- ing. to make Indians and Spaniards learn wisdom of Sophocles and Plato. But we must go into various details in order to (ret at the truth. b Alexander, in Greek belief, descended from Hercules on his fathers side and from Achilles on his mothers. He might ~maturally be proud of each genealogy. The Macedonians were half-Thracian, and doubtfully Greek; but the Macedo- nian dynasty claimed to be Heracleid. Philip had satisfied the Olympian um- pires of his right, as a genuine Greek, to send chariots and horses to contend for the prize, and was sincerely proud of the honour. Plutarch, a great admirer of Alexander, censures Philip for the pleas- ure which he took in the rivalry of cul- tivated Greek conversation, and for en- graving on coins his Olympian victories while the boyish Alexander, on the con- trary, said he must have kings for his rivals before he would enter any contest. Such royal airs did he give himself when he was but sixteen, that a jocose saying 8 MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. became current Alexand.er is our king, ~nd Philip only our general ; and Phil- ip himself was pleased with it. But the politic Philip committed at last one im- prudence ; it was great and fatal. He had long been tired of his queen Olym- pias, as well he might be, for all agree that she was proud, intemperate, and violent. Plutarch believes the story that, as the poets tell of Thracian women, she practised Orphic and Bacchanalian en- thusiasm, and was a zealot of posses- sions, inspiration, or catalepsy, which the moderns do not easily believe to have been managed without drugs or ~vine. Be the cause what it may, she was very overbearing and unamiable. Alexander was moulded into pride by his mother, and was in general very much disposed to yield to her ; but an utterance of his, after he was supreme in Asia, has been stereotyl)ed : My mother really charges me a very high rent for my ten months lodging Lin her womb]. Philip is said already to have had another wife, Euryd- ice (Arrian, iii. 6), but apparently Olym- pias still held the chief place as queen, until he became fascinated by a much younger lady, Cleopatra, who was intro- duced to t~ie court in a magnificent wed- ding-feast. Her uncle, Attalus, when much the worse for xvine, uttered an im- prudent blessing on the marriage. Olym- l)i~ts flamed out with all the wrath of a Medea. Alexander expected to be dis- owned as successor to the throne and superseded by a new heir. He escaped with his mother into Epirus, and thence took refuge with the Illyrians. This was when he was about seventeen. With a slight turn of events his history might have been that of many Oriental princes a son contending with his father for the throne. Philip, by kind messages, persuaded him to return but Alexander~ was still jealous, and his new jealousy was of his brother Arrhid~us. Pexodo- rus, satrap of Caria, desired to give his daughter in marriage to Arrhidmus. Alexander, suspecting some treason in this, sent a private messenger to the satrap, dissuading the match, and asking why the young lady was not rather of- fered in marriage to Aim. Plutarch, who tells this, does not see bow unamiable this makes Alexander towards his broth- er as well as his father. With his cousin Amyntas he had a deadly feud, because Amyntas, his elder, was son of Perdic- cas, who preceded Philip on the throne, and had ostensibly a higher claim to the succession than Alexander. All danger of collision with Philip himself was re- moved by the assassin Pausanias. whom Olympias was believed by the public to have instigated. The new reign opened with all the symptoms of a court-revolution. Noble- men who had gone into exile returned at once, among whom was Ptolemy, son of Lagus. Amyntas was put to death as a dangerous rival. Cleopatras infant son suffered the same fate. Attalus, to whom Alexander was implacable for a drunken speech, had been sent forward by Philip with an army into Asia, but was there as- sassinated by Hecatieus, Alexanders emissary. Cleopatra herself was han- dIed cruelly by Olympias words of Plutarch, which are generally interpreted to mean that she was put to death with bodily outrage.* But when the violent deeds of princes are secret we must make allowance for credulous exaggera- tions of detail. Though Alexander was proud of his descent from Hercules through his fa- ther, so quickly was his head turned by too rapid and dazzling success, that be presently disowned his father Philip, and wished to be accounted a son of Jupiter. This was the beginning of disgust to the Macedonians. His comrade and play- mate Philotas, whom Philip had em- ployed to reprove him for his foolish and wrongful meddling against the marriage of his brother Arrhicl~us, wrote to him honest truth in Egypt, when first Alexan- der trumped up this monstrous fiction, and warned him of the mischief which he would do to himself by it. That Alexander never forgave him for his plain-speaking appears undeniable: for, years after, when Philotas was accused of complicity in a plot against Alexan- ders life, Alexander, rising in the coun- cil of chief Macedonians, bitterly accused Philotas of having been a traitor from the beginning, and adduced this letter as a proof of his early disaffection. Wheth- er Philotas was, or was not, at last in complicity with the plot, it is not proba- ble that the moderns will ever agree. Quintus Curtius condemns him ; but the argument which Curtius puts into his mouth appears a complete and sufficient defence, and on this point makes him re- ply 1 wrote to the king direct ; I did. not write to others concerning the king; * Plutarch says that Alexander was very angry with his mother for her conduct to Cleopatra. One might interpret his wnrda tn mean that Oiynipiaa inflicted some bodily nutrage that marred her beauty; but 1 fear that a still more terrible sense is truer. MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. I feared for him; I did not raise odium against him ; my trust in friendship, and the dangerous freedom of giving true ad- vice, have ruined me. Be the case of Philotas as it may, all the historians agree that Alexander insisted on the title Son of Vutiter, for which he had obtained the sanction of the oracle of Haminon by a very dangerous journey through the desert. On one remarkable occasion (Arrian, vii. 8), when the army was able to speak with a combined shout, by which no one should be singled out for vengence, they cry to him that they had best all return to Greece, and leave him to campaign in Asia by help of his his father meaning Jupiter Ham mon, says the historian. Plutarch, who cer- tainly does not censure him, says that ~to the Persians he assumed the haughty tone of one who was quite convinced of his divine birth, but to the Greeks he was more moderate and sparing in his assump- tion of divinity, e.~cept I/ia! to the Ath~- nians he wrote a letter concerning Samos saying : I, for my part, should not have given to you a free and glorious city [Samos]; but you have received it from him who then was master of it, and used to be called myfathermeaning Phil- ip. But a king who could ~ratuitously write thus in a public despatch to the Athenians displayed a determination to enforce his preposterous claim.* And here it is difficult to understand the lib- erty which Mr. Aubrey de Vere takes with history. He represents Alexander as speaking with contempt and disap- proval of the mythical tale of his mirac- ulous origin (p. 7): Mark, Heph~stion! The legend-mongers at their work l Twas thus They forgd in Macedon that tale prepostrous, Scandlous alike to me and to my mother, Touching great Zeus. Such a tale cannot have been invented before the battle of Issus, and Alexander himself eagerly adopted it (whoever was the inventor) within half a year after the battle. It is evident, therefore, that his head was turned by his sudden and vast success ; and the Macedonians saw it. A cur~ouS story is told, that the priest of Ilammon tried to give an oracular reply in Greek; and not being deep in the Greek language, thought that iratdtov for a you/h ought to be masculine; so, instead of addressing Alexander by Cd iratdcou, 0 youth! or 0 my son! he said, Co arttt6toi; and Alexander, in Greek fashion, in- stantly accepted the omen, declaring that the priest had addressed him by the title Cd r~t ACO~, 0 child of Jupiter I A second great disgust with them was his disparaging of his father Philip, espe- cially over his xvine-cups. The Macedo- nians were right loyal royalists and justly proud of Philip. He had raised their country from a very feeble to a predomi- nant position. When be came to the throne Macedonia had but half a sea- coast, from the number of independent Greek cities. He had recovered all Macedonia and added Thrace to it, in- cluding Byzantium itself ; had brought Thessaly and Phocis into his dominion; had defeated the Theban and Athenian forces by land, and made himself at sea equal or superior to Athens ; had become master of Molossia and P~onia, and was at length acknowled~ed as the genuine Greek prince, who was the only rightful leader of Greece. His army he had so organized as to make it unequalled, and by the consent of one and another State he had been allowed to garrison many of the most critical fortresses in Greece. What Macedonian captain could be wil- ling to hear Philip the Great disparaged by his own son? All the old officers of Philip were indignant at it. The habit of the Macedonians, as of the Thracians, was that of much wine-drinking, and the king was expected to dine with his chief captains and ministers. It is a sufficient mark how national customs preponderate over talents and wisdom, that the father and son who in all Greek history are sig- nal and pre-eminent were both gravely damaged by the wine-cup. Mr. de Vere is pleased to allude to it as Alexanders supposed intemperance; and no doubt Arrian tries to excuse him, as does Plu- tarch, on the ground that his tarrying over the wine was from love of company, not from sensuality. Of course ; so it generally is. The historical form of drunkenness with Greeks, Roinans, Per- sians, Gauls, Germans, and we readily believe also of Macedonians, ~vas differ- ent from that of an English artisan who stands up at the bar of a gin-palace to enjoy his solitary glass. But the evidence of mischief from these Macedonian ban- quets is not to be sneered away. The beginning of ruin to the house of Philip was from the wedding-feast of the new. queen Cleopatra; at which her uncle At- talus, when overfilled with wine,* prayed that the gods would give to Philip a le~ him ate s uccessorby Cleopatra. Am I then a bastard, you rascal I cried young Alexander, and flung his cupt at I/V TtJ IrOTy /ttOvtev. I Scyphis pugnare, Thracum eat, says Horace. 9 MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER TIlE GREAT. the head of Attalus. Philip rose in an- ready comparing his own future deeds ger, and, sword in hand, tried to step with those of his father, should inwardly across to his son ; but his feet failed him, boast to himself, after conquering Asia and he fell on the floor. Here is a Minor, Syria, and Egypt in less thantwo man, said the youth, who is preparing years, that he had farexceeded the deeds to cross into Asia, and is upset in passing of Philip; and with each new success from one seat to another. Evidently new vanity and new arrogance entered Alexander, as well as Philip, was already his heart. Ill ViIIO veritas. After xvine the worse for wine ; but that scene, in had sufficiently lessened his self-restraint, which he might have been slain by a tipsy he was liable not merely to listen to praise father, must surely have impressed him from others, but to trumpet his own deeply, if he remembered his own scoff. praise. The same ~vine sometimes af- One who was planning to reorganize all fected the self-restraint of his comrades Asia, one who knew the frightful mis- and he surely must have foreseen each chiefs which a despotic king may inflict possibility. on himself as ~veli as on others, when Mr. de Vere wishes us to make li~ht of wine overmasters him, is not exempt his killing his faithful comrade Cleitus; from our moral criticism. The higher and since Cleitus could not be brought his intellect, the deeper is the censure to life again, and Alexander was shocked deserved. But that Alexander was fond at his own deed, of course all the Mace- of xvine, Plutarch regards as a fact, while donians tried to comfort the king, and to he apologizes for it. Alexanders body, accuse Cleitus as havin~ provoked his he says, had a delicious fragrance ; no own death. Arrian, a l)rofound royalist, doubt from his hot and fiery nature ; for is very severe upon Cleitus ; yet the fact heat brings out aromatic smells ; and the comes out that Cleituss high words were same heat of body made Alexander ad- elicited by the disparagement of King dicted to drink and passionate (Ka~ wo~-uc~ Philip, which Cleitus could not endure, Ka~ Ov~uoe~). A history written of a king whether from Alexander or from Alexan- by another king, or by one of his g~ner- ders flatterers. It is seldom indeed that als, is not likely to allude to drunken one can attempt to guess the utterances bouts such as the customs of the nation of tipsy men ; but if you cut short either sanctioned, except when special necessity the long story of Arrian or the still longer required ; yet xvine in this Macedonian story of Q. Curtius, you get something tale plays a part previously unknown in like this as the result : Kin, Philip, my Greek history. The defence of Alexan- predecessor, says Alexander, was noth- der rests on his love of conversation; ing of a general compared to ME. In but what was the talk which he most twelve years he did not conquer half of loved ? The I)Oison of flattery. Arrian, what I conquered in twelve months. his defender, throws the fault upon those Stop ! replies Cleitus ; remember who extolled him as superior to Hercules that he never had the chance of fighting and the other mythical heroes, and of with Persians: he had to deal with stub- course as far and far above his father born Greeks. Besides, he never coin- Philip; but since Alexander never mitted such a blunder as you did at the checked them, but manifestly enjoyed Granicus, where you nearly ruined us all, their praise, it necessarily became the and nothing but this right hand saved staple of these feasts. At other times he your life. The last words Arrian re- was too busy to listen to such reptiles; gards as abominable and inexcusable the essential evil of his long sittings was, from a soldier to a king; and so, no that there was plenty of time for him to doubt, all the flatterers urged: the great- drink in such adulation, to the ever-in- er the truth, the worse the offence. But creasing disgust of Philips old soldiers. the absurdity is, to expect a man who is Q. Curtius regards it as a certain fact that half tipsy to retain prudence and mod- Alexander himself was fond of disparaging esty. Alexander, according to his warm his fathers deeds and exalting his own, admirer Plutarch, was of a furious and The reportofiteven reached ltaly, where violent nature (t5 x6a~ovKa~ ~cp6~zevov apo- his uncle Alexander of Epirus, who met dp~); and now, being full of wine, of his death in Italian battle, uttered an epi- course he was uncontrollable. When re- gram which was re-echoed in Asiathat minded that he owed his life to Cleitus, in Italy he had had to fight with men, but and virtually all his after-successes, he his nephew Alexander in Asia had could not bear such an amount of indebt- alighted on women. No one can wonder edness ; and although all the armed men that a king who in his boyhood was al- around, seeing his state, disobeyed his MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. I! orders, he succeeded in snatching a weapon from one of them, and with it laid Cleitus dead. Might not one have hoped that such a tragedy would forever have cured him of long drinking? But it did not. Indeed, Arrian, wishing to de- fend him, represents him as already * somewhat corrupted into Asiatic deprav- ity, implying that he was on the downhill track not that we know anything so bad of Persian kings. Another grievous offence to Macedo- nian feeling was, that he exacted of them l)rostration on the ground before him in Persian fashion. This was as detestable to Greeks as to Englishmen. It was em- phatically the unmanning of free men. ~schylus puts into the mouth of Aga- memnon the sentiment of every Greek: Nor yet, in fashion of barbaric wight, Prostrate before me, mouth unmanly words. There could not be a more decisive proof that Alexander intended to destroy every vestige of Greek sentiment and Greek freedom, and reduce them all to the level of Oriental slaves. Disaffection was inevitable; his noblest comrades were the most certain to disapprove; the basest took the opportunity of calumniat- ing them, and ingratiated themselves with the king by slander. We cannot know the exact time of this and that de- testable whisper, nor whether, it be true that Alexander tampered with, Philotass mistress, and bribed her to report month by month whatever words of indignation Philotas might drop. Such is Plutarchs account, who indeed represents Philotas as I)ut to torture, and Alexander behind a curtain listening to every word; and when, overcome by suffering, Philotas uttered piteous entreaties to Heph~estion the torturer, Alexander drew back the curtain and reproached Philotas with un- manliness. Plutarch in general is just and tei1der-hearted ; yet he can tell this horrible story without seeing how odious it makes Alexander. Arrian cuts the tale of Philotas short, hut relates on the au- thority of King Ptolemy that he was killed by the darts of the Macedonians equivalent to the modern shooting of a so1dier. On this comes a second deadly crime, to which Mr. Aubrey de Vere will hardly reconcile us. Silly is he, said the Greek proverb, who slays the fa- ther and spares the son. Silly shall I be, argued Alexander, if I kill Philotas * For Alexander had already, in the matter of di-inking-bonts, iiiade innovation towards more barbaric uzauners. and leave his father Parmenio alive. Parmenio had conquered Media for the king, and was there at the head of a large army. Letters are therefore sent with the utmost speed, to three generals in high command, ordering them to assas- sinate Parmenio while he is engaged in reading certain despatches, which are sent to put him off his guard. That they were all base enough to obey proves how completely the Macedonian commanders were already enslaved; but the wrath of the common soldiers was extreme, and might have been dangerous. There can be no doubt that Alexander was now hated as much as he was feared. The accusation against Philotas had risen out of a real conspiracy of the pages when Alexander was in Bactria, of which, it was alleged, Philotas had had knowl- edge. Phi lip had established the system of royal pages youths of the noblest families, who waited on the king, acted as grooms, helped him to mount his horse, and hunted with him. On one oc- casion, when a dangerous wild boar rushed at the king, the page Hermolaus killed the animal with his dart. The king was enraged at losing his own chance of killing it, and ordered the page to be flogged. Such a reward for such a ser- vice was of course unendurable to a noble Macedonian youth, who at once vowed revenge. Whether lie would actually have taken the kings life we cannot now ascertain. Other pages shared the indig- nation of Hermolaus. The evidence against them, according to Aristobulus, was swollen by Alexanders belief in the supernatural powers of a Syrian woman who was subject to possessions, and was allowed access to the king day and night, to ~varn him of danger. She was believed to have saved his life from Hermolaus. One thing only is here clear that lie knew himself to be hated, and through his suspicions degraded himself to precautions at once pernicious and odious. One of the alleged conspirators, Dimnus, slew himself when he found what reports and beliefs were accepted; the rest were stoned to death, guilty or guiltless. For us it suffices to know that Alexander was definitely engaged in the task of tramohing out the Greek senti- ment of freedom from his own people. This is very unlike the task to ~vliichi Mr. de Vere thinks he set himself, of redeem- ing the world from barbarism, and irra- diating it with Greelc science and art, with the wisdom of Plato and Sophocles. Calhisthenes the philosopher had been 12 MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. the tutor of Hermolaus and a great fa- excessive punishment of Bessus (whom vourite with him. The flatterers knew he first scourged and exhibited naked in that Alexander dreaded his honesty and a cage, afterwards cut off his nose and his courage, and they laid a plot to force ears, and sent him to be put to death by him to deliver his opinion on the question his own countrymen), and I confess that of prostration before the king by ques- Alexander was enticed to imitate Persian tions over the wine. Arrian, who calls luxury and barbaric ceremonialism nor him clownish or rude (~potKog), gives his can I praise that lie, being a Fleracleid, speech at great length ; but no rude- wore Median vesture instead of his na- ness is apparent in it to us. He says tive Maceclonian, and assumed the Per- that lie honours Alexander as the first of I sian tiara instead of his own victorious nien, but differeiit hionours are due to garb. But if the mighty deeds of Alex- men and to gods; that prostration is fit ander can teach Ps anything they teachi honour to gods only ; that Alexander this, that no accumulation of outward would not approve of a low multitude magnificence conduces to any mans wel- voting a common man into the royal fare, if he cannot retain sobriety of mind throne, nor can the gods be pleased with (aco~poo~vi~). Let this be a set-off to Mr. men voting a man into divine hionours ; de Veres other quotation from Arrian, that Darius, honoured by prostrations, which lie says is doubtless right ~ was defeated by Alexander, to whom no that Alexander assumed the Persian prostrations had been used. Indeed, the dress that lie might appear not altogethier great Cyrus, who first received such lion- to despise the barbarians. The matter is our, had been chastised by the Massa- indeed quite plain. He himself took three getans, and the great Darius by other noble Persian ladies as his wives, one of Scythians, as Xerxes and the later kings them a daughter of Darius a frank by Greeks. This discourse, says Arrian, adopting of the Oriental seraghio, the violently dispheased Alexander, but was curse of princes and nations. He induced acceptable to thie Macedonians. Calhis- eighty of his high officers similarly to thienes afterwards distinctly refused to take Persian wives. The marriages were prostrate himself. He now was accused all conducted with Persian ceremonies, of having incited the pages to their con- and to all of them the king gave liberal spiracy. That the mode of his death was do~vries. More than ten thousand Greek uncertain, Arrian regards as remarkable ; soldiers followed the example of marrying for Aristobuhus says lie was put in fetters native women. The kino had the names and carried about wherever the army of them all registered, and sent marriage went, until lie died of disease ; Ptolemy gifts to every one. Nothing is clearer says lie was first tortured on the rack and than that lie desired to shift his centre of then hatiged. Every hionourable Greek of support. Instead of depending on philosopher had now full warning to keep Greeks, who were sure to abhor and re- his distance from Alexander. To Aris- sist his striving after Oriental despotism, totle the king had already sent from Asia lie aimed simply to stel) into the shoes of a characteristic complaint, ~vhen the phi- Darius, and let the Persians feel that losophier published some lectures. Plu- their illstitzdions remained unchanged tarchi professes to give the very words of they had only changed one king for an- the letter. Alexander sends greeting other. To Macedonians, and to all Greeks to Aristotle. You do wrong in publish- who had a particle of free spirit, such ing your lectures. For wherein shall we conduct appeared treason to Greece, who excel other men, if you impart to them had freely chosen him as leader, treason the instruction ~vhichi you gave to us ? also to freedom. As Calhisthienes said to But I, for my part, would rather excel his face, the progenitors of the Mace- men in the noblest experiences [science] donian dynasty came from Argos to thian in niihitarv forces. Farewell. This Macedonia ; there, not by force, but by is not in the tone of one who desires all law, they were accepted as rulers, and re- foreign peoples to imbibe Greek science ceived honour as men, not as gods. and philosophy, as Mr. de Vere fancies. Surely the idea that Alexander was bent The pride and violence of Alexander, on imparting the blessings of Greek civil- his vices and his crimes, one by one, ization to all Asia is, in the face of the Arrian seems able to defend or excuse; facts, only a wild fiction. but when all culminates in his assumption And here the thought presents itself, and enforcement of the Persian dress, What is the erudition of Mr. Aubrey de the historians eyes seem at last to be Vere? Has he enough knowledge of opened. I do not praise, says lie, his Greek to read Arrian or Plutarch for him- MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 13 self? A matter in itself slight moves and physically impossible. To imagine strongdisbelief. Nine times in his drama that the native Indians would submit vol- he pronounces the name Kpcrrp~~ C~raM- I untarily and become loyal to his sceptre, riis. It would appear that he cannot was simply ridiculous. Greek heroism ever have seen the name in Greek letters, and discipline must make the conquest; common as it is, or he could not make but the entire military population of such a blunder. There is no ambiguity Greece was insufficient to garrison and about it. Thus: maintain even the Persian empire, say nothing of India proper. Alexander p. 27. Or keen-edgd, like Crat~rus. This I showed admirable military judgment in grant him p. 74. But sacrilege. I scorn your words, choosing sites for Greek colonies, but he Crat~rus. could not people them without unpeopling Which by Crat~rus, Ptolomy, Heph~s- Greece. The vast drain of young men p. 79. tioi~ and mature men to fill his armies quickly p. 90. Forth, sirs, and meet them. Let Cra- made the native population decay, and t~rus bide the Macedonian army there under Antip- ater crushed all that remained of liberty. lie is uniformly consistent with him- Mr. de Vere whimsically says that Alex- self in the error. So too he pronounces ander was aiming to give to Greece (!) Heraclides (p. 212) with short penultima, a power extending over the whole earth, evidently unaware that it is HpaKaei6ri~ in at the very time when lie was actually the Greek. The Nisc~au horses (brirot trampling Greece itself, as well as Greek Nzaaior) lie converts into Nys~an (p. 164.), institutions and sentiments, under foot, misled by N~aa, Nysa, the supposed Bac- training Persian levies to control what he chianalian centre. In p. 96 lie makes the regarded as Greek insolence, and putting Macedonians talk familiarly of the pliilos- forward native Persians, who willingly opliy of Epicurus, whom our books repre- submitted to prostration and all Oriental sent as flourishing half a century later. servility, into high posts expressly as a At that day Epicurus surely cannot have curb on the Macedonians. It may even been known. On the whole, Mr. de Vere seem that from the day that Alexander does not, primd facie. command any def- set foot on Asia he abandoned all thought erence to his opinions ; else one niighit of returning to Greece. This explains be c~irious to know, whence lie gets his his lavish giving away of Macedonian information that Alexander planned the revenues. Like Achilles, that type of conquest of Italy and Spain. The em- pride and royal egotism,. he meant to pire which Alexander had resolved to conquer or die ; at best Macedonia was create ~vas that of the whole ~vorld. Had nothing to him but a distant recruiting- he Zived~ he must have created it . . . had ground. When Parmenio or any other ten years more been accorded. But it general dropped the suggestion, Is it was not to be. Alexander was not to not time to think of home? lie at once tread the banks of the Tiber. . . . He had treated it as disaffection. The desire of aspired to give to one small spot on soldiers to return to their native lands earths surface, Greece, a power extend- and friends, was with him base and stu- ing over the earth. . . . Will he, perhaps, pid ingratitude. On two occasions Arrian appe~il to the wild speech in which he gives a very full account of his resent- strives to persuade his soldiers to march ment, but condensation is here desirable. to the mouths of the Ganges, assuring After Alexanders victories over the them that the sea of Bengal joins the Indian king Porus the army showed ex- Caspian Sea, and that he will carry his treme reluctance to march farther east- army from the Ganges round Africa ~vard, and the dissatisfaction was too to the pillars of Hercules, and so all great and general to be dissembled. He Africa becomes ours? How can a mod- tried to persuade them to march to the em who knows anything of geography mouths of the Ganges, and his speech fail to see that if lie was serious, he was shows us on what motives he relies. a fool, rather than a statesnian with Un- He makes them rich by ~luuder; he erring judgnient? . shares toil and danger with them; no The schemes of Alexander were wild nation has yet withstood them, and none enough, and it is not requisite to attribute will be able. He will make them satra~s to hini what is wilder still. All his gen- over new and new lands. He gives them eralsand one may add, all his soldiers even now good ~ After they have knew that his dream of holding India overrun all Asia he wi//load them wIth to the mo~iths of the Ganges was morally riches, and either will let theni go home, MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER TIlE GREAT. or will lead them home, or will make those envied who prefer to stay with him in Asia. Such were the base arguments by which from the beginning he had trained his soldiers to thrive on the misery of the conquered peoples. But the army felt the toils, the wounds, the numbers who had perished, the little chance of carrying home a robust frame: in short, they were home-sick ; and, to his extreme disgust, lie was forced to listen to an honest speech from his old officer Ccenus, who, after long silence, expound- ed to him the views and feelings of the army. Mr. Aubrey de Vere seems to think that the soldiers were fools and narrow-minded, and that, even years later, an inscrutable Providence, cuttincr short Alexanders life, alone hindered the accomplishment of conquests far more difficult than any which lie had achieved. If he had economized his own strength and that of his Greek troops, lie might doubtless have reigned over all Dariuss empire and over Greece in addition, but certainly not while he lavished Greek life recklessly. Mr. de Vere is indignant that Alexan- der should be spoken of as the Mace- donian madman, and evidently does not understand what is the justification of that epithet. It is because he was not satisfied with encountering inevitable dangers and losses, but gratuitously espoused and invented needless dangers and new losses. The battle of the Gra- nicus was the first manifestation of this folly. His war against Tyre was a signal and needless cruelty, which niiglit have been fatal to him. The Tyrians, having no aid from Darius, sent ambassadors to say they would perform all his commands except that they must receive neither a Persian nor a Macedonian force wi/kin Iii eir city an island. If he had accepted this compromise, their fleet and their resources would at once have been at his disposal; and as soon as the fortunes of Darius were manifestly irretrievable, the very small reserve of respect for Persian rule * was certain to vanish. But Alexan- ders pride was inflamed that any excep- tion or reserve, however temporary, should oppose his absolute will. He sent away the ambassadors in anger, and com- menced a war which proved extremely difficult. In it he received and inflicted cruel wounds, wasting time and enormous * The case is not fully explained. Perhaps the Per- sian kings had so far honoured and gratified the Tyrians as to stipulate that no Persian force should enter their city. A highly reasonable request. effort. At the end he won a ruined city, having spoiled its site forever by his works and aftcr all the slaughter in the siege, and frightful carnage in the final storming, he had the miserable satisfac- tion of selling into slavery thirty thou- sand Tyrians and foreigners who were in the city. No other Greek general would have committed such an error, if we may not call it crime. Again and again we find him undertake dangerous and diffi- cult enterprises, wasteful of Greek life, not because they are needful, but barely because of the difficulty. In Sogdiana there was a natural rock, supposed to be impregnable among the Paraitak~e a second rock; among die Bazeri (modern Caubul?) a third, which it was said Hercules had failed to take. He must waste blood aIid tinie to cap- ture them all. The mention of Hercules instantly inflamed his passion to outdo the mythical hero. When he came to the Jaxartes (the Sir Deria), the river which separated the Massagetan Scyth- ians from the Persian empire, lie of course found Scythian cavalry watching him. They shoot arrows into the stream to show him that he must not cross. It is an unendurable insult, lie says : he must chastise them. He crosses the river, -undergoes hard fighting, takes credit for victory, but presently has to come back again, half poisoned by drink- ing foul water, with no reward but need- less bloodshed. Naturally, when he turns his back, they come over to help his enemy. But nothing so much de- serves to be called a wicked destruction of his soldiers as his march through Ge- drosia, the modern Beloochiistan. After the toils, wounds, and losses encountered to conquer in India territories which could not be kept permanently, he built a fleet of transports and sailed down to the mouths of the Indus. There lie heard that no army had ever passed safe through Gedrosia; that Queen Semira- mis had attempted it, and brought th rough only twenty men, and the great Cyrus had come lhroughi with seven only. This immediately determined him to do (says Nearchus, his admiral) what to them had been impossible. (The tales were, no doubt, mythical; but Alexander had an open ear to every lying legend, equally as to soothsayers and cataleptic wonien.) All the sufferings elsewhere endured by the army were as nothing compared to this. Heat, want of water and of fodder, presently reduced them to the utmost distress. They could not feed or water MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 15 their cattle; they killed them for food. Alexander knew it, and did not dare to forbid it. The waggons had to be aban- doned. Tbey dug into the sand for partial supplies of water. A miserable stream and timely rain saved a part of the army. Many are said to have per- ished by excess of drinking after long thirst and heat, probably also after long fatigue and fasting. Alexander in the worst suffering displayed great* magna- nimity, and, like the Hebrew king David, when water was brought to him that did not suffice for many, poured it out on the ground. The guides professed to have quite lost the tracks, and a miserable time had still to be endured. That he got through safe with any considerable part of his men, seemed to be a miracle; and meanwhile several satraps took great liberties, not expecting that he would ever re-appear. It cannot be pretended that such a king either economized his resources or acted as one who under- stood the difficulties of his own task. It is vain to talk of his statesmanship, when his military impetus and habit of sacrificing everythin~ for the victory of the moment uniformly carried him away. His cruelties to the unfortunate and innocent Asiatics would not deserve censure from a Greek point of view, if they had proceeded from any long-sighted policy. Philip also was cruel to the Phocians ~vhere it served his ambition. No one greatly blamed Alexander for his severity to Thebes; though all shud- dered. He sold all the Thebans who survived his attack, men, women, and children, into slavery, divided their coun- try among his allies, and razed the walls to the ground. This was intended to strike terror into every Greek city, and teach to all the danger of his enmity. Beyond a doubt it was politic, but not the act of one who desired to exalt Greece. It was in his uniform style of pure ego- tism. But his cruelties to the unhappy Asiatics who for the first time heard his name are repeated to satiety. He comes suddenly into Bactria, where is only one strong place, Cyrupolis. He captures five cities in two days, and massacres as many of the people as he can. He places cavalry round one city to intercept fugi- tives who might report his presence to the next, lest the people run away into the woods and mountains and be harder to catch. Nevertheless the smoke of the * Plutarch tells a story not unlike this on a different occasion. burnino city gave warning. Tidings also of the disaster came, and the population took fliTht ; but they were mercilessly slaughtered unarmed and without dis- crimination. In storming these hapless and utterly weak places Alexander gave strict orders to kill every man, and make slaves of the women and children. (XVhat the army could possibly do with so many slaves, and how they could be fed, here as elsewhere is unexplained.) When Alexander was wounded, as often hap- pened, the Macedonians where made doubly ferocious. Nothing so bloody is ever imputed by the Greeks to Xerxes. Our historians would never have been silent had he committed such atrocities as they tell of Alexander. And this may remind us of the burning of the palace in Persepolis. Alexander himself was afterwards ashamed of it, and so, apparently, was King Ptolemy, who represents it as an act of mistaken policy. Forsooth, Xerxes burnt Athens, and Alexander wished to avenge the out- rage! Had, then, the countless multi- tudes * relentlessly slaughtered in pur- suit, after his great victories, been insuf- ficient revenge for ancient deeds? And did Alexander forget that Persepolis was now his own city, and that he ~vas burn- ing his own palace? Arrian elsewhere, in courtier fashion, says that Ptolemy, being a king, was likely to tell the truth but he forgets that it must have been very painful to him to tell facts disagree- able to his royal patron and friend, on whose favour and successes his own for- tune had been built up. Plutarch gives another account, which Mr. de Vere be- lieves, that the palace was burnt under the initiative of the Attic courtesan Thais in the midst of drunken festivity ; that she was the mistress of Ptolemy; that Alexander was not master of himself when, with garland on his head and lamp in hand, he assisted and aided in the confia5,ration; finally, that the Macedo- nians eagerly assisted, because they did~~ it a certain proof that Aleaander not mean to keen Persia and live among barbarians. This is the more probable account, but it was morally im- possible for King Ptolemy to publish it. One cannot read the details of battle, * In all mere estimates of force we may justly sus- pect immense exaggeration. Arrian says that, after the last great battle with Darius, as many as 300,000 corpses of barbarians were ga/kered, and a far greater number of persons were captured. One may suspect that he wrote A, and that it has been corrupted to A. This would reduce tbe number to 40,000k and agree with Q. Curtius. x6 MORAL ESTIMATE OF ALEXANDER THE GREAT. and fire, and ravage of peaceable homes, without seeing the vast amount of suffer- ing, of starvation, and of ruined prosper- ity entailed by this ruthless conquest over a vast area of country. If it had been followed by a total overthrow of old corrupting despotism, and the introduc- tion of nobler institutions, we might say it was a dreadful price paid for a great good; but when Alexander carefully pre- served all the worst Persian institutions, who ~vill show us any good at all from it? So successfully did he act the part of a mere Asiatic, born in a seraglio, that Persian tradition, and the celebrated Per- sian epic, represent him as a younger Persian prince who dethroned his own brother, and so succeeded to his throne. If we ask, Wherein did he improve Per- sia ? we get from some the reply, He diffused a knowledge of the Greek lan- guage. Yet the Greek language and Greek literature could not save Greece itself from decay, nor from worse and worse corruption, under the despotism which he imposed and bequeathed. He exposed his own life recklessly, month by month, yet never took a single precaution for the benefit of the empire in case of his death. This is in perfect harmony with the essential egotism of his charac- ter. He believed himself the most gen- erous of mankind, because he gave a~vay the fruit of other mens labour to his sol- diers ; and he frequently boasted that he retained nothing for himself, when he was claiming supreme power over all their property, their lives, and their honour. At the last, when they saw he ~vas dying, they implored him to name his succes- sor; but to the question, To whom do you leave the empire ? he would give no other answer than, To the strongest man among you. Hereby he entailed on Asia the new misery of twenty years civil war among his generals. The mischief to Greece in each new generation was worse and worse. Free- dom was almost everywhere crushed. All the young men had to unlearn patriot- ism, and accept the creed that to become mercenary soldiers in Asia, or suffer con- scription under a tyrant, was a life good enough for a Greek. That genius in Greece perished with Demosthenes is so often remarked, that it is difficult to un- derstand how any scholars blind them- selves to the evidence that Alexander was the assassin both of liberty and of genius. Of course the evil results from the overthrow of law and of all sem- blance of right could not appear at once. The vast system of standing armies un- dermined in Greece industrial pursuits, cultivation of the soil, and family life. The same result, depopulation, followed in Italy from the demand of men for the Roman legions; and ~ve cannot be wrong in tracing to the same cause the marked and steady decay of population in Greece. As to Asia, ~ve have no documents to base assertion upon, but nothing visible denotes that under Macedonian or Par- thian despots things were better than under Persian. While larinces are born in a seraglio, and laractise polygamy from an early age, no royal dynasty is long equal to common men in body or mind. To join personal despotism to polygamy is fatal to all enduring good government; yet this is exactly what Alexander did. Of durable prosperity he laid no founda- tions. Military posts in abundance he planned and fortified ; docks for ship- building he established on the rivers of the PanjTh; but how could he hope to obtain allegiance from the l)eople ? He depended on mere force. When his back was turned they revolted. He might well say, as Napoleon I. said, Ah I cannot be everywhere. When an Indian king Musicanus revolted, Alexander in revenge razed to the ground the walls of the cities which he had placed under Musicanus, and reduced the people into slavery (what he did with them as slaves is never explained, and this makes one hope there is exaggeration), and where he had himself placed garrisons he dis- mantled and destroyed the citadels ; an impotent mode of securing future sub- mission. Musicanus, having been caught by the Macedonian Peithon, was sent back by Alexander to be han~ed among his own people. It must surely be evi- dent that Alexander could not always be an Achilles, and that the PanjTh was cer- tain to be lost to him the moment that it ceased to fear an overwhelming military force. The description of the army with which he conquered it, takes one quite by surprise, though in his letter to Da- rius after the battle of Issus he boasts that many who in that battle were in the kings ranks now fight in his. But in India the Greeks in Alexanders army were so outnumbered by Asiatics that, if the king had died of the arrow-shot in his lungs, they feared to be massacred by their own auxiliaries. Were these to garrison all India for the king? We cannot ~vonder at the entire ab. sence of prudence in a young man 51)oiled from childhood, intoxicated with military THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. 17 success, and bent on egotistical glory; what was going on, for the neighbours but to extol such conduct as instinctive were slow to tell her. But every one and unerring statesn~ansl~ipis very de- in Ardtilleach was aware that Angus lusive doctrine. If I were Alexander I MEachran had sold his share in the boat would accept Dariuss offers, said Par- to young Donald Neil ; and that, while rnenio. So ~vould I, if I were Parme- this ready money lasted, he had done no nio, replied Alexander, insolently and work at all, but merely lounged about foolishly ; yet it is lauded as a right royal until he could got hold of one or two sentiment. Parmenio thought it better companions to go off on a drinking-frolic. to accept treasure freely granted by Da- Moira saw him go out each day; she did rius, and use resources accumulated in not know but that he was gone to the the past, than to seize supplies by waste- fishing. When he returned late at night, ful and odious rapine; better to accept she sometimes saw that he had been hay- three solid countries with the whole sea- ing a glass, and she was a little perturbed. coast fronting Greece, and take time to But Angus had a strong head; and he consolidate the conquests and press managed to conceal from her for a long lightly on the conquered, than to push time the fashion in which he was spend- farther at once and risk their communi- ing his life. cations with home; better to establish He did not deliberately set to work to peace with Darius, even if it could not drink himself and his young wife out last very long, and secure their home of house and home. lie had fits of re- predominance, than to make the quarrel morse, and always was about to turn over with Darius implacable and give hope to a new leafnext day; but the next day all the Grecian enemies of Macedonia. came, and Moira was silent and sad, and If Antipater had been defeated in Greece, then he would go out to get a cheerful Alexander might have been ruined by it word with some companions and a glass. in Asia ; the loss of a single battle by Moreover, the savings of a fisherman Alexander himself against Darius might either increase or decrease ; they never have been fatal. Parmenin, it seems, is stand still. When the motive ~vas taken a stupid pedant in Mr. de Veres estimate. away for the steady addition to the little If his advice had been taken if the hoard in the bank at Stornoway, that Greek dominion had never gone beyond fund itself was in danger. And at the Euphrates we cannot be sure that length it became known in Ardtilleach the history of mankind would have been that Angus MEachran had squandered happier, simply because vast contingen- that also, and that now, if he ~vanted cies always elude certain knowledge. money, he must go into debt with one of But, without rashness, ~ve may say,ac- the curers, and hire himself out for one quaintance with the masterpieces of of the curers boats. Greek literary geuius would even then The appearance of the man altered too. have been diffused in the East among He had been rather a smart young fellow, minds capable of appreciating them. careful of his clothes, and cleanly in his Whether Parthians or Babylonians ever habits; now, as Moira noticed, he paid got much benefit from such literature, it less attention to these things, and heeded is truly hard to ascertain ; but high lit- her not when she remonstrated. erary eminence does not need WAR to One night Angus M Eachran came extend the sphere of its admiration. If home, and staggered into the cottage~ any one lay stress on such a result of Moira regarded him with affright. He Macedonian conquest, he confesses that sate down on a wooden stool by the it was very barren of o-ood in Asia; that peat-fire. it was deadly to Greece is no theory, but Now there iss an end of it, said he, manifest fact. gloomily. An end of what, Angus? said she, ____________ I in great alarm. An end of you and of me, and of Ardtilleach ; and it iss not in Ardtil- From The Cornhitt Magazine. leach I can hf any more, but it iss to THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. Glassgowdhat I am croino CHAPTER Ix. To Glassgow! she cried. DEEPS. A y, said he, this iss no longer any IN THE place for me. I hef no share in the poat. THINGS xvent from bad to worse, and I hef no money in the pank. It iss all that rapidly. Moira knew but little of gone awayin the tammed whiskey. LIViNG AGE. VOL. XI. 522 THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGTJS. and it iss not a farthing of money I can with rage. Was she already taking him get from any one and what iss to be- at his word; and seeking to return to her come of you, Moira ? fathers house? With a wild feeling of She did not cry aloud, nor were her vengeance at his heart, he determined eyes wet with tears, but she sate with a there and then to leave the place; and white face, trying to comprehend the ruin as he set out from Ardtilleach, without that had befallen them. a word of good-bye to any one in it, Angus, Angus she cried, you the last, thing that he saw ~vas John will stay in Ardtilleach! You will not Fergus coming out to the door of the go to Glassgow It iss many another curing-house to speak to Moira. With poat that ~viIl be glad to hef you, and many an angry and silent imprecation, he there iss no one can mek so much at the strode along the rough road, and then he fishing ass you began to bethink himself how a penniless And what iss the goot of it, he said, man was to make his way to distant that a man will mek money, and hef to Stornoway and to Glasgow. hf a hard life to mek money, and when The purpose of Moira Fergus was he comes home, then it iss not like coin- quite different from that which her hus- ing home to him at all? What I hef band had imagined. done that ~ass bad enough ; what you What will you want with me? said hef done, Moira Fergus, well it iss some- her father, coldly, when he came out in thing of this that you hef done. response to her message. I hef told She dared not answersome strange you, Moira Fergus, that it iss no word I consciousness oppressed her. She ~vent hef for you. You hef gone to another away from him, and sate in a corner, house ; you will stay there ay, if you and cried bitterly. He spoke no more to wass to hf in Ardtilleach for sixty her that night. years. Next morning he was in a very differ- It iss Angus MEachran, she said, ent humour; he was discontented, quar- with tears in her eyes, and and relsome, and for the first time of their he iss going away to Glassgow if he can- married life spoke rudely and tauntingly not go to the fishingandif you to her. The knowledge that he was now would speak a word to Mr. Mac- a beggarthat the neighbours regarded lean him as an outcast that his old compan- Ay, he iss going to Glassgow? said ions in the boat were away at their work, John Fergus, with an angry flash in his leaving him a despicable idler to consort eyes. And the teffle only knows that with the old men about seemed to he iss fit for nothing but the doing to drive him to desperation. Hitherto he Glassgow. Ay, ay, Moira Fergus, and it had always said, in answer to friendly wass a prout tay for you, the tay you were remonstrances, that there were more fish married to Angus MEachran; but it iss in the sea than ever caine out of it; and not a prout tay any more, that you are that by-and-by he ~vould set to work married to a man that iss a pe~_ar and a again. Now it seemed to have occurred trunkard, and hass not a penny in ta to him that his former companions were whole world; no, it iss not any longer a rather shy of him ; and that he had a bad prout tay for you that you married Angus name throughout the island. MEachran 1 Yes, said he, angrily, to her, when With that he turned and went into the I go to Glassgow, then you can go to curing-house, slamming the door after your father, and you can ask him to tek him. you back to his house. It wass my house And it iss a hard man you are, said that wass not goot enough for you; and Moira sadly. from the morning to the night it ~vass She walked back to her own little cot- neffer a smile or a laugh wass on your tage, almost fearing that her husband face.; and now when I will go away to might be inside. He was not; so she Glassgow, you will be a great deal petter, entered, and sat down to contemplate ay, and ferry much petter, in the house the miserable future that lay before her, of your father John Fergus and tam and to consider what she could do to in- him:! duce Angus MEachran to remain in She said not a ~vord in reply, for her Ardtilleach, and take to the fishing and heart was full ; but she put a shawl sober ways again. round her shoulders and walked away First of all, she thought of writing to over to the curing-house, where her fa- her friends in London; but Angus had ther was. Angus MEachran was mad the address, and she dared not ask him THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. for it. Then she thought of making a pilgrimage all the way to Borva to beg of the great Mr. Mackenzie there to bring his influence to bear on her husband and on Mr. Maclean the curer, so that some arrangement might be made between them. But how could she, all by herself, make her way to Borva? And where might Angus MEachran be by the time she came back? Meanwhile Angus was not about the village, nor yet out on the rocks, nor yet down in the little harbour; so, with a sad heart enough, she prepared her frugal mid-day meal, and sate down to that by herself. She had no great desire for food, for she was crying most of the time. Late that evening a neighbour came in, who said she had just returned from Har- rabost. Ay, Moira, said she, and what iss wrong now, that Angus MEachran will be for going away from Ardtilleach ? Moira stared at her. I do not know what you mean, Mrs. Cameron, she said. You do not know then? You hef not heard the news, that Angus MEach- ran will be away to Glassgow? Moira started up with a quick cry. Her first thought was to rush out of the house to overtake him and turn him back; but how was that possible ? Oh, Mrs. Cameron, what iss it you tell me this tay! And where tit you see Angus? And are you quite sure? Well, ~vell, Moira, said the old ~vom- an, it iss not any great matter the go- ing to Glassgow; and if you will sit down now, I will tell you. The girl sate down, silently, and crossed her hands on her lap. There was no more crying now; the last blow had fallen, and despair had supervened. You know, Moira, my son that lifs round at the pack of Harrabost, and I wass ofer to see him, and all wass ferry well, and his ~vife hass got ferry well through her trouple. And when I wass for coming away, it was Angus MEach- ran will come running up to the house, and ferry wild he wass in the look of him. Duncan Cameron, says he, will you gif me your poat for two minutes or for three minutes, for I am told that this is the MAlisters poat that iss coming along, and they are going to Taransay. You know the MAlisters poat, Moira, that they pought at Styornoway ? Moira nodded assent. XVelI, you know, Moira, that Duncan I9 was always a good frient to Angus MEachran; and he said, Yes, Angus MEachran, you may hef the poat, and she is down at the shore, and you can run her out yourself, for the oars and the thole-pins are in her. But Angus MEachran he says, Duncan, you will come with me to pring pack the poat, for I will ask the MAlisters to tek me ~vith them to Taransay; for it iss to Taransay I am going. Ay, to Taransay! said Moira, ea- gerly. And it was only to Taransay? I will tell you that, Moira, the old ~voman continued, ~vho would narrate her story in her own way. Well, well, I went to him, and I said, What iss it that takes you to Taransay, Angus MEachran, and when ~vill you be com- ing pack from Taransay? Mrs. Cam- eron, says he, I do not know when I will be coming pack from Taransay, for it iss to Glassgow I am going; and it iss perhaps that I will neffer see Ardtilleach any more. No, no, no, the girl moaned ; he did not say that, Mrs. Cameron I And I said to him, It iss a foolish man you are, Angus MEach ran, to speak such things, and you with a young ~vife in Ardtilleach. Ay, said he, Mrs. Cameron, and if there wass no young ~vife, it iss perhaps that I would be in Ardtilleach now, and hef my money, and the share in the poat; but it iss a pad tay the tay that a young man marries a lass that is tiscontented and hass no heart in the house, and that iss it that I am going away from Ardtilleach; and Moirawell, Moira hass her father ifl Ardtilleach. Ay, that iss what he said I to me, Moira, ass Duncan and him they were putting out the poat from the shore. My father! the girl murmured, I hef not any father now no, and not any husband it iss the two that I hef lost. Ay, and Angus MEachran hass gone away to Glassgow. There was no bitter wailing and lamen- tation ; only the hands in her lap were more tightly clenched. The red peats flickered up in the dusk; and her face seemed drawn and haggard. Ay, and they pulled out to the MAl- isters poat when she came by, and I wass looking at then-i all the time from the shore, and Angus MEachran, when the MAlisters put their poat apout, h~ got apoard of her, and there wass not much talking petween them. And Dun- can, I could hear him cry out, Good~- pye to you this tay, Angus MEachra~ I 20 THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. And Angus, he cried out, Good-pye to you, Duncan Cameron ! And when Duncan came back to the shore, he will tell me that the MAlisters were going down to the ferry pig poat that iss at Taransay and that hass come round from Lochnamaddy, and Angus MEachran he wass saying he would know some of the sailors in her, and the captain would tek him to Glassgow if he worked the passage. Av, ay, Moira, I can see it iss not the good news I hef prought to you this night ; and it iss a