LITTELLS LIVING AGE. No5 1647. January 1, 1876. From Beginning, ~Vol. OXXVIII CONTENTS. I. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR, . . . Blackwoods Magazine, II. How I WON A WIFE. Translated for THE LIVING AGE from the Platt-Deutsch of . Fritz Renter, III. GERMAN HOME LIFE. By a Lady. Part viii Frasers Magazine,. IV. HER DEAREST FOE. By the author of The Wooing Ot. Part X.,~ . Temple Bar, V. DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE, . Macmillans Magazine, VI. A MONKS DAILY LIFE Frasers Magazine, VII. MISQUOTATlON Spectator, VIII. MR. STORYS NERO, . . Examiner, IX. PETS Saturday Review, .3 7 27 35 42 48 57 .6o 6z P 0 E T R V. 2 THE ELF-KINGS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER, THE LAST WISH, MISCELLA:IY, z 64 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EsoseT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LivINO Auss will be punctually forwarded for a year,Jree of~oat(Lge. An extra copy of THe LIvTNO Ana is sent gratis to any one getting no a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, oi by pdst-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 Lr?rELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE Lovuen AGE, s8 cents. Fifth Series, Volume XIII. THE LAST WISH, ETC. THE ELF-KINGS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER. THIS is all, is it much, my darling? You must follow your path in life, Have a head for its, complex windings, a hand for its sudden strife The sun will shine, the flowers will bloom, though my course mid them all is oer, I would not that those dear living eyes should light in their joy no more; Only just for the sake of the happy past, and the golden days that have been, By the love we have loved, and the hopes we have hoped, will you have my grave kept green? Just a moment in the morning, in the eager flush of the day, To pluck some creeping weed perchance, or train the white rose spray; Just a moment to shade my violets from the glare of the noontide heat, Just a tear and a prayer in the gloaming, ere you leave me with lingering feet. Ab! it is weak and foolish, but I think that in Gods serene, I shall know, and love to know, mine own, that you keep my grave so green. I would fain, when the drops are plashing against your window-pane, That you should be thinking wistfully of my grasses out in the rain; That when the winter veil is spread oer the fair white world below, Your tender hands twine the holly wreaths that mark my rest in the snow. My clasp on life and lifes rich gifts grows faint and cold I ween, Yet oh! I would hold it to the last the trust of my grave kept green. Because it is by such little signs the heart and its faith are read; Because the natural man must shrink ere he joins the forgotten dead; The heavenly hope is bright and pure, and calm is the heavenly rest, Yet the human love clings yearningly to all it has prized the best. We have been so happy, darling, and the part- ing pang is keen, Ah! soothe it by this last vow to me you will watch that my grave keeps green? All The Year Round. DOWN the merry streamlet dancing, Through the flickering shadows glancing, Foam about her white feet creaming, All her wayward hair out-streaming, Laughing on the laughing water, Dances down the elf-kings daughter Youngest daughter fair. All the trees bend low toward her, All the ro6ks are strong to guard her, All the little grasses whisper, And the low-toned breezes lisp her Praises everywhere. All around the warm air lingers Lovingly, the while her fingers, With a dainty upward gesture, Seem to draw a shade for vesture Of her loveliness. Yet meseems she moves so purely, Gliding on her path demurely, Looking with clear eyes serenely, She were clad not half so queenly In a royal dress. Now shes lightly onward sweeping, Now she stays half-glad, half-fearing, Oer the ledge of granite peering, Eyes the headlong torrent leaping Eyes far down the sullen boulders, While the long locks round her shoulders Gather tenderly. Now with little laugh a-tremble, Glad her shrinking to dissemble, Flashing through the diamond shower With her white feet launched below her, And her hair drawn out above her, Swift as lady to her lover Down the fall goes she. Now when quiet night has clouded All the river broad and stately, Down the stream she rides sedately, By her soft hair warmly shrouded, Lulled by melody. Down amid the dim trees greeting, And the drowsy wheats repeating, Dreaming on the dreaming water Floats the elf-kings youngest daughter To the dreaming sea. Blackwoods Magazine. J. R. S. 2 THE LAST WISH. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 3 From l3lackwoods Magazine. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. PARIS, October 20, 5875. IT will not perhaps be altogether useless to give an outline of the situation of the French army at the moment when the late war broke out; for, though important changes have been introduced since into the system which then prevailed, old habits still continue to exist in sufficient force to lead a good many onlookers to imagine that some at least of the same results might be produced again by the same causes. As regards the year 1870, very detailed evidence of both causes and results has been supplied to the world; and though that evidence has been brought forward in a fashion which most Englishmen cannot help deploring, it has, at all events, the merit for the object which is in view ~ unfolding a complete story of what happened. No foreign spectator has forgotten that, directly the war was over, the French ex- hibited a fierce desire to localize the blame of their defeat to remove it from the people at large, and to allot it specifically to certain persons. There was a hot long- ing in the air to destroy somebody a resistless need to select victims as a sacri- fice to the national pride; so that, when public punishment had been brou~ ht down on a few chosen heads, all the rest of the population might soothingly com- fort itself with the conviction that it was proved to be innocent of all participation, direct or indirect, in the faults which had brought about the wreck. The idea which was suggested in certain English newspapers, that the causes of disaster might perhaps be, not exclusively individ- ual, but, to some extent at least, national as well that they might be, in fact, a result of weaknesses and infirmities proper to the generatioh as a whole was con- temptuously rejected as preposterous. It was declared to be impossible that so utter a discomfiture could be in any way attributable to reasons common to the entire land; it was asserted, with all the confidence of rage, that it resulted solely from the personal incapacity and folly of a few guilty individuals, and a shout arose that those individuals must be discovered and convicted. A variety of measures were adopted in consequence of this clamour: the Bazaine trial and the two parliamentary inquiries into the contracts made during the war, and into the pro- ceedings of the government of the 4th of September, were instituted mainly in order to satisfy it; the nation astonished and afflicted Europe by the savage delight which it seemed to take in dragging into daylight all the secrets of its disgrace; and, to make the confession thoroughly complete, nearly all the more important actors in the war wrote books, describing fully their own merits and each others sins. By these strange means the whole inner history of the preparations for war was laid bare. It was a sad sight for the friends of France; they have mournfully remembered it: but in France itself it really seems to have become almost for- gotten; it appears to have half vanished from popular memory and to have left no manifest trace behind it, except, indeed, some unslaked hatreds which are silently biding their time. In one sense, them. fore, the tale has become prematurely old; but as, to foreign eyes, the value of its teaching is in no degree diminished by the indifference with which, according to appearances, the mass of the French have now grown to regard it; as, indeed, to our view, that teaching looks, in some re- spects, to be almost as much needed by them at this present time as it was before the war, it may be worth while to group it together a few of the facts which pre- sents. The revelations made are, how- ever, so extensive, the questions which they raise are so complicated and so va- ried, that it would be impossible to con- sider all their aspects here: the insuffi- ciency of military preparation is the only one at which we propose to look; and though the details of it are scattered through a hundred volumes, it will not he difficult to pick out the more important of them. But in order to obtain a general view. of the material conditions under which France commenced the campaign, it is es- sential to look back a little and to see what had been passing during the years which preceded 1870. The other wars of 4 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. the Second Empire had brought to light ty; a universal feeling jumped into exist- so many faults of organization and such ence that the army was not strong enough, incredible disorder of management, that it and that immediate measures must be tak- was scarcely possible to suppose that the en to increase it. It was not generally government had not attempted to remove imagined that the entire military organi- some at least of the defects which had zation of the country needed to be changed been revealed. It was not reasonable to that unsatisfactory conviction was, at imagine that a system could have been that time, limited to a few wise men; but left entirely unchanged which to refer everybody became convinced that the to one single class of examples only number of soldiers must be instantly had allowed 73,000 men to die in the Cri- doubled. Yet notwithstanding the una- mea of disease and privations, while only nimity of this feeling, a strange delay oc- 20,000 were killed or died of their wounds; curred; the, emperor and his advisers which, though of course on a much smaller could not agree between themselves as to scale, had reproduced in Lombardy nearly~ the plan to be adopted; they disputed the same proportions of mortality; and over it so long that it was not until nearly which, according to Dr. Champouillons eighteen months after Sadowa that Ma- report, had left badly wounded men so r6chal Niel, at that moment minister of utterly without food during the Solferino war, was ready to bring forward his bill campaign that many of them crawled from for enlarging the army; and that bill, their beds into the roads in order to beg which was waited for so long, was limited for bread. And yet it turned out that to the creation of the Garde Mobile. And these imperfections, as they were grace- then, as if it wished to proclaim to Eu- fully called, had produced no effects at all; rope that, in the eyes of France, number that routine had kept things as they were; was everything in war and organization that no reforms whatever had been en- nothing, the Chamber refused to allow the forced or even proposed. The various minister to drill this new Mobile for so army services remained exactly in their exorbitant a period as eight days at a old condition; the teachings of the Rus- time as he proposed; it reduced the pe- sian, Italian, and Mexican wars were for- nods of instruction to twelve hours, think- gotten in victory; the French had con- ing, apparently, that as every Frenchman quered; a system which had provided tri- was born a soldier, that length of teaching umph was taken to be, if not faultless, at was quite sufficient for him. And the all events quite good enough, notwith- minister bowed down his head before this standing its imperfections: and so childish folly, and told the Chamber that, everything went on unaltered. Indeed, thou6h it really was a pity to so restrict so convinced was France of the ample the education of men who knew absolute- suffici5cy of her military arrangements, ly nothing, he would do what he could all that in 1865 the Corps L~gislatif called the same: it is for this reason, he add- for a reduction of the army, and the gov- ed, that I see with less regret the sup- eminent did not dare to refuse it, for it pression of the eight days of drill, and I was just beginning to struggle out of the add that, without them, we will, do the fatal expedition to Mexico, which had best we possibly can. In this prodig- cost 14,000,000 of confessed outlay, and ious fashion was established the new force nobody knew how much more of un- which was to render France a match for avowed expenses. Considerable diminu- Germany! From that time forth the tions were effected: 2 regiments of heavy Garde Mobile was counted as represent- cavalry, 32 squadrons of other regiments, ing some 500,Ooo available soldiers. and 221 companies of infantry were sup- IM ar6chal Niel did, however, make an pressed; 1,268 officers were put on half- effort to introduce a few small improve- pay. But the very next year the Sadowa ments into the active army; unfortunate- campaign occurred; France woke up ly the effort did not last he died in abruptly to a sense of impending danger; 1869; and though after the appearance victory ceased suddenly to seem a certain- of General Trochus celebrated book in FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 3 1867, a commission had been appointed to select a new system of infantry mnnmuvres fitted to the changes which had arisen in the art of war, that commission, of course, declared in substance that no modifica- tions were required, and things were kept as they were before. The result was that in 1870 the French army was virtually in the same condition as in i8~o; it had learnt absolutely noth- ing whatever; the one single novelty which had been introduced into it the formation of the Garde Mobile was an utter illusion; it was no more ready for a serious campaign than a sick schoolgirl is ready to go up the Matterhorn. Two illustrations of its general state of organi- zation may usefully be given before we begin to describe what happened when the war broke out. They are taken al- most at hazard, amongst fifty others of the same kind. M. Blondeau, intendant-general, stated in his evidence before one of the parlia- mentary commissions, that the waggons of the trains were all kept parked at Ver- non; that when he went there in i868 he observed that there were about 8,ooo ve- hicles in the enclosure; that they all had to be got out one by one through a single gateway; that, consequently, a very long time would be required for the purpose; and that he believed the officer in charge of the park had made a calculation show- ing that the operation would last for eight months. This means that the officer in question knew perfectly that the vehicles intrusted to him could not possibly be employed in the event of sudden war; but tbat, instead of informing his supe- riors of the fact, he contented himself with privately working out a sum which showed arithmetically the utter useless- ness of the whole thing. If this officer had been asked why he did not inform the ministry of the impossibility of get- ting the carts horsed and taken away, he would most certainly have replied that ten or twenty times in the course of his ca- reer he had ventured to point out abuses to his chiefs; that some of those gentle- men had simply shrugged their shoulders with indifference; but that others, less gentle in their views of the proper atti tude of a subordinate, had given him to understand that if he made complaints his promotion would be delayed. It should be added, however, that, thanks to M. Blondeaus visit, the condition of this park was altered before 1870. The second example is so curious and complete that we will state it in the words of the report. M. de la Valette, another intendant, said that In 1867, at Stras- burg, we were speculating on the possi- bility of a war; an idea of war was in the air, and it was natural that we should think about it onth~ frontier, for, even at that time, it was felt that the nationality of the district might depend upon the issue of a war. General Ducrot then commanded the division; and as he felt most deeply the apprehensions to which I allude, we frequently talked over the measures to be taken in order to provide Strasburg with supplies for either ag- gressive or defensive action. In i868 I drew up a statement showing what was indispensable for an army of 30,000 men, indicating what we had in store at the time, pointing out the useless articles which might be removed in order to make room, and enumerating what was wanted to make up a complete assortment. I had given a copy of this statement to the in- spector-general in i868; I gave a second copy of it to the intendant-general in 1869. Our fears increased; we found that the inhabitants of the opposite bank of the Rhine were convinced that war was com- ing. I therefore examined my calcula- tions over again; I increased them so that they might serve for a corps of ~o,ooo men, and I took them to General Du- crot, asking him what he thought about them. I told him that, on two sep- arate occasions, I had communicated my views to the representatives of the minis- try of war, that I had arrived at no re- sult whatever, and I proposed to give him another copy, for him to send to the min- istry through General de Failly, who at that time commanded at Nancy. I added that if the minister saw the same state- ment come before him through two differ- ent channels, he would perhaps imagine that there was something in it. Soon af- terwards I went myself to Paris; I saw 6 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. there M. Blondeau, chief of the intend- ing that he recognized the justice of my ance of the army, who spoke to me in a observations, and that he would attend to tone which proved how little he knew of them. Soon afterwards M. de la Valette the truth. He said, that if my impres- informed me that he too had written, but sions and those of General Ducrot were with no result; and he asked me to com- correct, it followed that the minister of municate officially with General de Failly, war was the only person who was igno- who commanded the corAs d~zrrnee, saying rant of the facts of the case; for if they that he (La Valette) would do the same to really were as I supposed, the minister the ministry of war. This was done. I would certainly have spoken to him about got a reply stating that before wagons them. That was conclusive; there was could he sent to us it was necessary to see nothing more to be said. As I was leav- if we could provide shelter for them. ing M. Blondeau, he observed that I did There the matter remained until the war not seem to be satisfied. I answered broke out. I had spent five years in ask- that, even if General Ducrot and I exag- ing uselessly for indispensable objects. gerated the dangers of the situation, it These two stories supply good illustra- was painful for me to return to Strasburg tions of what was manifestly the general without having obtained anything what- condition of the French army. The mm- ever. istry was convinced that its managenient Then appeared General Ducrot, who was excellent; it would listen to no com- gave the commission the following infor- plaints, it would follow no advice; it mation I commanded the Strasburg calmly continued its habits and traditions, division for five years. When I first ar- the essential principle of which was to rived there I wished to know what was in leave things as they were. store, for there were large magazines full After this indication of the situation of objects. I found 2,000 cannon, of during the period which preceded the war, which about 400 or ~oo were fit for use. we will now give details of what occurred All the others were old bronze. There at the moment when the war began. were stone cannon-balls of the time of As regards the numerical force of the Louis XIV., and an enormous quantity of army, which is naturally the first question flint-muskets. I wrote at once (in 1865) to to consider, no absolutely exact data are the minister of war, calling his attention obtainable. The various official statements to the fact that all this was very much out which have been published are not only of place in a frontier fortress, and asking incomplete, but disagree frequently with that the useless objects should be trans- each other. It is, however, quite possi- ported into the interior of France, that ble to crroup the figures according to the they should be replaced by serviceable seemlnb probabilities of the case, and so stores, and that the cannon should be put arrive at an approximative result. The on carriages. I found that we had cook- nominal peace footing was 400,000 men, ing-pots for 2000 men and water-flasks and the reserve of the active army stood for 15,000, and so on with everything else. at 165,000; 50 that, on this showing, there Many absolutely indispensable articles ought to have been 565,000 men immedi- were altogether wanting. There were no ately disposable. But the very first thing halters or picket-ropes for horses; but we discover is, that the 400,000 men who there was black cloth enough to dress were counted in the budget were not un- more than Ioo,ooo men. der the colours; and, though it is not I wrote to the minister that all this possible to determine with precision the was inadmissible, and I insisted on the number who really were there, we shall necessity of relieving us of our useless find good reason for presuming that, on stock and of sending us what we needed. i~th July i8~o, it could not have exceeded I talked about it all to M. de la Valette, 300,000 altogether the other ioo,ooo who was then my intendant. He drew up having evidently been sent away on leave, a statement of what was wanted for a so as to economize their pay and rations. corps of 30,000 men, with a reserve of It is true that, at the plebiscite of the 8th Io,ooo, showing exactly vhat we had in of May, 330,000 soldiers had apparently excess and what we had not got at all. voted in France and Algeria; but it will We verified this statement together, and be seen directly that we cannot find that I sent a copy of it to M. Blondeau. I re- number in July. It is therefore probable member particularly that we required 144 that, directly after the plebiscite, 30,000 wagons, and that we had only i8; and I more men were sent home, in addition to begged M. Blondeau to remedy this at the 70,000 who were already evidently ab- once. He replied by a -polite letter, say- I sent in May. These figures do~ not pre FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 7 tend to be strictly exact; but as to the main fact that the effective force of the French army had been reduced to a very low ebb indeed in the summer of 1870, no doubt is possible; for General de Palikao, who was minister of war from ioth Au- gust to 4th September 1870, uses the fol- lowing words in his book, (In Miisjst?rq de Ving/-quatre 7ours. In speaking of the plebiscite he says: The result of this political act was to show Europe that the total number of men present in our army was only 250,000. This figure is, however, too low, and was used probably as expressing the number of fighting men, after deducting the non-combatants. Still, reduced as the army was in fact, the theo- retical number of disposable men stood, as we have said, at ~6~,ooo. Let us see what this produced in reality on the out- break of war. In his evidence before the commission of the Chamber, Mar~chal le Bceuf put in a written statement, from which it results that, on the 2d of August, the entire army of the Rhine, including the troops of MMahon, and even the corps of Canro- bert, which was not then really formed, amounted to 244,000 men; and that fig- ure is confirmed by General Frossard in his book on the operations of the corps which he commanded. But this included, necessarily, such of the men on leave, and such of the reservists, as had had time to reach their regiments since they were called out on the 14th of July, nineteen days before. It may be guessed, under all the circumstances, that the men of these two classes who had managed to join their corps by the 2d of August must have represented somewhere about 44,- 000; SO that, if that estimate be correct, the number of men of the Rhine army who were with the colours before the war was about 200,000. If the number of leave-men and reservists exceeded 44,000, then the 200,000 must of course, be propor- tionately diminished, which would make the previous situation worse still; for it appears in the evidence that all the other troops in France, in Algeria, and at Ci- vita Vecchia, irrespective of those incor- porated in the army of the Rhine, did not, on or about the 20th of July, exceed 93,000, made up as follows : Eleven regiments of the line, . 14,500 men. Three battalions of African in fantry 2,500 Eight regiments of cavalry, . 6,ooo The part of Canroberts corps which had remained at Chalons Io,ooo And the depots, which are put at about . . . . 6o,ooo men. So giving a general total of . 93,000 Consequently, we can only discover, altogether, about 293,000 men (which we have previously put roundly at 300,000) as having been under arms before the decla- ration of war, instead of the 400,000 voted in the budget. To this original basis of 293,000 men we have now to add the 107,000 who (to make up 400,000) must evidently have been on leave, and also the 165,000 of the reserve. The former were of course sol- diers, but the same cannot possibly be said of the latter. All the reservists, it is true, had been in the army, and had con- sequently received a military education; but since they had finished their term they had never been called out for exercise, and scarcely any of them had ever seen a chassepot, for that arm had been intro- duced into the service after the greater part of them had left it. Furthermore, most of them considered themselves to be virtually freed from any further obliga- tions towards their country; and it was proved by thousands of lamentable exam- ples, that it was not with any lively feeling of discipline or duty that they found them- selves called upon to rejoin. It is worth while to quote one instance out of many, of the disorder which reigned amongst them. We will take it from an interesting book on the action of the railways during the war, which has been published by M. J acqmin, manager of the Eastern Com- pany. He says: From the third or fourth day (after the declaration of war), our stations, like those of every line in France, were encumbered with soldiers of the reserve belonging to every regiment in the army; they w~re grouped by the district intendants under the orders of non-commissioned officers, but the latter had no authority over their detachments, and knew nothing of the men who com- posed them. The result was that men kept dropping off on the way, and that these isolated soldiers soon formed a floating mass which wandered about the roads and railway stations, living at the cost of any charitable persons they could find, but never reaching their corps. At the end of August the station at Reims had to be defended against an attempt at pillage made by a band of 4,000 or 5,ooo of these men, who had given up all idea of joining their regiments. It is fair, how- ever, to add that, in many cases, these 8 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. men had to go enormous distances to that the remaining 226,000 must have join; several regiments were more than been at that date either at the depots 400 miles from their depots, to which all of their regiments, or else on the road- the men had to go in the first instance; sides all over France. Of course it is not and General Vinoy quotes, in his book, as possible to say how many of them had got a specimen of the organization which pre- to their dep6ts; but there is good reason vailed, the famous story of the Zouaves for believing that the number who were who were sent~ to Algeria to get their uni- wandering along the highways and round forms and then brought back to France the railway-stations was enormous, for all to fight. He says: In the war of i8~o, the histories and reports are full of lamen- reserve men belonging to the regiments tations on the subject. The majority of of Zouaves, but residing in the northern these 226,000 men were utilized after- departments, had to cross the whole of wards, that is evident; but there is no cx- France and to embark at Marseilles in or- aggeration in presumino that, during July der to get themselves armed and equipped and part of August, at least ioo,ooo of at Coleah, Oran, or Philippeville, and then them were straying about the country liv- come back to their corps at the point ing on public charity. whence they had started. They travelled This is indeed a frightful story, and it 1,300 miles by railway, and crossed the would be impossible to believe it if it were Mediterranean twice. Another tale, of not told, directly or indirectly, by the nu- exactly the same kind, was related by M. merous Frencb witnesses on the subject. Blondeau in his evidence. He said that It is so sad and strange that it is worth by far the greater part of the reserves of while to resume it in one sentence, and to infirmiers and of workmen required for repeat once more, that at the moment the army belonged to sections of those when the war broke out, the French army services which had their depots in Al- consisted nominally of 400,000 men, of geria; that when the war broke out he en- whom about 107,000 appear, according to treated that these men might be sent the probabilities of the case, to have been direct to the army of the Rhine, where absent on leave, the remaining 293,000 be- they were most urgently required; that he ing present with the colours; that when was told in reply that such an arrange- these 107,000 men, and also the 163,000 ment would be too complicated, and men of the reserve, were ordered to join, that the men must go according to rule; only 44,000 of the two classes (which num- and that, in fact, a very large number of bered together 270,000) had reached the them (nearly 3,000 apparently, though, as army of the Rhine in nineteen days; and the statement is rather confused, that fig- that, of the remaining 226,000, one-half ure may be incorrect) were embarked at may be presumed to have got to their Toulon and sent to Africa because routine depots or their regiments elsewhere than required it. in the Rhine army, while the other half Between the want of discipline of the continued to wander about France without men and the disorder of the management, any apparent intention of .joining volun- the incorporation of the reserves went tarily at all. on with extraordinary slowness; indeed, We get next to the Garde Mobile. we have just supplied evidence enough of When war was declared it existed on paper that slowness by showing that the number only. It is true that, in 1869, a little drill- of those who had joined the army of the ing of the Parisians belonging to it had Rhine on the 2d August, nineteen days taken place; but the experiment had given after they were called out, could not the worst possible results; the men had probably have exceeded 44,000. Now, behaved dis, racefully, and the attempt had according to a document emanating from been abandoned. A slight commencement the minister of war, 163,000 reservists of organization had also been sketched were started off to their regiments be- out in the eastern departments; but when tween the i8th and 28th of July; and we Mar~chal le Buuf became mihister of war must necessarily suppose that the 107,000 in 1869, he had suspended the further men whom we imagine to have been on preparation and instruction of the men, on leave were also on their way to join, so the ground that he did not believe there making 270,000 men in all who were tray- was the slightest use in it. It may there- elling to their destinations during the fore be observed, before we pass on, that second fortnight of July. If, therefore, Mar6chal le Bceuf appears to have intend- we are right in our computation, that only ed to fight Germany with nothing but the 44,000 of them had reached the army of 565,ooo men of the regular army and its the Rhine on the 2d of August, it follows reserve. The nominal effective of the FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 9 Garde Mobile stood originally at 500,000, as we have stated; in 1870 it was given officially at 420,000, but it does not appear that even 20,000 men thereof had been really utilized at the end of August. Such of its members as had been called up at that date were exclusively in the eastern fortresses; for it is not possible to count the Parisian battalions which conducted themselves at Chalons in such a fashion that they had to be recalled to Paris as being not only useless, but dangerous. From all these figures it results that the whole nominal force of the French army, regular troops, reserves, and Mobiles in- cluded, amounted to about 985,000 men; and Mar6chal le Bceuf has stated in his evidence that, out of this general total, 567,000 really serviceable men could be relied upon; but, if we allow for the sick and the non-combatant services, which would represent on this latter total 74,500 men, and also for the gendarmerie and the troops absolutely required in the interior and in Alberia, the number to be so de- ducted may be put altogether at 130,000. There would therefore remain only 437,000 men to bring into line, from which again we must deduct the number of the reserv- ists who did not join. So that, whichever way we turn the question, it seems indis- putable that the total forces of every kind which could be seriously employed against the enemy at the first commencement of the campaign could not have much exceded 300,000 fighting men, only five-sixths of whom were on the frontier. It should be repeated that these figures cannot be ab- solutely relied upon, for some of them are hypothetical and the rest are extracted from a mass of contradictory official evi- dence; they seem, however, to present a reasonable appearance of truth. The ma/driel was in an even worse state than the men. General Suzanne, who, in 1870, was director of mat6riel at the ministry of xvar, informed the parlia- mentary commission that, when the war broke out, France possessed 21,000 can- nons, of which io,ooo were field-pieces. So she did; but, unfortunately, these num- bers included, as Duke dAudiffret Pas- quier observed in his speech to the com- mission on 13th June 1873, cannons of the time of Louis XIV., and the artillery of Gribeauval; all the old smooth-bore guns were also counted in it as forming part of the disposable armament. Fur- thermore, though there really were 4,000 rifled field-guns, only 2,376 of them pos- sessed carriages and limbers; the others were all lying on the ground. And even this reduced quantity could not be utilized, for the number of horses required for them was 51,548, with a corresponding supply of harness; so that, as only 31,904 horses were forthcoming, it was not possible to send more than iso batteries (900 guns) to the army of the Rhine; and even this number included mitrailleuses, so cutting down the cannon, properly so called, to 85o. As, however, we have shown that the army of the Rhine was limited to 244,- ono men, it follows, after all, that, in con- sequence of its numerical weakness, the theoretical number of four guns to each 1,000 men was really reached. It should be added that there was harness for 47,000 horses; it was therefore found possible, by making limbers and buying horses, to turn out eighty more batteries by the latter half of August, just in time to send them to Sedan to he taken by the Prussians. The story of the muskets is of the same nature. The official reports showed that there were 3,350,000 of them in hand on 1st July 1870, and it was argued that, with so vast a supply, an army of 900,000 men would fight for several months. But it turned out that only one million of those muskets were chassepots, that 1,750,000 of them were percussion-guns, and that the rest were modified Mini6s (taba/i?res). As an example of the fashion in which these arsenal statements were made up, it may be mentioned that 57,000 of those very guns had been sold as old iron, for six shillings each, and were in process of de- livery to the buyer; but they continued to be counted as available foVservice in the event of war! The result was that, after the first month, there were virtually no chassepots left, and that the contest had to-be carried on with such inferior weap- ons of varied types as it was found possi- ble to make or buy. The stock of ammunition was so insuffi- cient that only about 120 cartridges ex- isted for each chassepot: in the very first battles of the campaign the supply was exhausted, and special manufactures had to be set up. As for uniforms and kits, it was sup- posed that far more than enough were in store; but they ran short immediately, and contracts for every sort of article had to be made in all directions before the month of August was half over. Of food it may be said that scarcely any- thing was ready. There were 38,500,000 of biscuit-rations for the army, but no stocks had been laid up in the fortresses; in Metz, for instance, according to the evidence, there was a quantity of corn and I0 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. flour, and some bacon, but neither rice, coffee, salt, nor wine. The telegrams sent by the various com- manders reveal the state of the supplies at the very commencement. On 19th July, General de Failly telegraphed: I have nothing not even money; we require supplies of every kind. On the 24th the intendant of the ~th division telegraphed: Metz, which supplies the 3d, 4th, and ~th corps, has no more biscuit or oats. The same day the intendant of the 3d corps says: The 3d corps leaves Metz to-mor- row: I have no iiyirmiers, no workmen, no ambulance-waggons, no field-ovens, no carts, and not one intendant in two divi- sions. On the 25th July, the sous-in- tendant at M~zi~res sent word: There is neither biscuit nor salt-meat to-day at M6zi~res or Sedan. On the 28th, Mar6- chal le Beuf telegraphed: We cannot march for want of biscuit. On the 29th, General Ducrot telegraphed to Strashurg, from Reichshoffen, where he was with his division: The question of food is becom- ing more and more grave; the intendance gives us absolutely nothing; everything is eaten up around us. And all this, let it he borne in mind, took place in France itself, with the bases of supplies close to the army, and before one battle had been fought. The same disorder existed in the for- tresses; not one of them was in a state of defence. We have already described the state of Strasburg; the Bazaine trial has shown the condition of Metz; the con- struction of the outlying forts there was scarcely commenced; at Belfort nothing was done until two or three months after the declaration of war: Toul, a most im- portant strategic point, was not armed. In Paris the state of things was almost worse; the forts contained one guardian each; not a gun was in battery in them. Whichever way we look through this long, saddening testimony, the story is the same. M. Wolf, intendant of MMahons corps, says that there were no orders and no plans; that, though the railway com- pany could carry nearly all that was re- quired, it could not, for want of men, un- load the waggons when they arrived at their destination, and that the unloading had to be done by the troops; that it often happened that a mile of waggons stood for a week full of objects which were most urgently required, because it was impossi- ble to discharge them. Everybody de- clares that there were no ambulances, no hospitals, and no nurses; and that if it had not been for private charity and for the society for helping the wounded, the men would have been left to die where they dropped. But let it be remembered that, while all this was happening in Alsace, hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of hos- pital attendants and army-workmen were at that very moment on their way to Africa, in obedience to routine. General Ducrot says that, before his division quitted Stras- burg, he applied for permission to leave the shakos of the men in store there; that the ministry of war had not dared to con- sent to so bold a measure; and that, in consequence, as his men preferred to fight with their k~5is, they flung their shakos into the ditches to get rid of them, and that they became the playthings of all the boys in Alsace, who picked them up on the roadsides. In many of the regi- ments the men had no spare needles for their chassepots; no one knew how to fire a mitrailleuse, except one officer; a few shots, with powder, were fired from them before starting, so as to see how these machines were to be employed. The cavalry was organized on five differ- ent bases between i~th July and 15th Au- gust; it often happened that regiments and even divisions of cavalry were an- nexed to divisions of infantry; the plans and projects varied every day, and some- times several times each day, as is proved by the orders and counter-orders which were telegraphed to Paris as to the sup- plies of food to be sent by rail to the army. Such is, in all truth and fairness, with no exaggeration, and with no selection of exceptionally bad facts, the story told by the witnesses. Such was the state of the French army at the commencement of the campaign such was the practical effect produced by the system of military management which was then in force in France. This was the condition of things down to the ioth of August. On that day the Ollivier government was turned out and the Palikao ministry came in. The first stage of the story ends there. On the roth of August the Germans were stream- ing across the Saar and through the Vos- ges and were close to Metr, where the larger part of the army of the Rhine was waiting to be shut up; the rest of it had been defeated and had fallen back on Chalons. A new army was required, with new arms and new stores. Then the second series of preparations commenced. General de Palikao says in his book that he provided a reconstituted army of 140,000 men, at Chalons; that he got FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. II together three other corj5s darmJe (in- cluding thirty-three new regiments), with their armament, their artillery, and their supplies; that he organized 100,000 Mo- biles in the provinces, and brought them up to aid in the defence of Paris; that he placed Paris in a state of defence; that he armed the forts; and that he did all this between the ioth of August and the 4th September. If really he did all this, then the situation on the ioth of August could not have been so bad as it looked: but, in fact, he .did nothing of the kind. The truth about his administration is as follows. The 1st corps (MMahon), the 5th (De Failly), and the 7th (Donay), which had been organized at the beginning of the war, had retreated, after the battle of Woerth, towards Chalons, and all that the ministry of war had to do for them was to send them the men and supplies which they required. The 12th corps, which was added to them at Chalons, was mainly composed of infantry of marine, completely organized. Furthermore, several regi- ments belonging to the 6th corps at Metz had not been able to join it, and had been sent to Chalons. So far General de Pali- kao had only to direct he had nothing to create; and even as regards the new 13th corps (Vinoy), he did not do much more, for that corps consisted of the garri- son of Civita Vecchia, which had been re- called in all haste, and of new regiments made up out of the depots and reservists. All these troops existed; they had but to be grouped together. The i4th corps was nowhere, even on the 4th of Septem- ber; it did not acquire a form until a later period. The 100,000 MoWles called into Paris were neither armed nor equipped; it was during the month of September that their percussion-muskets were ex- changed for breech-loaders, and that cloth uniforms were made to replace their cot- ton trousers and blouses. It is true that the fortifications of Paris were hurried into condition by General de Palikao; but there was so much to be done to them, that when the Prussians reached Paris on the i9th of September, the place might still have been taken by a cozq5 de main. In reali& y General de Palikao utilized the cb#bris of the defeated armies, emptied the depots, collected the reservists, and got out the last muskets which had been overlooked in the magazines, and the can- non for which no horses had been forth- coming at the beginning. As for provid- ing fresh arms, it is evident from his own book that he did not do so, for he states that he only bought 38,000 rifles while he was minister. Still, though he did a vast deal less than he claims to have done, he deserves praise for having shown energy and resolution in a desperate position, and for doing probably the best that could be done with the pre-existing materials at his disposal. One only of the members of the min- istry of the ioth of August dared to innovate, and to inaugurate the system of contempt for rules and routine which was to be so vigorously carried out by the gov- ernment of the 4th of September. M. Cldment Duvernois, minister of commerce, spent 8,ooo,ooo in a fortnight in buying food for Paris. He did this, of course, with much disorder; but he did it, and by doing so, he rendered an enormous serv- ice to his cOuntry, for it was solely in consequence of his work that Paris was enabled to stand a siege ~of four and one- half months. And here it may be worth while to mention a curious fact which does not seem to have ever become generally known. All this tremendous effort to fill Paris with food, though carried out with the utmost publicity, was completed without one word of it reaching the ears of the Germans. Here is the proof thereof. The crown-prince of Prussia arrived at Ver- sailles on the evening of the 20th Sep- tember. The next morninb, while walk- ing in the picture-galleries of the palace, he met Mr. W. H. Russell; with Mr. Rus- sell was an Englishman who had left Paris three days before, and it was from that Englishman that the crown-prince learnt for the first time, with much astonishment and some incredulity, that Paris had been supplied with food and would stand a siege. The prince immediately called General von Blumenthal, his chief of the staff, and told him this unexpected and disappointing news. The German army arrived round Paris with the conviction that the city could not resist, and that they would take it at once. The siege was a painful surprise to them. It was through the energy of M. Cl~ment Duver- nois, and through his contempt for rules, that they were kept outside till Febru- ary. .