pad thing for a young lass when her husband goes away to Glassgow; but you do not know vet that he will stay in Glassgow, and you will write a line to him, Moira A Ho~v can I write a line to him, Mrs. Cameron ? the girl said there iss more people in Glassgow ass there iss in Styornowav, and the Lewis, and Harris all l)ut together ; and how will they know which of them iss Angus MEachran? Then you will send the letter to Styornoway, and you will gif it to the captain of the great poat, the Clansman and iss there any one in Glassgow that he will not kno~v? A letter, Moira said, wistfully. There iss no letter that will bring An- gus MEachran pack, not now that he hass gone away from Ardtilleach. And I will say good-night to you now, Mrs. Cameron. It iss a little tired I am. You are not ferry well the night, Moira, said the old woman, looking at her. 1 do not know that I will leaf you by yourself the night. But I ~vill ferry much rather be by myself, Mrs. Cameron ay, ay, I hef many things to think ofer; and it iss in the morning I will come to see you, Mrs. Cameron, for I am thinking of going to Glassgow. Ay, you will come tome in the morn- ing, like a good lass, said Mrs. Came- ron, and then you will think no more of going to Glassgow, which would be a foolish thing for a young lass,.and it iss not yet, no, nor to-morrow, nor any time we ~vill let you do such a foolish thing, and go away from Ardtilleach. CHAPTER X. A PROcLAMATION. MOIRA did not go to Glasgow; she re- mained by herself in Ardtilleach, in the small cottage all by herself, whither one or two of the neighbours, having a great pity for her condition, came to her, and occasionally brought her a little present of tea or sugar. How she managed to live at all, no one knew; but she was very l)roud, and maintained to those who visited her that she was ~vell off and con- tent. She was very clever ~vith her needle, and in this way requited her friends for any little kindness they sho~ved her. So the days and the weeks ~vent by, and nothing was heard of Angus MEach- ran. Mr. MacDonald made inquiries of the men who had gone with him to Taran- say; and they said he had undertaken to work his passage to Glasgo~v in a boat that was going round the island for salt- fish. That was all they kne~v. Well, Mr. MacDonald was not a rich man, and he had a small house; but his heart was touched by the mute misery of this poor lass who was living in the cot- tage all by herself, as one widowed, or an outcast from her neighbours. So he ~vent to her and asked her to come over to the manse and stay there until some- thing should be heard of her husband. It is a ferry goot man you are, Mr. MacDonald, she said, and a ferry kind man you hef been, always and now too, to me; but I cannot go with you to the manse. Kott pless me ! he cried, impatient- ly. How can you hf all by yourself? It iss not goot for a young lass to hf all by herself. Av, ay, Mr. MacDonald, and some- times it is ferry goot ; for she will begin to go back ofer what hass passed, and she will know where she ~vass wrong, and if there iss punishaent for that, she will take the punishment to herself. And where should the punishment be coming, said he warmly, if not to the young man who would go away to Glassgow and leaf a young wife without money, without anything, after lie has trank all the money? You do not know you do not know, Mr. MacDonald, she said, sadly, and shaking her head. Then she added, al- most wildly, Ay, Mr. MacDonald, and you hef no word against the young wife that will trife her husband into the trink ing, and trife him away from his own house and the place he was porn, and all his frients, and the poat that he had, and will trife him away to Glassgow and you hef no word against that, Mr. MacDonald? Well, it iss all ofer, Moira, said he, gently. And what iss the use now of your lifing here by yourself; and when your peats are finished, ~vho ~vill go out and cut the peats for you ? I can cut the peats for myself, Mr. MacDonald, said she, simply; and it iss one or two of the neighbours they will cut some peats for me, for on the warm tays it iss little I hef to do, and I can go out and turn their peats for them. You will be better ofer at the manse, Moira. It iss ferry kind you are, Mr. Mac- Donald ; but I ~vill not go ofer to the manse. In his dire perplexity Mr. MacDonald ~vent away back to the manse; and spent a portion of the evening in writing a long and beautifully-worded letter to Mrs. Lavender, the young married lady who had been l)resent at Moiras wedding, and who was now in London. If Mr. MacDonalds spoken English was pecul- iar in pronunciation, his written English was accurate enough ; and to add a grace to it, and show that he was not merely an undisciplined islander, he introduced into it a scrap or two of Latin. He treat. ed the story of Moira and her husband from a high literary point of view. He invited the attention of the great lady in London to this incident in the humble annals of the poor. She ~vould doubtless remember amid the gaieties of the world of fashion, and in the thousand distrac- tions of the vast metropolis, the simple ceremony of which she had been a spec- tator in the distant islands, ~vhich, if they were not the ni/en/es C~ycladas of the Roman bard and so forth. Mr. Mac- Donald was proud of this composition. He sealed it up with great care, and ad- dressed it to The Hon. Mrs. Lavender at her house in London. An answer came with surprising swift- ness. Mr. MacDonald was besought to convoy Moira forthwith to the island of Borva, where the ~vife of Mr. Mackenzies keeper would give her something to do about Mrs. Lavenders house. Mr. and Mrs. Lavender would be back in the Heb- rides in about three weeks. If the rains had been heavy, Moira ~vas to keep fires in all the rooms of the house, especially the bed-rooms, incessantly. And Mrs. Lavender charged Mr. MacDonald with the fulfilment of these her commands. He was in no wise to fail to have Moira MEachran removed from her solitary cottage to the spacious house at Borva. The minister was a proud man the day he ~vent over to Ardtilleach ~vith this warrant in his hand. Would Moira with- 21 stand him now? Indeed the girl yielded to all this show of authority ; and humbly, and gratefully, and silently she set to work to put together the fe~v things she possessed, so that she might leave the village in which she was born. Indeed, she ~vent away from Ardtilleach ~vith lit- tie regret. Her life there had not been happy. She ~vent round to a few of the cottages to bid good-bye to her neigh- bours; and when it became known to John Fergus that his daughter was going away to Borva, he instantly departed for Killeena, on some mission or another, and remained there the whole day, so that she should not see him before leav- ing. She remained a couple of days at the manse, waiting for a boat; and then, when the chance served, the minister himself ~vent with her to Borva, and took her up to the house of Mr. Mackenzie, who was called the king of that island. After a few friendly words from the great man who then took Mr. MacDonald away with him, that they might have a talk over the designs of Prussia, the new bridge on the road to the Butt of Le~vis, and other matters of great public impor- tanceMoira was handed over to the keepers wife, who was housekeeper there. She did not know what she had done to be received with so much friend- liness and kindness; she was not aware, indeed, that a letter from London had preceded her arrival. She slept in Mr. Mackenzies house, and she had her meals there, but most of the day she spent in the empty house to which Mr. and Mrs. Lavender were shortly coming. What she could do in the ~vay of preparing the place for their reception, she did right willingly. There ~vas never a more devoted servant; and her gratitude towards those who be- friended her was on many occasions too much for her English she had to escape from its constraint into the Gaelic. Then there was a great stir throughout the island, for every one knew that Mr. and Mrs. Lavender were on their ~vav from London ; and the wonderful wag- gonette which was in effect a boat placed on wheels, with oars and every- thing complete that Mr. Lavender had built for himself, ~vas, one morning, taken down Loch Roag, and landed at Caller- nish, and driven across to Stornowav. The Clansman was coming in that day. It was in the dusk of the evening that the party from London there were one THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. or two strangersarrived in the little bay underneath Mrs. Lavenders house, and walked up the steep incline, the lug- gage following on the shoulders of the sailors. And the very first words that Mrs. Lavender uttered on entering the house were Where is Moira Fergus? The girl was greatly afraid to find her- self in the presence of all these people; and Mrs. Lavender, seeing that, quickly took her aside, into a room where they were by themselves. Moira was crying. And you have not heard anything more of him, Moira? she asked. No, I hey heard no word at all, the girl said, and I do not look for that now, not any more. 1 hef lost effery one now, both my father and my husband, and it iss myself that hass done it; and whdn I think of it all, I will say to myself that neffer any one wass alife that hass done as I hef done No, no, no, Moira, her friend said. It is not so bad as that. Mr. Mac Don- ald wrote to me that you fretted a great deal, and that Angus ~vas very impatient, and he does not know ~vhat made him go away to Glasgow, for how could that make it any better? But we will find him for you, Moira. You will find him, the girl said sad- ly ; and what if you will find him ? He will neffer come back to Ardtilleach. You do not know all about it, Mrs. Laf- fenter no, I am sure Mr. MacDonald is a ferry kind man, and he would not tell you all about it. And this is why Angus MEachran will go away to Glassgow that he had trank all the money there wass in the bank at Styornoway, and he had no more a share in the poat, and he wass ashamed to go apout Ardtilleach. And all that wass my doingindeed it wass Well, well, you must give up fretting about it, Moira, and we will get Angus back to Ardtilleach, or back to Bor- va But you do not know, Mrs. Laffen- ter, the girl said, in an excited and de- spairing way; you do not know the harm that wass done to Angus MEach- ran I And will he effer get back from thatfrom the trinking, and the trink- ing, and I myself with ferry little thought of it at Ardtilleach ? And where iss he now? And what iss he doing? It wass no more care for his life that he had when he ~vent away from Ardtilleach I Well, well, Moira, said her friend, soothingly, if you were to blame for l)art of it all, you have suffered a reat deal ; and so has he, for it is not a happy thing for a man to go away from a young ~vife, and go away among strangers, with- out any friend, or occupation, or money. You seem to have got into a bad plight at Ardtilleach perhaps it was better to have it broken up like that. It ~vas cer- tainly a great pity that you did not dis- cover all you know now before things came to their worst; but if they are at their worst, they must mend, you know. So you must not give up hope just yet. Moira suddenly recollected herself. I am keeping you from your frients, Mrs. Laffenter, said she ; and it iss ferry kind of you, but I do not wish that you will be troupled apout me and Angus MEachran. And I hef not thanked you for sendin~, me here: and I do not know how to do that ; but it iss not bekass I hef no feeling apout it that I cannot thank you, Mrs. Laffenter. She was a servant in the house; she ~vould not shake hands with Mrs. Laven- der. But her mistress took her hand, and said, with a great kindness in her face, I will say good-night to you now, Moira, for I may not see you again to- night. And to-morrow morning, you will come to me, and I will tell you what can be done about Angus MEachran. That evening, after dinner, Mrs. Lav- ender told the story to her guests from London ; and she ~vas obviously greatly distressed about it; but her husband said, The young fellow had no money; he is bound to be in Glasgow. We can easily get at him by advertising in the papers; and if you can persuade him to come to Borva, we shall have l)lenty of work for him, for he is a clever carpen- ter. But if he has enlisted ~ I propose, said one of the guests, a young American lady, recently mLlrried, I propose that, if he has enlisted, we who are here now subscribe to buy him out. Her husband, a less impulsive and more practical person, got a piece of paper, and ~vrote these words on it : Should this meet the eye of Angus MEachiran, of Ardli//eachi, iii ihie island of Darrochi, lie wi/I hear of some/king to his advantage by co;nmzi,iicatin~ a wit/i Mrs. Lavender, Sea-view, once is/and of Borva, Hebrides. THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. 23 CHAPTER XI. with a good customer. He went off to A PROPHET IN THE WILDERNESS. get the whiskey, merely saying, in an under-tone, IT would have been strange, indeed, if They Hielanmen, theyve nae mair Angus MEachran had missed seeing this manners than a stot; but theyre the advertisement, for it was in all the Glas- deevils to swallow whiskey. gow newspapers, morning after morning. He took no notice of the advertise- It happened that, late one night, he ~vas ment ; he did not even care to speculate in a miserable little public-house near on what it might mean. Had Angus the Broomielaw, with two or three com- MEachran parted from his wife merely panions. He was now a very different through some fierce quarrel, and had he- man from the smart young fisherman xvho resolved to go to Glasgow merely as a had lived at Ardtilleach. The ravages of measure of revenge, the prospect of a drink were everywhere visible, in his i reconciliation might have been welcome. face, in his shabby dress, in his trembling But it was not so. He had left Ardtil hand. He was at the moment sullen and 1 leach simply out of sheer despair. He silex~t, though his companions, who were had drank all his money he had dis- Highlanders employed about the harbour, graced himself in the eyes of his neigh- were talking excitedly enough, in their bours; he had long ago abandoned any: native tongue. notion of having any real companionship MEachran had also got occasional with his wife. Besides, by this time he work about the ships but he stuck to it had acquired the drunkards craving; only until he had earned a few shillings, and in Glasgow, provided he could get and then he went off on a fresh drinking- any sort of ~vork, he would be able to do bout. There were always plenty of loaf- as he pleased with his money. When he ers about to join him; he became a fa- got to Glasgow, he abandoned himself to miliar figure in all the small public- drinking without any remorse. His houses about; and in garrulous moments chances in life were gone; there re- he had told his companions something mained but this. He had no boat, no of his history, so that both himself and home, no relatives ; his society was in the circumstances of his leaving his na- the public-house; the one enjoyable tive place were widely known. experience of the day was the sensa- On this evening the landlord of the tion of beatific stupor rising into his public-house came into the den in which head after drinking repeated doses of the Highlandmen were drinking, and whiskey. If he was ill and surly next said, pointing to a portion of the news- morning, there was but little sense of paper he held in his hands shame mingled with his moods. Nor did Is this no you, MEachran ? he consider himself a very ill-used per- Angus MEachran took the newspaper, son, ~vhose wrongs ought to excite com- and read the lines pointed out. passion. He simply was what he was, as Ay, it iss me, he said, gloomily, the natural result of what had gone before;, Man, theres something there for ye ! and he looked neither to the past nor to the publican said. Canna ye read it? the future. It ~vas enough if he had the Theyve gotten some money for ye, as ~vherewithal in his pocket to pay for an- sure as yere a leevin sinner! other dram; and he did not care to ask It iss no morney they hef for me, whether, in the bygone time, he ~vas the said M~Eachran ; it is these ferry grand injuring or the injured l)arty. people, and they ~vill want me to go pack But it became more difficult for him to to Ardtilleach. No, I hef had enough,. get those odd jobs about the quays, for and plenty, and more ass that of Ardtil- his unsteady habits were notorious, and - leach. The teffle will tek the tay that I no one could depend on his remaining; go pack to A.rdtilleach ! sober for a single day. He became shab-- Youre a fulish cratur, man. Do you bier and shabbier in appearance; and think they would gang to the awfu ex- now the winter was coming on, and many pense o advertisia in the newspapers if a day he shivered with the cold as he. there wasna something gran waitin for walked aimlessly about the streets. When ye? he could get no ~vork, and when he had, Go and tam you, John Jameson, and no money with which to go into a pub- go and pring me another mutchkin of lic-house, he would often wander idly your l)ad whiskey, that iss not fit to be along the inner thoroughfares of the put before swines. town, perhaps with some vague hope of The landlord did not care to quarrel meeting an acquaintance who would give 24 THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. him a glass. He was not afraid of meet- ing any of his old friends from Ardtil- leach; they could not have recognized him. One night he was going up Candleriggs Street in this aimless fashion, and a bit- terly cold night it was. A north-east wind was blowing down the thoroughfares, driving a stinging sleet before it ; even the hardiest were glad to escape indoors from such weather. Angus MEachran was not proof a~ainst cold and wet as he had been in former days. He shivered like a reed in the wind; his limbs were chilled ; if he had not been in the semi- bemused state of the confirmed drunkard he would have crept back to his misera- ble lodging. As it was, his only thought at the moment was to get a little shelter from the bitter wind. He came to the entrance into the City Hall, and here was an open space, the light of which promised something of warmth. There were a great many people going in; and Free Admission stared every one in the face. MEach ran crept into a corner, glad to be out of the cold for a moment. The mere going-by of people seemed to have a fascination for him. His head was dazed. When a friendly old gentle- man in passing said, We el, ma man, are ye no comm in ? I dinna think you could do better, he answered, vaguely, Yes, and joined the stream. There was a great crush ; he was borne into the hail. So dense was the crowd that no one seemed to notice his shabby clothes. He got no seat, but he ~vas ~vell propped up; and the heat of the great assembly began to thaw his frozen limbs. And who was this maniac and mount- ebank on the platform this short, stout, ungainly nian, with lank yellow hair, prominent front teeth, and exceed- ingly long arms which he flung about as he stamped up and down and ranted? Truly, he was a ridiculous-looking l)er- son ; and it was no ~vonder that highly- cultivated people, who read the reviews, and went into mild frenzy over blue and white china, and were agitated about the eastern l)OSitiOn, should refuse to go and hear this stump-orator who was lec- turing on temperance all over the coun- try. The stories told of his ad cat- tandum vulgarity and his irreverence were shocking. Jokes were made about the wild fashion in which he dealt with his hs ; althourh bein~ a Yorkshireman of inferior education, he never added an k, he simply ignored the letter altogether, and was profoundly unconscious of doing so. He spoke ~vith a strong north-coun- try accent; he marched up and down the platform, with perspiration on his un- lovely face ; he sawed the air with his arms, and was by turns angry ~vith a screeching anger and pathetic with a the- atrical effusiveness. Aperson of refined taste could not approve of Mr. Robert J. Davis and his oratory. The exhibition ~vas altogether too absurd. And yet there are in this country at l)resent thou- sands of human beings whom this man rescued from ruin ; there are thousands of homes ~vhich lie restored to peace and happiness, after that seemed impossible there are thousands of women ~vho can- not utter that commonplace nanie with- out tears of gratitude. And these peo- ple never thought the less of R. J. Davis. because lie ill-treated the letter ii. Yes, my friends, this uncouth crea- ture was saying, or rather bawling, you see that miserable drunkard crawling along the street, dirt on his clothes, idi- otcy in his face, his eyes turned away for shameand you despise himand are you not right in despising him ? Per- hiaps you dont know. Well, Ill tell you. That skulking creature, that reptile of the gutter, ~vas once the heir of all the ages ; and when lie ~vas born lie came into a wonderful heritage that had been stored up for him through centuries and centuries. Great statesmen had spent their lives in making laws for him ; pa- triots had shied their blood for him ; men of science had made bridges, and rail- ways, and steam-ships for him ; discov- erers and great merc hiants had gone over all the earth, and there was sugar coming from one l)hace, and cotton from another, atid tea from anotherfrom all parts of the world these things ~vere coming. And for all this, and for far more than that, ~vhat was expected of him ? only that lie should gro\v up a respectable cit- izen, and enjoy the freedom and the laws that his forefathers fought for, and do his duty towards God, aiicl the State, and the friends whose anxious care had guided him through all the perils of childhood. XVliat was his gratitude? What has lie done ? what but throw shame on the name of the mother who bore him, making himself a curse to so- ciety and a disgrace to friends who now avoid him. Has lie a wife ? think of her Has lie children ? think of them Good God, think of the young girl going away from her fathers home, and trust- ing all her life to this new guidance, and THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. 25 looking forward to the years of old age, and the gentle going-out of an honoura- ble and peaceful life. And this is the guidance this is the protection that she sits up in the night-time, with her eyes red with weeping, and she listens for the drunken stagger of an inhuman ruffian, and she prays that God would in his mercy send some swift disease upon her, and hurry her out of her grief and her shame. That is the return that the drunkard makes for all the love and care that have beeh lavished on him and you despise him yes, he despises him- self as he crawls along the pavement his home broken up and ruined, his ~vife and children sent shivering to the alms- house There ~vas a sharp, quick cry at this moment; and the lecturer stopped. The people near Angus MEachran turned round ; and there ~vas the young fisher- man, with his eyes fixed and glazed, and his arm uplifted as if appealing to the lecturer. The man is mad, said one, take him out. But they could not take him out, for the crowd was too dense; but as some one at the door seemed to have fancied that a woman had fainted, a tumbler of water was fetched and quickly handed over. MEachran drank some of the water. No, said he, seeing they ~vere trying to make way for him ; I am for staying here. And there he did stay, until the end of the lecture, which ~vas not a long one. But that ~vas only part of the evenings proceedings. Winding up with a pas- sionate appeal to the people before him to come forward and sign the abstention pledge for the sake of their friends, if not of themselves the lecturer stepped down to a space in front of the platform which had been kept clear, and there opened two large volumes which were placed on a narrow wooden table. The people began to pour out of the various doorways; those who ~vished to stay and )Ot rlown their names were grad- ually left behind. Among the latter was a young man who kept in the background, and was about the very last to sign when he went up to the table, his face was pale, his lips quite firm, his hand tremulous. This ~vas what he wrote Name, Angus AZEacliran; age, 24; occupation, fs/wrmcuz; born isla;zd of Darrock; resides, Glasgow. Mr. R. J. Davis looked at this young man rather curiously perhaps only guessing, but not quite knowing what he had done that night. CHAPTER XII. AFTER MANY DAYS. IT was a terrible struggle. The thirst for drink had a grip of him that was an incessant torture then there was the crushing difficulty of obtaining work for a man of his appearance. First of all, he left Glasgow and his associates there; and went to Greenock the fare by the steamboat was only sixpence. 1-le ~vent down to the quays there, and hung about; and at last his Highland tongue won him the favour of the captain of a small ves- sel that was being repaired in dock. He got MEachran some little bit of work to do; and the first thing to which the young man devoted his earnings was the purchase of some second-hand clothes. He was now in a better posi- tion to go and ask for ~vork. If a man can keep sober in Greenock, which is one of the most dingy and rainy towns in this or any other country, he will keep sober anywhere. Not only did MEachran keep sober; but his so- briety, his industry, and his versatility in Darroch he was famous for being able to turn his hand to anything were speedily recognized by the foreman, and ended by his securing permanent em- ployment. Then ~vages ~vere high such ~vages as had never been heard of in the Hebrides ; and his ~vants were few. It was a strange thing to see the dogged md ustry of the Norse man fi~ht with the impatience of the Cdt; all day he ~vould patiently and diligently get through his work, and then at night he would fret and vex his heart because he could not accomplish impossibilities. Nevertheless his companions knew that Angus MEachran was amassing money; for he earned much and spent little. Time ~vent by; he heard no ne~vs from Darrock or Killeena; and vet he would not write. Not only had lie no hoe of living again with Moira, but lie had no wish for it. The recollection of bygone tinies ~vas too gloomy. It ~vas ~vith quite another purpose that he was working hard and savi ig money. One evening, going home from his work, and almost at the threshold of his own loclgiigs, lie ran against a with- ered old Highlander named Connill, who was an under-keeper in Harris, and was acquainted with some of the Darroch peo- ple. 26 THE MARRIAGE OF MOIRA FERGUS. Kott pless me, iss it you, Angus MEachran ? the old man cried. Ay, it iss many a tay since I will see you. And now you will come and hef a tram and a word or two together. If you will come into the house, Duncan Connill, said Angus, and we are just at the house, I will gif you a tram but I hef not touched the whiskey myself not for more ass fourteen months I pelief. And are you ferry well, Duncan Connill and when wass you ofer in Dar- roch ? They went into the younger mans lodgings, and in front of the cheerful fire they had a chat together, and MEachran told his old acquaintance all that had recently happened to him. And now you will go pack to Dar- roch, said the old Highlandman. Ay, and it iss ferry prout Moira Fergus will be to see you looking so well, and hafing such good clothes, and more ass two pound fife a week. Well, I am not going pack to Dar- roch, and, yes, 1 am going pack to Dar- roch, said Angus but it is not to stay in Darroch that I am going pack. Moira, she will be with her father and I will not tek her away from her father it wass enough there wass of that pefore but I will mek the arranchement to gif her some money from one ~veek to the next week, ass a man would gif his wife, and then I will come pack to Greenock, and she will stay with John Fergus and tam John Fergus ! Ay, ay, said the old Highland man, and that iss ferry well said, Angus MEachran and if the lass will stay with her father, in the name of Kott let her stay with her father but if I wass you, An. gus MEachran, it iss not much of the money I would gif a lass that would stay with her father, and her a marriet wife no, I would not gif her much of the money, Acgus. Well, said Angus, it iss more ass fourteen months or eighteen months that I hef giffen her no money at all. And I wass thinking, said Duncan Connill, that it wass many the tay since I hef been to Darroch hut when I wass there, it wass said that Moira wass away ofer at Borva, with Mr. Mackenzies daughter, that wass marriet to an Eng- lishman Av, as, said Angus, she wass a goot frient to Moira and to me and if she would tek Moira away for a time to Bor. Va, that ~vass a great kindness too ; but you do not think, Duncan Connill, she will always stay at Borva, and her a1way~ thinking of John Fergus? But when she hass the money of her own, then she will do what she likes to do, even although she iss in the house of John Fergus. And when will you think of coming to Darroch, Angus? I do not know that, Duncan Connill. We are ferry pusy just now, and all the yard working ofertime, and ferry good wages. But it iss not ferry long before I will come to Darroch; and if you would send me a line to tell me of the people there what you can hear of them in Styornoway it would be a kind thing to do, Duncan Connill. And so the old man took back Angus MEachrans address to the Hebrides; and began to noise it abroad that Angus was making a great deal of money in Greenock; and that he had a notion of coming some day to Stornoway, and of getting into business there as a builder of boats. About three weeks after Duncan Con- nill had seen Angus MEachran, a young girl timidly tapped at the door of Anouss lodgings, and asked the landlady if he was inside. No, hes no, said the woman, sulk- ily; for landladies who have good lodg~ ers do not like their being called upon by young women. The good lodgers are apt to marry and go away. When will he be in ? said the girl. I dinna ken. So she turned away, and went out into the dismal streets of Greenock, over which there gloomed a grey and smoky twilight. She had not gone far when she suddenly darted forward, and caught a man by the hand, and looked up into his face. Angus Av, iss it you, Moira Fergus ? said he coldly, and drawing hack. And what hef you come for to Greenock ? It wass to see you, Angus MEach~ ran but not that you will speak to me like that, said the girl, beginning to cry. And who iss with you ? said he; not moved in the least by her tears. There iss no one with me, she said, passionately ; and there wass no one with me all the ~vay from Stvornoway;and when Duncan Con nill will tell me you wass in Greenock, I will say to him, I am go- ing to see Angus M~Eachran and I do not know what he will say to me ; but I hef something to say to him. And it is this, Angus, that I wass a bad wife to THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. 27 you, and it iss manys the night I hef tion. Thanks to the unwearying efforts cried apout it since you wass away, from of Sherard Osborn and Clements Mark- the night to the morning; and now that ham, backed by the Arctic Committees of I hef been away from Darroch for more the Royal and Geographical Societies, and ass a year, it iss not any more to Darroch their refusal to accept a denial sedzuu I would be for going no, nor to Borva, ceternumque sedebunt in a few weeks nor to Styornoway but where you are, the ships and the men will be ready. The Angus, if yo.u will tek me and where Alert and Discovery are now fitting you will go I will go, too if that iss out at Portsmouth with every appliance your wish, Angus MEachran. which experience and ingenuity can sug- She stood there, mutely awaiting his gest as best fitted for serving the pur- decision, and trying to restrain her poses for which they are intended. tears. Twenty-three officers have been selected Moira, said he, come.into the house. from the overwhelming number of volun- It iss a great thing you hef told me this teers who offered themselves. The head tay; and it iss ferry sorry I am that I tit of the whole expedition will be Captain not hear of it pefore. But there iss many Nares, of Challenger fame. Coin- a tay that iss yet to come, Moira. mander Albert H. Markham, ~vho has These two xvent into Angus MEach- shown that his skill as a naval commander rans lodgings ; and the landlady was in many seas is almost equalled by his lit- more civil when something of Moiras erary power in describing his voyages, is story was told her; and the young wife second in command; while Captain Ste with trembling hands and tearful eyes, phenson, late of the royal yacht, will have but with a great and silent joy at her the command of the second ship. Under heart sate down to the little tea-table these officers will be about one hundred on which Anguss evening meal was laid. and t~venty seamen. ln addition there will That was not a sumptuous banquet ; but be six ice-mastersexperienced whale- there was no happier meeting anywhere menwho will advise the officers on in the world that night than the meeting questions connected with ice-navigation, of these two simple Highland folks. And and two civilian naturalists. It is to be here the story of Moira Fergus, and of hoped that one of these is a geologist her marriage with Angus MEachran, for, as we shall see presently, the geolog- may fitly end. ical questions to be solved are not the least important of all those which await the labours of these gentlemen. Altogether he ~vould he a carping critic ~vho ~vould cavil at the arrangements of this expedi- From The Popular Science Review. tion or it THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIEN- , S personnel. By the end of TIFIC AIMS. May it is believed that it will be ready to sail. In a fortnight or so after it will BY ROBERT BROWN, be sighting the coast of Greenland. It MA., PH.D., F.L.S., PEGS., ETC. will now enter Davis~ Strait, antI after BEFORE the next part of this review is touching one or two of the little Danish in the hands of its readers an English posts on that dreary coast, it will sail expedition the object of ~vhich is to into Baffins B~y, and then into Smiths explore the wide unknown region sur- Sound, the threshold of the unknown rounding the North Polewill be well region. The exploration of this sound on its way to the scene of its labours has been advanced by the expeditions of for the next two years. An event so re- Kane, Hayes, and Hall; and the chief markable in the annals of science cannot aim of this expedition, geographically, be allowed to pass unnoted. For months will be to reach and explore a latitude past almost every journal in the kingdom beyond that attained by the last-named has had something to say on the subject ; and ill-fated commmcier. How this is for years to come we shall hear talk inter- best to be accomplished may be safely minable, or may read l)rint of which there left to the judgment of Captain Nares is no end on this fruitful subject. Judg- himself. Speaking broadly, the l)lan at ing from the l)ast we may expect these present proposed is for the two ships to articles to be plentifully distinguished for push north up Smiths Sound, or its con- the want of knowledlge, more especially tinuation, to a point as far as the season, of what are the scientific aims and objects or the ice, will permit. One of the ships of the expedition. A few pages may be will remain in this locality, while the therefore profitably devoted to this ques- other will push still further on if possible, 28 THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. and explore, by boats or sledges, as cir- cumstances may show to be best, the sea and lands lying beyond. In case of dis- aster the depot-vessel ~vill afford the adventurers a home to fall back upon. It is, however, unnecessary to say that the details of such l)lans must be altered indefinitely, and that it ~vould be most unwise to strangle the skill of a com- mander, who has already shown him- self so worthy of trust, by the bonds of red tape, ~vhich cut-and-dry instruc- tions would assuredly be. What, then, are the cbjects of this ex- pedition ? In the first place, it is the only expedition since the unfortunate one of Sir John Franklin in the Erebus and Terror which the English gov- ernment has despatched to the Arctic seas for exulorat~on alone. Since 1845 numerous ships flying the l)ennant have been within the Arctic circle, and have greatly enlarged our knowledge of the circumpolar regions. But they ~vere in search of the expedition of Franklin discovery was not one of their objects; and though they might have incidentally advanced science, provision was not made for research; and, indeed, so long as the mission they were sent on ~vas un- fulfilled, no man dared to think of science or of geogral)hical exploration, brilliant though some of the discoveries made, no doubt, were. Need I remind the reader that on one of these exl)editions the North-west Passage ~vas discovered? But the adventurers in the Alert and Discovery will have no thought to di- vert their minds from exploration in the widest sense of the term. Every provis- ion has been made for it consistent with that economy of space which the storage of such a large quantity of fuel and pro- visions demand. Unlike the case of the Challenger, there are no posts to visit, where stores can be taken or surplus bag- gage left. All must be at once taken from England ; on this they will have to draw for the whole term of the expedition. The land and seas they are to explore are dreary enough, and an idea obtains that there is really nothing to be done in these far northern lands that no inter- est attaches to them from a scientific point of view ; and that the naturalists of the Arctic expedition, after they have surveyed their home in the far North, may sit down on its frozen ~hores and weep, if they are so inclined, because there is there no world for them to con- quer. Around the Pole there are about two million five hundred thousand square miles of sea and land yet unknown, and lying virgin for exl)loration. It must not be supposed that the mere vainglory of reaching the spot known as the North Pole is the object of the equipment of this expedition. The North Pole, writes Mr. Clements Markham (I quote the z~sissi;na verba of this eminent geographer because I can find none of my own which more fully express the meaning which I wish to convey), is merely a spot where the suns altitude is equal to its declination, and where bear- ings must be obtained by reference to time and not to the magnet. It will doubtless be reached in the course of ex- ploration, and there is something which takes the imagination of ignorant and un- cultivated persons in the idea of stand- ing upon it. But this will not be the main, or even a principal result, of the expedition. The objects in view are the discovery of the conditions of land and sea ~vithin the unknown area, and the in- vestigation of all the phenomena in that region, in the various branches of science. These results can only be ob- tained by facing difficulties, perils, and hardships of no ordinary character; but their vast importance, owing to the addi- tions they will make to the sum of hu- man knowledge, ~vill be an aml)le recom- pense. * I mention this, because in some circles the mere vainglory of reaching the North Pole seems to be considered the acme of the labours of the brave and accomplished men who are so soon to leave England, just as among the same people to march up a steel) mountain, and then like the king of France, in the nursery rhyme, come down again (if pos- sible with greater celerity than they went up), is the aim and end of all alpine re- search. In all likelihood the North Pole will be found to be situated in the midst of some icy sea, or if on land, in the midst of some dreary waste, ifs l)osition only ascertainable by a long series of ob- servations by the scientific officers, and differing certainly in no degree from the region immediately surrounding it. It is impossible to say ~vhat branches of science will be most advanced by the researches of the expedition. Oftentimes discoveries are made ~vhen least expected. Oae dis- covery leads to another, and with the material at hand an accomplished natu- ralist can never fail to make interesting observations, and even deduce impor * The Threshold of the Unknown Region, 3rd edition, p. 325. THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. 29 tant generalizations which those at home, only acquainted ~vith what has already been done, cannot even presage. Still there are a few points in various branches of science which it would be well that the naturalists should attend to, and which the Jeremiahs, who are never weary of crying that all is barrenness, should be aware still require solution, or more ex- tended observations in regard to. Let us take geology. Over the north of Europe most markedlxr in Great Britain America, and in dl likelihood Asia also, are found certain remarkable deposits which are believed to date from one of the latest geological epochs, viz., that known as the glacial l)eriod, and are known to have been caused by ice. These deposits are very varied, but they may be referred to three great series, viz., great beds of stiff tenacious clay, unfossilifer- ous, but mixed ~vith rounded boulders n-iost frequently scratched and ice-~vorn a series of finely laminated clays, con- taming fossils, chiefly Arctic shells and lastly beds of sand and gravel and boulders, rounded and angular, scattered over the country, and belonging to for- mations not in the immediate vicinity; indeed often far distant from the local- ities where these boulders and travelled blocks are found, showing that they may have been transported by some agency. This agency is now universally conceded to be ice in some form, most likely icebergs. Ice, again, must have been at work in forming the glacial beds ; but whether floating ice, or some great ice-cap covering the whole coun- try, is as yet undecided, though the pre- ponderance of belief points to the lat- ter as being the mode in which the ice was formed. Agassiz long ago pointed out that Scotland must have been swathed, hill and dale, mountain and val- ley, in such a great glacier-covering. For long he was treated with incredulity, simply because ~ve knew of no country which at the present time was in such a condition,* and therefore, reasoning on the great principles taught by Lyell, we could not accept such a hypothesis. We now know that Greenland is a country in exactly such a condition, and it is to it that we must look for an explanation of the glacial phenomena of Britain and the rest of the northern hemisphere. The naturalists, by a thorough study of glacial phenomena in that great country of gla- ciers, can do much to solve the questions now under discussion. In this country, and indeed in any country but Greenland, we cannot do so. Take Mr. James Geikies Great Ice Age, as the book which most fully though still not so fully as it might treats of these ques- tions, and there is work enough for a geologist lying ready at his hand. What is the nature of the material ly- ing under thegreat ice-cap of Greenland? Is it the counterpart of the Scottish boul- der-claycr till? Are the finely laminated clays forming in the Greenland ice-fjords from the mud-laden streams which flow out from beneath the glaciers the same as the brick clays of Scotland and else- where, as the present writer has shown to be highly probable ~ Again are the Greenland fjords, as are the fjords in other l)arts of the world, due to the wear- ing action of ice, when they formed the beds of great glaciers as Nordens-kj6ld and I have argued? Again, the whole question hinges on the theorynot a theory, I believe, but an established fact, but still opinions differin regard to the eroding power of ice. In studying icesea and landalone the geologist would be very fully and profitably occu- pied for a couple of years. Another question for him to try and solve is this Is Greenland rising in the north, while we know well that it is sink- ing in all the region south of Wolsten- holme Sound? Are the terraces you find on the shores of Smiths Sound evidences of this general and gradual uprising of the shores going on, or are they only like the terraces you find on the shores of Green- land south of Melville Bay, which we know are evidences of a former uprising, not of one now going on, for at the pres- ent time I find others have shown * there are indubitable signs that a gradual sink- ing of the coast is in progress. Mr. James Geikie a most competent au- thority on all questions touching olacial deposits suggests to me that it would be very interesting to have determined whether the raised beaches of Greenland give any indication of changes of climate such as have been observed in these de- posits in Spitzbergen. Great banks of My/ilus edit/is, cyprind is/and/ca, and Li/torina /it/orea, occur in that island, and none of these species are ever found Yet in 1750 Otho Fabricius wrote C Fauna Groen- living in the Spitzbergen sea. It is true landica, p. 4), Interioribus ob piagarn gtaciaiem continuam inhabitabilibus; and bars Dalager, among * Physics of Arctic Ice, Quart. Journ. Geol. others, described the ~iuland ice. Soc., vol. xxvii. (1871); Pop. Sc. Rev., August z8~s. 30 THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. that AfytzYus is occasionally seen attached to find patches of it in the regions geo- to alg~ in these regions, but such rare logically unexplored further in the north. birds are but poor representatives of the The whole geology of such a region banks of the same shell which are met ~vould be extremely interesting. Most with in the same island. Mr. Nathorst, likely other formations than ~vhat we of the Swedish Geological Survey, tells know of in West Greenland will be found me that in 1870 he examined these shell- in the North. In East Greenland, for banks, and found one made up of My/i/us instance, liassic beds, unknown on the resting upon a scratched rock-surface west coast, have been discovered on (now far removed from any glacier), and Kuhn Island, and there is a probability the scratches ran parallel ~vith the fjord. that other mesozoic beds l)erhaps the The Afy/ilus still lives in Greenland, as true carboniferous strata of Melville Is- does also cypri~z4 isla;zdiccz, but Li/tori- land may be discovered dotting one or tia li/torea does not. Heer notices these other, or both shores of Smiths Sound, circumstances in his paper Die Afiocens or the strait, the entrance to which bears Flora tend Fauna S~bitzbergens (Kongl. that name. Svenska Vet. Akad. Forhand. Band 8, Some people ask, What is the good No. 7, p. 23). It would be worth while, I of this expedition? The plain English think, for the naturalists attached to the of such a question is, I suppose, how Arctic exl)edition to examine any raised much money is to be made out of it? beaches they may come across, with a Well, we may at once answer that the view to discover whether the facts bear Alert and Discovery expedition is on the conclusions drawn by Swedish not a joint-stock company, of which Cap- geologists, for it is difficult to believe tam Nares is chairman, and that there will that a considerable change of climate be no dividends in the form of pelf to the could take place in Spitzbergen without shareholders, viz., the English taxpayers. also leaving traces in North Greenland. There will, however, be a richer reward All these questions are of deep philo- than any money can give, in the advance- sophical interest. There is another not ment of knowledge, the stimulus it will less interesting. The vegetation of Green- afford to enterprise, the training of our land nowadays is meagre enough no seamen for future work, and the glory tree, no shrub higher than the knee, and which will attach to the English naval then only in favoured places. But just name from the gallant deeds which are towards the close of the cretaceous pe- sure to be done in the far North by the nod, and during the miocene age, a lux u- officers and men attached to it. But still, rious flora of evergreen trees and shrubs, if the expedition was to discover a vein oaks, magnolias, chestnuts, cypresses, of cryolite a mineral only found in one red ~voods, (Sequoia), ebony, etc., flour- spot in Greenland, and of such value ished in Spitzbergen, Greenland, the that sometimes twelve or thirteen ships Mackenzie River, and Alaska in fact will load ~vith it during the summer in forming a circumpolar belt of rich vege- a locality sufficiently accessible, there tation, some of the species of which also are plenty of merchants in the city of stretched far to the south. The South- London who ~vould gladly pay the costs era States of America or California af- of the expedition for the privilege of ford a vegetation which may be com- working it. In zo6logy we must not cx- pared with this tertiary flora of the Arc- pect too much. The researches of the tic regions. In West Greenland at the expedition will be made in a very high present time it is only found in the vicin- northern latitude, where animal life is ity of Disco Bay and the Waigat Strait, scarce. Perhaps the very scarcity of it not stretching beyond 7i~, where it is makes the species which live there more conjoined ~vith beds of coal, and broken interesting. The extreme northern range through by trap dykes. No doubt its of animal or vegetable life is always valua- range was at one time much more exten- ble to know; and accordingly every speci- sive, and has been circumscribed by the men, more especially of the land fauna, soft straLa being destroyed by disintegra- will be an important acquisition to sci- tion and the wearing action of the ice ence. The sea even, in high northern lati- for we cannot believe that a flora so ex- tudes, often swarms with the lower forms tensive in its range could have been of life, particularly on banks, and there the limited in Greenland to such a small area. zodlogist might reap a rich harvest with Most likely it at one time stretched right the dredge. The sea is often thick with across Greenland, before the country go t~ the most beautiful forms of acaleph~, overlain by ice. It would be interesting none of which can be preserved in a THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. 3 condition fit for identification or descrip- Bay. Almost contemporaneous with this tion. They must be described and drawn discovery was that of the German expe- on the spot. A naturalist, skilful with dition to East Greenland, that in a high his pencil and sufficiently instructed in latitude it was abundant on that coast, the subject to be capable of describing though quite unknown further to the these animals accurately, might alone south. Take, again, the lemming (Mjyo- find sufficient for his labour, as day after des i~orqua/us). Scoresby, and afterwards day the vessel sails along, is hooked the German expedition, found it on the on to an ice-field, or lies at anchor. north-eastern shores of Greenland; but Nowadays naturalists are not so partic- it was quite unknown on the western ular about having a long list of new ani- shores until Dr. Bessels, of 1-lalls expe- mals, or rare species. They are more dition, obtained it from Smith~s Sound. anxious about the range of particular Here is a very curious distribution of forms of interest, about questions of life, the same animals being found at structure, and other particulars bearing about the same latitude on both coasts, on the philosophical questions of the and yet unknown south of these parallels. day. These points can frequently only The interior, it is believed, is covered be made out by dissections on the spot. with ice. The animals could not have The large animals will afford plenty of crossed over a stretch of six hundred or material to the scalpel of the anatomist. seven hundred miles without food. Have What would a home-staying anatomist they worked their ~vay round the northern give, even to dissect on an ice-floe, a end of the continent, and if so, what is narwhal, or a white whale in a fresh or in the northern termination of Greenland? any condition. He looks back with sad- Is the interior, as is believed by the best ness to Barclays description of the ~vhite informed physical geographers, covered whale, the only one we have, and has a with a great glacial covering? I think tradition that once a narwhal reached the preponderance of facts is in favour of Scotland in brine, and was described by this view, and that the moraine supposed an anatomist who has not yet published to have been seen on it, near Upernavik, his descriptions. The northern ranges is only local. Further to the south we of the birds, their nesting, their eggs, find no moraine, and if the ice crossed their changes of plumage, their para- over or infringed on any land in the inte- sites, and a dozen other points well nor such moraine ~vould he sure to be known to the ornithologist, would give found in it. Lastly, the ermine (Mus/ela even this unpromising department of erminea) has been found on the east Arctic zodlogy some interest, and yield coast, though this animal is entirely un- results which science will not despise. known on the ~vest. The habits of few The fishes of the Arctic seas, as the dis- of the Arctic mammals are well known, coveries of late years have shown, are and any notes on these would be inter- not worked out, and the fresh-water esting. The European birds in large species of the North will be of extreme numbers and of many species every interest. Let us only take one or two summer migrate to the furthest North. points as illustrating what may be yet For what purposes do they migrate, and done in even the higher groups. One where do they all go to ? Professor New- might suppose that, after the Danes had ton, of Cambridge, has called attention to lived in Greenland for one hundred and the strange movements of the knot (Trin- fifty years, there were not many new ga canutus~, which migrates to Green- mammals to discover in that country. land and Iceland, but it soon leaves these But we have seen, by the discovery within regions and must move further to the the last few years of three land mammals north; but where it goes to is unknown, previously unknown to the fauna, that and of its nidification ~ve know nothing. this is not the case. Take the musk ox It comes to Britain in large numbers (Ovibos moscizatus); Fabricius, no doubt, old and young birds in the autumn, described it under the name of yak (Dos but again soon takes its flioht to the far grunnici-is) as a member of the Greenland South until the following spring. Where fauna, but all he saw was a skull drifted does it go during the sum mer? To re- in the ice from the high North. The gions less sterile than Greenland and Ice- gradual discoveries of Kane, Hayes, and land but where in the North are those lastly of Hall, have shown that in the regions ? Is this expedition to discover very highest reaches of Smiths Sound it them surrounding the shores of that open is quite abundant, though entirely un- sea, in the warmer regions ~vhich are be- known south of the glaciers of Melville lieved by some to surround the Pole, but 32 THE ARCTIC EXPEDITION: ITS SCIENTIFIC AIMS. which other sceptical souls have long ceased to place any faith in? Perhaps not. Still there is no use denying that there is a great deal to be said in fa- vour of the open Polar Sea. Dr. Hookers classical paper on the Arctic flora * has so fully explained the peculiar condition of the vegetation of Greenland that, if even my space per- mitted, any explanation of the phytogeog- raphy of that country is unnecessary. The vegetation meagre as in all prob- ability it must be of the far North must be extremely interesting. Already Smiths Sound has yielded additions to the Greenland phanerogamous plants. There are many puzzling varieties of Arc- tic plants, epilobiums, drabas, dryas, & c., which it would be well to investigate and the whole flora should be studied, not from the mere dried-hay point of view, but with reference to its origin and nature, as so lucidly and philosophically explained in the treatise of the president of the Royal Society just mentioned. The cryptogams will yield many novel- ties ; lichens, mosses, algx, & c., will all be found in abundance. We know little of the Arctic alg~. Disco Bay yielded to the present ~vri ter almost as many species as had been previously known from the whole Arctic regions. Botany, however, will not be the branch of natural history which will be most advanced by this ex- pedition. Geology or zodlogy will be the greatest winners. I have only taken up these three sci- ences as specimens of what maybe done. Even then I have only touched upon one or two points. Had I more space at my disposal, I could have pointed out a score of other questions still requiring solution, and which this expedition can assist in solving, if not solve altogether. The other branches of science I have purposely avoided, as being foreign to my studies, and my opinion on them can therefore be of little value. Mr. Mark- ham has given an outline of what addi- tions to our knowledge in these depart- ments we may look for from researches in these fields of knowledge, and to his work I refer the reader. For instance, a series of pendulum-observations at or near the Pole ~voulcl be of service in de- termining the true figure of the earth. The nearest point to the Pole at which the pendulum has been swung for geo- detical purposes is six hundred tniles Trans. Liontean Soc. vol. xxiii. p. 251; Proc. Roy. Geog. Soc. e8;t, & c. from that point, and yet Sir Edward Sa~ bines observations are those which we chiefly rely upon for our knowledge of the earths figure towards its northern termination. Terrestrial magnetism, and the study of the aurora by spectrum anal- ysis, will yield good results perhaps entirely new. The meteorology, the tem- perature of the sea at different depths, the nature of the currents, are all impor- tant subjects, and may be advanced by the researches of the officers of this ex- pedition. Finally, additions to our knowledge of the ethnology of the far North may be advanced by a study of the few remnants of the Eskimo now living in Smiths Sound, by an investigation of their kjokkenm6ddings, or refuse heaps and grave~mounds,* their wanderings, & c. It may be found, though this is not prob- able, that detached tribes may be found still higher north than we yet know, and I think it is not improbable that the Eski- mo of the east coast of Greenland doubled with the lemming and the musk of the northern extremity of the continent, and then spread to the south. In this case it ~vould be interesting to compare the remains, implements, & c., of Smiths Sound with those of the east coast, brought home by the German expedition, or contained in the Ethnological Museum in Copenhagen. Elaborate instructions will no doubt be supplied to the naturalists regarding all of these questions.f It is to be hoped that they, like the commander, ~vill not be hampered by too many instructions prepared by naturalists, who, however eminent, may be unaware of the difficul- ties which a naturalist has to meet with in his researches in such a region. If they are qualified as doubtless they arefor the duties, then they may be safely left to do ~vhat they can. If they are not qualified, then for the credit of English science they had better be left at home. No one, however, ~vho knows the stuff out of which the expedition is com- posed, will ever hesitate in believing that though such an expedition is to a great extent at the beck of the ice, and a hun- dred other circumstances which those who have never sailed the ice-choked seas of the North can have little concep * It has been found that the iron which faces the old bone knives found in the old Eskimo graves in Green land is meteoric. Arctic Committees of the Royal Society and the Royal Geographical Society, at th~ suggestion of Mr. Markham, are now preparing manuals, giving a sum- mary of our knowledge of Greenland. THE ARCTIC SHIPS. 33 tion of every man will do his best; is a graceful, ship-like ship. The Dis and the best will be very good indeed. covery is the nearest of the Arctic ships, and one goes on board her first, and finds oneself in a scene of extraordinary act- tivity and apparent confusion, all the more interesting if one does not know From The Spectator. anything practically about things man- THE ARCTIC SHIPS. time. Immediately, the notion that the IT was particularly pleasant to go to ship is small goes off, to be replaced by Portsmouth while all the world was at an appreciation of its strength, its corn- Epsom, and to visit the Arctic ships when modiousness, and the extraordinary in- visitors were not expected, and there was genuity which is displayed in the employ- no crowd. The journey was not a little ment of every inch of space, and the suggestive, through the plains of gold securing of every conceivable comfort to and purple into which the buttercups and the officers and men. Lookino~ the clover divide the southeastern coun- through the light rigging, one has up ones try just now, by the hedgerows rich with attention directed to a kind of barrel, broom, and the commons decked with painted white, at the side of the main. golden gorse; past paths where the forest mast, and near the ,top, and being told trees are laden with such foliage as even that it is the crow s nest, has instant in England is rarely seen; and gardens visions of the look-out among the ice. where the white and pink hawthorn floes, and of the great whales captured linger, and the beautiful rose-coloured by the crews of the Discovery, before chestnuts are in full blow. No more she was promoted from the service of complete contrast could be conceived commerce to that of science. The deck than that between the scene which the is heaped with ropes, chains, rough explorers are leaving, and that which they boxes, maritime odds and ends of every are going to; a contrast which grows description, and to non-nautical eyes, upon ones fancy, and brings back all even if everything were all right below the tales of Arctic adventure in which there, being ready to sail on Saturday one has taken delight, from Mary How- seems an impossibility; but the expres. itts Northern Seas, to Captain Mark- sion of a doubt is met with the kindliest hams Whaling Cruise in Baflins Bay. amusement, and an assurance that sailors Arrived at the dockyard, ones expecta- can tidy up wonderfully when they tions are completely fulfilled; there is no set to with a will. crowd, no noise, no hurry, everybody Below, but very near the deck, are looks leisurely, and the sun shines, not the engines, and remarkably like vast or. too strongly, on the harbour. There lie namental beer-casks they look, in their the Arctic ships, and ones first feeling is brass-bound polished casings, on perfo. of disappointment. They are so small! rated iron floors. The flues and pipes It takes a little time to get over this, and which are conducted from the engine. some contemplation of the huge, ugly room into all the ship, the arrangements monsters by which the Alert and the for warming, the cooking-apparatus, and Discovery are dwarfed, great lumps the provision against danger of fire, are which would be enough to take the poet- as perfect as ingenuity combined with ry out of a poet, lying black, heavy, and simplicity can make them, and it is espe. sailless on the dark-green water. Nas- cially pointed out to visitors that every. ty, great, sprawlin things I says a young thing of metal which must come in con. person with very pink cheeks and a bun- tact with the hand is covered with leather. dIe, who h~as linbered a moment to look The officers cabins are marvels of con. round before being led on board the venience, and adornment too; the con- Discovery by a fine young fellow in a trivances for stowing-away are pointed sailors dress ; and the description which out with pride, while one takes a furtive she utters in a tone of contempt, as if peep at the book-shelves, and little sup. she were alluding to cockroaches, is plementary book-crammed nooks in con. strikii4~iy correct. There is a little com- ners, with an awful sense of what it must fort in being shown the Bellerophon be to have all one can possibly get to it, at least, is not new-fangled and! read for three years under ones eyes all in perceiving that the Valorous, lying at once. Presents I says a jolly voice at a little distance, with a good deal of close by; weve had more presents than stir on her decks, and a pleasant sound we can carry; therell be a lot of em left of cranks and ropes and chanting voices8 behind. What should you say b~is wash LIViNG AGE. VOL. XI. 52Z 34 THE ARCTIC SHIPS. now? The speaker is a jovial person in a low neck (as a little girl described a gallant tar who carried her across the gangway), and he is sitting astride of a huge deal box, with a lengthy address upon it, which he thumps heartily as he asks the question. Of course no one can guess, so he explains, with immense de- light, as if wintering at the North Pole were merely a picnic, that in that ere box theres the Christmas dinnerbeef, and turkeys, and tongues, all cooked and ready. The doors of some of the lock- ers are open, and reveal endless quanti- ties of tins wrapped in pink paper, there are pictures, an elegant writing- table, all made fast; a reading- lamp, and a scarlet and gold vide-~oche, and the panelled passage between the cabins is red and gold. Very natty is the little domain of the naturalist, where a pig- eon-holed space beneath the upper deck is prepared for the specimens he will bring us from the uttermost parts of the earth, and a case of mysterious glass things lies open on the floor. Hammer, chisel, saw, and pincers are busy, shav- ings and sawdust abound; but the pretty saloon is clear and clean, and the crews quarters beyond, where cooking is going on busily, are interesting to see, for here the arrangements for economizing warmth and space are most ingenious. A cheer- ful company are there, augmented while the visitors look on by a few sailors, who swing themselves easily down from the upper deck, and drop noiselessly into their places. In one group we recognize the young person with the pink cheeks and the l)undie. She is seated very close to the fine young fellow who took her on board, and she has undone the bundle, which proves to be a small and solemn baby. It lies on its fathers lap now (while he and the young mother discuss a hearty meal), with open, unwinking eyes, and looks as if it could tell him a thing or two about the Arctic Regions, or even the other world. They are very jolly, indeed; so is every one on board, to the surprise of a lady present, who cannot get away from the idea that they are all to be lost sight of for two years at least, after the Valorous shall have returned from es- corting them to the border of the Ice Kingdom, and who asks one handsome young man, who is explaining the har. poon gun to his sweetheart, whether he has ever been to the North before? No further than North Shields, maam, he answers with ready drollery. The stores are woncler& ul to contemplate; it is so difficult to believe that they are really somethincr to eat; they look like any- thing else in the worldlike leather portmanteaus, for instanceand the packing of them is a miracle of art. A mere glimpse of the innermost recesses of the ship reveals the vast quantities it ~carries en bloc, and the immense material for the purposes of the expedition ; in the museum, each article can be in- spected in detail. The visitor has the great thickness of the ship, her four cas- ings of stout, seasoned timber, her straight bow, and the apparatus of the ice-saw especially explained to him ; and at the entrance of the museum, this for- midable instrument is set up, with its poles, just as it would be outside the ships bow, so that it is easy to under- stand how, as the steamer grinds against the stubborn barrier, the irresistible iron- toothed bar, worked up by handles from the deck, but descending by its own weight, rends and scatters the ice before it. There is little difference between the two ships, and none in the completeness and comfort of their fittings. They didnt use to go Noth like that former- ly, observed an old gentleman of nau- tical cut, but evidently unattached, to a visitor, as he stepped ashore from the Alert. He seemed not half to like it, and to entertain a notion that if any of the ancients of the Arctic seas were about in spirit, they might not like it either. But he was somewhat reconciled when it was observed to him in reply, But they didnt use to come home at all, formerly. On an inspection of the museum, one is additionally reminded of the difference between the conditions of this and all preceding Arctic expeditions by the in- ventions in clothing and in cookin~ap- paratus. The large and small cooking- kettles, with a method of melting the snow for water, the spirit-lamps, the pem- mican-tins (sweet pemmican is not nasty, even when one is not hungry), all are ad- mirable, and if one could only feel as well satisfied about the sledges and the tents as about the food and the means of pre- paring it, one would not contemplate the Arctic regions with much apprehension of suffering for our explorers. But Dr. Raes letter makes one look at those mar- vels of contrivance and construction, the eight-man sledges, and the tents, with their windows and their ventilators, and at the sleeping-bags and dufile-coats, with some misgivings. However, there is al- ways the consolation of remembering GIANNETTO. 35 that the explorers can substitute snow- Mattei, while he continued his journey huts for tents if they choose, and alter by himself. their sleeping-arrangements according to Elvira was received by her mother with their experience. A few of the articles rapturous joy; the brothers and sisters exhibited, for instance, a carriage to be danced round her; her old father would used on the ice, one must regard as mere- scarcely let her out of his sight. All this ly ornamental or experimental but the cheered and comforted her wonderfully. great majority are of serious usefulness There was also the excitement of a wed- and value, and the ready-packed sledges, ding in prospect. Adelaide, her second with the baggage and food, for parties sister, a pretty, dark-eyed girl of seven- varying in number from five to twelve, teen, was to be married to her fiancd~ are most interesting. A lay-figure attired Gaetano Vacchini. in the full Arctic costume looks coin-f Elvira did not recover her strength as fortable, and quite handsome in compari- they had hoped she would. She was un- son with the diver in full dress, of whom able to enter into all the bustle of the he reminds one at a first glance. family arrangements ; but it was her The perfection of the arrangements is great pleasure to furnish Adelaide with not more impressive to the visitor than money, and send her out shopping with is the aspect of the crews. They were her mother, or with Violante the servant, all in on Wednesday, and seeing them and then to witness the ecstasies of the generally, working or standing about, no delighted girl when she brought home one could fail to be struck with their ap- and exhibited her finery. pearance. Health, strength, youth, good See, see, Elvira I this lace, how beau- looks, these are their characteristics, and tiful! and a silk gown of the new colour! the care that has been bestowed upon Carola Brei wore one like it at their their selection will, no doubt, be re- house ; and she said to me, Adelaide, warded. It is understood that the now is your time; do not be married Alert~ is to go to the Pole, so peo- without one. Extravagant I Ah, bah I ple in the yard talked of it as a mat- if one is not extravagant when one is ter of course, and the Discovery to married, when is one to be so? And one remain in Smith Sound as a depot-ship; must be well dressed at first. Then but there are ardent admirers of the see! this shawl. I wept, I entreated the Dis who tell you in confident confidence mamma; but she would not give it to me. that they are certain she, too, will make She said that she had not a 1aiocca a dash for it. That they will all do their that it was flimsy trash ; and now, thanks best, and that their be~tis a big word, to you and Adelaide threw her no one doubts, any more than that they arms round her sisters neck, half smoth- will carry much pride and hope of their ering her with kisses. countrymen with them, when the explor- The wedding-day came, and it was ers shall sail away from May sunshine in Elviras task to dress her sister in the England towards the Polar night. pretty white bridal dress her own taste had chosen. She cQuld not keep her ______________ tears from falling fast as she watched the little procession start from the door. She was not strong enough for the whole From Blackwoods Magazine. ceremony, so she reserved herself for the GIANNETTO. last part, waiting till the little procession appeared in sight on their return from CHAPTER X. the maine in the Borgo Ognissanti, and ELVIRA caught a very severe cold that then joining them on their way to church. nightso severe that for days she was The religious ceremony was performed unable to leave her bed. Like all ail- at their parish church, San Marco. ments in Rome, it partook of the nature They returned home; and then fol of low fever, and weakened her greatly. lowed all the packing-up of large boxes Easter came and went; but when the of bonbons, to be sent to the friends and day drew near on which Giannettos relations of the bride and bridegroom, so London engagement was to begin, she that there was no time for sitting down was still too weak for so long a journey, to think; and the first leisure moment Giannetto, therefore, carefully wrapping had to be spent in writing a long account her up, and making her as comfortable as of all that had passed to Giannetto i~ possible, took her to Florence, and left London. her under the loving care of Signora Elvira was now always on the sofa. 36 GIANNETTO. Every day her loving friends tried to success, and was never tried of hearing believe that she was better; every night them reiterated. found her more weak and restless; and Giannetto was happy in London. His those of their acquaintance less interest- success was complete. He found him- ed and more experienced, perceived too self plunged into all the gaieties of a clearly that the bright flush on her cheek large musical and artistic society, of was not the hue of returning health. which he speedily became an kat~i/u6. The day after the wedding brought a He enjoyed the perfection which music, large packet of extracts from the English both instrumental and vocal, has attained newspapers. Giannetto had found among in England; and, more than all, he en- the chorus-singers a young Italian who joyed finding worthy support in his fel- understood English pretty well. He was low-singers. The cast at Covent very poor, and thankful to be employed Garden was a fine one, the orchestra in in making rough translations from all the first-rate condition. No ~rirno lenore papers of the reports of the great tenors could have wished for a better introduc- successes at Covent Garden, for Elviras tion to a new audience. He was rich. benefit. Her pride in her husbands He was famous. achievements was much increased by the Giannetto would scarcely acknowledge praises thus bestowed on him. to himself that it was almost a relief to She lay on the sofa, reading them be away from his wife. Not that he did aloud, Signora Celeste, with hands and not love her. His attachment to her was eyes uplifted, beside her; the old ca- passionate as his Italian nature, but it valiere, violin in hand, resting it on the was the very force of that attachment ground, and softly beating time with which gave him the feeling of relief. He the bow; the children in front; Violante, had no longer to combat the almost un- her sleeves tucked up above her elbows, governable longing to tell her his whole behind,all listening as r,he read how lifes history, to break down the barrier Giannetto had been recalled four times which his want of confidence had raised after the fall of the curtain how each between them. While thus absent, he time bouquets had been thrown from was no longer tormented by her wistful every part of the house and how, on looks. When his abnegation of religion, one occasion, he had been three times his absolute alienation from God, be- encored. No voice, one of the papers trayed itself, those amongst whom he said, had ever been heard in England now lived seemed to be indifferent to at all approaching the voice of the new such matters, and for the time he felt tenor in power or beauty. It was only a himself free. pity that he was not a better actor ; there Giannetto studied music indefatigably. was a want of grace in the lighter scenes, He also devoted much time to the im- his efforts at gaiety and playfulness ap- provement of his general. education. He peared forced and unnatural. Elvira engaged a tutor, and worked hard, en- coloured, and all her listeners defiantly deavouring to raise himself to the level declared that newspaper criticisms were of his better-educated companions. Still, never to be relied on, with the true in- occasionally, the old fits of restlessness consistency of admiring affection. The would return irresistibly for days at a papers went on to notice the wonderful time, during which he could settle to no strength of Signor Giovannis voicedefinite occupation. how, after singing all night and numer- He was not altogether popular. He ous encores, it was as fresh as ever ; was too capricious, and often too moody and finally, they prophesied that, if the to please. He made a point of never slight defects in his acting could be got permitting companionship to advance over, he would be in truth the very first beyond a certain limit; so that many of his profession. who, attracted by his singular power of Elvira put down the papers with a fascination, imagined themselves on the proud heart. She kept them always be- road to intimacy and confidence, sudden- side her; for whenever friends and vis- ly found their advances coldly received, itors came in (which happened very fre- and themselves treated with something quently), Signora Celeste would come not unlike repulsion. At the same time, bustling up, insisting on reading the he had few enemies. He was never whole set of them again ; for she dearly boastful or bragging. The proud feel- loved the congratulations of her neigh- ings of gratified ambition that swelled bours on her now famous son-in.laws his heart were for himself alone. Out- GIANNETTO. 37 wardly he appeared too haughty to be vain; and he treated his unprecedented success as so much a matter of course, that the lookers-on often wondered whether this arose from the most sublime affectation or simple indifference. The days passed on ; and as the time of Giannettos return drew near, Elvira became restless and anxious. Her strength began to fail rapidly under a burning inward fever which consumed her; and by degrees a strong conviction dawned upon her that she had not long to live. One day the cavaliere, entering the music-room, where Elvira usually passed her mornings on the sofa, found her weeping over a letter just received. The kind old man hastily drew a chair near to her, and sat looking at her wistfully through his large spectacles. No bad news, my precious child? Elvira shook her head. It is nothing, nothing; only that I am very weak, very foolish. Nino cannot be here for a fort- night more; he has accepted an engage- ment which will keep him longer in Eng- land. Ah, father, dear father I I feel as if there were no time to lose. I must see him before I die! Die I Elvira, child, do not speak of dying. I must speak of it, for the time is short; and I mustVia mia! I must see him before I die. Oh, father mine, I am frightened when I think that I may not see him again. I have so much to say to him. The old cavaliere slowly brushed away two large tears before he answered Alas, my child! I fear sometimes that your life has not been a happy one.~~ Happy? Ah yes! happier far than I deserve but for one grief, one sorrow. No, no; that grief has at times been almost a joy. I mean that Nino Alas! what can I say? he loves not God nor holy things. Poor little one! Ah, father mine, I have never spoken of this except to him and in my prayers; but now the relief, the comfort of tell- ing all to you! You say nothing; you only grieve with me. It is that I want. Father, what is this mystery? What does it all mean ? Oh, if this barrier could but be broken down that stands between us! Why will he not go to his old home? Alas! what does it all mean? My child, began the cavaliere, sometimes the indifference of youth It is not indifference indeed, not indifference. When I have spoken to him, I have seen the look of grief, the shadow of some great unspoken sorrow, in his face. He seems to shrinkto be afraid Sometimes I dread that that some great crime . - . My God! what have I said? She buried her face in her hands, shuddering violently. The cavaliere laid his hand on her head. Do not fear, my child. No one is here but your old father, who will help you if he can. Elvira raised herself again. Father, she said. I cannot understand it. When I speak of his mother, he assumes a harshness foreign to his nature. Then, and then only, he has been unkind to me. Alas! he made me promise never to ask him to go home again; but while he spoke so harshly, his lips were quivering, his eyes looked at me in such agony. Ah! what can it mean ? what can it mean My precious child! Long ago, my mother had an idea that all was not right. I know not why, but she thought it was something to do with his voice possibly that he might have become a singer in defiance of the wishes of his mother and his friends-- who knows? I cannot tell why she thought so. She tried to learn what she could from the English Conte. He had nothing to tell her. What could he have had to say ? And, alas ! the fact re- mains the same. And he may die im- penitent, unabsolved. Via mia! my heart will break! Elvira, darling! Oh, father, night and day I pray that I may be spared to see him onceonly once again! Through the long hours of the night, when I lie~ awake, I am plan- ning what to say to him, what arguments to use, what points to urge; and I am~ so ignorant, it all ends in this, Nino,.. Nino! if you love me for my sake! ~ The old cavaliere only kissed her fore- head; his voice was choked he could not speak. Elvira looked up at him with her large sad eyes. She went on Fm. Geronimo tells me that if I am patient~ and go on hoping and praying, he will at last be won; but time goes on, and he cannot come home for a fortnight longer, and who knows whether I shall live so this promise long? Father dye me if 3S GIANNETTO. I should get worse, send an express for him at once. Let me feel that I can rely on this. Even should it be a false alarm, he will forgive it ; and I must see him before I die. 1 promise, Elvira, my darling; let me write at once. Surely it is better that he should be with you now? No; do not call him home if you can help it. Sometimes I feel as if the very longing to see him again will serve to keep me alive until he comes. Fa- ther, dear father, if I fail in persuading him, do not give him up; hut, for my sake, look on him as you would on a son of your own. She went on, almost to herself, Nino loves his mother, I am sure of it; and he loves that good priest who wrote to me. What can it mean? Why does he feign anger when I speak of them? Why does he make believe that he does not love them? It cannot be as my mother thought they would have been so proud of his singing; and yet how unwilling he is to speak of his voice. His whole life before we first met is a perfect blank to me. The cavaliere resumed gently, My child, are you sure that you are not im- agining all kinds of foolish things? Gio- vanni is young, and strong, and thought- less. When sorrow comes, or illness, or any sad experience, he will turn where only comfort can be found. Father, have you then not noticed the dread he has of sacred things? It is not indifference. I have seen him stand looking through the door into a church, with a look of longing that xvent to my heart. Then if I begged him to come in, he would be angry, and irritable; but I could see his great distress. Once he said to me, You do not know the sac- rifice you wish me to make; and I did not know alas! I sometimes fear that I shall never know what he meant. Though exhauste~l at the time, Elvira felt much comfort from this conversation with her father. It was a relief to have spoken of her sorrows; and his silent sympathy was more to her than any words could have been. CHAPTER XI. eral for him to refuse. He consented to sing for two nights only, on condition of the terms being doubled. The arrogant demand was immediately acceded to, and Giovanni went over to Paris. His success was complete. He was borne from the concert-hall on the shoul- ders of the crowd. Wherever he went they flocked to see him. He received presents of every description, bouquets and jewels; the conservatoire crowned him, and bestowed honorary titles on him. I have nothing left to wish for, he wrote to Elvira. I am on the topmost step of the ladder. Rejoice with me; I have nothing more to win. He returned to h~s hotel the last night before leaving Paris, to find a foreign despatch on the table. The message was very brief: Elvira is frightfully ill come quickly, if you would see her alive. Who can describe the misery of that journey? Night and day he travelled, and it seemed to him that the swift ex- press trains crawled at a foot-pace. The time lost in crossing Mont Cenis seemed interminable double and treble relays of horses and mules were sent on, but the time seemed endless. He reached Florence at last. There, waiting for him at the station, stood the old cavaliere. She is better! he shouted, before the train had time to stop. She is already better, thanks be to God ! Before many moments had passed, Giannetto stood by the bedside of his wife. Though the summer was at its height, the warm .weather had not restored Elvi- ras strength. Her family, always beside her, did not perceive how thin she grew; and they became so much accustomed to the little short cough, which had never left her since her illness at Rome, that at last they scarcely noticed it at all. The lovely colour that now so fre- quently succeeded her paleness, fore- shadowed, alas I too truly, the dreaded malattia Inglese the consumption that is so little known, but so greatly feared, in Italy. She had not appeared more THE season came to an end in Lon- failing or ill than usual, when one day don, Parliament adjourned, and the fash- she was seized with a very violent fit of ionable world dispersed in all directions. coughing, attended with much pain. Giovannis last appearance at Covent Fearful that she had caught fresh cold, Garden was over; and, rich in fame and they sent for the doctor, who pronounced purse, he prepared to return home. her to be suffering from acute inflamma- But yet one more triumph awaited him. tion of the lungs. She cannot live, He received an offer from Paris, too lib- said the doctor; the disease gains GIANNETTO. 39 ground. It may be days or weeks, possi- bly months; but I can do nothing. Two days afterwards she broke a blood- vessel; and the danger seemed so immi- nent that they at once telegraphed for Giannetto. Before his arrival, however, the first anxiety had passed away; and, although much weakened, she was pro- nounced out of immediate danger. Giannetto proved a most tender and efficient nurse ; but he absolutely refused to believe in her danger, and was almost rude to the doctor when he spoke de- spondingly of his patients state. He was always insisting that she was better, get- ting well. Everything that money could procure of the rarest and most costly nature he obtained for Elvira; soft eider-down from Germany, rich Indian shawls, luxuri- ous English sofas and invalid chairs. He liked her to wear costly lace, and put beautiful rings that he had purchased for her in London and Paris on her little thin fingers. My Elvira is a great and rich lady, he said to her; and when she is well again, we will buy a beautiful villa at Florence, and become grand signori. She would sometimes hold out her fingers and watch the rings drop off one by one. Look, Nino mine, she said; like these, the pleasures and riches of this world are dropping from me! He could not be angry with her now when she said these things. Fra Geronimo was living at his Fran- ciscan home at Fiesole when the news reached him of Giannettos return to Florence. He waited some days, and then determined that he would seek him out. Two or three times he called at the Casa Mattei, and each time Giannetto was denied to him. Once Elvira sent for him, and begged him to see her husband; and, if necessary, to force him into an interview. Father, she said, I feel that every day that passes now is an opportunity lost. See him; and tell him that I am dying, that before many weeks he will be alone ; and tell him that I cannot die till his soul is safe, till he returns to the God whom he has forsaken. Father, she added suddenly, the hectic hue flushing into her face, it is not that he does not believe he believes he suffers I know it. He believes and suffers, repeated the friar. My daughter, I have prayed long for him. I have striven against the power of the enemy; and by Gods grace I shall prevail, and his soul shall be saved! That night, when all were at rest, Fra Geronimo slowly and patiently paced the Borgo Pinti. He knew that this was the hour in which Giannetto allowed himself exercise and relaxation from the constant attendance on his wife; and he awaited his return homeward. The night was calm and still, the silence only now and then broken by the irregular clang of different church- bells, telling the quarters of each passing. hour. The shadow of the tall friar looked almost gigantic as it fell before him; and Giannetto started back when he saw it, as he came up the street, and the song he had been softly singing died away unfinished on his lips. Giannetto, said the friar and Giannetto started again at the sound of his old, once familiar name I have sought you day after day, and the doors are closed against me. I must speak with you, Giannetto. Would that you would leave me to myself, said Giannetto, angrily I need no meddling monk to pry into my affairs. The friar laid his hand powerfully upon his arm. I know your secret, he said. You have nothing to tell me that I do not know. Giannetto shuddered. Then I need tell you nothing, father. Leave me in peace.~~ They had reached the door of the house. Almost as if the hand of the friar acted on him as a spell, Giannetto opened it; and they passed side by side into a large room on the ground-floor. It was not dark, for the moon streamed in, and her ghostly, colourless light filled the room. Giannetto flung himself down on a chair, his face turned sullenly away. Fra Geronimo slowly paced the room, his eyes bent on the ground. Giannetto, he said and the low hollow tone spoke of mental and phys- ical suffering I must have you listen, and forgive me if I speak too much of myself. I was once young, and strong, and brilliant, as you are now. My life began in courts. I was rich, I was pros- perous, and beloved. Giannetto, I also was a scoffer. To me, God was a mock- ery; religion the foolery of priests and women. My life was all enjoyment. I cared for nothing, thought of nothing, but the pleasures of the hour. I vatched 40 GIANNETTO. my mothers heart break slowly; for, begins to beam on the brow of your an- Giannetto, she loved me I was her gel-wife she is dying! You strive not idol, and I spurned her God. She had to believe it; but, Nino, it is true. Not another son. The friars voice grew many weeks are left you of her love lower and more husky as he spoke on. the time flies fast, repent while yet she This son was young, and fresh, and lives, and let her die in peace! Tell her innocent. On her deathbed she charged all. You have much to renounce fame, me to guard and watch over him for her riches, happiness but you have all to sake. 0 God! 0 God! I swore to do gain. I charge you, if you love her, to so. I broke the oath. I was wild, dis- repent! Another pause. The friar sank solute, and recked not what I did. Into on his knees. the dark regions of sin and hell I led Once more, Giannetto, I beseech him. I surrounded him with temptation. you to repent! Suffering! what is pres- I laughed to see him yield; and thus Ii ent suffering compared to the peace led him on, from bad to worse, till the which passeth all understanding? What measure of his iniquity was full, and is daily, hourly suffering, compared to there was no time for atonement. Gian- the agony of unrepentant remorse re- netto, he died cursing God and man; and morse that will stand beside you night I knew that I I his brother, his and day, will infuse a bitter gall into sworn guardian had driven him to dam- every pleasure, will sharpen every pain, nation! and will linger on in the very memory of He paused in his walk to and fro, and your young dead wife? Have pity on clasping his hands, he stood before Gian- Elvira have pity on yourself! netto, who had bowed his head on the Still Giannetto lay with his arms table. stretched out before him, and his head I tell you, that since that hour I have hidden. He writhed as the friar spoke, known no peace. I tore myself from but he answered nothing. homeit was a time of madness and Once more the friar rose to his full despair. I sought oblivion in vain; the height, gazing down on the prostrate fig- wild eyes of my dying brother haunted ure Giannetto, one more appeal! me night and day, and the awful blasphe- Who are you, what are you, that you my of his words, as the foam of death should brave the wrath of God? The was gathering on his lips good God ! worm crushed under the foot of man is they haunt me now. Then came a time not more impotent or more contemptible. of illness, and all said that I must die; There, as you stand, the strength of man- but life was strong within me, and there hood pours through your veins, your in- was work for me to do. I lived a tellect tells you that in knowledge of blighted, suffering man for God had good and evil man is as a god, and yet, in work for me to do. the pride of your being, you cannot un- There was a priest, an old man, who derstand what it is to die. Now is your came to tend me. God has rewarded him hour, you say; but the hour passes away, for what he did for me. He gave me and you are not. You believe I know hope; he bade me spend my life in it; it is not that you cannot believe. It bringing souls to God. Atone~~ e said; is that openly and avowedly you say, bring back the fallen ones ta Christ; Let me eat and drink, for to-morrow I and so, by saving many souls, atone for die! And thus you would make the destroying one. word of God of none effect; and such I went forth to the combat, armed by will be the endyou will eat and drink, St. Francis with humility, fasting, and and to-morrow you die unless poverty: and the years go on, but the My son, my son! eighteen hundred years atonement is yet unaccomplished. I pray, ago, an atonement was made for man, in I fast; but there is one soul I cannot suffering, in agony, in shame! Your win, there is one sinner I cannot save. Saviour pitied you; have pity on your- Giannetto, have pity on me have pity self! on yourself! Giannetto raised his head the agony He stood before him, tall and power- of the struggle was visible in his haggard ful; and the pale moon lit up his figure, face, but the conquest was achieved. leaving Giannetto shrunken, shivering in Father, father, I yield ! Teach me to the shade. The monks voice changed repent! to a softer, gentler straiii Long hours through that night Gian- Nino, my son, there is not much time netto and the Franciscan remained to- remaining. The light of another world gether. Giannetto made a full and free GIANNETTO. 41 confession. No ear heard or eye saw what passed between them; but the dawn had already gleamed in the sky before they separated, Giannetto, worn out, to throw himself on his bed; the friar to go on with his work, fasting and in prayer, before the mercy-seat of God. The following day was Sunday, and El- vira rose from her bed about the middle of the day; but Giannetto did not come as usual to carry her into the music-room, and watch and tend her. Her father brought her in before going to mass, and they left her alone, anxious and watching for her husbands coming. After they were all gone, Giannetto came quietly in and stood by her side. She raised her eyes to his face, and saw that it was very pale; but there was a look in his eyes, as he knelt down beside her, that gave her heart such a strange bound of hope, that for one moment she was speechless. He knelt on silently by the couch, where she lay pure as a lily and almost as white, his eyes eagerly watching every movement of her sweet face. Nino, she said at length, I had a dream last night such a strange dream! It seemed to me that I lay here as usual, and yet the room was not the same. A window was before me, the lattice set wide open; and a glorious stream of yel- low light was flooding in, and there, in the light, which shone like a golden glo- ry, knelt our little child. Her hands were clasped in prayer, and she was dressed, like the holy innocents, in purest white; and all around her, shadowy, till they seemed but wings of pearl, hovered the pigeons of St. Mark. The child was praying, and at times she appeared to pause and listen intently. Sadness, then anxiety, then sorrow, seemed to follow each other in shades across her face as she listened then all changed into one brilliant, radiant smile; her little hands were uplifted, her robe seemed to become a robe of glory, and a soft cloud hid her from my sight. There was a sound of sweet singing in the air, and I thought I heard the words, Alleluia! Alieluia! a triumph has been won! Then all passed away, till I felt something soft and warm in my arms, nestling to me, and a little voice, which said, Mother, mother I have finished the work that was given me to do, and I awoke. It was only the first peep of dawn, but al- ready some one was leaving the house, for I heard steps going down the street. Oh, Nino! my arms feel so empty, my heart so hungry! Nino, Nino! she never learnt to call me mother! She hid her face, struggling with her tears. Giannetto held her closely in his arms; then taking her small thin hands in his, he drew them on to his bowed head, as he murmured rather than spoke El. vira, pray for me, that God will be mer- ciful to me a sinner. Elvira started up, her face beaming with a perfect joy Oh, my Nino, is it true? Has God granted me this pre- cious gift? Now at last I can die in peace.,~ Not die, my darling; oh, not die! Live, to help me to atone for the bitter past! Ah, Nino! we will go home together, and kneel at your mothers knees, and she will bless us both, and all will thence- forth be peace. Then suddenly she added, Let us go at once, Nino. Do not put it off one single day. The poor mother, she has watched and pined so long! Ah, how happy I am now! Elvira, said Giannetto, clasping her hands, it shall be as you say; but but then you must learn my secret, and he shuddered violently. Can you bear it ? Nino, she said, gently, there are no secrets in the grave. She lay back, breathless and exhausted. Nino went on, speaking very gently Elvira mine, Fra Geronimo must go with us; he would wish to be with you At the last, she finished; for he had bowed his head in grief too deep for tears. CHAPTER XII. THE long and painful journey was over, and at last Elvira lay in her husbands early home. It had been a very difficult one: many times they had stopped on the way, terrified at the deadly weakness which crept over her, and it was always her own wish that hurried them on. Let us hasten, Nino, she would say let us hasten on; the time grows very short. The last two hours she had to be carried in a litter on mens shoul- ders, for the paths to San Jacopo were too rough and narrow for any other mode of conveyance. Every comfort and luxury that she could think of had been sent on by Sign- ora Celeste. She herself accompanied ,them part of the way, and then returned to Florence, by Elviras special wish. Elvira had a sort of feeling that, in giv~ 42 GIANNETTO. ing herself entirely to Carolas care, she should in some measure make up for Giannettos long neglect. Carola spent her days of e4ectation wandering through the house, arranging anci rearranging, over and over again, the bed, sofa, and soft chairs which had arrived from Florence. Her joy in re- ceiving again her long-lost son was very great. She greeted him with the bright- est, happiest of looks, and refrained from one word of reproach ; but the sight of her worn and altered face grieved him more than any words she could have uttered. The curafo was much changed; he was failing fast, and very infirm. He was glad to welcome Giannetto back; but there was a certain sternness even in his welcome which Giannetto perceived at once. The good priest was far too just- minded and honest-hearted not to show by his manner that he greatly blamed his old pupil for his long and cruel ab- sence. By his old companions and fellow-fish- ermen Giannetto was received with a good deal of awe and wonder but little cordiality. All perceived at a glance the great disparity that had been established between them, in manner, dress, and ap- pearance, as much as in wealth and sta- tion. It was a relief now and then to poor Carola to go out and have a com- fortable chat with one or other of her friends ; for the refinement that filled her own house bewildered her. I feel as if he were not my own son, she would say, rather piteously. He is such a grand signore, it would become me rather to curtsy to him, and wait upon him, than he should do everything for me, as he does now; and my daughter-in-law alas! it is sad to see how she fades away! Truly, she is already an angel 1 And the good woman brushed away a tear. Fra Geronimo had taken up his abode in the house of young Andrea. On Sun- day he preached to the fisher-congrega- tion, and at other times visited the sick and poor, and spent his time with the good cura/o. It was evening. All was profoundly calm and still. The little waves came softly in, kissing the pebbles on the beach; the fisher-boats dotted the almost unbroken surface of the blue wide sea; and now and then a sea-gull, gleaming white as snow, dipped his long wings in the water, uttering his strange wild cry, and shaking off the drops, all shining, from his plumage. Elvira lay, propped up by cushions, close to the window of her room, which looked towards the sea. It was set wide open so that she might catch the faintest breath of air. Carola was beside her; Giannetto knelt in his customary atti- tude; Fra Geronimo sat like a statue, dark and motionless, in a corner of the room. Carola was telling Elvira, in broken words, the early history of her son. It is now, she said, some thirty years since our Giannetto was born, and before one year had passed his father died. It was a bitter trial to me, as you may well conceive, when years passed on, and my boy, my one comfort and hope, continued speechless. We tried to think that it was only slow developmentthat the power of speech would come; but, alas! more and more it grew upon us as a fact, that my child was dumbdumb from his birth. Giannetto, give her wine. This hot weather makes her faint, poor child 1 Giannetto gave her ~vine, which she swallowed eagerly. Go on, go on, she said; and Carola proceeded: Giannetto was a good and loving child. For a long time it seemed as if his sad misfortune would not affect his happiness; but as he grew older, alas they took to mocking him boys and men would laugh at his infirmity, and make him furious. His father before him was a passionate man, but not so passionate as our Giannetto. Had it not been for the goodness of our curafo, I know not what I could have done. He took him somewhat off my hands, gave him an education, loved him, cared for him, and, as I thought, was curing him of all his wild ~vain longings. Elvira, my sweet daughter, he was such a beautiful and clever boy! None in all the country round were like himso strong, so act- ive! Perhaps some of the taunting arose from jealousy; for no one, in work or sport, did half so well as he: and yet they seized upon his one defect, and never gave him peace. So it went on. As my boy grew older, he grew more sad; and yet I know not why. I thought he was becoming more resigned. Perhaps it was that I had prayed so longthat I had learnt to think I saw my prayers accomplish- ment. So it was such was his state when an English Conte came to San Jacopo; but, Elvira, you have heard aU this before? GIANNETTO. 43 Elvira shook her head. Go on, go and with authority. Giannetto, the on, she repeated. time has come ; tell all. He was a good and kind-hearted The shadows of evening were growing man, this Signor Conte, and he took deeper, and Elvira lay pale and motion- much interest in my boy. I had saved less. up a little sum, but very little, for then Elvira, you shall know all. Gian- we were very poor; and the curafo also nettos voice was so harsh and husky, had a few lire, but so fewfor, just be- that they scarcely recognized its sound. fore, the little he had saved had all to be You, who have never known such given away to a poor widow who was ill. things, how can you understand what it This money we had meant to lay up, and was to me when my hopes were dashed add to, till there should be enough to to the ground? How can you know? send Giannetto to some great doctor who You were never shut out and isolat- perhaps might cure him; but when the ed from your fellow-men despised, Signor Conte heard our story, he pro- scorned, and mocked an outcast from posed to take Giannetto with him to them all. From a child, the rebellion in Nice, to let him see the doctors there. my heart had been growing stronger. Ah! who can tell our gratitude? It Why was I born? What had I done to seemed a gift sent straight from heaven, be so miserable? One thing that always I wearied the Madonna and San Jacopo maddened me was the sound of music. with thanks. He was gone three days, I loved it with a passionate love; and, and on the fourth came back. alas! it was the sound of the human Elvira started forward Cured? You voice that was my passion. say he was cured ? The curato once gave me a violin. I Alas! no, replied Carola. He had it for some days; then I told him I came home driven to despair; for they had lost it. It was not true I had had told him plainly, had said that his broken it into a thousand pieces; for I in firmity was quite incurablethat none could only produce sounds which roused ever recovered who were born dumb. up all my passionate longings, and made Elvira sadk back. Again they gave me more embittered than ever. He used her wine. She looked faint and exhaust- to talk to me of resignationit seemed ed, but murmured still, Go on. such a mockery! Why should I be re- Alas! I come to the mystery of my signed? Why was I I only to be story. He was half mad and in despair. singled out for laughter and for shame? Every day I saw how the fire was burn- What had God done for me that I should ing within. He grew reckless; he cared be resigned? not what he did. But surely, surely you Elvira, at this time that my mother have heard all this before? tells you of, these wild and wicked There was a storm, so wild, so tern- thoughts were strongest. It was but short- ble, it seemed a marvel that anythin~ ly before that the cruel blow had fallen, alive escaped ; and all night long my boy when they had told me I had no hope; was out at sea. The great waves came and I was desperate. roaring in ; the thunder crashed and I was out alone that awful night, far rolled. Santa Maria! as we stood on out at sea, when the storm came on. I the beach ~ve thought the Last Day had was mad. I longed to die. I saw Death come! With the first early streak of close to me, staring me in the face; and dawn I heard a strange sound from the in my frenzy I said in my heart, Let me sea. Elvira, you know it well. It was curse God and die! The waves came Giannetto singing. Over the storm it leaping round me; the lightning seemed rose; it made me shrink with terror. to rend open all the depths of the heav~ For the first time I heard the voice of ens. It came on me, fiercely and more my son his life was saved and his fierce, that mad thought, never togo dumbness cured. She covered her home, but out there alone to curse face with her hands for one moment, my God and die. I was on my knees, then looked up, the tears streaming from and in my agony I cried, What is life her eyes. But, alas l from that time to me? Only grant me the power of forward he never crossed the threshold speech, and I care not for death or hell! of a church he never confessed he Speech! speech ! and I care not for my spurned all holy thingshe was, we soul! Elvira, I know not how, but feared, forsaken by his God! either from heaven or hell that awful cry From the darkening corner where he was answered. I heard the first sound of sat, Geronimo drew near. He spoke low, my own voice, and I sank down cowering 44 GIANNETTO. in the boat, in a terror too great for ut- woe, the peasant-mother watched and terance. I thought I had sold my soul! wept; and the long hours stole on. Elvira, Elvira, hear me still! He says Suddenly burst a cry from Carola (catching the monks robe, he held it up Giannetto! 0 Giannetto! convulsively) he says it may have Hush, hush U he said; you will come from God. That in that form it wake her she sleeps! may have been sent as a great and ter- Not sleep, Giannetto; it is not sleep, rible temptation that my cry may but death! have been answered from heaven, not Still he knelt on, as if he had not hell. Oh, who can say what comfort heard; and her hands were growing cold these words have given me! I have in his. All thought, all feeling gone, thought there was no atonement. I have save one, that she was dead his idol thought that, even if there were renent- his beloved~~orone ance, it would imply renunciation of my ever! b from him, and for- voice, my whole career. God help me! Seeing that he did not move, Carola I thought that I had sold my soul! El- went out and called Fra Geronimo. Ten~ vira! wife! But Elvira lay insensible. derly the Franciscan laid his hand on For days after this terrible narration, Giannettos shoulder. Giannetto, he Elvira hovered between life and death. said, my son, come with me. At last there came a time in which they Gentle and docile as a child, Giannetto said, All hope is over, and but few rose and followed him out, a broken- hours are left. hearted man. She lay, as usual, by the window, pant- The fishermen were waiting for him ing for air; and Giannetto alone was outside in the street foremost among ~vith her. In feeble, gasping words she them Pietro Zeiall eager to grasp his spoke to him of hope to come, of pardon, hands. Giannetto! Giannetto! pardon and of peace. She was going home, she us; we knew not what we did. Ah! said, leaving him alone in the wide and pardon, pardon us! weary world, perhaps through long, long They thronged round him. Giannetto years of penance, to expiate his sin, took Pietros outstretched hand, raising Giannettos head was bowed, and he only his glassy eyes from the ground. reiterated Elvira ! 0 Elvira! do not Friends, he said, as I hope to be leave me ! forgiven, I forgive you freely. She told him she was going before He went on with the friar to the curatos to pray for him. Once, in bitter anguish, house, leaving the rough fishermen sob- he cried aloud, My punishment is bing like children. greater than I can bear. But she spoke A few days after the funeral of his wife, on; and ever her words dwelt on the Giannetto left his native town with the peace which passeth understanding on Franciscan. I heard from the curato the reward to be looked for, by Gods that he had entered one of the religious grace, when the weary race is run, orders; and some years passed away. And so the hours drew on. Once more I heard of him. We were Over the dark sea, over the silent living near Pisa; and one day, with a streets, the night came softly down. One small number of friends, we ~isited a by one the large pale stars shone out in Carthusian monastery in a remote valley, the southern sky. which is very little known to the world in Breaking the solemn watches of the general. It was a wild, desolate place night, came the low murmur of chanting, the monks supporting themselves by the and the tinkling of a little bell. Out of produce of their land, and by the alms the church passed a slow procession bestowed on them in requital for their bearing the viaticum to a passing soul, prayers. Two and two, followed the simple fish- There were about twelve of them at ermen to the door of Giannettos house, the time of our visit fewer than usual; and then they knelt down in the street, for fever, combined with the peculiar aus- and the priest and Fra Geronimo went in terities of their order, had considerably alone, thinned their ranks. It was over. The last rites were ac- The women of our party were not ad- complished, the last words said, and they mitted within the gates; but I myself thought that she slept. Giannetto knelt and a friend were taken by a lay brother beside her bed, his eyes fixed on her face, to the cell of the superior, and round the his hands clasping hers, buildings. Pale, and not understanding such a The superior received us with dignified LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. 