~Unfortunately for M. Duvernois, he has since shown his contemptfor rules in another manner; he is now undergoing two years imprisonment for frauds com- mitted in the management of a company of which he became a director after the war. We now reach the third phase of the war preparations. On the 4th of Septem- ber all real hope had disappeared; France 12 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. was beaten; she had no army left; half a large number of the conscripts of 1870, her troops had been taken at Sedan, the who had just been called out. There other half were blocked up in Metz. were, in addition to this large force, about Scarcely any old soldiers remained ex- 12,000 francs-tireurs, and 266 battalions of cepting a part of Vinoys corps, which National Guards, whose exact number had been unable to reach Sedan and was never known, but who may be roughly had come back to Paris; the arsenals estimated at about 300,000 men. It is were empty; the situation was desperate. generally believed that about 120,000 of But then, when it had become manifestly the latter might really have been made useless to bo on fighting, a series of efforts into soldiers, but it was mA till the end of was made which, though they came too November that the slightest attempt was late to win back victory, proved at all made to utilize them. The total number events that, even after routine bad de- of men of all kinds under arms in Paris stroyed all chances of success, something was therefore about 586,000, and that vast could still be attempted by strong will and mass allowed itself to be shut in, on the vigour. 19th September, by a German army Here, however, the subject changes its which, at that date, did not include more character. Thus far we have been de- than 120,000 fighting men, and which had scribing results attained by the ministry of to guard a circle of fifty miles! xvar, by the official military system under The details of the armament which had which France had been manabed during been got into Paris were as follows. The the preceding twenty years. We now cannon for the forts had been brought up arrive at the moment when professional at the beginning of August; ~zp tons of direction was replaced by civil direction, powder were ready, but there were no when the ministry of war disappeared as loaded projectiles, and the cannon for the a motive power. But at the same date the fortifications themselves were still in the preparations for defence became divided country. On the 8th, Paris was declared into two parts, so entirely distinct from in a state of siege; and in four days, by each other, that we must cease to regard working very hard, 525 guns were got into the work done as a whole, and must look their places on the ramparts. Ammuni- separately at what was effected in Paris tion was brought up in large quantities; and what was effected in the provinces, the marine arsenals supplied 228 rifled We will take Paris first. cannon of very large size, with ammuni- In Paris there were men enough, in all tion for 200 shots for each of them. On conscience, to create an immense army; the 25th of August there were 1,700 tons there were, indeed, a vast deal too many of powder in Paris; the tobacco-works of them, for the ioo,ooo Mobiles, added were turned into a cartridge-factory, and to the regular troops who had re-entered private contracts were made for projec- Paris, absorbed all the really serviceable tiles of all sorts. On the 3d September, arms and accoutrements that could at first 703 cannon were in battery in the forts of be provided, and rendered it impossible, Paris and St. Denis, and the forts were for that reason, to make any immediate largely supplied with ammunition. As use of the inflabitants. And here it may regards muskets, there are no exact re- be observed that, if the law enrolling all turns; but it is known that 280,000, of dif- men under thirty-five years of age bad ferent types, had been issued to the Na- been practically enforced in Paris, the Mo- tional Guard by the end of September hues could have been left in the country, that 153,000 were delivered to the Ger- and would have formed another army mans after the siege by the regular troops there. The number of soldiers available and Mobiles; and that about 25,000 more in Paris, at the commencement of the were retained by the troops who were not siege, appears to have been as follows: disarmed: but the total thus indicated is certainly much inferior to the reality. Of Regular troops, . . . . 135,000 field-guns there were a large quantity; Gendarmes 6,ooo the army had 93 batteries, the sailors i6, Mobiles xi6,ooo the Garde Mobile i5, and the National Sailors . II~000 Guard 9. On this showing there were Custom-house and Forest Guards, . 6,000 field-guns, 602 of which were handed _____ 798 Total, . . . 274,000 over to the Germans. A considerable number of these field- The regular troops were composed (in guns were made in Paris during the siege, addition to Vinoys corps) of the ele- and a large quantity of muzzle-loading ments of the unformed 14th corps, and of muskets were simultaneously converted FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 3 into breech-loaders. One manufactory of sewing-machines transformed ~o,ooo. Finally, as regards food, the position was as follows : The Bulietin de la Muncz~5alitd de Paris of i6th September 1870 stated that the stock of flour which had been got in before the investment amounted to 45,700 tons; so that, as the consumption each day was about 700 tons, it was cal- culated that the place could hold out for sixty-four days. But, very luckily, this estimate was far under the reality. It turned out that Paris contained much more flour than was supposed, and that there was in reality enough for 131 days; so that, allowing for diminutions which were afterwards effected in the daily rate of eating by putting the population on re- duced rations, it is evident that the real quantity of flour in hand at the origin must have been nearly 90,000 tons; and that quantity does not include either the supply for the troops or the provision laid in by private persons. Meat appears to have been furnished by 24,000 bullocks, 150,000 sheep, 6,ooo pigs all got in by M. Duvernois and 6o,ooo horses. It should, however, be added, that none of these figures can be regarded as positively exact: they are probably tolerably near the truth; but as no official statistics have ever been published on the subject, they are only put forward here as estimates based on such information as it has been found possible to collect. But all these preparations, after all, were as nothing compared with the aston- ishing efforts which were made in the provinces. In Paris the will to struggle usefully, if, indeed, it really did exist at all, was manifestly paralyzed by the in- competence of the military direction which continued to prevail there: but in the provinces the entire power was exclusive- ly in the hands of civilians; and what they did, though useless and in wild disorder, was altogether amazing under the circum- stances. Notwithstanding the exhaustion of the country, there still remained some scattered forces to collect. By the i6th September a hundred companies were formed out of the remnants of each of the regimental depots. The best of the Mo- biles were collected into regiments and brigades. Three line regiments which had been left in Algeria were brought over. With these troops the 15th corps was created, which became afterwards the nucleus of the army of the Loire. All the Mobiles of the south and centre were called up. A separate group of 13,000 men was got together at Rouen under General Gudin, and another of 4,000 men at Evreux under General Delarue. At Chartres and Amiens other groups were formed; and an army of 20,000 men grew up at Le Mans. In the eastern depart- ments Cambriels rallied 5,000 or 6,ooo stragglers; and in addition to all this, the formation of a i6th corps was commenced at Tours. But all these agglomerations were of no real military value; most of the men who composed them were raw labourers, who were armed with percussion-muskets pend- ing the arrival of breech-loaders from abroad. Indeed, if we are to judge by the evidence of General Lefort, who was, at the commencement, secretary-general of the ministry of war at Tours, no very clear idea seems to have existed at first as to the possibility of using any of these men. He said to the commission, I ought~to tell you that, when we began the organization of the 16th corps, I did not really expect that it would be called upon to take any part in military operations. Under that impression I observed to the minister of war (Cr~mieux), that, though this new army was perhaps not destined to really act, I regarded its formation as indispensable, for the sake of the consid- erable moral effect .that it might have not only on the defenders of Paris, but also on the population of the south and centre, who would feel that there was a French army between them and the Germans. On the 9th October, however, a differ- ent spirit was thrown into the wrok. On that day M. Gambetta arrived from Paris and put an end to the ridiculous follies of M. Cr6mieux and M. Glais Bizoin, who were disputing which of th~m should be minister of war. The new dictator knew no more about the matter than they did, but, at all events, he was young and fiercely energetic. His first act was to call to his aid a man whose acts have been judged with much diversity of opinion M. de Freycinetwho became, in reality, minister of war at Tours. This gentle- man was an engineer of the imperial corps of mines, and it was he who, under the title of d6idgud ~i la g erre, managed all the details of military organization at Tours and Bordeaux. The second act of M. Gambetta was to suspend the laws rel- ative to promotion, and to decree that ex- traordinary promotion might be granted either for supposed capacity or for serv- ices rendered, and that military grades could also be bestowed on persons who were flQt in the army. 4 FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. At the same date the formation of an do so, in which case we will try to help you. auxiliary army, to be composed of Mo- For the organization of your corps in ma- biles, National Guards, and francs-tireurs, Mriel we will give you the necessary pow- was decreed. This new army was assim- ers for making requisitions in the depart- ilated in every respect to the regular ments of the Manche, Calvados, Orne, army, so as to he capable of being amal- Sarthe, Mayenne, Eure et Loir, and Eure. gamated with it at any moment. Futher- Go on, then. Form your cadres yourself; more, all the departments within sixty if you want a few officers we will give miles of the enem.y were declared to be in them to you; but do your utmost to suf- a state of war; a committee composed of fice for yourself, and to quickly get a ver- officers and civil engineers was formed in itable army into line, formed of all the each of them in order to fortify the de- dgbris around you, and of the new ele partment. ments which you will create yourself. On the 3d of November, each depart- These impossible orders were positively ment was called upon to provide, within executed! General Jaur~s took up his two months, as many batteries as it con- command on 20th November, got to- tamed ioo,ooo inhabitants. All francs- gether stragglers in all directions, and tireurs were ordered to become part of formed a corps which, when compared the army in the territory where they might with others of the army of the Loire, was happen to be; every man under forty singularly solid; for it was that corps years of age was called out; camps were which stopped the Duke of Mecklenburg formed for concentration and instruction; for three days at Le Mans, and fought the an intelligence department was established last fight of the war at Sill~ le Guillaume. in the war-ministry; civil engineer and It is needless to pursue further the civil commissariat services were organ- story of the efforts made in the west. ized; horses were collected. During No- Those efforts serve to show the differ- vember and December seven new cor2i5s ence between the tremendous energy of darmie were formed, each of them com- the amateur civilians, and the stolid inca- posed of about 30,000 men. But of course pacity of the professional authorities; but these corps were virtually useless; it that fact,after all, only proves what we could not indeed be otherwise. To give knew before that strong will can attain one example of the fashion in which they results which are beyond the reach of in- were set going, it is worth while to quote dolence and routine. The old system re- a letter which was written by M. de Frey- sisted the German army for one month, cinet to Captain Jaur~s of the navy, when the new one held out against it for five the latter was named general of the 21st months hopelessly, uselessly, madly, it corps. This letter has never been pub- is true but it held out. lished, but it well merits to be known for And now let us revert to the question the sake of the strange picture which it which was implicitly raised at the com- presents. It said: mencement, and see if we can form a dis- You are appointed general of brigade tinct opinion as to the distribution of re- in the auxiliary army, and are intrusted sponsibilities. It cannot be supposed with the command of the troops who were that, even if the French army had been formerly under the orders of General thoroughly well organized, it could have Fierr~ck, with whom you will immediate- stood successfully before its tremendous ly make arrangements. You will also foe, for mere numbers would have inevi-. make arrangements with Colonel Rous- tably beaten it in the long run. But cer- seau, who will become your chief of the tainly, weak as it was numerically, we are staff. You will eliminate from the troops justified, by the nature of the earlier bat- of whom I have just spoken all the men tles of the war, in believing that it could belonging to the x6th and i8th corps, and have fought on for months, if only it you will send them to their respective had commenced the campaign in good chiefs. With the remainder, and with the order, with supplies and with capable com- Mobiles that you may be able to get to- manders. Whose fault is it that neither geiher, you will form a corps darme!e of order, nor supplies, nor generals were forty or fifty thousand men, in three di- there, and that the entire army was hope- visions, which will be called the 21st lessly vanquished in four weeks, between corps, and which you will command. Woerth and Sedan? You will form your artillery yourself, The French press has passionately dis- so as to have eighteen batter~ies, if you can. cussed this question; but, unfortunately, You will, also form your proper quantity of it has almost invariably considered it from cavalry, unless, indeed, it be impossible to political points of view, so as to serve FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. 5 party interests, and not at all with the im- partiality which is needed in order to solve so tangled a problem. The Re- publicans, the Orleanists, and the Legiti- mists of course declare that the omnipo- tence of Napoleon III. renders him alone responsible. The Bonapartists reply by counting up the hostile votes and speeches of the opposition deputies, and try to prove from them that the plans of military action put forward by the imperial gov- ernment after i866 were paralyzed by the Chamber. The eager reformers who have risen up in such abundance since the peace attribute the greater part of the blame to the prejudiced routine of the minister of war. The English press has added one more explanation by asserting that the temperament and dispositions of the whole French people had a not in- considerable share in inducing the break- down. It would be a very difficult perhaps even an impossible task, to apportion the blame with critical exactness between these various elements; and here there is no space for the long developments which such an inquiry would necessitate: bu~t, as foreigners, we have, at all events, an advantage over the French in the matter, because, having no personal interests and no political party to serve, we are able to recognize that blame is merited in each one of the four directions mentioned; and that, even if it be impracticable to allot it everywhere in precise degrees, the great fact is clear to us that it is deserved all round. But, though we will not attempt to weigh out judgments so as to fit them ac- curately to the relative guiltiness of the accused, we may, in safety, indicate the general proportions of censure to which we are led by the evidence which has been given here. It seems impossible to deny that the great first culprit was the ministry of war, taken as a collective whole expressing the system and the principles on which the French army was administered. It was in the hands of that institution that all the working power was deposited, that all information was collected, that all initiative was concen- trated; it was the supreme master of the army. We have seenthat it did its work with negligence, incapacity, conceit, and disorder; it is on it that, without any pos- siblity of reasonable doubt, the great con- demnation of history will rest. Next in culpability stands, incontestably, the emperor himself. No argument, no evidence, can set him free; on the con- trary, in the eyes of all impartial persons who study the arguments and the evi- dence, whatever be their sympathy for the fallen or their respect for the dead, his share in the wretched tale is frightfully heavy. Without alluding to the collate- ral details of the question, to the councils of generals which, according to M. dAu- diffret Pasquier, he held during the spring of I87o, so as to get all ready; or to the pamphlet, evidently written or inspired by him, which was privately printed in Paris two months before the war, showing that the North-German army alone amounted to 895,000 men, and that France was no match for it,* and limiting his responsi- bility to mere questions of technical prep- aration and forethought, it is manifest that a terrible load weighs upon him. He had voluntarily assumed a position of in- dividual power, and consequently of indi- vidual responsibility; and his position be- fore France and before history is scarce- ly less grave than that of his acting agent at the ministry of war, for he approved, maintained, and applied the system which brought about defeat and ruin. The Chamber may be put third in the list. It was both incapable and ridicu- lous; its habitual subservience to the em- peror on the one hand, and its sudden as- sumption of independence on the subject of military organization on the other, were as comical as they were lamentable. It understood nothing of the great questions which it presumed to touch; but, by the act of touching them, it assumed a share of the onus of failure. And then comes the nation at large, im- pulsive but mistrustful, self-confident but credulous, abandoning everything to its rulers, but reserving boundless faith in it- self, convinced that French soldiers could not fail to conquer, but grumbling at the cost of keeping them; and, with all this, adoring detail and routine a repetition on a vast scale of the ministry of war it- self. It may be said, in general terms, that in the universal race to ruin, the nation en- couraged the Chamber, that the Chamber encouraged the emperor, and that the emperor encouraged his minister. It was between them all, by their collective acts, that they arrived at the result. The blame of it must lie upon them all. With few exceptions, the entire people, * An original copy of thui pamphlet, found in the palace of the Tuileries, is in the hands of the writer of this article; it is entitled, li/ne Zifauvaise Economie, and was printed at the Imprimerie Imp& iale in May 5870. FRANCE BEFORE THE WAR. whatever may be said now to the contrary, entertained substantially the same views before the war; the immense majority was convinced that France was irresisti- ble. The opposition deputies went farther than any one in that belief; for they per- sistently asserted in the Chamber that no regular army was required at all, and that, with liberty and a National Guard,~~ France would be a match for all possible enemies. The government profited so eagerly by every possible opportunity to assure the nation of its strength, that it is worth while to give a few examples of the sort of talking it indulged in. Mar& hal Randon, then minister of war, said, in April 1867: What! a nation like France, which, in a few weeks, can assemble 6oo,- ooo soldiers round its flags, which has 8,ooo field-pieces in its arsenals, i,8oo,ooo muskets, and powder enough to make war for six years, that nation is not always ready to sustain by arms its honour and its right? The army is not ready to com- mence a campaign when it counts in its ranks the veterans of Africa, of Sebasto- pol, of Solferino ? when it has to lead it these experienced generals and this crowd of young officers, prepared by the expeditions of Algeria and Mexico to ex- ercise hibber commands? What army is there in Europe which possesses such ele- ments of experience and energy? Our infantry is not yet entirely armed with the needle-gun; but has the forward march of our voltigeurs ever been stopped, in our old wars, by the Tyrolese sharpshooters, armed with their rifled carbines, or by the English riflemen? Oh! then let us recall the military virtues of our fathers: they are worth more than needle-guns I And this was proclaimed by a marshal of France in the year after Sadowa! On the i8th of January 1869, the em- peror said to the Chambers: Our im- proved armament; our arsenals and our magazines all full; our reserves well exer- cised; the Garde Mobile now forming; . . our fortresses in perfect condition, give our power an indispensable develop- menL . . . The military resources of France are henceforth suited to her des- tiny in the world. On the 20th of March 1869, Mar~chal Niel said, in a speech to the Corps L~gisla- tif : The soldiers of the Garde Mobile are all inscribed in the control lists, and are organized in territorial circumscriptions, by companies and battalions. We are organizing the officers. If danger came, and a rapid result were necessary, we are in a position to attain it. We have an excellent army, well instructed, full of ardour, perfectly organized, and provided with everything. . . . I do not know what is generally felt in France, but, for my part, I regard with much philosophy the questions of war or peace which are being discussed around us, and, if war were necessary, we are perfectly ready for it. And on 12th April of the same year he said: Whether it be peace or war is abso- lutely the same to the minister of war. He is always ready. I will not repeat what I have said several times already, but the army can be put on a war footing in a week. I have nothing but an order to give. On the i6th August 1869, the Moni- leur published the following note : An army of 750,000 men disposable for war; nearly 6oo,ooo men of the Garde Mobile; instruction everywhere pushed on to a degree hitherto unknown; 1,200,- ooo muskets manufactured in eighteen months; the fortresses ready; an im- mense matiriel prepared for every event- tuality, of every kind, in such a situa~- tion France stands confident in her force. All these vast results have been attained in two years ! Such was the language held by the em- peror, by his war-ministers, and by his government. The nation believed every word of it, not so much because the gov- ernment said it that, perhaps, was rather a reason for doubting but because those wordy boastings about military power were exactly what it liked and wanted; because they fitted in exactly with its tem- perament and its wishes; because, in fact, it would have been indignant if such speeches had not been made. It impera- tively required declarations of this sort from its government, and its government was weak enough to give them. -Since 187o a great wake-up has taken place; but still France longs for the same official assurances that she is great and powerful. There is no sign yet that the old spirit has been driven out, either amongst the people or at the ministry of war; on the contrary, there is too much reason to believe that it continues to ex- ist in both directions, in little-weakened strength. The events of 1870 supply a starting-point from which progress can be measured; that progress has com- menced; in some respects it is both real and serious, in others it is scarcely per- ceptible: but though it will be recognized, HOW I WON A WIFE. 7 after the story which has been told here, that there is room for it all round, it will indeed be wonderful if the ministry of war does really shake off routine. Few people will venture to indulge the dream that such a result can ever be realized; for most of us are convinced that Dr. Chent? was right when he said, in his famous book on the mortality of the French army, that if an official of the ministry of war had been present at the creation, he would have cried out to the Creator, Stop, stop! this will not do at all; you are disturbing chaos. And we English, have we nothing to learn from this woful story? Is it sure that none of its teachings apply to our- selves as well as to the French? HOW I WON A WIFE. TRANSLATED FROM THE PLATT-DEUT5CH OF REUTER, BY M. S. FRITZ After the marriage tis too late, Before the wedding tame your mate. MEANTIME I had become an old bach- elor. I had wandered about the world hither and thither, had often laid my head on a soft pillow and often on a bundle of straw; but as I grew older the straw didnt suit me so well as at twenty, for one who is glad to eat turnips in childhood doesnt exactly despise roast goose in after years. People said Get married, and I said, Consider, and circled around the holy estate of matrimony like a fox round a goose-pen, thinking, You can doubtless get in; you can easily get in! But when youre once there, can you get out again? But then when I thought of the inn-keepers eternal roast pork and mutton, and that my room looked like the world before the first day of creation, and that one of my confounded old buttons was always coming off, I said Get married, and then the stupid people said, Con- sider. So I still remained between the tree and the bark, the years of considera- tion passed by, and my head was begin- ning to grow grey, when one day I stood by the stove, after lighting my pipe, and gazed at the weather. The snow fell gently from the sky; everything outside was silent, no carriage- wheels were to be heard, only in the dis- tance the ringing of sleigh-bells; and I felt so lonely, for it was the hallowed Christmas-eve. As I stood gazing ab LIvING AGE. vOL. xii. 626 sently through the panes, my shoemaker Linsen stopped before his door with a sled full of wood he had gathered in the city forest; and on the top of the sled lay a green fir-tree. Now just see that ras- cal! said I. He ought to be making me that other pair of boots, and instead of that hes gathering wood! I wont let the fellow work for me any longer. I was still standing there, when sudden- ly a shiver ran through my limbs, my flesh crept, and I said to myself, Of course! A cold, a bad cold! And why not? My boots are worn out, and Frau Biitoun darns her own stockings with the yarn I gave her, while mine have no feet. Its all perfectly natural. I still stood in the same place till it grew dark, and when I wanted to light a lamp could find no match, and when I did find one the lamp wouldnt burn, Frau Biitoun hadnt trimmed the wick; and when after a great deal of trouble I made it burn freely it suddenly went out, Frau Biitoun had put in no oil. Under such circumstances, its a fine thing to have somebody at hand to scold; but I had no one there, and what was I to do? I looked out of the window again. The shoemakers over the way was brightly lighted, and there was a rapid moving to and fro accompanied by merry shouts; but I could distinguish nothing, for the curtains were tightly drawn. Now just see that shoemaker! said I. He actually has curtains! I had no cur- tains, Frau Blitoun didnt understand them; she once put some up for me which looked like nothing on the earth or under the earth, and I tore them down when somebody asked me if I had chil- drens shirts drying at my window. Of course I felt provoked with the shoemaker; the fellow hadnt made my boots and wanted to live like a lord, while I sat in the dark without curtains and a cold coming on. I started up and went down into the street, thinking, Just wait! Ill give the fellow a good lesson! When I entered the room, the fir-tree was~standing on the table with lights burn- ing around it, and the shoemakers little boys Carl and Christian were blowing a fife and a trumpet, ~vhile the shouting and screaming was done by little Marie, who was stretching her tiny hands towards the lights and 1~icking merrily in her mothers lap, for she was not yet able to walk. The shoemakers wife, who had put her spinning-wheel aside, tied on a clean apron, and donned her Sunday cap nnd Sunday face, was laughing at the children i8 HOW I WON A WIFE. and wiping little Maries mouth, when she smeared it with gingerbread. The shoe- maker had covered up his work-bench, put on his slippers, and was now sitting by the stove with a king pipe and mug of beer. Well, nobody could come in here with angry words. So I only said, Good evening, and pretended I merely wanted to see what the fun was about. Every- thing was then shown me; the ginger- bread and the apples, the strings of bright- coloured beans, the seven wheat rolls, and the one bit of candy that hung on the fir- tree. Coveted prizes, said the shoe- maker; we have now brought up three children safely, except for a blow from the tail of a hussars horse, which hurt Christian a little, when his mother wasnt taking care yes, I mean you, he add- ed, shaking his finger at the little fel- low. I wont take my work away from him, I said to myself, and felt very happy, though I had a most vi~lent headache. But while Linsen was showing and ex- plaining the masterpiece it was Adam and Eve before the Fall, beautifully mod- elled in gingerbread and coloured yellow with eggs and saffron and the two little Linsens, standing on the right and left of our revered first parents, began to toot and blow the fife and trumpet, I felt exact- ly as if the old wheel-maker Langklas was boring with his silent awl ~iano,for/e, piano,forte in my head, till it buzzed and rattled, asking me meantime if that was not delightful? The shoemaker probably saw I was ill; for, when his two little cherubs had trumpeted me out of his par- adise, he went across the street with me, wanted to light my lamp, and asked whether I had any matches. I have everything, I answered, but only our Lord and Frau Biltoun know where anything is to be found. The shoemaker took off my boots and said, Wet feet! And I havent finished your other pair of boots! helped me to bed, and added, Wait a mjnute, my wife shall come over and make you some tea. This was done, but of what happened during the next fortnight I can tell very little. I lay in a heavy stupor. It seemed as if my whole room was full of fir-trees glit- tering with lights, and on each hung a beautiful cake representing Adam and Eve and all paradise; and when I stretched out my hand for it I held only a worn-out boot and a footless stocking, while Carl and Christian, with trumpets blowing and fifes squealing, stood between me and the Christmas gifts, and the thousand lights danced before my eyes, and when I called out, Let me alone! let me alone! Ill let your father make boots for me again! and held out my hand for the beautiful cake, the words were shouted and trumpeted into my ears: Make boots, make them, make them, make them! Heres the wherewithal to make them! But bachelors like you, old boy, Have naught to do with Christmas joy. Then the old red pipkin, that stood at the head of my bed, began to laugh all over its broad, shining face; and the whole room was filled with worn-out boots, which ~iil thrust out their tongues, and shoemaker Linsen seized them one after another, tied them up in a bundle, and hung them at my window instead of cur- tains. At the foot of my bed two people were perpetually sawing wood, one sawed fine wood, the other oak branches; and when the fine wood was sawed Frau Bii- toun constantly danced her nightcap up and down before my eyes up and down, up and down; and when the oak timber was sawed it seemed as if I saw a large red strawberry in a green wood, and I was not mistaken, for it was my Uncle Matthias red nose peeping out over my green dressing-gown. Well, one night, when the oak timber was again being vigorously sawed, I felt as if I was coming out of the darkness into the light, and groped around me to dis- cover where I was: I was lying in my bed, the night-lamp burned dimly, and in the arm-chair with the large stuffed back lay my Uncle Matthias, wrapped to the nose in my green dressing-gown, and snoring horribly. Uncle Matthias! I called. At first he did not hear, but finally stirred, and rubbed his eyes. Uncle Matthias, I asked, where is Linsen? Boy, said my uncle he always calls me boy, with about as much propriety as old neighbour Hamann always calls his twenty-two-years-old horse that filly boy, are you beginning that all over again? What have you to do with Linsen, the shoemaker? The man does nothing for you. Uncle, said I, as he stretched him- self out ag~ in to attend to the sawing busi- ness, is it true, or did I dream, that old bachelors have nothing to do with Christ- mas-trees? 110W I WON A WIFE. 9 Stuff and nonsense! said my Uncle Matthias. Lie still ! Have I been very sick? I asked. God knows you have, said my uncle, creeping out of the dressing- gown, taking the lamp, and holding it before my eyes. But really, really, I believe youll pull through, for you look quite different, here he patted me, my little boy. Can you really see that Im your Uncle Mat- thias, and that this is my nose, and not a strawberry? And will you stop your strawberry-picking now? Last night you dashed your fist into my face twice, when I was nodding a little. I promised to behave better, for I now had my senses again. And it was even so; the sickness was over, but my suffering now first began. I was so tired and faint that I could not stir; and if I turned my eyes Frau Biitoun stood before me, with the red-glazed pip- kin in one hand and a spoon in the other, feeding and stuffing me with some kind of gruel as thick as bookbinders paste, and very much like it in flavour, while she said, Eat it! eat it! If you dont eat, you 11 never get better. And during all this torment, the kind-hearted old creature had such a pitying look as she gazed over her pot of paste, that I was forced to swal- low it, willing or not. Everything has an end, and a sausage has two. I got out of the bed, and sat for hours talking with Uncle Matthias, and discussing various subjects. Uncle, said I one day, for the dream of the fir-tree and the old bachelor still lingered in my head, uncle, we must really both get married. Nonsense, said my uncle. Do you suppose when I served as an Austrian sergeant in the Imperial army in the year 13 I oucrht to have founded a petty Hun- b garian race? No, I replied, Im really talking about myself. You see, I think if I had a wife that is, an orderly wife, and a good, and a a pretty little wife, and you came to live with us And take care of the children? Much obliged to you, said my Uncle Matthias. I didnt mean that. But I want to get married, for Frau Blitouns nursing in this last sickness _____ Seems to me, he interrupted, you were nursed well enough. I myself Im not talking about that, I replied, you did everything in yourpower; but a wife Well, are you on the track? asked my uncle. I know one, said I. Will she have you? I dont yet know, I replied. I suppose shes handsome, he said, winking one eye at me. You can see her yourself. Unluckily, I cant go with you. She passes every afternoon, between three and four oclock, through the gate near the mill; and you cant mistake her, for shes the prettiest of all who go there. Of course, said my uncle. And has a tassel on her cloak, and leads a little boy by the hand, I added. Are you going to marry the child, too? What do you mean? I cried, angrily. Its her sisters child. Heaven preserve us! said my uncle. Dont get into a rage. What do I know about it? She might be a young widow. Well, Ill take a look at her! So saying, he left the room. About five oclock in the afternoon he came in again, lighted his pipe, sat down, and said nothing at all. This naturally vexed me, and I also kept silence. We both smoked like chimneys. But I was too curious; so I rose, and, standing where he could not peer into my face, asked, Have you been to the gate? That I have, he replied. Well? I asked. Well, said he. Did you see her? Ive seen her and talked with her. The deuce you have! said I, turning. What did you have to say to her? I havent spoken to her myself yet. Thats just it, said he. One of us must make a beginning, and I suppose I can speak to my nephews betrothed. We havent got so far as that yet. But what is not, may be, said he, leaning back in the old leather arm-chair, and stretchitig out his legs. Ill tell you all about it, he continued. As I was walking along the street, she came behind me; and I prepared to take a good look at her, for she led a little boy by the hand. I couldnt see the tassel, because it hung on her back. Yes, I understand. I suppose you looked very hard at her. When I want to see anything, I open my eyes, said my uncle, and I did so, and she cast hers down with a look as if she were drawing her bed-curtains together at night; and when she had passed by I saw the tassel too. You doubtless stared at her finely, said I. 20 HOW I WON A WIFE. That I did; but its none of your busi- ness. Did you like her? Oh, yes! She has several qualities that please me. In the first place she hasnt much wound around her head, and secondly she doesnt sweep up the street with her clothes; and these are two virtues, my son, which are of more importance than is generally supposed: for women who have so much on their heads usually have very little in them, and those who wear long dresses all have crooked legs, or, which is still worse, their shoes are shabby. My son, in choosing women and horses, you must always look first at the legs; if the gait is graceful the legs are all right, and if the shoes are neat you can depend upon industry, order, and cleanli- ness. So you think I asked. I think nothing at all, he interrupted. Let me first tell what has happened. As she walked before me towards the mill, and I followed her, I could not help saying to myself, Really! you are a pretty girl! Very likely your head may be a little turned, but that will do no harm; thats natural for a woman, but, I thought to myself, how does she talk? Thats the main thinol You must begin a conversa- tion with her. So, when she came back again, I stood with my back against a tree and pretended to be filling my pipe; and when she was only a few paces from me I took my tinder-box from my pocket, and seized the opportunity to pull out a little money with it do you see, my boy? all done intentionally so that the two- groschen pieces rattled on the frozen path. I stooped slowly down, as if it were very hard for me to collect them, and when she saw it she instantly told the little boy to help me pick them up, and gathered some herself. I thanked her, and we entered into conversation and walked back to ether to the gate. What did you talk about? I asked. Oh~ nothing of any consequence. I said I was your uncle, and asked if she did not know you you were always walk- ing up and down here. She said she had not that pleasure; pleasure, she called it. Then I asked if she had not seen a young man with a yellow-grey skin, a yel- low-grey overcoat, yellow-grey trousers, and yellow-grey hair? No, she said; but she had seen an elderly gentleman in such clothes. Well, I replied, the elderly gentleman was the young man of whom I spoke: that was you. Then the little boy cried out, Aunt, thats the gentleman you always say looks like a wheat roll dipped in coffee. Then she blushed scarlet, and I could not help laughing, and said, Yes, that was you.~ ~ I too blushed scarlet, for I was very an- gry, and said to my uncle, If you had nothing to do except to make your nephew ridiculous in other peoples eyes, you would have done better to stay at home. Oh, I had, said he, bt~t I wanted something more I wanted to find out whether she would marry you.~~ Good heavens ! I exclaimed; you didnt ask her? Boy, said my uncle, smoking furi- ously, when I take a thing in hand I do it thoroughly, but delicately. So I asked her whether she knew what you were. No, she said, perhaps you were a doc- tor. Heaven forbid! said I, how should he be one? A lawyer? Nor that either. Well, this and that? And she guessed from counsellor to barber; but I always shook my head, and at last said she hadnt guessed yet He is nothing at all! This surprised her a little, and she said you were probably liv- ing on your money. Yes, I replied, she was right in one respect; you had always shown most inclination for that kind of business from your childhood, but that you had obtained a situation I could not ex- actly say. You were now thinking of something else. What was that? she asked. Of marriage, I said, and asked what she thought of it. But first I said to myself, If she turns pale at this question, she does not like him; if she blushes, shell marry him. She grew scarlet, stooped down and tied the little boys hat, and when she rose looked at me from head .to foot; made a sort of curtsy, and away she went. So I lost the oppor- tunity to ask a question I wanted to put on my own account. That would doubtless have been a fine question, too, I said, biting off the end of my pipe in my rage. Oh, no, replied my uncle, I only wanted to ask her whether she can cook fish well, and the old fellow looked as grave and important as if my marriage concerned him more than myself. A few days after, when I could walk a little, I did not go near the mill, for I felt ashamed to see her. Ill ride up to the lake for a little while, I thought, and look on at the skating and sleighing. I did so; and, as I approached the building where beer, brandy, and punch were bought, I walked about a short time, and there was my Uncle Matthias putting an eight- HOW I WON A WIFE. 21 groschen piece on the counter, and asking for four groschens worth of cakes and a four-groschen glass of punch. This amazed me, for he preferred ruin to punch, and never tasted cake. Why, what does this mean? I thought; he is probably going to treat some children. But, no! Without perceiving me, he went with his pile of cakes and glass of punch to a sleigh in which sat a lady with a grey veil, bent his body forward as if he wanted to sprain his back, and slipped about on the ice so comically that I thought the old man would lose his balance, and was on the point of springing forward to seize him by the arm: just at that moment the lady threw back her veil, and what did I bee? My dear sweetheart, the light of my eyes! I felt as if some one had slapped me in the face. The deuce! I exclaimed; the old fellow is spoiling the whole courtship, and went home furiously angry. I sat in the dark, fretting internally, when the door opened and my uncle came in. Good evening, said he. Why are you. sitting here in the dark? Light a lamp. This is the only time in my life I ever failed to say good-day to my mothers brother; but I rose and lighted a lamp, looking like a salt herring that had lain a fortnight in vinegar, What ails you? he asked. Nothing, I answered curtly, but thought, He is my mothers brother, and added, I dont feel well. I do, said he, looking as jolly as an old donkey which has been standing in his stall a fortnight eating oats. Ive been talking with her again, he added. I dont care, I replied. What am I to understand by that? he asked, with a very solemn face. Ive done with the dream, said I. You dont want to marry her? he asked, putting both arms on the back of the arm-chair, and looking me sharply in the face. Ive managed the matter so delicately so delicately that a dog might howl if nothing came of it and now you wont marry her! No, uncle, I wont. Do you suppose Ill let you take the cream, and be satisfied with the sour milk? For in this they all agree see here! Amalie Schoppe, nie Weise, and Elise von Hohenhausen, n6e von Ochs, and all the rest who have writ- ten about this relation the fairest part of marriage is the intercourse of betrothed lovers; and this you are monopolizing yourself, and I must look on and see you treat my betrothed to punch and cakes. My uncle took the books, tossed them on the sofa, planted himself in front of me, and said, I ask~ you for the last time, will you marry the girl or not? No, said I. Well, he replied, gazing steadily at me with a very grave face, as if he had just made his will and was going to sign it, well, the girl shall come to no harm through me, fbr Ill marry her myself! and with these words stalked proudly out of the room. This was a pretty piece of business. At first I stood bewildered, then threw myself on the sofa and burst into a hearty laugh. My uncle, who was at least twenty years older than I, would marry, while I at my age had not courage! I tried to laugh again, but did not succeed very well,, for my heart was not untroubled; and though I made my face broad enough the laugh stuck in my. throat, and when I caught, in the looking-glass, a glimpse of myself with the stupidest expression in the world, I started up, paced up and down the room with long strides, raged against myself, struck the table with my fist, and said, Hell do it hes capable of it! When Frau Biitoun came, she of course gave me many occasions for scolding; and when I had put things to rights I went to the club, and played ombre, constantly say- ing to myself, You cant allow that, and lost, und then murmured, You would not let that heart be bought! and was beaten. I went sulkily home, threw myself down and tried to sleep, but could not. I raged against myself all night, for I could not give up that sweet child she had done me no wrong and was I never, in all my life, to adorn a fir-tree on Christmas eve? If I said to myself, Why not? all my scruples darted through my brain like a swarm of bumble-bees; and before my eyes appeared a huge interrogation-point, which, if I interpreted~ it, always said, But will she marry you? Well, that no one can answer better than she herself that I perceived; and when the grey winter morning shone into my cold room and chilled me to the bones, as I made my coffee, I murmured, Now I have decided. What must be, must be, and said to Frau Biltoun, Frau Biltoun, go to Bohnsackens shop, and buy me a pair of the nice yellow gloves young law- yers always wear, when they are on some important business. They must be very yellow. About eleven oclock I put on my black 22 HOW I WON A WIFE. frock-coat, black pants, shining boots, and new yellow gloves, placed my hat above the whole, went to the looking-glass, and said with good reason, Is it possible I shouldnt have known myself! Then I glanced around the room, and added, Things wont probably remain in this state long. I looked at my old slippers, which stood before the bed, saying, Youll be astonished if all goes well, and in a few weeks a pair of pretty little shoes come to visit you. I walked down the street, reached my Uncle Matthiass door, and thought, One should be at peace with all the world, be- fore he takes such a step; for I felt as if I were going to execution. S.o I knocked and went in. Well, Ive seen a great many things in this world; I once saw a fellow eat lire; I once saw a man eat tow and draw a beautiful silk ribbon out of his mouth; but never was I so astonished as at the moment I beheld my Uncle Matthias that morning. There he stood in his room in the self- same costume as I~ only that his black coat was a green hunting-shirt, and his yellow gloves were of buckskin, while mine were kid, and his white moustache hung over his mouth like a pair of icicles, and mine twisted upward, and was all sorts of colours. Uncle! I cried, as I came in, and my hat rolled off on the floor in my amaze- ment. What do you want, my boy? he re- plied. What do you want? I shouted. I want what you dont, he replied. But I do want it. And, I added, I only came here in this dress, to tell you that I was too hasty, and ask you to be my dear old uncle again. Is that what you want? he said, sit- ti~1g down in his arm-chair, and looking me steadily in the face. Well, then, Ill tell you that I was going to your house in this dress to give you a little fright. I learned while I was a soldier that a little fright does men good, for then shame comes in. And, my boy, he said, rising, and laying his hand on my arm, I wont stand in your way, and make a wrinkle on the white sheet of your happiness, for the little girl is born for you, and she is a good girl. With these words he gave my arm such a pinch with his huge old fist that I thought, If she is like that, she is more than good. My uncle now brought out aglass of his old port wine, saying, Here, my boy, take something to strengthen you first. Where are you going to begin? Ah! said I,if I only knew. Put your leg on the chair, said he. Why? I asked. Nothing, he replied, unbuttoning the straps of my pants, only you must begin by falling on your knees, and these might be in your way. Well, said I, you commence well. What is proper, must be done, said he. I never went through the affair my- self, but Ive always seen it in pictures. What do you say? Stop! Ill help you I and with these words he hastily pulled out his chest of drawers and rummaged in the, one that contained his most sacred treasures. Yes, he appeared with his book of genealogy. This was rarely touched, and, when he did move it, only in the evening when everything was still. Then he first put on clean linen and his best clothes, placed two lamps on the table, one on each side, pondered over every page, read all the verses, and marked the death - record with black crosses. The following morning he was always very melancholy; and the last time he had looked at it he came to me the next morning, and said, So far as I know, there is one alive still, Christian Bunger, the son of old Bunger, the tailor, who used to live next door to my parents. If God spares my life, Ill visit him this summer. Here! said he, when he had taken out the book and laid it on the table, sit down here and look out a verse and learn it by heart. There are some which pray to our Lord in heaven, no doubt you can also find one for the best girl on earth. Uncle, said I, taking the book and turnincr the leaves, I know what to do: I will say what my heart dictates, and there is a great deal in my heart to-day. Thats well, my boy, replied my un- cle, nay, perhaps, still better. Stop! he added, as I was turning to leave the room, the white string on your shirt is hanging half a yard down your back, and he fastened it under the collar. There, now, go in Gods name. I went; but as I left the house I heard a noise over me, and when I looked up there was Uncle Matthias stretching him- self half out of the window, nodding and winking at me, and whenever I looked back on my way down the long street he nodded, and waved his red pocket-hand- kerchief, till I was afraid people might guess what secret we had between us. I might tell a tale, but shall avoid doing HOW I WON A WIFE. 23 so. Such affairs dont go as smoothly in real life as in novels. Ninety-nine out of every hundred make the most absurd blunders on this occasion; and, even if the whole hundred return as the happiest be- trothed bridegrooms, the ninety and nine would still say to themselves, God grant that we may never be in that fix again, but, if we do undertake the business, well manage more cleverly. God grant that I may never be in the position again! At the end of an hour and a half I came back, the happiest of men, and probably looked so; and, as in my lonely bache- lor life I had acquired the foolish habit of talking to myself, I cannot, on calm re- fiection, blame people for moving out of my way as I came down the street, and looking somewhat sharply at me. When about three rods from my uncles house, he rushed forward to meet me, threw his arms around my neck he had been standing outside the door the whole hour and a half, watching for me and cried, Hold your tongue! hold your tongue! I know all, and when will the wedding be? I silenced him, saying, Hush! At least wait until we are out of the street, took him by the arm, and dragged him home with me; but when we came in, though Frau Biitoun was setting the table for dinner, he could control himself no longer, but poured out his whole heart, and, when the woman stared at him, pointed over his shoulder at me, saying, Look there, Frau Biltoun, there he stands my sis- ters son. Hes a betrothed bridegroom. And when Frau Biitoun congratulated me, and wished to know who the fortunate lady was, I had to hush him again; and when she had gone he talked and looked at me very indignantly. I was a hypo- crite, a very obstinate fellow, and I had a black heart if I could conceal such happi- ness so long. I was obliged to sit down and tell him the whole story, after which he became a little more friendly, nodded, and said, Ex- cellent; then shook his head, remarking, That was not exactly to his mind. When I had told the whole, he rose with a face like the sky in haying-time, when it is uncertain whether to rain or let the sun shine; he shook his head and nodded, nodded and shook his head, and at last said, For his part, he would have done better; and then asked at which verse of this chapter I had gone down on my knees. I was obliged to confess that I had not come to that at all. Uncle Mat- thias took his hat, saying, Well, then, I wish you a good appetite. Hold fast to what you have, the wolf will eat what comes after. You crowed too soon; the affair is still a long way from being set- tled; kneeling is a part of every betrothal, and the agreement is good for nothing if it isnt sealed on both knees. I shouldnt be in the least surprised if the engage- ment was off to-morrow. Another time take my advice! With these words he left the room. Nevertheless, wonderfully happy days now dawned for me, wonderfully happy days. Once more I might find much to tell, but will refrain. The greatest joys and deepest sorrows must not be public to every one; and, although I am ready to believe that all who read these lines are well-bred, worthy people, some Hans Quast might slip in among them and make jokes at my expense, and that would be extremely unpleasant to me. But every good honey-cake needs a small sprinkling of pepper, and I, too, did not fail to receive it. In the first place, my Uncle Matthias scattered a few grains; but when he saw that the affair was likely to last, and had himself paid a friendly visit to my betrothed, and ascer- tained her skill in cooking fried fish to his satisfaction, he dropped his spice and dipped deep into his honey-pot too deep, I said, for he described my happi- ness to everybody who would listen to him in such glowing terms, that so many flies were soon buzzing in my honey-moon that I did not know where to hide myself, and as many comical stories were in circulation concerning me as if I had become not only a bridegroom, but a butt for everybodys amusement. I was the object of jests whenever I appeared. At every fifth step in the street some fool grinned at me, and if I asked what there was to laugh at all said, as if they had made some agree- ment, Oh ! nothing, nothing! If I went to my old club in the evening for that I had instantly announced my inten- tion of doing, I wouldnt have given it up under any circumstances, in the first place because it was, so to speak, the home of my mind, and secondly because I thought it conducive to my culture well, when I went there, there was a whispering and hushing and nudging; stories were told of what such a person had said before marriage, and what he had said after mar- riage, and what the shepherd had said to his dog; and if I grew angry and asked what they meant, and how the point con- cerned me, all said, Heaven forbid! We mean nothing. If for these reasons I did not go to the club in the evening, 24 HOW I WON A WIFE. Frau Biitoun opened her little pepper-mill, proverb. What does the fellow mean? and scattered the fine dust in my nose and My w~f~ wants what I want, and I dont eyes. Should this thing be so Y or should want this. You must ask Uncle Mat. it be so? She didnt know where I wanted thias about it. this now. She was an old woman, and So I went to his house, related the mci- had taken care of a great many gentlemen dent, repeated the words, and asked, Un- in her lifetime, but none who were be- cle, what does the fellow mean by it ? trothed. I must have patience with her, Why? said he, walking thoughtfully for things would soon be very different, up and down the room, and the fellow And as for removing all this stuff she was thrown out by his womenkind, you thought I was perfectly right, it was not say? good enough for my betrothed bride, who, Yes, I replied, he said so himself. she had heard, had been reared like a And he was sitting in the gutter? princess and never dipped her fingers in Yes. cold water; but her eyes were too old to Well, said my uncle, after a few mo- see every spot on the coat. And if my ments reflection, then this was probably betrothed wanted to visit me soon she his meaning, for his wife threw him out, might do so; for her part she had no objec- and that would agree with this proverb, tions, and if the linen and the floor and for it runs, My wife wants to be master the bureau-cover didnt suit her, or the in the house, and I want to be master too; little cupboard she had put in one corner and my wife wants her way, and I wont of my room for her convenience, she consent. But, he added, if she was in wasnt going to wear herself out. And if the house and he sitting outside in the I wanted a fire in the evening I might gutter, she was doubtless master. say so she didnt know. I always used I dont know why this conversation to go to the club, why didnt I now? And made me feel so troubled and anxious. I then she sat down before the stove, and had never looked at my design from this puffed, and puffed, and the coals glowed point. Uncle, said I, you know me, on her fat red cheeks, so that I could not and know her too. Which of us do you look at her without thinking, God forgive think will be master in the house? me for my heavy sins! I know very well Why, said he, she doesnt seem to that this is my Frau Biitoun, and a Chris- me at all as if she would like to sit outside tian widow why must I always think of the house in the gutter. I believe she the distinguished people who dwell in a would rather remain indoors. place that is said to be very hot? And The devil! I exclaimed. when she blows the fire why do I always Oh! she probably wouldnt make it so think that possibly in that place somebody bad as that, said Uncle Matthias; she is sitting, blowing coals to warm up my would doubtless exert a gentle, feminine beautiful married happiness a little. rule, as people call it, over you, you From this any one may suppose that would be somewhat tightly tied to her my scruples were not all thrown out of apron-string. the window; and they became still worse Im not afraid of that, said I; after as I walked down the street one afternoon the marriage. Id soon get het out of the on my way from a visit to my betrothed habit of havin6 the first bushel of rye. bride. Dont rely upon that, said my uncle. As I walked along the street on this You know the proverb: day, I heard a loud noise in the distance, Before the wedding tame your mate, the people looked out of the windows, and After the wedding tis too late. before one of the doors a little group had assembled. Just as I was passincr the No, I replied, thats something door, the furrier Obst shot out o~ his new, and looked as if my uncle had told shdp and landed in the gutter. Good me I had been made pope. heavens! said his neighbour Grajin, Well, then, sit down, said he, and what are you doing there? Ill tell you a story. Oh! thats easy to tell, said the fur- Go on, I replied, but dont try to rier, my womenkind pitched me out. give it a useful moral. Im too old for But why? asked the other. that. Ill tell you, said the furrier, rising; Dont worry, said lie, your dear my wife wants what I want, and I dont wife will apply the moral, if you dont fol- want this. low my advice. As this story gave me no information, I sat down in my uncles room, and he I walked on, thinking, Its some foolish began~ the story. HOW I WON A WIFE. 25 In Rumpelmannshagen, where I spent the first years of my apprenticeship, lived two fine young fellows, one named Wolf, who was a blacksmith in the village, and the other named Kiwitt, who was a mil- ler. The smith was smart and knew what he was doing, the miller was stupid, but had money. Well, in due time a rumour ran through the village: Gossips, have you all heard? The smith and the miller are courting the magistrates Sophie and Marie, and they say the weddings will come off at Martinmas. And it proved true. They were both married at Martin- mas, and the old father gave a splendid wedding, and we young people were in- vited; and I remember to this day what jolly times we had; for towards morning Ludwig Brookmann turned a mug of beer over my head, and when I was angry said, One ought surely to take a joke. After the wedding everything went smooth- ly for a time, but ere long there was a whisper in the village: Gossips, have you all heard the news? The millers wife beats her husband. And this was true. One Sunday afternoon the miller came to the smith, who was sitting in the inn play- ing solitaire. Well, said the former, I know what has happened to you to-day. How so? asked the smith, rising and going out with his brother-in-law. XVhy, said the miller, dont try to humbug me! we have both gone into fine service. If you mean my wife, said the smith, I must tell you I have gone into excellent service. Yes, said the miller, when she isnt in the house. Come with me, replied the smith. I killed a hog yesterday, and you know my wife is very fond of black sausage. Ill give you a proof of it. They went to the smiths house, and standing before the door the latter called, Sophie! His wife looked out of the window, and asked, What is it? Sophie, said the smith, take the dish of black sausage and throw it out into the street. What? cried his wife. Throw the dish of black sausage into the street. Directly, said Sophie, and the dish whirled through the door as the furrier did this morning. Thats right, said the smith. And now, Sophie, throw out the pot with the rest of the black sausage, too. This was all done, and the smith said, Very well, Sophie. Dont get tired, if I come home late this evenino He then went back to the inn with the miller, and asked, Well, have you seen? Yes, said the miller, thats splendid. How did you begin this? In a very simple way, replied the smith. Did you lock her up? No. Did you beat her? Well, what did you do then? Ill tell you, said the smith. When we were betrothed, I watched to discover what article of dress she liked best, and I found it was a pretty little red silk hand- kerchief; so I seized the opportunity when we had had breakfast, and the table was smeared with goose-grease, to wipe it off with her beautiful handkerchief. Well, you can imagine how she stormed at me I But I clasped her in my arms, and kissed her, saying, Sophie, you surely have me. What do you care for such a handker- chief? You can get another like it, but you wont so easily find a man as fond of you as I am. Well, she submftted, and when we afterwards went to the royal shooting-match, she bought a pot, a very handsome pot, and while she was admir- ing it I took it and played with it, and baff I threw it on a stone. She again began to storm a little, but I kissed her and said, Never mind, Sophie, its bet- ter for the pot to be broken than if I had come to harm, for I shall earn our bread all our lives. Well, lastly, I broke three teeth out of her comb, but then she only laughed, saying, I wonc~er if youll buy me a new one at the Teterowsehen fair this fall. Well, I did that too, and so the thing has remained; she is satisfied with everything. But I must go in to my game. The smith went into the tavern, but at the end of half an hour the inn-keeper ran in, saying, Come out here, Wolf! Kiwitt the miller is standing outside in a pitiful plight. The smith went out, found his broth- er-in-law with a scratched face and a swol- len eye, and, not a little startled, asked, Why, Kiwitt, whats the matter izow V Yes, thats all very well to say, re- plied the miller; this comes of your con- founded stories. How so? asked the smith. Yes, ask once more, said the miller. I remembered your nonsensical story, and thought what had served with one sister might serve with the other; at least 26 HOW I WON A WIFE. I might try it. So I went home. My wife was standing before the looking-glass brushing her hair, and on the table lay her best cap. I said to myself, This is a lucky chance, took the cap, and thought, If you throw it into the dirty water in the wash-basin, it will be just the thing.~~ Well, I did so; and she saw my move- ments in the looking-glass, and before I had any idea what was coming scratched me in the face, and when I said, Marie, you have me, and can easily get another cap! she shouted, Yes, I have you, and you shall get your pay for the cap. And see, said the miller, passing his hand over his swollen eye, this is what she did, and all on account of your confounded story. You simpleton, replied the smith, didnt I tell you I played the trick before marriage? What serves before marriage is useless after. And this is the story, my son, said my Uncle Matthias, rising; and, if you are wise, you can act accordingly. I also rose, walked to the window, thought the story over in my mind, and at last turned, saying, Its a confounded anecdote, uncle. You generally tell much better ones. Yes, cried my uncle laughing, be- cause I generally tell you the practical ap- plication at once, and now you must find it yourself. You dont expect me to throw my betrotheds cap into a wash-basin, or wipe off the table with her silk handkerchief? You can try it, laughed the old rogue. ~ said I, that will do me no good. The old man laughed still more, and at last said, Boy, how old are you really? I did not care to hear much about my age during the time of my betrothal, and thinking, Aha, you are sprinkling a little pepper again! asked, What do you mean ? Oh, said he, I mean nothing. Then let me tell you, I said some- what sharply, I was forty-one years old the 7th of last November. So, said he, you are in the forties. Yes, perhaps that doesnt suit you? Oh, I dont care, he replied, I was only thinking of the proverb: He who in the twenties is not handsome, in the thir- ties not strong, in the forties not wise, and in the fifties not rich, can be let alone, and will amount to nothino~ And you dont seem to be wise in the forties. Uncle Matthias, said I, drawing my- self up proudly, he who takes me for a fool will be mistaken. I must have looked very absurd, for my uncle laughed, saying, And for all that you can make no use of the story? Of course what the smith did with the handkerchief and the pot and the comb wont answer for you. You must try something else. For instance, you can doubtless, at your age, perform before marriage three foolish acts. Foolish acts? I asked. Foolish acts, said my uncle; and I paced up and down the room reflecting on the matter, and finally said, Yes, I be- lieve, uncle, I can soon set everything to rights. Do so, then, said my uncle. And you think I shall then remain master of my house? Yes, my son, I think so. Foolish not wrong acts. You see, if she begins to scold, you can throw your arms around her neck, and say, Let it pass! let it pass! Dont mind that affair, look in- stead at my heart, which belongs to. you, and will heat for you forever. And then, my boy, he added, then you can still bring in the kneeling; for you may say what you like it belongs there. I reflected upon the matter a short time, and then said to myself, He is your mothers brother, and you ought to let him have his own way.~~ I might here relate what acts I per- formed, but will refrain. Some accident might suffer the account to fall into my wifes hands, and she might possibly no-. tice that all these things had been secret- ly planned, and she had been tricked into her goodness, and therefore say, Stop! this game wont do; you have been cheat- ing me. Ill shuffle the cards. There I have the lead, and now take care. Well see if you cant be fooled. But often when now, as my wife, she flits silently and busily about, constantly attending to my wants, and affectionately yielding to my wishes, I think, You ought to be ashamed of yourself for hav- ing commenced with deception; and a short time ago I said to my uncle, Ill tell you what, Im going to confess to her the cause of my foolish acts before mar- riage. Do they trouble you? asked my uncle. Every clever fellow must do one foolish and one sensible act; but he ought not to speak of them himself, or both will lose their virtue. You are living very happily; be content with that. Yes, said I, its all very well for you to talk so; but I often feel as if we GERMAN HOME LIFE. 27 might be still happier, if she had the rule. My son, replied old Uncle Matthias, putting his hand on my shoulder, all the happiness possible in this world does not fall into one pair of hands, be satisfied with what you have. As for the married state, dont you know old Jochen Smith? I mean old Jochen Smith who lived with his wife till he was eighty, and was buried with her on the same beautiful summer Sunday morning. Well, he once said to me, for I myself know nothing about it, Herr Sergeant, married life is like an apple-tree, one sits in it and plucks and plucks; but the fairest and reddest apples grow near the top, where nobody is tall enough to reach. If a man is foolish, and wants to get the apples by force, he takes a stick and knocks down the finest ones, spoiling them, and also breaking off the branches on which are the buds: the sen- sible man lets them quietly remain, and waits until late in the autumn; then they will fall into his lap of their own accord, and taste much sweeter. And therefore, my boy, added my old uncle, while his dear old face wore a grave, kindly expres- sion, dont knock off your red apples be- fore the time, but wait till late in the au- tumn; then, when you take your wife the last beautiful one, tell her the story of your tricks before marriage, and she will laugh over them herself. man, but also tour dicourager les autres; les autres being the enterprising ladies from out of whose midst his critics are supposed to have singled him. These papers being avowedly written by a woman, she perhaps ought to leave all opinion or comment on the head and crown of things to the more competent virile pen. She would only venture, by way of apology and justification, to say thus much: that if some power have given the giftieto men to see themselves and each other all round as other (men) see them, women are not altogether out in the dark; they see men from their own (i.e. the feminine) standpoint, and this coign of vantage is not an altogether unimpor- tant one. A man in his dressing-gown and slippers may show more of the real man that is in him to his wife than is ever likely to be known to his fellow-swagger- ers at the club, or the Major Penden- nises of life with whom he lounges along the Row in the morning, or sneers lan- guidly through a summers afternoon. To say of men , generally, that they are of the superior sex, is to say very little when applied to German men. Unfortu- nately, the genius of the language and the scheme of creation do not admit of supe- riorest; so we must go round about it, and say that in Germany the relative posi- tion of the sexes is what one imagines to be conveyed in the sentence, And the sons of God took unto themselves daugh- ters of men. It is not, however, my pur- pose here to speak specifically of the Ger- man husband, because that, though an From Frasers Magazine. essentially feminine view of the subject, GERMAN HOME LIFE.* would be to limit it to an inconveniently BY A LADY. narrow sphere; and a man, whether bond VIII. or free, whether bachelor or benedick a mans a man for a that. MEN. And, to begin with the physical aspects WHEN a man, as will now and again of the matter, we may venture to affirm, happen, has the misfortune to write and without fear of contradiction, that from publish a more than usually feeble story, earliest childhood the German man has the critics, by a simple yet ingenious privileges above the German woman, and method, gently convey to him that he has these privileges grow always and increase. mistaken his vocation in life. Miss We know what their respective physical So-and-So, they say, will probably be education is: the boy belongs to his surprised to hear that all her men are Turn- Verein; he mixes with his inferiors, monsters; that the archangelic do not as superiors, and equals; he profits by his yet walk amongst us clothed in tweed and holidays to take long walking-tours; he broadcloth; nor do Oxford shoes disguise lives entirely during these summer excur- the cloven foot of our acquaintance, and sions in the rough, carrying his modest so on, through paragraphs of infinitely wardrobe in a knapsack, eating how, when, cruel jocosity, admirably calculated not where he can; falling in with parties of only to extinguish the well-meaning young other youthful students like himself, frater- nizing on the road, hob-a-nobbing in the It has been found impossible to finish these papers inns, singing with his full young voice within the limits of our present number. An article on the Vot/estieder, the .Studenteniieder, the Marriage will conclude the series. 28 GERMAN HOME LIFE. Soldatenlieder of his fatherland. He comes across ruined castles, ancient for- tresses, Druid circles, quaint old hunting Sc~kliisser, convents, churches. Straight- way he learns all about what he sees; if he be not himself a student or an antiqua- rian, one or other of the party is; his young chest is bared to the breeze; his strong young limbs climb the mountain; his eye roves keenly and restlessly to right and left; what there i~ to be seen he will see; what there is to learn he will learn; what may be known he will know. The scents of the thyme and the pine linger in his tawny young mane; he takes a draught of milk, a draught of water, with the simple food his wallet affords; he lies down, with his plaid under his head, in the shadow of the rock, or be- neath the murmuring pines and the hem- locks, and enjoys his noonday nap. He saw the sun rise this morning, and has walked many an upward mile since day- break. Seeing him lying there; you may, perhaps, take him for a young artisan (auf der Wanderschaft), as perhaps he is (for boys of all ranks will go out to spend their holidays in the summer woods), or perhaps you discern, despite his rough clothes and his modest equipment, signs of that good blood in him which, as the proverb says, ne teut mentir. In any case, though he may not look what you would call a gentleman, he looks a man; with manly purpose and intention even in his sleeping eyelids and smiling mouth. He will get up presently, and go singing through the sunlit woods, a gay, a cheery, enviable young athlete. So, with a certain rough freedom, breathing nature, full of quaint simple prose and poetry, with infinite capabilities of enthusiasm, with dim aspirations and vague yearnings after possible impossibilities, the German youth goes his way, through ideal paths into the great reality of the future. Speak of the German, and you see the soldier. It is not only that the warlike element is the predominating one, it is that obedience, punctuality, endurance, high courage, silent perseverance, mark the whole manner of the man. The com- pulsory military service, so much bespok- en, bewritten, commended, condemned, has had its fine moral influence on the nation at large. A ma~ has served his time as Freiwilli~g-er; and he returns to his groceries, his farmeries, his draperies. He has learned exactitude, punctuality, obedience. Can there be a finer practical education? He has learned to hear, not to speak, and to obey. In turn, he will bring such habits of order and thorough- ness into civil life with him as shall com- pel promptness and obedience, and make the refractory look and the insubordinate word alike impossible. Taken from the receipt of custom, from the yard-wand or the coffee-mill, and set down in the bar- rack-yard, he learns new things, other things, more things, than if he passed his life behind a ledger, measuring ribbons, or weighing out groceries. His officers are men of noble blood, of fine type, of fair presence. The very aspect of them is an education for him; he admires, with- out envying them; he acknowledges their superiority, and does not hate them for it. For, to the honour of the German nation let it be said, that even the rankest rad- ical spits out his spite less at the person than at the thing he hates. With this promptness to obey the word of command we find the corresponding roughness and readiness in giving it; dismissed from volunteer duty, he is apt to carry so?- datesque forms into private life, to indulge in laconic utterances, and look for military exactitude of obedience. So much for the non-professional soldier; for the man who may yet have to do real hard service in the Laudwekr, or harder yet in the Lands/urm, but who, for the time being, is released from his military duties, may go back to citizen life once more. Hitherto, for men of gentle birth, the army has been the only profession in Ger- many. No man who wrote von before his name had any other career open to him, unless it were diplomacy; but, it must be remembered, that in the pre- imperial days, when Prussia was a third- rate power, diplomacy could offer but very limited prospects in life to men of good family and small means. The diplomatic representatives of the smaller States not unfrequently resolved themselves into modest consuls, who, though perhaps not quite so ornamental as an ambassador, envoy, or minister, were at least equally useful, with the further advantage of being infinitely less expensive. Then there was the higher civil service (Adhere Beam/en- S/and). But even the highest of such posts represented but a dwarfed ambition; and again the posts were not many, and the ladder to be climbed, rung by rung, pain- fully long; so that by the time a man had attained to the dignity of Finanz-Minis- ter, or Wirklicher Geheimer-Rath, wintry snow would already be lying on his fros- ty pow. Attorneys a clamorous, noisy, cack- ling crew have ever been inodorous in GERMAN HOME LIFE. 29 the nostrils of the refined, and in Ger- many you would search in vain for scions of noble blood amongst their turbulent ranks. I do not like, said Dr. John- son, referring to a person who had just left the room, to speak ill of any one behind his back, but I believe the gentle- man is an attorney! The Church (in Protestant Germany), in spite of the late king of Prussias at- tempted episcopacies and Anglicanism, remains utterly unattractive in aristocratic eyes. They were literary episcopacies. The king who invented the bishop could not create the see. Bankers are almost exclusively children of Israel (occasionally ennobled; bczronisirt, if they had beeh accommodating in the matter of timely loans), and whilst commerce seemed to be the prerogative of the plebeian, the army remained a patrician monopoly. But al- ready, if they have not changed, circum- stances are changing all that. However great Germany may be as a military nation, bristling all over with hel- met-spikes and fortresses, she can only become really and abidingly great when years of peace shall have consolidated her position. Commerce, the child of peace and the mother of plenty, is after all the furnisher of the thews and the sinews of war. The country of the milliards knows, as well as any other country nay, better, if the history of her past finance be worth anything the value of full coffers and the dignity of no national debt. That she cannot remain politically great unless she become commercially great; that the fruitful rivalries of peace are the balm and oil her bleeding wounds require there are abundant evidences to show. In her desire for a wider field and ampler opportunities, she has stretched out tentative fingers across ticklish fron- tiers, warily touching this or that border- town, casting covetous eyes towards this or that convenient port, sending out con- suls to the east and to the west, and estab- lishing relations to the north and to the south. And these very facts, this very attitude, open up vast future prospects to the young manhood of Germany. As a great power, Prussia (and her dependen- cies) will be able to dispense with petty pride; noble fathers will see no dishonour in having rich sons; bankers and mer- chants will be admitted into society, and honest independence will know how to exact respect and hold its own against expiring prejudice. Marriages with the daughters of rich speculators and contract- ors are already quite the order of the day; and though one would prefer a more independent standpoint, and would rather a man should make money for himself than take it from another, yet we must nc~t be impatient. Patrician blood is found to mix very kindly with plebeian money; the young lad y is charmed to write the magic prefix before her name, and to find her- self launched into higher circles; the young gentleman discovers that an opu- lent father-in-law is extremely convenient on occasion, and forgives the want of a pedigree in consideration of the plethora of pelf. One or other of the offspring of such a marriage may come into the world with commercial instincts (as some babes are said to come mouthing silver spoons), and a purely ornamental young gentleman and lady thus become the unconscious founders of a race of merchant princes. It has been said that the well-born Ger- man is distinguished for his morgue and disregard of those in a lower station than himself. This was, and is, his chief re- proach in the eyes of his middle-class fel- low-countrymen. He does not conceal that he despises their want of manner, their glaring solecisms, their extraordina- ry coarseness of behaviour and absence of tact. They, who perhaps know as much as he does, are richer than he is, are unconscious of all that jars and grates upon one of a finer fibre than themselves, and are apt to declare that he trades on his nobility, and assumes a merit that he is far from possessing. Not from the so- called lower orders is resentment ever likely to become dangerous, but from the well-educated, underbred middle class; the very middling if refinement of speech, suavity of manner, and gentleness of utter- ance count for anything. The middle class as we understand it one brother a merchant, another in the Guards, the eld- est son of the house heir to a baronetcy, the youngest walking the earth in an MB. waistcoat, and waiting for the family living is almost incomprehensible to the ordinary German mind; but let us hope that the day may not be far distant when the arrogance of the aristocrat may be tempered, and the tone of the citizen refined. So long as commerce means mere shop-keeping, every petty grocer writes Kaufinaun (merchant) over his shopdoor, and every Jew usurer signs himself Ban quier, it is to be feared that a commercial career will not Prove very at- tractive in the eyes of, or draw many re- cruits from, the upper ranks of society. It is not given to every man to be what in common parlance is called born a gen 30 GERMAN HOME LIFE. tleman; but if his birth be not gentle, his manners may make him so; and we all know that a cotton lord may be a truer gentleman than the descendant of a hundred earls. The modest independ- ence and self-reliance which bring about suavity of manners and an absence at once of the servile or the arrogant in a mans intercourse with those of another rank is not at a premium in Germany, where either self-assertion or obsequious- ness strikes the outsider with a sense of pained surprise. The German gentleman, the man of noble birth, of splendid presence, of pol- ished if of cold and arrogant manners, fails where we might expect him to fail. Without love, says our great humour- ist, I can fancy no true gentleman love that is, not of the individual, which may be but mere sublimated selfishness, but that chivalrous devotion which high-mind- ed manhood ever bears to gentle woman- hood. The German gentleman may be gallant, he may be a man of pleasure, a lady-killer, a grand viveur; as a rule he is perfectly ready to flirt with any pretty woman, to make daily Fenster parades be- fore her windows, to whisper soft senti- mental nothings to her during the course of the cotillon, it may be even slightly to compromise her. She is, of course, a married woman (for these attentions would mean marriage to a girl), so she knows, and ought to know, how to take care of herself. He will go away, and laugh over his little social successes, when his com- rades banter him on his ~5onnes fortunes; and she will be backbitten in the Kaf fees, and a tolerant society will view the matter with indifference, unless indeed it comes to such a climax as makes indiffer- ence no longer possible; and even then, an easy-going temper disposes the lookers- on generally to be tolerably lenient. Their bark is much worse than their bite in these matters, and after all, one must not draw the line too tight. Marriage is beset with a thousand difficulties; life is more amusing behind the sdenes of a the- atre than in the dull domestic round. One likes to have ones moments of relaxation, and eternal parade, civil as well as milita- ry, is rather a gilding of the lily. Women are well enough to be a moments orna- ment, but life is easier en gar~on. One has a thousand egotisms and ambitions to occupy ones time and thoughts, and a man gallooned all over with gold, and staggering under orders, cannot be ex- pected to sit like Hercules at Omphales feet. German ladies are not accustomed to the entire and untiring devotion which Englishwomen accept with all the calm unconsciousness of a right. No man rises to open the door for you when you leave the room; if cups of tea or coffee have to be handed about, it is the lady of the house that will carry them round; she will be rewarded with a Tausend Dank, meine Gnddigste, but the most gra- cious will be allowed to trot about all the same. A man need not wait (in that happy land) for pain and anguish to. rack the brow before the ministering angels appear upon the scene. You (one of the angels) may search an hour for your sortie de ha? in a cloak-room, before one out of that group of glittering beings assembled round the door will put out a helping hand. When at last you emerge from your difficulties and pass down the stairs, they will draw themselves up, in stramme ;nilitdrische Haltung, click their heels together, and bring their heads to the level of their sword-belts; and if that is not devotion, chivalric behaviour, and splendid respect, the world has none to show, and you are an exacting and ir- rational malcontent. In everything the German is controlled. He is controlled in his love-makings and marryings; he is controlled in the utter- ance of his opinion; he is controlled in his goings-out and his comings-in. The journalist is liable at any moment to fine and imprisonment; the caricaturist to ar- rest; of liberty of the press there can be no question; of the license of the law no doubt. In the old gambling days of Ba- den and Hombourg, no native officer was permitted to play at the tables; the money of the State must remain absolutely in the State pocket; but this fatherly solicitude for the coin of the country did not extend itself to the pocket of the peasant, who would stand gloating through long Sun- day afternoons at the heaps of gold, ven- ture at last his form or his thaler, and retire into his workaday world on Mon- day a disillusioned chaw-bacon. Control touches even the follies and flirtations of the young. Lately, in a northern capital, garrisoned by Prussian troops, an ardent young lieutenant and a coy and bashful maiden found themselves f or a moment, by some rare chance, in a deserted tea- room alone. The enamoured youth had just caught his fair one by the hand, when her most intimate of intimate bosom- friends entered. The poor girl started up in terror, and, forgetful alike of her love and her lover, broke out, Pray, pray, best Evelina, do not say what you have GERMAN HOME LIFE. 3 seen. Evelina promised, and the impru- dent maiden returned at once to the ball- room. But lo! next day the story, with various embroideries, was circulating through all the Kaffees, and behold, the day after, the ardent lieutenant sum- moned to an irate generals presence. Youno~ man, said his stern Vorgesetz- ter, glooming down upon him in grim regulation wrath, you are transferred to depot duty on the frontier; there you will have ample time to reflect on your indis- cretion. ( Es ist fhnen nicht erlaubt fungen Damen aus den hdkeren Stdnden Zn com~romittiren / ) And forth, like ball from the cannons mouth, behold our gay young militaire shot over the frontier! Hear this, gallant young English gentle- men, horse, foot, and dragoons; hear it, too, young English maidens inclining ten- der ears to manly pleadings, and be thank- ful that your bosom-friends ~are not spies, nor, as a rule, the colonels of our regi- ments martinets in matters of the affec- tions. Resistance in any shape is hope- less; it wlll be put down, in whatever form or in whatever rank it makes its sporadic appearance, with an iron hand. Beneath the drapery of that flowing white mantle, that reminds you of the crusaders of old, you may plainly perceive the steel gauntlet of armed despotism. Whilst all the others were boastino says Heine, of how proudly the Prussian eagle soared towards the sun, I prudently kept my eyes fixed upon his claws. The German makes a good colonist be- cause he is frugal, patient, and hardy; but he seems to need a transplantation to another soil to shine forth in all the ex- cellence that not unfrequently becomes his. The German workman at home is dilatory, unpunctual, slow, and often ex- tremely bungling in his work. There is not the same competition as with us; if he do not choose to hurry himself, you must abide his pleasure; he is the obliger, you the obliged. You give him a model, and he executes his copy not amiss; it only falls short of supreme excellence; a little more finish, and it would have been absolutely well done. The German la- bourer is a marvel of heavy artfulness: he seems always to have something to do that interferes with continuous work; either he has to spit upon his hands, or to adjust his raiment, or to take a dram, or have a crack with a comrade, or pick a quarrel with an enemy; in short, he is in- ventive in this respect to a degree that his general stolidity would never lead you to suspect. The writer remembers watch- ing throughout a period of some months an English navvy who had command of a gang of Germans engaged upon some waterworks. Abuse flowed freely from the lips of the stalwart Briton, and though he spoke an unknown tongue, the desired effect was produced; the instant, how- ever, his attention was withdrawn, or his amenities ceased, the stolid crew aban- doned all active labour, and became pas- sive spectators of the general scene. Id liever have one o ourn nor five on em, said that British navvy, in a tone of rueful indignation, one day to a sympa- thetic auditor who was watching the slow progress; even the stalwart frame, the loud voice of the man, and the free use of his choice vernacular had ceased to have its effect, and the gloom of despair hung heavy on his brow. Yet we know that two-thirds of the sugar-bakers, ba- kers, and tailors in London are German, and that America speaks largely the lan- guage of Hans Breitmann. It seems that the sight of incessant activity and untir- ing energy universally prevailing around is necessary to arouse the German, and make him shake off the lethargy that otherwise possesses him. Crimes of vio- lence are of very rare occurrence in Ger- many; the German is not cruel, he does not murder, he does not assassinate, he does not beat his wife, or kick her with hobnailed shoes: he does not love blood. Bloodshed is distasteful to him, unless, as in the Franco-Prussian war, it be his duty to shed blood; then he consents to butcher and be butchered (as during the awful days of Gravelotte and Mars-la- Tour) with almost automatic endurance. But whilst we allow for the difference of temperament that distinguishes the Teu- ton from the Celt, we must concede that education counts for something in this matter. Educate the masses, and they will not love, as the French lower orders do, to welter, when excited, in the blood of their fellow-men, to lick their lips in savage lust to lap it again. The German is generally rough, and sometimes brutal, but humanity, on the whole, prevails, and the brute in him is less than the man. indeed, that sort of sentiment, which is so marked a characteristic of the mod- ern Teuton, is to be found even in the drama/is ~ersonce of the police reports. It is characteristic, says a modern writer, speaking of his fellow-countrymen, that our German rascals have always a certain sentimentality sticking to them. They are no cold-blooded knaves of cal- culation, but are blackguards of senti 32 GERMAN HOME LIFE. meat. They have Gemilik, and take the holding a double office about the court, warmest interest in the fates of those should not have had a first-class decora- they have robbed, so