45 courtesy, and showed us as much of the i several weeks before and after that time. monastery as was allowed. He conducted We have had occasion to consider these us into the gloomy chapel, where one or two planets in three essays in these two of the white-robed monks were kneel- pages. The first, called Life in Mars, ing. They never moved when we en- in the Cornhiii Magazine for May 1871, tered, but knelt on, rigid, as if hewn out dealt with the theory that life probably of the stone. He showed us the beauti- exists in Mars. This theory, which may ful cloister with its twisted marble pillars be called the Brewsterian theory, was and vaulted roof. On the walls, cut on not viewed unfavourably in the essay; the stone, were the names of the dead, for in fact the writer at that time regard- their secular names as well as those ed the theory as on the whole more prob- adopted by them on entering the order able than Whewells. The second essay, the last link after death with the outer which related to the planet Jupiter, bore world and among them I read this the title A Giant Planet, and appeared in the Cornkill Magazine for May 1872. GIOVANNI BATTISTA NENCINI. FRA GIO- In this essay, the largest of all the plan- VANNI. DEO GRATIAS. ets was certainly not presented as the I turned to the superior and asked him probable abode of life, though, on the when this penitent had died. Two other band, the theory advanced respect- years ago, he said. Fra Giovanni led ing Jupiter could hardly be called a the holiest of lives. He practised every Whewellite theory. For Whewell, as our penance and austerity permitted by our readers doubtless remember, advanced rule; and from the time he took the vows, the theory that the globe of Jupiter prob- he never spoke again. No ear ever ably consists in the main of water, with heard the sound of his voice till the last perhaps a cindery nucleus, and main- moment of his life. He died of the ma- tamed that if any kind of life exists at all lana in the heat of summer. He lay on in this planet, its inhabitants must be ashes in the chapel, for such was his pulpy, gelatinous creatures, living in a humble desire; and when the last mo- dismal world of water and ice; whereas ment came, he stretched out his arms as we pointed to evidence showing that an if to grasp some vision, and fell back intense heat pervades the whole globe of murmuring Deo gratias. And see, we Jupiter, and causes disturbances so tre- had those words engraved below his mendous that life would be impossible name. there even if we could conceive the exist It was, from first to last, a strange ence of creatures capable of enduring story, and one that I can never forget. I the planets fiery heat. Yet a year later wished to hear more of those years after there appeared in the Cornhill Magazine Elviras death; but the curato was dead, for July 1873, a Whewelhte essay on and I could find no trace of Fra Gero- Mars, in which we dealt with certain con- nimo. I sought after him for some time, siderations opposed to the Brewsterian and did not give up the quest till I had theory that life probably exists on the learnt that he had been sent on some far- ruddy planet. Without absolutely adopt- off foreign mission in the East. ing Whewells view, we discussed those facts which would certainly not be left untouched by Whewell if he now lived and sought to maintain his position against the believers in more worlds From The Corohull Magazine. that one. LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER Those three essays illustrate, but do WORLDS. not strictly synchronize with, the gradual DURING the summer months of this change in the writers ideas respecting year two planets will be conspicuous the subject of life in other worlds. In which illustrate strikingly the varieties fact, so far back as the close of the year of condition distinguishing the members 1869, he had begun to regard doubtfully of the solar system from each other. the theory of Brewster, which until then One is the planet Jupiter, at his nearest had appeared on the whole the most rea- and brightest in the middle of April, but sonable way of viewing the celestial conspicuous as an evening star for sev- bodies. The careful study of the planets eral months thereafter; the other is the Jupiter and Saturn had shown that the planet Mars, shining with chief splendour theory of their being the abode of life towards the end of June, but distinguish- (that is, of any kind of life in the least re- able by his brightness and colour for sembling the forms we are familiar with) 46 LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. is altogether untenable. The great differ- worlds is worthy of the attention thus ence between those planets and the mem- directed to it. Seeing that we have not bers of the smaller planetary family of and can never have positive knowledge which our earth is the chief, suggested on the subject, is it to be regarded as, in that in truth the major planets belong to the scientific sense, worthy of discussion another order of orbs altogether, and at all ? Can the astronomer or the geol- that wehave as much or as little reason ogist, the physicist or the biologist, know comparing them to the sun as for compar- more on this subject than those who ing them to the earth on which we live have nos pecial knowledge of astronomy, Nevertheless, in the case of Venus and or geology, or physics, or biology? The Mars, the features of resemblance to our astronomer can say how large such and earth predominate over those of dissim- such a planet is, its average density, the ilarity; and it was natural that the writer, length of its day and its year, the light- while rejecting the theory of life in Jupi- reflecting qualities of its service, even ter or Saturn as opposed to all the avail- (with the physicists aid) the nature of able evidence, should still consider the the atmosphere surrounding it, and so theory of life in Mars or Venus as at least on ; the geologist can tell much about plausible. Ideas on such subjects are the past hi story of our own earth, whence not less tenacious than theories on mat- we may infer the variations of condition ters more strictly scientific. Not only which other earths in the universe proba- so, but the bearing of newly-recognized bly undergo; the physicist, besides aid- facts on long-entertained theories is not; ing the astronomer in his inquiries into at once recognized even by those most the condition of other orbs, can deter- careful to square their opinions accord- mine somewhat respecting the physical ing to the evidence they are acquainted requirements of living creatures; and with. Again and again it has happened the biologist can show how the races in that students of science (in which term habiting our earth have gradually become we include the leaders of scientific modified in accordance with the varying opinions) have been found recording and conditions surrounding them, how cer- explaining in one chapter some newly- tam ill-adapted races have died out while recognized fact, while in another chapter well-adapted races have thriven and mul- they have described with approval some tiplied, and how matters have so pro- old theory, in totalforgetfulness of the fact ceeded that during the whole time since that with the new discovery the old theory life began upon our earth there has been has become altogether untenable. Some- no danger of the disappearance of any of times the incongruity is not recognized the leading orders of living creatures .But until it has been pointed out by others, no astronomer, or geologist, or physicist, Sometimes so thoroughly do our pre-; or biologist, can tell us anything certain possessions become bone of our bone about life in other worlds. If a man pos- and flesh of our flesh, that even the sessed the fullest knowledge of all the clearest reasoning does not prevent the leading branches of scientific research, he student of science from combining the would remain perfectly ignorant as to the acceptance of a newly-discovered fact actual state of affairs in the planets even of. with continued belief in a theory which our own system. His ideas about other that fact entirely disproves. Let the mat- worlds must still be speculative ; and the ter be explained as it may, it was only most ignorant can speculate on such mat- gradually that both the Brewsterian and ters as freely as the most learned. Indeed Whewellite theories of life in other the ignorant can speculate a great deal worlds gave place in the writers mind to more freely. And it is here, precisely, a theory in one sense intermediate to that knowledge has the advantage The them, in another sense opposed to both, student of science feels that in such mat- which seems to accord better than either ters he must be guided by the analogies with what we know about our own earth, which have been already brought to his about the other members of the solar knowledge. If he rejects the Brews- s vst em, and about other suns which peo- terian or the Whewellite theory, it is not pie space. What we now propose to do because either theory is a mere specula- is to present this theory as specially tion for which he feels free to substitute illustrated by the two planets which a speculation of his own; but because, adorn our evening skies during the sum- on a careful consideration of the facts, mer months of the present year. he finds that the analogies on which each But it may be asked at the outset, theory was based were either insufficient, whether the question of life in other or were not correctly dealtwith, and that LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. 47 other analogies, or these when rightly viewed, point to a different conclusion as more probable. Nor need we be concerned by the con- sideration that there can be no scientific value in any conclusion to which we may be led on the subject of life in other worlds, even though our method of rea- soning be so far scientific that the argu- ment from analogy is correctly dealt with. If we look closely into the matter, we shall find that as respects the great pur- poses for which science is studied, it is as instructive to think over the question of life in other worlds as to reason about matters which are commonly regarded as purely scientific. It is scientific to infer from observations of a planet that it has such and such a diameter, or such and such a mass and thence to infer that its surface contains so many millions of square miles, its volume so many mil- lions of cubic miles, its mass so many billions or trillions of tons yet these facts are not impressive in themselves. It is only when we consider them in connection with what we know about our own earth that they acquire mean- ing, or at least that they have any real interest for us. For then alone do we recognize their bearing on the great problem which underlies all sci- ence, the question of the meaning of the wonderful machinery at ~vork around us machinery of which we are ourselves a portiOn.* In suggesting views respecting Jul)iter and Mars unlike those which have been commonly received with favour, it is not by any means our purpose, as the reader might anticipate, to depart from the usual course of judging the unknown by the known. Although that course is fraught with difficulties, and has often led the student of science astray, it is in such inquiries as the present the proper, one may almost say the only, course. * It has often seemed to us that a description, by the close observer Dickens, of the fancies of a brain dis- tempered by fever, corresponds with feelings which the student of science is apt to experience as the sense of the awful mystery of the universe impresses itself on his soul The time seemed interminable. I con- founded impossible existences with my own identity. I was as a steel beam of a vast engine, clashing and whirling over a gulf, and yet I implored in my own perron to have the engine stopped and my part in it hammered off. Of all the wonders that the student of science deals with, of all the mysteries that perplex him is there au let more wonderful, more perplex inc th~n the thought that be, a part of the mighty niachenery of the universe, should anxiously inquire into its nature aid motions, should seek to interpret the ~a m of its Maker, aiid should be concerned as to urn sh crc in the working of the mysterious mccii usin The exception we take to the ordinary views is not based on the fact that too much reliance has been placed on the ar- gument from analogy, but that the argu- ment has been incorrectly employed. A just use of the argument leads to con- clusions very different from those com- monly accepted, but not less different from that theory of the universe to which Whewell seems to have felt himself driven by his recognition of the illogical nature of the ordinary theory respecting the plurality of worlds. Let us consider what the argument from analogy really teaches us in this case. The just use of the argument from analogy requires that we should formour opinion respecting the other planets, chiefly by considering the lessons taught us by our own earth, the only planet we are acquainted with. Indeed, it has been thus that the belief in many inhabited worlds has been supported so that if we employ the evidence given by our own earth, we cannot be said to adopt a novel method of reasoning, though we may be led to novel conclusions. The fact that the earth is inhabited, af- fords, of course, an argument in favour of the theory that the other planets are also inhabited. In other words, a cer- tain degree of probability is given to this theory. But we must look somewhat more closely into the matter to ascertain what that probability may amount to. For there are all orders of probability, from uncertainty down to a degree of proba- bility so low that it approaches closely to that extremest form of improbability which we call impossibility. It is well at once to take this logical basis for there are few mistakes more mischievous than the supposition that a theory supported by certain evidence derives from that ev- idence a probability equal to that of the evidence itself. It is absolutely certain that the one planet we know is inhabited hut it by no means follows certainly that planets like the earth support life, still less that planets unlike the earth do so, and least of all that every planet is now the abode of life. A higher degree of probabilky in favour of the theory that there are many inhabited worlds arises from a consid- eration of the ;nznner in which life exists on the earth. If one could judge of a ~ffr~OSe (according to our way of think- ing) in all that is going on around us, our earth might teach us to regard the sup- port of life as natures great purpose. 48 LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. Earth, water, and air, alike teem with life. No peculiarities of climate seem able to banish life. As we have said elsewhere, In the bitter cold within the Arctic regions, with their strange alter- nations of long summer days and long ~inter nights, their frozen seas, perennial ice, and scanty vegetation, life flourishes in a hundred different forms. On the other hand, the torrid zone, with its blazing heat, its long-continued droughts, its strange absence of true seasonal changes, and its trying alternations of oppressive calms and fiercely raging hurricanes, nourishes even more nu- merous and varied forms of life than the great temperate zones. Around mount- ain summits as in the depths of the most secluded valleys, in mid-ocean as in the arid desert, in the air as beneath the surface of the earth, we find a myriad forms of life. Nor is the scene changed when, with the minds eye, we contem- plate the earth during the past ages of her history, even to the most remote stage of her existence, as a. planet fit to be the abode of life. Whenever there was life at all, there was abundant life. For though no traces remain of a million forms of life which co-existed with the few forms recognized as belonging to this or that geologic era, yet we can infer from the forms of which traces remain that others must have been present which have left no trace of their exist- ence. The skeletons of mighty carnivora assure us that multitudes of creatures existed on which those monsters fed. The great sea. creatures whose remains have been found attest the existence of many races of small fish. The mighty pterodactyl did not range through desert aerial regions, for he could exist only where many orders of aerial creatures also existed. Of minute creatures in- habiting the water we have records in the strata formed as generation after genera- tion sank to the sea-bottom after death, whereas the correspondingly minute in- habitants of the land and of the air have left no trace of their existence yet we can feel no reasonable doubt that in every geologic age forms of minute life were as rich in air and on the land as in the sea, or as they now are in all three. Of insect life all but a few traces have passed away, though occasionally, by some rare accident, even so delicate a structure as a butterflys wing has left its record, not only attesting the exist- ence of hosts of insects, but showing that delicate flowers with all the charms of sweet perfume and variegated colour existed in those times as in ours. It is no mere speculation, then, but the direct and unquestionable teaching of geology, that throughout the whole time repre-. sented by the fossiliferous rocks, life of all kinds was most abundant on our earth. And while we thus recognize through. out our earths history as a planet, natures apparent purpose of providing infinitely varied forms of life at all times and under the most varied conditions, we also perceive that nature possesses a power of modifying the different types in accordance with the varying conditions under which they subsist. XVithout en- tering here into the vexed question of the actual extent to which the principle of selection operates, we must admit that it does operate largely, and that it must necessarily cause gradual change of every type of living creature towards the most suitable form. This particular operation of nature must certainly be regarded as an apparent carrying out of the purpose attributed to her by our manner of speak- ing when we say that natures one great object is the support of life. If types were unchangeable, life would come to an end upon a globe whose condition is not only not unchangeable, but changes largely in the course of long periods of time. But types of life change, or can change when required, at least as quickly as the surrounding conditionssave in the case of certain catastrophes, which, however, never affect any considerable proportion of the earths surface. Nor is it easy to assign any limits to this power of adaptation, though we can scarcely doubt that limits exist. The earth may so change in the course of hundreds of thousands of years to come that none of the chief forms of life, animal or vegetable, at present existing, could live even for a single year under the changed conditions of those distant times, while yet the descendants of creatures now living (including man) may be as well fitted to the circumstances around them as the most favoured races of our own time. Still there must be a limit beyond which the chan?,e of the earths condition, whether throu~h the cooling of her own globe or the diminu- tion of the suns heat, will be such that no conceivable modification of the types of life now existing could render life possible. It must not be for~,otten that natures power of adaptation is known to be finite in many cases, and, therefore, LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. 49 So careful of the type; but no, From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, A thousand types are gone; I care for nothing, all shall go. must be presumed to be finite in all cases. Surrounding conditions become less fa- The very process of selection by which vourable. It ceases to thrive, or, per- adaptation is secured implies the contin- haps, passes through successive alterna- ual failure of preceding adaptations. The tions of decay and restoration. At length struggle for life involves the repeated the time comes when the struggle for victory of death. The individuals which existence can manifestly have but one perish in the struggle (that is, which end and then, though the type may lin perish untimely) far outnumber those ger long before it actually disappears, its which survive. And what is true of disappearance is only a question of time. individuals is true of types. Nature is Now, it is true that each type thus flour- as wasteful of types as she is of life ishing for a while springs from other types which have disappeared. The favoured types of our age are but varieties of past types. Yet this does not show that types will continue to succeed each other in endless succession. For if we consider the matter rightly, we perceive that the analogue of this circumstance is,in the case of individual life, the succession of living creatures generation after genera- tion. And as we know that each family, however large, dies out in the long run unless recruited from without, so we are to infer that the various types peopling this earth, since they cannot be recruited from without, must at length die out, though to our conceptions the time nec- essary for this process may appear infi- nite. To the student of science who recog- nizes the true meaning of the doctrine that force can be neither annihilated nor created, it will indeed appear manifest that life must eventually perish from the face of the earth for he perceives that the earth possesses now a certain fund or store of force in her inherent heat, which is continually though slowiy passing away. The sun also, which is a storehouse whence certain forms of force are dis- tributed to the earth, has only a finite amount of energy (thou~h probably the inhabitants of earth are less directly con- cerned in this than in the finiteness of terrestrial forces). Life of all kinds on the earth depends on both these stores of force, and when either store is ex- hausted life must disappear from the earth. But each store is in its nature limited, and must one day, therefore, be exhausted. We have also only to consider that life on the earth necessarily had a beginning, to infer that it must necessarily have an end. Clearest evidence shows how our earth was once a fluid haze of light, and how for countless ~ons afterwards her globe was instinct with fiery heat, amidst which no form of life could be conceived to exist, after the manner of life known to us, though the germs of life may have been present in the midst of This is, in truth, what we must believe, if, reasoning by analogy, we pass but one step higher in the scheme of creation. We know that nature, wasteful of in- dividual life, is equally wasteful of types of life. Must we not infer that she is no less wasteful of those aggregations of types which constitute the populations of worlds ? Watching her operations a few brief minutes, we might (setting experience aside) suppose her careful of individual life. Watching during a few generations, we should pronounce her careful of the type, though careless of life. But we perceive, when we extend the range of time through which we look, that she is careless no less of the type than of life. Why should this extension of the range of view be the last we should permit ourselves? If we pronounce nature careful of the planetary popula- tions, though careless of the types of life which make up such populations, we are simply declining to take a further step in the course pointed out for us by the teachings of analogy. Let us go over the ground afresh. In- dividual creatures, even the most fa- voured, perish after a time, though the balance may long oscillate between life and death. Weak at first, each creature which is to live grows at length to its full strength, not without vicissitudes which threaten its existence. As its life pro- gresses the struggle continues. At one time the causes tending to decay seem to prevail awhile ; at another, those which restore the vital powers. Disease is re- sisted again and again; at first easily, gradually with greater difficulty, until at length death wins the day. So it is with types or orders of living creatures. A favoured type, weak at first, begins after awhile to thrive, and eventually attains its fullest development. But from time to time the type is threatened by dangers. LIViNG AGE. VOL. XI. 523 50 LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. the fire. Then followed ages in which remote periods, and that the several the earths glowing crust was drenched stages of the different planets growth by showers of muriatic, nitric, and sul- differed enormously in uration ; while phuric acid, not only intensely hot, but analogy, the only available evidence on fiercely burning through their chemical the third point, assures us that little re- activity. Only after periods infinite to semblance can be supposed to exist be- our conceptions could life such as we tween the conditions and requirements know it, or even in the remotest degree of life in different members of the solar like what is now known to us, have begun system. to exist upon the earth. On any reasonable hypothesis of the The reader, doubtless, perceives whith- evolution of the solar system, the eight er these considerations tend, and how primary planets must have begun to ex- they bear in an especial manner on the ist as independent bodies at very differ- opinion we are to form respecting the two ent periods. If we adopt Laplaces the- planets Mars and Jupiter. We see our ory of the gradual contraction of a mighty earth passing through a vast period, from nebula, then we should infer that the its first existence as a separate member planets were formed in the order of their of the solar system, to the time when life distances from the sun, the remoter plan- appeared upon its surface then began a ets being those formed first. And ac- comparatively short period, now in prog- cording to the conditions of Laplaces ress, during which the earth has been and hypothesis, the interval separating the will be the abode of life; and after that formation of one planet from that of its must follow a period infinite to our con- next neighbour on either side must have ceptions when the cold and inert globe of been of enormous duration. If we prefer the earth will circle as lifelessly round the theory of the gradual growth of each the sun as the moon now does. XVe may, planet by processes of accretion, we if we please, infer this from analogy, see- should infer perhaps that the larger plan- ing that the duration of life is always in- ets took longest in growing to maturity, finitely small by comparison with the or preferably that (according to the doc- duration of the region where life appears; trine of probabilities) a process which for so that, by analogy, the duration of life on the whole system must have been of in- the earth would be infinitely short com- conceivably enormous length, and in pared with the duration of the earth itself. which the formation of one planet was But we are brought to the same conclu- in no sort connected with the formation sion independently of analogy, perceiving of any other, could not have resulted in that the frre of the earths youth and the bringing any two planets to maturity at deathly cold of her old age must alike be the same or nearly the same time, save infinite in duration compared with her by so improbab~e a combination of for- period of vital life-preserving warmth. tuitous circumstances as may justly be And what is true of the earth is true of considered impossible. If we consider every member of the solar system, major that the solar system was evolved by a planet, minor planet, asteroid, or satellite; combination of both processes (the most probably of every orb in space, from the probable theory of the three in our opin. n-iinutest meteorite to suns exceeding our ion), we must still conclude that the sun a thousandfold in volume, epochs of the formation of the different Now, if we had any reason to suppose planets were separated by time-intervals that all the planets sprang simultaneously so enormous that the duration of life into being, that each sta~,e of each plan- upon our earth is, by comparison, as a ets existence synchronized with the same mere second compared with a thousand stage for every other planet, and that life years. appeared and disappeared at correspond- Again, if we co~hpare any two mem- ing stages in the existence of every plan- hers of the solar system, except perhaps et, we should perforce accept the theory Venus and the earth, we cannot doubt that at this moment every planet is the that the duration of any given stage of abode of life. Not only, however, have the existence of one must be very differ- we no reason to suppose that any one of ent from that of the corresponding these conditions exists (and not one hut stage in the other. If we compare, for all these conditions must exist before instance, Mars with the earth, or the that theory can be accepted), hut we have earth with Jupiter, and still more, if we the strongest possible evidence, short of compare Mars with Jupiter, we cannot actual demonstration, that the births of doubt that the smaller orb of each pair the different planets occurred at widely must pass much more rapidly through the LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. 5 diff~tent stages of its existence than the larger. The laws of physics assure us of this, apart from all evidence afforded by actual observation hut the results of observation confirm the theoretical con- clusions deduced from physical laws. We cannot, indeed, study Mars in such sort as to ascertain his actual physical condition. We know that his surface is divided into lands and seas, and that he possesses an atmosphere we know that the vapour of water is at times present in this atmosphere we can see that snows gather over his polar regions in winter and diminish in summer but we cannot certainly determine whether his oceans are like our own or for the most part frozen ; the whitish light which spreads at times over land or sea may be due to clouds or to light snow-falls, for aught that observation shows us the at- mosphere may be as dense as our own or exceedingly rare ; the polar regions of the planet may resemble the earths polar regions, or may be whitened by snows relatively quite insignificant in quantity. In fine, so far as observation extends, the physical condition of Mars may closely resemble that of the earth, or be utterly dissimilar. But we have indirect obser- vational means of determining the prob- able condition of a planet smaller than the earth, and presumably older that is, at a later stage of its existence. For the moon is such a planet, and the tele- scope shows us that the moon in her de- creptitude is oceanless, and is either wholly without atmosphere or possessin~ an atmosphere of exceeding tenuity. Hence we infer that Mars, which, as an exterior planet and much smaller than the earth, is probably at a far later stage of its existence, has passed far on his way towards the same stage of decreptitude as the moon. As to Jupiter, though he is so much farther from us than Mars, we have direct observational evidence, because of the vast scale on which all the processes in progress on his mighty globe are taking place. We see that his whole surface is enwrapped in cloud- layers of enormous depth, and undergo- ing changes which imply an intense act- ivity (or, in other words, an intense heat) throughout, the whole mass of Jupiter. We recognize in the planets appearance the signs of as near an approach to the condition of the earth, when as yet the greater part of her mass was vaporous, as is consistent with the vast difference necessarily existing between two orbs containing such unequal quantities of matter. Mars, on the one hand, differs from the earth in l~ing a far older planet, probably, as respects the actual time which has elapsed since the planet was formed, and certainly, as respects the stage of its career which it has now reached. Jupiter, on the other hand, dif- fers from the earth in being a far young- er planet, not in years perhaps, but in condition. As to the actual age of Ju- piter we cannot form so probable an opinion as in the case df Mars. Mars being an exterior planet, must have begun to be formed long before the earth, and, being a much smaller planet, was prob- ably a shorter time in attaining his ma- ture growth on both accounts, there- fore, he would be much older than the earth in years ~vhile, as we have seen. his relative smallness would cause the successive stages of his career subse- quent to his existence as an independ- ent and mature planet to be much short- er. Jupiter, being exterior to Mars, pre- sumably began to be formed millions of centuries before that planet, but his bulk and mass so enormously exceed those of Mars, that his growth must have required a far longer time so that it is not at all certain that even in point of years Jupi- ter (dating from his maturity) may not be the youngest member of the solar system. But even if not, it is practically certain that, as regards development, Jupiter is far younger than any member of the solar system, save perhaps, his brother oiant Saturn, whose greater antiquity and inferior mass (both suggesting a later stage of development) may have been counterbalanced by a comparative slug- gishness of growth in the outer parts of the solar domain. It is manifest from observed facts, in the case of Jupiter, that he is as yet far removed from the life-bearing stage of planetary existence, and theoretical con- siderations point to the same conclusion. In the case of Mars, theoretical consid- erations render it extremely probable that he has long since passed the life- bearing stage, and observed facts, though they do not afford strong evidence in fa- vour of this conclusion, suggest nothing which, rightly considered, is OpI)Osed to it. It is true that, as we have shown in former essays on this planet, Mars pre- sents many features of resemblance to our earth. The planet rotates in a period not differing much from our day his 52 LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. year does not exceed ours so greatly as existence of life on Mars. The surface to suggest relations unpleasantly affect- of the moon, for example, must under~o ing living creatures it has been shown disturbances, mighty throes, as the that there are oceans in Mars, though it great wave of sun-distrib~ited heat circles is not quite so clear that they are not for round her orb once in each lunation, the most part frozen ; he has an atmos- yet few suppose that there is life, or has phere, and the vapour of water is at times been for untold ages, on the once teem-~ present in that atmosphere as in ours ; ing surface of our companion planet. clouds form there ; snow falls, and per- The formation of Mars as a planet must haps rain from time to time; ice and so lon1, have preceded that of our earth, snow gather at the poles in winter, and his original heat must have been so much are partially melted in summer; the land less, his small globe must have parted surface must necessarily be uneven, see- with such heat as it once had so much ing that the very existence of continents more rapidly, Mars lies so much farther and oceans implies that once, at any rate, from the sun than our earth does, his at- the globe of Mars was subjected to forces mosphere is so much rarer, his supply of resembling those which have produced water (the temperature-conserving ele- the irregularities of the earths surface; ment) is relatively as well as absolutely glacial action must still be going on there, so much smaller, that his surface must even if there is no rainfall, and therefore be utterly unfit to support life in the re- no denuding action corresponding to that motest degree resemblin~ the forms of which results from the fall of rain on our life known on earth (save, of course, those terrestrial continents. But it is a mis- lower forms which from the outset we take (and a mistake too commonly made) have left out of consideration). Yet at to suppose that the continuance of those one time, a period infinitely remote ac processes are ceptions of time, the natural which advantageous cordin~ to our con to living creatures, implies the existence globe of Mars must have resembled our of such creatures. The assumption is earths in warmth, and in being disturbed that the beneficent processes of nature by the internal forces which cause that are never wasted according to our con- continual remodelling of a planets sur- ceptions. Yet we see over and over again face without which life must soon pass in nature not merely what resembles away. Again, in that remote period the waste, what in fact is waste according to sun himself was ap~)reciably younger; our ideas, but an enormous excess of for we must remember that although, wasted over utilized processes. The sun measured by ordinary time-intervals, the pours forth on all sides the supplies of sun seems to give forth an unvarying sup- light and heat which, where received as ply of heat day by day, a real process of on our earth sustain veoetable and animal exhaustion is in progress there also. At life; but the portion received by our one time there must have existed on Mars earth is less than the two thousand mu- as near an approach to the present con- lionth, the portion received by all the dition of our earth, or rather to her gen- planets less than the two hundred and eral condition during this life-supporting thirty millionth part, of the total force era of her existence, as is consistent with thus continually expended. And this is the difference in the surface-gravity of typical of natures operations everywhere, the planets, and with other differences The earth on which we live illustrates inherent as it were in their nature. Since the truth as clearly as the sun. We are Mars must also have passed through the apt to say that it teems with life, forget- fiery stage of planetary life and through ting that the region occupied by living that intermediate period when, as it would creatures of all orders is a mere shell, seem, life springs spontaneously into while the whole interior mass of the earth, being under the operation of natural laws far larger in volume, and undergoing far not as yet understood by us, we cannot more active processes of change teem- doubt that when his globe was thus fit for in~ in fact with energycontains no the support of life, life existed upon it. living creature, or at least can only be Thus for a season,enormously long supposed to contain living creatures by compared with our ordinary tirne-meas- imagining conditions of life utterly differ- ures, but very short compared with the ent from those we are familiar with, life-supporting era of our earths career, The mere continuance therefore on Mars was a world like our own, filled Mars of processes which on the earth we with various forms of life. Doubtless, associate with the existence of life, in these forms changed as the conditions reality proves nothing as to the continued around them changed, advancing or retro LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. 53 grading as the conditions were favourable or the reverse, perhaps developing into forms corresponding to the various races of men in the possession of reasoning powers, but possibly only attaining to the lower attributes of consciousness when the development of life on Mars was at its highe~t, thenceforth passing by slow de~rees~into lower types as the old age of Mars approacbed, and finally perishing as cold and death seized the planet for their prey. In the case of Jupiter, we are guided by observed facts to the conclusion that ages must elapse before life can be possi- ble. Theory only tells us that this mighty planet, exceeding the earth three hundred times in mass, and containing five-sevenths of the mass of the whole system of bodies travelling around the sun, must still retain a large proportion of its original heat, even if we suppose its giant orb took no longer in fashioning than the small globe of our earth. Theory tells us moreover that so vast a globe could not possibly have so small a density (less than one-fourth the earths) under the mighty compressing force of its own gravity, unless some still more potent cause were at work to resist that tremendous compression and this force can be looked for nowhere but in the in- tense heat of the planets whole mass. But observation shows us also that Jupi- ter is thus heated. For we see that the planet is surrounded by great cloud-belts such as our own sun would be incompe- tent to raise, far more so the small sun which would be seen in the skies of Jupiter if already a firmament had been set in the midst of the waters. We see that these belts undergo marvellous changes of shape and colour, implying the action of exceedingly energetic forces. We know from observation that the region in which the cloud-bands form is exceedingly deep, even if the innermost region to which the telescope penetrates is the true surface of the planet while there is reason for doubting whether there may not be cloud-layer within cloud-layer, to a depth of many thousand miles, or even whether the planet has any real surface at all. And, knowing from the study of the earths crust that for long ages the whole mass of our globe was in a state of fiery heat, while a yet longer period preceded this when the earths globe was vaporous, we infer from analogy that Jupiter is passing, though far more slowly, through stages of his existence corresponding with ter restrial eras long anterior to the appear- ance of life upon the scene. We must, then, in the case of Jupiter, look to a far distant future for the period of the planets existence as a life-sus- tainer. The intense heat of the planet must in the course of time be gradually radiated away into space, until at length the time will come when life will be pos- sible. Then, doubtless, will follow a period (far longer than the life-sustaining portion of the earths existence) during which Jupiter will in his turn be the abode of life. It may be that long before then the sun will have lost so large a proportion of his heat that life on Jupiter will be mainly sustained by the planets inherent heat. But more probably the changes in the suns heat take place far more slowly relatively than changes in the condition of any planet, even the largest. Possibly, even, the epoch when Jupiter will have so far cooled as to be a fit abode for life, will be so remote that the suns fires will have been recruited by the indrawing of the inferior family of planets, including our own earth. For it must be remembered that the periods we have to deal with in considering the cooling of such an orb as Jupiter are so enormous that not merely the ordinary time-measures, but even the vast periods dealt with by geologists must be insignif- icant by comparison. Yonder is Jupiter still enwrapped in clouds of vapour raised by his internal heat, still seething, as it were, in his primeval fires, though the earth has passed through all the first stages of her existence, and has even long since passed the time of her maturity as a life-sustaining globe. It is no mere fancy to say that all the eras of Jupiters existence must be far longer than the corresponding terrestrial eras, since we actually see Jupiter in that early stage of his existence, and know that the earth has passed through many stages towards the final eras of decay and death. It is indeed impossible to form any opinion as to the probable condition of the sun or of the solar system when Jupiter shall be- come fit to support life, seeing that, for aught we know, far higher cycles than those measured by the planetary motions~ may have passed ere that time arrives. The sun may not be a solitary star, but a member of a star-system, and before Jupiter has cooled down to the life-sus- taming condition, the suns relation to other suns of his own system may have. altered materially, although no percepti.. ble changes have occurred during the 54 LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. relatively minute period (a trifle of four thousand years or so) since astronomy began. And as, in considering the case of Mars, we suggested the possibility that owing to the relative shortness of that planets life-sustaining era, the develop- ment of the higher forms of life may have been less complete than on our earth thus far (still less than the development of those forms on the earth in coming ages), so we may. well believe that during the long period of Jupiters existence as a life-supporting planet, creatures far higher in the scale of being than any that have inhabited, or may hereafter inhabit, the earth, will be brought into existence. As the rule of nature on earth has been to advance from simple to more complex forms, from lower types to higher, so (following the argument from analogy) we must suppose the law of nature to be elsewhere. And time being a necessary element in any proces~ of natural devel- opment, it follows that where nature is allowed a longer time to operate, higher forms, nobler types, will be developed. If this be so, then in Jupiter, the prince of planets, higher forms of animated con- scious being will doubtless be developed than in any other planet. We need not indeed point out that the supposition on which this conclusion rests is merely speculative, and that now, when the laws of natural development have so recently begun to be recognized, and are still so imperfectly known, the argument from analogy is (in this particular case) necessarily weak. Nevertheless, analogy points in the direction we have indicated, and it is well to look outwards and on- wards in that direction, even though the objects within the field of view are too remote for us to perceive their real forms. But, limiting our conclusions to those which may be justly inferred from known facts, let us inquire how the subject of life in other worlds presents itself when dealt with according to the relations above considered. It is manifest at once that whether our new ideas respecting the present condi- tion of Mars or Jupiter be correct or not, the general argument deducible from the analogy of our own earth remains un- affected. If Mars and Jupiter be at this moment inhabited by living creatures, it can only be because these orbs happen to be passing through the life-supporting period of their existence. We have shown that there is strong reason for be. lieving this not to be the case but if it is the case, this can only be regarded as a strange chance. For we have learned from the study of our earth, that the life- supporting era of a planet is short coin- pared with the duration of the planets existence. It follows that any time se- lected at ran4em in the history of a planet is far more likely to belor1~ to one or other of the two lifeless eras, one pre- ceding, the other following the life-sup- porting era, than to belong to this short era itself. And this present time is time selected at random with reference to any other orb in the universe than our own earth. We are so apt to measure all the operations of nature by our own concep- tions of them as well in space as in time, that as the solar system presents itself (even now) as the centre of the universe, so this present time, the era of our own life, or of our nations life, or of the life of man, or of the existence of organic beings on the earth, or, passing yet a grade higher, the era of our earths existence as a planet, presents itself to us as the central era of all time. But what has been shown to be false with respect to space is equally false with respect to time. Men of old thought that the petty region in which they lived was the cen- tral spot of all the earth, and the earth the centre of the universe. After this was shown to be false by Copernicus, Kepler, and Newton, men clung in turn to the conception that the solar system is central within the universe. The elder Herschel showed that this conception also is false. Even he, however, assigned to the sun a position whence the galaxy might be measured. But it begins to be recognized that this is not so. Nay, not only is the sun no suitable centre whence to measure the stellar system, but the stellar system is for us immeasurable. The ~alaxy has no centre and no limits; or rather we may say of it what Blaise Pascal said of the universe of space its centre is everywhere and its circum- ference nowhere. The whole progress of modern science tends to show that we must similarly extend our estimate of time. In former ages each generation was apt to regard its own era as critical in the earths history, that is, according to their ideas, in the history of the uni- verse itself. Gradually men perceived that no generation of men, no nation, no group of nations, occupies a critical or central position in the history of even the human race upon earth, far less in the history of organic life. We may now LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. 55 pass a step higher, and, contemplating the infinity of time, admit that the whole duration of this earths existence is but as a single pulsation in the mighty life of the universe. Nay, the duration of the solar system is scarcely more. Countless other such systems have passed through all their stages, and have. died out, untold ages before the sun and his family began to be formed out of their mighty nebula; countless others will come into being after the life has departed from our system. Nor need we stop at solar systems, since within the infinite universe, without beginning and without end, not suns only, but systems of suns, galaxies of such systems, to higher and higher orders endlessly, have long since passed through all the stages of their existence as systems, or have all those stages yet to pass through. In the presence of time-intervals thus seen to be at once infinitely great and infinitely little infi- nitely great compared with the duration of our earth, infinitely little by compari- son with the eternities amidst which they are lost what reason can we have for viewing any orb in space from our little earth, and saying izow is the time when that orb is, like our earth, the abode of life? Why should life on that orb syn- chronize with life on the earth? Are not, on the contrary, the chances infinitely great against such a coincidence? If, as Helmholtz has well said, the duration of life on our earth is but the minutest ripple in the infinite ocean of time, and the duration of life on any other planet of like minuteness, what reason can we have for supposing that those remote, minute, and no w~ y associated waves of life must needs be abreast of each other on the infinite ocean whose surface they scarcely ripple ? But let us consider the consequences to which we are thus led. Apart from theoretical considerations or observed facts, it is antecedently improbable that any planet selected at random, whether planet of our own system or planet at- tending on another sun than ours, is at this present time the abode of life. The degree of improbability corresponds to the proportion between the duration of life on a planet, and the duration of the planets independent existence. We may compare this proportion to that existing between the avera~e lifetime of a man and the duradon of the human race. If one person were to select at random the period of a mans life, whether in historic, pre historic, or future time, and another were to select an epoch equally at random, save only that it fell somewhere within the period of the duration of the human race, we know how exceedingly minute would be the probability that the epoch selected by the second person would fall within the period selected by the first. Correspondingly minute is the h ~rzor~ probability that at this present epoch any planet selected at random is the abode of life. This is not a mere specu- lation, but an absolute certainty, if we admit as certain the fact, which scarcely any man of science now questions, that the period during which organic existence is possible on any planet is altogether minute compared with that planets existence. The same relation is probably true when we pass to higher systems. Re- garding the suns we call the stars as members of a sidereal system of unknown extent (but one of innumerable systems of the same order), the chance that any sun selected at random is, like our own sun at the present time, attended by a planetary system in one member of which at least life exists, is exceedingly small, if, as is probable, the life-support- ing era of a solar systems existence is very short compared with the independ- ent existence of the system. If the disproportion is of the same order as in the case of a single planet, the probabil- ity is of the same order of minuteness. In other words, if we select any star at random, it is as unlikely that the system attending on that sun is at present in the life-bearing stage as a system, as it is that any planet selected at random is at present in the life-bearing stage as a planet. This conclusion, indeed, may be regarded as scarcely less certain than the former, seeing that men of science as little doubt the relative vastness of the periods of our suns history antecedent to and following his present form of existence as a supporter of life, as they doubt the relative vastness of the periods preceding and following the life-support- ing era of any given planet. There is, however, just this element of doubt in the case of the star, that the very fact of the stars existence as a steady source of light and heat implies that the star is in a stage in some degree resembling that through which our own sun is now pass- ing. It may be for instance that the prior stages of solar life are indicated by some degree of nebulosity, and the later stages by irregular variations, or by such LIFE, PAST AND FUTURE, IN OTHER WORLDS. rapid dying out in brightness as has been observed in many stars. Yet a sun must be very nebulous indeed that is, must be at a very early stage in its history for astronomers to be able to detect its nebulosity; and again, a sun may long have ceased to be a life-supporter, before any signs of decadence measurable at our remote station, and with our insignificant available time-intervals for comparison, are manifested. As to higher orders than systems of suns we cannot speculate, because we have no means of determining the nature of such orders. For instance the ar- rangement and motions of the only sys- tem of suns we know of, the galaxy, are utterly unlike the arrangement and mo- tions of the only system of planets we know of. Quite possibly systems of sun- systems are unlike either galaxies or so- lar systems in arrangement and motions. But if by some wonderful extension of our perceptive powers, we could recog- nize the countless millions of systems of galaxies doubtless existing in infinite space, without however being able to as- certain whether the stage through which any one of those systems was passing corresponded to the stage through which our galaxy is at present passing, the prob- ability of life existing anywhere within the limits of a galaxy so selected at ran- dom would be of the same order as the probability that life exists either in a planet taken at random, or in a solar sys- tem taken at random. For though the number of suns is enormously increased, and still more the number of subordinate orbs like planets (in y5osse or in esse), the magnitude of the time-intervals con- cerned is correspondingly increased. One chance out of a thousand is as good as a thousand chances out of a million, or as; a million out of a thousand millions. Whether we turn our thoughts to planet, sue, or galaxy, the law of nature (recog- nized as universal within the domain as yet examined), that the duration of life in the individual is indefinitely short com-. pared with the duration of the type to which the individual belongs, assures us, or at least renders it highly probable, that in any member of any of these or- ders taken at random, it is more probable I/tat imfe is wanting titan that life e~rists at this ~resentti;ne. Nevertheless itis at least as probable that every member of every order planet, sun, galary, systems of gala~ry, and so onwards to hzgher and hzgher orders endlessly has been, is now, or will hereafter be, l~fe-su~~orting af- ter its kind. In what degree life-supporting worlds, or suns, or systems are at this or any other epoch surpassed in number by those which as yet fulfil no such func- tions or have long since ceased to fulfil them, it would only be possible to pro- nounce if we could determine the aver- age degree in which the life-sustaining era of given orbs or systems is surpassed in length by the preceding or following stages. The life-sustaining orbs or sys- tems may be surpassed many thousand- fold or many millionfold in number by those as yet lifeless or long since dead, or the disproportion may be much less or much greater. As yet we only know that it must be very great indeed. But at first sight the views here ad- vanced may appear as repugnant to our ordinary ideas as Whewells belief that perhaps our earth is the only inhabited orb in the universe. Millions of unin- habited worlds for each orb which sus- tains life ! surely that implies incredible waste! If not waste of matter, since ac- cording to the theory every orb sustains life in its turn, yet still a fearful waste of time. To this it may be replied, first that we must take facts as we find them. And, secondly, whether space or matter or time or energy appears to be wasted, we must consider that, after all, space and matter and time and energy are necessa- rily infinite, so that the portion utilized (according to our conceptions) being a finite portion of the infinite is itself also infinite. Speaking, however, of th~ sub- ject we are upon, if one only of each million of the orbs in the universe is in- habited, the number of inhabited orbs is nevertheless infinite. Moreover, it must be remembered that our knowledge is far too imperfect for us to be able to as- sert confidently that space, time, matter, and force, though not utilized according to our conceptions, are therefore neces- sarily wasted. To the ignorant savage, grain which is planted in a field, instead of being used for food, seems wasted, the wide field seems wasted, the time wasted during which the grain is growing and ripening into harvest; but wiser men know that what looks like waste is in reality a wise economy. In like man- ner the suns rays poured on all sides into space so that his circling family re- ceives but the two hundred and thirty millionth portion, seem, to our imperfect conceptions, almost wholly wasted but, THE INFLUENCE OF THE COURT. 