that one cannot be tion; another would weep that she whose quit of them. Even our distinguished family was of the ancient of the earth must chevaliers d industrie are not mere ego- endure the slight of seeing her spouse re- ists who steal for themselves, but court ceive an order of the third class, while the coy mammon to do good with their ill- little pert upstart who had married the gotten gains. Oberstali-Meister pranced past her with In the old historic days of the small an ornament made of the diamonds picked Residenz-towns, the unwary stranger who out of the Grand Cross, that he, the mas- found himself at court, was, if of unso- ter of the horse, ought never to have had! phisticated mind, literally blinded and The infinite littleness of such a life was bewildered by the blaze of stars and deco- the fair butt of fermenting patriots; no rations that glittered in the firmament. wonder that radical writers brought what Awe-struck by the cloud of heroes and wit they could to bear on the subject, or veterans, he prepared, as though wander- that the reformers were great on fossil ing through the Walhalla of the universe, feudalism. For a pleople that had dis- to put off his mental shoes from off his covered gunpowder, printing, and the feet, in acknowledgment that he was critique of pure reason, such a spectacle standing on the holy ground of heroism. included almost every humiliation, and the But when, upon enquiring, he ascertained wonder to all lookers-on is not so much the truth of the matter, and learned that how, as by whom, that vast revolution every serenity, transparency, or impalpa- which is called imperialism has been bility passing by that way and dining at brought about. The united fatherland, the grand-ducal board, would have to the old dream of national unity, is realized, send, as a matter of mere routine, the but the very dreamers themselves must, order of his State to the court officials, one would think, be still rubbing incredu- first, second, or third class, each accord- bus eyes, seeing after what an unforeseen ing to his kind; when he learned that fashion they have awakened. this blazing star had been conferred on Yet Prussia has indisputably this one the occasion of the grandes chasses; that glory above all the other countries of Teu- that noble order was bestowed on the tonia; that, whilst they have h~ad gossip- dukes representative at the baptism of an ries, scandals, intrigues, nests of squab- archduchess, and the other resplendent bles, and parish politics, she has a history. decoration but the evidence of an imperial Her electors have been the elect, her dinner-party, he would not unfrequently kings have been the ken-ning men; they go his sardonic way, sneering the sneer of have known and they have done; abstract the cynic at the tinsel and frippery of such knowing could not help them, only con- supreme sham. The writer of these lines crete doing. Alert, restless, thorough; remembers a most worthy, inoffensive looking into everything, exarni ning, prov- man upon whom fate had most inappro- ing; scant mercy, short justice; frugal, priately conferred the combined offices of thrifty, hardy, sharing common perils grand chambelian de Za cour and Thea- with the common soldier, keeping kingly ter-Intendant. He had accompanied his state when kingly state was demanded; royal master to every court in Europe, rewarding, punishing, reprintanding, with and his sovereign being of convivial turn here a genial act, and there a jovial word, and addicted to dining the princes who the Landesvater, not the king alone, but passed by his way, stars and garters con- the father of his people. Other knowers tinued to flow in upon the first official of and doers looking upwards, not because the court. The wags were pleased to sug- of the mere kingship of their chief, but gest all sorts of incongruous and incom- with fullest confidence in his power and patible positions for the thick-coming will, both to know and to do, arose in decorations, and it was feared that he their places, each in his Each; the thing would at last, however unwillingly, be done varying according to time and cir- forced, all the rest of his person being cumstance, according to person and preoccupied, to sit upon the orders of the place; valuable chiefly, not for the mag future. nitude of it, but for the reality of it. Great were the envy, hatred, and malice, The history of the house of Hohenzol- and all uncharitableness, that fermented in lern is the history of Prussia; nay, if female breasts on these occasions. The aught of prophecy~ be ours, bids fair to adjutants wives had always a grievance; prove the history of Germany. We have one would complain that her husband, seen a gallant old king at the head of a GERMAN HOME LiFE. 33 sorely tried army, enduring hardships with the courage of an adolescent; we have seen the crown-prince sharing com- mon perils with the common. soldier: we have seen all the available princes of the blood fighting, marching, watching, endur- ing, conquering, and dying side by side with the peasant; rained upon, snowed upon, bailed upon, stormed at by shot and shell, travelled - stained, blood - stained, mud - bespattered, war - betattered, not mere men with muskets but soldiers to the backbone, one and all, prince, peer, and peasant, willing to die for the father- land. True valour, not rash daring, patient endurance, not foolhardy escapades, steadfastness of heart and stability of mind, inspired these men who stood up to fight for their belief, to die for what they thought the justice of their cause. Not the light Greek fire of inflammable enthusiasm, such as caught the boule- vards one day in July, and set all Paris like straw blazing; but the deep vOlcanic fire of conviction, long smouldering, dark- ly hidden, portentous, unquenchable, un- less, indeed, by crimson seas yet to flow. It is supremely characteristic of the gen- ius of the two nations, that whilst the French were hysterically shrieking A Berlin! falling upon each others necks, and vowing to celebrate their emperors birthday in the palaces of Prussia, the Geman polished his arms, sang his Watch on the Rhine, said no word of Paris, and before many months were over crowned his gallant old king em- peror in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. This is the history of the German army; all honour to it and to those who led it on to victory. In civil life, it was in old days the pride of the Prussian official that he lived narrowly; that only by a close econ- omy was he able to make those two pro- verbial ends meet which is such a desir- able result in domestic economy. Parsi- mony was his pride; his private econo- mies went to enrich the coffers of the State, and his patriotism was of the type of which Virgil says, The noblest, mo- tive was the public good. For him a dinner of Spartan broth, and the rne;zs conscia recti therewith, was better than all the fleshpots of the fatherland unsea- soned by the antique virtues. The Fa- bricius type is, alas! extinct, gold-scorners impossible, and the austerity of Cincin- natus a thino of obliges, and b the past. Imperialism ostentation is now the order of the day. Representative officials re LIVING AGE. VOL. 2~II. 627 ceive handsome salaries; splendid emolu- ments rain down on the worthy; the day for small economies is over; the father- land has to be represented, and the country of the milliards must show itself great in all directions. It is little understood or realized in England that pomp and circumstance illus- trate at Berlin the glories of the new em- pire after a brilliant fashion. There is, indeed, not one court, but many; not only the emperor and the prince imperial, but all the other princes of the house of Hohenzollern keep up official state, where- of the exponents are gorgeous uniforms, resplendent liveries, showy equipages, and brilliant entertainments. We may think how dull by comparison our deserted quasi-republican capital appears in the eyes that prize pomp and pageantry, and how strange the utter absence of all offi- cial glitter and grandeur to those accus- tomed to the presence of a court. We take our German friends to the Horse Guards (all we have of magnificence to show), and point out the imposing appear- ance of our household troops. Have you ever seen our gczrdes tin co~~i5s? is the only comment; splendid giants, mounted on huge chargers, wearing a classic silver helmet, crested with eagles wings, a dazzling silver cuirass, and juste- ctu-corj5s of white samite, mystic, wonder- ful ? You perhaps say no. Ah then, indeed! replies your Prussian friend, as one who makes allowances for your igno- rant worship. The modern German is likely to become a thorn in the flesh of humanity at large, not because he is vic- torious; but because he is forever blowing the blast of his victories on the trumpet of fame. The braying of that brazen instru- ment is, of necessity, not so sweet in his neighbours ears as in his own; yet should you venture to remonstrate, he will fix a quarrel upon you, and you will have ab- jectly to ask him to continue his melodious strain. It is not enough that his country has become one of the great powers of Europe, he wants you to say that it is the greatest. Success is so sweet to him, power so new, triuihph so intoxicating, and the old radical dream of a united fatherland realized, he himself hardly knows how, in Bismarcko-Imperialism is such a bewildering experience, that he stands on the highway, pistol in hand, and exacts your admiration or your life. It is. not enough that you have at an earlier stage of the journey already paid your tribute of admiration; you must pay it abain. Youare to go on admiring; your 34 awe and your respect are t@ become vo- cal; if you are not loudly, consistently, persistently with the fatherland, you are against it. It is by sufferance that your humble vehicle rolls along the emperors highway; get out and grovel, then all shall be well with you; resist, and you shall be torn out of your coach, and the great jackboots will kick you ignomini- ously into space, and the big man will go his swaggering way with a grim smile be- hind his tawny moustache, as one who exterminates the lively pertinacious j5uier irrifans, otherwise sublimely big and in- different. The crumpled roseleaf on Germanys bed of glory is, that she cannot get every other nation to admire her as much as she admires herself; and in her present ego- tistical attitude would fain extract what she covets, if not otherwise, then d force d arm es. It is this uneasy tone, this monopoly of adulation, this exacting, suspicious rest- lessness, that tells tales of the fever of ambition pulsing through every vein of the new system. Fever has a false strenb th that looks to the sound man much like health; let him look again, and in the glare of the patients eye he will see evidences of the distempered blood, and will be careful to soothe rather than to irritate. When we speak of the one crumpled roseleaf in Prussias bed, we speak hyperbolically. Hers is no rose- strewn couch; on the contrary, it is, as those who know her best, best know, an uneasy bed; a bed that will have to be made again and again, lucky if at last it become a place of rest. To leave meta- phor her extent of frontier is immense; she will yet need all that is best in her best men. At any moment Bavaria may break axvay. Hanover harbours resent- ment; Scandinavia hates her for her ruth- less want of faith; it is known that the coming czar is intensely anti-Prussian, and that the long lists of German names filling distinguished positions in army and State are offensive, beyond any present possibility of expression, to a very large party in Russia. Alsace and Lorraine have, as Elsass and Lothringen, to be kept under, and increasing vigilance must inspire fear where no love is. When we speak of the German of the present day, we have all of us, uncon- sciously, the grand modern prototype in our minds the man of blood and iron; the Hammer-man; the Thunderer; the Baresark; the Bismarck the great typi- cal heroic figure, that will go down to future ages. colossal, momentous, immor- tal. He, thegreatest, comes home to the smallest, to mens business and bosoms in a special manner; the likeness of him hangs in the humblest hut; but for him Hans and Michel had not laid down their lives in French mire and clay; but for him food were not so dear, nor widows so many, nor wives so few; but for him, taxes had not been so rigorous, nor money so scarce. Yet, he is the idol of the popu- lace of that populace which, erewbile, stoned, lampooned, caricatured, and re- viled him; of that populace that was noth- ing more than mud-seas at his feet, on the vast field of the fatherland. Now he reigns supreme; the contempt he once showed for them is become the enemy s portion; the people are grown his willing instruments; he has known how to read the signs of the times, to seize the chances of the moment, to wield and to weld; to mould the old order of things into a new order; to root out the republican rabies; to crush down the rad- ical spirit; to grasp the national mind; to hold the nations heart; to venture, to succeed, to dare, and to do. The national vanity, the popular pride, have been flat- tered by his miraculous successes; surely a grateful people will foster their hero. Their good old emperor is well enough, but even he had not been but for Bismarck. He, gallant old gentleman, has scruples, hesitations, tendernesses of conscience, regrets; is not much other than any pri- vate man him we do not specially care to go out and greet. As for princes, clothed in soft raiment, in kings palaces, their name is legion; but this man, der Einzz~e, the only one, unique his like not again to be seen this side of eternity; a prophet, and more than a prophet him we will worship, before him we will fall down. A gigantic mass of all that makes manhood, he carries a high look with him; fire and reality, as well as blood and iron, are in that great figure and big brain. He speaks, and it is as though the king of beasts sent his leonine roar before him through the for- ests of which he is lord. That orator, erst so eloquent, seems now but froth and fribble; the attempted epigram of the penultimate patriot dwindles into mere spite; prudence becomes pedantry; warn- ing, the mumblings of blind senile leaders of the blind; threat, the niere futile squeak of peevish incompetence. The little sneers have struck too low, they fall unheeded at his feet; he will not stoop to notice them; let them lie: but from his height, god GERMAN HOME LIFE. HER DEAREST FOE. 35 like, d~monic, he will pour forth his lava- self and the good-looking young vaga. stream of scathing eloquence, which, by bond connected with the press. mere attraction of gravitation, reaches its If there was one point upon which Kate destination in the infinite flats beneath Travers was more specially sensitive than him. This stinging tongue, this arrogant another it was on the respect she thought intellect, this ruthless will, this keen dar- she deserved. Naturally of a sunny dis- ing, and restless ambition, what are they position and easy temper, loving pleasure, but the outcome of the age? In him you and luxury, and beauty with a certain see the typical German; the guerre-man, amount of graceful indolence, which in the war-man; the gar-man the whole prosperous times entirely masked the man; nay, rather a demigod unfathoma- strong will and untiring energy stored up ble, terrible. There is, in all modern his- against the day of need, she ncver dreamed tory, no figure like this figure, no mind anyone would suspect her of the fleshy like this mind, unless it be the brief ap- weaknesses to which others were liable; parition of a Mirabeau on a background she knew the childlike purity of her own of unaccomplished destiny. A man for life, and suspected that the long winter of men to fear; for women to love; for, such chilling circumstances as hers had beside that primeval titanic force, there been, might have had a hardening influ- dwells another man in him in strange and ence on her nature; but she shrank from striking contrast with the Briareus of the a disrespectful word as from a blow, and tribune a gentle, genial, human-hearted had her knowledge of men been equal to man; witty, winning; loving the soft her knowledge of books, she would no sound of womens voices, the beauty of doubt have resisted the temptation to play bright eyes, the prattle of children, the with the grave surprised admiration yellowing woods, the setting sun. A evinced by Galbraith lest it might lead to Triton, indeed, but not amongst minnows, unpleasant results. No great general, says Froude, ever Now she could not draw back without a arose out of a nation of cowards, no great display of stiffness and a change of tone statesman out of a nation of fools. That which might lead to awkward explanations, the mute Moltkes and bashful Bismarcks and as her enemy progressed towards of the fatherland are many, we may be complete recovery, she told herself that it sure; but history is careful only of the did not matter, he would soon be gone, type. Looking at such a man as this, sur- and not remember much about the adven- rounded by such men as these, we, who ture until she reopened the will-case and are but spectators of the drama, are al- defeated him. Then, indeed, their present most tempted, since finite man cannot go acquaintance might lead to his accepting on infinitely, to re-echo the prayer of Para- some portion of the property he had so celsus, and cry: Make no more giants, long considered his inheritance, for after God, but elevate the race at once! the friendly fntercourse they had hdd, she never could contemplate robbing him of everything. These thoughts flitted through her From Temple Bar, brain in and out of her daily routine of HER DEAREST FOE. answering inquiries and matching colours, finding patterns and making out bills. It CHAPTER XX. had been a busy and a profitable day, but IT would not be easy to disentangle and although the lenothenino eve tempted ~ ,, mugs define the mixed feelings which brought many to keep their shops open later, the the bright colour to Kate Traverss cheek, shutters of the Berlin Bazaar were always and made her heart beat indignant as she up at seven. The sweet repose of the perused the foregoing effusion. She after-hours was too precious to be curtailed scarcely herself knew why Mr. Fords even for the chance of a trifle more profit. pretensions were so peculiarly offensive, On this particular evening the one fol- nor did she take the trouble of inquiring, lowing her first perusal of Fords letter but had that devoted friend been within Mrs. Temple was considerably bored by a reach he would have received a crushing summons from Dr. Slade to speak to him rejoinder. The passage about Sir Hugh in the best sitting-room, as tea was being Galbraith annoyed and yet amused her. laid in the shop-parlour. She had now grown tolerably familiar with Well, Mrs. Temple, I suspect you will his modes of thought and expression, and soon lose your tenant, and I dare say you she could well picture the quiet profound will not regret him, cried the doctor, who scorn with which he had spoken of her- looked rather displeased as he stood by the 36 HER DEAREST FOE. window in the waning light, his head erect, his very shirt-frill bristling with indigna- tion. ~ A more quietly insolent personage I have never met. He has just told me I was a gossip me! merely because I made a harmless jest. He is evidently an ill-tempered, crotchety fellow, and must be a great nuisance to his sisters the Hon. Mrs. Harcourt and Lady Lorrimer to whom I have written on his behalf. Nothing can be more charming than the letters I have from them, fully recognizing my care and attention, especially Mrs. Harcourt, who wanted to come and nurse him, only he forbade it in terms I should be sorry she heard. I have given him a great deal of time over and above profes- sional attendance, and written, as I said, to his sisters and a cousin of his for him, and now he repays my well-meant attempts to amuse him by telling me I am a gos- sip! Very rude, indeed, doctor, said Mrs. Temple, sympathizingly. However, he resumed, I only wanted to tell you that he has been asking me when he will be fit to go to London, and I really cannot advise his leaving for an- other week. He has still symptoms about the head which indicate that he requires perfect rest freedom from excitement and London would just be the worst place for him. No medical man likes to see a case he has treated successfully going out of his hands, but I suspect if he chooses to go, nothing will stop him. I suppose not, said Mrs. Temple. I thought it right to warn you, as you might like to make some other arrange- ment, and I hope the letting of your rooms has been a help, a A decided help, and I am very much obliged to you, returned Mrs. Temple, pleasantly. Thats all right. Now you must not keep me talking here when I have twenty places to go to. Do you know I met that young schemer Bryant walking with one of Miss Monitors girls three miles off, on the Barmouth Road, near Joness, the curate of Drystones. You know Jones? Well, near his house. I believe Joness wife is Bryants sister. It did not look well at all. I wouldnt trust Bryant far- ther than I could throw him. Good even- ing, Mrs. Temple; good evening. Kate politely attended him to the door, and as she turned to join Fanny, was seized upon by Mrs. Mills, who carried her into the kitchen to speak to Sarahs mother. She was in great tribulation, be- ing afflicted with a wild son, who turned up every now and then to work mischief. On the present occasion he had got hold of the poor womans little hoard, had ab- sconded, and left her penniless just as the weeks rent was due. She, had, therefore, made so bold as to come and ask if Mrs. Temple would be so kind as to advance a little of Sarahs money. This, in the mouth of Sarahs mother, was a very long tale. But Kate listened with the gentlest untiring sympathy, for hers was a very tender heart, and a- full half-hour and more was occupied in giving help and comfort. When at last she returned to the par- lour she was not surprised to find the lamp lighted and Fanny seated behind the cosy -covered teapot; but she was surprised to find Sir Hugh Galbraith seated opposite to her, apparently quite at home, leaning easily across the table as he talked pleasantly ~vith the pretty tea- maker. Kate could not help being struck by the altered expression of his face since she had first beheld it. It was softer, brighter, younger-looking, but while she paused, still holding the handle of the door, Sir Hugh rose quickly and came a step towards her. I have ventured to ask admittance,- although I have no letters to write, or rather to have written for me, and Miss Lee, as com- manding in your absence, has graciously assented, he said. Pray sit down, replied Mrs. Temple, moving to the place Fanny vacated for her. She was startled and disturbed -at finding him there: but he was going away next week; it was really of no moment, this unexpected visit. Still Fords letter and her own previous reflections ruffled her composure. She coloured and grew pale, and felt Gaibraiths eyes fixed upon her, though she did not look up to see them. You are not well, or somethincr he exclaimed. I bad better go away. No, Sir Hugh. I am happy to see you, a little stiffly. But the light affects me after the dusky kitchen, where I have been listening to a tale of woe. Fanny dear, will you bring the shade? Thus, effectually sheltered from observa- tion, Kate quickly recovered herself and dispensed the tea, stretching out a hand white and delicate enoubh foraladyof high degree, as Galbraith observed, when she offered him a cup, which Fanny fol- lowed with a delightful slice of brown bread and butter. HER DEAREST FOE. 37 A tale of woe! exclaimed that young I lady; and in the kitchen ~? What took Dr. Slade there? Mrs. Temple briefly explained. I could not think what kept you, and Sir Hugh said he was sure the doctor was gone.~~ Old humbuo- observed Galbraith. I thought he would never go. I had to tell him some unpleasant truths before he would stir. Did you? asked Fanny, who, in con- sequence of Toms note, was in towering spirits. What did he say? I know, said Mrs. Temple, slyly. He was making his complaint. Indeed ! exclaimed Galbraith, look- ing under the shade to get a glimpse of her smile. What did he say? That you are an ungrateful man; that he has devoted himself to your service, and that your return is to tell him he is a gossip. Galbraith smiled rather grimly. Did he tell you what led up to it? he asked. No; he did not give the context. He is not a bad sort of fellow, re- sumed Sir Hugh, only spoiled by a country-town life and associating with women I mean old women. And pray why should women, young or old, spoil him? cried Fanny, aggres- sively. I am sure we are much better than men in many ways. I think you are, returned Gaibraith, gravely; still I dont think men or wom- en the better for associating exclusively with each other. Military women, for in- stance, are not pleasant. Have you ever met any? addressing Mrs. Ternpl~. No, said she, answering the real drift of the question; I have never, of course, been in that sort of society, and have never reckoned any military ladies among my customers. Galbraith was silent until Mrs. Temple asked him if he would have any more teas If you please. I assure you no old woman likes tea better than I do. I have always found it the best drink when hard worked in India, he returned with a smile. Some fellows have a great craving for beer, and I confess it is very tempting in a warm climate. And are you strong enough to resist temptation? asked Kate, carelessly, as she again held out her fair hand with his cup in her long taper fingers. As far as eating and drinking go, yes; but I suppose all men have their assaila- ble point. Pray, what is yours? asked Fanny, who, in her present state of spirits, was irrepressible. I really cannot tell. And I am sure, if you could, you are not bound to answer a decidedly imper- tinent question, said Mrs. Temple. Fan- ny, you are rather too audacious. I knew you would scold me! ex- claimed Fanny; but I could not help it. Galbraith laughed. Suppose you set me the example of confession, Miss Lee. What is your weak point? I could not possibly tell, like you; but for a different reason: all my points are weak; the puzzle is which is the weakest. Then I suspect your friend has enough to do to keep you in order; irregular troops are generally mutinous. I am the meekest creature in crea- tion, cried Fanny. The moment K Mrs. Temple, I mean, even looks as if she was goin~ to find fault with me I am ready to confess my sins and go down. Only to rise up abain the next instant not one bit the better for your penitence, said Mrs. Temple, walking over to the bell toying for Mills. That is exactly like irregular cavalry. They disperse the moment you charge them, and immediately gather on your flanks and harass your march, remarked Galbraith. I cannot say Fanny has harassed my march, replied Mrs. Temple, smiling kindly at that delinquent as she placed the cups and saucers and plates neatly on the tray to save Mills trouble. But I sup- pose it would be easier to keep a reginient of superior men I mean educated men in order, than the waifs and strays you pick up. I assure you soldiers are not on the whole bad fellows; but as to educated men, I cant say I should like to command a regiment of straw-splitting, psalm-sing. ing troopers who would probably dispute every order they didnt fancy. But you, you are an educated gentle- man, and dont you think, rejoined Mrs. Temple, that if you had undertaken cer- tain work and certain service, you would be more obedient, more dutifully subordi- nate, than a poor, ignorant, half-blind creature who cannot see an inch beyond the narrow bounds of his own personal wants and pleasures, while you could grasp some idea of the general good? There is, of course, some truth in your view, said Galbraith, somewhat sur- prised; but a regiment of gentlemen, in the first place, is out of the question. There have been, I grant, body-guards of 4 HER DEAREST FOE. kings who were all gentlemen, but from concentrated the whole essence of liberal-. what we know of them they were not ism in those words. That is exactly what exactly models of sound discipline or se- progress does; it makes people strive to rious behaviour. be better. I have no doubt the firsf of our And in the heat of argument Sir Hugh British ancestors (if they were our ances- rose, drew his chair near his antagonist, tors) who suggested making garments in- and clear of the obstacle presented to his stead of dyeing the human skin, was looked vision by the lamp-shade. upon by the orthodox Druids as a danger- There is your work, interrupted ous innovator. Fanny; you know you promised that That has been said too often to be should be ready to-morrow: (hat was worthy of such an original thinker as you a banner-screen of beads and silk, and are, returned Galhraith, leaning forward each section of the pattern was to be be- and taking up some of the bright-coloured gun, in order to save the fair purchaser silks which lay between them. from too severe exercise of brain. It cannot be said too often, observed Thank you, Fan, and Mrs. Temple Mrs. Temple, stoutly, for it contains the proceeded quickly and diligently to thread whole gist of the matter. I will trouble needles and sew on beads, glancing up you for that skein of blue silk. Thank every now and then with eyes that spark- you. Their hands touched for a mo- led and deepened, and laughed and grew meat, and Galbraith felt an unreasonable, dim with a slight suffusion if she was very but decided, inclination to hold hers, just earnest. Fanny placed a large work-bas- to keep her eyes and attention from being ket before her as she took her seat oppo- too much taken up with that confounded site their guest, who felt wonderfully in- stitchery. terested and at home. But, he resumed, you cannot sup- Oh! the people you mean would n& t pose men born to a certain position like to be called gentlemen now; they were only feel those of a lower sphere intruding polished barbarians, incapable of self-con- upon them, and treading on their heels? trol; any tolerably educated shopboy Step out then! Put a pace between woutd conduct himself better than the you and them, and keep the wonderful des and vons of those days, said start ahead that circumstance has given Kate. you, she returned with great animation. By Jove! men were better bred, more You are too ferocious a democrat, high-bred, then. I never heard that said Galbraith, laughing; and to look at doubted before, cried Galbraith; you, who could believe you had ever been, High-bred! that is, they took off their even for a day, behind a counter? hats and bowed more oracefully, and There ! he exclaimed, I am the clum- treated their inferiors with insolence none siest fellow alive. I have made a horribly the less brutal, because it had a certain rude speech. steely glitter, and were more ferocious I quite absolve you, said Mrs. Tern- about their honour; but they were mere ple, frankly, and looking at him with a dangerous, mischievous, unmanageable sweet half-smile. A counter has not children compared to what men ought to hitherto been the best training-school to be. form a gentlewoman; but the days are You are a formidable opponent, Mrs. rapidly passing when women could afford Temple. Still I will not renounce my to be merely graceful ornaments. We ancestors; they were gallant fellows, if must in the future take our share of the they had a dash of brutality here and burden and heat of the day. God grant there. And you will grant that without a us still something of charm and grace! It regard for honour they would have been would be hard lines for us both if you still more brutal. could not love us. I do. Nor do I by any means under- Not love you, repeated Galbraith al- value the good that was in them, only it most unconsciously; he had hitherto been seems so stupid either to want to go back thinking the young widow rather too to them, or to stand still. strong-minded a description of character And what good does progress do? It he utterly abhorred. I imagine your only makes the lower classes dissatisfied ideal woman will seldom be realized, un- and restless, and wanting to be as well off less, indeed, in yourself. as their betters. There is nothing they Oh, dear me! exclaimed Fanny, I dont aim at. have run the needle into my finger, and it Oh, Sir Hugh Galbraith! you have is so painful. HER DEAREST FOE. 39 Due commiseration being expressed, Fanny said she must put it in warm water, and darted away. Do not imagine I am such a narrow idiot, said Galbraith, drawing his chair a trifle closer, as not to respect a man who fights his way up to fortune from a humble origin, but then he ought always to remem- ber the origin. Yes ; you of the upper ten, said Mrs. Temple, smiling, while she hunted with her needle an erratic white bead round an inverted box-cover, are decently inclined to recognize the merits of such a man when he has achieved success in the end, but you do your best to knock him on the head at the beginning. How do you mean? By creating difficulties of all sorts. Mountains of barriers for him to climb over: barriers of ignorance it is unwise to educate the masses; barriers of caste none but gentlemen must officer army or navy; barriers of opinion; social bar- riers oh, I talk too much! and I am sure so do you. Dr. Slade told me just now you were to be kept as quiet as possi- ble and undisturbed; and here am I con- tradi cting you most virulently. Do go away and read a sermon or something, or you will never be able to go to London next week. Next week! Does that confounded old humbug say I am to go away, next week? I intend nothing of the kind. He said you wished to leave for town; so I warn you to give me due and proper notice, or I shall charge accordingly. Mrs. Temple glanced up as she sptke to see the effect of her words; but no an- swering smile was on his lip. He looked grave and stern, and was pulling his mous- taches as if in deep thought. There was a moments silence, and then Galbraith exclaimed, in his harshest tones, with an injured accent, You never let one forget the shop. It was the lodgings this time, said Mrs. Temple demurely. I did not sup- pose you would mind. Do you want me to go away? asked Sir Hugh. I can go to-morrow if you do. I am very glad you feel so much bet- ter. Pray suit yourself. I could not be in a hurry to part with so good a tenant. Galbraith muttered something indis- tinct and deep. There was a few mo- ments silence, and then Sir Hugh said gravely, I am quite aware what a nui- sance an invalid inmate must be; and I hope you believe I am grateful for all the care you have bestowed upon me. Indeed, I do not. I have not bestowed any care upon you; Mills has, a little, and your servant a good deal. The fact is, returned Galbraith, with a tinge of bitterness, I have never had much care in my life, and I am, therefore, especially grateful when I find any, or fancy I have any. Grateful people deserve to be cared for, said Kate, laying her pattern on the table and gravely regarding it. And you have been very good to write my letters, continued Galbraith. I never knew the luxury of a private secre- tary before, and as I believe the appetite grows with what it feeds upon, I shall miss your assistance greatly. I never found my correspondence so easy as since you were good enough to write for me. A private secretary would not be a serious addition to your suite, returned Mrs. Temple without looking up. There are many intelligent, well-educated young men would be glad of such an appoint- ment. Pooh! exclaimed Galbraith. I never thought of a man secretary. Indeed, said Mrs. Temple. No; men are so unsympathetic and slow to comprehend. I always thought so, replied Mrs. Temple frankly; but I didnt think a man would. Sir Hughs face cleared up as he looked at her, and laughed. We are agreed then, he said; and I dont think you put a much higher value on Slade than I do. I do not know what your value is; I like him,, because he has always been a friend to me from the first. And that is how long? asked Gal- braith shrewdly. Oh! if you want gossip you must ap. ply to himself. I shall never put a question to him, you may be sure, said Galbraith gravely. But I confess I should like to know how it happens that you are keeping a shop here. Nothing will ever persuade me that you are to the manner born. You are mistaken, Sir Hugh Gal- braith he always fancied there was an echo of defiance in the way she pro- nounced his name my grandfather and great-grandfather, nay, so far as I know, all my aficestors if such a phrase may be permitted were knights of the coun- ter. The best I can hope (with a smile HER DEAREST FOE. 40 indescribably sweet and arch) is that I am both indignant and disgusted, they never gave short measure. Fanny, because there is so much levity Its incredible! said Gaibraith sol- and vulgarity in what you say, cried Mrs. emnly. Temple warmly. But we have some- Nevertheless true, she continued, thing else to think of; read this and Dont allow your imagination to create she drew forth Fords letter, doubling it a romance for my pretty partner and my- down at the passage adverting to herself, self, though we are weird women, and as having for sole confidant a good-look- keep a Berlin Bazaar. ing young vagabond connected with the As she spoke Fanny entered. It is press. all right now, she said. Sir Hugh, if I suppose, cried Fanny, that stupid you ever run a needle into your finger, conceited old duffer means Tom. plunge it into hot water immediately, and I suppose so; but pray remember it you will find instantaneous relief. is Hugh Gaibraith who is represented as I shall make a note of it, replied Gal- speaking. Now you say Tom is coming braith; and in the mean time must say down on Saturday; it is most important good-night. he should not meet our tenant. I imagine How fortunate you are, cried Fanny. Sir Hugh knows his name. You are going to London next week and Oh yes, very likely; but Sir Hugh has will go to the theatre, I suppose? never intruded on us on a Saturday, and I scarcely ever go to the theatre, said we must try to keep them apart. How de- Galbraith, but I imagine most young lightful it will be to see Tom and this is ladies like it. Thursday! I would give a great deal to see Reck- Yes; I shall be very glad to have a oning with the Hostess, cried Fanny, talk with him. Have you written to unable to restrain herself. him? Suppose we all meet at Charing Cross, To be sure I have. and go tdgether, exclaimed Galbraith, No more was said; and Mrs. Temple who felt convalescent and lively, pondered long and deeply before she was It would be perfectly delightful, said successful in composing herself to sleep. the volatile Fanny, while Kate, who felt XVhat was she doing? was she acting keenly the absurdity of the proposition, fairly and honestly? was she quite safe hid her face in her hands while she in trusting to the spirit, half-defiant, half- laughed heartily. mischievous, which seemed to have taken I must say good-night, repeated Sir possession of her? Well, at any rate, it Hugh, bowing formally. could do no harm. In a few days Hugh I trust you will not be the worse for Galbraith would be removed out of the our argument, said Mrs. Temple, rising sphere of her infiueii~e, and nothing courteously. would remain of their transient acquaint- I am not sure, he replied. I shall ance save the lesson she was so ambitious tell you to-morrow. of teaching him, viz., that whatever her Well, Kate, cried Fanny when he circumstances were, she was a gentle- was gone, has he proposed? I really woman, and that some excuse existed for thought he was on the verge of it when I Mr. Traverss weakness in making her ran the needle in my finger. It would be his wife. such fun. Fanny, you are absolutely maddening! CHAPTER XXI. What can put such nonsense into your HUGH GALBRAITH was a very English head? To tell you the whole truth, and Englishman. In opinion, as in battle, he nothing but the truth, I have permitted was inclined, even when beaten by all the Sir Hugh Galbraith the honour of our rules of combat, to resist to death. His acquaintance, simply because I wish him prejudices would have been rigid to ab- to feel, however appearances may be surdity but for a thin, nevertheless dis- against me, that his cousin married a tinct, vein of common sense which gentlewoman; for he will yet know who I streaked the trap-rock of his nature; am. while here and there, carefully hidden, as That sounds very grand and mysteri- he thought, from all observers, and scarce- ous, Kate. I wish you could contrive to ly acknowledged to himself, were sundry make him give you a proper allowance out softer places faults, as with uncon- of the estate. Well, there; I did not scious technicality he would have termed mean to make you look like a sibyl and a them which sometimes troubled him fury all in one! I with doubts and hesitations a consistently HER DEAREST FOE. 4 hard man would never have known. A vague, instinctive sense of justice an- other national characteristic saved him from being a very selfish man, but did not hinder him from an eager seeking of his own ends, so long as they did not visibly trench on the rights of others; and at times, if the upper and harder strata of his character was, by some morally arte- sian process, pierced through, capable of giving out more of sympathy than his kins- folk and acquaintance in general would believe. But he possessed very little of the adaptability, the quickness of feeling and perception, which gives the power of putting oneself in anothers place; and, therefore, possessing no gauge by which to measure the force of other mens temp- tations, he had, by a process of unreason- ing mental action, accumulated a rather contemptuous estimate of the world in general. Men were generally weak and untrue not false, habit and opinion pre- vented that and women he scarcely considered at all; the few specimens he had known intimately were not calculated to impress him favourably. His sisters, accustomed to the amenities of foreign life, never disguised their opinion that he was a hopeless barbarian, until, indeed, their last few interviews, when they showed a disposition to treat his brusque- ne as the eccentricity of a noble sin- cerity. The younger sister, who had al- ways clunb to him, and whom he loved with all the strength of his slow-develop- ing boyish heart, had chilled him with an unspeakable disgust by bestowing herself on an artist, a creature considered by Gal- braith in those days, and, with some slight modification, still considered, as a sort of menial as belonging to a class of upper servants who fiddled and painted and danced and sang for the amusement of an idle ~tristocracy. He would have been more inclined to associate with the village blacksmith, who, at any rate, did real man~ s work when he forged horseshoes and ploughshares by the strength of his right arm. In short, he was a medi~val man, rather out of place in the nineteenth century. In polftics a Tory, yet not an ignoble one. He would have severely punished the oppressor of the poor. Indeed, he thought it the sacred duty of lords to pro- tect their vassal, even from themselves; but it must be altogether a paternal pro- ceeding given free gratis out of the pleni- tude of his nobility. Of the grander gen- erosity to our poorer brethren that says, Take your share of Gods world, it is yours; we owe each other nothing save mutual help and love, he knew nothing; he had never learned even the alphabet of true liberality; and his was a slow thouoh strong intellect, very slow to assimilate a new idea, and by no means ready to range those he already possessed in the battle array of argument. Nevertheless, he was very little moved by his charming lahdladys opinions; they were a pretty womans vagaries prettily expressed; still, as he thought over every word and look of hers that night while smoking the pipe of peace and meditation before he went to rest, he felt more and more desirous of solving the mystery of her surroundings. That she and her friend were gentlewomen he never for a moment doubted, driven by poverty to keep a shop, though it was an unusual resource for decayed gentility. For poor gentry Gal- braith had special sympathy, and had a dim idea that it would be well to tax suc- cessful money-grubbers who would per- sist in lowering the tone of society in gen- eral and regiments in particular by thrust- ing themselves and their luxurious snob- bish sons into those sacred ranks he had, we say, a dim idea that such mem- bers of the coimmunity ought to be taxed in order to support the helpless descend- ants of th6se who had not the ability to keep their estate together. Still, how any woman with the instinct of a gentlewom- an could bring herself to keep a shop, to measure out things to insolent customers, perhaps to old market-women, and stretch out that soft white hand to take their greasy pence, he could not conceive. She ought to have adopted some other line of work; yet if she had he would not have known her; and though h~ put aside the idea, he felt that he would rather have missed far more important things. She was different from all other women he had ever known; the quiet simplicity of her manners was so restful; the controlled animation that would sparkle up to the surface frequently, and gave so much beauty to her mobile face her smile, sometimes arch, often scornful, occasion- ally tender; the proud turn of her snowy throat ; the outlines of her rounded, pli- ant figure; the great, earnest, liquid eyes uplifted so frankly and calmly to meet his own Gaibraith summoned each and every charm of face and form and bear- ing that had so roused his wonder and admiration to pass in review order before his minds eye, and behold, they were very good. It was the recollection of their first interview, however, more than 42 DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. a month hack, that puzzled him most. Allerton, the family seat, for the close of She must have fancied she knew some- the hunting-season; and should Lady Eliz- thing of me, he thought, as he slowly abeth stand the test of ten days or a fort- paced his sitting-room, restless with the night in the same house, he would try his strange new interest and fresh vivid life luck. A wish to enjoy his friend Uptons that stirred his blood, and in some mys- society to the last of his stay, induced terious way, of which he was but half Gaibraith to postpone his visit for a week; conscious, deepened and brightened the and then he met with the accident which colouriub of every object, until Fanny made him Mrs. Temples inmate ; and, declared, as shebid Kate good-night, that lo! all things had become new. What- Sir Hugh must have a bad conscience to ever his lot might be, it was impossible he keep tramping up and down like that, could marry a pretty doll like Lady Eliza- and something to my discredit, he beth a nice creature, without one idea mused. I shall not soon forget the first different from every other girl, without a look I had from those eyes of hers! It was word of conversation beyond an echo of equivalent to the Draw and defend your- what was said to her. No; he wanted self, villain! of old novels. How could I something more companionable than that; have offended her, or any one belon6ing something soft and varied enough to draw to her? Ill ask her some day some out what tenderness was in him; some- day! By Jove, I cant stay here much long- thing brave, and frank, and thoughtful; er! Yet why should I not? I have noth- to be a pleasant comrade in the dull places ing to take me anywhere. This accident of life. At this point in his reflections, has knocked my visit to Allerton on the Galbraith pulled himself up, with a sneer head. The countess and Lady Elizabeth at the idea of his dreaming dreams, wak- will be in town by the time I am fit to go ing dreams, at that time of his life. Ill anywhere. That pretty little girl, Miss just stay a week longer, he thought, I Lee, is not unlike Lady Elizabeth, only she really am not quite strong yet, and then I has more goin her but Mrs. Temple! will go to town; by that time I shall man- even in thought Galbraith had no words age to penetrate that puzzling womans to express the measureless distance be- mystery, or I shall give it up. I shall tween his landlady and the Countess of have Upton or Gertrude coming down Gs graceful, well-trained daughter. here to see what keeps me in such quar- The truth is, Galbraith had, after his ac- ters, and, b.y Jove! I would rather neither cession of fortune, seriously contemplated of them did. Size would make mischief matrimony. He had no idea of being with or without grounds. So saying, al- succeeded by a nephew of a different most aloud, Galbraith lit his candle, and name, or a cousin whom he disliked, turned down the lamp. Moreover, it behoved him to found the family anewto impose a fresh entail especially if he could buy back some of the old estates; and Payne had written to him that it was probable a slice of the From Macmillans Magazine. Kirby Grange estates might before long DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. be in the market. If he married, he THE idea that a schoolmasters exist- would go in for family; he did not care ence is nothing but a continual round of so much for rank. Accident had sent monotonous drudgery appears to be dying him down to dinner at his sisters house out. It may be quite true that there is a with Lady Elizabeth, who seemed a pretty, great deal of monotony and drudgery to inoffen3ive, well-bred girl; and he even be endured in the scholastic life; but it began, by deliberate trying, to take some has evidently been discovered that, as far interest in her, after meeting at several as these disagreeables are concerned, the parties by day and by night, where he life of a schoolmaster contrasts favoura- bad, rather to Lady Lorrimers surprise, bly with that of a merchant, a lawyer, a consented to appear. Lady Elizabeth, al- medical practitioner, or even of a curate. though her father was not a wealthy peer, Highly intellectual men may find deep had a few thousands, which would not be interest in the work of a good sixth unacceptable; and, though Galbraith had form, and to the less intellectual a mas- bid her good-bye in Germany, where they tership offers considerable attractions. had again encountered, with his ordinary One may find plenty to inter~st one in cool, undemonstrative manner, he had middle-school forms, and it does not re- made up his mind to accept the invitation quire the highest attainments to make then given him, if duly repeated, to go to a really good middle-school form-master. DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. 43 And what may be called unintellectual z.e., non-bookish men, as well as oth- ers, are quite open to the allurements of cricket, football, fives, and the like, which may be freely enjoyed by those who ac- cept the life of a master in a large school. The number of men who, on leaving the universities, seek masterships is really re- markable. Nor is it only the bookish or the athletic-bookish who are drawn to school life. It is not a rare thing to find, on answering advertisements in the Guard- ian or some scholastic paper, that the man who i~ anxious for a mastership is one who has been remarkable at the uni- versity only for a kn& wledge of boating or critket shop: possibly only for the attendant circumstances of a velvet coat and a sweet bull-dog~ Most people, however, would be dis- posed to imagine that the school-hours passed with a low or a middle form must be unmitigated boredom: that the time spent in actual teaching must be grind, pure, simple and dismal: that the interest excited b.y one or two promising boys must be swamped by the stupidity and in- difference of the many. The true pedagogue will take an entirely different view from this. To him the la- dies-school expression, a finished edu- cation, is unknown. He will regard him- self as a learner with those whom he teaches, a learner with a few years start of his pupils. That lead in all probability he will maintain or increase against the majority of his form, but now and then he will see himself being caught up, and pretty safe to be beaten in the long run. He and his form are all runners in the same race. His stupid and ignorant boys are not a set of dummies. He recog- nizes in each a greater or smaller degree of intelligence or dulness. In many a correct answer he will see stupidity; in many an incorrect one, a degree of intel- ligence. He will be able to classify his stupid just as well as his clever boys. And if he chooses to look into the meth- ods by which his boys arrive at their most astoundingly foolish conclusions, he will often find that their methods are not alto- gether stupid; and that in the most won- derful displays of ignorance and the dark- est depths of denseness may be discerned rays of light and sense. And thus he will find his form capable of being not only interesting, but at times immensely amusing. The non-reading undergraduate has been shown to be amusing in The Art of Pluck. Perhaps the following experi ences will show that the schoolboy has great powers as a humorist. But let it be observed that while the characters in the volume just quoted are for the most part fictitious, and their delusion the inven- tions of ingenious scholars, I am no~ about to affront my readers by offering them a collection of jokes invented for the occasion, and put into the mouths of fabu- lous beings. Mira, sed ac/a loquor; and it is hoped that these actual and veri- table scholastic experiences may not only amuse, but also serve to throw some light upon the nature of that extremely com- plex subject, the British schoolboy. The large majority of the translations and an- swers here given have occurred within the writers own experience as a teacher, and almost all the authors of these face/ice are personally known to him. These humorists and their utterances he will classify as best he can. i. The Stupid-Good. Under this head it is meant to include boys of a lit- eral and utterly unimaginative turn of mind; boys of little power, and free from eccentricities of any kind; who do their work honestly, but trust simply and solely to their dictionaries and lexicons to bring them through their difficulties. First take one or two instances of their powers of translation, with the help of the books mentioned. The consul spoke for his family, is neatly rendered Cousul ra- dius narn elus familia. Naval force no less neatly Umbilica vis. Again, To scale a wall is carefully rendered Aliururn desquamare. The author of this deserved a mark for carefully con- sulting his dictionary. A good story is told of a party of boys engaged on a les- son of Virgil. They are puzzled by the line Mene incepto desistere victam? What can mene be? At last in tri- umph a small boy cries out from the depths of his dictionary, I have it mena, a small fish, resembling a pil- chard, which accordingly xvent down. A too great reliance on the same book produced the following translation of Referen/ dis/en/a cape//ce ubera, They will carry back the she-goats with dis- tented chitterlings. It does not appear what idea, unless that of a performing bird, was present to the mind of a boy who translated Tarquinio advenien/i aquila pileum sus/uii/, On Tarquins arrival an eagle supported a hat. ~6~wty- ~n abXoi5vr ~ can only be turned, by those whose sole hope is the lexicon, into DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. Playing the flute on trumpets. Evoe,~ Who spacious regions gave, ~z5arce Liber, Hail, thrifty book! and A wasteful beast! Si torrere /ecur qqceris idoneum, ~ where the original has a waste for you wish to warm your useful liver~~ I beasts. these are two examples of what Horace suffers at the hands of the stupid-good. 2. The Muddled. These are boys who are not without sense and knowledge, but who come to grief for want of power of arrangement and discrimination. Their vis consul ex~ers mole mu sud. They remind one of Tennysons Delirious man, Who mingles all without a plan. Such a one is asked, How long was Jonah in the whales belly? He an- swers, Three days. How long be- sides ? Forty nights, he replies. The muddled appear to the worst advan- tage when called on to express themselves in writing. As a rule they abstain from punctuation, which is liable to. lead them into fresh complications. Here is an answer from a Scripture-history paper. Rahab sent Ruth out to glean in the fields of her kinsman Laban. The fol- lowing is meant for a short account of the siege of Samaria In the siege of Samaria there was a great famine, and as the king was walking along the wall a woman cried unto him and said that if she would boil her child they would eat it that day, and that she would boil hers and eat it the next; but she said that she boiled hers and they ate it, but the other woman hid hers and would not boil it. The next is from an essay on Jersey A large quantity of apples are grown there, which are made into cider and pota- toes. The inhabitants are chiefly engaged in the fisheries of cod and mackerel, which abound there and in the mines. 3. The Simtle boys who are not afraid of using slang, but who use it with- out at all meaning to be slangy; who ap- ply the most homely expressions to the grandest subjects, and, in their simplicity, make such childish mistakes as do honour to their hearts, if not to their heads. The simple come to much grief in writing from dictation. The following are speci- mens : Where waddling in a pool of blood The bravest Tuscans lay, where for waddling read wallowing. This provoked Popes ayah, where for ayah read ire. In a passage on William Rufus occur the lines No triumph flushed that haughty Brown only differs from the original by the capi- tal and the addition of the final letter to the last word. In writing out Lord Ullins Daugh- ter from dictation, one of the simple has a very curious reading: Come back, come back! he cried in Greek Across the stormy water. Here is a new version of Scott: He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain When our need was the saw.dust. Here a variation on Macaulay : And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burglars of Carlisle. Another, Herminius on Black Auster, Grave chaplain on grave steed. From a description of a waterfall: From rock to rock the giant elephant Leaps with delirious bound, where, of course, qephant is a varia lecilo for element. One of the simple, to the writers knowl- edge, had the following passage in his dic- tation, If ever two great men might seem during their whole lives to have moved in direct opposition, Milton and Jerry my tailor were they. Another variation on Scott was this The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infernal old. Another on Macaulay Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his vittles down, Virginius caught the vittles up and hid them in his gown. Such marks of resentment do the simple show on being dictated to. Now we will take a few examples of their translations. Ire per hanc noli quisquis es: omen habet is rendered Go not out by this (gate) whoever thou art: it has a smell. Poor Naso! Here is another example of what he suffers at the hands of the simple : Ipsa ego, ,qu~ dederam medicamina, pallida sedi, I myself, who had taken medicine, sat pale. 44 DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. 45 And Horace fares thus : Me lentus Glycerie torret amor me~, The gluey love of my Glycera frightens me. Ke~ i~r~ov wve,5uart e2~, And they sailed to the good spirit, is a touching instance of the simplicity we are illustrating. The following is good: K& ?~xac Oeai-opi6y~, oiwvon-62xov 6~ ~ipw~og, O~ y6q Ta T ovTa, r4 T faa61ucva, JrpO T ~ovra. Calchas, son of Thestor, by far the best of au0urs, who knew both the present, the future, and the perfect. When the heart-broken Dido sees the ships of iEneas gett~ng under sail she cries, Pro 7up I/er, ibit / which one of the simple translates, By Jove, he is going! The following from Sopohcles opwcpiv (Wi) ffetrovvra, rol a[~t1cpov 6frt [trios ~ povrct, elicited this rendering, Demanding little, and yet paying for that little with a lamb. Another simple youth gave, as an equiva- lent of the first three words, Poor beggar! Here are some more speci- mens of the simple as translators (~y 6 Op6vi-iic, He said 0 Orontes! . Vere fruor sem~er, Truly I always feed. Thu & ir2~ Vp& JV ~ arepLdv duo TO2J lrpra/3VTaTOV arparyyo~ [a-qze2awOov, And let two of the oldest generals take care of each others flanks. N6jzo~ roiJg ~v & youra~ dtd6vat i-~ ~3aetAei, ro(~ 6~ ~ (,~ovut dtd6vat rbv /3eatA[a, A custom that those who had anythin~ should. give it to the king, and that those who had nothing should give it to the queen. This evidently refers to the mon- arch who was in his parlour counting out his money, whose queen, for want of some- thing to count, amused herself with bread and honey. When Greek meets Greek then comes the tug of war, but the pre- ceding show that when the simple meet Greek much the same may be looked for in the battle-field of the form-room. And they, do not make much more of Latin, as witness the next elegant extracts. Vic- tory was worshipped at Rome under the form of a feathered (alat~) virgin. Zn- signis Turuns, Ensign Turner. Durn tizyazo ~ scun/ur apes, While monkeys are fed on thyme. Ra~ien/ibus esseda mannzs, The chariot with captivated cobs. In what they are pleased to call composition, the simple are equally amusing, e.g., These birds have long tails, HeR ayes Zongce sunt fundamen- los. She came with bare feet and di- shevelled hair, Nuda caj5ut z~eni/, se- lam d~Pisaque nzgram. The next is from an original copy of verses entitled Via/ores: ter sol crelo dimoverat umbras, Ex quo M~c~nas escis compleverat alvum. Take again a few answers given by the siml)le : Q. What is the difference between -ne and net A. Ne enclitic is used for a proper question: the other ne for an improper question. Q. A nnus (year) properly means a ring. What does annulus mean? A. Ear-ring. Q. Mention a comedy by Shake- speare. A. The Taming of the Mole. Q. Why was Metellus called Cal- vus? A. Because he was such a calf. Q. At the Comitia Curiata the patri- cians met in their ? A. Togas. It is not often that a joke is to be got out of a Euclid lesson, but we remember a master asking for a dePnition of a circle, and being answered by a pupil, who de- scribed a ring in the air with his forefin- ger, ejaculating, A dodge like. We will take our leave of the simple with Variations on Allan Cunningham, i.e., a part of a favourite lyric, introducing the various blunders made under dictation by a form of small boys : A wet sheep and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like an evil free, Away the good sheep flies, and leaves An old man on the lea. While the hollow oak our parish is the last line is too profane for quotation. 4. The Careless. Under this head come a 4arge proportion of schoolboys. The careless are, generally speaking, boys whose form-affairs, so to put it, are at a low ebb; whose credit with their master is as nearly run out as is their masters forbearance with them; boys whose position is becoming desperate, and who do not shrink from wild statements and violent imaginings, because at any risk theymust make an effort to improve their condition. The careless stick at nothing. They make their wildest shots when questions are being rapidly passed round the form. 46 DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. What is meant by much kine ?is asked. One of the careless promptly answers, Male cows. 9. Who was Herods son? A. Herodotus. 9. Derive an English word from Necto, I bind. A. Neck-ties 9. A word derived from d2L2~totv. A. Alleluja. 9. We do not speak of Enochs as- cension, but of his ? A. Transportation. 9. What was the comparafive dura- tion of the kingdoms of Judah and Is- rael? A. Their comparative duration was long. 9. What were the three principal Jewish feasts? A. Purim, Urini, and Thummim. 9. What was the eastern boundary of Samaria? A. The Jordan. 9. And the western? A. The other side of Jordan. 9. For what god was St. Paul taken at Lystra? A. Venus. 9. What fruit did Aarons rod bear? A. A kind of plum. 9. What Italian poet did Surrey im- itate? Ans. i. Plutarch, leading to Ans.2, Pluto. Now for specimens of translations by the careless : Ca?sar duodecim millia i5assuum hac node ~rogressus e.rt, C~esar this night marched twelve million miles. This his- torical fact was received with perfect equanimity by the remainder of the form in whose presence it was propounded. A boy put a ready repartee, on the tu quoque principle, into the mouth of his teacher by translating Dira virofacies, You will make an awful man.. Phi Zzj5~5us Nea~oliest, Philip is Napoleon. ~i %atp AO{tvi~, xaipe Atoyrv~ rbwov, 0 hail Athene, daughter of Diogenes! Dc- format faciem non una cicatrir, Not a single cockatrice shows its ugly head. Pecori vago, The wandering peccary. As~ice bis senos cycnos, Behold two old poets such flowers of translation are culled from the careless. It was evi- dently one of the same desperate race who wrote, under dictation, this version of a stanza of Tennysons on Milton: Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starred from Jehovahs gorgeous armouries, Tower, as the deep-domed Epicurean Rings to the roar of an angel onset. The last word of line three, of course, should be empyrean. From the same class came he who, giving the rule for prepositions governing the ablative, pro- duced this new version of the concluding lines : His super, subter, sub, addemus, Et in, de statu Nicodemus, where for Nicodemus the Public- School Latin Primer gives si dicein us. 5. A large class is that of the f?on- ceited~i~grnorant, productive of rich fruit in the way of scholastic facetice. From his- tory papers by the conceited-ignorant we select a few examples of their involuntary witticisms : 9. What were the causes of the great rebellion? A. The causes of the great rebellion were the excommunication of England by the pope, the pulling down of churches by the Commonwealth, and then the king- dom rang with the cry No popery. 9. What do you know of Milton as an author? A. Miltons pen laboured in the reign of Charles, and he wrote Paridise Lost and Paridise Found. 9. Define democracy. A. Government by dukes and dea- cons. 9. What was the end of Tiberius Gracchus? A. He was dragged out of the Senate- House by a beagle and murdered. 9. State what you know about Mith- ridates. A. Mithridates was clever and used to write poems, some of which are very beautiful. 9. Give an account of Cromwells continental policy. A. Cromwell was a kind father and husband, and had nine children. 0. What was the origin of the Church of England? A. Sir Martin Luther introduced Christianity into England. 9. Explain alto brake his scull. A. This perhaps is a little confusing to uneducated minds now, but was a com- mon phrase in the time when the Bible was translated. Jael drove the tent-peg into Siseras head, in order that she mzg~ht break his scull. 9. What was the end of Pausanias? A. Pausanias was killed by a young man, who was chaste and ran away. DIVERSIONS OF A PEDAGOGUE. The following is also from a history paper by a conceited-ignorant: In the reign of Charles II. no one was allowed to hold a high position in the army or navy or in the Church. Consequently Bucking- ham and others had to leave, because they did not belong to the Church. Habeas Corpus Act was that no one need stay in prison longer than he liked. The next is from an essay on York: There is something that it is noted for called the Euburacum of the Roman period. It is also noted for its cathedral, which is built in the most Gothic eficial stile in the world. Of Durham we are told that it is celebrated as the place where the Ven- erable Archdeacon Beed died. So much for the conceited-ignorant. Only one class now remains, viz. : 6. The Eccentric. This class of boy exhibits perhaps more involuntary displays of humour than any other. The eccentric are boys who, seem to suffer from an ob- liquity of mental vision. They see more in words than is meant. A thing goes into their heads one thing and comes out quite another. They are caught by a sim- ilarity of sound or form in words. One expression reminds them of another, for which it is at once mistaken. The eccen- tric are never dullards : they show very often a considerable amount of a perverse kind of ingenuity, as may be seen in their translations, e.g. k~O~3l y)p 4 iriovra ,tnrpvia re,cvo~ ro rcpoo0, eAyli)i~ o~ckv 4irtcoi-i pa. For hateful is the stepmother who drinks before her children, and nothing is more soothing than an adder. The next specimen points to a more primitive state of things than Xenophon meant to describe, oi5rot diX qs6 rarot 4aav, icai el~ zctp~ic 4eaav, These men were very warlike, and went on their hands. Dido vento reditura secundo, Dido soon to return with her second wind. Effigies veterum avorurn, Likenesses of old birds. This would seem to be a disre- spectful way of speaking of the great men of old. Nulla mora est, No woman is a character. Was this rendering sug- gested by Popes malicious line Most women have no character at all? One of the eccentric, meeting with the words Rornul s ~ro~e-r~vi~ (the verb being thus divided at the end of the line), produced as the meaning, Romulus near- ly talked himself hoarse. AJihil tarn volucre est guam ~~~ledict~nis ingen- iously rendered, Nothing is so fowl as 47 slander. The blind ~Edipus says to An- tigone, ar4a6vjw ic4Thdlpvaov, d~ ~ir& O4ueGa OWOV irot not meaning to express himself in such a despairing way as one of the eccentric imagined, when he translated, Place me and put me in a sitting posture, that we may moulder wherever we are. The next is rather wild : Purpureos quoties deperdit terra colores, Formosas quoties populus alba comas! How often is the earth discoloured with blood! I-tow often have handsome people grey hair. We give a few more translations by the eccentric : dvu~bt?o)~ KaT OtKOV 74IVTaL yvv4, The use- less woman sweats about the house. Ipsique in pu~5j5ibus auro ductores late effulgent, os/rogue decori, The captains themselves glitter from afar, decorated with gold and purple on their sterns. El penitus toto divisos orbe Britan- nos, And the Britons with tails sepa- rated from the whole world. Ter circum Iliacos raptaverat Hectora muros, Hector had caught three hundred Trojan mice. Paterarn grave;n, A heavy father. Sno lateri assidere jussit, He ordered him to sit down on his tile. Sequitur non passibus aguis, (i) He follows with impassive horses, (2) Through rough passes. Si adeptusforet, If he had been adaptedfor it. Q uos ego dilexi fraterno more sodales, Companions that I have loved more than a brother. Trej5idos cives, Three-footed citi- zens. Ccesar cohmortatus suos, C~esar having drawn up his men into cohorts. Pilumnnusgue ihhi guartus paler, And Pilumnus his four father. Mille habet ornatus, mille decenter habet, She wears a thousand adornments, she wears one thousand two hundred. Duratcegue solo nives, And snows hardened by the sun. Dura navis, Dura fug~ mala, dura belli, The hard ship, and the hardship of flight and war. Regio victu algue cultu vitarn age- bant, They lived in a conquered and cultivated land. Vitaverat ;norte;n, He had survived death. Pr~esentemque viris intentant omnia mortem, And all things portend immediate death by poison. 48 Sedesque discre/as tiorurn, Re- served seats for the pious. oi~ aO~vw ~r6ot, I do not groan for my husband. Le mule romain i/alt de miMe 15as, The Roman mile was not a mile. It is chiefly in translations such as these that the eccentric show their wit. Now and then they are good in composition, as thus, lie complained that he was ill-used, Questus est se iliusum esse. He swears that this is true, Damnat hcec vera esse. Sometimes they are good as catechu- mens, e~g. Q. What is a dependent sentence? A. One that hangs on by its clause. Q. Derive Pontzftx. A. From Eons, a bridge, as we say Arek bishop. The following character of Gideon will repay examination. It is curiously ingenious, though very absurd. Gideon was a true unbelieving Jew. Still he was a good man, thou0h rather idolatrous. This random~ collection of scholastic jests shall be concluded with two remarks. One has been made before, viz., that a large majority of these face/ice are to the writers knowledge genuine. He believes them all to be so, and has refrained from adding to the list others, the genuineness of which, though perhaps not doubtful, is not within his own personal knowledge. Who shall say, then, that a schoolmasters life can never be amusincr? Secondly, these jokes lose much of their flavour when thus printed one after an- othcr. Think how refreshing to the wearied examiner, sitting up half the nibht to look over papers, to come now and then across an oasis of this kind in the desert of stupidly correct or stupidly incorrect performances. In form, too, think how much the humour of the thing is enhanced by the innocent, or puzzled, or conceited, or sheepish, or desperate look of the vic- tim as he utters his follies. Think how tickling the inappropriateness, the semi- impropriety, of these utterances in a scene where a certain amount of decorum must be observed, and then consider whether the hours spent by a schoolmaster in school have not their amusing side. He is like some of the books he uses. He combines amusement with instruction. J. H. RAVEN. From Frasers Magazine. A MONKS DAILY LIFE. WE have all some faint poetical, picto- rial, or theatrical notion of monks. Ribe- ra at the National Gallery shows us how They prayed with wan faces, half-darkened with the shadowing cowl. Sir Walter Scott has sketched them in a hundred picturesque ways before altars and beside graves. Novelists have given us many a good monk, and checkmated us with many a wicked one. In volume after volume we have had the murderous monk, the rob- ber monk, the hermit monk, the bibulous monk, the felonious monk, and the poison- ing monk, and yet, after all, we know very little how monks really lived, or how they spent their hours. We are apt to forget that the duties of monastic life were very varied that there was scope in the abbey and the priory for intellects of all degrees that there were as many sorts of employment within a monastery as there are in a modern factory, and that monastic establishments were, as a rule, admirably governed, and conducted in a business-like way. Let us take, first, the sacristan. It was his duty to provide bread and wine, and wax li~hts for the high altar and the chan- try chapels. He kept a tun of wine at a time in.his exchequer, which was some- times (as in Durham Cathedral) in the aisle of the church. He had to go his rounds daily, see to the great stained glass windows, and inspect the leaden roof; he had also to mind that the bells were sound, and the bell-ropes safe, and he attended the scrubbing and wash- inn of the church. He spent many hours, we may be sure, on roof and tower, and in the dusty belfry among the bells, with none but the whirling martins witness of his peering watchfulness. The sacristan had also the responsible duty of nightly pacing nave and aisle, and locking up the keys of every shrine, which were required to be laid ready for the priests of each altar between seven and eight A. M. Severe punctilious men, no doubt, these sacristans were, with a due sense of the rich jewels and golden plate of the altars they locked up, and never tired of turning their torches or lanterns on dark corners where fel6ns mi~ht lurk in ambush for gem-adorned pix or gilded chalice. To the sacristan the bishop, on his installation, always solemnly confided the great keys of the cathedral. Then there was the chamberlain, some- times a prebendary, who provided the A MONKS DAILY LIFE. A MONKS DAILY LWE. 49 linsey-wolsey shirts and sheets for the monks. He kept tailors at work, to make their woollen socks and underclothing; he was overseer over the dormitory, and kept it supplied with beds, linen, and towels; he found shoes and gowns for the monks; and provided for the accommoda- tion of that ceaseless flood of guests who poured into monasteries in the ages before hotels. The cellarer was a red-faced person, more busy with pots and pans than psalm- book or breviary addicted to diving into subterranean cellars, and coming up repeating a holy text and wiping his blush- ing lips; he had charge of all the brim- ming granaries, bursting store-houses, and odorous cellars of the monastery. It was he who solemnly doled out flour to the bake-house, malt to the brewery, salt meat to the kitchen, cheese, ~vine, and beer tothe refectory, hay to the stables, and wood to the ovens; and he had many obsequious, grumbling, and thirsty servants under him. The hospitalarius (hostler) presided in the guest-hall, and attended to the wants of pilgrims, and, in deed, of all strangers. To the almoner was confided the dis- tribution of the loaves and other alms of the monastery to the jostling and quar- relling poor. Every cathedral was trustee for endless bequests of this kind. There was also the pittancer, who gave out all pittances or bequests for extra allowances and indulgences to the brotherhood, on the seven great festivals or the anniversaries of founders, when the convent held back its regular commons. To quote Mr. Val- entine Green, the pittancer was, in aca- demic phrase, the furnisher of the gaud- ies. The pittancer had also a good deal of country riding, for all the live cattle of the convent were under his care. The priors chaplain had, besides his prayers, to act as steward to the prior. He received all the broad gold pieces paid to the prior by his tenants and purchased for him his fur robes, his pouches, shoes, and general raiment. He had to look after the hall-furniture, and to see that the priors servants were honest, diligent, and good-tempered. He sometimes kept the priors plate and treasure, and, in such cases, always gave it out and personally received it again. He had the right to engage and pay off all the priors gentle- men and yeomen, and it was his duty to discharge (when he could) all the priors debts. There was often attached to a monas- tery an officer who was called the master of the common room. His duty (in Dur LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 628 ham Priory) was to provide figs, nuts, and spices to comfort and console the diges- tions of the monks when worn out by the prayers and austerities of Lent, and to keep constant fire in the common room, so that the brothers might warm them- selves whenever they pleased. It was his duty to always have a hogshead of wine ready for the use of the brothers, especially for the 0 Sag5ientia, or an- nual festival between Martinmas and Christmas, when the prior and convent were modestly feasted on cakes and ale. But, leaving the farm-servants, the shepherds, the swineherds, the red-faced cooks, etc., we must pass to the convent barber. Whether he was as nimble, gos- siping, and sly as Figaro; or whether he was subdued by the cloister gloom into a sort of mere humble ecclesiastic, quite chapfallen, without joke or jibe, except in surreptitious whispers to younger brothers, we know not, but this is certain, that all his avocations were not of the liveliest, for in some monasteries at least it was his province to act as undertaker and grave-digger to the whole convent. It was his special duty, we are told, for instance, when a grave and reverend prior died to put boots on the corpse and to wind it in a cowl. He had to remove the body, immediately after death, from the priors lodgings to the terrible apartment in the infirmary called the dead mans chamber. The night before a funeral, the barber with assistants helped to re- move the body again from the dead mans chamber to a chapel opposite, where it was watched all night by the alms-chil- dren of the convent, who read Davids Psalms over the waxen corse, while the monks sat bowed at its feet mourning silently. The next morning there was a solemn funeral service in the chapter room, amid fumes of incense and waving censers, and then the sable procession moved on in funeral march, through the priors parlour into the cemetery garth of the monastery, where many previous priors, good and bad, lay under their grand marble stones. The barber had to take due care to lay on the priors cold breast a silver or wax en chalice, and his own bed was generally held over the body by four monks, up to the edge of the grave. The tumbary had care of the tombs, and probably received and accounted for the offerings on the various shrines. This post was in the gift of the bishop. The precentor or chanter was a very pope among the chorister-boys. He had the direction of the whole choral service. 50 A MONKS DAILY LIFE. He provided the missals and anthem-books, the chapel, and the watchful tumbarius and saw to the repair of the organs. He were called oLAientaries, and were the was also the librarian and reoistrar of the principal fixed officers of the monastery b convent, penned warrants and letters for under the prior. Imagine any morning of the chapter, and had custody of the ab- the week, at the same hour, the sacristan bey seal. The precentor had also the counting out hu,~e candles for a Candle- supervision of the scriptorium or tran- mas festival, the chamberlain giving out scribing-room (in Worcester, a glazed-in robes to the monks, the almoner doling part of the cloister) where the novices his alms to a hungry crowd, the pittancer copied MSS~ There is at present, in the buying his fowls and pigeons for a gaudy library of Benet College, Cambridge, a day, the coquinarius cutting up a fat deer, very fine manuscript Bible in folio on vel- the infirmarius feeling the pulse of a sick lum, clearly and beautifully written, which brother, the barber shaving a long-locked was copied in Worcester scriptorium in novice, the tumbarius watching the repair the reign of Henry II. The salary of a of a knights tomb, and oiir readerh will precentor, prior to 1314, was about 40s. see that the monkslife was neither a dull, per annum. a monotonous, nor an idle one, and that At Worcester there was also a magister there was scope in a monastery for many capell~, who it is supposed presided over tastes, tempers, and degrees of intellect. the priests of the chapels in the cathe- The monks life, we hold from these dral, particularly St. Marys and the in- facts, was by no means necessarily an in- firmary. active one. If no student, and incapable The bell-ringers were sometimes em- of unceasing return to prayer and praise, ployed in cleaning the church, and taking the energetic monk had many openings care of the church - vestments and the for his surplus energy. He could sweep church-plate. They slept over the vestry, the church or toll the great bells; he or in some little rooms leading out of the could learn masonry, and study the struc- aisles. It was the care of these men to ture of those beautiful arches which he brush those great masses of cloth-of-bold helped to raise; or if of a financial turn and rich coloured needlework which were there were the prior s accounts to keep worn by the abbots and bishops of the and rents to~regulate. He could cook, or Middle Ages, and to polish those bowls brew, or wash, or dig, or build; he could and chalices that were sent by wagon- work in the orchards or assist in the ab- loads to the goldsmiths furnace at the hots stables; he could drive the plough Reformation. or wield the axe; he could visit the poor Of the social importance of the coqui- or tend the leper at the gate; he could narius or kitchener no one can dispute who lend the infirmary help, dig a grave, or knows how often, when other vices are make the robes of the brethren; he could checked, the old Adam breaks out in glut- fish for the convent, or tend the fowls tony. That fact is seen every day among and turkeys. For the studious in those temperance~~ missionaries. The coqui- wild times, the convent library must haVe narius had to roast the venison haunch, been a foreshadow of p. radise; there devise the subtleties of the dessert for they could pore over the subtleties of On- the abbot, and frame the marchpanes and gen, or the glories of him of the golden scented delicacies of powdered almond in mouth; they could spend years over the fashion in the Middle Ages. It appears inexhaustible fathers; or could knot their from the records of Evesham Abbey that brains with theological difficulties. The he also marketed and bought meat and ambitious could study the various modes fish for the convent. He probably also of attaining ecclesiastical power, and the hired the inferior cooks, and ruled the enthusiast could think himself into trances whole hot region of the kitchen with a rod such as had visited the saints of whom he of iron, the spit. read. Those important officers the stern The monastery treasury, the novices sub - prior, the pompous sacristan, the school, and the singing-school were fre- red-f aced cellarer, the~polite chamberlain, quently situated in the cloister, or very the courteous hospitalarius, the mild al- near where the dormitory door opened. moner, the cheery pittancer, the jolly co- The rap of the ferule and the cries of the quinarius, the mournful infirmarius (who boys, were less disturbing there in the superintended the sick monks, provided long arched walk where the studious and physic and a11 necessaries, and washedthe contemplative loved to pace till thefr and dressed the bodies for burial), the en- feet hollowed out the very stones. The thusiastic precentor, the stately master of abbey treasure was sometimes stored over A MONKS DAILY LIFE the gate-houses. The treasury was grated with iron and had a well-locked and bolted iron door. The chief furniture within was a table of green cloth for telling the money on, whether tenants rents or pil- grims gifts. In this treasury was kept the chapel-seal, the deeds and law-papers of the monastery, and also the deeds of gentlemen near the town who thought them safer there than in their own houses. -The cloister porter prevented strangers interrupting the novices in their school, and the singing-classes in theirs. Prayers were. read daily at six AM. in the cloister school, except on Sundays and holidays. The dormitory frequently opened on one side of the cloister. Here the tired monks came to dream of saints and mar- tyrs, and sometimes no doubt of ghastly temptations that excelled even St. An- - thonys wildest nightmares. Amon~ the Benedictines at least every monk in the convent dormitory had a little chamber to himself, with a window towards the chap- ter-house. Each room contained a desk and supply of books. The dormitory at Worcester was 120 feet long and 6o feet wide, a vaulted stone roof being supported by five large pillars. It was at first an open hall, presenting to the eye of the sub-prior, who was keeper of the dormitory, the whole range of beds at one view. In later ages the monks had their cells divided, in strict convents monks slept in all their day-clothes, not even removing their girdles. The spital or lodging for poor travellers and pilgrims was sometimes over one of the gates of the cloister. - The novices dormitory also faced the doister, and every novice had a chamber to himself. At each end of the long dor- mitory there were often a dozen cressets or fire-baskets burning, to light the monks when they arose more or less reluctantly. Every night, at a certain hour, the sub- priors footsteps were heard on the stairs, it being the custom for him to see that every cell contained its monk, that peace and good-will prevailed, and that there was no dicing, carding, or brawling going on. The sub-prior generally sat at dinner and supper with the brethren, and when supper was over, and the bell rang for grace, which was abNays repeated mod- estly by one of the novices, the sub-prior then rose and left the head of the table, and went to the chapter-house to meet the prior, and spend the time with him in pvayer and devotion till six oclock. At -that hour a bell, no doubt much detested 5;i by the novices, rang, and all the doors of cells, frater-house, dormitory and cloister were at once locked, and the keys deliv- ered to the sub-prior, not to be surren- dered by him to the punctual janitor till seven oclock the next morning. The monks dining-hall, sometimes called the loft, was above the convent cel- lar. The meal was served from the great kitchen in through the dresser-window. A novice mounted a pulpit and read from the Gospels while the brethren dined. Imme- diately after dinner the novices in some convents rose and xvent to the garden or the bowling-alley, where their master at- tended to preserve order and decorum. Then the older monks ascended add paced through the cloisters under the priors lodgings to the quiet cemetery garth, where the dead lay, and there stood bare- headed for a space, praying softly among the grassy and mossy tombs for the souls of their past brethren. It was a pious cus- toi~, though no doubt among unworthy brothers and in lukewarm times, it some- times became a mere burdensome for- niula. Good monks must always have been numerous we know; still what a picture Chaucer gives us of the monks of Edward III. s reign! What sensual , guzzlin0 cat~ tle he makes the monks and friars, and their greedy retainers the summoners. Stewards for the poor! Stomachs only for fat capon and stubble goose. How they canter about and philander and hawk, and bellow forth ribald jests; no more serving God than the lowest attorney does who grinds down the widow and orphan to make his bread. No devotion among them; no abnegation of self, only the pride of Belial and gross sensual indulgence. Servants of Christ, indeed! rather slaves of Asmodeus and Mammon. Look at the monk in the Canterbury pilgrimage, who loved drinking, and had many a dainty horse in his stable; and when he rode, the jin~ling bells on his bridle sounded as clear and loud in the whistling wind as the bell of the monks own chapel. This was the precioua monk who let old things go, and who held fast and close to the mere world, the flesh, and the devil. The saying that hunters are not holy men he qared no more for than for a pullet hen. He was an arrant prick~ spur, and had greyhounds swift of foot after the hare, and for them he spared no money. He was no sackcloth-wearing gril~y monk. He was a dandy. His sleeves were trimmed at the hand with the finest fur in the land, and a curious pin of 52 A MONKS DAILY LIFE. gold, fashioned like a love-knot, fastened the humbugs hood under his chin. His bald head shone like glass, his face glowed as if it had been anointed, for he was a fat lord and in good case, his deep-sunk eyes rolled in his head, that steamed as a fur- nace of lead. His boots were supple, his nut-brown palfrey was in first-rate order. He was not pale like a tormented ghost, this worthy monk, but loved a roast swan before any dish. Nor is the friar who rode near this monk one whit nobler or purer. He, too, was riding in the district where he had license to beg. Many a marriage he had paid for at his own cost, and is hand-in- glove with half the rich franklins (gentle- men farmers) in his country, and also with many women. He was a licentiate of his order; pleasant was his absolution and. easy his penance, and he used to boast that he had more power to confess than the curate himself. The great sign of re- pentance with him was a good gift: some silver to the poor friars was in his opinion worth all the tears ever shed. His tippet was stuffed full of pretty little presents for fair wives. He sang and played well. His neck was as white as a lily, he was stalwart as a champion, and in every town well he knew the taverns, and cared more for sly hostler and gay tapster than poor leper or shivering beggar. He cared not for such cattle, but preferred rich men and sellers of vitaille; and yet this rogue he could be courteous and deprecating, and was avowedly the best beggar in all his house. If a poor widow had only one shoe he would get a farthing out of her, on arbitration days. H~ was no poor cloisterer with threadbare cope, like a poor scholar, but he looked a very pope; his semicope was of double worsted, and for very wan- tonness he lisped To make his English sweet upon his tongue; and when he harped and he sang his eyes twinkled in his head like stars on a frosty night. Then how dark Chaucers colours grow when he sketches that tool of the monks, the rascally summoner. Look at him, with his fire-red pimply cherubim head. His coarse brows are thick, and his beard scurvy and thin. Quicksilver, litharge, brimstone, borax, ceruse, and oil of tartar, nothing could cure those pimples. Right well loved this summoner onions, leeks, and garlic; and right well he relished the strong wines red as blood. Then he would shout as he were mad, and when the wine was well in his head not a word would he speak. Doubtless he had a few phrases that he had learned out of some decree, and as a jay can chatter, and aye Q~ices- lb quid~uris would he cry. Yet he was a good worthy fellow, and for a quart of wine would pardon many an offence. He had at his control the youth of the diocese, and was in their councils. This worthy summoner wore a garland on his head, as large as for a maypole, and he carried a big cake for a buckler. Then, ye honest but misguided Ritual- ists, only read Chaucers description of the pardoner (seller of indulgences) who rides beside the summoner. He was just fresh from Rome, and sang loudly the popular love-ditty, Come, hither, love, to me, and to that ditty the summoner sang in deep chorus. The pardoner had yellow hair that hung smooth as flax over his shoulders. He wore no hood, but kept it in his wallet; and rode bare and dishev- elled. His eyes stared like a hares; he had got a handkerchief from Rome mirac- ulously stained with the figure of Christ; his wallet lay on his lap, brimful of par- dons hot from the pope. His voice was small as a goats; he had no beard, his chin was smooth as it were new-shaven. Yet after all there was no pardoner like him from Berwick to Ware. In his mail he carried a pillow-case, which he said was Our Ladys veil, and he swore that he had a fragment of the sail of the boat in which Saint Peter went uoon the sea of Galilee to meet Christ. He had a brass cross, full of sham stones, and in a glass he kept pigs bones. With these remark- able relics, whenever he found a credulous poor person, he got more money in a day than the parson got in two months; and thus with flattery and humbug he made the parson and his people his puppets. But, after all, says the inimitable old poet, he was in church a noble ecciesiast. He could read well a lesson or a story, and best of all he sang the offertory, for that was what brou~ht in the silver, and therefore he sang merry and loud indeed. That our poets satire had a foundation in observed facts we cannot possibly doubt; though a satirical picture is far from being a representation of the whole truth. The following extracts from the rules of the grey or Francisian friars serve very well to show the original high ideal of the order. The treatment of candidates wives is perhaps somewhat monastic in its severity, but how can men know the charm of ties which they have never felt? The many possible abuses hinted at A MONK S DAILY LIFE. 53 prove to us the evils to which the system had given rise. i. They are to keep the holy gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ living in obedience, with- out anything they can call their own, and in chastity. Brother Francis promises obedience and respect to our Lord Pope N. and his successors canonically promoted, and to the Church of Rome. And the other brothers shall be obliged to obey Brother Francis, and his successors. 