57 if our knowledge were in creased, we should perhaps form a far different opin- ion. So it may well be with the questions which perplex us when we contemplate the short duration of the life-sustaining condition of each world and sun and galaxy compared with the whole exist- ence of these several orders. The ar- rangement which seems so wasteful of space and time and matter and force, may in reality involve the most perfect possible use and employment of every portion of space, every instant of time, every particle of matter, every form of force. From The Spectator. THE INFLUENCE OF THE COURT. THE paper on the Court of Queen Victoria in the Contemporary Review for this month, if not so interesting as it was expected to be, has nevertheless a certain real importance. It is rumoured to be the work of Mr. Gladstone, the internal evidence of style is in favour of the rumour, and if it is written, or even in- spired, by -the late premier, it contains, amid much that must be accounted ver- biage we mean no disrespect by the phrase, great orators rarely can write concisely a definite opinion by a states- man of unusual experience as to ,the precise position of the sovereign in our modern Constitution. This opinion is summed up in the statement quoted everywhere this week, that during the long reign of Queen Victoria the king- ship has finally been transformed by the silent substitution of influence for power. Not that the power in its more direct form has wholly departed. Ac- cording to the essayist, the whole power of the State periodically returns into the royal hands whenever a min- istry is changed, the sovereign, though no longer able to reject a policy on which her counsellors have decided, as George III. and George IV. for many years rejected Catholic emancipation, being still able to delay, to prevent, or greatly to modify an impending change in the administration. This actually occurred in 1839, on the resignation of Lord Melbourne, when the queen, then a girl, did, says the essayist, by an exer- cise of will on what was known as the bedchamber question, delay the entrance of Sir Robert Peel to office for two and a half years. Of course Sir Robert Peels position as premier, without a clear majority, was a special one ; hut still he might have formed a sufficiently stable ministry, but for the determined resistance of the queen, a resistance which on the point at issue was ulti- mately successful. It is rumoured also that a direct exercise of power was made when in 1858 the queen, by positively refusing to sign any more Indian com- missions, forced the policy of amalgama-- tion upon her advisers; and in 1851, when Lord Palmerston was so sharply expelled from place, the sovereigns dis- pleasure was certainly the cause. As a rule, however, influence has been sub- stituted for power, and the object of the essayist, apart from his eulogy on the Prince Consort which is just, but in this year of grace a iittle tiresome, is to show that this transformation, which is now, he believes, matured, still leaves the throne a most important factor in the constitutional system. There can be no doubt that the essay- ist is correct as to the fact, but the ex- planations he advances for the fact do not, we confess, content us. That Queen Victoria has great power in Great Britain, much greater power than she is popu- larly believed to have, is, we imagine, a statement which will be accepted or denied in exact proportion to the ques- tioners experience or ignorance of the inner political life of this country during the last thirty years and this power is not derived entirely from either her his- tory, which is only half remembered by the new generation, or her character, which is only partially understood. Any sovereign who would work must, while the throne endures, have in this country a considerable share of power. After all the changes and transformations which have taken place in the authority of the English kings, the occupant of the throne has still a right of secret supervision of the most effective kind. He must be told, often at an immense expenditure of energy, the secret history of everything that occurs. If he objects, he must be persuaded. If he remonstrates, he must be conciliated. If he argues, he must have a reason ; and if he writes, he must have an intelligible and adequate reply. Moreover, all these necessities must be complied with in a deferential manner, by men who would lose power if con- sidered to have treated the sovereign with disrespect, and by men who either feel for themselves or recognize that others feel that mystical influence of the THE INFLUENCE OF THE COURT. kingship, of its traditional superiority to the first class. In every cabinet there all other positions, which certainly is are three or four men whom the premier neither dead nor dying. Then the soy- must have, and probably one more whom ereign, if a worker, not only gathers he will have, but amongst the ruck o( more experience than any minister, even aspirants to office, always so much more a premier, can, seeing all departments, as numerous than the posts to be distrib-. well as all the jealousies and differences uted, the favour or disfavour of the among all their chiefs, but possesses, as crown would act as a great make-weight the essayist admits, personal means, or retarding force. A working sovereign through relationships, friendships, and who takes trouble, and who recollects accidents, of knowing what is going on careers, has in this influence upon patron- abroad, and some special means of influ- age an immense source of authority, encing current events. Europe is gov- which is not the less because the premier erned by persons who are still invested through whom it is exercised does not with power as well as influence, and forget that, when parties become equal, those persons are greatly moved by the the throne holds a deciding voice, or that representations of their own caste, of the any king can merely by his privileges of few human beings with whom they feel etiquette make any minister brought on an equality, who do not offend them daily into contact with him very uncom- by plainnesswitness the queens let- fortable. Finally, there is the influence ters on the Spanish marriages and over the people which resides perma- towards whom they feel bound to main- nently in the sovereign simply as such, tam an attitude of deferential courtesy. and the extent of which is almost incal- Caste opinion is a great power, and culable. The essayist, be he Mr. Glad- Louis Philippe did not at all like to feel stone or not, describes and analyzes this that Queen Victoria thought him in re- influence, so far as it affects society, with lation to the Spanish intrigue a scamp or great acumen: With us, society is worse, while Louis Napoleon did feel passing under many subtle, yet vital himself raised several inches in Europe changes. It must never be forgotten by the equality to which he was admitted that wealth is now in England no longer by the queen. Add that the precise the possession of a few, but rather what limits of power in a constitutional coun- is termed a druo- That is to say, it is try are almost imperceptible to foreign diffused through a circle so much ex- statesmen, and that the most experienced tended, and so fast extending, that to be kings are constantly tempted to forget wealthy does not of itself satisfy and that prerogative and power are not al- the keenness of the unsatisfied desire, ways conterminouswitness the king aspiring selfishly not to superiority, but of Prussias request for a reprieve of rather to the marks of superiority, seeks Muller and we perceive a genuine them above all in the shape of what we source of authority vested indestructibly term social distinction. But the true in any sovereign who will use it. Then test of the highest social distinction in there is the weight of the sovereign in this country is nearness to the monarch; all questions of the hicrher patronage. and all this avidity for access, for notice, The essayist notes this as equivalent to for favour, expresses an amount of read- actual power during a ministerial inter- mess to conform, to follow, to come un- regnum, but we conceive that it is in one der influence, which may often be in- way a power even when a ministry is in different enough in quality, but is very office. The sovereign can no longer large in quantity. He does not, how- make a minister, or a hishop, or a peer ever, add, and the reticence may be wise, by mere flat, as George III. and at times that the influence of the sovereign over even George IV. could do, but the range the masses is Aossibly much greater than of persons who could be elevated to high his influence over society. No occasion posts in spite of a fixed dislike on the for its exercise and no opportunity has part of the crown is very limited. No arisen since the accession of the House bishop could be so made, for no bishop of Hanover, and it is impossible, there- can have the support which would make fore, to offer evidence of the correctness it worth the while of a cabinet seriously of an opinion on either side but we to annoy the sovereign in order to secure should be much inclined to question his nomination. Scarcely any peer could whether Lord Broughams test of the be so made, for the same reason, unless British Constitution was the hardest to absolutely required for purposes of de- which it could possibly be subjected. bate, and scarcely any minister except of He dreaded the appearance of a political ITALY AND THE POPE. 59 genius on the throne, who might burst the constitutional withes. We should dread far more the appearance there of a popular philanthropist, who should enlist the personal devotion of the populace. The condition, however, upon which all this power accretes to the sovereign seems to us to be work. As we view it, the gradual transformation of the king- ship of which Mr. Gladstone speaks has not merely been the suhstitution of in- fluence for power, but the substitution of a baton for a sceptre, of a symbol, that is, which it requires effort to wield, for a symbol which expresses itself. An un- popular king might have great power in England, for he might have great weight upon the minds of her governing men. A Mr. Ayrton on the throne is quite con- ceivable, and would certainly be no lay- figure. A vicious king, if genial, might have power, for popularity and character are by no means quite so closely allied as moralists would wish. But an idle king would, we conceive, exercise very little power in Great Britain. A king who did not keep up a suffocating cor- respondence would soon find himself politically forgotten. A kifig who did not watch careers would at once lose hi~s in- fluence on politics. A king who did not study the information placed before him would soon find his remonstrances turned aside, or if he were troublesome as well as ignorant, would soon receive respectful representations telling him in humble language that the State coach must go on. The influence over the people might be given up, as it was never acquired by any of the Georges but the Third. The influence over society is not essential, and has, in fact, been surrendered by the reigning monarch under a passion for seclusion. But the habit of work work in order not only to perform duty, but to retain weightis indispensable, and it is this necessity of labour which seems to us likely to become the burden of the English kings hip. A king must work, as a premier must work, or the throne will be what the essayist so justly argues it is not now, an illusion. What has departed from the throne is not influence, not even power, though power has to be exercised through a heavy resisting medium, but inherent force, the force which makes itself felt without exertion or effort, the force which in Asia and in Europe during genuinely monarchical times has resided in men as insensible as statues or as feeble as children. Reigning, as well as governing, has in England become a busi ness, and like any other business, can suffer from fitful industry or neglect. 4 From The Pall Mafl Gazette. ITALY AND THE POPE. THE rumours that are heard from time to time of a reconciliation between the Papal and the Italian governments seem to be premature rather than untrue. It is so plainly to the interest of both pow- ers to dwell together in unity that the idea is not likely to be long absent from the thoughts of one or other of them. The revolution which laid the founda. tion of Italian unity was eminently con- servative in its tendencies. Occasion- ally, no doubt, it suited the purpose of the king or his ministers to make com- mon cause with the Radicals, but on the whole they saw clearly enough that if the monarchy was to be retained there must be no irreparable breach with the Church. An alliance with the sworn enemies of the clergywould have united them to a party in whose ultimate aims the mon- archy had no place. Whenever a deci- sive step in the direction of extending or consolidating the Italian kingdom had to be taken, it was taken without any re- gard to the feelings or opinions of the pope ; and as often as these occasions occurred the Radical party allowed them- selves to hope that the government had made a reconciliation impossible. But common interests have a strange power of drawing people to,ether, even when events seem to have separated them past hope, and though the king and his min- isters have been excommunicated, they have still contrived to live in decent har- mony with the Italian bishops and clergy. The government cannot afford to alien- ate that large section of the population which regards poliUcal irreligion as close- ly allied to Communism. These people do not object to many things which the pope denounces. They have probably a secret conviction that the Church will be all the better for losing a large part of its wealth, and they are quite content that the pope should enjoy no greater in- dependence than is secured to him by the law of guarantees. They do not say this openly, because they do not want to quarrel with their priest, and they know that their priest, though he may in his heart hold similar opinions, would be bound to rebuke them in the laity on pain of quarrelling with his bishop. But 6o ITALY AND THE POPE. they are glad when the government shows things which it described with a state of that it is still anxious to effect some kind things which they undoubtedly liked very of agreement between the spiritual and much better. They were familiar with a civil powers, and though they have prob- free Church in an obedient State, with a ably not much hope of this being ac- Church which had everything her own complished during the reign of Pius IX., way in a State which in ecclesiastical they find satisfaction in the belief that matters was willing for a considera- the government is as much alive as they tion to do the Churchs bidding. All are to the importance of not irritating the their theories of the necessary and indis- bishops or clergy into making common soluble union of Church and State were cause with the pope. There are inn- based upon this experience, and Cavour s ments when under Radical pressure an maxim conveyed nothing to their minds Italian minister will seem to forget this but the emancipation of the State from class of persons altogether, and to be the salutary control which they had pre- bent upon satisfying the class which viously exercised over it. Prince Bis- hates the pope as cordially as the pope marck has introduced them to the other hates a Freemason or an Old Catholic, side of the shield. He has proved by ex- and would like, if it had the power, to deal ample that there is a form of union be- with him in an equally summary fashion. tween Church and State which is infinite- But this disposition is never lastino-; it ly more irksome to the Church than total has its root in the momentary needs of separation a union of which the out- political strategy, and when these are ward and visible symbols are fines, satisfied the motives which permanently imprisonment, and sequestrations. As determine the ecclesiastical policy of the compared with the state of things now government regain their sway. existing in Prussia, the Italian moduS If the moderate section of the Italian vivendi must seem positively attractive. laity is anxious to keep on good terms If Victor Emmanuel is not exactly a with the Church, we may be sure that the nursinb-father to the Church, he is not moderate section of the Italian priest- the taskmaster that the Emperor Wil- hood is equally though less openly anx- ham is. The fact that there is a strong ious to keep on ood terms with the gov- anti-clerical minority in Italy may eminent. The points upon which the strengthen these dispositions among the pope has quarrelled with the king of higher clergy, because it may protect Italy are not really of a kind to interest them against that temptation to grasp at the inferior clergy. The overthrow of too much which has involved them in so the temporal power has made but little many disasters. If the Italian people change in their worldly condition; the were all of one mind in this matter, the secularization of the property of the re- cardinals might still dream of upsetting ligious orders has gratified the concealed the political settlement of Italy. In the but immemorial dislike of the secular to presence of a compact Radical section in the regular clergy; and, though those of the Chamber and in the country, to at- them who have been in the habit of visit- tempt this would be to court inevitable ing Rome may regret the suspension of defeat, a defeat which might extend far the ecclesiastical pomp which made the beyond the points involved in the partic- Church so glorious in the eyes even of ular conflict. unbelievers, they are probably aware that There is no need to refer to those the popes imprisonment is self-inflicted, features in Victor Emmanuels character and that if he were willing to show him- which are likely more and more to dis- self once more in St. Peters, it is not the pose him to make his peace with the Italian government that would wish to Church. His temper, even at the times prevent him. Nor is it among the infe- when it has been most distinctively Ital- nor cler.,y only that the existence of ian and anti-Papal, has never been in the these and similar views may be suspected. least Protestant or even anti-Ultramon- The Italian cardinals must have lost the tane. If the pope would leave him in un- traditional acuteness of their race and disputed possession of his dominions, he order if their opinions on the relations of would probably submit with perfect the Catholic Church with the civil pow- readiness to any purely spiritual claims er have not been modified by the recent which the Church might choose to put action of the Prussian government, forward. He is not subject to intellect- When Cavour gave expression to the for- ual doubts, and has never been in the inula. a free Church in a free State, least troubled by the Vatican or any the Roman court compared the state of other decrees. Putting politics aside, he TWO VIEWS OF ANNIHILATION. 6z would subscribe the Syllabus at a mo- ments notice. But, though these quali- ties would lead the king to welcome any improvement in the relations between himself and the Church, they are of less importance than might be supposed, be- cause, whenever the reconciliation is ac- complished, the kings and even the gov- ernments part in it will be only second- ary: Italy can have but little to give to Rome that she has not already offered. The change of mind that will have the really decisive influence on the result must be a change of mind on the part of the Church. There is nothing to make this probable so long as Pius IX. lives but, unless circumstances are greatly changed by the time that he dies, it may be looked for with some confidence from his successor. From The Spectator. TWO VIEWS OF ANNIHILATION. PROFESSOR CLIFFORD, in replying to the rather tenuous arbument of the authors of the Unseen Universe for a spiritual ~vorld,in the new number of the Fortniglztly, expresses in keen language his scorn and weariness of the effort of intellectual men to hold fast to any rem- nant of Christianity or of spiritual belief. My brothers, he says to the authors he is addressing, and when a Carlylese layman addresses any body as his brothers, in the vocative case, we are at once aware that he is endeavouring in his largeness of heart to console them by this candid admission of the fraternal tie for being worth very much less both ir1tellectually and spiritually than they had ventured to hope, indeed, that he is pitying them for their delusions, and try- ino~ to make it up to them in the only way he can, by acknowledging, in spite of his own freedom from such delusions, his kinship to them all the same, that which you keep in your hearts, my brothers, is the slender remnant of a sys- tem which has made its red mark on his- tory, and still lives to threaten mankind. The grotesque forms of its intellectual belief have survived the discredit of its moral teaching. Of this what the kings would bear with, the nations have cut down ; and what the nations left, the right heart of man by man revolts against day by day. You have stretched out your hands to save the dregs of the sifted remnant of a residuum. Take heed, lest you have given soil and shelter to the seed of that awful plague which has de- stroyed two civilizations, and but barely failed to slay such promise of good as is now struggling to live amongst men. That is a somewhat dark oracle in itself, as indeed, is a good deal of the remainder of Professor Cliffords essay; but to those who have read it, it will, at least, be clear that amongst the seed of that awful plague which has destroyed two civilizations must be reckoned the be- lief in God and the belief in immortality, an immortality with the natural and, as the essayist admits, healthy desire for which, as it exists in almost all the mem- bers of civilized races, he deals very curtly and cavalierly indeed. Longing for deathlessness, he says, with that authority of tone which belongs to him, means simply shrinking from death: If we could think of death without shrink- ing, it would only mean that this world was no place for us, and that we should ma~ke haste to be gone to make room for our bet- ters. And therefore that love of action which would put death out of sight is to be counted good, as a holy and healthy thing (one word whose meanings have become unduly severed), necessary to the life of man, serving to knit them together and to advance them in the right. Not only is it right and good thus to cover over and dismiss the thought of our own personal end, to keep in mind and heart always the good things that shall be done, rather than ourselves who shall or shall not have the doing of them; but also to our friends and loved ones we shall give the most worthy honour and tribute, if we never say nor remember that they are dead, but, con- trariwise, that they have lived; that hereby the brotherly force and flow of their action and work may be carried over the gulfs of death, and made immortal in the true and healthy life which they worthily had and used. It is only when the bloody hands of one who has fought against the light and the right are folded and powerless for further crime that it is kind and merciful to bury him, and say, The dog is dead. But for you noble and great ones, who have loved and laboured yourselves not for yourselves, but for the uni- versal folk, in your time, not for your time only, but for the coming generations, for you there shall be life as broad and far-reaching as your love, for you life-giving action to the utmost reach of the great wave whose crest you sometime were. That says, we suppose, though in lan- guage somewhat disguised by its elo- quence and its archaic style of enthusi- asm, that it is healthy to be so absorbed in life as to forget annihilation; that it 62 TWO VIEWS OF ANNIHILATION. is healthy to forget that good men are dead and gone, and to recall them only in the good they have left behind them that it is natural to dwell on the fact of death only in connection with people whose activity was mischievous, in which case it is a healthy and consoling triumph to remind oneself that the dog is dead, hut that while all living force is apt to dwell in imagination on future forms of energy, the wish for a personal life sur- viving the energy of the body and brain is a morbid and distorted hope, of which wise men will take care to divest them- selves as soon as possible. The desire for immortality, says the professor, so far as it is sound at all, is due simply to the abundance of our vital energy which cannot imagine non-existence : The martyr cannot think of his own end, because he lives in the truth he has pro- claimed; with it and with mankind he grows into greatness, through ever new victories over falsehood and wrong. But there is another way [of excluding the image of death]. Since, when men have died, such orderly, natural, and healthy activity as we have known in them and valued their lives for, has plainly ceased, we may fashion another life for them, not orderly, not natural, not healthy, but monstrous or su~z5er-natural, whose cloudy semblance shall be eked out with the dreams of uneasy sleep, or the crazes of a mind diseased. And it is to this that the universal shrinking of men from death, which is called a yearning for im- mortality, is alleged to bear witness. Clearly in the only sense in which it is of any significance to use the phrase, there is in Professor Cliffords mind no such thing as a natural or healthy dread of annihilation, though he admits, in place thereof, a natural and healthy indisposi- tion to anticipate the end of living and glowing energies. It is the attempt to picture a life different from the present, beyond the present, which to him is essentially hysterical and unhealthy. There is nothing good and true in our- selves which has not its sphere in this present life. What affects to be unsatis- fied and out of proportion here, is only the sickly part of us, not the healthy. It is curious to contrast with this en- thnsiastically expressed view of personal annihilation as the adequate and natural end of all human energy, the eloquent denunciation of the doctrine of an even partial annihilation which Mr. Baldwin Brown has just delivered in five lectures to his congregation at Brixtorm,*as a doc- trine not only untrue to thegospel of Christ, but even insulting to the natural religion of humanity. Professor Clifford will feel it an indignity, we fear, to be compared with any man whose chief occupation it has been and is to preach faith in Christ to mankind ; but yet Mr. Baldwin Brown seems to us to have the advantage of Professor Clifford in the simplicity and manliness of his eloquence, besides that, to our minds, he knows very much better the difference between what is genuine and what is hysterical in the heart of man. The special object of Mr. Baldwin Browns lectures is to con- fute a school that has lately sprung up, both in the Established Church and out of it, which preaches in one form or another that Christ offered immortality only to those who believed in him and obtained new life in him, and that for all others is reserved the fate of an annihilation which is as much due to the operation of natural laws as is the an- nihilation of the lower animals. Of course, this new form of doctrine is due in part to the horror felt for the old teaching about eternal punishments, in part also to the impression made on the minds of students of the Bible by a few passages here and there which seem to point to the final extinction of all evil spirits in spiritual death. But Mr. Bald- win Brown rejects the doctrine with a wholesome heartiness. He rejects it partly because it would introduce a doc- trine of caste into Christianity, and put the broadest possible gulf between the elect souls with eternal life in them, and the souls in whom no such seed of life had been planted. In place of a great human family of sorrow, struggle, and aspiration, amidst which, as the brother of the poorest and the saddest, the Sa- viour moved, they give us a few godlike, lofty forms, or say that they give us, men complain that they cannot see them, endowed with a nature that cannot perish, and like unto the angels, moving about as the Brabmins of creation, amidst innumerable creatures who look like them, speak like them, love like them, but are perishing pariahs born from the dust. To me this is simply a horrible picture of the great world of men. And so, no doubt, it would be to Professor Clifford. Both thinkers alike, * The Doctrine of Annihilation in the Light of the Gospel of Love. By James Baldwin Brown, B.A. London: Henry S. King and Co. A SEQUENCE OF ANALOGIES. 63 the believer in annihilation and the be- liever in immortality, would have nothing to say to a doctrine which divides men into castes radically distinguished from each other. Only while one of these finds his principle of brotherhood solely in this life, and ridicules the notion of looking for it to an unimaginable life beyond, Mr. Baldwin Brown finds it in the spiritual life, to which Christ gives the law, and of which Christ presents the type. We think the issue between them, as regards, at least, the view of immortality and annihilation, might fairly be said to turn on this, whether or not Professor Clifford is right or wrong in saying that longing for deathlessness means simply shrinking from death. If it does, the brotherhood of man is a brotherhood born of keen but temporary sympathies, and cemented by the prospect of a com- mon annihilation. If it does not, the brotherhood of man is a brotherhood born of the common glimpse and partici- pation of something which is infinitely beyond us, which never does get itself adequately shadowed forth at all in this life, and which instead of dying out of us, as human intensity begins to fail and hu- man activity to dwindle, only becomes the fuller and brighter, because it does not depend on us at all, but on a greater life which is in ours, though not of ours. According to Professor Clifford, it is the human vitality in us, and that only, which protests against the image of death. Ac- cording to Mr. Baldwin Brown, it is the divine light, often waxing as that vitality xvanes, which renders the conception of annihilation not only frightful, but un- natural, and the more unnatural, the less there is of ourselves, and the more there is of that which is not ourselves, to light f~p the gloom beyond. Unques- tionably the belief in immortality should wane with waning life and energy, if Pro- fessor Cliffords view were true. It is nothing but the shadow of our own abundant activities and affections, and should fade as those activities diminish and those affections sober down. The very opposite seems to us to be the truth. The life of youth and energy is the light which puts out the stars. If light can thus deceive, said Blanco White, wherefore not life? ~ The longing for deathlessness is so far from being a shrinking from death, that it is a growing yearnin~ for that which in life we have never really possessed, though we have tasted it. It is a longing which deepens as the gladness of human faculty fails, which survives the keenness of the sense of beauty, the purity of scientific enthusiasm, the intoxication of human power,for it is a longing which is fixed upon God, and which is fed by God. For our own parts, we believe that the brotherhood of the neoative scientific creed, the creed whose only immortality springs from the stream of consequences which flow from your actions, an im- mortality which seems to us quite as ac- cessible to the ~vicked as to the good, and quite as likely to be enjoyed by the one as by the other, in short, the brotherhood in energy here and in noth- ingness hereafter, is a sort of brother- hood which will not make brothers, but will rather make very suspicious and mutually distrustful allies. The brother- hood of Christ, on the other hand, is a brotherhood in the Head of which we are mere members, in the fire of love of which we are but the coldest sparks, in the holiness of which we are but the pen- itent worshippers, and that is a brother- hood which cannot easily fail, even while the heart beats high, and still less when the pulses begin to sink, and the last frost to steal upon us. A SEQUENCE OF ANALOGIES. I. AUTUMN is drear, The trees they are sere, And she that is dear Is far far away; I wander in night For lack of her sight, For she is my light And she is my day. The year it is dying, The leaves are all lying Where sad winds go sighing Through forest and grove; My heart it is failing Through hope unavailing, Through weeping and wailing For her that I love. Rest! Rest and peace! Death is our release, Our haven where cease All the ills of our clay. When spirits are freed From this earthly weed, They will live above With those they love In a glorious summer-time, ever and aye. 64 A SEQUENCE OF ANALOGIES. IT. The flower of purest whiteness, That blooms in a lonely dell, XVastes not its heavenly brightness, Though none of its beauty may tell. A spirit its life has tended, And guarded its home with love, And when its time is ended Shall bear it to bloom above. The songs that the skylark singeth When no one is nigh to hear Are not lost as she heavenwards wingeth, Though heard by no mortal ear. The Spirit of Music has stayed them As they fled on the wings of the breeze, And among her best treasures has laid them With stream-songs and sighs of the trees. Een so the love that unfailing Yet finds no response on earth, Shall not die all unavailing Though no one may learn its worth. The angels themselves shall claim it When its trial-time here is past, And Heaven, where nought shall shame it, Shall answer its hope at last. III. Brightest dreams may be forgotten And fade from out the heart, Love by earthly thoughts engendered Soon faints when lovers part. Dearest hopes may be despaired of, And beauty lose her art: These are earthborn, and must fade In Lethe with the bliss they made. Hopes that are in Heaven sealed There shall perish never, Love that springs from souls divineness Floweth on forever. Purer spirits knit by loving Nought on earth shall sever, Till together as they roam They reach their everlasting home. Iv. Beings drawn to one another Join by Natures law at last. Lovers earnest to each other Meet before all hope is past. Somehow in time fitting Before their souls are flitting, Or elsewhere who can tell Soon after the passing-bell. Nought is lost which has existence, Even a careless thought of wrong; Though its work be in the distance Fruit will come, for laws are strong. Glorious thoughts seem wasted, Longed-for joys untasted. Tis w1 so. Time goes on: Eternitys not done. Tis not that which seems most cheerful To our feebly groping minds: Often tis a lot more tearful \5,Thich the skein of fate unwinds: Often tis a kindness We see not through our blindness. So are we wroth at pain And notice not our gain. Love is far too great a wonder. Is it pain or is it joy? Lovers moan when theyre asunder Are their sweets without alloy? Yet twill bloom in season Want of trust is treason Somehow in time fitting Before our souls are flitting, Or after who can tell What is beyond that passing-bell? V. When May is blooming fair, love, And sweet birds all are singing; When May is blooming fair,, love, And buds are all outspringing, Well seek some quiet bank of thyme Where lights and shadows play, And think upon our loves first prime Till falling of the day. When summer suns are bright, dear, And fields with gold are glowing; When summer suns are bright, dear, And gay flowers are a-blowing, Well rest beside some merry stream In a deep bowery wood, And muse upon the tender dream That fills our souls with good. When silent winter sleepeth, And hoar-frost sparkles brightly; When the year dying weepeth, And snows lie gleaming whitely, Well say, Tis time to pass away, For death in love is sweet; It is but birth to brighter day Which we should gladly greet To find beyond that opening door Our love unchanged forevermore. VI. The light of evening fadeth fast, The suns bright ray no longer glows; The daily toil of earth is past, And weary hearts may seek repose: May no sound mar their sleep Who only thus may cease to weep, Een sowith kindly hand may death, When ages twilight falleth round us, Our eyelids close, and still our breath, And with the veil of sleep surround us, Until the dawn shall come And wake us in a painless home. C. H. H. P.

LITTELLS LINTING- AGE. Fifth Series, No, 1622, July 10, 1875. 5 From Beginning Volume XL ~Vo1, CXXVI. CONTENTS. I. WILLIAM BLAKE II. Miss ANGEL By Miss Thackeray. Con- clusion ILL THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. V. The Sperimento IV. THE DILEMMA, V. GERMAN HOME LIFE. By a Lady. Part V VI. A TRIP INTO THE INTERIOR OF FORMOSA, VII. THE KING IN ENGLARD VIII. A GEOGRAPHICAL DAY-DREAM, . - ComA ill Magazine, Cornkit? Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Blackwoods Magazine,. Frasers Magazine, Spectator, Pall Mall Gazette, Spectator, THE CREED OF THE FUTURE, HORTUS SICCUS, DARKENED SPRING, POETRY. . 660t.i 66 66 SEEING A PICTURE CALLED A WINTER GALE IN THE CHAN- NEL, MISCELLANY 128 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY B~ LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For Ezoor DOLLARS, remit/ed directly to ti Pu/eVaders, the Liviten Ace will be ~onctoalIy forwarded for a year,free qtiostage. An extra copy of THE Livisso Ana is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these cati be procured, the money should be sent in a regist red letter All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and cnoney.orders should be made payable to the order of Lrrse~c & GAY. 67 77 92 102 112 122 124 126 66 66 THE CREED OF THE FUTURE, ETC. THE CREED OF THE FUTURE. ON SEEING A PICTURE CALLED A I DONT believe in either God or Man. I WINTER GALE IN THE CHANNEL. Conscious Automata, we nothing can, Save as our atoms feel tyranuic chance; I I LOVE this ocean-pictures pale reserve: All is heredity and circumstance. No tints unnatural of purpling grain, Cbnsciczce, Freewill, absurd! And if YOU Azure or opal, mar the rough, grey main. ask The sweep, the swing, the long froth-churning How on these terms fulfil lifes daily task? curve, What motives? And what conduct ? look The shore-ward working and confus~d swerve at me: Of yellowing water: white blooms wear One more respectable youll scarcely see. such stain, As family-man, friend, citizen, professor, All dashed and muddied with the April rain. Be you, or public judgment, my assessor. No poor ambition did the painter serve Good, my dear sir ! but we must wait, i Well that no laboured ship or sun-burst broke doubt, The strong monotony of that sky and surge; Leave only leave, the line of stormy smoke, To notice how your grandchildren turn out, The sea-birds dashed upon the nearer Born in the doctrine, reared upon the plan, verge, Of total disbelief in God and Man. Let this experiment be fairly made, Brave in its truth, this ocean-piece shall be Nor SCIENCE mourn, by her high priests be- The type for us of Homers harvestless sea. trayd; Oh, let her teach them, from their tenderest youth, The Truth, the whole Truth, nothing but the Truth Material Atoms, and Mechanic Force; And send the boys and girls rejoicing on their course! Frasers Magazine. HORTUS SICCUS. GONE, with their laughter and their silent sor- row; Gone, with their weeping and their summer smiles Never to them will come a glad to-morrow, Sweet with the dreams that many a day be- guiled. Gayness or sadness in their voices ringing, Making one love them for the sounds they gave; Sunlight or shadow in their pathway min- gling All is now swept into the silent grave. ~Toutrht but their shadowy memory remaineth, Dim and uncertain through the lapse of years; Nought their clear image in the mind re- taineth, Saving loves chain cemented by our tears. Chain that is forged in furnace of our sorrows, Links knit together by long-cherished hopes, Infinite strength and beauty thus it borrows, Strength and endurance with which nought can cope. Through the soft gleam of many-tinted fan- - cies, Oer their sweet memory such light is thrown, Sadness divine and tenderness enhancing, Darkening all other sunshine by its own. Chambers Journal. II. Not only this lesson of more than art! Who dares, strong in simplicity, despise The evanescent beauties that arise Before his gaze, and in true thought apart, Look on straight forward to lifes very heart; Who dares, by gift supernal rendered xvise, Deem truth more beautiful for all true eyes Than garish things made merely for the mart Whether he paint, or write, or live his thought, To that which he produces shall be lent An immortality of ravishment, One day it shall be ownd divinely wrought And all the sternness of its strength shall be Like the grave beauty of this pictured sea. WILLIAM I)ERRY AND RAPHOE. Lenton Hall, May 10. DARKENED SPRING. HE will not rise, though all the worlds awake; No bird will bring him warning of the spring, Nor warm winds stir him with their whis- pering, Nor any cry his folded silence break, Though we, who welcomed summer for his sake, Mar springs soft rapture with our murmur- ing. How can we turn to hear the glad birds sing, How joy from blossom or from sunlight take, While he sleeps on unheeding and at rest? Yet God, who keeps him cradled, knoweth best. Without his flower-sweet face the spring is vain, And gives our little one to us again, Granting a tender vision to our sight, To wander through the dream-ways of the night. Sunday Magazine. CAROLINE NORTH. WILLIAM BLAKE. 67 From The Cornhill Magazine. WILLIAM BLAKE. THERE is a too common impression even among those who wish to admire Blakes powers of imagination that he proceeded in his work without the prac- tical knowledge and training which even less-inspired artists are supposed to pos- sess. The fruitless question as to wheth- er he was or was not mad has been thrust into such undeserved prominence that little thought has been bestowed upon the strong element of common sense in his nature, and the fact that he combined with a great invention remarkable critical powers has not been widely recognized. Blake, in his lifetime, was always spe- cially resentful of any imputation against his fame as a practical workman, or his judgment as a student of art. In one of his marginal notes to Reynoldss Dis- courses he lays down the rule that Es- ecution is the chariot of genius, and again he says Invention depends alto- gether upon execution or organization. As that is right or wrong, so is the inven- tion perfect or imperfect. Michael An- gelos art depends on Michael Angelos execution altogether. And in the public address which Blake intended to accom- pany the engravingof The Canterbury Pilgrims~ he declares, in reply to those who would admit the excellence of his ideas in art, but deny his powers of ex- pression I am, like others, just equal in invention and execution, as my works show; and further he adds, A man who pretends to improve fine art does not know what fine art is. Ye English en- gravers must come down from your high flights; ye must condescend to study Marc Antonio and Albert Diirer; ye must begin before ye attempt to finish or improve, and when you have begun you will know better than to think of improv- ing what cannot be improved. To any student of Blake there is, however, need of no quotation from his written opinions to establish the conclusion that he Ia- boured with a constant reference to the possibilities and the means of expression. one special gift which distinguishes him clearly from other and lesser men, it is his power of finding for every sublime thought a corresponding and precise im- age in the language of art. Of this gift, in so far as it affected his invention, more remains to be said, but it is noticeable here for the sternly practical direction given by it to all his thought and all his work. Blake was from the beginning as close a student of the technical parts of his craft as of its imaginative capabilities. He was a keen and even a severe critic of excellence in workmanship, a diligent observer of all forms of executive mas- tery in which he had any belief, and his fiercest onslaughts on the works of other painters, ancient or modern, ai~e com- monly grounded upon defects of expres- sional power. There is good cause for insisting upon Blakes powers as a practical artist, and for testing his work by the severe rules he himself laid down. In the first place, this is the only test by which a painter can be finally adjudged worthy of endur- ing fame. The gift of vision divorced from adequate means of expression may perhaps be proved satisfactorily to the friends of a poet or a painter, but it can have but small significance for posterity. Those who have never known the man can only care to know of his name in con- nection with an achievement of worth in itself, and therefore Blakes place among painters or among poets must be just what his work now proves him to be. This truth seems obvious enough, but there nevertheless remains the fact that English art, if not English poetry, has repeatedly suffered by its neglect. Men have been admitted to a certain reputa- tion in their craft merely from the ac- cepted belief in their gifts, without suffi- cient practical evidence; and in English painting especially, there has been a most unfortunate tendency to award the prize of merit for all other qualities than those which are special and indispensable to a painter. It would be very unfortunate if the unhappy rule should be followed in the case of Blake, and the misfortune As an artist, no man~ s vision was ever would be the greater, seeing that he pos- more definite in its form; and if there is sessed in a high degree the very qualities 68 WILLIAM BLAKE. which so many English painters have been without. I have said that Blake himself was fully alive to the kind of skill and train- ing needed for a painter, and it may be worth while to consider for a moment the opinions he held in relation to this sub- ject, in order that we may see how far he practically satisfied the stringent rules there laid down. In whatever else he may lie open to the charge of obscurity, Blake was certainly no vague theorist in the matter of art. His criticisms are always precise, and expressed in terms of assurance. They are never the views of a man who has merely reasoned about art as a philosophical abstraction, or who has stated conclusions without reference to positive examples. The general prin- ciples, when they appear, are borne di- rectly from the contemplation of actual masterpieces, and when there is found an obvious fallacy in expression, it is for the most part to be explained from the fact that the painter has substituted an image for an argument. He has made an individual truth, intensely perceived, do duty for a universal law, and has transported the results of experience and actual study into the language of criti- cism, without taking full account of spe- cial and modifying circumstances. This merit and defect of Blakes philosophy can nowhere be so clearly seen as in his mar- ginal notes to Reynoldss Discourses. The sum of Blakes opposition to the opinions of Reynolds may be stated as a protest of a practical artist against the vague generalizations of a philosopher. Putting aside the vices of violent phrase- ology, which do not destroy, although they often darken the commentators counsel, this is the effect of his criticism. If Reynolds had written in the same spirit as Blake criticised, if he had spoken of his own creed and practice as an artist, and not of a kind of art beyond his experience, the Discourses would have been considerably limited in scope, but perhaps increased in value. As it was, he spoke as a philosopher, and his critic as a painter ; and if the judge of both is to decide with candour, it must be confessed that the amiable generali ties of the president of the Academy a~ ~ very often shattered by Blakes simp~e record of practical study. Truth is, that in dealing with such men as Michael An- gelo and Raphael, Blake touched a theme wherein he had something more than admiration to offer. He had not ap- proached these men as his rival has done, only for distant praise and rather solemn worship. He had been a student as well as a worshipper, and to him their art was an object of imitation as well as a subject of praise. Blake not only con- fessed their grandeur of style, but had also something to say of the source of: the beauty that Reynolds was content to perceive and then let go. The latter carried away a splendid impression of power, but Blake bore in his mind the entire image of their art, with outline firmly stamped, and individual character clearly recorded. He knew that these men were not only good for what Rey- nolds had allowed them, but for much more besides; that they were not only great inventors in art, but great execu- tants; and that they possessed subtlety and refinement in workmanship, as well as nobility in imagination. Feeling these truths intensely, the bland impar- tiality with which Reynolds distributes prizes for different qualities among the various schools is altooether intolerable to Blake. Why, he exclaims indig- nantly in one place, are we to be told that masters who could think had not the judgment to perform the inferior parts of art (as Reynolds artfully calls them); that we are to learn to think from great masters and to perform from underlings to learn to design from Raphael and to execute from Ruhens ? And when Reynolds implies that Michael Angelo was without the lesser elegancies and graces in the art, Blake is still more in- dignant. Can any man be such a fool, he asks, as to believe that Raphael and Michael Angelo were incapable of the mere language of art, and that such idiots as Rubens, Correggio, and Titian knew how to execute what they could not think or invent ? In other places we find that Blake is equally intolerant of praise given for imagination in art with- WILLIAM BLAKE. 69 out executive power, as of any deprecia- tion of the executive excellence of great inventors. When Reynolds declares it to be the duty of the painter, instead of amusing mankind with the minute neat- ness of his imitations, to improve them by the grandeur of his ideas, Blake breaks in with the practical criticism,, Without minute neatness ofi execution, the sublime cannot exist grandeur of ideas is founded on precision of ideas. If then these often fiercely-worded comments are accepted as the protest of a practical artist vexed by amiable generalities, their meaning will appear more consistent and their violence more accountable. Art and imagina- tion were things of such reality and certainty to Blake, that all vapid philoso- phy upon them seemed to him idle and mischievous. The whole duty of a paint- er, whether in invention or workmanship, was a matter of deeply practical moment to him ; sublime designs had an exist- ence in his eyes more real than the com- monest reality; the character and expres- sion of ideal figures were familiar as the faces of friends, and therefore any at- tempt to transport these distinct images into abstract propositions was what he could neither pardon nor understand. But the notes to the Discourses are not the only material out of which we may construct Blakes artistic creed. The Descriptive Catalogue and the pub- lic address already referred to contain much penetrating criticism, and scattered through the few letters that remain to us are some stray sentences on art which help to an understanding of Blakes posi- tion. The whole of Blakes faith in art depends on two propositions apparently contradictory. By the first article of his creed he clearly separates art from na- ture, and by the second he gives to the images of art a perfect and precise real- itv. But the antagonism between these propositions does not go very deep. To Blake the creatures of imagination were often nearer than the people of the actual world. When he conceived a de- sign, it was in completeness; the faces possessed individuality, the forms a clis- tinct outline, and the scene thus im pressed upon his vision was in truth the reality from which he copied. Other artists may transport the figures of actual men and women into the world of art, giving at each step the necessary beauty for the higher life of the imagina- tion ; but Blake faithfully copied his inventions. The observation and imita- tion of nature was with him a foregone and unconscious process, and when nat- ural forms reappeared in his brain, they were already endowed with the added qualities of beauty. A less intense vision could not have held the shadow fixed and stable, but Blake dwelt always among his own inventions, and was able to keep them before him as another man might keep a model in his painting-room. Re- membering this, we may understand the second article of Blakes creed, in which he so strongly insists upon clearness and decision in execution. In a memorable passage of the Descriptive Catalogue he says The great and golden rule of art, as well as of life, is this that the more distinct, sharp, and wiry the bound- ing-line, the more perfect the work of art; and the less keen and sharp, the greater is the evidence of weak imitation, pla- giarism, and bungling. Great inventors in all ages knew this; Protogenes and Apelles knew each other by this line. Raphael and Michael Angelo and Albert Diirer are known by this and this alone. The want of this determinate and bound- ing form evidences the idea of want in the artists mind, and the pretence of the plagiary in all its branches. And side by side with this demand for precise ex- pression must be remarked Blakes con- stant claim for minute distinction as well as for force of character in ideal art. - Passion and expression, he says in one place, is beauty itself; the face that is incapable of passion and expres- sion is deformity itself. Let it be paint- ed and patched and praised and adver- tised forever, it will only be admired by fools. These opinions of Blake, his be- lief in the superiority of vision over reality, and his contention that the ob- jects of imagination could be copied with the fidelity and the minuteness of actual nature, are constantly repeated in his 70 WILLIAM BLAKE. writings with the strongest emphasis and the time, and the fact that Pars had been the deepest conviction. As a canon of a chaser, and the son of a chaser, prob- art-criticism, Blakes belief suggests one ably so far influenced his teaching as to remark; it is fitted to judge of only one, encourage in Blake that love of precision and that the highest, style in painting, and exactness in workmanship which is His study here, as in poetry, was never a constant quality of his designs. The directed to anything but the highest, and intelligent hosier, whom Malkin not un- his criticism as well as his practice must justly terms an indulgent parent, was be tested by a reference to the noblest not content with merely supplying his examples of human invention. And this boy with the rudiments of his craft. He fact that his taste and his judgment were purchased for him several casts of the concerned only with the sublime forms masterpieces of antique sculpture for of art, or with the simplicity which is at home-study, and supplied him with money, once companion and complement to with whi~h Blake made for himself what is sublime, explains in great part a collection of rare prints. The boy his unconditional condemnation of men from the earliest years was wont to fre- outside of either cate~ory. His criti- quent the art-salesrooms, and to choose cism of the Venetians and of Rubens has out for himself, according to his own just this value and no more. It is not taste, the engravings of Marc Antonio an appreciation of the art of these men and Albert Diirer, and such prints after on its merits, but a bare indication that Michael Angelo as he could obtain. neither Venetian nor Flemish painters Many men have been driven to acquire aspired to the highest kind of invention in late life the technical knowledge of in art, or the noblest and most severe their craft ; but Blake was confronted style in execution, with the practical problems of art almost Having set forth at the outset Blakes before his invention had time to shape it- belief about painting, we shall be in a self. He got into close contact with the better position to judge of his own great works of style at once, and it is achievement. Blake had no double iden- probable that with such a vigorous im- tity. The truths he held as a critic, he agination as he possessed nothing could also sought to embody in practice: they have been better than this early imita- were in fact the direct results of practice tion of Italian art and antique sculpture. and study, and for this reason they form Servile copying, as he himself has the fairest as well as the highest stand- said, is the great merit of copying, and ard by which to judge of his work. But we may imagine with what conscientious before proceeding to a consideration of fidelity he drew and copied the plaster the designs, it may be worth while to see figures in Mr. Parss school. This pre- how far Blake was fitted by early train- liminary study of drawing lasted for four ing for the noble artistic duties he after- years. At the end of that time Blake wards undertook. For the facts of his entered upon the study of another im- life all later students are of course deep- l)ortant branch of his craft, and was a~- ly indebted to Mr. Gilchrist, but for the prenticed to the engraver Basire, in Lin- beginnings of the artists career, Mr. colns Inn Fields. Mr. Gilchrist seems Gilchrist himself is indebted to a little to speak with some regret of this step in book called A Fathers Memoirs of a the artists progress, as if the study of Child, written by Mr. Malkin, and pub- engraving were partly degrading to lished in i8o6. Blake designed and en- Blakes high genius, and as if his dreams graved a Yery beautiful frontispiece to of greatness in his art were thus at the the volume, and, in the introduction, the outset checked and thwarted by untoward author sets down some account of the circumstances. Thus it was decided, painters early life gleaned as he tells us he says, for the future designer that he from Blakes own lips. In very many re- should enter the, to him, enchanted do- spects the circumstances of his boyhood main of art by a back-door as it were. were certainly favourable to his artistic There is more than a doubt whether education. His father seems to have Blake himself would have appreciated both recognized, and, by every means in any such feeling on his behalf, or whether his power, encouraged the boys quickly the regret is really well founded. It is pronounced talent, and in 1767, when he necessary to repeat that Blake was at no was just ten years of age, William Blake time inclined to regard art as a sort of was sent to a drawing-school in the fairy palace to be entered by way of the Strand, kept by a certain Mr. Pars. This affections; to him it was always a severe- was the accepted preparatory school of ly practical realm requiring practical ef WILLIAM BLAKE. 