2. The provincial ministers alone shall re- ceive candidates for admission into the order, and shall examine them diligently as to the Catholick faith and ecclesiastical sacraments. And if they believe all these things, and will faithfully confess and observe the same to the end, and that they have no wives, or if they have, their wives will also go into monasteries, or else they give them leave, having made a vow of continency, by the authority of the bishop of the diocese; and that the wives are of such an age as that there may be no cause to suspect them; let them pronounce to them the word of the holy gospel, viz., that they go and sell all that they have, and take care to bestow the same on the poor, which, if they cannot do, their goodwill shall suffice. 6. All the brothers are to be clad in mean habits, and may blessedly mend them with sacks and other pieces; whom I admonish and exhort that they do not despise or censure such men as they see clad in curious and gay garments, and using delicate meats and drinks, but rather let every one judge and despise himself. 8. The brethren are to be meek, peaceable, modest, mild, and humble. 9. They are not to ride unless some mani- fest necessity or infirmity oblige them. 10. Whatsoever house they go into they shall first say, Peace be unto this house; and according to the gospel, it shall be lawful for them to eat of all meats that are set before them. ii. I firmly enjoin all the brothers that they upon no account receive any money, either by themselves or by a third person. How- eVer, to supply the necessities of the sick, and for clothing of the other brothers, special care shall be taken by means only of the ministers particular friends, and the guardians, accord- ing to times and places, and cold countries, as they shall find necessity requires; saving always, as has been said, that they receive no money. 21. The brothers are strictly commanded to keep no suspicious company, or to be familiar with women, or to go into the monasteries of nuns, excepting those who have special license granted them from the See Apostolick. NQr that they do not become gossips of nuns or women, lest upon this account there arise any scandal among the brethren or upon the brothers. The Benedictines were obliged to per- form their devotion seven times within four-and-twenty heurs. At cock-crowing, or the NOcTURNALS: this service was per- formed at two oc1ock in the morning. The reason for pitching upon this hour was taken partly from Davids saying, and partly from a tradition of our Say- iours rising from the dead about that time. MATINS: these were said at the first hour, or according to our computa- tion, at six oclock. At this time the Jew- ish morning sacrifice was offered. The angels likewise were supposed to have acquainted the women with our Saviours resurrection about this time. The TIERcE: which was at nine in the morning, when our Saviour was condemned and scourged by Pilate. The SEXTE, or twelve at noon. The NONES, or three in the. after- noon: at this hour it is said our Saviour gave up the ghost; besides which circum- stance, it was the time for public prayer in the temple of Jerusalem. VESPERS at six in the afternoon; the evening sacri- fice was then offered in the Jewish tem- ple, and our Saviour is supposed to have been taken down from the cross at this hour. The COMPLINE: this service was performed after seven, when our Saviours agony in the garden, it is believed, begun. The monks going to bed at eight had six hours to sleep before the NOCTURNE be- gan; if they went to bed after that serv- ice it was not, as we understand, reck- oned a fault, but after matins they were notallowed that liberty. At the tolling of the bell for prayers the monks were im- mediately to leave off their business; and herein the canon was so strict, that those who copied books, or were clerks in any business, and had begun a text-letter were not allowed to finish it. Those who were employed abroad about the business of the house were presumed to be present and excused other duties; and that they might not suffer by being elsewhere they were particularly recommended to the divine protection. The monks were obliged to go always two together; this was done to guard their conduct, and to prompt them to good thoughts, and furnish them with a witness to defend their be- haviour. From Easter to Whitsuntide the primitive Church observed no fasts; at other times the religious were bound to fast till three oclock on Wednesdays and Fridays, but the twelve days in Christ- mas were excepted in this canon. Every day in Lent they were enjoined to fast till six in the eVening. During this so- lemnity they shortened their refreshment, allowed fewer hours for sleep, and spent A MONKS DAILY LIFE. 54 more time in their devotions; but they On their entry into their order these alms- were not permitted to .go into voluntary men gave their beads to be consecrated, austerities without leave from the abbot. and then swore to sacredly observe all the They were not to talk in the refectory at secrets of the monastery. meals, but hearken to the Scriptures read The monks service of the canonical to them at that time. The septimarians, hours originally consisted of eight divi- so called from their weekly offices of read- sions, four for night and four for day, but ers, waiters, cooks, etc., were to dine by in the Saxon times they were reduced to themselves after the rest. Those who seven, to follow Psalm cxix., verse 164 were absent about business had the same Seven times a day I praise thee, and hours of prayer prescribed, though not the partly perhaps to reduce the labour. At same length of devotion. Those sent matins were said the Paternoster, Ave abroad, and expected to return at night, Maria, Credo, the Invitatorum of the day were forbidden to eat till they came home; and its psalms. On double and semi- but this canon was sometimes waived, double feasts nine psalms with their anti- In the case of monks there were many phons and verses, with as many lessons modes resorted t& to evade the rules. and eight responses. Lauds consisted of The language of signs was adopted, and a hymn, Te Deurn, the psalms of the day, a perfect system of the motions of the the Capitulum, hymn, canticles, and Bene- hands was as thoroughly systematized in dictus with its antiphon. Prime, thirds, convents as among our modern deaf and sixths, and nones had all their special dif- dumb. A horizontal wave of the hand in- ferences. The choral regulations of Os- dicated a fish; a movement of the finger mund, Bishop of Salisbury, who compiled and thumb, like turning over a leaf, read- a general rubric with all necessary details ing, etc. of the choral service, became generally From the laws of Worcester, Lincoln, used in English cathedrals, so that the, and Gloucester, we gather that certain ex- Bishop of Salisbury claimed the privilege isting evils are implied by its being for- of acting as precentor to the college of bidden to monks to return to the refecto- bishops whenever the Archbishop of Can- ry from the dormitory to drink and gossip. terbury celebrated divine service. No woman was to be introduced into the The rules of Sarum required ~ll clerks, infirmary without special license from the without exception, to wear black copes snb-prior. Immoderate potations were during the whole year, except on double forbidden there, proving that they some- feasts, when there were processions. On times did take place in that locality. No the vigil of Easter, when the Gloria in brother was allowed, unless in presence Excelsis burst forth, the clerks, after of his officer, to eat elsewhere when he making their genufiexions, threw off their had once dined or supped in the refectory. black copes, and appeared in white sur- Any brother who had a double pittance of plices. The same custom also prevailed food was allowed to sell or give it away at the vigil of Pentecost. At all single without license from the sub-prior. There feasts from Easter to Michaelmas sur- was always to be reading-at meals, and no plices were, worn in choir and at all hours. speaking but in a low voice, or in Latin; The regulations of the choir were always and on fish days no. extra refreshments to wear silk copes and red habits on both were to be taken out, of the refectory ex- feasts of the Iloly Cross, and at every cept by the old or sick who had obtained feast of a martyr, also at all single feasts dispens~ttion. Monks being forbidden by durinn Lent, and on the Passion and Palm the Council of Vienna (Clement V.) to Sunday. hunt or hawk, no monk was to keep hunt- It is probable, from various allusions in ing dogs or birds of prey. All fine and monkish chronicles, that the elder and showy dresses were prohibited as a scan- superannuated monks were troublesome dal to religion, and unbecoming men of in convents, dictatorial, finding fault, and one brotherhood. frequently missing the daily sacrifice . The almsmen of a convent were gener- For such misconduct the offender had to ally old servants of the monastery or dis- receive his pardon in chapter, prostrate abled servants. There was usually a before the dean and canons; and if guilty prior appointed to overlook these alms- of disobedience and rebellion the offender men, who wore black gowns and hoods, was sometimes degraded from his state, given them every year on the Feast of St. and compelled to stand in humiliating John the Baptist. They carried large penance at the door of the choir behind rosaries, and had the arms of the monas- the dean, or in the choir amongst the low- tery broidered on their right shoulders. est of the boys. A MONK S DAILY LIFE. The consumption of candles in the old ~athedrals must have kept the wax-chand- lers the most devout of men. In the Sarum rules we find such directions as the following Ai~ong the duties of the treasurer, he is to provide on Advent Sunday, both at vespers and matins, and at mass, four wax lights namely, two above the altar, and two others on the step before the altar. The same on Palm Sunday. All other Sundays of the year, and ~vhenever the choir is regulated and the Invitatorum is said by two, he is to supply two others; at mass and on all Sundays, four; on Christmas-day, at ves- pers, and at mass, eight each of a pound at least about the altar; and two before the image of the Blessed Mary. At matins the same, and six besides, on the elevation before the relics and crucifix, and the images there placed; and on the chandelier corona~ before the step, five of half a pound at least. Five also are to be placed on the wall behind the desk for reading the lessons. The same is to be observed mall double feasts, with proces- sions, from Whitsuntide to the nativity of the Blessed Mary. The punishment of monks guilty of any offence was severe, but if the whole con- vent was committing the same crime, as often happened, they escaped all harm. At the weekly chapter an accuser would often stand up and say, I accuse Broth- er -~ of . The accused monk made no answer, but at once left his seat and advanced to the abbot, bowing. The accuser then simply stated his charge. If gl4ilty, the accused man at once asked pardon, and confessed his fault. If not guilty, he replied that he did not refnem- ber to have done what Brother af- firmed. The accuser bowed and returned to his seat, and then called the witnesses. A reprimanded monk stood in a central place in the room, called the judgment, and when the final sentence was pro- nounced he bowed and retired to his seat. If condemned to receive discipline, the culprit was sometimes stripped to the waist, seated in a chair, and then beaten with a rod. During the discipline the monks hung down their h eads. A hand- bell, according to Du Cange, was some- times hung behind the delinquent. For other offences convicted monks had to carry large lanterns for penance, stood with arms expanded in the form of the cross, or sat down on chairs in the middle of the choir, walked barefoot to the cross, repeated penitential psalms, and joined in penitentiary processions. For other of- -55 fences monks were banished from the dinner-table, sent to coventry, and com- pelled to publicly prostrate themselves. For extreme faults a keeper was appointed to the prisoner, and whenever th~ bell for divine service the culprit had to remain prostrate at the gate of the don- vent, and bow to every one who passed. As the order left the church the prostra- tion was renewed, and the monks, as they passed their abject brother, said each one, Lord, have mercy upon you. After various disciplines at several chapters, promise of amendment, and the interces- sion of his brothers, the offender was at last pardoned. In some cases a monk was sent to board at another convent for a certain term. In the lesser excommuni- cations the offenders had to fast on bread and water purposely defiled, or were kept in church during dinner till the abbot sent the prior to summon them. Among the amusements of the monks we must include the Feast of Fools and the Feast of Asses, when there was much noisy buffoonery and inconsistent horse- play, and they acted those religious plays which presented vivid pictures of bibli- cal events to the eyes of the poor. In these representations the monks pent-up minds found, as it were, a secret way to the drama. And now, after these brief scenes of monkish life, let us end with the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history. At the death of a monk the new~ of the event was at once forwarded to all nei~,hbouring religicius houses, of whatever order. The body was at once washed and clothed in the hood, cloak, and cowl, and carried to the church, the bearers singing psalms, and the bell toll- ing. There was no great delay about the funeral ceremonies; he was usually buried the day he died, after mass and before dinner. If it was found difficult to keep up the psalm-singing, the body was buried almost immediately. The ceremonies observed during the days vigil were numerous. A cross was placed at the head of the corpse, and lighted tapers stood at the head and feet on the breast was a chalice of wax or sil- ver; the body was anointed on a stone table in the infirmary, and it was censed by the deacon. The abbot absolved the corpse after a sermon to the chapter, si- lence was preserved in the cloister, the grave and corpse were sprinkled with holy water, and a written absolution was placed on the breast of the deceased. And so passed away the poor brother, A MONKS DAILY LIFE. in most cases only too well rid of this tearful and miserable world, and of an en- slaved and unnatural if not altogether wasted life. Whatever were the vices of those great armies of celibates who fought the battle of the Church during the Middle Ages, whatever their ambition, voluptuousness, gluttony, and avarice, their greatest en- emy must own that we owe them much for the learning they hoarded, the educa- tion they encouraged, the charity they dis- played, and the buildings they reared. Who can stand up and say that the build- ers of such churches as York Minster and Salisbury Cathedral were mere half- transmuted pagans? Was there no wor- ship of the soul in the men who reared that pile and raised those towers who hollowed those cloisters and carved those altars? It is not for us to point out the faults of those men. Who are we, to judge of their vices or their sins? It is a sufficient proof that the monastic system was a nec- essary phase of Christianity that the mo- nastic system existed. It was not the finger of a poor monk that could stop the rolling world. These convents were the fortresses of piety; their system was the reaction of sword-law, violence, and ra- pine. St. Bernard and King John, Ro- chester and Penn, St. Paul and Tiberius, Wesley and Wilkes, such are the typi- fied reactions of every age. The very pastimes of these men were useful to ourselves. From the madness of alche- my sprang modern chemistry; from the dreams of astrology the certainties of as- tronomy. Faraday and Chaucers Cheat with the Alembec, Galeotti and New- ton, had still something in common. To the monks scholastic theology we owe the preservation of Aristotle; and the labours of their copiers saved Homer and Plato from the tate of Ennius and Sappho. Their ideal was too perfect for our nature yet. They were the first missionaries and the first colonizers the defenders of the serf, the educators of the poor. The monk and the knight were necessary phases of a civilization dangerous and ridiculous only when their use was past. Every nation has given its art some pe- culiar attribute of divinity. That of the Mexican was terror, that of the Greek beauty, of the Egyptian repose, of the Assyrian power, of the monks love. Their faults were of their age. We should no more complain of St. Bernard preaching the crusade than. we should of Elizabeth fill- ing her prisons with the Jesuits, of Crom- well burning (he priest, or Calvin drown- ing the Anabaptist. For the majority of honest monks the convent was no doubt the whole world, and the cathedral a threshold of heaven. On that high altar, fifty years before, they had made their vow, by that altar they knelt on the eve of death; those huge windows, like the blazoned doors of para- dise, had cast ~on their choir-books half a century of light and shadow. By this shrine they knelt the day when Brother Jerome died. In that cloister they used to pace together, and the greenest spot in the garth is where he lies, waiting for his old comrades in good works. Those great bells in the tower for them had the voices of friends. Let us be satisfied by owning, then, that the monks were, after all, good and bad like other men, and that they led a more varied and useful life than has been generally imagined. It could not have been a wholly dissolute and selfish class from which such men as Chaucers good parson sprang. When we read of the dregs of the convent, let us not forget those beautiful lines which paint a man who might have been a friend of Gold- smiths honest vicar. A good man ther was of religioun, That was a poure persone of a town: But rich he was of holy thought and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche. Benigne. he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversite ful patient. Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder, But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, In sicknesse and in mischief to visite The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite. Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf, This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, That first he wrought and afterwards he taught. He was a shepherd and no mercenarie, And though he holy were, and vertuous, He was to sinful men not dispitious, Ne of his speche dangerous ne digne, But in his learning discrete and henigne. To drawen folk to heaven, with fairenesse, By good example was his h~sinesse: But it were any persone obstinat, What so he were of highe or low estat, Him xvolde he snibben sharply for the nones, A better priest I trowe that nowther non is. He waited after no pompe ne reverence, Ne maked him no spiced conscience, But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, HE TAUGHT, BUT FIRST HE FOLOWED IT HIaISELvE. W. T. MISQUOTATION. 57 From The Spectator. posed to the tedious process of verifica MISQUOTATION. tion. So we find him, in his last published WE have read somewhere of a young volume, making Wordsworth say , preacher who, after he had delivered an There was a roaring in the woods all night, eloquent sermon before a learned assem- bly, was beckoned aside by one of the when Wordsworth wrote in the wind fathers, who thus addressed him and when the word woods coming in a Mr. So-and-So, twice in your sermon to- rhyme immediately afterwards would have day you quoted Scripture, and oddly made it extremely awkward. A more un- enough, in both instances, you misquoted. fortunate instance still is his paraphrase You didnt alter the sense of the passages, of Tennysons famous lines to be sure, but you used a sort of off-hand The old order changes, giving place to the translation of your own, instead of the new, grand old Authorized Version. Take And God folfils himself in many ways, an old mans advice, and never do~ 50 the first line having lost all rhythm and again. When you quote from a writer, lapsed into awkward prose. whether sacred or profane, always be at But of all recent offenders Mrs. Charles the pains to verify the quotation. Mis- the accomplished author of The Schdn- quotation is not, however, limited to ener- berg-Cotta Family, who cunningly com- getic pulpiteers. In the hurry of modern bines a faint odour of Evangelicalism with requirements daily newspapers, maga- a zines, and reviews it has become rather certain mystical breadth, is decidedly tied by rule, among the worst. You can hardly open a an unfashionable thing to be book of hers but they leap into your eyes, and authors of repute, whose example may as the French say. She has furniture prove infectious, clearly do not conde- scend to verify, and often fall into danger- For common too bright and good ous forms of paraphrase. Emerson says natores daily food, that there are gre at ways of borrowing, which is hardly allowable, even though and that next to the originator of a good the copulative and be consciously used sentence is the first quoter of it ; but he for or, and common for human. cannot have meant to give any sanction Furniture as food is surely a refinement for a gypsy-like disfiguration in the pro- far beyond the native simplicity of Words- cess of transference. It is because things worth! Over and above her unques- have come to a very bad pass indeed, even tioned facility of misquotation, however, among those who should know better and this lady has an almost unique power of show better, that we venture to give a few theological perversion. When she is in samples, culled from a very long list of the very act of proving Gods oneness of recentoffences against all ethics of quota- presence through all events and through tion. all time, she makes Mr. Tennyson come Mrs. Oliphant, usually a very conscien- to her support, as if he spoke thus of tious writer, is far from blameless in this One divine event, matter. For example, one of the most unlucky of recent citations ran right For which the whole creation waits, through all the forms her pleasant Rose instead of in June enjoyed, and is now elevated That far-off, divine event, even to the glory of stereotype in the cheap To which the whole creation moves, edition. It is one of Tennysons finest lines. To dying eyes moving, and not waiting, being the idea she herself wishes to enforce. Worse still The casement slowly grows a glimmering if indeed worse could be is a case square; which has just come under our eye as we but to the dying eyes of Mr. Damerel, the, write, where she credits the laureate with rector, on his own statement, The hands which comefrom darkness The casement slowly grows, a glittering square, Moulding men, which really it could not well help be- instead of ing, and, moreover, the cruel comma after And out of darkness came the hands grows makes the line still more gro- That reach throogh nature, moulding men. tesque. The late Canon Kingsley was not seldom an offender in similar wise. His Her rendering is expressive of a senti- memory was good, but notverbally exact; ment the very reverse of the laureates and latterly, at all events, he was indis- and of her own, and would favour a theolo gy the antipodes of theirs. German hymns and French memoirs of the pietistic or mystical cast, which she loves so much, all come alike to her; she misquotes them all. Miss Dora Greenwell is a thoughtful writer; but she grievously offends when- ever she quotes. With her An infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry, becomes, As infants crying in the dark, As infants crying for the light, etc. It is lucky that her last volume is not like- ly to l~e opened by a certain class of read ers, for both infants and in the dark have, with them, a meaning all their own. Another exquisite verse in her hands becomes, Of the moth that shrivels iii a useless fire, The anguish that subserves anothers gain. It is simple torture to remember the beauty of the original, with this travesty printed before us: That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves anothers gain. Even Shakespeares hackneyed schoolboy lines escape not, but take on a new colour from her pen: There is a tide in the affairs of men XVhich, taken at the rise, leads on to fortune. The beautiful couplet, How difficult it is to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain, becomes with her, The heights which man is competent to win, Incompetent to keep. And Mr. Andrew Wilson, the versatile author of the justly praised Abode of Snow, almost keeps pace with these ladies in his powers of prosifying poetry. By the insertion of turfs for tufts in this fine verse from Wordsworth, can there be two opinions that he improves it for the worse ? - Through primrose turfs, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle traild its wreaths And tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. This may be, and probably is, an error of the press, but Coleridge does not fare much better at Mr. Andrew Wilson s hands. One of the finest touches in the MISQUOTATION. Chamouni Hymn is reduced to prose. Coleridge wrote : Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering thro the pure serene, in which it will be observed that the silence in the movement of the mighty mass is a pervading idea. But not so with Mr. Andrew Wilson, of The Abode of- Snow. He translates it, Oftfrom whose feet the mz~hty avalanche Shoots downward, which is lame enou~h truly! Wordsworth, we may note, fares partic- ularly ill at the hands of later writers. Even Mr. Stopford Brooke, who has done so much to trace out the leading lines of his theology in a lofty spirit, in his last vol- ume of sermons, comes very near to de- stroying one of the finest touches of the- ology in his poems. This is how he gives a famous passage from The Ode to Duty: Eternal Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godheads most benignant grace; Nor know we anything more fair TA n is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee in their beds, And fragrance in their footing treads Thou dost preserve the stars from ~vrong, And the immortal heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. Immortal here, instead of most an- cient, does entfrely change the sense. A most curious case, and one of the most originalif any originality can be claimed in misquotation was that of Mr. John Forster, who gave, in his second volume of Landors Life, a facsimile of a letter written in acknowledgment of a visit paid by Dickens and himself to the veteran on his seventy-fifth birthday, in which there occurs the following verse : I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of Life; It sinks; and I am ready to depart. With the facsimile before his eyes, the word before, which has a sweet hint of alliteration became, in Mr. Forsters let- ter-press copy, against, which is pro- saic, incorrect indeed, and such as Lan- dor could hardly have written. Then the pointing is all wrong and common-place. A very characteristic clause of the letter besides is left out in Mr. Forsters copy. As we write, Macmillans Magazine MISQUOTATION. for November is laid on our table. We lift it up and glance over its contents. Having been concerned with the niceties of poetic expression, we not unnaturally turn at once to see what A Lincoinshire Rector has to say of Virgil and Tenny- son, poets of so widely-separated eras. But here misquotations, and mispointings such as destroy accent and sense together, are truly presences not to be put by, and sadly disturb our enjoyment, all the more, that we feel the worth of many -of A. Lincolnshire Rectors remarks. A fine stanza of Locksley Hall is thus printed, rhyme and music being wholly ruined: Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandyfats, And the hollow ocean-ridge roaring into cata- racts. instead of Locksley Hall. that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts, An s seems a small matter, but it may dislocate a foot, and A Lincolnshire Rec- tor immediately gives a positive illustra- tion by adding sto wave, in this fine couplet from Maud: Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung ship-wrecking roar, Now to the scream of a maddened beach dragged down by the wave. But far worse than either of these is this unpardonable botch of quotation from The Last Tournament: They fired the tower, Which half that autumn night like the live north Red-pulsing up through Alioth and Alior Made all above it as the waters Moab saw Come round by the east. And out beyond them flushed The long, low dune and lazy-plunging sea, instead of this : They fired the tower Which half that autumn night, like the live North, Red-pulsing up thro Alioth and Alcor Made all above it, and a hnndrcd mere.r About it, as the water Moab saw Come round by the East, and out beyond them flushcl The long low dune, and lazy plunging sea. Once more, from The Princess : The lists were ready empanoplied and plumed, We entered in, and waited; fifty-three 59 To fifty, till the terrible trumpet blared At the barrier Yet a moment and once more The trumpet and again at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In the middle, with the crash of shivering points, And thunder, etc., etc. Now This punctuation gives the page a look quite unlike Mr. Tennysons usual contour of blank verse, for dashes, on the whole, he uses sparingly. But this is how we find this passage in all the editions we have access to : The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed We enterd in, and waited, fifty-three Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared At the barrier like a wild horn in a land Of echoes, and a moment, and once more The trumpet, and again ; at which the storm Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears And riders front to front, until they closed In conflict with the crash of shivering points, And thunder. In the exquisite illustrative quotation from Elaine a line is omitted : And a spear, Down-glancing, lamed his charger. If it should be objected that these are very trifling departures from the text to justify such harsh criticism, let us remind our readers of what Wordsworth inferred from one of Sir Walter Scotts superficial- ly insignificant misquotations from him. W. Scott quoted as f Wordsworth, rom me, says The swan on sweet St. Marys lake Floats double, swan and shadow, instead of still, thus obscuring my idea, and betraying his own uncritical princi- ples of composition. Walter Scott is not a careful composer. He allows himself many liberties, which betray a want of re- spect for his reader. For instance, he is too fond of inversions, i.e., he often places the verb before the substantive, and the accusative before the verb, etc.* That versatile writer, the author of Guy Livingstone, who is always quoting in every lanouao-e under heaven, at one place gives us the following lines : She stood up in bitter case, With a pale and steadfast face Toll slozoly, Like a statue thunderatrook, That, though shivered, Seemed to look Right against the thunder-place. * Prose Writings. Edited byRev. A. B. Grosart. vol. III., p. 462. 6o MR. STORYS NERO. But turning to the original, the latest edi- tion, we find it reads thus She stood up in bitter case, with a pale yet steady face; Toll slowly. Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though 9uiveriflg, seems to look Right against the thunder-place. Now, the importance of correct quotation is seen in the impossibility of a statue which has been shivered looking, or seeming to look, against anything, and the tense absolutely precludes the idea of shivering. So Mrs. Brownings del- icate and beautiful fancy is wholly lost, and the verse prosified. These errors errors of a most fla- grant kind lie at the doors of writers of mark.. We do not refer to second-rate magazines, far less to newspapers, that would be a never-ending task. XVe may note, however, that, not very long ago, the Cornkil4 usually very correct, gave as the title of Thackerays unfinished story Denis Donne, instead of Denis Du- val, and followed it up in a page or two with an unpardonable misquotation; and only the other week that usually well-edit- ed journal, Land and Water, gave the following as the last verse from Cole- ridges Ancient Mariner: He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small; For the great God who loveth us, He made and loves them all. To account for such grave misrepresen- tations of standard poets, whose writings lie ready to the hand of any person of or- dinary culture, is not difficult, and two words suffice, haste and carelessness. It is worth inquiring, however, how it is that, whilst English authors suffer so se- verely, foreign quotations are usually much more correctly given. The reason is ob- vious. The writer is then on his guard; he considers, ref~rs, deems his reputation to be at stake. But a jealousy over our own classics should be paramount, and writers constantly offepding by misquo- tations such as these should be systemat- ically and periodically exposed and pil- loried. The enormities of careless citations of prose are as patent, if not more so, and would need a separate celebration. One of the most extraordinary instances on record of clear misreading of an author is perhaps that of Dean Stanley, who, in a sketch of Hooker, quoted the following as characteristic of Hookers all-including tol- erance and geniality: I am persuaded that of them with whom in this cause we strive, there are whose betters would hard ly be found, if they did not live amongst men, but in some wilderness by them- selves. And the dean actually intro- duced this quotation by the words, To the Puritans against whom he wrote he acknowledged that it was impossible to find better men than those who were amongst them. The truth is, that Hook- er was so~full of calm, unmoved sarcasm, that we sometimes cannot help feeling a little of sympathy with his wife ; and the above is an instance of his cool and ir- ritating attitude, so hiding itself under assumed politeness as to cheat even a master like Dean Stanley. In this case certainly the dean has been a little too facile in forcing men of the old type to illustrate the breadth and ready sympathy which he so admirably illustrates and pleads for. Perhaps a still worse case than the deans was that of Colonel XVent- worth Higginson, author of Atlantic Essays, who, when speaking of the su- periority of American magazines in re- spect of style, in that they were, as he held, more finished, careful, harmonious, and less slangy, chanced to pounce upon Dean Alford, asking, What second- rate American writer would see any wit in describing himself, like Dean Alford in his recent book on language, as an old party in a shovel? * Now it happens that Dean Alford never did so describe himself, but chose rather in his Queens English to expose the vulgarity of those who lent themselves to such modes of speech, as any one may see by reference to p. 228 of that very interesting, if some- times opinionated hook. But Colonel Wentworth in this illustrates the tenden- cy to that overhastiness in his country- men which Griswold seriously had to de- plore, as doing injury to literature in even more important ways than failing to read your author, a fault in which we, on this side, are but too closely following them. ~ Atlantic Essays, p. 30. From The Examiner. MR. STORYS NERO* MR. STORY, in one of the poems con- tained in his Graffiti 1Jtalia (a collec- tion of dramatic studies and lyrics con- structed somewhat after the model of * Nero. By W. W. Story. London: William Blackwood and Sons. MR. STORYS NERO.~~ 6i Mr. Browning), gives us the views of a duke of Urbino descanting as a contem- porary critic, on a letter received from Raffaelle, in which are urged the for and against of confining ones self to a single art. This note is again touched lightly in another poem in the same volume, where the diverse jottings contained in the sketch- book of Leonardo da Vinci that full chord of many tones are commented on rather disparagingly by the prior of Sta. Maria della Grazie. In the play of Ne- ro we find yet another allusion to one who tries so many forms of art. These expressions in dispraise or support of ver- satility are especially interesting when viewed in connection with Mr. Storys varied taskingof his own mind; for though the passages we have mentioned blend most naturally with their respective contexts, we cannot help half wondering whether they may not be an unconscious vindication (if, indeed, any such were needed) of a perception of the beautiful, which could not satisfy itself with less than sculpture, prose, poetry, and the dra- ma as its outward expression. This ver- satility is not the graceful dilettanteism whose light ephemeral wings carry it easily from flower to flower with honied but un- substantial result; rather is it the out- come of a rich fancy and clear realistic perception that cannot with one medium express satisfactorily to itself all that it apprehends and feels. But please rememher, of the famous names, Who is there hath confined him to one art, Giotto, Da Vinci, or Orcagna? No, Or our great living master, Angelo, They are whole men, whose iounded knowl- edge shames Our narrow study of a single part; Not merely painted, dwarfed in all their aims, But men who painted, huilded, carved, and wrote: Whole diapasons not a single note. est in studying this conception of an out- ward and visible beauty made manifest to the senses in connection with the psycho- logical effect supposed to be produced by it on Marcus Antonius, as described in the dramatic poem. We have selected these two instances as being classical subjects, though not perhaps classically treated, and we now have before us yet another inspiration caught from Italy and the past. In the play of Nero we see few traces of Mr. Storys former work, if we except the colloquial facility, and an utter absence of inflation or fine writing. Re- membering all the information and detail contained in Robc~ di Rorn~, we are im- mediately struck by a total absence of any archaisms or apparent erudition in this new drama; and, as,~if we had here some mental reaction against statuesque passivity and the quiet dignity of repose, we are hurried along by a full narrative which hardly pauses, and by brlsk dia- logues which are rarely if ever interrupted by soliloquies or disquisitions. All that is said or done by the different characters actively helps forward the action of the piece, and if there are very few scenes or points that stand out from the rest for quotation, one is uniformly absorbed and interested. This kind of treatment is eminently realistic, and instinct with life and movement; but though it produces a livelier general effect, it does not afford the same opportunities fo~ dignified beauty and sonorous passages as a more didactic style. We would almost question whether Mr. Story has not selected too large a subject for one dramatic composition ; his canvas seems to us so big that the figures appear a little isolated, and we consequent- ly miss that concentrated intensity and completeness which are essential to a great dramatic composition. Nero mi~,ht, we think, be more properly called an histor- One is naturally led to look for reflected ical romance than a play, its personages light in Mr. Storys different works. In being far more noticeable for what they do the perfect statue in its pale repose we or endure than for what they are. On lay- seek for some of that fixed and stationed ing down the book we seem to be in an melody which lingers dreaming round atmosphere if not of battle at any rate of each subtle line; in the dramas and murder and of sudden death; and even verses for some of the perfection of form here Neros death hardly seems the cul- and sobriety of intensity and passion minating point after Agrippinas and Sen- which he has achieved in his sculpture; or ecas and Poppa~as far more piteous fate. again in the latter for traces of that almost The play extends over some twelve or colloquial charm which makes half the thirteen years, beginning when Nero value of that very captivating book Roba no longer a lad but a man gifted with phys- di Roma. Even were his Cleopatra ical strength and beauty, with intellect less pre-eiriinently beautiful as a statue, and grace of mind beo~ins to realize that with its almost divine imperiousness, power of place and personality which ulti- there would yet be a deep testhetic inter-I mately wrecked his life, and choked all 62 PETS. nobler feelings with a deadly ~rowth of lust, vanity, and cruelty. The opening scenes, in which the young emperor first feels the weight of his mothers tutelage and guidance, and ultimately fiercely re- sents her authority, consenting to her death, are finely rendered. It would take too long to recapitulate the events of that short, eventful life, even as recorded by Mr. Story, who has worked out with good dra- matic purpose the gradual degradation of a character that originally had great poten- tialities of good the legitimate con- sciousness of a general aptitude turninb into an overweening and grotesque vanity, the fatal admixture of impatience and re- lentlessness, the young ardent nature sink- ing into mere sensualism, seekino for new, strange ways to satisfy its lust. There is a fine touch towards the end of the play in the love of Sporus for his master, one of those instances of subjection to a personal charm to whkh chronicles and por- tr its give us no clue. The character of Popp~a is also drawn with much skill. She is in no way attractive when ~ve see her first; faithless to her husband, Otho, plausible and calculating in her passion for Nero, a passion that has none of the real reticence of virtue or the abandon of the time. Then follows the slow retribu- tion la grande fatalitd, as Michelet somewhere calls itof belonging body and soul to a man whom it is her doom and her moral degradation to love. We soon get to pity rather than to blame her for having usurped by her wiles and beauty the place of the virtuous Octavia; and when she is brutally struck by her husband, just when the hopes of coming motherhood had aroused within her heart something natural and pure in the midst of so much bedizened corruption and vice, we almost wish we could forget that the murder of A0rippina still cries aloud for vengeance that The god is great against her, she will die. When critically analyzed Nero is not perhaps a thoroughly great work, but it is very good and pleasant reading, and we quote, certainly not against himself, but genuinely re-echoing the feeling of his lines, with a present sense of pleasure re- ceived in many ways Blest the poets song, The sculptors art, the painters living hues, That thus can make a transient form, a glance, A smile immortal; time and age defy; Seize the swift-hurrying thought, and bid it stay To be a permanent perpetual joy. From The Saturday Review. PETS. MAN has been distinguished from brutes as a cooking animal. But he has another characteristic almost equally distinctive. He k~ps pets. It is true that sometimes this characteristic is shared by individuals of other races. A horse has been known to become attached to the stable-cat, and to pine in the absence of pussy. So, too, do~ s have often allowed a corner of their kennel to some stray animal domesticated about the house, and odd friendships have been cemented between creatures as dif- ferent as a goat and a j tckdaw, or a rabbit and a foxhound. Such brotherhood be- tween tame beasts, all living in a state more or less artificial, is only as natural as the talking of a parrot, the piping of a bull- finch, or the trained labour of a canary taught to work for its livin~ by drawing its xvater with a bucket and a dhain. We never heard of a cat that loved a dear cricket to cheer with friendly chirpings her leisure on the hearth. No puppy has been known to lavish tender caresses on the radiant head of an iridescent bluebottle. The hen whose limited intellect reels before the watery instinct of a brood of ducklings is the victim of parental affection labouring under a base deception. But men pet many creatures besides their offspring, supposititious or other. It is true that a modern naturalist finds in an ants nest certain well-cared-for beetles, and endeav- ours in vain to account for such a myste- rious fact. Are the beetles scavengers, or are they pets? Or are the ants endued, like men, with superstition, and do they venerate, like the ancient Egyptians, a coleopterous insect? St irlings show a preference for certain sheep. Every croc- odile may be supposed to be the favourite of a particular lapwing. But these in- stances answer rather to the sportsmans predilection for a well-stocked moor, or the fly-fishers love for a shady pool. No kitten leads about a mouse with blue rib- bon round the little victims neck, as a child caresses the lamb which it may one day devour. The child shows its petting instinct at the earliest age, and loves a woolly rhinoceros as soon as it loves sugar and apples. Long before the baby can speak, as soon as it can open and close its tiny hands, it longs for something soft and warm, and, above all, something moving, which it may grasp and pinch at will. No worsted poodle, however cunningly con- trived in the toy country, cai~ comoete for a moment with a real puppy. The pleas- PETS. 63 ure of breaking all the legs from off all the quadrupeds in Noahs ark pales into in- significance beside the rapture of pulling pussys tail, and half blinding a living ter- rier. The cat and dog endure from the infant the tortures of Damien without com- plaint, and purr or wag their tail at each fresh infliction as a new manifestation of regard. Vivisection is a trifle compared with some of the unwitting cruelties of the nursery; but the victims seem to un- derstand that their pains are not intend- ed, and it would be well if a like self-sacri- ficing enthusiasm could be fostered in the scientific laboratory. That people do keep pets and do misuse them is a plain and unquestionable fact. Why they keep them is another and much more difficult question. Some, it is true, have a dislike to the destruction of ani- mal life. Cardinal Bellarmine would not disturb the fleas which got their livelihood in his famous beard. Others, again, have been driven to love a swallow from the mere loneliness of prison life, and the only reason for doubting the truth of the legend which connects the name of Bruce with a spider is that similar tales have been told of other famous men. The story of a Lady Berkeley who insisted on keeping her merlins to moult in her bed- chamber, and her husbands consequent displeasure, occurs among the annals of the fifteenth century. Little dogs fig ure on brasses; and the names of Ter- ri, Jakke, and Bo have come down to us as memorials of pets beloved five hundred years ago. Cowper, besides his hares, petted all kinds of animals, and re- monstrated in verse with his spaniel for killing a fledgling. Oldys apostrophized~a fly, and Burns a mouse. We think it was Carnot, in the Reign of Terror, that lav- ished caresses on his dog, while he sent hundreds of human victims to the slaugh- ter. In fact, there are few people come to mature years who at some time of their life have not loved a dear gazelle or other domesticated animal, and been gladdened by its affectionate eye. A taste which is so peculiarly human may be humanizing if properly directed. The child, indeed, will rob a nest to satisfy its longing for a pet. But it is easy to demonstrate the cruelty of interfering with natural laws, and the speedy death of the half-fledged nestling demonstrates clearly enough the futility of the childish aspirations. The sympathies of Bill Sykes, callous as he was, were awakened towards his dog, and even Charon may be supposed occasionally to bestow a friendly pat on one of the heads of Cerberus. Although it has often been rem rked that love of the horse accompa- nies, if it does not cause, the degradation of many a man, yet it would be hard to ascribe the iniquities of a blackleg to any true love of the animal on which, he lays his money. Doubtless the horse of Calig- ula preferred his oats ungiIt, and it is the uncertainty of racing rather than any fault of the racer that attracts rogues to New- market and Epsom. A horse would run quite as well, the race would be even more often to the swift, if betting could be abolished. And our prize costerinongers and cabmen find kindness to their ani- mals, like honesty, the best policy. The donkey that is starved and beaten seldom favours his driver with more than a spas- modic gallop, while the sleek ass we now occasionally notice in- our streets draws more than his own weight of heavy men at a cheerful and willing trot. The prin- ciple on which pets are kept is, however, sometimes difficult to find. We were all horrified lately to read of an old lady who starved a houseful of cats, and every In- dian traveller tells shocking tales of the cruelty of the Hindoo to the humpbacked cow which he worships as~ a divinity. Cruelty to pets is only one aspect of the matter. There are people, especially in towns, whose kindness to their pets is ex- ercised at the expense of their neighbours. So long as they are an amusement to their owners without being a nuisance to the public no one can complain. There are, it is true, crusty people who would like the world better if it contained neither kittens nor babies. But it cannot do real harm to anybody that an old lady should turn rabbits loose in her, garden in order to reduce the excessive corpulence of her darling pugs by a little wholesome coursing. It is good for her pets, and does not hurt the rabbits. Nor does it injure the public that twice a year she finds herself under the necessity of posting to the seaside in order to give her favourites the constitutional refresh- ment of a few walks on the shore. She must post all the way, because it would be impossible to let them enter the cruel den set apart for mere dogs on the railway, and the company will not let her hire a first-class compartment for their use. Even the collier who feeds his bull-pup on beef- steaks and milk, at the cost of half-starving his wife and children, may at least plead that he does not interfere with the com- fort or convenience of his neighbours. But it is a little odd that there is no way of restraining him if he would go further. He may, as far as the present state of the 64 PETS. law can control him, cause his dog to be a ates an unusual noise and disturbance in nuisance and annoyance of the worst kind the night-time is guilty of a nuisance; to all who live within hearing; yet it is but it makes no provision for cases in apparently impossible to interfere with which the noise is produced without the him. It may be right enough that a man intervention of the horn, and apparently should be free to make the lives of his does not forbid even a noise and disturb- wife, his children, and his servants as mis- ance, provided only it be usual. True, a erable as he pleases, but it does seem civil action may be brou0ht against the strange that he may extend his attention owner of the animal making the noise, if to his neighbours with equal impunity. the sufferer has been injured in the pursuit The general public, and especially that of his lawful calling or occupation; but, as considerable section of it which consists he probably carries on his occupation of helpless invalids, have no remedy miles away in the quiet recesses of the against a crowing cock or a barking dog. city, and is chiefly employed at home in In extreme cases it is possible that a phy- what appears to be the unlawful occupa- sician may be able for a time to abate such tion of resting himself, he has no ground a nuisance as being dangerous to his pa- for action. We have some imperfect sort tients life; but there seems to be no re- of protection against brass bands and dress unless in cases of life and death. barrel-organs; why not against singing- In London a sufferer from such a coin- birds, which might, as in Charles OMal- plaint as chronic neuralgia may be kept in ley, be interpreted to include fighting torture all day by the barking of a dog in cocks? An extreme course alone is open the mews behind the house, and may pass to the sufferer at present. We are not a wakeful night owing to the howling of concerned to point it out too plainly. But, the same animal when chained up. There short of this desperate and certainly oh- is no choice but a change of residence, if jectionable remedy, there is no way, so far the invalid cannot bear the noise of cabs as we can see, of interfering with any de- and milk-carts at the other side of the velopment, however disagreeable, of the house. An appeal to the police magistrate petting faculty. We may habitually wear only elicits another and perhaps more dis- cotton-wool in our ears, or, if we like it mal tale of suffering. His worship is but better, we may leave our house and take human, and he too has had days of illness another, but it is not clear we have any prolonged into weeks owing to the zoolog- power at present to prevent our next-door ical propensities of his neighbours. He neighbour from confining a pack of hounds can do nothing for himself, and nothing for in his stable, suspending a row of macaws the complainant. The law says nothing on his balcony, keeping choruses of cats about such annoyances. It says that on his leads, and a laughing hyena in his every person who blows a horn or cre- back kitchen. THE Russian correspondent of the KJ?nische Zeitung states that letters have reached St. Petersburg from members of the exploring ex- pedition which was recently sent to the Attrek territory by the imperial government. They had advanced to Krasnowodsk, in Tschikish- lau, without misadventure, and after a weeks rest had proceeded along the Attrek to Schot, where it was proposed to take in new supplies. It was expected that the expedition would reach the mouth of the Attrek on their home. ward passage about the end of last or the be- ginning of the present month. In General Lomakins official report of the expedition, which came to St. Petersburg at the same time, it was announced that, although hitherto the Turkomans had everywhere shown them- selves friendly towards the Russians, there was reason to know that the Afghans were endeavouring to incite them to rise against the strangers and prevent their further ad- vance. The Turkomans had on several occa- sions given information in regard to these attempts, which had enabled the general to seize two of the Afghan emissaries, who had been executed as spies. The Attrek expedi- tion is regarded by the Russian government as especially important, from the information which it is anticipated it may supply in regard to the various degrees of practicability of the differentroutes leading to Merv, which is in- teresting as a central point of junction for ~many lines of way opening upon districts in which the British as well as the Russians are interested.

67 So 91 LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ? Volume xiii~ ~ 1648k January 8, 1876k From Beginning, ol CXXVIII CONTENTS. I. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. By Ed. ward A. Freeman Fortnz~hdy Review, II. THR DILEMMA. Part XVI.,. . . . Blackwoods Magazine, III. WALT WHITMANS POEMS. By Peter Bayne, Contemporary Review,. IV. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. By Mrs. Oh. phant. Part VII Macmillans Magazine, . 103 V. IN A STUDIO. By W. W. Story. Part VI., Blackwood.~ Magazine, . 112 VI. WEST-INDIAN SUPERSTITIONS, . Contemporary Review, . 117 VII. HINDoo PROVERBS 126 POETRY. A GERMAN BAD, . . . . 661 DUST AND ASHES, 66 MISCELLANY 128 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Pnbiiskers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of postage. An extra COPY of THE LIVING Aoa 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 ney-order, if possible. If neither ot 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 nsouey-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE Lsvsssu Auz, s8 cents. 66 A GERMAN BAD. DEEP within a narrow valley, lies a busy little town, While set as for its coronet, each mountain bears a chapel crown. Every tongue on earth thats spoken, in that Babel mingled go, Those whose characters are broken, those whose lives are white as snow. Some for pleasure, some for play, ever march, ing to antI fro, Sick and well and grave and gay, up and down thecrowd doth flow. Through khe valley runs a river, bright and rocky, cool and swift, Where the wave with many a quiver, plays around the pine-trees drift. But within the town the streamlet forms a Eh clear and shallow pool, detail reflecte& clearly, down amidst its shadows cool. All the men, and all the houses, all the hanging flower-pots, Booths and bonnets, beards and blouses, and the Baroness de Kotz. And the grey cliffs overhanging, and the grim and solemn pines, Whose forests with ,their mighty shadows, close us in with dark green lines. All, except the cross which towers, high aloft into the sky, Alone upon that mountain summit, as its Master here did die. For the mirror was too narrow, and could not the whole contain, So it took the lower portion, left out what oer all should reign. And methought our living mirrors, in that busy little town, Gave back all that eager bustle, to and fro, and up and down. Faithfully we there reflected, all the chatter, all the noise, All the talk on one another, all the flowers, all the toys. Only we left out the presence, and forgot the thought of Him Whose calm and holy memory, in our hearts should neer grow dim. Like an old Italian picture where the men and women sit, Unconscious of the glorious vision, which above their heads doth flit. A GERMAN BAD, ETC. So the upper, better portion of our picture heeding not, Broken, selfish, narrow, trivial life becomes in that sWeet spot. Good Words. DUST AND ASHES. I. BETWIXT your home and mine, Oh, love, there is a graveyard lying; And every time you came, Your steps were oer the dead, and from the dying! Your face was dark and sad, Yoiir ey~s had shadows in their very laughter, Yet their glances made me glad, And shut r~y own to what was coming after. Your voice had deeper chords Than the A~olian harp when night-winds blow; The melancholy music of your words None but myself may know. And, oh, you won my heart By vows unbreathed by words of love un- spoken; So that, as now we part, You have no blame to bear, and yet tis broken! II. How shall I bear this blow, how best resent it? Ah, love, you have not left me even my pride! Nor strength to put aside, nor to repent it Twere better I had died! You came beneath my tent with friendly greeting; Of all my joys you had the better part; Then when our eyes and hands were ottenest meeting, You struck me to the heart! No less a murderer, that your victim, living, Can face the passing world, and jest and smile! No less a traitor, for your show of giving Your friendship all the while Well, let it pass! The city churchyard lying Betwixt our homes is but a type and sign Of the waste in your heart, and of the eternal dying Of all sweet hopes in mine Transcript. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 67 From ~he Fortnightly Review. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. A VISIT to the eastern coasts of the Hadriatic, planned long ago with objects bearing wholly on the history of past times, has lately given me a glimpse of a stirring piece of modern history, and has called my thoughts back to subjects which were more familiar to them twenty years back than they have been of late. I had longed for years to see the palace of Spalato, and the other wonders of the land which gave Rome so many of her greatest emperors. This year I had for the first time the op- portunity of carrying out this wish of many years, and its carrying out in this particular year causgd me to hear and see somewhat, not only of the palace at Spalato, but also of the revolt in Herze- govina. I was able to hear much of the matter from men familiar with the seat of war, and myself to get a glimpse, though only a glimpse, alike of enslaved Herze- govina and of unconquered Montenegro. These sights called up again old thoughts and old controversies. I have ever been one of those, a body sometime very few in number, who could not understand why our love of right and freedom, our hatred of wrong and oppression, should be bounded by the Hadriatic Sea. I could never understand why, while ~ve de- nounced the oppression of the Austrian or the Russian, while we admired and sympathized with all who rose up against it, we were bound to uphold the far blacker oppression of the Turk, and to hurl every name of contempt and dislike at those who strove to shake off his yoke. I was one of thosewho raised their protest one and twenty years back, when we were en- trapped by a crafty tyrant into waging war against a sovereign and a people who had never wronged us, on behalf of the foulest fabric of tyranny on earth. I could see no glory, no wisdom, nothing but the deepest national shame, in lending the arms of England to support the cause of pope and Turk against the nations of Eastern Christendom. To me the names of Alma, of Balaklava, and of Inkerman are names of national humiliation. They are records of blood shed by English hands in the cause of wrong; and blood shed in the cause of wrong, whether it be shed in victory or in defeat, is matter for shame, and not for boasting. Thus I thought and spoke when they were but fewa few ~there always werewho thought and spoke with me. Now that the madness of the moment is past, now that we can see things by the light of twenty more years of experience, there are more who speak, there are many more who think, as a few of us thought and spoke during the national frenzy of the Russian ~var. But few or many it matters not; truth is the same in either case. At Alma and Inkerman England fought for wrong, as a generation before at Nava- rino she had fought for right. In 1827 we fought to free a nation from its tyrants, and the good work was called an un- toward event. In 1854 we fought to keep nations in their bondage, and it be- came the fashion to glory in our shame. We have again the choice of good or evil opened before us; we have again to choose between the precedent of the right- eous act of which we were ashamed, and the precedent of the unrighteous act in which we gloried. We can again, if we will, do something, perhaps not by fighting but certainly in some other way, either for the cause of good or for the cause of evil~ We may use such influence as we may have in the councils of Europe, either on behalf of the Turkish oppressor or on behalf of the victims who have at last turned against him: God grant that whatever we do, by act or by speech, it may be in the spirit of 1827, and not in the spirit of 1854. When I spoke and wrote about these matters twenty years back, the subject was one which had for me, as it still has, a twofold attraction. I felt that, setting aside all associations which might sway us in the matter, all considerations of past history of religion or races or language; we who spoke up for the oppressed against the oppressor were only speaking the lan. guage of simple right. We spoke on be~ half of the Greek and the Slave, only as both we and others were wont to speak on behalf of the Pole, the Lombard, and the Hungarian. We spoke on behalf of Chris- tians under Mahometan oppressors as I trust we should have spoken on behalf of 68 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. Mahometans under Christian oppressors. But for myself personally the matter had also an interest of another kind. The polit- ical wrong against which we strove was but the continuation of a great historic wrong. The historic wrong had in truth no small share in bringing about the political wrong. The schism between the Eastern and Western Churches, the rivalry between the Eastern and Western Empires, had wrought a lasting effect on the minds of many who had never heard of either Church or either Empire. A kind of dis~ like and contempt towards the Christian nations of the East had been fostered for ages in the minds of the Christian nations of the West. The Greek of the Lower Empire was held up to scorn as the type of everything that was vile, and the mod- ern Greek was held to be, if anything, a little viler than his Byzantine forefather. Of the great mass of the Christian sub- jects of the Turk, the Slaves and the Bul- garians, many people seem never to have heard at all. All members of the East- ern Church were jumbled together under the common name of Greeks. Up to that time the Eastern Church had often been looked at with some sympathy by Protestants, as having a common enemy at Rome; but that Church was now suddenly found out to be something worse even than the pope himself. Peo- ple in Western Europe who protested against the oppressions of Russia or Austria often had no more real knowl- edge about Italians, Poles, and Hun- garians than they had about Greeks, Slaves, and Bulgarians. But they had at least not been brought up with a preju- dice of ages against Italians, Poles, or Hungarians. People therefore came to look with sympathy on the victims of R~ussia and Austria, while they looked with a kind of suspicion upon the victims of the Turk. They also made the great discovery that the Turk had some of the virtues, or apparent virtues, which are commonly found in masters, while his vic- tims had some of the vices which are al- ways found in~ slaves. It would have been too much trouble to stop and think that the vices of the slave ought to go in some measure to the account of those who made him a slave. It was enough that the Turk had some virtues, and his Christian subjects some vices. He was, by force of this argument, ruled to be al- together in the right, and his Christian subjects to be altogether in the wrong. Then there came in the great Russian bugbear. We were told that, even if the Christians of Turkey had grievances, it was no time to think about them or talk about them, when all Europe had a much greater grievance. Greek, Slave, Bulga- rian were to be taught a lesson of self- sacrifice; they were to be taught to sit down quietly under real and undoubted evils at the hands of the Turk, because Western Europe had chosen to take into its head that some unknown and shadowy evil was corning on mankind at the hands of the Russian. Then, as usual, to the help of all this mass of falsehood, falla- cies, and half-truths, came that dense mass of invincible ignorance which al- ways plays so great a part at all times of popular excitement. Many people could not be made to see the difference between Turkey and the Turks. Because in West- ern Europe England and the English, France and the French, mean much the same things, they could not understand a state of things in which the Turks were not Turkey, but simply the invaders and oppressors of Turkey~ I remember a meeting in some midland town, Derby, I think it was, where a resolution was passed in honour of the glorious patriotic spirit of the Turkish nation. The same peo- ple would certainly not have passed a res- olution in honour of the glorious patri- otic spirit of the Austrian nation, when Radetzky set forth to. win back Lombardy. That the glorious patriotic spirit of the Turkish nation simply meant the obsti- nate determination of a horde of robbers to keep possession of the houses and lands of other men, certainly never en- tered the heads of the good people who passed the resolution. They doubtless thought that there was a Turkish nation living in Turkey, just as there is an Eng- lish nation living in England, and a French nation living in France. We heard much in those days about the rights of the sultan, and it was not everybody who THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 69 understood that the rights of the sultan over the houses and goods of Greeks, Slaves, and Bulgarians were exactly the same as the rights of a burglar to the house into which he has broken, and to the goods which he has found in it. In short, the moral confusion which con- demned oppression on one side of the Ha- driatic and admired it on the other, though it was largely strengthened by wilful and interested perversion, rested in the main on a deep and solid foundation of honest ignorance. The clamourers on behalf of the Turk were undoubtedly one class of that large order who call evil good and good evil; but in a vast number of cases they did so simply because they had been led honestly to mistake evil for good, and good for evil. The worst is that, when a general delusion of this kind has taken possession of the mind of a nation, the delusion cannot be got rid of till it is too late. Truth commonly gets the better in the long run; but for thetime falsehoods and half-truths get so firm a hold that truth is not listened to. People may now endure to be told that it i~ a truer patriot- ism to try to keep ones country out of an unjust war than to join in a wild cry for rushing into such a war. But twenty years ago all that those who did so got for their pains was to be called unpatri- otic and un-English. There is now time to pause and think before we again irrev- ocably commit ourselves to the cause of unrighteousness. When all these confusions were rife twenty years back, the history of South- Eastern Europe had been for a long time a favourite subject of my thoughts and reading, though I do not profess to have ever studied it in the same detail in which I have studied some parts of western history. But I had learned enough to know Mr. Finlays writings alone could teach that much how large a part of European history has been utterly mis- conceived through the traditional con- tempt for the Greek of the Lower Em- pire. As commonly happens, error with regard to past history and error with re- gard to present policy went together; for in truth the one error was built up upon the other. In those days a writer in BZackwoods Magazine could talk, seem- ingly with glee, about the last Byzantine historian being blown into the air by our brave allies the Turks. The man who wrote this nonsense perhaps really thought that, because the Turks were unluckily allies of England in the nineteenth cen- tury, therefore they must also have been allies of England in the fifteenth century. He certainly did not think it worth while to stop and think that more than one last Byzantine historian contrived to write the history of the very storm in which it was thus taken for granted that he must have been blown into the air. About the same time it was the fashion to write little books about the history of Crimea, in which there was always a great deal about Mithridates, always a grea.t deal about Catherine the Second, but in which the most instructive thing in the history of the peninsula, the long life of the Greek commonwealth of Cherson, was always left out. Perhaps the writers had never heard of the fact; perhaps it was thought inexpedient to let it be known that there ever had been anywhere, least of all in Crimea, so dangerous a thing as a Greek commonwealth. There was therefore a good deal of work to be done by the mere lover of historical accuracy as well as by the lover of political freedom, and both I and others did what we could to spread abroad truer ideas on both branches of the subject. What we generally got for our pains was to be called j5hiZheZZ~nes, and~ to be laughed at for troubling our- selves about petty states. As I have read history, petty states have generally been the salt of the earth; and, as for the name pizilkelibi, I am in no way ashamed of it, if only it be not used in any exclusive sense. I am simply for right against wrong, for all the victims of the oppressor as against the oppressor, not for any one class of his victims as against any other class. I will accept the name of thilizel- Z~n with gladness, if only I am allowed to add that I am equally ~hiZosZave and fiziZobulgarian. Those days have long passed away. Since then it has been only by fits and starts that the affairs of Eastern Christen- dom could be the chief object of the 70 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION.~ thoughts of any man in the western lands. It was no more than human nature if, in the face of the great events of the last six- teen years, in face of the reunion of Ger- many and Italy, in face of the overthrow of tyranny in France and of slavery in America, the best friends of the Greek, the Slave, and the Bulgarian might some- times forget them for a season. Now and t$en indeed the East became again upper- most in the thoughts of men who could think and feel. There was the moment when Montenegro secured her freedom at Grahovo; there was the moment when Crete rose against her tyrants. Of that last tale of English shame I have before spoken in these pages. I have spoken of the crime of that flinty-hearted man who, when men who had hearts, English con- suls and En~lisl~ sailors, were doing what they could to save Cretan women and chil- dren from their destroyers, bade that the common rights of humanity should be re- fused to the oppressed, for fear forsooth that we should open the Eastern ques- tion, or disturh the integrity and inde- pendence of the Ottoman Empire. Then too was seen that other shameful sight of an Englishman sold to the barbarian, abus- ing English naval skill and science to press down again the yoke of the barbarian on nations who were striving to cast off his yoke. I suppose that the highest de- gree of glory and of infamy to be found in the annals of naval warfare may be seen in the two contrasted pictures of Hastings in command of the Karteria and Hobart in pursuit of the Hen6sis. But the climax of our national shame was not yet reached. That an English- man should hear arms in the cause of a barbarian despot, that an Englishman should forbid the offices of humanity to that despots victims, were after all only the crimes of particular men. But it was something like a national humiliation when the very moment of the Cretan war was chosen to give the oppressor of Crete and of so many other Christian lands a public reception in England. There is some- thing very strange in the way in which we deal out our favours to foreign potentates. When any king comes among us who, either on account of his own character or on behalf of the nation over whom he rules, is really entitled to respect, hardly any notice is taken of him. It may be in some cases that such a prince wishes to avoid the burthen of having any great no- tice taken of him; but the fact is plain; a respectable king passes almost unnoticed in England, while, when some despot or tyrant or perjurer comes amohg us, people at once fall down and worship him. Such an one is always received with every hon- our; crowds assemble to cheer him in the street; orders of chivalry are bestowed upon him; he dines with the lord mayor, and the lord mayor is made a baronet on the strength of the dinner. The red hand is in truth not unhappily chosen as the symbol of the guest for whose sake the honour is conferred. So we received Louis Napoleon Buonaparte, when his words of perjury were still fresh upon his lips, ~vhen his hands were still reeking with the blood of his December massacres. So we received the Turkish sultan at the very moment when a Christian people were striving to cast off his hated yoke from their necks. The Turk got his dinner and his garter; the badge of Saint George was thrown around the neck of the successor of Mahomet; and the lord mayor got the rank which seems specially reserved for those who have tyrants to dine with them. But, far worse than this, we were told in the papers that the popular recep- tion given to the sultan could be compared only to the popular reception which had been given to Garibaldi. Had it come to this, that the English people were ready to cheer anything? that to a London crowd an oppressor and a deliverer were the same thing that Englishmen were equally ready to shout when Sicily was set free, and when Crete was again bowed down in slavery? So it was. And the cup of our folly and ignominy was filled up by giving a ball to a man who was not the least likely to dance, and by charging the expense of the costly foolery on the purses of the people of India. It was suddenly: found out that England was a great Ma- hometan power, and, to keep up our Ma- hometan character, the unoffending vota- ries of Brahma were made to pay for the caperings at which our Mahometan guest sat and looked on. Our zeal for the Turk and his prophet was so great that Christian and heathen alike were to be muicted to do them honour. The sultan came with his hands reeking with Christian blood, decked in pomp wrung from the tears and groans of Christian subjects. Not to lag behind our guest, the cost of his entertain- ment was to be wrung out of men of yet a third religion, men who had hitherto deemed that the rule of the Christian had at least delivered them from the rule of the Moslem. Of all the strange ,forms which oppression and homage to oppres- sion ever took, surely the most grotesque ,was that of making the people of India pay THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. for a ball given in London to the Grand Turk. These things too are now passed away. The Turk went hack; Crete was again bowed down under his yoke, and I sup- pose the people of India paid his bill. I remember saying my own say at the time pretty much as I have said it now. Then came a lull. There was comparatively little to make us think of Turks, Greeks or Slaves, till the beginning of the pres- ent struggle for freedom. Of course, as will always happen where there i~ unceasing oppression there has been unceasing discontent and occasional out- breaks. But till this year there was noth- ing to make the affairs of South-Eastern Europe the chief object of ones thoughts. But now that time has come again. The deliverance of Eastern Christendom has again become the thought which must stand foremost in the mind of every one whose love of right and freedom is not pent up within certain limits on the map. The great strife between right and wrong has again begun, and it has begun in a shape which leads us to hope that we are now really seeing the beginning of the end. For my own part, such news as has been now coming for months from Bosnia and I-Ierzegovina would in any case have stirred my soul to its inmost depths. The wrongs of the West have been redressed; the rod of the oppressor has been broken; Italy is free; Germany is united; France is humbled; Austria is reformed. Is not then the moment come for the yet bitterer wrongs of South-Eastern Europe to be re- dressed also? Lombardy and Venetia are set free from the whips of the Austri- an; has not the day at last come for the Greek and Slave and Albanian and Bul- garian lands to be set free from the scor- pions of the Turk? Thoughts like these would have been stirring even in the quiet of ones own home; but they have pressed themselves upon me with tenfold force since a journey planned long ago with other objects has given me the means of seeing and hearing somewhat for my- self. I have been able to tread the lands where the strife for freedom is actually going on, to speak with men who have borne their part in the struggle, to learn what is the feeling of men in lands which are themselves free from the dangers of the strife, but whose sons look with broth- erly friendship on the men who are en- gaged in the great and righteous work. In saying this, I do not wish any one to suppose that I can give such readers as I may find any special information which 7 they cannot find elsewhere. In the present war the English public has had the great advantage of having the facts of the case clearly and truly set before it. It is a great gain that in this matter the Times has mainly taken the right side, and still more that it has been well served by its correspondent on the spot. Every letter in that paper which comes from Ragusa is worth reading and pondering over. By great good luck, the usual purveyor of chatter, the correspondent who tells us what he had for dinner and how many princes he talked to, seems to have found a more congenial sphere elsewhere. The paper from which many Englishmen take their opinions as well as their facts is luckily represented at the present seat of war by a well-informed and trustworthy man, who has had long experience of Turkish doings and of revolts against them, and who is not above putting plain facts into rational English. I have no means of adding anything in the way of mere fact to the accounts which it is to be hoped every one at home has read for himself. All that I can do is to put for- ward again an old story, old arguments, but a story and arguments which have lost none of their strength by being old. And with me at least they have gained a certain freshness now that they are to me no longer merely matters of book-learning, but are in part at least founded on actual eyesight. Even a few hours on Turkish ground brings more clearly home to one what Turkish rule is. And one cannot be long in the land to which the Turk is a neighbour without finding out that his neighbours have very different notions about the Eastern question, about the integrity and independence of the Otto- man Empire, from those which have been so long thought the correct thing in the West. Those cant phrases of diplo- macy may still satisfy some readers, and even some writers in England; the5r do not satisfy anybody in Dalmatja. These men see the wolf at their door, preying on their neighbours flocks if not on their own, and it is not so easy as it is here to make them believe that the ravenous beast is a harmless and useful watch-dog. Here in the West we are told of a succession of beautiful promises of reform made by sultan after sultan to their Christian sub- jects. Some of us are actually simple enough to believe that these promises were meant to be fulfilled, or even that they have been fulfilled. In Dalmatia, where the victims of these broken prom- ises come trooping bodily over the fron 72 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. tier, men know better what Turkish prom- ises are worth. We are told here of the stainless good faith of the Turk; they see with their own eyes that Turkish faith is much the same now as it was when Bra- gadino capitulated on the promise of life and liberty and was flayed alive as hi~ re- ward. We are told that the nations now under the foreign yoke must be kept under some foreign yoke or other, lest everything should fall into chaos. They look up to the mountains above their heads, and see there a native State under a native prince, where life and property are as safe as they are in any Western land, where even the Mussulman refugee finds a sure shelter. The Slave under Austrian rule himself enjoys, if not a na- tional government, yet at least a govern- ment which protects life and property and family l~onour, and does common justice between man and man. He sees in Mon- tenegro men of his own race and speech enjoying all this and something more. It is therefore not so easy to persuade him as it is to persuade people here that it can anyhow be for the common good of man- kind that a third class of men of the same race and speech, differing in nothing from the Dahuatian and, the Montenegrin save in the ill luck of their history, should be kept down any longer under the yoke of a power in whose mouth government means brigandage, under whose rule no justice can be had by the weak against the strong, whose promises are, as schoolboys used to say, like pie-crust, made to be broken. Perhaps they are wrong in their conclu- sions; perhaps the advantages of all these things may be more clearly seen at a dis- tance than they are at a mans own door. But it is at least hard to make men who see these things at their own doors think otherwise than as they do. In Dalmatia and Montenegro in short men think very much as men would think in Hampshire, if, while Hampshire was under a civilized government, Berkshire was under a power from which no redress could be had for the bitterest wrong if a Berkshire man were the sufferer. Perhaps they are quite wrong; perhaps they need tobe enlight- ened as to the blessings of Turkish inde- pendence, as to the existence of Turkish integrity. But at least their mistake is natural, and, in the lands where the mis- take is natural, it is also beyond doubt universal. This then at least I caii say, that Dal- matian feeling is unanimous for the insur- gents and against the Turks. And surely the feeling of those who see what is going on without being immediately touched by it is worth something. There is at least a chance that it may come nearer to the truth than the theories of men who sit in London or elsewhere, and say that a thing must be so and so because it suits their preconceived theories that it should be so and so. Here people simply go on re- peating a number of stock phrases, which, if they ever had any meaning, have ceased to have any meaning now. They repeat them as if they had a kind of oj5ze~s oj5e- rtztum efficacy; as if something was proved by merely saying the same form of words over again. A diplomatist or a newspaper- writer says that the Eastern question must not be opened;~ and perhaps he really thinks that, in so saying, he has proved something or settled something. But if he is asked what is meant by opening the Eastern question, he will not find it easy to explain. Most likely, however,. he will say something about Rus- sia; it is the received traditional rule that he should say something about Rus- sia. Now what the Eastern question really means is the question whether a horde of invading barbarians shall still be allowed to hold the nations of South- Eastern Europe in bondage. It means whether insolent oppressors shall still re- fuse to them, not only political freedom, but those common persohal rights which even a decent despotism secures to it~ subjects. It means whether England and other European powers which have hith- erto agreed, for their own supposed inter- ests, to back up this fabric of oppression shall any longer go on doing so. That is the real Eastern question. No one thinks that the Turk can stand by his own strength. He stands, because hitherto the powers of Europe have fancied that it suits their purpose to let him stand. England, France, and Sardinia went to war one and twenty years ago with the avowed purpose of keeping him standing. By so doing they made themselves ac- complices in the doings of the power whose existence they undertook to prolong. The true Eastern question is whether Eu- ropean powers shall go on condemning the nations of South-Eastern Europe to remain under barbarian bondage. Diplo- matists and newspaper-writers may sit and say that the Eastern questi9n shall not be reopened. But the Eastern question has been reopened by the swords of the pa- triots, of Bosnia and Herzegovina. With one voice they say, Come what may, we will never again submit to the Turk. He may kill us; he may lay the land des- THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 73 olate and drive us out of it; but we will never again be his subjects. The ques- tion is what those who have hitherto made it their business to keep certain nations under the Turkish yoke are to do, now that those nations have declared that they will endure anything rather than the Turkish yoke. There may be many ways of breaking the yoke, but those who are under it have made up their minds that it shall be broken in some way or other. Even now diplomatists are chattering about for their promises of reform, about a separation of this and that district, about the change of this and that gov- ernor. None of these things touch the root of the matter. The people of the revolted lands know that no faith is to be placed in Turkish promises. They do not want reforms at the hand of the Turk; what they want is freedom from the Turk and all that belongs to him. Some years back the people of Lombardy and Venetia told the world that what they wanted was not reform at the hand of the Austrian, but freedom from the Austrian. There were men then who thought that the bondage of Italy was as needful for the interests of mankind as some think that the bondage of Bosnia and Herzego- vina is now. But Europe in general did not think so; and Italy is free. Now in Turkey the state of things against which the Italians rose would come in the shape of a great and blessed reform. The Christian subjects of the Turk would be glad indeed to find themselves now no worse off than the Italian subjects of the Austrian were then. But mark the differ- ent measures meted out to nations east and west of the Hadriatic Gulf. On one side we applaud men for rising against a government, because it is offensive to na- tional feeling. On the other side we bid men lie down quietly under a government which refuses them the common rights of human beings. Such a government they declare as one man that they will endure no longer. By so doing they have re- opened the Eastern question. That ques- tion cettainly admits of more than one answer; but before we get any answer, we must settle what is to be the shape of the question. Here, with many minds the Eastern question means how to keep the Turk in. In the lands where the Turk is something more than a name, the East- ern question means how to turn the Turk out. I have in the course of this article more than once, of set purpose, made use of phrases which I know will provoke con- troversy. I have called the Turks bar barians; I have called them an invading horde. These are the kind of phrases which I know are specially offensive to those who have taken on themselves the strange mission of defending the contin- ued bondage of a large part of Europe. But it is well to set before men~s minds, even at the risk of repeating a thrice-told tale or a hundred-times-told tale, what the real state of the case is. It is well again to show what the system really is which the victims of the Turk are striving to overthrow, and which his abettors in En~ gland and elsewhere are striving to pro- long. To them no phrase is more offen- sive than to be told that the Turks are an Asiatic horde encamped in Europe. No phrase is more offensive, because no phrase is more true. The usual art of the defenders of the Turk is to speak .Qf the Turkish power as if it were an ordinary government, to speak of revolt against it as if it were an ordinary case of revolt against a government. They perhaps do not go so far as to say that the Turkish government is a good goyernment; but they certainly wish people to believe that it is a government, in the same sense in which the monarchies and commonwealths of other parts of Europe are governments. Now the one point to be clearly under- stood is that the state of things in South- Eastern Europe is not an ordinary case of government,good or bad. It is a case of subjection to a power which has no right to be called a government at all. The governments of civihzed countries may be, and are, better or worse, more or. less in accordance with national feeling. There may be under them more or less of political freedom: the judicial and admin- istrative system may be more or less well contrived, more or less purely carried out in practice. Still, in all of these govern- ments, in all the various shades between pure despotism and pure democracy, the government at least professes to act on behalf of the general body of its subjects or citizens, for the good of that general hod y. The worst European government professes to do equal justice between man and man in private causes, and, for the most part, the profession is . pretty fairly carried out. When it is otherwise, it is commonly owing to some defect in the particular law, to some corruption on the part of the particular