7 fort and knowledge; and from the splen- did use which he made of engraving in later life, it is very evident that he was far from holding the craft of inferior dig- nity. Apprenticeship with Basire having end- ed, Blake at the age of twenty-one pro- ceeded to the Royal Academy. The young artist did not enter the newly- formed school without a full understand ing of what he wanted to learn. We have an anecdote from his own lips proving that the taste he had previously formed for himself here stood him in good stead, for the fashion of the time had set towards a style of execution that was altogether unfitted for Blakes great gifts of imag- inative invention. I was once, he tells us in his notes to Reynolds, looking over the prints from Raffaelle and Mi- chael Angelo in the library of the Royal Academy. Moser (the keeper of the Academy) came to me and said You should not study these old hard, stiff, and dry, unfinished works of art; stay a little and I will show you what you should study. He then went and took down Le Brun and Rubens galleries. How did I secretly rage ! I also spoke my mind! I said to Moser, These things that you call finished are not even begun: how then can they be finished? The man who does not know the beginning cannot know the end of art. Here the critic who seeks such an opportunity may possibly enter a reproof against Blakes confident and sometimes arrogant mode of expressing himself; and to those who feel the necessity of this reproof, the op- portunity may often recur. But it must be remembered that Blakes arrogance is not by any means the blustering of a man uncertain of his faith. In that strange and remarkable poem called the Everlasting Gospel, he says, Hu- mility is only doubt, and of this kind of humility Blake certainly possessed very little. About art in particular he held no opinion that could be interpreted as mere conjecture. For right or wrong he was always quite clear to himself as to the kind of excellence he wished to praise or the sort of fault he deemed in- tolerable; and for us who have to con- sider Blake chiefly as a practising artist, it is more important to discover whether his judgment was in itself valuable than to dwell overmuch upon a want of suavity in verbal exl)ressiOn. Mr. Dante Ros- setti, one of Blakes admirers, who has combined in the highest degree sympa- thetic understanding with impartial judg ment, has ranked some of Blakes com- ments on painting and poetry among the very best things ever said on either subject, and it would be difficult for any one who has carefully studied this side of Blakes genius to dispute the conclu- sion. But in his studies at the Academy Blake was employed in more important labour than arguing points of taste with his superiors. There, for the first time in a systematic ~vay,he studied from the life. I say in a systematic way, be- cause there can be little doubt that from the first Blake copied diligently what- ever came in his way. In his notes to Reynolds we are told that no one can ever design till he has learned the lan- guage of art by making many finished copies both of nature and art, and of whatever comes in his way from earliest childhood. But in the academy school he had, for the first time, an opportunity of studying from the living model, and this fact therefore deserves to be noted as of importance in the progress of his artistic training. With his attendance at the Academy, Blakes education in the narrower sense of the term is to be considered com- plete. Henceforth he is left to the di- rection of his own genius, with such in- fluences as necessity or individual study might chance to bring. Necessity, be- cause Blake, during his life, was com- pelled to earn his livelihood by engraving from the works of others, and it must have been that contact with their inferior style exercised a certain effect upon the artist, an effect for the most part taking shape in violent and uncompromising revolt. We pass now, however, from this brief record of his technical re- sources to the designs that gave them exercise; and here at the outset we must take notice of the comparatively small extent of the material that has hitherto been accessible to the student. It has often been urged by way of complaint that the public is insensible to the gran- deur and the charm of his design, but as a fact the public has had very little op- portunity of expressing itself upon the matter, either for good or evil. It would be very interesting if some body of in- fluence, say for instance, the Burling- ton Fine Arts Club, were to do for Blake what has been done for other men of genius, and what Blake could not at any time do for himself. A selection of Blakes works carefully made would es- tablish the existence in English art of unsuspected gifts, both of imagination 72 WILLIAM BLAKE. and executive power, and would take the paper, i6 1-2 inches by 13, the text of a artist at once out of the category of folio edition of Young is inlaid, and petted and pampered genius? and firmly around the text the design is distributed establish his fame as a great workman en- according to the fancy and judgment of dowed with superior skill as well as divine the painter. As a sample of Blakes ideas. At the present time perhaps the genius the work is for several reasons of best-known of Blakes works are the unique importance. It gives expression designs to the Book of Job, and the to his gift of colour as well as to his illustrations to Blairs Grave. In the powers of design, and it retains the purely British Museum we find also a fine col- decorative quality which from th. first lection of the printed books, the en- had always had a fascination for the gravings to Dante, and a few isolated painter. In the Songs of Innocence drawings of rare merit. But two vol- and Experience the text and the illus- umes have lately come to light which tration unite for a single effect; both are must in some respects take rank as the the work of the painters hand, and by most important existing witness to many a skilful and delicate touch the en- Blakes extraordinary powers in art. Last graved words are linked with the flowers year an advertisement appeared in the and figures that surround them, until they AI/Pnceurn for the sale of a copy of too appear a growth of art, and not merely Youngs Night Thoughts, with illus- an intellectual symbol. The process, as trations by William Blake. The an- it was followed in these songs, was appro- nouncement was not prominently made, priate only in dealing with small spaces, and attracted at the time little attention, and where the imaginative sense of the even among the admirers of the painter, designs could be made subordinate to The book was in Yorkshire, and was their decorative character. The delicate difficult of access, and for a little while elaboration by which every corner of the the matter dropped almost out of sight. page left unoccupied by the writing is Subsequently, however, the owner filled at once with curving flame that brought his treasure to London, and for branches inwards from the margin, or by some weeks it was lodged in the shop of some floating form of angel broken away a bookseller in Oxford Street, and its ex- from a graceful tree that shoots up by istence, as an interesting relic of Blakes the side of the text, and whose boughs manner of illustration, was duly noted in are still populous with angel forms, would one of the weekly journals. We may not serve and would not be possible on a add that the ~vork is still in London, and larger scale, where the illustration itself its contents are already familiar to a few becomes a thing of independent intellect- lovers of Blakes art. ual effort working in obedience to its own In the fifteenth chapter of the Life laws of design. But although this earlier Mr. Gilchrist refers to the illustrations to and richly ornamental system was not Youngs poem, but only to the engraved practicable in the case of the Night and published plates. These were forty- Thoughts, Blake still managed to satisfy three in number, extending only to the his constant desire for decorative effect. fourth night of the tedious series, and The text is not linked with the drawing, they were published by Edwards, of New but the space occupied by the text forms Bond Street, in 1797. But neither the a part of the scheme of illustration. In biographer nor Mr. William Rossetti, who every case the design is conceived and compiled the catalogue of Blakes works, conducted in relation to this space, and appears to have been aware of the exist- both in the distribution of the figures and ence of the desixns to which we now draw in the arrangement of colour the effect of attention. In place of the incomplete this square island of print is duly con- series of forty-three engravings, somewhat sidered. Thus it will be seen that Blake cold and thin in effect, we have now five did set himself really to illustrate these hundred and thirty-seven original designs, two folio volumes, and the way in which drawn and coloured by Blakes own hand. he proceeded was to make each page a The whole poem is here passed under the thing of beauty in itself. Before we have artists strange process of interpretation; time to consider the fitness of the picture and it was from this complete work, exe- in an intellectual sense, we are forced to cuted about 1794 for Edwards, that the acknowledge the harmonious effect of published selection was afterwards made. the page. And judging the work only A uniform method of illustration is ob- from this point of view, taking it merely served throughout the whole poem. In as an attempt to render the leaves of a the centre of a large sheet of drawing- volume lovely with varied colour and in- WILLIAM BLAKE. 73 tricate pattern, there is another distinc- tion to be noted which separates the illustrations from the earlier efforts of the artist. In the Sonosthe page is full; the hand of the artist has travelled all over it, enriching every corner with orna- ment, and leaving the whole surface bril- liantly enamelled. But in the larger spaces of the Night Thoughts a differ- ent and a bolder system has been adopt- ed. A great part of the page is very often left untouched, and clear both of colour and drawing. With the perfect fearlessness of power, the artist will break across the vacant space, leaving an undu- lating or broken line as the limit of his design, and balancing the illustration against the untouched whiteness with faultless instinct and complete success. In this gift of painting upon a part of the space at his disposal in such a way as to leave the impression that he has painted upon the whole, this work of Blakes shows the decorative power of Japanese art. There is the same refined and sensitive judgment as to relation of masses, the same confident taste as to therequired strength of colour. It would be impossible to give by description any notion of this particular quality in the designs. As we turn over leaf after leaf of the extraordinary volumes, new pat- terns of colour and fresh inventions of line surprise and satisfy our sense of decorative beauty. The colouring is often no more than a delicate distribution of even pints, but even in the least fin- ished of the drawings there is always evi- dent the artists desire to render his work admirable in the first and most simple sense. Other and deeper qualities fol- low, but this one condition of the art is seldoixi disturbed or sacrificed; and if the designs themselves were not worth comprehension, or were not comprehen- sible, the book would still remain an achievement of wonder in the realm of decorative art. In considering the higher significance of the work, a dominant quality of Blakes imagination at once asserts itself. Per- haps no man has ever combined in the same degree the impulse towards abstract speculation ~vith the painters power of giving to every thought its I)recise image. Blal:e was forever translating the super- sensual into the language of sense, and this he did at all times ~vith so much di- rectness and simplicity that the result is left dependent upon the fitness of the subject for the particular means of inter- pretation. Sometimes the perfect faith of the painter fails to communicate itself to the spectator, and the design becomes partly inadequate by reason of its uncom- promising fidelity and the serious and evident conviction of its author. But al- though con stant companionship with sub~ lime thought may sometimes lead the artist into themes which painting cannot completely interpret, his gift of certain and precise vision always secures a result artistic in itself. Thus we find in some of these pictures that the effect is more potent before we learn the motive that has suggested the design ; and some- times it happens that when the poetical intention is taken in connection with its artistic presentment, the very simplicity of the work begets involuntarily some- thing of ludicrous suggestion. But this same quality of directness in vision is also the source of the profoundest beauty over which art has control. The larger and more sublime the theme the more necessary becomes its presence; for nothing that belongs to a distant and ideal world can ever make itself credible to us unless the form of its appearance is dis- tinct and clear. All that is most myste- rious and unfathomable in the things of beauty, whether it be some divine Greek marble whose untroubled fairness defeats all terms of l)raise, or one of Michael An- gelos figures in whom the ideals of energy and sadness strangely conflict, owns this individual shape and sharply outlined form. This gift, which no student of Blake can have missed, seems to us to render him before all things a painter. In poetry the tendency to give sensuous form to every thought is sometimes a hindrance to comprehension ; and in such of Blakes poems as strike at high themes, much of the confusion, which not even Mr. Swin- burne would deny, springs from the con- stant effort of the author to deal with the intellectual material of verse in the spirit of art rather than of literature. The sim- l)ler poems of Blake are not affected by this difficulty; there the artistic element only helps the presentment of a theme of no intellectual intricacy but there comes a point where symbolism cannot keep pace ~vith abstract thought, and here the at- tempt to thrust ideas into sentient shape leads certainly to the confusion to be found in the Prophetic Books. So much is said not in order to suggest that Blake is undeserving of high consideration as a poet: so long as his poems exist, that would be a futile and blundering attempt, easy to defeat and perilous to make; but in order to record an opinion that his 74 WILLIAM BLAKE. poetical faculty stops far short of the magnificent scope of his artistic powers, and that the very gift which gave him success in art often proved misleading in the realm of verse. It is likely that no book could have served much better for the display of Blakes genius than Youngs Night Thoughts. The poet says so much and means so little that the artist is left with a wide range of selection, and without the harassing restrictions that a coherent text might have brought. It is interest- ing to note with what facility Blake transports the vague metaphors of the poet into the certain dialect of art. A less independent and confident genius would have taken no account of Youngs audacious personifications, or would have rendered their image in art absurd. But Blake both obeys the text and rises above it. Sometimes he turns the artifice of the poem into grandeur by simple ac- ceptance of its terms. He realizes the scene which to the poet had only been vaguely shadowed, and gives to the large words, used without weight in the verse, the splendour and dignity which be. long to them by right. At other times he escapes altogether from the text through the loophole of a stray simile. When Young introduces the comparison of Eve gazing on the lake, Blake at once presents the kneeling and nude figure of a lovely woman looking into the depths of a quiet pool, with long loosened hair flowin~ down her back, and hands brought together in a gesture of soft and rapt surprise and when the poet, in no- cent of any terrible suggestion, speaks of clustered woes, the painter seizes the words as the text of one of his grand- est inventions. He actually presents the image of woes in human form. Through the darkened air float stran~e islands, composed of men and women, locked together in an agony of despair. This is a good in stance of the way in which Blake accepts the facts stated in the text without sacrifice of grand imaginative effect. In the tangled mass of human beings, writhing in every attitude of pain and yet compactly bound together, we get the physical image of clustering woes. The idea is presented in its simplest and yet most potent form, and in that strange way known only to great genius the deeper poetic truth is thus enclosed in the commoner reality of physical fact. This union of physical truth and pro- found poetic meaning has been the mark of great art of all times. It is the sign whereby we know that the strength of the craftsman is working in harmony with the vision of the poet, for in the highest product as much scope is given to the one quality as to the other, and when we meet with efforts to express sentiment and passion without including this nat- ural truth, then we may be assured that the art is either immature orin decay. There are instances in these volumes where absolute fidelity to the poets de- scription leads the artist to very beauti- ful results. In one passage Young, who was never at all afraid of elaborate met- aphors, presents Thought as a murderer led through the desert of the past, and there meeting with the ghosts of depart- ed joys. It is very probable that the gifted author never gave himself the trouble to realize with any clearness the image he had coined, but in Blakes mind, where the artistic sense was al- ways supreme, every ima~,e at once struck itself into outline, and took a form as cer- tain as the commonest reality. In the illustration he has set to the verse the thought loses its fantastic extravagance, and becomes a grave and solemn vision. The painters strength and sureness of sight have forced the loose sense into grand design, and yet no part of the met- aphor is sacrificed or omitted. The picture becomes in the largest sense rep- resentative of murder and remorse. In the midst of a barren landscape of desert hills outlined against the dull sky lies the murdered body, and by its side is the murderer. He stands, the right hand still grasping the knife, with head turned away, and remorseful face thrown up despairingly into the night ; and there above him, and meeting his gaze, are the wailing and pitiful ghosts of past hopes and joys, little weeping figures circled in the sky. Both the principal figures are nude, and that of the murderer is drawn with fine choice of attitude and forcible expression. And here again we must remark how perfectly the illustration ful- fils its first purpose of decorating the page upon which it is set ; how the flesh- tints against the deep-toned hills, and the faintly-hued robes of the little fi~ures who inhabit the night, make up a perfect harmony of colour, and how moreover the lines and masses of the composition are so disposed as to keep the whole space balanced. But Blake does not draw his inspira- tion only from ~vords or passages that suggest terror. Some of the most im- pressive designs in these volumes are WILLIAM BLAKE. also the sweetest. He could touch things of innocence without losing strength, and could give the full impression of gladness and delight without loss of se- verity in style. One of the most perfect of these illustrations represents Christ as the father of all children, sitting en- throned in the sky. On every side the golden heavens are peopled with childish forms, flying with glad faces towards the form of Christ. Already one little nude boy has reached the bosom of Jesus, and others circle close around, borne in, as it were, on the radiating lines of light that spring from the central ficrure. It is a vision of all the world become as little children and making their way to heaven. The glad, untroubled faces, with an ex- pression of happiness too easily begotten to be over-intense, are lit with a light of freer and more innocent worship than any painter has imaged in religious art. And it may be remarked in this picture, as in many others, with what perfect real- ity Blake renders the truth of flying forms. These little figures, the boys nude and the girls demurely draped in close-fitting garments, have not even wings to assist the impression of aerial support, and yet their presence in the air is perfectly credible to us their confident flight through the sky suggests no doubt or question as to its means. This power of dealing with supernatural effects in a natural way is a part of Blakes strong imaginative gift. He did not merely think of boys and girls flying through the L. sky: he saw them and to his intense vision, always gazing familiarly on what to other men is distant or uncertain, the attitude of flying was as natural as any other. Thus we find in all cases, that his floating or flying figures, whether winged or wingless, have an extraordinary im- pression of physical reality as well as ideal beauty. With that strong impulse towards purely natural truth which con- trols all his inventions, he reconciles us at once to the merely practical difficulties of the theme, and leaves us in quiet pos- session of all its higher meaning, un- troubled by the doubts that a less gifted workman would arouse. And this same familiarity of Blake with the circum- stances of an ideal world tells with equal effect in his treatment of nude form. Other painters may be, and surely have been, more correct in the drawing of the figure, but no painter has ever given in a higher degree the perfect unconscious freedom that Blake gives to his nude figures. This impression, altogether in- valuable in imaginative art, cannot be gained by any amount of copying from the model: it springs only from the painters power of vividly realizing an existing world of nude figures. That is the only way in which the figures of art can be made to look as if their nakedness was natural to them. The nude female forms to be found in these illustrations to Young are often of surprising beauty. We have already referred to the figure of Eve bending over the water of the lake, and those who know the published en- gravings will remember the symbolic representation of Sense running wild with the dark pall of death spread above her. But the coloured drawing of this subject very far surpasses the engraving. It is difficult to imagine anything more beautiful than the wild freedom of this youthful woman with long yellow hair blown about her shoulders, racing heed- lessly over the green hills while above the pall of death is fast descending. An- other instance of graceful management of nude form, and an example of the artists method of illustration, is to be found in the drawing which accompanies the following lines. The poet is speaking of Heaven, and he says Song, Beauty, Youth, Love, Virtue, Joy, this group Of hright ideas, flowers of Paradise As yet imperfect, in one blaze we bind, Kneel and present it to the skies as all We guess of Heaven. Here Blake has literally followed the poets image. Against a sky of intense blue the scroll of flame is set, and within the flame the floating figures of the heav- enly virtues which a kneeling figure pre- sents to the skies. The forms of Song, Beauty, and Youth, and the rest each with some appropriate emblem, are ex- quisitely disposed in the space of flame, and they have that peculiar quality of freedom in their nakedness that Blake always knew how to gain. Another illus- tration presents a symbolic figure of the soul mounting to heaven. With folded arms the naked man ascends, a sky of blue towards the yellow light that streams downward from the opening clouds above him. The attitude is severely ~ raceful, and it is, moreover, directly suggestive of the idea of upward movement. Still keeping to examples of nude form, we come upon a design showing with what perfect independence Blake sometimes saw fit to treat the text of his author. Young enlarging upon the qualities of friendship thus enquires 75 76 WILLIAM BLAKE. Knowst thou, Lorenzo, what a friend con- colossal hand, he sweeps an innocent tains ? family beneath his shadow, while upon As bees mixed nectar draw from fragrant the other, calmly outstretched upon the flowers, great knees and unconscious of its use, a So men from Friendship, Wisdom and De light, - naked and enfranchised soul is gazing up Twins tyd by nature, if they part they die. to the angels imaged in the sky, her loosened hair already caught by the Blake in this design realizes, not friend- winds of heaven. ship, but the two qualities which, accord- In treating of a series of upwards of ing to the poet, friendship yields. Wis- five hundred designs, it is impossible, by dom, a learned shepherd with crook and a few examples, to give any idea of the book, advances inclose company with the endless fertility of the painters inven- more youthful figure of Delight, whose tion. In this respect alone these volumes more alert look and younger face is skil- form a most remarkable witness to fully contrasted with the sober counte- Blakes powers. No other work is of the nance of his companion. In the back- same extent and as this was executed ground is Blakes favourite symbol of a when the painter was of a ripe age and peaceful and happy life ranks of sheep still young, we may suppose that no other with bent heads quietly cropping the work received a larger share of energy and pati short grass. The figures in this design, ent labour. Certainly it seems, both nude, are of statuesque grace and as we turn over the richly adorned leaves, dignity. They bear themselves as men that at no time could Blake have been long used to the ways of the ideal world more al)tly disposed for setting his they inhabit, and their unconscious thoughts in design. On the side of exe- beauty brings to the spectator a convic- cution, though very much is beautiful, tion of such a worlds existence. there are faults that further experience A noticeable feature of these illustra- availed to correct and for perfection in tions, and the last to which we shall call this respect, so far at least as drawing is attention, is the artists consistent treat- concerned, the illustrations to Job, put ment of the physical image of Death. forward many years later, must always Neither here, nor indeed anywhere in hold the the highest place. But these Blakes art, is there found any faltering marvellous drawings for the Night or doubt as to the individual qualities Thoughts have a special interest, as in with which these abstract creations are to some sense the storehouse from which be endowed. The great form that does future inventions were to be drawn. At duty for Death has not been created out this time perhaps more than any other of a series of tentative efforts. There is the artists brain was ready to create, no trace of experiment in the result. It and so it happens that we find here the has the perfect precision and distinct first germs of ideas employed after- character of a portrait, a reality as of a wards in other works. The designs for form absolutely seen by the painter, if by Blairs Grave borrow largely from this no one else. But side by side with this source; and one of the most beautiful impression of strong portraiture, there is ideas in the plates to Job, the rank of a sense of a supernatural and terrible angels singing together with crossed presence. Blake has not permitted the hahds and ordered wings, is to be found exactness of the representation to ta e partly expressed in the second volume of from the awful character of the subject. Young. The vision is confident, but it is like the In this review of his work Blake has vision of sleep, which brings things near been spoken of only as an artist. It to us without rendering them familiar, would have been easy to have discussed Thus about these images of Death that at equal length his qualities as a poet, and are frequent throughout the series, even to have found not less of beauty in his where the action is most energetic and xvork in verse. But in the first place most relentless, we feel that it is fatal both praise and criticism of Blakes rather than malicious, and that Death him- poetry have been amply anticipated. self is like a blind actor in a drama without Mr. Swinburnes examination into the purpose. The ancient face with closed mysteries of the Prophetic Books re- eyes and mouth buried in the long white mains a performance of extraordinary hair that appears in the front of the first power which no after efforts could readily volume is typical of the character given to rival; and quite recently Mr. William Death in these designs. We may note Rossetti has done for the more easily in- too the labour he performs as, with one telhigible of Blakes poems all that needs to MISS ANGEL. be done in order to render them acceptable to the public. And if this were not so, it would still remain in our judgment true that Blakes art is the greater of his achievements, and the one most power- fully claiming recognition. His poetry takes its place with equal and greater English verse ; but in certain qualities of his art, the qualities that our painters have most often needed, and most often missed, Blake as an Englishman stands almost alone. We have striven to make it understood that Blake was no mere vis- ionary speaking a language strange to painting. Where he was greatest he was most in sympathy with the greatest art of earlier times, and his gifts of design and his powers of expression in drawing are certainly not less remarkable than the qualities of his imagination. We tried to show in the beginning of our notice of Blake how severe and technically search- ing was the standard by which he judged of the works of other men, and no higher praise can be given in parting than by saying that he better than others is able to bear the severity of his own test. It is chiefly due to English art that these great qualities should be fully recognized. To Blake himself it now matters nothing, nor would it at any time have mattered very greatly. He suffered from want of fame, but he was not rendered miserable. He had throughout his life the praise of men whose praise xvas best worth having at the time, and towards the close of his career he said himself about this very subject of fame, I wish to do nothing for profit: I want nothing: I am quite happy. J. C. C. From The Corohull Magazine. MISS ANGEL. CHAPTER XXIX. SORROWS KEENEST WIND. ONE by one, the spectators of this stran~e little tragedy took their leave as spectators do. The play being over, they returned to their own interests. All that evening Angel and her father sat by the fire in the studio silent, but not unmind- ful of each others presence. Little Rosa was quietly playing in a corner alone. Angel held her fathers horned old hand in her soft fingers. They had had a long talk together; she had been quite open to him and without disguise. Those well-meant deceits, those agoniz- ing suppressions by which people try to save others from pain are they worth the grief they occasion? Very often the sense of confidence and security far out~ balances any pain of frankness and even of condemnation expressed. A father does not utterly resent any misfortune, however greatly to be de- plored, by which his daughter is doomed to remain at his side. John Joseph held the pretty hand with its pointed fingers and looked at it with fatherly eyes. This is a painters hand, he said, with a kind little caressing tap. Where is thy cameo rin Angel, that the lady ambassadress gave thee? How can I tell you where it is? said Angel, with a sudden burst of feel- ing. De Horn took it away; he did not give it back to me. How can I tell you where he is? How shall I ever know where he is again ? Her voice rang sadly shrill as she spoke. The old man knew not what to say to comfort her ; he could only mutely caress the poor little trembling hand. Angelica felt that the truth had now been owned. Now there was no longer anything to conceal, and any truth faith- fully faced is strength in itself. She told herself, and she told the old man simply, that her life was spoiled, that she could not feel that vows spoken with all sincerity and seriousness were broken because circumstances had changed. She regretted it all, but there could be no change. If I had not been sincere in my feel- ing for that man, what excuse should I have had, father? said she. It came to me suddenly; but it was no imagina- tion. While he lives I shall ever feel bound to him. What excuse had I but my sincerity ? So she spoke, but nevertheless Angel fell into a strange indescribable state of morbid despair. Her nobler nature was no longer called upon to act; her com- monplace, every-day self failed to endure the daily pricks and the stings of pity, of officious sympathy and half-concealed curiosity ; she knew not how to bear it all. If she had not prayed with all her heart for direction, she once said to herself, she could have better borne to be dis- graced, to be ashamed of her actions, to be liranded so it seemed to her, for life. And yet she had only prayed to be helped to do right. She had not asked to be spared suffering. 77 78 MISS ANGEL. Her prayer had not been so fruitless as she imagined. That for which they all blamed and pitied her, for which she blamed herself, reflecting the minds of those she trusted, was not perhaps all in 4~er conduct which most deserved con- demnation. Her whole nature seemed changed. She who had once courted attention now shrunk from notice with sensitive terror. In after days she used to look back with strange pity and wonder at these sad and miserable times; but, seen by the light of a brighter future, these old days looked different, nor could she ever quite remember their full depth of bitter dull- ness. Even to remember is scarcely pos- sible, to put oneself back is sometimes a feat almost as difficult as to put oneself forward. Some one once showed me a drawing of Mendelssohns. He had sketched his friends house in loving re- membrance of the hours he had spent there. It is wonderfully accurate, said the lady who had preserved the picture but one window is misl)laced, it is strange that, remembering it all so ex- actly, he should have been mistaken on this point. The windows of the past have a curious way of shifting. We look back at the stone walls which have enclosed our lives, and they seem one day to open. Perhaps after-lights break through and make a way. Perhaps the angels break in, as in that picture of Tintorettos where the heavenly company bursts triumphant through the massive walls and becomes suddenly revealed to the astounded Mary. The angels of the past do sometimes reveal themselves. Although Angelica shrunk from any allusion to her troubles, old Kauffmann scarcely spoke on any other subject. He would return to it again and again, en- treat her with tears and snuff to dissolve her marriage. Then her agitation grew excessive. No, no, she would say, she had no power to break such a tie. But the marriage is no marriage, old Kauffmann would cry, exasperated, and appealing to Mr. Reynolds, their constant friend. Some one reads a service, there are no bans, no witnesses. The man had been married before. I, her father, am not consultedthe man disappears. There W6ZS a license, said Mr. Rey- nolds, slowly. I have taken counsels opinion. The previous marriage could not be proved. With you Catholics, the law is strict; but I have no doubt that by an appeal to Rome I entreat you, dear father, dear Mr. Reynolds, interrupted Angelica, with passionate emphasis, leave it, take no steps; you only give me more pain. I only ask to be left alone to bear my own burden, to injure no one else. Forget it all, father I shall speak of it no more. And she kept her word; but though she did not speak she drooped, the blithe spirit was gone. Her friends ~vere full of anxiety and solicitude. Lady Diana used to come day by day. Little Miss Reynolds used to arrive on tiptoe, slowly creaking the door-handle, as if a click of the latch would add or detract from poor Angelicas barrenness of heart. Every- body had a different prescription, but none reached her. For some months Angelica Kauffmann seemed strangely altered she had no word to utter, nothing to feel or to ex- press. Such times come to all night falls, the winter of our discontent covers and hushes the songs and perfumes and blooming garlands of summer-time. She had nothing more to say to anybody. She had said so much in so few words, felt so much in so few minutes, that now there seemed nothing left. She kept si- lence with her father ; she would endure his solicitude in a dogged, stupid sort of way. One day Lady Diana folded her in her arms in a sudden burst of indig- nation. My poor, poor friend! she said. Yes, Angel answered, and this is only the beginning: it gets worse and worse. The low-born, knavish, insolent wretch ! cried Lady Diana, whose own pride had been curiously touched by the remembrance of past occurrences. You have a right to be angry, said Angelica, blushing up angrily; but he did love me. I am not his superior in birth, he loved me; not you, she re- peated, with a strange bitter laugh. The lauTh went on and then changed into a great flood of tears. You will see it differently some day, said Lady Di; you do not remember how you have been insulted. Have you no dignity, no pride; to resent such treat- ment ? I think not, said Angel, hanging her head and speaking in a hard and dogs ed tone. I am utterly and bopelessly dis- graced. I see it in every face I meet. What use is there in speaking of it at all? MISS ANGEL. 79 Nobody can understand me, and even be better for her pictures if she had less you will not understand that I can have confidence, hut for herself it would not some sincerity of feeling in my heart. be so well, said the painter. Her sorrow made her quite reckless of One day, after poor Angels tragedy, what she owed to other people, though the two men met again by chance. How not indifferent to their blame. It seemed is your friend Miss Kauffmann ? the to her as if all eyes were upon her. critic asked, quite kindly. Poor lady It was not all imagination on Angeli- I fear her experience has been bitter ca s part when she thought that people enough to take the roses out of her gar- were looking at her, counting her poor land for a long time to come. I am ex- heart-throbs, scanning her lonely tears. pecting a visit from her and her father She was a ~vell-known character. This at my chambers, he continued; they curious romance crept abroad from one are coming this afternoon, on business source and another. Gossip was better connected with the house they live in. managed in those days than now, and Mr. St. Leus staircase led from under persons of a larger mind were interested the covered way that crosses from Inner in the private details which then took the Temple Lane. The staircase abuts upon place of those public facts in which per- a quaint old wig-shop, that cannot be sons are now absorbed. much altered since the days when An- Mr. Reynolds was discreet in vain; it gelica looked in through the narrow panes provoked him to hear the poor girls at the blocks and the horse-hair curls name in every mouth. Wherever he perched upon their shining cranes. ~vent he was crossquestioned and re- I will wait for you here, father, said crossquestioned. Some blamed, some she; it is out of the wind. I do not laughed, all talked. care to go up. The nervous terror of Lady Diana used to bite her lips with meeting strangers was still upon her. vexation. What cannot one or two good She smiled to her father and went and friends accomplish ? The influence of stood in the one sheltered corner of this this man and this woman worked won- windy place, waiting by the wig-shop and ders in Angels behalf. Their steady leaning against the brick wall. friendship saved her from the ill opinion The colonnade divides two pretty old of many who were ready to accept the courts, with many lawyers and bricks first version that was given to them, and and memories, with blue bags issuing who felt it incumbent upon them to judge, from old doorways; red, and brown, and with or without facts to go upon. An- grey are the tints ; quaint and slight the gel refused all invitations ; she could arches and peristyles, to some minds as scarcely be persuaded to go out into the quaint and graceful in their mists and street. Lady Diana was most anxious wreathing fogs as any flaunting marble or to carry her away then and there to her triumphant Pompeian vista. For a long own country-house in Hampshire, of time Angel watched the passers-by; lis- which mention has been made. But An- tened to the sound of the footsteps. It gelica seemed to have a nervous horror was a bitter day for all its spring prom- of any change, any effort. ise a fog hung over the streets, the One day, a long time before, a Mr. St. wind came dry and dusty, piercing Leu, a barrister and art-critic, had been through the damp mist. Angelica waited, speaking of some of Angelicas work to indifferent to it all; the weather made Mr. Reynolds. It is graceful, the little difference to her in her strange de- critic had said, but over-strained and af- pression. fected. Everything is too couleur de Would anything ever touch her again? roseate-rose for my plain common sense. she wondered. It seemed to her as if even I know the old father; a friend of his, trouble could not come near her any M. Zucchi, an Italian ,gave him a letter more. It is true that interest itself fails to me. The fair Angelica I have not at times, and that life is then very salt- seen ; but her work does not attract me. less and ashy to the taste ; but even this You have scarcely entered into her is a part of lifes experience, if honestly intention, Mr. Reynolds had said, grave- accepted. Angel waited, listlessly watch- ~y. To her charming nature the whole ing two children descending and climbing word is a garden of happiness. She the steps of a piled brown house with an knows that sorrow exists. The wicked- arched doorway. She felt forlorn and ness of life to us older people it is, out of place; other people were living perhaps, the only real sorrowdoes not on, progressing, and working to some seem to occur to her. Perhaps it might end. She had no end, nothing to wish 8o MISS ANGEL. for. Feeling the utter hopelessness of to flow. The ugly seamed face was ten- it all, she could see no way out of it, no der with its great looks of pity. possible issue. You are Mrs. Kauffmann, said the She had never taken into consideration man in this voice, with a sort of echo. that tide which flows and ebbs, that al- I told your father I would stay with ternate waking and sleeping which be- you, my dear, until he had finished his long to all living emotion. If our hearts business. I have wished to make your did not beat with alternate pulses, they acquaintance, he continued, after a mo- would not be alive. ments pause. I know to what straits The children were gone, a lawyers we poor human creatures can be brought, clerk had paced the court and dwindled and I confess that the recital of your away. (I dont know if lawyers clerks story has moved me greatly. looked as old and worn a hundred years There he stood still looking at her, and ago as they do now.) she timidly glanced at the lazy well- One bi~ old man dressed in loose un- known figure, at the heavy face with the tidy clotl~s xvent slowly past blinking at indomitable fire of light in it, the lamp her from beneath a small scratch wig that burning through the bushel and darting scarce covered his big head; he rolled its light into one heart and another; as he walked along, portly, unsightly. Johnsons looks no less than his words There was a certain stamp of arbitrary carried that conviction which is the dignity about him for all his shabby special gift of some people. clothes and uncouth gestures. Angelica Angeli ca, who had of late so shrunk recognized the face and strange actions, from strangers, felt as if this was a friend for she had seen Mr. Johnson one even- to whom she could complain ; to whom ing at the play; that evening when Gar- it was possible to speak. rick acted Hamlet. What do you mean? she cried im- She shrunk away from his steady gaze. petuously (her tongue seemed suddenly He passed on, and went up the staircase unloosed). Who do you take me for? by which her father had just climbed. Do you know my story? It is only fool- Then more smoke-coloured figures went ery and disgrace. People look at me by with the misty minutes. Then by de- not, as you do, with kindness no, I see grees the place became quite silent and their scorn ; I feel their importunate cu- deserted, except for certain ghosts of her riosity, and know not how to escape from own fancy, and drifts of smoke and soot, it all, from myself, my miserable life and an odd jumble of recollections. Hush, my dear; hush! said this Angel sighed, from present chill de- stranger. There is no wisdom in use- pression as much as from any other less and hopeless sorrow; although, cause. Some stir of pain seemed awak- somehow, it is so like virtue at times that ened suddenly; a sort of unreasonable he who is wholly without it cannot be retrospective sense of shame and grief loved by me, at least. To be ill-thought came over her, and caused her to hide of in another persons mind is in itself her face in her two hands for an instant, no wrong-doing, although it may signify some discomfort to yourself. But be- lieve me, my dear young lady, said the wise old man, the world is not so scorn- ful as you imagine; so unjust as it is IT was in that instant that a heavy peevishly repres~nted. For my own part, he went on, I love and resl)ect step creaked down the narrow staircase, you, disgraced, as you call it; whereas fell on the stones, came to ber side, and before, there was a time when my sym- stopped. pathy was less. You have done no Yes, father! she said, without look-, wrong; you have injured yourself, but no ing up. other person. In some ways disappoint- Your father is above with Mr. St.j ment is as good as success, for it does Leu, said a voice. not prevent the sincerity of your good in- It was not John Josephs vibrating ten- I tentions, nor alter the truth of your feel- or, but a deep and measured tone she ings. To be mistaken is no crime. Many did not know; and then Angehica raised thinos turn out differently from our wish- her eyes, and met the full and steady es. Can you follow me, my dear? Nay, look of two bleared heavy orbs, from you must not cry; you must not lose which, nevertheless, a whole flooding courage. A lifetime is still before you, light of sympathy and kindness seemed and much hope for the future. CHAPTER XXX. IN PATIENCE POSSESS YE YOUR SOULS. MISS ANGEL. I{e took her languid hand, and held it between his big palms. He comforted her strangely, though she scarcely owned it to herself, or knew how this strange help reached her. Hope! cried poor Angel. What hope can there be for me? I know not how to escape my thoughts. I know not whom to trust, whom to love, what to do. Love your enemies; do good to them that ill-use you, said the old man, sol- emnly. Follow your own sense of right. Fear not to love, my dear. Fear hate and mistrustful feelings. Fear the idle- ness of grief; accept the merciful dispen- sation of Providence, which, by the ne- cessity of present attention, diverts us from being lacerated hy the past. It is a most mortifying reflection for any of us to consider what we have done in com- parison with what we might have done. It still remains for you to contemplate the future without undue confidence, but without unnecessary alarm, and with humble trust in your own efforts for right- doing, to determine upon the best, the most reasonable course for a Christian to pursue, and to follow that course with courage and humility. Some people have a gift of magnetism, of personal influence, which is quite in- describable, which belongs partly to the interest they take in the concerns of oth- ers, partly to some natural simplicity and elevation of soul. Johnsons personality and great-hearted instinct reaches us still across the cen- tury that divides us from its convincing strength. What must that tender, dog- matic, loving help have been to poor little Angelica in her perplexity, as she found herself face to face with this human be- ing, so devout and wise and tender in his sympathy! Now at last she seemed to have found an ark, a standing-place in her sea of trouble. She looked up into the heavy face. She seemed to breathe more fully; the load upon her heart was suddenly lightened, and with a burst of tears she stooped and kissed the great brown hand. Oh ! she said, you have spoken words that I shall never forget. Heaven sent you to me. Now I feel as if I could face my life again. The poor little things nerves had been overwrought, overstrung all this long time. It seemed to her now, as if this man had taken her hand, and led her calmly to the encounter of terrors and alarms which she had not dared to face LIVING AGE. VOL. XI. 526 alone, and which vanished as she met them. When John Joseph came down after his long conference with Mr. St. Len he found Angeiica brightened, smiling through tears. His old Angel was come hack, with a softened light in her eyes and a sweetened tone in her voice. Father, how long you have been she said. Not too long, not one moment too long! If you could know what this half-hour has done for me It had done this it had restored her self-respect, her confidence in others. John Joseph rubbed his hands, seeing her look of life renewed. The slight fig- ure drifted less languid, more erect. There was hope in her steps. They passed out into the busy street, under Temple Bar, into the noisy haunts of men. Angels friend rolled off on his un- gainly way. He was grateful and cheered himself, for to bless is in itself the bless- ing of some generous hearts. As she went along Angelica once more remembered the priest and the text carved upon the stone in the cloister at Verona. But this was no stony oracle carved to order; this was a livin ~ xv ord, one spoken for her alone, one that came home to her, and kindled her sad heart. When Angelica reached home that day everything seemed to be changed. So much can one person sometimes do for another. Mr. Johnsons confidence seemed to have touched some secret spring. She set to work again with re- newed courage. Resolve and patient en- deavour came to her aid. Everything seemed possible again, even without the spring of hope. Some days, utterly dry and parched, she worked on from habit, hoping that the sap of interest was not quite crushed within her heart. At others, strung to happier measure, she seemed to be up- lifted, to be able to put her care away. She had never painted better in her life than now; orders came in, and she was obliged to defer a long-promised visit to Lowdenham Manor, Lady Dianas house. in Hampshire. People are made up of so many contra- dictory feelings, that when a persons. conduct surprises us we forget how much circumstances have to do with the out~ ward aspect of life. As the material facts change, the motive forces seem to turn into fresh channels; but it is the same force or weakness of character that drives 82 MISS ANGEL. the impulse. Angelica Kauffmann was a woman born to be a slave, easily influ- enced by stronger wills, but still more by her stubborn ideas of sentiment. One trying ordeal was still before her it was but meeting with an old tried friend. We mortals are very impatient beings, and we seem to have some in- stinct by which we often make bad mat- ters worse, far worse than they need be. Antonio added to poor Angelicas troubles by his return, by his utter and indignant sympathy. When he saw her looking unhappy, his grief for her trouble seemed to turn against her in its very intensity. They met in the street one day he was on his way to see her. She had been listlessly strolling in the sunshine with little Rosa, and they were standing by the railings at the corner of the square, when they saw him crossing the street. He, too, looked worn and harassed, although he had come straight from sweet golden groves and perfumed skies. He had re- ceived a strange summons to Windsor immediately on his return, and was just come back from thence. He had found bad news enough waiting his return to put out perfumes and southern lights for days to come. He did not speak at first when Angel gave him her languid band: she was frightened by his manner. When did you come?~~ she faltered. He was silent for a little hit, trying to span the gulph which had opened be- tween them. He was unreasonable, in- dignant, angry with her, with fate. She looked at him at last with her steady eyes. The look made him speak, though at one time in his anger against her he had thought all words were over between them forever. 1 came yesterday, he said. I found a letter calling me to Windsor. There is sad news there. I must return thither. I scarcely thought of seeing you, but I could not keep away. Why should you keep away because I am in trouble, said Angel, leading the way across the street to her house, of which the door was on the latch, and flit- ting up-stairs before him into her studio. She ~vent up to her easel from hahit, untied her hood; it fell upon the floor at her feet. She waited for her friend to speak. Angelica for once seemed crushed, made dull somehow. She did not hold up her head, but stood looking before her with vacant eyes. Angelica! was this Angelica? It was not so much that she looked ill and changed; but some sharp- ness had come into her face, some dull cloud into her glancing blue eyes, some expression of distaste and weariness, that Antonio had never seen before. It cut him to the heart. His grief made him unjust. He began to pace the room in a sort of fury, then turned and came straight back to her. Unhappy girl ! he cried, what have you done? His melting voice, restrained by his grief for her trouble, seemed to pass over her as a wave of salt bitterness, and as he reproached her the two seemed drawn together more nearly again. What madness befell you ? he cried. Did you forget your father and all who love you ? Oh Angelica, what have you done ? What did you mean by it? he cried again. Had you no sense of honour left? no instinct of your own dignity? And his eyes brimmed over with tears, and he stooped and took her hand and kissed it with a tender respect which be- lied his words. You would have done better if you had married me, said Antonio with a sort of groan. I who went away be- cause I thought it hopeless, and, fool that I was, could not consent to follow in your train as so many others had done. I had rather you had di.ed. 0 Angelica! he cried, in a tone of such true sorrowful part in her sorrow that Angel, who had been angry and cold and indignant, now suddenly began to cry; and the tears did them both good, and washed away their bitterness of heart. You know I did love him, Antonio, and sometimes I think I do love him still, she said. He might have raged again, but for her tears and sorrow of heart. Perhaps I am not married, she said, wiping her tears, but when I took those vows upon me I was sincere. Now let me at least fulfil that which I engaged to do. I should not know one moments peace if I went against my feeling. As it is I have a certain peace a feeling of self-respect, which helps me. I must make up to my father for all I have made him suffer, and I must accept my life as it comes to me. Not the happiest lot, indeed, but a tolerable one compared to some, said Angel, taking Antonios hand. I have the blessing of constant occupation. It wearies me at times, and I have sometimes envied those whose life did not depend upon their toil; but MISS ANGEL. 83 on the whole I would not have it other- wise. We are friends, are we not? she added, in her old girlish voice; I want my friend Antonio more than I ever did. I think I shall know better how to value him. But all the same, they were parted for a long long time. Antonio felt too deep- ly to be able to look on calmly, to meet John Joseph with patience. He could do no good ; he seemed to re-open her wounds by his sympathy. It was no use that he should stay, so he felt. One day he ~vent to Mr. Reynolds. It was some comfort to rail at fate in the company of another who had suffered also in some measure. He asked Mr. Reynolds ques- tion upon question. Once he lost his temper, and flew out with a burst of anger at the calm demeanour of the unruffled master. Forgive my importunity, he said, recollecting himself with an effort ; she is my dearest, oldest friend. I have been almost beside myself, and I ask myself, as if in a cruel dream, whether it can be true. I am afraid it is too true, said Mr. Reynolds, gravely. It is most unfortu- nate, most distressing. Antonio turned pale and faint. His nerves were not of the same equal poise as the great painters, and he could not face the ruin of his friends life without the acutest physical suffering. Mr. Reynolds continued calmly: You may rely on me for leaving no stone un- turned to release her; only her consent is necessary, and this she absolutely re- fuses. She is mad cried Zucchi. What does she mean? No one can deplore her strange in- fatuation more than I do, said Mr. Rey- nolds, gravely. She considers herself married, and refuses to be set free. I myself have tried in vain to convince her of her mistake. Antonio gave an odd flashing glance at his companion ; then he hastily took leave and hurried away. CHAPTER XXXI. AT LOWDENTIAM MANOR. Wn have seen Angelica in such sad- dened straits of late that it is a satisfac- tion to turn a page and find her in pleas- ant pastures again, and by still waters. It was evening, and they had all been sitting silent in the drawing-room : Miss Reynolds in her corner by the window; Lady Diana was working at the table; and Angelica-poor Ange~ica she, too, had been at work, but her hands had fallen listless into her lap, and she sat watching the drops, the green lawn, with its little furnaces of geraniums. The water did not seem to extinguish these flames ; it seemed, on the contrary, to feed and stimulate their fires. The room was faded and becabineted; but Lady Diana had been content to leave it as she had found it, with the great china pots of last summers rose-leaves, and other rel- ics of its late possessors. It was Angel- ica who had plucked two jars full of china roses, and who had brought in a great burning gladiola bursting from its stem. Its red head was reflected in the convex looking-glass. I dont know how long they had sat silent. The silence seemed to grow heavier and heavier as the minutes went by. Everything seemed to make it worse. It had begun, as most silences do, by a word best left unsaid. I hoped Lord Henry would have rid- den over again to see us before this, said Miss Reynolds. I dont know that we ladies are not better without him but he talked to Angelica of coming to see how we were all gettin~ on. I am sure he will come, said Angel- ica, for he prom for he told me the last time What should he come for? said Lady Diana, quickly. She looked up so stern and so abruptly that Angelica gave a little start. Why did you make him promise to come ~ain ? It was his own proposal, not mine, said Angelic a, wearily. I want no com- pany but that which I have,~ she said. Angelica could hardly have told you herself how the days went by at Low- denham Manor. The distant murmur of the sea reached them from time to time, the days were green and still and even in their progress. Twilights lengthened into dawns, dawns into midday; but even the midday glares came shadowed and softenedthrough the clouding branches. On most sides rose green hills, fringed and heaped with green bushes. Here a cow would be grazing high in the air, it seemed, climbing over the top of the elm- trees. The blue smoke of some cottage chimney would be spiring from some deeper hollow, spreading, melting, van- ishing delicately away. Everything seemed subdued and mellowed. The very tree-stems were softly wound with ivy-sprays. The old orchard-walls were 84 MISS ANGEL. lined with lichen, as were the branches of the heavy fruit-trees. The ponds lay clear, reflecting the greens and gentle blues and lilacs of the landscape. The bushes were overflowing with convolvu- luses flowering white. It seemed to An- gelica like a place hidden in the heart of a labyrinth to which they had come wind- ing by green lanes. Angelica felt so safe, so peaceful here, far away from the world of doubt and sorrow in which she had been living so long. Did such a world still exist? Yes, perhaps ; but not for her to-day. This place to her was but complete with beauty, with peace and comfort. Anything more startlingly beautiful might have been too difficult in her worn and exhausted state. Here by degrees a Si- lent understanding seemed to have arisen between the poor tired woman and the sweet inanimate world to which a kind fate had brought her for sympathy and comfort. In proportion to the very pain she had suffered now came ease and peace, and a sense of it and of unspoken beauty. Alone here was not alone; everything seemed too sweet and full of life, of natural affinities, of utter and completing loveliness. De Horn, as she still called him to herself, had travelled far out of her life. Angelica had no in- terest or part in his world, and yetit was difficult to explain, nor did she at- tempt to do soshe believed that with all his wrong and his lies, his cruel de- ceit, he had loved her truly; and thinking of this, she felt as if she had no need to forgive. Lady Dianas friend, Mrs. Damer, came over while Angelica was at the manor- house; and it was here that the Kauff- mann painted that charming portrait which is in Miss Johnstons possession, of a person whose name has since become more famous than it deserved. Anne Conway was now the wife of Mr. Dawson Damer, the man of the hundred waist- coats. Angelica finished the picture in Lon- don, and the Kauffmann and her model used to have many a discussion as they sate over their work. One day Reynolds came in, and found them in hot debate. Surely, cried Mrs. Damer, surely an impression, howeverconveyed,i5 more valuable to the artist than mere imitation. I can often work better and more rapidly from my own mental recollections than by merely copying something which does not after all represent my idea. Here the painter overcame the man of the world. My dear young lady, that is precisely what I must ask leave to con- tradict (if you will forgive the liberty). With all your great gifts, your sweet im- pulsive industry, and admirable feeling, it is only the study of nature that can give any of us that mastery which we must all desire. Rules are no trammels to those who are working in the right di- rection. You mean that in art, as in other things, said Angelica blushing, it is by submitting most completely to the laws of truth that we best discover her inten- tions? Do you know, she went on, I seem sometimes to have found out of late that obedience is best? Now as I paint, she said, smiling to her model, the more completely I can obey the colour of your beautiful brown hair, the better my likeness will be. And in truth Angelica never painted a better picture than this charming figure, languid and delicate, with clasped hands full of flowers, of that young lady in her white dress, with her dark hair piled above her pale high-bred face. Mr. Rey- nolds praised the portrait heartily. He had a special reason for being anxious that Angelica should do credit to herself and her talent at this time. But surely, cried Mrs. Damer, per- sisting, there are two ways of seeing things. If you only copied the signs without interpreting them, I am certain your pictures, Mr. Reynolds, would be vastly different to what they are de- ficient in the grand air which so especially belongs to them. Sometimes we are happy in our sub- jects, and they inspire us, said the painter, courteously. But I fear, mad- am, that I must hold to my guiding prin- ciple, and seek for a calm and even pur- suit of facts as they appear to me. Ab, you are right, said Angelica, with some emotion. Let us be calm, she cried, excitedly. Let us work and live tranquil and unshaken by the storms of passionate endeavour, thankful that we have true friends to guide us, to help us on the right way.~~ Mr. Reynolds was greatly touched by her sudden appeal. You, of all people, he said, have the right to count upon your friends and it is not only upon friendship, he said, very kindly. Are you prepared for distinction? he asked, smiling. What do you mean, Mr. Reynolds? said Angel. I mean that never was there an age MISS ANGEL. 85 in which art flourished under more en- lightened patrons or with more charming disciples, said Mr. Reynolds, with a bow to the two wondering ladies. But he would not say more, nor could they guess to what he was alluding. CHAPTER XXXII. TO SHOW FALSE ART WHAT BEAUTY WAS OF YORE. THE Society of Amalgamated Artists had existed for many years; but its spirit was not that to which the tranquil Rey- nolds inclined. Anger, jealousies, de- pressions seemed to him as blasphemies against the creed they all professed. With all his quietness of nature, Reynolds could ill brook opposition. Noisy dis- sension was to him intolerable. The society had a way of selecting first one and then another victim for suspicion and persecution. At one of their annual meetings they deliberately excluded six- teen of their best members from the council. A certain number of those who remained immediately resigned their posts. Ill-feeling was great on each side. Mr. Moser was accused by some; others defended him. It resulted in the pro- posal for instituting a new society, and during Reynoldss absence in Paris this autumn the scheme grew and gained ground. Moser, Chambers, and West waited on the king, with propositions and outlines for new academies of arts to be instituted in London. When Mr. Reynolds returned from abroad he found the whole thing in train. The officers were named, a great meeting was convened. West came to request his presence at Mr. Wiltons house, where a certain number of painters were then assembled. Reynolds, it is said, hesitat- ed and delayed. Whether from accident or purpose, tea was served an hour later than usual, and when he and his young companion reached the house at last, the meeting was on the point of dispersing. When the door opened and the two came in, they were ~eceived (says Northcote) with a sudden burst of acclamation, and Reynolds was with one voice proclaimed president of the new Academy. Cannot one picture the scene? These bursts with which those who have the generous gift of divination hail the rulers among the people have always seemed to me among the most affecting incidents in life. Reynolds was touched and over- come by this sudden revelation of good will and good sympathy. From the court he han received but small token of praise hitherto, but this was worth far more than any flare of fashionable adula- tion or passing success. This was the genuine tribute of the workers like him- self who knew and understood the value of the laurels they bestowed from their own store. Mr. Reynolds walked into Angelicas studio that night after the meeting. Lit- tle Rosa had fallen asleep in one of the big chairs. The faithful lamp was burn- in~ dim, the log was smouldering on the hearth, the room was warm and silent, the atmosphere serene. Angelica had opened her instrument and had been singing some snatches of Mozart, to whose music her German soul responded. That tender melody between tears and laughter seemed at times to speak all the doubts and certainties of her indefinite life. The song ended, not in a chord, but in Mr. Reynolds. who came in to her music, breaking into the last few notes. I have been very much moved to-night, he. said, so much so that I came over here, dear lady, to see if your windows were alight, and if you had not a gleam of sympathy for a friend in your kind heart ; and then he told her in a few words what had happened to him. It was a happiness to Angelica to listen to his story, and she made him tell her again, and again what had been done, promising absolute secrecy for the mo- ment. But there are hours when sympa- thy is not always at command for those who can claim no hand to grasp their fortunes, no special ear to listen to their story. In the midst of their t~te-ci-te~te the door opened, and old John Joseph came in, ushering another belated visitor no less a person than Lord Henry, of whom mention has been made. Here is a gentleman who wants to consult you, my Angelica, said old Kauffmann withofrt seeing Mr. Reynolds; and Lord Henry, with his conquering airs, advanced in all his usual confidence. Mr. Reynolds soon took his leave. He had wanted her to hear what had befallen him, and she had listened with sweet looks and interest. Now he must give up his place in turn. Pass on, pass on, says Fate to Mr. Reynolds. This was your will; pass on, pass on. The next time when Mr. Reynolds called upon Angelica, Lord Henry was also there ; but the painter left him to Lady Diana, who was sitting for he rpic 86 MISS ANGEL. tume of the age may have given a mar- tial air to these peaceful warriors. There is a little drawing of Stothards, fanciful, vivid, and delicate, in which we can peep at the Academy for this year, with the people who are looking at the pictures as they hang in their places on the walls. There is the beautiful Duchess of Man- chester fresh from the artists studio.* There are landscapes smiling, ships sailing, big-wigs, and bands gracing the walls. There is a traveller bearded and turbaned, perhaps out of compliment to the great Lady Hester of that time. The pretty, dainty figures of the visitors trip across the floor, high nod their plumed head-gears, brightly sparkle the buckled shoes. The young king gazes through his glass. The court-lady holds her slim fan. The old cocked-hat gentleman is absorbed in his own portrait, perhaps painted by young Lawrenceor by the great Gainsborough of Bath. Angelica sends her xvork: she clings to her classical models. Her Hector and Andromache are much admired, so is a composition representing Venus direct- ing .~n eas and Achates. The gods and the Greeks and Romans continue to rule in Golden Square. Lempri~re comes to life as we read the list. Wests Regulus is a royal command. In many and many an Academy did Angelica exhibit the works of her unre- mitting hands, her designs and her por- traits. Gods and heroes, Olympus in every attitude, in good work, in bad work, and indifferent still she laboured on. The woman lived year by year, her youth passed, neither prosperity, sunshine, nor the winter storms of lonely regret could change her nature. She was hap- py and sorrowful, as others are. She responded to the calls of the children ture, dressed in blue satin, on a sup- posed lawn, with a parrot, a puppy, and all the little W.s in a group round her chair. (There is a charming picture by Angelica of the Duchess of Argyll of those days, so depicted, in a family group. It belongs to the lady, the possessor of the Darner portrait, and is in the style which Zoffany has made famous.) Angelica came forward wondering what new honour had come to her friend. He looked pleased and greatly excited, held a list in his hand, the list of the names of the new Academicians. See! said he, smiling and pointing with his finger. Can you read the list of new Academicians ? And she read President, Sir 7oslzzia Reynolds, Kni. and looked up with bright congratulation: then the finger travelled on. William Hoare. A Ilianiel Hone, Angelica read; and then with a pleased exclamation and blush, she came to her own name and that of Mary Moser to which the friend- ly finger was pointing. It travelled steadily to the very bottom of the page. Here is also your friend Mr. Zucchis name, said Mr. Reynolds. It was a moment of unalloyed delight. Angelica clapped her hands; Lady Diana came down from her perch ; Lord Henry ad- vanced from the other end of the room, affable and radiant (he had also won an unexpected prize that day), and he asked to see the list, which he perused with deep interest. I believe some vague hope had suddenly occurred that his own name might have been included in it and that this additional honour might have been laid by him at Lady Dianas feet. In Zoffanys picture we can see the Academicians as they were in life ; can see them all with their wigs and their tirehts and their dignities. Sir Joshua with his sword, the model in his place upon the steps, the earnest faces of the ~ The ar/s anrivallecl shall remain, while George lfro/ec/s/heAoli~hed irain, seems to have been the groups standing in conclave. Here is clsorusottlsoseAays. Tlsere are some curious details art. Here is ceremony and nature tOO. of George the Third and his patronage of literature and Two very forbidding ladies also present the arts ~n the lectures upon the Georges from which I are han~ing in effigy on the wall. These sin quoting. He wisised to establish an Order of inerva, for literary and scientific characters. Tlsn are the female Academicians, in one of knights were to take rank after the Knights of the whom it is difficult to recognize the love- I~ath, and wear a straw-coloured ribbon and star of original of Sir portrait sixteen points. There was such an outcry among the ly Joshuas of An- li/era/las to who should be appointed that the plan gelica Kauffmann. In I 768 womans was giveis up, and Minerva and Iser star never came concession to their down aniong us Aisother note tells us that the king rights were a willing objected Isainting St. Pauls as Popish practice. desert, not, as in later years, an extor- Accordingly, says the note, slse most clumsy tion and graceless boon, heathen sculpssires only decorate that edifice at present. It is fortunate that the paintings were stared, for never The figures of the men of those days, was painting and drawing so uiisouisd as as that time. as Zoffany has left them, impress one It is far better for our eyes to contemplate whitewash (whsen we turn them away from the parson) than to somehow by a certain appearance of look at Opies patclsy caiseases or Fuselis livid. manly self-respect. The military cos- tIers. MISS ANGEL. piping in the market, to the cry of the mourner, to the song of those who re- joice. She was no mighty heroine, but she tried to be true to herself ; what more can we ask of any human being? She was tender to her father, faithful to her convictions, loving to her friends, and ready to their call. Antonio heard of her at one time in the constant company of Lord Henry, that artistic soul, and he uttered some biting sarcasms, for which he was sorry almost as he spoke. He had seen but little of her all these years. For his own peace of mind he felt it best to keep away. He lived much alone, occupied with his art, esteemed and respected by those few with whom he consorted. His health was delicate, and a strange and sad vexation, which has no place here, but which con- cerned one of the kind young ladies he had known so intimately (poor Kitty, who died of some secret grief, people said), made him morbidly averse to all womens society. One day Lord Henrys marriage was announced. It took the town by sur- prise. Lady W. had become more and. more complicated, her sensibilities were almost unendurable, and she had discov- ered at last that even Lord Henry could not understand them. They quarrelled, and poor Diana bore the brunt, and tried in vain to explain the mysterious misun- derstanding. Lord Henry, in his distress, found in her unselfish nature and warm kind heart a clue to the shadowy tangle. Her tenderness touched some genuine feeling in the little Maccaroni, who chose to confide in Angelica, and to be encour- aged by her to hope. The romance had begun at Lowdenham, but it was not until that very day when Angelica read her name upon the scroll, that Lady Diana accepted Lord Henrys offer. Meanwhile Angelica lived on alone and at work, not unhappy, as I have said, although days and hours came when life seemed long to her as to most people. Rossi, who loses no opportunity of praising his friend, tells us that Angelica, besides her various accomplishments was also a woman of literary tastes and wide experience. Klopstock and Gess- ner were among her correspondents. Later in life we know how Goethe wrote of that tender soul. When she read any noble historical anecodote, says her biographer, her face would brighten, her placid eyes would acquire a surprising vivacity. You could read in her speaking countenance all the passion, all the sub- limity of the author. Angelica had saved some money in all these long years. She had paid two vis- its to Ireland, and come back cheered and enriched. There is a mention of her dining in good company at Dr. Bakers house. The Hornecks and Reynolds are there, and Goldsmith writes of The Kauffmann beside, And the jessamy bride There are troubles in all estates, and Angel did not escape hers, notwithstand- ing all the help of friends and the sympa- thy which came to her. One painful in- cident we read of, which vexed her father greatly at the time. He felt the circum- stance even more keenly for her than she did for herself. I would have an- swered yours immediately, but I was en- gaged in business, she writes to some, one who was accused of having libelled her. I cannot conceiae why several gentlemen, who have never deceived me, should consp ire to do so at this lime, and ~f they themselves were deceived you can- not wonder that others should be deceived also, and tahe for satire that which you say was not intended. I was actuated not only by my particular feelings, but a re- spectfor the art and artists, and persuade myself that you cannot thinh it a great sacr~ce to re;nove a picture that had even raised suspicion of disrespect to any per- son who never wished to offendyou. Old John Joseph was indignant almost beyond words. This incident added to his old trouble about leaving her un- protected and alone. Even little Rosa was gone now, for she married at seven- teen, and the father and daughter were alone in the old house. CHAPTER XXXIII. AND SO FAREWELL. TEN years pass very slowly, very quick- ly too. The horizon widens, our hopes grow fainter and more fixed, our posses- sions increase, diffuse into distant points possessions that have waxed and grown and filled our hearts. Some have extinguished hope in a reality far dearer than any visions, others die away. As time goes on we find out our narrow fet- ters, we discover our gifts, we learn how much we can bear, how long we can wait, how much we can forgive, how much for- giveness we need from others. Angelic a was coming back to Lowden 88 MISS ANGEL. ham Court once more. Coming back the same woman indeed, with the same pre- occupations that she had brought ten years before. She was older that was all. She had been sorry and faithful and at work a little longer. Her pictures, alas were not wonderfully better, though now and then some happy chance, some fortunate subject, resulted in a charming xvork that did the worker credit. She had her father still. He wore his old cloak, that scarce looked shabbier. Want was no longer at their door. Long, long ago she had repaid the money Lady Diana lent her. Lady Diana was now a poor woman, comparatively speaking, for her husband had many expensive tastes and long-accumulated debts, which how- ever did not greatly affect the happiness of a very united home. It was a real happiness to Ancrelica to see her friend in her home with her children round her. Some look of peaceful animation had come into Lady Dis dull face, some brightening of maternal pride into those two pale eyes. It had been an old promise that the Kauffmanns should spend some days with Lord Henry and Lady Diana. An- gelica had been detained in London by one thing and another, and she and her father found themselves belated on the way. The coach had set them down at the nearest market-town, and now they came driving through the darkness, scarcely knowing whither they were go- ing, through dim fragrances and lights vanishing and murmurs of overarching trees. The horses went slowly, stumbling up the steep lanes blazing with stars. The great stars that night seemed drop- ping heavily from the high heavens, and flashing to meet the cool dark earth; then from the lanes they came into chillier regions, wild commons, shivering with invigorating breezes. Angelica sat, half asleep, upon her coach-box, watching the horses drowsy progress, dimly absorbing the suggestions of the new country the visions passing by. Those of her brain seemed almost more vivid than the realities, now that the last lights of sunset had died away beyond the hills. She was gone back to the past in some vague half-defined way; some vague call seemed to reach her now and then. When they stopped at last, they could hear the cool roar of a torrent below; and then An- gelica woke up, and John Joseph shivered and sighed. Father, are you ill ? she said. Is anything amiss ? What should be amiss, said he has- I tily, and as he spoke he patted her hand. Angelica thought his tone was strange; but they had started off once more, and once more came visions mingling with the indistinct charm of the present, voices that she had heard long ago seemed speaking and awakening her from one dim delicious dream to another. They seemed to be journeying under the great torrent of stars, that swept the heavens. Once or twice Angelica thought she could hear the distant note of the sea sounding through all these vague night perfumes and mysteries. Are you asleep, Angelica? said old Kauffmann, suddenly. Are you warm, my child will you share my cloak? I have I have been dreamincr he said give me your hand. Ab! I can still hold it. Some day there will be only the old cloak left to shield my child. An- gelica, I often long to be back in the tranquil old places, to hear the horns of the goatherds at Morbegno. I think I could live a littl& longer there; and, my child, I dread death. Thou, who art so easily led, so ill able to judge ah ! it breaks my heart to leave thee alone. He was changed and broken, as he had said. He began talking again rather ex- citedly about Italy, about his longing for warmth, for a little peace and ease before the end. Let us go, father, said Angelica, ab- sently. Why should we not go ? How can you and I, an old man and a weak woman, go alone all that long way? cried John Joseph, pettishly. Dearest, said Angelica, do not talk in this sad way. Do not fear me. I know life now; I know myself, she said, a little shrilly. There is Bonomi, that good fellow to advise. Bonomi, said old Kauffmann, he only dreams of Rosa from six in the morning until sixteen at night. Bonomi is no companion for my Angelica. You need a wiser, older man to rely upon; one mature in spirit, tried in affliction, my child. Cannot you think of some one whom we have known for long years and tried and proved an honourable up- right man? Are you speaking of Antonio? said Angelica, quietly. They had reached the end of the hill; a ~reat sight of stars and purple blackness seemed to over- flood beyond the line of the horizon. The driver climbed his seat and cracked his whip ; the horses started at a swift gallop. Again old Kauffmann sighs and shifts MISS ANGEL. 89 uneasily; something has been in his whose ring she wore. Dead, father ? mind all day which he has not yet had she repeated. the courage to break to his daughter. Yes, he is dead at last, my child, I am afraid you are tired, father, John Joseph answered. said she. Ah hush, she screamed so strange- They will find me changed, greatly ly that the driver looked back, thinking changed, Angelica, he answered, very she had called him. It was not grief dolefully; broken in body, ill in mind, she felt, it was not relief, it was scarcely Time was when a little journey such as emotion, it was a vivid awe-stricken this would not have wearied me. Time sense of the mans presence. Time was passes.; quick comes an end to strength: not. She heard the voice, saw the dark who will take care of you, my child? he cut face with its rigid lines. It was a repeated, wistfully. recognition not a death, but a sudden Hush, hush, dearest, said Angelica, life, after this long and unbroken separa- putting her own arms round him. We tion. It was wonder and emotion, and shall soon be at our journeys end. then a Cxreat burst of tears came at last We are travelling to different places, to recall her to herself. They flowed as Angelica, the old man said solemnly. prayer unspoken for a little while. I think I could go to my rest in peace, A few minutes more and they were if I could leave you in some good mans passing through the old gates and pine- care. Otherwise I know not how to die avenues that led to Lowdenham Manor. that is the truth. How to leave you Then came the dazzle of lights in the alone in this great world ; and he hall, and the cordial voice of Lady Diana looked about him, at the ni~ht, the mys- greeting the travellers ; hands to help sterious valley, the lights twinkling in them from their high perch; wine, the distance. warmth, exclamations, how wearied they 0 father, said Angelica, faltering; looked, what had happened? would it make you happy? how can I My dear creatures, you seem half- marry? You know it is impossible. dead, both of you, cries Lady Di. An- You, who know she clung closer gelica, is anything the matter ? and closer to him. The thought of part- I have just had some bad news, said in from him came for the first time with Angelica, which has moved me very a bitter piercing pang that she could not much. escape. Lady Diana asked no more; led her Old Kauffmann had worked himself up friend to her own room, kissed her, and into one of his nervous states of agita- left her in quiet ; and then Angel shut tion; he had not yet said all that was in the door, fastened it close, and once his mind. My child, I had not meant more tears came to her relief, and she to tell you to-night what I have heard, sobbed as if her heart ~vould break. he said ; but why should I delay ? Some of her tears were grief, but others sooner or later you must face a terrible also flowed because grief was not. Grief memory. He took her hand. You was dead. It had died years before. think yourself still bound, he said sol- emnly. But you are free. That unfortu- Coming back across the field next nate man is no more. As I left home a day, with Lady Diana and her children, letter came to me from the village doctor Angelica met her father pottering in the who attended his last moments. It is autumn sunshine, and limping slowly signed by the priest. He is dead. A along the stubble-path. He seemed in gastrite complicated by symptoms of some excitement: he told Angelica that heart-disease carried him off after a few Antonio had been with him at the manor. weeks illness. Then the old mans He has come, do you hear? He is voice failed, and he began to cry. staying at the village inn, my lady, said He scarcely knew what he was saying, John Joseph ; he has brought our let- or what his daughter answered. All the ters. He has seen the Bonomis, con- stars were sinking in the black sky, the tinued the old man: Rosa is well and shadows passin ~ like ghosts. All her happy. Her husband has a ~ood order. past was pressing upon her, suffocating 0 my lady, what a loss little Rosa is in her, xvith strange reaction rolling up from our house. Some day you will have to the shadowy plains, resoundinb with the part with your darlings ; but to part is far-away moan of the sea. happiness compared to leaving ones chil- It seemed but that minute that she had dren alone unsheltered from the storm. parted from De Horn, from the man They had reached a little sunny beach 90 MISS ANGEL. arched with hawthorn sticks, and mid- day shadows, where bronzed leaves and autumnal berries made a canopy against the rays. They all sat down to rest, fa- cing wide fields and breathing the sunny and corn-scented air. The water spark- led, there came a lowing of Alder ney cows. A little baby bull was pawing the ground, and sending flying clouds of dust into the air. The sunny lights were on the river (it flows into the sea hard by). The little houses and gables gleamed across the waters. My child, said the old man, Anto- nio has brought us more letters from Sweden; he says there is a packet for you. He took her hand in his tremblin brown grasp, and looked wistfully from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. Angelica looked away, and her heart began to beat. The corn was reaped, the wheat was be- ing housed, and Death, the reaper, was at work among the sunny fields. Angelica was very silent all the day; in the evening after dinner she wandered out into the garden. She went on beyond the fields that led seawards. It was a west-wind evening, wide with twilight the trees seemed to be throbbing with quiv- ering shadow. The birds up in black labyrinth of twigs sang no longer, but still chirped to the faint skies. The water streaked across the twilight. Some lamp burning in a distant village mingled its light with the evening rainbows. \XTide, unrestful and yet tranquil were her thoughts, longing yet quiescent; grateful after the heatin~ storm for a calm that was not indifference. Was it possi- ble? Could it be that hope had not died with her happiness? Could a new tender tranquillity reach her still growing out of the many winters and summers of her life, as naturally as autumnal tints fall upon the heavy dusty foliage? She went pacing on and on among shadows and twilights, past the black stems of the trees, across the soft dim turfy fields. She went and caine, and came and went again: a lonely spirit, unrestful, unquiet, and yet grasping the calm of hope not fulfilled perhaps, but realized, of love, not exclu- sively her own, but love nevertheless. To-night the possibility came to her of a friendship more intimate, more tender than that which had always subsisted be- tween herself and Zucchi. This was what her father had meant. This was what perhaps Antonio meant. It seemed strange and wayward now to refuse and to turn away from this home that seemed to open to her wandering spirit. And then, by the pathway leading from th~ house came Antonio, looking for her, foi his old playfellow and the companion of his youth. Angelica, where are you? said An- tonio, gravely. They told me I might find you here. I have brought you a packet from home, he went on slowly. With your fathers letters from home came this one, addressed to you; he put it into her hand, looking at her anxiously. He need not have been anxious. She was very pale, but no longer agitated. The parting was over with its uneasy suspense dissolved into a strange even- ing peace, into a tranquillity that was tender, sorrowful, and full of reconcilia- tion. The feeling seemed to spread and to grow more and more indefinite and in- tense. A star came out over the heads of these two weary people who had waited half their lives, and whose happiness was not over yet. As Angelica opened the packet, Anto- nio stood at her side. Inside the paper was a small silken case and inside the case a cameo ring wrapped in a silver paper, upon which was written the word Farewell. That was all but she knew the writing, and she knew the ring. How well she remembered it! two or three great tears fell from her eyes upon the little head smiling unmoved in its diamond setting. It is the ring he took from me at the ball. They have sent it back, she said. 0 Antonio, what a strange sad wasted dream of a life it has all been ! It has been no dream, said Antonio, in his husky passionate voice, and as he spoke he took the little ring out of her hand. Angelica, I think the ring has come back to you, he said, as a si~n of your faithful heart; of that poor mans gratitude. Will you take it from me to- day? Will you let it he also a si,.,n of love that is yours, that has never changed ? He put his arm round her as he spoke, and she let her hand fall into his. It all seemed part of that wondrous twili~,ht, sad and harmonious as when music plays on from one modulation to another. It was only Antonio who was telling her that she was free, free t6 peaceful bondage, free to accept his ten- der care and domination ; and so the twi- light mellowed and hushed and blessed two people who had passed the bright- ness of midday; but who were young still, for they could hope and trust each other. MISS ANGEL. 9 CHAPTER THE LAST. IN THE CHURCH OF S. ANDREA DELLE FRATE AT ROME. I HAVE been trying to tell a little story, of which the characters and incidents have come to me through a winters gloom so vividly, that as I write now I can scarcely tell what is real and what is but my own imagination in it all. The other day two good friends sent me a parcel containing a gift a strange real- ization of all these dreanis. As I opened it, I thought of the stories one has read in which visions appear and vanish with a warning, leaving signs that remain in the awakened sleepers hands. Here in my hands are worn papers, semi-faded parchments, concerning the hero and the heroine of my little history lawyers cramped handwritings, involved sen- tences, and foolscap paper, in which An- tony Zucchi conveys his worldly goods to Angelica, the dau hter of John Joseph Kauffmann, of Golden Square, in which Angelicas four thousand pounds are care- fully tied away, wrapped in a parchment, put aside for future need there are also law letters, written by Angelica at her husbands dictation, full of clear business directions, others concerning her pictures, which come and go, cross the sea from Italy, escape the French, and are safely deposited in Mr. Bonomis hands ; other papers tell of John Josephs death, her husbands peaceful end. ancient city! Some Bible-land seems spread before Angelicas wistful eyes, with shrines and campaniles, and bells swinging against the sky, and saintly fig- ures passing in the gentle glories that come illuminating and sanctifying one more day. Then Antonio calls her from below, the horses are harnessed, the carriage is wait- ing which is to take them southwards. So they pass on together, where work and pleasure call them, to Venice, to Rome, where, after old John Josephs peaceful death, Zucchi led his wife. Rossi gives a pretty description of An- tonio and Angelica in their after-life. They were united and yet unchanged, and true to their different natures. If you watch them before a picture, he says, you see Antonio, gifted with elo- quence, speaking with energy, judging, dissecting, criticising; Angelica, silent, with animated eyes, listens to her hus- band, and gazes attentive at the canvas. You may read in her face and see her true opinion there. She speaks at last, but it is to praise, for impulse inclines her to dwell on the beauty and charm of the works before her. Hers is the nature of the bee, continues her old biographer, she only sucks honey from the flowers. So she whom Goethe praised, lived on. But when her husband died she did not long survive the protector she had taken. Poverty I do not fear, she writes after Zucchis death, but this solitude is ter- rible. We may still read a touching farewell to Antonio, written on the mar- ble in the church of Andrea delle Frate, at Rome. To my sweetest kindest husband, not as I had prayed, Angelica has carved upon his tomb. The parting is long since over. But beside Antonios Angelicas own name is there. Remem- bered, forgotten, she passed away, not ungrateful for the life that had brought her so many things. But before these last records closing their lives, many and many a sun rose for these two people following the twilight of that autumnal evening; many and many an after-day was blest for them, as they travelled on henceforth together. From town to town, from Italy to Italy, from Rome to Rome again. Is that Angelica, once more looking from some high terrace? It is early morning, a dawning city crowns the ris- ing hill, night is still in the valleys, and One day not long ago, a little boy in a the country floats before her eyes. She passion of tears asked for a pencil and sees the laden bullocks slowly dragging paper to draw something that he longed the heavy waggon, and crawling the for and could not get. The truth of that mountain road into the light. The lamp babys philosophy is one which strikes us still burns as it swings from the shaft, more and more as we travel on upon our the drovers long~ oats-skin cloak flaps as different ways. How many of us must he strides along. The gre at gates of the have dreamt of things along the road, city on the hill are open to the market ; sympathies and experiences that may be the sunrise is growing invincible, it flash- come us, some day not ours; inward es from the eastern plain, striking every grace of love, perhaps, not outward sign bird, flower, gable, every bronze-lit roof, of it. This spiritual blessing of senti- every tendrilled garden, and slender shoot ment no realization, no fulfilment alone of vine. What matters the name of the can bring to us, it is the secret intangible 92 THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. gift that belongs to the mystery of life, the diviner soul that touches us and shows us a home in the desolate places, a si- lence in the midst of the storm. From Macmillans Magazine. THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. V. THE SPERIMENTO. IT does not seem within the reach of human possibility that any man who ven- tures to put all his heing and happiness on the cast, in the hope of regenerating, be it his country, be it his class, be it greater and more desperate enterprise still the world and the human race, should come to any but a tragical ending: Even in the softened manners of these later ages, when violent persecution has gone out of fashion, the reformer has rare fortune indeed whose heart and hope has not died in him before life does, and whose period of triumph is anything but brief. Savonarolas reign of genius and spiritual purity was short, but it was for some time almost absolute, a heavenly despotism, perfect in its motives ,grand in all its aims ; yet, as we have already said, impossible, a thing contradict- ed by every principle of ordinary hu- manity, and too exceptional even to be safe, though higher in all its intentions and most of its results than those gov- ernments which are practicable. So long as it lasted, immorality and luxury were out of fashion in Florence, the vileness which calls itself pleasure was paralyzed, and immodesty and impurity scared into corners out of sight. Nor were the more violent sins of the time less discounte- nanced. Savonarola in his own person was the national guard, the police, the civic l)rotector of the place. For the first time in history the revolution which changed the government of Florence was unattended by massacre or, in any but one instance, by confiscation. The streets were safe, the populace quiet, notwithstanding the high strain of excite- ment in which, with so many dangers threatening, they must have lived. In- stead of indulging that excitement in the much more usual and congenial task of sacking a palace, the men of Florence were hurried to the Duomo, where the fervid and splendid eloquence of the friar gave that stimulus to mind and heart which has always to be supplied somehow, and which, in most cases, the crowd finds for itself in less satisfactory ways. His words were their xvine, his eloquence their theatre. He communi- cated to them that high and fine intoxi- cation or enthusiasm and feeling, which, when it does take hold of the crowd, drives lower and grosser excitements out of court, Unfortnnately it is the excite- ment itself, not the noble objects of it, that lays strongest hold upon the crowd and it is at all times easier to be a Piagn- one, a Puritan, a member of a party, than it is to love God and deny ones self. And as every one of these exciting and magnificent addresses insisted upon justice, peace, charity, and purity, the Millennium itself must have arrived in Florence in the end of the fifteenth cen- tury, had that great voice continued dom- inant, as it was for a time. This could not be. Savonarola had his close and devoted circle of true followers, men of like nature with himself, the religious minds and pure hearts which happily exist in greater or smaller number at all times. He had beyond these the large mass of his party, pe6ple religiously affected by his preaching, and so far moved by intense faith in him as to make many personal sacrifices under his influ- ence, and range themselves wholly on his side. A larger circle still, so large at one time as to embrace all that was noble and patriotic in Florence, held by him politic- ally, feeling his great influence, always nobly exerted, to be the salvation of the city. This vast outer circle too multi- tudinous to be ever made into a religious party, often caring nothing for religion, and made up of persons who, but for their strong sense of the necessities of Florence, and the use of the friar to keep order, and sway the masses in the ri~ht direction, would have been natu- rally the opponents of the great religious reformer was the cause at once of his absolute triumph and of his ruin. They used him, for purposes not ignoble ,and willingly made of him their bwlwark against Piero dei Medici, their old tyrant, against the new tyrants whom a par/a- menlo might have saddled them with, and against anarchy and internal tumult. But his prophetical threatenings wer~ folly to them, his purity distasteful, his piety superstition. When he said Be free, they cheered him to the echo when he said Be pure, the~ effect was very different. Now here, now there, at thaj point and at this, these supporters fell off from him, joine4 the ranks of his enemies, among whom, but for patriot- isin, they would always have found a THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. 93 more congenial place; and gradually nary observer often exerts himself to the tide ebbing ever more and more as lessen a heroic fi~,ure and show how the momentary impulse towards a refor- a great purpose may be brought down by mation of manners, by which the whole dilutions of small motives, is perhaps city had been superficially affected, died more general still ; but this latter is not awayleft the prophet, who had once a sentiment upon which it is agreeable felt himself almost the prime minister of to dwell. The later historians who, a theocracy, in the shrunken position of without any such miserable intention, the leader of a religious party. It had but rather with the desire, we may sup- been premature, alas I though a heavenly pose, of explaining to themselves a char- delusion, that great shout which all the acter so singularly swayed and guided by noble Tuscan walls had seemed to echo faith in the unseen, have taken up the I Vivc~ Gesz2 Cristo nostro Re / Jesus idea that Savonarola was largely moved Christ was not yet to be kin~ of Flor- by love of power, and that a determina- erice, any more than of other fleshly king- tion to be himself the greatest influence doms; and Savonarola, after he had ac- in Florence was more strong within him complished his divine and unrewarded than even his desire to save Florence, drudgery, and freed Florence and tamed though that was great do but repeat her, for the use of all these magnificent what all his contemporary accusers, by signori, dropped back into the prior of every diabolical means in their power, at- San Marco, the head of the Piagnoni, tempted to prove, but without much suc- the religious leader against whom the~ cess. By delirious words wrung from world, the flesh, and the devil, silenced the lips of .a sufferer in torture, and by and crushed for a moment, had now once falsified records, forged processes, and more risen up in free fight. signatures fraudulently obtained, the It is the fashion nowadays to make Florentine Si~nory, in the end of the fif- speculative studies of the unrevealed teenth century, tried very hard to make sensations of men whose lives are long out that the prophet, who had swayed all over, and to decide how they thought and Florence for years, was not only a false felt, with authority, as if distance lent prophet, but one who had pretended to not enchantment, but distinctness to the possess prophetic gifts, for his own self- mental vision. We pique ourselves upon ish advancement perhaps, or at least for being more impartial than the contempo- pride and vain-glory. Savonarolas raries, who either hated the man and modern accusers. do not go so far, nei- abused him, or loved him, and could see ther do they use such discreditable no evil in him. It is our high privilege means; but the foregone conclusion that to be able to see how good he was, and it is impossible for any man to have be- yet that he was not good, at the same lieved as he did, and to have acted moment; but this privilege, like all others, simply and vehemently (as his nature was) has its disadvantages. If the contempo- on that belief, lies behind all their en- rary sees too close, and is too ready to deavours to introduce some strain of form a superficial judgment from facts lesser motive into his impassioned soul. alone, we are too ready to rely upon our It is not my business to explain how theories of human nature, and our sup- such a man in the full plenitude of his posed superior insight into the workings genius, should be able to believe devout- of the mind, as giving an entirely new ly and with his whole soul in miracles, in colour and meaning to these facts; and spiritual communications to himself or nothing, I think, is more general in his- others, in visible interpositions of divine tory and criticism, than the confusion power, and a perpetual supernatural in- whicharises from our refusal to accept tervention in the affairs of the world. the simpler interpretation of a great All the influences of his age favoured his mans character, and the pains we give belief, and the greater part of his con- ourselves to find every person coin- temporaries fully shared it ; yet these plex, and every important event full of facts are not necessary, it seem to me, complications. To be singleminded, to make that faith fully credible, however once one of the highest commendations incomprehensible. Five hundred years possible, has ceased to appear sublime later, in the nineteenth century, Edward enough for the imagination, which de- Irving, a man of kindred mind, believed mands a labyrinth of conflicting motives, as fervently, as undoubtingly, as Savo- through which it can have the satisfac- narola, looked for miracles as he did, tion of picking its enlightened way. The and believed in miraculous occurrences meaner pleasure with which the ordi- which (he thought) proved the justice of 94 THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. his faith. Irving has been explained, like Savonarola, and even in a less worthy way. We have been told that mere vanity, and a mad desire for popu- lar favour, moved the one, just as we are told that love of power actuated the other. These lower qualities are sup- posed to supply the interpretation of their characters, the fin mot of the enig- ma, the solution of all that is mysterious and unlike other men in them; while at the same time they provide that com- plexity in which modern imagination delights. For my part, I cannot but think that the simpler view is not only much truer, but far more helpful to us in our endeavours to understand such men. The moment we can believe and realize that all they said was to themselves ab- solutely true, that their faith was ~vhat they describe it to be, that their hopes, expectations, and motives were such as they constantly and unvaryingly profess their complexity of character may in- deed suffer, but they themselves become infinitely more comprehensible. The number of such men is few, and their fate is seldom encouraging to any who should, of set purpose, take up the man- tle as it falls from their shoulders. Such a one as Francis of Assisi, simpler soul in a simpler age, might indeed receive his tokens of Gods supreme love in some mysterious way, which words cannot ex- plain, and die of the glory and of the joy of it, happier than his successors~ leavin a wondering confused crowd to give what account they could of the miracle. But not such is the lot of later prophets. Giro- lamo Savonarola in 1498, and Edward Irv- ing in 1832, both died disappointed, look- ing vainly, straining wistful eyes to the last for a miracle which never came. Are they shamed in their pathetic trust be- cause they are disappointed? Surely no. The rash charlatan who casts off his God altogether, and all the bonds of belief, when his expected miracle fails him, may invite the imputation of low motives and self-love at the bottom of his preceding enthusiasm. But those great servants of God, who do their work for nought; who, looking for miraculous acknowledg- ment get none, yet stand fast and faith- ful though humiliated; who are dumb, opcning not their mouths, because He has done it, yet in the depths of their hearts cannot tell why; seem to me in their defeat and downfall to have as deep a claim upon human sympathy as ever was put forth by fallen hero or dis- crowned conqueror. On the contrary, instead of comprehending the profound and tragic pathos of their disappointment, history half exults over it, as a fitting recompense for their unfounded preten- sions, and the setting-down of their spir- itual pride. Ungenerous and ignoble judgment! More wonderful than Sa- vonarola himself is the human sentiment which can sigh over a potters frantic at- tempts to get from nature a glaze for his hideous lizards, yet stand unmoved at the sight of the prophets struggle and agony to have his higher work acknowl- edged by his Master, and of that sub- lime disappointment which never at its deepest falls one step from its faith. At the same time we lay claim to no unnatural perfection for Savonarola. He had no doubt many of the prejudices of his time, and was coloured by it as all men are. Besides the vague insinua- tions as to love of power, etc., which are freely hazarded against him, one act of his life has been cited as a proof of his inferiority to his own high standard, and determination to clear rivals out of his path. This one event is the execution of Bernardo del Nero and his four com- panions, found guilty of scheming for the restoration of Piero dei Medici an event which Savonarola is not represented even by his enemies as having endeav- oured to bring about, but simply as not interfering to prevent. According to all the various histories this execution was demanded by the peol)le with absolute fury. Bernardo del Nero was on old man, and of high character, but he had been a partisan of the Medici all his life, and after their expulsion, while holding the highest public office in a republic frantically afraid of, and opposed to the Medici, he allowed himself to be drawn into a conspiracy for bringing them back. Such an attempt (when unsuccessful) can be considered as nothing but high trea- son, and has everywhere and in all cir- cumstances ensured the severest pun- ishment. Savonarola had been the con- stant and persevering opponent of the Medici since his first appearance in Flor- ence. He had resisted the blandish- ments, the threats, and even the last ap- peal of the great Lorenzo, and no tolera- tion for the race had ever subdued his ve- hement, almost violent condemnation of their usurped position in Florence. it was the fear that anarchy and misgovern- ment might bring them back with their parlarnentos and disguised tyranny that drove him to take the part he did in pol- itics. So early as October, 1495, about THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. 95 the time when the government of Flor- ence was resettled after the expulsion of the Medici, he himself from the pulpit denounced all who should endeavour to re-establish despotism in the city as worthy of death, and recommended that the same punishment should be accorded to them as the Romans gave to those who desired to bring back Tarquin. It seems hard to see, after this, how he should have interfered to deliver Bernardo del Nero and his companions. At the time of their condemnation he was no longer the powerful leader he had been. He had shrunk, as I have said, from the spir- itual ruler of Florence tp be the head of the Piagnoni, and it would have required an exertion of personal influence much greater than that word from the pulpit, ~vhich a few years before had swayed the city, to do anything effectual for the help of the condemned indeed he had re- tired from the pulpit altogether, and was shut up in San Marco, silent and excom- municated. These, however, are second- ary points in consideration with the fact that we have no right to suppose Savo- narola wished to interfere on their behalf. Except on the vague general principle of humanitya principle unknown to his age, and of very doubtful advantage to the world at any period I cannot see ~vhy he should have interfered. The men were enemies to all he thought best for Florence emissaries of her tyrant, plotters for her enslavement. His sole reason for pleading for them must have been that they xvere his personal ene- rnies. This reason of course is what may be called the sentimentally Christian one evangelical to the letter. But I can- not see why Savonarola should have (lone anything which he believed injuri- ous to his adopted country for the selfish and personal reason that these men were his enemies, any more than he would have been justifi~d in saving an enemy of Florence because he was his friend. Friend or enemy had little to do with the question. They were universally con- demned by Florence, their existence was a danger to Florence; and there is not the slightest evidence anywhere that Savonarolas opinion was different from that of the city, or that he wished to in- terfere. This event took place in 1497. He had reached the climax of his greatness in 1495, when the ConsWho Ma~iore was appointed by his advice, and the en- tire fate of the city seemed to hang upon his will. For the moment Florence was unanimous, and the first sketch of her new laws and free institutions came from the pulpit in the Duomo, where wooden galleries were raised from the floor to the roof, and every inch of the solemn area was filled up with eager listeners. In the same year the pope wrote to him with specious protes- tations of regard, inviting him to Rome in order to derive instruction from his prophetical teaching and a cardinals hat was offered to the preacher whose name and fame had already spread over Italy. Burlamacchi tells the following characteristic story of the manner in which the popes attention was drawn to Savonarola He had preached a very terrible and alarming sermon, which being written down verbally was sent to the pope. And he, indignant, called a bishop of the same order, a very learned man, and said to him Answer this sermon, for I wish you to maintain the contest against this friar. The bishop answered, Holy father, I will do so but I must have the means of answering him in order to overcome him. What means? said the pope. The bishop replied, This friar says that we ought not to have concubines or to encourage simony. And he says the truth. What am I to answer to that? Then the pope replied, What has he to do with it? The bish- op answered, Reward him and make a friend of him ; honour him with the red hat, that he may give up prophesying and retract what he has said. This advice pleased the pope, and after he had conferred with the protector of the order, he determined to follow it, and sent to Florence Messer Lodovico da Finara, an excellent man master of the sacred palace, with orders first to dispute with the friar, and if he could not over- come him to offer him, from the pope, the position of cardinal if he would give up his prophesying. And so it was done: for the priest aforesaid came secretly to Florence, and went to the preaching, when it pleased God that he was dis- covered and recognized by a Florentine merchant who had confessed to him in Rome. This merchant immediately in- formed Fra Girolamo, who seutfor the priest and received him in the convent with great kindness, arguing with him for three days. As Messer Lodovico, however, found that he could not over- come, he at last said to him, His Holi- ness has heard of your goodness and wisdom, and wishes to give you the 96 TIlE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. dignity of a cardinal, provided you will go no further in predicting things to come. To which the padre answered, God forbid! God forbid! that I should refuse the mission and embassy of my Lord; but come to the preaching to- morrow and I will give you your answer. And on the following morning he ascend- ed the pulpit with great impetuosity of spirit, and, confirming everything he had before prophesied, said, I want no other red hat but that of martyrdom, reddened by my own blood. Which things Messer Lodovico hearing, carried to the pope: and he, awe-stricken, declared that this could not but be a great servant of God, marvelling much, and struck dumb by his constancy and firmness, and adding, Let no one speak of him to me more, either for good or evil. The pope however was not a man to remain sj5aventoso or slupendo. He was that Roderigo Borgia, father of Ca~sar Borgia and Lucretia, the highest impersonation of medj~val crime and corruption, whose name outweighs that of many innocent or worthy popes, and~ is a perpetual reproach to the Church and hierarchy bought and polluted by him. During the years that followed he made repeated attempts to get this preacher whose very existence shamed him, and who from the first day of his work till now had never ceased to de- nounce the sins of the clergyinto his hands. The conflict between them con- tinued with many vicissitudes for three years years so full of tumult and of labour, and so rife with great events, that it is almost incredible that they should have been so few. When the constantly changing Signory of Florence was of Savonarolas party, their ambas- sador at Rome fought fiercely in his favour, labouring to modify the angry letters and hinder the excommunication which was about to be launched against him. When the Signory were of the party called Arrabbiati, they did all they could on the contrary, with the concur- rence of the pope, to silence the great voice, now broken with sickness, weari- ness, and disappointment, which once had been omnipotent in Florenceuntil now and then the tumult of factions became too much for them, and they too were compelled to resort to his help to calm the city. In June, 1497, the excommunication long threatened was at last launched against him, and for- mally published in the cathedral. Savo- narola obeyed it for a time; he retired into his convent, closed his eloquent lips, and withdrew himself as much as such a man could from the outer world, occupying himself with his writings, which seemed for the moment his only way of communicating with the great flock outside of San Marco which he once led like a shepherd. This was the moment in which had he been a Luther, his Protestantism would have devel- oped; but such was not the turn of his mind. It did not occur to him to doubt the institutions of his Church, or to question her authority. The question that arose within him, taking form and force as time went on, was of a different yet very natural kind. Alexander VI. was a monster of iniquity. He had pur- chased the popedom by gold as much as any merchant, ever bought wool or silk he was not tWerefore true pope at all, but a monstrous usurper and pretended pope, having no real authority over the con- sciences of the faithful. I do not pretend to decide whether mere difference of race is enough to explain why this partial and limited view of the question was the one which struck the Italian. In all races, I suppose, there will be some, who, loyal to the theory of absolute obedience will gladly take refuge in an accidental cir- cumstance which excuses their rebel- lion; and it cannot be said that Savo- narola was not justified by every law both of nations and the Church, in objecting to the foul Borgia who had purchased his office. No doubt it cast a gleam of sombre hope upon his confinement to think that it still might be possible to get free of this contaminated sway without any outward insubordination against constituted authority, or anything like that rending of the beautiful robe of the Church which to so many in all ages has been the sorest of misfortunes as well as the darkest of sins. Whether Savonarola was wrong in this according to the strictest rule of the Catholic Church I doubt much but he certainly was right in reason. He was not in any way prepared to discuss the question whether there should or should not be a pope at all, but surely the most loyal be- liever in the popedom may object to a bad pope, a simoniacally-appointed pope, upon whose claims to the office there could riot be two opinions. With the modern historian who exultingly con- demns him on the ground at present so much debated, that obedience to the pope means something absolute ,quite irrespective of the nature of the corn- THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. 97 mands given; and the anxious monastic biographer who reluctantly condemns him as exceeding the limits of lawful resistance, I have equally little sym- pathy. The better Catholic he was, the more he was justified in all and any en- deavour to cleanse Christendom of the intruder, the false shepherd in the fold, who lived only to ravage and rob and de- your. There would seem to he little doubt that this conviction grew upon Savona- rolas mind during the six months of silence to which he submitted in obedi- ence to the sentence of excommunication and that gradually, as this weary time of silence passed over his head, the te- dium worked upon him, making every ar- gument on this point more telling, and deepening a hundredfold his sense of the incapacity of the unworthy pope to jud~e him. On Christmas-day 98, he could refrain no longer, and in his own convent he opened his lips once more, addressing a vast multitude of people after the celebration of a solemn mass. Encouraged by this first step, and stimu- lated by the growing disorder and an- archy in Florence which many still believed Savonarola could put down, as he had put them down before, his friends re-erected the wooden galleries in the Duomo, and so influenced the Signory that they themselves requested mm to preach; which he did accordingly. The sermons which he preached at this time, however, though not less splendid in their eloquence than of old, have changed their character. They are occu- pied chiefly with this question of the ex- communication, examining it with much skill and subtilty indeed, but with that less-elevated strain which seems inevita- ble when a man descends from the great things of God to questions which con- cern himself. To prove that his own condemnation was invalid the friar went further thah that ground of the wrongly- appointed and unworthy pope, on which he was safe enough, and follo wing out his subject, declared that an act so evidently contrary to charity could not be right, and that the potentate, prince, or pope, who acted contrary to Christian teaching was consequently without Christ and there- fore without authority; and vaguely threatened to turn a key to bring down summary vengeance upon a corrupt Church. It seems somewhat doubtful to make out what he meant by this: whether he expected some external miracle to justify him among all his enemies, and LIViNG AGE. VOL. XI. 527 prove Gods will beyond dispute to him, no doubt, as to his age, a not un- reasonable expectation; or whether the active effort which we find him some time after engaged in, to have a general council of the Church called together, was in his mind. These sermons, how- ever, though wonderful in their force and impassioned eloquence, may well be less attractive to the modern reader than his former preaching. The sense of wrong is in them, the personal strain of attack and defence, the vehemence natural to a man who felt for the first time his own position assailable, and was compelled to think of himself. Perhaps a certain fainting of heart and the melancholy irri- tability and impatience of weariness and discouragement contributed to give this harsher and shriller tone to all he says. No doubt his great and generous soul was impatient to be thus forced out of his high work and mission into those meaner arts of self-defence. The rest of Savonarolas life might almost be told in a few great pictures. He preached but once in the cathedral at the request of the Signory, on Septua- gesima Sunday; but perceiving that, as Burlamacchi tells us, every day raised some new sedition against him, it ap- peared to him better to give way to wrath; and therefore he retired to San Marco, where he pteached only to men, sending away the women, on account of ~he small size of the church, but reserving Saturday for them, that they might not be alto- gether discontented. At the end of one of his sermons he announced that on the first day of the Carnival, he would, if any of his adversaries would dare the experi- ment along with him, appear in some public place, holding the sacrament in his hand, and appeal to God by solemn prayer to send fire from heaven and burn up him whether himself or his antag- onistwho was in the false way. This ordeal seems simple enough to have called forth a champion on the other side ; but no one answered the appeal. Savonarola, however, kept his word. On the first day of the Carnival, according to Burlamacchi (Villari says the last), after a solemn mass in San Marco, he came out of the church in his priests robes, carry- ing the sacrament, and ascended the pulpit, which had been raised in the square outside. The Piazza of San Mar- co is a very ordinary square nowadays, planted with a few commonplace bushes and modest bit of turf; but how strange must have been its aspect on that spring 98 THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. morning, filled with many thousands of men, through whom came the procession of monks, surrounding their prophet. For half an hour the whole vast multitude was still, praying for the reply from heaven. Savonarola made them no elo- quent address the day of his great preach ings was over and one cannot but feel that something like despair in his heart must have been the cause of this pathetic endeavour to call forth an answer from God. All that he said was simple enough. If I have said anything to you, citizens of Florence, in the name of God, which was not true ; if the apostol- ical censure pronounced against yne is valid; if I have deceived any one pray to God that he will send fire from heaven upon me and consume me in presence of the people; and I pray our Lord God, Three in One, whose body I hold in this blessed sacrament, to send death to me in this place if I have not preached the truth. Then for half an hour there was silence, except from the rustle of the multitude, which knelt around. It is scarcely possible to imagine a more strik- ing scene. The people prayed and wait- ed, filling the square to its furthest cor- ner; the monks round the pulpit, upon the steps of their church, with deeper anxiety or more certain triumph, knelt in the same solemn appeal. Above them all, raised so that every one could see him, stood the prophet, his rugged and homely but inspired countenance raised to heaven, his pyx in his hands. And no fire came from the blue Italian sky, shining over them, in that serene calm of nature which stupefies with its tranquil- lity the eager restless soul, looking in vain for an answering and visible God.* When the solemn half-hour was done the prophet and his monks xvent back, chant- ing a Te Deiuz, to their cloisters. Was he satisfied with that success, which was simply a negation? Who can tell? We have no right to form imaginations of our own on such a subject yet it is hard not to suppose that the very fire from heav- en, which he invoked, would have been a relief to the terrible tension of mind with which such a man strains his soul up- wards, gazing and longing for that word of acknowledgment, that touch of corn- fort, which never comes. But faith was * The reader will remember the beautiful description of this scene in Rumois, to which fine picture the present narrative of necessity approaches so near as to provuke a dangerous comparison. The incident of the sudden sunbeam, which George Eliot introduces with so much effect, is nut noted by Burlamacchi, from whom chiefly this account is taken. more strenuous and robust in those days, and perhaps Savonarola was as trium- phant as the simpler souls about him, who threw all their excitement into their Te Dez~rn, and had no troublous thoughts behind. This incident must have happened in the end of February or beginning of March, and we are told that Savonarola invited his adversaries, especially the Franciscans, to another very curious or- deal. He proposed that they should go with him to a cemetery, and there at- tempt to raise one of the dead. The young Pico della Mirandola, who after- wards wrote the life of Fra Girolamo, and was one of his devoted disciples, even went so far as to l)~Ol)O5C that his uncle Giovanni, who had been buried not long before in San Marco, should be the object of the experiment which, indeed, chimes in with the suo~estion of certain recent scientific writers in a remarkable way. Savonarolas faith was strong enough, it is evident, to have invited all the safenuards of scientific scrutiny which would satisfy even Professors Huxley and Tyndall. This challenge too, re- mained unanswered ; but it is scarcely wonderful that it should have called forth another challenge, made in anything but good faith, a short time after, when the famous ordeal by fire was proposed, and eagerly taken up by the party which, in any public tumult which might arise, hoped to find means of putting the dan- gerous frate out of their way. In this case it was the Francisc ns who were the challengers. Whether it was from a per- ception of the bad faith of his adversaries who, as the event proved, had no in- tention whatever of jeopardizing them- selves in the more fatal trial they pro- posed, but only to deliver over their Dominican rivals to the fury of a disap- pointed mob or for some less satisfac- tory reason, the fact is apparent that Savonarola set his face resolutely against this sj5erimento. It was not himself, but his devoted brother and retainer, Fra Domenico, who was originally challenged, and no bridegroom on his marriage morn- was ever more ready than was Do- menico one of those simple heroes whose faith knows no faltering, and whose nerves and courage are as manly and steadfast as their conviction is beyond the reach of doubt. When, however, the Franciscan, Fra Francesco di Puglia, found his challenge accepted with de- lighted eagerness by Domenico, he at- tempted to transfer it to Fra Girolamo THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. 99 himself, and declared that he would only risk the ordeal from which he had no hope of escaping alive in company with the prophet, willing to accept martyrdom as the price of uncloaking the false pre- tensions of the excommunicated priest, but not for any lesser end. I am at a loss to understand why Sa- vonarola refused this ordeal. Nothing could be more natural than that his good sense should have seen its vanity; but yet, as he had already suggested other miraculous experiments, it is almost im- possible to believe that this was his sole reason. Perhaps he considered the ques- tion already settled by that appeal to God in the Piazza of San Marco; perhaps he perceived the falseness of the proposal altogether ; but in any case his repug- nance to the ordeal is remarkable. Ev- erything he himself says on the subject, and everything his biographer says, is perfectly reasonable. When he tells. us that he has too many great works in hand to lose his time in such miserable con- tests when he bids his enemies first, answer his arguments in respect to the excommunication, and that then it will be time enough to prove its justice by fire we agree with every word, and feel some- thing of the indignant impatience which might very naturally move him. But all that he says in respect to the Franciscan challenge applies equally well to his own; and the difference between entering the fire with one of his adversaries, and wait- ing in the piazza under the sky in hopes that God would strike the false preacher with fire from heaven, is very slight. Perhaps Savonarola himself only saw the utter weakness and foolishness of the proposed test when it was repeated and cast back to him by his adversaries ; per- haps he saw that only a popular tumult and his own murder was intended; and that with a Signory who hated him in office, and his enemies growing stronger every day, no kind of justice or equal trial could be expected. But however that may be, I cannot wonder that his ene- mies, one and all, should fix upon this seeming inconsistency. Burlamacchi tells us that he declared himself quite ready to enter the fire, but with this condi- tionthat the ambassadors of all the Christian princes, and the popes legate, should be present, and that they should promise and bind themselves, if he came out unhurt, to proceed immediately with the help of God to a universal reform of the Church. For no lesser reason would he subject himself to the experiment, and such a condition was out of the question. It must, however, be added, that he had just undertaken the greatest and most disastrous enterprise of his life, and with the conjunction of various devoted friends, had written letters to all the treat Christian monarchs, begging them b to call together a general council. This he had gradually come to believe was the sole hope remaining for the Church and it may easily be supposed that having made this last appeal and effort for a great reformation, the petty strife in the piazza became a weariness to him, and the ordeal showed itself in its true colours. His mind had already gone beyond the smaller personal question, to the great one of a universal reformation. Why, he himself says, should we enter the fire to prove the excommunication in- valid ? We have no occasion to have recourse to supernatural ordeals, since we have already with effective reasoning proved the excommunication to be null, to which reasoning no one either in Rome or Florence or elsewhere has attempted to reply. Miracles are not necessary when there is room for natural reason. There- fore to make this trial would be to tempt God. And if our adversaries, he con- tinues, say that our reasonings are sophistical, yet make no answer to them, and therefore seek miracles, we reply that, these being the great things of prophecy, we constrain no one to believe more than they will, but encourage them rather to live godly and as Christians. And I say that this is the greatest of miracles to make them believe those things which we preach, and every other truth which proceeds from God. And though I have proposed to manifest and prove great things under the name of the key, with supernatural signs, I have not there- fore promised to do such things in order to annul the excommunication, but for other reasons, when the time shall be come. I do not pretend to say that Savona- rolas reasoning here satisfies my mind. What is distinctly evident is that he did not choose to accept the ordeal thus foi-ced upon him, in which he was wise for nothing but treachery was intended but not consistent. Fra Domenico, however, his loyal henchman, never fal- tered. He was one of those stout men. at-arms to whom in their perfect and sim- ple manhood is given that part which our great poet allots to women He for God only, she for God in him. Dome- nico was for God in and through Savona 100 TIlE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO~ rola. His belief in his master was abso- Duke of Milan, and had been forwarded lute. Cheerfully as a man goes to a feast to the pope ; and hen ceforward there would he have walked into any fire, or was neither hope nor help for him. dared any danger, confident not to he On the 7th of April, the Friday before harmed indeed, yet ready to endure all Palm Sunday, with immense preparation that earth and hell could do against him, and eagerness of tbe people, the great as he did endure manfully, and without ordeal by fire was appointed to take flinching, the tortures of the rack. Sa- place. The piazza has seen very strange vonarola, we are told, did all in his power sights, but none more extraordinary. In to hold his eager brother back, but in the centre a great pile was erected, coy- vain. And no sooner was the challenge ered with all kinds of inflammable sub- proclaimed, than not only the monks of stances, and with a path through it wide San Marco, but the entire multitude of enough for the two champions. The the Piagnoni party declared themselves square was lined with troops; five bun- ready to enter the fire in his defence dred soldiers of the republic were sta- the latter interrupting him in his sermons tioned by the Loggi a de Signori, the with cries of entreaty to have this privi- platform in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, lege granted to them. Burlamacchi tells generally called the ringhlera. These us a pretty story, how when the padre were supposed to be impartial, to keep was walking one evening in the convent- order among the vast multitude who garden with Fra Placido (fit name for a thronged the piazza. Directly opposite, companion in that meditative stroll in front of the old house called the Tetto through the retired garden of monastic dei Pisani, which fifteen years go was quiet !), a beautiful boy, of noble family, still standing, and used as a post-office, but came to him with a paper, on which he which has now entirely disappeared, were had written his childish pledge of devo- ranged a second band of five hundred tion, offering himself for the ordeal ; but men, the bitterest enemies of San Marco, doubting that the writing was not suffi- the well-known Compagnacci or wicked cient for such a step, fell at his feet, and companions, under their leader, Dolfo entreated him heartily (cordialmente) to Spini. The Loggia dei Lanzi, or dell be allowed to enter the fire; and the Orcagna, so well-known to all visitors of padre answered, Rise, my son, thy Florence, was divided in two, and allotted good will is pleasing to God. And lie to the rival convents, San Marco having gave him the license. As lie put his one side, the furthest from the palace, name to the boys harmless vow, ac- and the Franciscans the other ; and in cording to a formula in which he pledged front of the place allotted to San Marco himself to produce one, two, or even ten were three hundred armed Piagnoni, champions on his side, according to the under the leadership of Marcuccio Sal- number produced on the other, he turned viati, pledged to protect their leader to Fra Phacido, looking on, Many such a~ainst his enemies. Savonarola had papers have been brouTht to me, he said, given up by this time his opposition to but by none have I had such consolation the mad contest, not as a man of this as by this child, for whoni God be praised. century would have done it, in sheer It does not require much imagination to despair at the folly, but with the solenin fancy the moisture that must have conie faith of his age in Gods personal inter- into those kind blue eyes which look out vention. at us still from Bartohonimeos picture, San Marco was early astir on that as the prophet blessed the willing little eventful morningcrowded with excited would-be martyr. But this soft garden- yet awe-stricken throngs of people kneel- scene, with the cool, sweet, evening at- ing in hong strain of ceaseless prayer. mosphiere around, the noble little enthiu- Savonarola celebrated mass, and the siast, and the gentle Brother Placid, is crowd approached the altar and conimu- about the last still moment in which we nicated, returning one by one to their see the doomed man breathe freely. prayers. So much gladness was in their Doomed for wishino well to Florence hearts, says Burlamacchi, that the face and to mankindfor working night and of all things smiled out of the certainty day through laborious years seeking of victory. The padre Fra Girolamo, nought but his peoples freedom, purity, very fervent, and full of the Spirit, went truth, and godliness, his cause was al- into the pulpit in his priests robes, with ready hopeless. Even at that nioment great solemnity, and, in a short ser- his letter to the king of France about the mon, exhorted the faithful to love Christ, council had fallen into the hands of the encouraging them to be steadfast in the THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO. I0I faith, and adding these words, So far as be used were beino- tried to warm up has been revealed to me, if the ordeal the valour which had chilled at sight of takes place, the victory is ours, and Fra those terrible preparations. The other Domenico will come out of it unhurt; Franciscans were moving about full of but if it will take place or not, this the agitation, consulting among themselves Lord has not revealed to me. But if you and with their partisans, and doing all ask me what I think, I say, as a mere that could be done to gain time. They man, that after so many preparations, I found fault with Domenicos cope, which would rather it took place than not. he took off instantly ; and then, with his He then reminded his brethren that when Dominican habit, which they suggested Fra Domenico tvent into the fire, they might have been enchanted against the were to continue in prayer until the mo- fire, and which he immediately changed, ment when he came out and then he taking the dress of young Alexander gave them the benediction. At this mo- Strozzi instead, who, thinking it was to ment the mace-bearers of the Signory be his proud lot to share the sacrifice, came to call the monks to the ordeal, and went to Savonarola eagerly for his bless- they set out in solemn procession, Fra in~, with the Te Deunt bursting from his Domenico, in a red cope, l)receded by youthful lips. The day went on in this all the brethren, and followed by Savona- endless and vain struggle. Who does rola and two others, in priestly vest- not know the weariness of the hours thus ments, carrying the sacrament. This passed by a crowd worked up to fever- procession woOnd through the streets, point of excitement, but from which the followed by crowds of eager Florentines, event for which it waits is kept back ? If over whose heads rang the psalm, Es it is only the passing of a royal pageant, urgat Deus, et disszi5e,ztur inimici ejus, the momentary view of a public visitor, to which many of the crowd responded, how much anger mixes with the disap- chanting, as Savonarola had taught them, pointment of the throng when it is balked the first verse of the psalm as a chorus. of the sight it waited for All these And as there was in that crowd many comings and goings the agitated con- thousand persons, so great was the sound sultations of the Franciscans, their fault- that the earth underfoot appeared to findihg with one thing after another, the tremble, and great fear and terror filled hurrying to and fro of the commissaries the hearts of the enemies. All Flor- appointed to guide each party, and their ence was astir, pouring into the piazza, many references to the palace where the every entrance of which was guarded as Signory sat unseen tantalized and in the time of i5czriarnentos; and, except wearied the crowd, which could not tell the devout women who had watched the why the delay was occasioned, and weary, monks go forth to this supreme test, and and fasting, began to lose patience. whom Savonarola had charged to remain From half past twelve to the hour of in the deserted church, praying for the vespers, this tragicomedy went on. The champion and the cause, we hear of no Signory remained unseen in the palace, one who was not in the great square, the Franciscan champion kept out of looking on breathless at the contest. sight, and Savonarola and his brethren The streets of busy Florence were de- waited they too suffering somewhat, serted, except in that one great heart of can it be doubted, from the long strain of the city, throbbin~ high with fierce ex- excitement and delayed expectation. A citement, with wild hope and tremor of thuixlerstorm swept across the piazza, expectation, where the eager Florentines then a tumult arose; but neither storm waited for a miracle, a new thing never nor tumult was enough to disperse the seen before in the experience of man. crowd or make a natural end to the situa- So far everything seemed in favour of tion. At last, as the day waned, the the Dominicans. Savonarola was there Signory finding it impossible to screw up facing the crowd, calm and commandin ~, their champ ions to the sticking-point, put in the vestments of his office; and there a stop to the ordeal altogether, and sent was Domenico, strong as his dauntless word to Savonarola to depart with his soul and joyful heart could make him, brethren. He remonstrated, declaring more than ready, eager for the trial. But his party on their side to be ready, but the champions on the other side, the with no effect, and the mace-bearers monk who had given the challenge, and were sent to dismiss him from the the other who was to represent him in piazza. But he who had come with no the flames, were both invisible, hid in better escort than these same mace- the palace, where every means that could bearers could not go back in the THE DILEMMA. 102 same simple way. Then it was clearly but the prophet had fallen, fallen fror~ seen, says J3urlamacchi, that his ene- his high estate He who had once been mies sought no other miracle than the king, and more than king, in Florence death of Fra Girolamo. The Signory, had been hooted through the streets, and however, in mere shame, could not re- preserved with difficulty from the rage of fuse hit-n the protection of their troops, the disappointed mob. God whom he and it was all that the five hundred sol- had invoked had not arisen, nor had his diers of the republic, along with the band enemies been scattered. He had given of armed Piagnoni, led by Salviati, could the best years of his life to the city his do, to convey the unoffending Domini- hearts love and restless labours; night cans, whose share in the disappointment and day, in health and sickness he had of the people had been quite involuntary, been at her call he had been ready to back to their convent. The two cap- supply her even with the wonder, the tains arranged their men come ~m miraculous exhibition for which she Zuiza, says Burlamacchi, in the form of craved ; and for all this service she paid a crescent and putting Fra Girolamo him with scorn, abuse, and insults. Per- and his followers in the centre, struggled hapswho can tell ?there mingled in back to San Marco, along the same this bitter disappointment an aching streets which they had traversed in the wonder whether it would have been bet- morning in peaceful procession intoning ter for him, the higher soul, to have taken their psalm. The Compagnacci, wild with upon him robust Domenicos l)art, and the thought of having lost their opportu- proved his faith by devoting himself all nity, and the baser populace, maddened alone to the fire? When the more ex- by the loss of the expected miracle, alted way does not touch the common surged round the returning band like an heart, sometimes the vulgar wonder does. angry sea. Worst of men Put Ought he, in spite of all the higher uses down the sacrament, they cried, now for him, in spite of the possible council is the time ; and, with every kind of on which his heart was set, and that contumely and vain attempt at violence, reformation of the Church which had this hoarse and frantic multitude accom- been before his eyes since first he en- panied the strange procession. Even tered the cloister, to have stepped aside Fra Girolamos former friends joined the from the loftier path, and taken upon cry. Why had not he at that supreme himself that yeoman s service? Who moment proved his cause and glorified could tell? Shut up alone in his little their belief in him forever and ever by chamber, with the darkness falling round himself going through the fire, which had him, and chill discouragement and the all been wasted, and now would burn disappointment of love in his heart, no nobody? The very Piagnoni who loved doubt Savonarola on that night tasted him must have felt the chill of disap- all the bitterness of death. pointment strike to their hearts ; and a great revulsion of feeling, unreasonable, but not unnatural, moved Florence. Who can doubt that the very monks, From Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine. who were but common men, like others, THE DILEMMA. felt it as they streamed back crestfallen to the church in which the women still CHAPTER I. knelt, trembling to hear the hoarse in- WITH the advent of the cold season suits of the advancing crowd? Savona- Anglo-Indian society revives from its rola had enough spirit left to make his hot-weather torpor. Drills and field-days way to the pulpit, where he told briefly begin ; regiments are on the move ; ci- the story of this sad and tedious day,, vilians look up their camp-equipage and ending, ~s he always did, by exhorting shooting-apparatus; officers rejoin from his hearers to pray and to live a good furlough; wives and children return life. Then he retired to the little cell from the hills ; inspections, balls, and in the corner, the four humble walls, race-meetings come off. And never were without even one of Angelicos angels the English in India more disposed to to glorify them, to which since then give themselves to the amusement of the many a pilgrimage has been made. His passing hour than at the close of the life had been in danger often enough year 1856, when no ~varning note had yet before, but never had the voice of the been given of the great catastrophe to people swelled the cries of his enemies. come, and it seemed as if the end of In- He uttered no complaint to mortal man, dian wars had been reached at last, and THE DILEMMA. 103 that the only possible excitement remain- ing was to be found in field-sports, or the small gaieties within the reach of dwell- ers in cantonments. At the beginning of the cold season, too, there takes place the annual importation of young ladies from England. At small stations, in- deed, this last element of the cold- weather excitement must needs be of a more or less intermittent and occasional character, since there will not be found every year parents to receive a newly grown-up daughter; but in so large a place as Mustaphabad, some accessions of this kind must always be due, and on the present occasion Miss Cunninghams arrival was heralded by rumours of her accomplishments and beauty which, even with due allowance for pardonable exag- geration when describin a young lady as yet unseen, were sufficient to account for the flutter of excitement which per- vaded the local society. Letters from officers returning from leave to residents at the station, made special ref~rence to the charms of their fellow-passenger, notably that written by young Miles of the native infantry, who was hanging about Calcutta after arrival in search of some employment which xvould prevent his returning to reolmental duty, and who wrote to his correspondent that Miss Cunningham was as nice as she looks, only 1\lrs. Shaperown (in whose charge she came out) would hardly let her speak to a fellow on board. Still more circum- stantial evidence was afforded by Cap- tain Sparrow, the assistant commis- sioner of Mustaphabad, another fellow- passenger on board the Burrampootra, who had rejoined his appointment straightway on landing, and looked in, a day or two afterwards, on his cousin, Ensign Spragge, of the 76th Native In- fantry, while the officers of that corps were takino early tea in the mess-house verandah after morning parade. Ah! Miss Cunningham ? said Sparrow, with an air of languid superiority, to the two or three sitting next him, as his wily cousin turned the conversation from that gentlemans experiences of London life and Continental travel to the subject of general interest ah you see, Miss Cunningham is a sort of woman that dont often come out to this country. Not a mere chit of a girl just out of the schoolroom, to get her head turned by seeing a few young fellows in red coats, or being made love to by a P. and 0. purser ; she has been brought up abroad and seen something of the world ; talks French and Italian, and that sort of thing, as well as English, and with really quite a good taste in music. Not that she is at all stuck up, you know. She was not on speaking terms with every- body on board, of course Mrs. Shaper- own was too particular for that; but I saw a good deal of their party, naturally her father and I being in the same commission, you see, made it different and I found her very agreeable and well- informed. But I am afraid it will be slow for her out here, for my worthy chief, though a very excellent fellow, aint much accustomed to ladies society, and shes not the sort of girl to care for what you fellows call gaiety a ball where you make up a dozen dancing couples, includ- ing the grandmammas still on active ser- vice ; or your picnics out at the nawabs gardens, xv here theres no grass and no water, and nothing to do but yawn, and eat hermetically-sealed lobsters. No, no, English life spoils you for that sort of thing. I declare since I have come back from furlough I hate India more than ever. So saying, Captain Sparrow mounted his horse, and, nodding his adieu languid- ly but affably to his audience, cantered off to the residency, while the little group of officers dispersed to their re- spective bungalows to dress and break- fast. Nor were they the only persons discussing the subject. The poor dear commissioner, said Mrs. Polwheedle, the brigadiers wife, to the occupant of the next, carriage, as the two ladies sat listening to the strains of the regimental band playing on the Mall at sunset the poor dear commissioner, theres his daughter actually going to arrive in a day or two, and not a thing ready for her. I want him to let Miss Cunning- ham stay with us for a week or txvo at first, it xvill be so dull for her, poor girl, in that great barn of a residency all by herself, and not a lady xvithin five miles. No, he has not exactly promised that she shall do so, but then you knoxv the com- missioner, it is so hard to get him to say a thing outright ; he is always most friendly with us, I am sure, and the brig- adier says he is very clever in his man- agement of the natives, and very clever he must be, for he scarcely ever speaks a word. But as I said to him, my dear Mr. Cunningham, you really must let the dear girl stay and rest with us, at any rate on her way up, for she xvill be shaken to death with the I)alldee journey from Pani poor, and will never be able to get on to 104 THE DILEMMA. the residency the same morning. And so we expect her, and then I daresay when she once stops, she ~vill be glad to stay with me for a day or two, and the commissioner can come down and dine whenever he likes, and I will ask some of the senior officers and their wives to meet them. This will be such a nice in- troduction for herdont you think so? and much pleasanter than if she were set down all at once at the residency, with the commissioner away all day at cutch- ery, and she not able to speak a word of the language. Its bad enough when you can talk it, with these native servants ready to steal the very nose off your face. Oh, I do think they are such rogues, every man of them. And as the good ladys thoughts passed from her hospi- table intentions to the wrongs inflicted by the children of the soil, her ample face assumed a rosier hue, and her voice a deeper tone. The arrangement proposed by Mrs. Polwheedle for Miss Cunninghams re- ception was, however, never carried out. Two mornings after the above conversa- tion took place, the brigadier returning from his early ride, brought the news to his wife that the commissioner had gone down the previous day in the nawabs camel-carriage to Panipoor, at which place the made road from Calcutta at that time terminated, to meet his daugh- ter and her maid, and that the party had passed through cantonments on their way to the residency at daybreak that morning. CHAPTER II. MUSTAPHABAD society allowed Miss Cunninoham one days rest to recover from the fatigue of her journey, and by way of preserving its own self-respect from the imputation of curiositythe only exception being Captain Buxey, the paymaster, who as an old friend who had known her when she was a little girl, drove out to see her the first day; but on the second morning after her arrival quite a stream of visitors might have been seen making their way along the dusty road between the cantonments and the residency, with many of whom, to the desire of seeing the fair occupant, was added a curiosity to inspect the place by dayli~ht; for the commissioner, although a hospitable man, who gave frequent sol- emn dinner-parties as became his posi- tion, was too much occupied with busi- ness to receive morning visitors while living alone. First in the field was Mrs. Polwheedle, whose barouche drove into the residency- grounds even before the gong in the por- tico had struck eleven oclock, the time when etiquette assumes that visitors should be only starting from their own houses, and early enough to find Mr. Cunningham still sitting with his daugh- ter over a late breakfast-table. I thought I would come early, said the lady, after greetings, because I know your papa has to be in court all day; and as he wouldnt let you stop with us on the way, as I wanted him to, I thought it might be a comfort to you to have some one to introduce all the visitdrs when they arrive ; for you will have quite a levee to-daythe whole station in fact. Its not quite the same thing, of course, as when we arrived, when the brigadier came to take up the command; then there was a salute fired, and all the offi- cers came to call in uniform and swords still, I can assure you, your arrival has made quite a sensation, as well it may, she added, taking a step backward, and surveying, with her head on one side, the beautiful young woman before her, who stood smiling and amused at the address of her voluble visitor. My dear, you must let me give you a kiss, continued Mrs. Polwheedle; advancing as she spoke, and folding Miss Cunningham in her ample embrace; I am sure that we shall be great friends. I have no daughter of my own only one son; I will tell you all about himby-and-by, she added, with a knowing smile. Then you will want some hints about the servants, for they will take you in nicely at first. Oh yes, she continued stopping Mr. Cunningham short as he was about to speak, I know the dear good commissioner thinks they are quite perfect angels with black faces, just like the brigadier, in fact he be- lieves in the natives too ; and nicely he would be robbed if it wasnt for me; I dont believe his bearer would leave him a shirt to his l)ack. And then you will be wanting some advice about furniture, she continued, as the two ladies moved to- wards the drawing-room for the com- missioner, unable to come into action under fire of the invaders guns, had effect- ed a retreat into his own rooms and very difficult it is to get so far up coun- try; but, bless me she exclaimed, as the altered aspect of the great room broke on her, its former empty condition having been remedied by the advent of a large assortment of tables, couches, easy-chairs, and ottomans, comfortable but incon ru THE DILEMMA. 105 ous, which the sly commissioner had man- aged to introduce without her agency or knowledge, the whole set off by a brand- new grand piano, arrived a day or two before its mistressbless me why, this is indeed a transformation nor was the ladys astonishment diminished on finding that Miss Cunningham was till then unaware that all this splendour had been accumulated entirely on her ac- count. Why, I declare, my dear, one hardly knows the place again. Your papa used to give very elegant dinners, you know, as became his position ; half the station would be here at a time, and everything in first-rate style. You can do the thing properly in these splendid rooms Cal- cutta matting, too, I declare ! she ejac- ulated, by way of interlude, poking the floor with her parasol ; must have cost a rupee a yard if it cost a pice. Splen- did rooms, are they not? and no rent to pay. I often tell the brigadier he ought to write in to government for an official residence. Our dining-room will only hold eighteen comfortably, though you can get twenty-two in by a squeeze. We must make the commissioner fix an early day to bring you to dinner, a sort of in- troduction to Mustaphabad society; but, as I was saying, although the commis- sioner used to give such fine parties, when the ladies came into the drawing- room there was hardly a chair for them to sit down upon, leave alone an otto- man. And now I declare, she added, surveying the room with a comprehen- sive glance, I dont suppose there is a house outside Chowringhee so handsome- ly furnished. And the whole effect is really quite chaste ; the mixture of green and blue satin blends so nicely, doesnt it? But, dear me, I have never asked you about yourself all this time Tell me, my dear, you must have had an aw- fully trying journey. For my part I never will go even to the hills unless the brigadier goes with me; I really cannot travel alone. For all that I look so strong, I am really very delicate, and the least fright upsets me. Tell me, my~ dear, werent you very nervous at first starting on your journey at being sur- rounded by chattering natives, and you not able to speak a word to them ? Oh no, replied the young lady, smil- ing; you see we came that is, my companion and I with friends of papa almost the whole way. So we had no trouble at all; and then papa sent his bead man his jemadar I think he calls him to Calcutta to meet me, and he sat on the box night and day, and seemed never to go to sleep at all ; so we got on capitally, and then papa met us at Panipoor, and brought us on in a camel- carriage, a wonderful conveyance, but really very comfortable. Thus Mrs. Polwheedle was already es- tablished on a friendly footing when the other visitors arrived, a succession of them too numerous to mention, ladies with their husbands, and bachelors, singly or in pairs Colonal Tartar of the bus- sars, to wit, driving his mail-phaeton Rowell and Scurry of the same regiment driving out together in the latters tan- dem; Messrs. Cubitt and Stride of the artillery, in a buggy hired from Nubbee Bux ,general dealer in the bazaar, the horse attached to which being newly em- ployed in such a capacity made sundry diversions by the way off the road, hap- pily unattended with serious consequen- ces, as the embankment was not much raised above the surrounding country. Others, more economically disposed, made the journey on horseback, among them Lieutenant Yorke and Ensign Spragge of the 76th Native Infantry, who cantered down to the residency on their respective ponies. The commissioners s house destined to be the scene of a famous episode in events to come which had been built in the days before the annexation of Mus- taphabad, and when British authority and interest had been represented by a resi- dent or diplomatic agent stationed at the court of the nawab, and therefore still bore the designation of the residency had been designed with a view to sym- bolize the importance of the paramount authority the reigning nawab under treaty engagements paying the cost and the architect had apparently intended to produce some undefined resemblance to the British Museum or a Grecian tem- pIe, without feeling quite sure which of the two should be copied. The two vis- itors, riding through a gateless opening in the wall which enclosed the spacious grounds, alighted under a gigantic porti- co of no particular order, the columns of which dwarfed their ponies to the size of sheep, and where a sepoy of their regi- ment was standing as sentry; and.then, proceeding up a flight of broad steps, on which were lounging half-a-dozen messen- gers clad in scarlet tunics, with gold waistbands and white turbans, were ush- ered into the house. The public rooms were large and lofty; but the drawing- xo6 THE DILEMMA. room, which occupied the centre of the building, deriving all its light from narrow clerestory windows shaded by blinds, and through the doors opening into the surrounding rooms, was somewhat ~loomy in the daytime. Not, however, that young Yorke noticed these particulars, al- though the time was to come when he would lSe familiar with every corner of the building; for, entering straightway from the glare of Indian sunlight into comparative darkness, he was painfully conscious of making an entry deficient n dignity, as he stumbled against an otto- man, and then knocked his shins against a chair, before he became gradually able to make out the presence of the occu- pants of the drawing-room, Miss Cun- ningham, Mrs. Polwheedle, and two offi- cers of hussars ; and as the new-comers established themselves on chairs at the far side of a great gulf or open space, bounded on one side by a table, and on the other by a large ottoman, our subal- tern became more than ever impressed with a sense of his unworthiness, while feelin~, too, that his ti~ht red shell-jacket contrasted disadvanta~eously with the easy grace of the long braided frock-coats of the other visitors. Moreover, although the latter had driven over, they were adorned with lon~ glistening steel spurs, whereas the two infantry subalterns wore little insignificant appendages screwed into the heels of their boots, as befitted men of their branch of the service when on horseback, wholly without lustre or rattle, and good only for use. The road too had been dusty, and the wind high, and even a December sun is hot at mid- ciay, and poor Yorke was conscious that his face was flushed and dirty, contrast- ing unfavourably with the cool and orderly appearance of the two drivers, one of whom sat calmly sucking the top of his cane, while the other, with a pleased sim- per on his face, and playing with his laced cap, was talking easy nothings to the lady of the house. Nor did the conversation begin auspiciously. It was opened by Mrs. Polwbeedle. You young gentlemen rode over on your tats, .1 suppose? The subalterns tat, my dear Miss Cunningham that is the name, you know, they give to a pony in this countryis the most useful ani- mal you can imagine. It goes out any number of times a day, and does any quantity of work, but never gets tired. Every subaltern, you know, in this coun- try keeps his pony, although how an en- sign can afford to do it on his pay is a perfect wonder, with grain at sixteen pounds the rupee. Poor Yorke felt himself getting redder than ever; but while castin~ about for a repartee which did not readily present it- self, one of the hussar officers took up the cudgels. S ubalterns dont always keep ponies, if you please, Mrs. Polwheedle; I have never had one since I entered the ser- vice: I prefer horses ; so does Mr. Scur- ry here. Oh yes, of course, replied Mrs. Pol- wheedle with a smile, as if half-disposed to wrath, half-disposed to condescension I was not referring to cavalry officers; you gentlemen have your chargers, I know, and very pretty they look, but 5 By the way, interrupted the aggress- ive Rowell, thats not a bad-loolcing tat the brigadier has been riding lately where did he get him from ? You mean his grey horse? replied the lady, bridling up. Well, it isnt exactly a horse, con- tinued the persistent Rowell ; it cer- tainly aint fourteen; I doubt if its much over thirteen. Well, sir, and if it is not, pray what has the age of the horse to do with the matter? Not thirteen years, Mrs. Polwheedle; I wasnt speaking about the ponys age, but about his height. However, he con- tinned, seeing that the lady appeared to have had enough in the encounter, it looks a good, useful, weight-carrying nag, and handy for getting off and on again not far to travel either way. This last remark might be said to com- plete the victory, for riding was not among Brigadier Polwheedles strong points ; but the lady was not prepared to surrender all at once the position she had assumed, so, turning again towards young Spragge, she said So you have got a new commanding officer nowMajor Dumble. He called on us yesterday, and seems a quiet, gen- tlemanly person. How do you like the change from Colonel Marshall ? Well, of course ~ve are sorry to lose our dear old colonel; he had never been away from the regiment before. And why did he leave it to go to an- other regiment, then ? He had to make way for Major Dum- ble. The major, of course, had to come back to the regiment on promotion, be- cause he couldnt hold his appointment THE DILEMMA. 107 as a field-officer; and as he must come was not large, and he had never met with back to his own regiment, the colonel anything like this before. Miss Glumme, had to be shifted to another. one of the two young ladies imported Oh yes the brigadier was telling me into Mustaphabad in the previous season, something about it. Major Dumble never looked you in the face at all, but comes from the commissariat, does he answered questions monosyllabically, and not ? with downcast eyes, as if conversation No, from the pay-department he has was a thing unbecoming a woman; Miss been fifteen years away from the regi- Peart, on the other hand, a lktle brunette ment. nowise afflicted with mauvais i~onte, Well, I hope he is a good drill, and jerked out her sentences with a sort of will take care to get the regiment into little laugh at the end of each, as if the good order for inspection, for the briga- mere act of saying anything in itself par- clier is very particular. You must know, took of the funny. But here was a young Miss Cunningham, that all the annual in- lady who appeared even when in society specbons are coming on. The brigadier to take an interest in something. A has to inspect all the regiments in the queen, too, could not have been more station, and make a report on them to gracious; and surely no queen ever the commander-in-chief ; this is a first- looked more regal in her crown than did class brigade, you know, and so the this beautiful young woman ~vith a cor- brigadier reports direct to headquarters. onet of rich brown hair braided over her You will enjoy these inspections, I am lofty head. sure, and must not fail to come to them, It was a simple question, but Yorke especially the cavalry review, it is such a felt himself growing redder than ever, as pretty sight. Isnt it, Mr. Rowell ? she he replied in the affirmative. added, turning towards that gentleman, I quite expected, continued Miss and as it were holding out the olive- Cunningham, to find the sepoys insig- branch to him. nificant-looking creatures, with large soft Oh yes, replied Rowell ; the col- eyes and big earrings. It was quite a sur- onel generally knocks the regiment about prise to see them so different. You must a bit on these occasions pursuiiig prac- feel very proud of commanding such fine tice, and that sort of thing; it amuses fellows. the brigadier and the ladies. I dont command them, you know, Just then Miss Cunningham, opposite replied Yorke; I only command my to whom Yorke was sitting, but a long own companyat least I hold two com- way off, crossed over towards him. If panies just now, as we are short of offi- she seemed beautiful before, the grace of cers here the young fellow stopped her movements as she passed over the with some confusion, for it suddenly open space possessed the young fellow seemed to him how vain he must appear as with a sense of enchantment ; while to he, bragging about his duty in this the rustling of her dress when she took way. Besides, what could a splendid the seat next to his raised a correspond- creature like this care about the small ing flutter in his heart, as he sat motion- organic details of a native infantry regi- less, fascinated by her proximity, hardly ment, a thing regarded by society gener- venturing to look up, gazing at the folds ally, and young ladies in particular for of rich trimmings that fluttered beside the first three or four years of spinster- him. hood if it lasted so long as alto- Yet there was nothing very formidable gether beneath serious interest? in her opening address. These sol- Miss Cunningham, however, persisted diers, she asked, who mount guard by in her inquiries. She had come to India, turns at our door, do they belong to your and wanted to know all about the coun- regiment? try and the people, she said. The las- As Miss Cunningham said this in a cars on board the steamer were insignifi- low rich voice, which had in it an expres- cant-looking people; but her papas je- sion of unconscious pathos, and turning madam, who met her at Calcutta, had a her long graceful neck, looked towards the most dignified appearance, and was so listener, her manner was as if the question attentive and xvell-bred: although she was full of interest for her, and her face, could not understand a word he said, he although it wore an open smile, seemed as seemed to know exactly what to do; and one that might be readily attuned to sym- then he sat on the coach-box the whole pathy with sorrow. way from Calcutta; she was really quite Yorkes acquaintance with young ladies ashamed that he should be exposed to io8 THE DILEMMA. such hardships, while she was travelling at her ease. The conversation ran on in this wise for a few minutes. Miss Cunningham, who had taken pity on the forlorn condi- tion of the young fellow sitting on the outside of the circle, and snubbed by Mrs. Polwheedle, was trying to set him at his ease ; and while that lady was dis- coursing at some length to the other guests on a point of domestic economy, Yorke, becoming emboldened by her sym- pathetic manner, was gradually acquiring a little self-possession, and had got to the point of explaining the difference between a subahdar and a havildar, when fresh visitors were announced, and the other gentlemen rose to take their de- parture. Yorke perforce followed the example of the rest; and as Miss Cun- ningham at parting held out her hand with a frank gracious smile, he felt that the void in his existence, of which he had been for some time conscious, was now at once more than filled up. Gave the old lady as good as she brought, said Rowell to Yorke, under the great portico, as he stepped into the tandem-cart after his companion ; thats the way to deal with her. You stick up to her, my good fellow, whenever she tries the patronizing dodge, and you will soon put a stop to it. CHAPTER III. YORKE and Spragge had engaged themselves to luncheon with the latters cousin, Captain Sparrow, the assistant commissioner, who occupied a small house within the residency-grounds for- merly belonging to the assistant-resident and to this the two young officers re- paired after their morning call. In the verandah was a lesser band of red- coated myrmidons, who ushered the visi- tors into a sitting-room, and proceeded to the adjacent court-house to summon Captain Sparrow. That gentleman sus- pended the progress of the suit which he was enga6 ed in hearing, and presently joined them with languidly affable greet- incys You gentlemen look quite warm in your red jackets, observed their host, as they sat down to luncheon hut pray unbutton them if you like, and make yourselves comfortable. Liberty hail this, you seea mere bachelors den. Cap- tain Sparrow, however, was dressed him- self with a degree of care unusual in an Indian official at his daily work; and as he said this, he threw a glance round the room, by way of drawing attention to its appointments. Bachelors den indeed ! cried his cousin; none of your humbug, Ted. You know that you always set up for being a swell. See what it is to be in civil employ, Yorke! But youre a bigger swell than ever since youve been home. I suppose you brought all these nobby pictures back with you, he added, looking up at the walls, which ~vere adorned with various specimens of the gravers art; and all this new plate. Never saw a bachelors house like it be- fore, leave alone a den. Ah, you wouldnt think much of this if you saw the ~vell-appointed establish- ments some men have in England; the thing is not to be done with native ser- vants, and especially by a busy man like myself, who have no time to look after my household ; still I like to have things neat about my little place. Little place indeed replied Spragge. Why, you might put the whole of our bungalow into this room, roof and all couldnt he, Arty? Well, at any rate, you dont want much preparation before changing your state. Only one more thing wanted to complete the arrange- ment, eh ? And now here is the lady arrived already and at hand. I envy you your opportunities, my dear fellow. See what it is to be a swell civilian in- stead of a poor NI. sub. I declare I must take to studying the language or mugging up history, like Yorke here. However its too late to cut you out this time, I suppose. Oh, as to that, said his cousin, with a pleased simper, you mustnt suppose that there is anything serious in that quarter. You barum-scarum soldiers fancy that if a man doesnt like living in a barn he must be bent on matrimony. For my part, I think marrying is a mis- take, at any rate till you get on in life. It ties a man down too much ; and chil- dren may be all very well in England, with a proper staff of nurses to look after them, but they are dreadfully in the way out here. When a man goes home with a certain position and no encumbrances, you see, the pleasures of society are open to him, and he is free to travel, and so on. A very agreeable life I can assure you; but it comes to an end too soon. The only thing left now is to look for- ward to ones next furlough. A ndas the speaker concluded he cast his eyes over the table-cloth, as if surveying there the refined pleasures offered by a THE DILEMMA. 109 view of Europe to the cultivated man without encumbrances. His cousin winked at Yorke by way of hint that he was going to draw the cap- tain out. No, no, Ted, that wont do. You dont mean to tell me that youre not go- ing to make the runnin~ in that line. Wouldnt I, just, if I had your chances Why, I suppose you are in and out of the residency like a tame dog? Captain Sparrow was evidently nettled at his cousins want of reverence, dis- played, too, before a third party ; but he condoned it in consideration. of the open- in~ aftorded to talk about himself, so re- plied, drawing up both himself and his shirt-collar If you mean that I have the entrie of Cunninghams house, just as he ha