administrator of the law. It is not com~nonly owing to any- thing in the constitution .of the, governing power which makes it absolutely incapable of doing justice, even if it wishes to do it. 74 THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. Such governments may be better or worse; Nowhere do the Turk and the Christian some n~ay be positively bad; but they are look on one another as fellow-country- not essentially and incurably bad. A gov- men, as all the inhabitants of France or of eminent may be bad, because it is a gov- England look on one another, however eminent of strangers offensive to national distinct and hostile their forefathers may feeling, or because, though it is not a gov- have been in remote ages. At the end of eminent of strangers, yet it is in the ex- half a millennium, the so-called Turkish clusive possession of one class of the na- government remains what it was at the tion. Such governments are bad govern- beginning. The Turks remain as they ments; still they are governments. They were then, an army of occupation in a discharge at least there is nothing to conquered land. The chief difference is hinder them from discharging the pri- that the army of occupation was under far mary duties of a government; life, prop- better discipline then than it is now. The erty, female honour, may be safe under early sultans were all of them wise rulers: them, and equal justice may be done in some of them were, according to their all matters of merely private interest, light, just rulers. Some of them had no But the so-called Turkish croverninent mind to oppress the conquered any more does none of these things; it b can do none than was needful to secure the power-of of these things. The Turks are still, as the conquerors. Under the great sultans, they have been ever since they landed in the lot of the conquered was a hard one; Europe, a mere horde of invaders. That still it was a lot marked out according to they landed five hundred years ago makes certain rules and laws. Oppression might no difference. A government is not un- go so far but no further; and there was lawful merely because it had its beginning some hope in the last refuge of the op- in a foreign conquest. A government ~pressed, that of flying from petty tyrants which began in foreign conquest may be to the throne. Under the little sultans, lecralized in the course of time, sometimes this last hope has long passed away. Read in~the course of a very short time. It is in the letters from Ragusa in the Times legalized as soon as the conquerors and what the people of Bosnia and Herze- the conquered feel themselves parts of govina suffer at the hands of their petty one nation, with common national inter- tyrants, and judge whether they are likely ests and feelings. It matters nothing to to gain anything by flying to the throne of a modern Englishman, it mattered very Abd-ul-aziz. little to an Englishman of the reign of The so-called Turkish government is Henry the Second, on which side his fore- then, I say, no government at alL It has fathers had fought on Senlac - or at Ely. no claim on the allegiance of those whom It matters nothing to a modern French- it calls its subjects. Founded on wrong man whether his forefathers were Gaul or in the beginning, it has kept on the first Frank, Iberian or West-Goth. But it wrong to this day. It has never, even matters now, just as much as it mattered after five hundred years, become a national five hundred years back, whether a man government. It has never, in all those in Turkey is a Turk or a subject of the ages, had any feeling or interest in com- Turk. England is the land of the En- mon with those pf the nations over whom glish; France is the land of the French; it has borne sway. It has never done for but Turkey is not the land of the Turks; them even those common duties of gov- it is the land where the Turks hold other eminent which the worst of civilized gov- nations in bondage. The process of con- ernments does for its subjects. The Turk quest which in other cases came to an is still as mtich an alien in European Tur- end sooner or later, in some cases mar- key as he was when the hnd first began to veilously soon, has in South-Eastern take his name. The sultan may be our Europe gone on to this day. The dis- dear and cherished ally, he may be knight tinctions, national and religious, which ex- of the Garter and guest of the lord mayor, isted five hundred years ago are as broadly but he is none the less the chief of an in- drawn now as they were then. The truding horde, dwelling by force in the Greek, the Slave, the other nations under lands and houses of other men. What the Turkish power, remain now as distinct kind of treatment it is that Turkish rule from the Turk as they were in the days carries with it, Englishmen may learn of the first conquest. The sultan is to from the letters from Ragusa in the Times. his Christian subjects no more a national In Herzegovina, as elsewhere, the causes sovereign now than he was five hundred of revolutions and their immediate occa- years back. He was an alien master then, sions are not always the same. The cause and he remains an alien master now. is doubtless the abiding determination of the people to shake off the hateful yoke. The immediate occasion of the outbreak was of that kind which has been the im- mediate occasion of so many outbreaks, the old tale of the Sicilian Vespers and of the daughters of Skedasos of Leuktra. One necessary accompaniment of Turkish rule is what the Greek poet sang of in Byrons day xai6cov, ~rapOfvcov, yvvat~iv (v?jKeciO~ ~Oopeia. Every pretty girl, so I heard at Ra- gusa, is carried off as a matter of course. It was a specially foul outrage of this kind which immediately led to the revolt. The Eastern question then simply means whether this kind of thing is to last; it means whether men are to be left under a form ~of local administration which, when the doer of a murder or suspected murder is not at hand, at once puts all his kinsfolk to the torture. And all this comes on the top of the grinding fiscal exactions both of the local landowners and of the sultans tax-gatherers. These last, it is well known, have been raised in defiance, as usual, of a distinct promise made by our knight of Saint George to the European powers. Something more was wanted for the vices and follies of a barbarian palace, and the subject Christians had to pay. Men suf- fering under wrongs like these see but one answer to the question whether such things are to be any longer endured. They do not take things quite so calmly as a writer in the last number of this review. To drive the doers of such deeds beyond the Bosporus or anywhere else may seem wild and sensational to gentlemen sit- ting at their ease in London; to those who have to endure their presence, the attempt to get rid of them seems at once a right and a duty. It is easy calmly to tell the Christians of the East that they have but to marry and give in marriage to settle the Eastern question. The encourage- ment to marry and give in marriage must indeed be specially great, as long as those who are given in marriage are likely to be dealt with as they are dealt with by the Turkish masters of Bosnia and Herze- govina. And now I shall perhaps be taken to task for the use of the phrase Turkish masters. I shall be told that the Ma- hometan inhabitants of Bosnia and Herze- govina are not Turkish but Slave. I shall perhaps further be told that, even in the other provinces, the Turks are really no Turks, but Europeans, descendahts of European mothers, in many cases of EuroDean fathers. I know all this as well 7S as any man. I have myself put forward these facts over and over again; but I am qnite prepared to be told them over again as a great piece of news. I use the word Turkish, because it serves, better than any other word, to express the dominion of men who, if not Turks naturally, have become Turks artificially. The Turks in Europe are an artificial nation, just as the modern Greeks are. That is to say, there is a Turkish kernel and a Greek kernel, round which a number of other elements have gathered and have been assimilated. Multitudes of men who are not Turks or Greeks by natural descent have, in this way, become Turks or Greeks for all prac- tical purposes. Nothing is more certain than that, during the great days of Otto- man dominion, the bravest soldiers and the wisest ministers of the sultans were hardly ever Turks by blood. They were renegade Greeks, Slaves, not uncommonly western Europeans. The tribute of chil- dren paid by the subject nations formed the strength of the empire. As long as it was paid, the subject nations could not re- volt; those who would have been their natural leaders in revolt were taken from them in their childhood. But renegades of all these classes practically became Turks. There were few indeed among them who, like Scanderbeg, ever xvent back to the nationality and religion of. their childhood. And in Bosnia and Herze- govina, the case is, as is well known, a special one. At the time of the Turkish conquest, the bulk of the landowners in those countries apostatized in order to. keep their lands, while the mass of the nation remained faithful. In these prov- inces then the immediate oppressors are not Turks by blood, but men of the same race as the oppressed. But this in no way makes matters better, b~ut rather worse. A foreign conqueror may com- mand a certain kind of respect which a native renegade certainly cannot. In some cases it is a certain softening of tyr- anny when ones tyrants are one s coun- trymen; but that rule can hardly apply to the domination of such a caste as this. It is said that among the Bosnian oh. garchy there are many who speak nothing but Slave, to whom Turkish and Arabic are unknown tongues, and who are not remarkable for any deep knowledge of the Koran. In this there may be an element of hope. In the case of a revolution the right way, such men may turn back again as easily as their forefathers turned in the first instance. But for the present they are practically Turks. They are a part, THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 76 and one of the worst parts, of the great West-Saxon shires. The only difference fabric of Turkish oppression, and it is in between them is that the man of Monte- accordance with all experience every- negro is free and the man of Herzegovina where that their dominion should be even is in bondage. Is it a crime then for the more galling than that of the genuine freeman to help his enslaved brother? Is Turks themselves, it a crime to think that one good turn de- Another objection is sure to be made, serves another, that2 as many men of so easy is it for the advocates of wrong Herzegovina fought on the great day to find objections to every movement on which secured the freedom of Montene- behalf of right. We are told, sometimes gro, it is only common gratitude if some glibly enough, with that kind of ease men of Montenegro fight in their turn to which often comes of over and over again enable Herzegovina to win her freedom repeating a well-worn formula, that the re- also? The wonderful thing is, not that volt is no real revolt at all, that its chief some Montenegrins have joined the insur- leaders and agents are not natives of the gent ranks, but rather that, at such a mo- country, that it is a movement got up ment, any one Montenegrin can keep his from without, a movement stirred up pistol and yataghan idle in his girdle. by Prussia, a movement stirred up by That any one Montenegrin can hold back Austria, a Pan-Slavic movement, any- is a sign of the power of a wise prince thing in short rather than a real rising of over a law-abiding people. The traveller an oppressed people against its tyrants. in Montenegro is almost inclined to These things are always said whenever mourn that, while the great strife of right there is a revolt among the subjects of and wrong is going on below, a single one the Turk, and there is just enough truth of her valiant sons should be forbidden in sayings of the kind to make them mis- to share in the good work. But it may chievous. There is no doubt that the perhaps be better that those free heights movement is a genuine native movement; should still remain a city of refube, where there is no ground for saying that the the Christian flying from the Turk, aye leading men among the native Christians and the Turk flying from the Christian, keep aloof from it. There is no doubt may seek shelter, and never seek in vain. that the mass of the actual insurgents are The revolt then is in truth a genuine re- really natives of the revolted provinces, volt of an oppressed Christian people stirred up by the wrongs which they them- against Mahometan masters, whether selves have suffered. But, on the other Turks by blood or apostates of their own hand, there is no doubt that their ranks race matters not. It is a revolt of men have been swelled by symp4thizers from who have made up their minds to cast kindred but happier lands, and that even away the yoke or to perish. The conven- some of the leaders of the movement tional talk about reforms is the mere child- come under this latter head. So it al- ish babble of diplomatists. The time for ways will be in such cases; and why reform is past, or rather thei~e never was should it not be so? As a rule, the peo- such a time at all The experience of pie of an enslaved district, if left quite to twelve hundred years of history ought by themselves, really cannot rise. They this time to have taught us a very simple need help from without to enable them to lesson. The state of things in the Euro- do anything. And shall we dare to blame pean provinces of Turkey is one where the Slave who, under the rule of Austria, the evil is far too deeply rooted for any at least enjoys the common rights of hu- mere attempts at reform to mend it. The inanity, or the Slave who, on the heights truth is that no real reform can be made of Montenegro, rejoices in a freedom won as long as Mahometans, whether Turks by his own right hand, if he goes to the by blood or not, bear rule over men of help of his suffering brother who is still any other religion. In so saying, I need under the yoke? To take the analogy hardly disclaim any intolerant feelincr which I started before, if Hampshire were towards the Mahometan religion or its pro- free and Berkshire enslaved, should we fessors. I have, in more forms than one, think it a great crime if a Hampshire man striven to do justice to the Arabian proph- went to help a revolt in Berkshire, or if he et as one of the greatest of reformers in even suggested to the men of Berkshire his own age and country. I know as well that a favourable moment for revolt had as any man that there are large parts of come? Between the men of Montenegro the world where the preaching of Islam and the men of Herzegovina there is no has carried with it a wonderful advance in wider difference in blood and speech than every way, moral, social, and political. there is between the men of the two Towards a Mahometan nation, living in its THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. 77 own land, I have no ill-feeling whatever. I have no ill-feeling towards Persia. The Persian nation gradually adopted Mahom- etanism, though, in adopting it, they gave it a new form of their own. Persia is really a Mahometan country: the few men of any other religion, Christian or heathen, are, in the strictest sense, dis- senters. It is open to them to make the same claims, and to fight the same battle, as a dissenting minority anywhere else: but they cannot claim to be themselves the nation; they cannot call the Mahome- tan majority intruders or invaders. And what is true of Persia is true also of a large part of the Ottoman dominions in Asia. The country is really Mahometan, and I have no wish to meddle with its Mahometan occupants. It is true that they have displaced a Christian popula- tion; but they displaced it so long ago that no practical question can arise out of the displacement, any more than out of our own displacement of the Welsh in Britain. But the case in European Tur- key is quite different. There the Mahom- etans are in no sense the people of the land; they are an army of occupation, holding down subject nations in their own land. That welding together of conquerors and conquered into a single nation, which has legalized conquest in so many other cases, has never happened in the case of the Turks in Europe, and in truth it never can happen. The peaceful fusion of the two races, the absorption of the Frank by the Gaul or of the Norman by the En- glish man, never can happen where the con- querors are Mahometans, and where the conquered cleave to their national faith. One of the first principles of the Mahom- etan religion is that, wherever its votaries have dominion, men of all other religions shall be their subjects. Koran, tribute, or sword still remains the alternative as it was in the days of Omar. By payment of tribute, the conquered Christian, firewor- shipper, or Hindoo secured his life, his property, and the free exercise of his re- ligion. But he still remained one of a subject class in his own land. Then and now alike, he is not only politically the subject of a Mahometan sovereign; he is civilly and socially the inferior of every one of his Mahometan fellow-subjects. What the Mahometan law prescribes for tributaries of another religion is a con- temptuous toleration. If persecution is forbidden on the one hand, any real equal- ity with men of the dominant religion is forbidden on the other. When such a state of things as this has been the law, it has naturally followed that the treatment of Christians and other non-Mahometan subjects of Mahometan powers has varied greatly in different times and places. Cases may here and there be found in which the subject, the Giaour, got better terms than the capitulation of Omar gave him. In most cases he has got far worse terms. The Turk has everywhere been worse than the Saracen whom he sup. planted, and the Ottoman Turk has been the worst of all Turks. In fact, when it is laid down as a matter of religious princi- ple that men of other religions are the nat- ural inferiors and subjects of the Mussul- man, it is hardly to be expected that the Mussulman will keep himself within the letter of any capitulation. Where the law prescribes a contemptuous toleration, oppression and persecution are always likely to be the rule in practice. So it ever has been; so, in the nature of things, it ever must be. Let the capitulation of Omar be carried out to the letter throughout the Ottoman dominions; the Christian popula- lation will still be in a state worse than the state which in other lands has been commonly looked on as fully justifying re- volt. They will still be worse off than ever Lombard was under Austrian or Pole under Russian rule. But it is quite cer- tain that the Christians of Turkey are far worse off than the capitulation of Omar would make them, and it is quite certain that they will remain so as long as t hey remain under a Mahometan government. The Porte may make endless promises of reform; but, even if it wishes to carry them out, it cannot. A Mahometan gov- ernment cannot, if it will, give real equality to the subjects of other religions. If it does so, it sins against the first principles of the Mahometan law, and it must draw upon it- self the ill-(vill from their own principles the perfectly just ill-will of ~ts Mahome- tan subjects. One Mahometan ruler did give perfect equality to his subjects of all religions; but, in so doing, he had to cease to be a Mahometan. If Abd-ul-aziz has strength to follow in the steps of Akbar, let him do so, and the blessings of man- kind will be on him. That would settle the Eastern question at once. But there is no intermediate choice between that settlement and that other settlement which the patriots of the Slave provinces are seeking with their swords. As a Chris- tian, as an Akbarite, sovereign, the Turk- ish sultan may go on and reign as the Ciesar of the New Rome, and the weap- ons which are now lifted against him may be used for his defence against a male- 73 ~THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. content Mahometan minority. But no re- eign word; by its etymology it would form short of this will answer. A Ma- seem to have something to do with the hometan government may rule well, as far tricks of a juggler. As for honour, I as any despotism can rule well, over a know of only one way in which true hon- Mahometan people. Over a people not our can be won, and that is by doing Mahometan it must ever be, even in spite right fearlessly at all hazards. The most of itself~ a government of sheer force and honourable thing of all is never to do oppression. It must ever be a govern- wrong; next after that comes the true ment towards which its subjects have but courage of the man or the nation who, one duty, the duty of throwing off its yoke when wrong has been done, is ready to whenever they have the power. confess the wrong and to redress it. Our The Turk then must go or he must true honour can never demand that we cease to be a Turk. As he is not likely should go on propping up a rotten fabric to cease to he a Turk, it is enough to say of evil; it does demand that we should that he must go. It does not follow that undo the wrong that we have done in he need go all at once. From Servia he helping the evil cause thus far. As for has gone already. Bosnia and Herzego- interests, questions about Central Asia or vina have given him notice to quit, and the Suez Canal, I do not profess to be from them he must go at once. It will he any judge of such matters; but if our time for him to go from Bulgaria and Al- Atlantic island has any real interest in bania when Bulgaria and Albania give them, I suppose that those questions, like him notice to quit also. But Bosnia and other questions of interest, come under 1-Ierzegovina have made up their minds the head of the eternal rule that interest that they will get rid of him or perish, should give way to right and duty. Which of these two alternatives is to ~a. e~ ~iKata, r~v cp~v xpei~~ 1-4d8. take place is the true Eastern question. It is the question which the powers of We were told one and twenty years Europe have to settle. No one supposes back that our interests were so pressing, that, if the combined voice of Europe that the Russian bughear was so frightful, speaks, the sick man whom Europe has that we had no time to listen to the claims so long swathed and bolstered up for its of oppressed nations, even when we had own ends will dare to disobey. An awful ourselves doomed them to oppression. responsibility therefore rests on those So I would say back again, that, when a who now guide the counsels of the Euro- plain duty calls on us to help the cause of pean powers. It is nothing short of the our suffering brethren, I at least can find responsibility of deciding between good no time for nicely calculated questions of and evil. Shall the lands which have interest, not even for countino how near risen against the yoke be forced down Russia may, in the discharge of her civil- aoain beneath the yoke, or not? To talk izing mission in barbarian lands, have reform is childish. The Turk, as long come to the bounds of our own distant as he remains a Turk, cannot reform. dominion. I can only say that the inter- The revolted lands ask, not for reforms ests of Russia or Austria, the interests of which cannot be had, but for freedom France or Germany or England, must not which may be had. It is freedom for be thought of in the face of the interests which they ask; never mind what form of humanity. Happily one specially sor- freedom takes; freedom from the Turk did form of interest will now be driven to will be a blessing, in whatever form it hold its peace. Europe will hardly be comes. Be it the freest of common- called upon to prop up the black fabric of wealths, be it only a despotism which does Turkish tyranny in the interest of Turkish common justice between man and man, in bondholders in England. The Turk has, either case it will be freedom to men who fittingly enough, played the Turk with his have so long groaned under the yoke of creditors as well as with his subjects. mere brigandage. One change may be Englishmen were not ashamed to lend better than another, but any change will their money to the barbarian, knowing be better than what is now. that every penny which they lent could be And now at such a moment as this is it used only in propping up the foulest of too much to ask that the wretched talk tyrannies, and in enabling a sensual des- about interest and honour and prestige, pot to spend yet more on his luxuries and which has so long grated on the ears of his vices. They lent their money, know- all who love right for its own sake, may at ing that every penny of interest that they last be hushed? As for prestige, I were to receive was to he wrung by the hardly know the meaning of the ugly for- minions of a tyrant out of the scanty eara THE TRUE EASTERN QUESTION. ings of an oppressed people. They have their reward. The Turk, true to his tra- ditions, has broken faith; the pleasures of the sultans court have been found too costly; the resources of his victims have been found too scanty; and the men who strove to prop up wrong by gold have found that gold is no longer forthcoming out of the abyss of Turkish misrule. While I write, the news comes that the deputations from the insurgents have gone to the three courts of Berlin, Vienna, and Saint Petersburg, to formulate, as the telegram runs, their demands. Later still come other rumours that their deputa- tions are not likely to be attended with much success because the demands of the insurgents menace the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. Let them ask for re- forms, let them ask for decentraliza- tion; these the great powers may per- haps be inclined to guarantee; but free- dom they must not hope for. Later again come, one after another, utterances from Vienna and Saint Petersburg, each one darker and more meaningless than the one which went before it. I know not what truth there may be in all this. I know not what may be the shape taken either by the demands of the insurgents or by the answer of the powers; but I do know that all talk about reforms and de- centralization and guaranteeing this and that is simply childish. The three pow- ers can guarantee reform in one way, and in one way only; but that is a way which is certainly menacing to the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. The only way in which any reform can be guaranteed is by giving the lands which are to be reformed full practical emancipation from the Turk- ish yoke. Talk about new divisions of provinces, about giving Christians a greater share in the local administration, even about putting this or that district under a Christian governor, is not to be listened to. A Christian governor is not necessa- rily better than a Mahometan governor. A Christian who stoops to be the agent of the sultan is not likely to be among the most high-minded of Christians, or among those who enjoy the greatest confidence among their brethren. The one thing which is needed, the one thing which will meet the wishes of the revolted provinces, the one thing which will ease the powers of the thankless labour of propping up the sick man, will be to give each prov- ince, as it demands it, full practical eman- cipation from the Turkish yoke. Thus the Eastern question may be solved. Such a solution is doubtless inconsistent with 79 the integrity of the Ottoman Empire; but no other solution can be riotteo no other solution is possible. b us; I just now used the words7 full prac- tical emancipation. I made the qualifica- tion advisedly. If practical independence is to be had only at the cost of a nominal homage, or even of a fixed tribute, to the tottering despot of Constantinople, I do not think that practical independence should be refused on those terms. Servia, I believe, still keeps some forms of vas- salage, and I have always held it to be one of the misfortunes of Greece that she was at once cumbered with the trappings of an absolutely independent kingdom in- stead of being allowed to march gradually towards the crown of perfect independ- ence. The nations of the Byzantine pe- ninsula must never be allowed to become wholly isolated from one another. They must never lose the tradition of looking to the New Rome as their natural centre. As longas the Turk sits in New Rome, he may well be the overlord of all of them, provided his overlordship remains as purely formal as it now is over Servia and Roumania. It will be enough if the lands which are striving for their freedom are put under some government which shall secure to them, if full political freedom, so much the better, but at any rate the common rights of human beings. Every- thing else isa matter of detail. The most obvious course would be to attach the re- volted lands to Montenegro or to Servia, or to divide them between Montenegro and Servia. A glance at the map will show how near independent Montenegro and practically independent Servia come together. The Slave provinces which are still under the yoke are all but isolated from the mass of the Turkish dominions; they form a kind of peninsula of bondage. The main difficulty either in attaching them to Servia or Montenegro, or in form- ing them into a third Slave principality, lies in this. In Servia, at the time of its emancipation, there were very few settled Mahometan inhabitants. When the Turk- ish soldiers and officials had marched out, the land was left wholly Christian. In. Montenegro of course there never were any Mahornetan inhabitants at all. In Bosnia and Herzegovina, on the other hand, there is both a Mahometan and a Catholic minority; and, in settino- free the great Orthodox majority, care must be taken not to perpetuate wrong, by giving the Orthodox any undue supremacy over the Catholic and the Mahometan. It might be feared that, either in a newly- 8o THE DILEMMA. formed Slave state or in an extended Ser- via or Montenegro, there might be danger of old wrongs being repaid in kind by a dominant Orthodox majority. And again the question presents itself, whether an extended Montenegro might not lose its distinctive character, and the Montene- grin experiment, the experiment of civil- izing a small warlike tribe, without de- stroying its distinctive character, without bringing it down to the dead level of com- mon European life, is so interesting, and has hitherto been so successful, that one is loath to do anything that may disturb it. Annexation to the great neighbouring monarchy has an ugly sound, and I should certainly not advocate it for its own sake, or in case anything better can be found. Still it has something to be said for it. We must not forget that the Austro-Hun- garian monarchy of 1875 is not the Aus- trian Empire of i86~. It is giving it less praise than it deserves to say that its rule is better than that of Turkey, and that Herzegovina would greatly gain if it were raised to the level of Dalmatia. Under the rule of the Apostolic King Catholic and Orthodox contrive to live side by side; and under that rule Catholic, Or- thodox, and Mahometan would have more chance of doing so than they would have under a purely Orthodox government. The great difficulty in the way of annexa- tion in this quarter is the dislike of the Magyars to any strengthening of the Slave element in the united monarchy. Zealous Slaves have been known to an- swer that the Magyars are Turanian in- truders no less than the Turks, and that Turks and Magyars might with advan- tage march off together. But the king- dom of the apostolic Stephen can be hardly got rid of so easily as this. Hun- gary and the other lands joined under the rule of her king seem marked out as called on to be the leading Christian state of South - Eastern Europe. Within the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, even within the Hungarian kingdom itself, there is al- ready the strangest jumble of national- ities and religions. And the like jumble of nationalities and religions there must be in any considerable state which may arise in South - Eastern Europe. The present union between Hungary and Aus- tria supplies a precedent for a quasi-fed- eral union, which, if a greater number of states were joined together, might be- ,come more truly federal. For the king of Hungary and Dalmatia to become also king of Bosnia is not ideally the best remedy for the evil. But that, or any- thing else, would be a relief to lands which have been so long bowed down un- der the yoke of the barbarian. Here are great issues, issues so great that but few of us can have any direct control over them. But one thing we can all of us do. All of us, far and near, can stretch out a helping hand to the hapless and homeless fugitives who have fled be- fore the face of the barbarian invader, to seek shelter in the friendly lands of Ser- via, Montenegro, and Dalmatia. Won~en, children, old men, helpless beings of every kind, have fled from the face of the de- stroyer to throw themselves upon the charity of their happier brethren. I, who have seen their distress, can bear witness to its being the saddest sight that my eyes ever saw. Not that either private or pub- lic charity has been lacking; but it is as when Burke spoke of the victims of an- other desolating war, It was a people in beggary; it was a nation that stretched out its hands for food. There are men on the spot, in hospitable Ragusa, who are doing all that single men can do; but the cry of these unhappy refugees is one which should speak in the ears of all Christendom, in the ears of all the civil- ized world. England is not commonly the last in such good works, and the cause of these helpless refugees has been strongly represented by the Times correspondent at Ragusa. Let me add my word to his. If there ever was a voice which ought, to go to the heart, if there ever was a time when we ought to stretch forth a kindly hand, it is to help these helpless victims of a stern necessity. While their kinsfolk are fighting for faith and freedom and all that is dear to the heart of man, they can only suffer in silence, unless the hand of charity is stretched out to help them from every land where faith and freedom and the common rights of human beings are no longer things which have to be striven for on the field of battle. EDWARD A. FREEMAN. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE DILEMMA. CHAPTER xxxvii. KIRKES Horse was allowed only a brief respite from the labours of campaign. It had scarcely settled down in its sum- mer quarters when orders were received to be ready to march on active service with the first break of cold weather; and a few days before the appointed time, its THE DILEMMA. 8x commandant returned from the hills quite set up again by his visit, as active as ever, plunging eagerly into all the business of regimental equipment. In reply to Yorkes inquiries after Mrs. Falkland, he said that she too was in excellent health and spirits. Yorke of course expressed his pleasure at this, hardly knowing whether he was really gratified to hear it he had pictured her as pensive, though resigned, and yearning for sympathy and observed, for want of something better to say, that the events at the residency, and especially the death of her husband so soon after their marriage, must have been a great shock; to which Kirke replied that she had pretty well got over that. Marriage, you see, he went on to say, must be a different sort of thing from an ordinary love-affair, when a woman marries a man so much older than herself. It was hardly to be expected that my cousin should be very long get- ting over the loss of Falkland, poor fel- low. By the way, she is never tired of talking about you, and cant say too much in your praise. Notwithstanding the pleasure this remark gave him, something in Kirkes hard way of talking jarred on Yorkes feelings; and yet, he asked him- self, what could he wish more than that she should have forgotten her first love? Was not that exactly what he was hoping for? There was little more said between them about Olivia. Kirke was a reserved man on private affairs; and Yorke, not being sure if Olivia had told her cousin that she was in corresp~ndehce with him, did not mention it himself. The regiment now marched southwards, six hundred strong, the vacancies having been more than filled up with picked re- cruits, equipped now as lancers, with three additional subaltern officers, all promising young fellows eager to distinguish them- selves, and the whole body, men and horses, in splendid order. But this cam- paign, although laborious and fatiguing, was not productive of much in the way of hard fighting. The enemys spirit was now broken, and the principal duty of the cavalry was to wear them down, to follow up the roving bands which still kept the field from place to place, giving no rest until they should be all cut up or dis- persed. This work, which fell mainly to the cavalry, was calculated to try mens power of endurance, as well as the officers intelligence; but only one incident of the campaign shall be here mentioned, as it nearly occasioned at the time a quarrel between Vorke and his commanding offi LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 630 cer, and led afterwards to serious conse- quences. It was on the evening of a day marked by the surprise of a large body of the enemy, horse and foot, who had been fol- lowed up during a forced march perse- vered in for many days with only brief halts; the enemy had broken up after a slight struggle, and a destructive pursuit had been maintained all the afternoon, the pursuers indulging to the full the passion for taking life inherent in most human hearts, till the general in comniand, a man who seemed never to know what fati~, ue was himself, was fain to order a halt, the infantry being far behind, and the horses of the cavalry dead beat. Kirkes Horse were encamped for the night in front of the scattered column on a bare spot of ground interspersed with scanty bushes; and Kirke and Yorke, with one native officer and an orderly, were riding slowly along the front inspecting the pickets, when Kirkes quick eye detected some object behind a bush a little way in ad- vance, and he rode towards it followed by the others. It proved to be a deserted palanquin, apparently, from the elaborate external gilding, belonging to a person of rank. After looking at it for a few mo- ments, they were about to turn their. horses heads backwards, when the order- ly with the point of his lance suddenly pushed open one of the sliding doors, ex- posing a veiled figure sitting upright within. Holloa! said Kirke, some member of the zenana left behind. Heres a chance for you, Yorke you might man- age to console the lady, I daresay. She looks rather a stout party, re- plied Yorke; probably an ancient of days. What on earth are we to do with this poor old beebee? We cant leave her here to die in the jungle. It isnt a beebee at all, sahib, said the native officer, a swaggering young Pat~n, in his own language, who, catching the word beebee, had guessed the nature of the remark; and stooping down he pulled aside the shawl in which the face of the figure was enveloped, and displayed the features of a stout elderly man. The shawl will suit me, he continued, whisk- in~ it off and placing it in front of his sad- dle. And heres another for me, said the orderly, fishing up on the point of his lance the end of another shawl which was round the mans body, and then pulling it off. As he did so, a small box fell out and rolled on the ground, the lid opening 82 THE DILEMMA. at the same time. The contents seemed to be something white. The orderly dismounted and picked the box up. He lifted the white substance off: it was cotton-wool, below which lay some ornaments set with stones, which glittered even in the twilight. jewels! said the man, with a grin, holding the box up. to his colonel. Kirke took it from him, and held it out so that Yorke could see the contents. There were several layers of cotton, and jewels betx~en each which seemed to be of value. Perhaps there are some more things worth havingjust see, said Kirke to the man, who thereupon began to pull off the other garments of the occupant of the palanquin. He found a dagger with a jewelled hilt, some money rolled up in muslin round his waist, and a couple of gold drinking-vessels. Kirke told him to keep the money for himself, and to hand the dagger and vessels to the ressaldar; and, so saying, put the case of jewels in his pocket. - The captive meanwhile sat in the pal- anquin, holding up his joined hands in prayerful supplication, and constantly re- peating the formula that Kirke was a pro- tector of the poor and his father and mother. What is to be done with the rascal, sir? said the ressaldar to Kirke, in his own language. Oh, we dont want any prisoners, of course, said the colonel, as he turned away and rode off; whereupon the res- saldar made a sign to the trooper, who, poising his lance for an instant as if to take aim, ran the man through the body as he still sat in the palkee with supplicat- ing hands. The poor wretch fell back groaning and raising his arms as he writhed under the wound; but the trooper, drawing out his lance from the body, with a grim smile drove it in again through his chest, and, after a convulsive struggle, the body settled down into the stillness of death. That man must have been some one of mark, said Yorke to the colonel, as they rode away: would it not have been worth while bringing him in as a prison- er? The general would certainly have hung him in the morning; besides, our fellows are too tired to be bothered with guarding prisoners all night. Well, I can run a pandy through with as much gusto as any man in fair fight, but I am getting sick of this executioners business in cQol blood after the battle; it is beastly work. It mtist be done, though, saidKirke; the rogues have given enough trouble already, without being allowed to get off free, and begin playing the mischief again. I suppose it is necessary, but it isnt pleasant, and the looting part of it is not much nicer. I declare I felt little better than a Pindaree robber when we were stripping that poor wretch. Happily one has the consolation of feeling that it is plundering for the benefit of the army generally, and only indirectly for one s self. That haul we have just made may turn out to be a good one for the prize- fund. Kirke did not reply at once. After a pause he said, I dont think it is expect- ed that those who do all the work should hand in every trifle they pick up for the benefit of a lot of fellows who are potter- ing about, taking things easily, in the rear. I dont call jewellery a trifle. jewellery is a big word; I suppose there is about enough to make a couple of trinkets for our respective lady-loves; and, as Kirke said this, he looked towards his companion, smiling, as if in jest, but looking also somewhat eager to see how he would receive the suggestion. How- ever, he added, in a low tone for they had reached the spot where the other of- ficers were assembled you may leave me to make the report of the matter. The mule which carried the light mess- equipment of the regiment had now come up, and a tin of English soup was already warming on the fire, while the troopers around were preparing their frugal meal of corn-flour, or contentedly munching the parched train they had brought with them. The meal despatched, all who were not on duty lay down on the ground without blanket or cloaks for the baggage had not come up almost too tired to smoke their cheroots before falling a~4eep. Next day Yorke spoke to his command- ing officer, as they were riding along to- gether, about the things taken the even- ing before, and said he supposed they would be given up to the prize-a~,ents. You dont expect Futteh Khan and my orderly to disgorge the things I let them take? said Kirke. Their ideas on such points are not quite so nice as yours. And there was something of a sneer in the tone of his voice. No, replied Yorke; the things they took will be kept by them, of course. I was thinking of the jewels. THE DILEMMA. 83 My dear fellow, they are not worth making a fuss about. I suppose if you were to pick up an old pistol, or a grass- cutters pony to replace the one you lost, you wouldnt feel that you had done the rest of the army out of their rights. But that is different. These jewels may be very valuable. Not much in that way, I fancy; but they are prett.y little things, I admit. Look here, continued Kirke, taking the box out of his breast-pocket and holding it out fowards Yorke look here, Yorke; you would like to take your choice, wouldnt you? Which will you have? And Kirkes manner was such that it could not be said he was not speaking in jest, although it seemed as if he would certainly like to be taken at his word. But Yorke, looking straight before him over his horses head, merely waved away the offer, and said, You are joking, col- onel, of course; I take it for granted that you intend to hand the jewels over to the prize-agent. Oh, of course, replied the other, I was only joking; but he could not con- ceal from his manner that he felt as if he had sustained a rebuff; and the silence which followed as they rode along, was a little awkward on both sides. Both officers, however, had plenty of work to occupy their attention, and Yorke had ceased to think about the matter when, a few weeks later, it was brought to his recollection. He was detached from headquarters with one squadron of the regiment, at a station which had lately been reoccupied by the civil officers of government. The last embers of the great conflagration were~ noxv extinguished, and the detachment was peacefully encamped on ah open space before the town, expecting orders to go into summer quarters. One even- ing Yorke was sauntering through the ~ camp inspecting the horses picketed in two lines before the troopers tents, while the ressaldar Futteh Khan attended him. The latter was dressed in his loose na- tive garments, both of them being off duty and the inspection purely non-offi- cial, when Yorke noticed in his girdle the jewelled dagger which had been taken from the rebel in the palanquin. That is a handsome da~,ger, said Yorke in Hindustani, and if those jewels are real it must be worth somethincr Ab, sahib, these little stones are mere trifles, replied the ressaldar; it was the colonel sahib who carried off the loot. They say that the man whom we found in the palkee was the rajas dew~n, and that the jewels were worth a lakh of rupees. So much the better, replied Yorke; we shall all get the larger share when the prize-money comes to be distributed. So the colonel sahib had actually made them over to the prize-agent? asked the man, respectfully enough, yet as if surprised to hear it; and the conver- sation arousing an uneasy feeling in Yorkes mind, he took the opportunity of a messetiger going to regimental head- quarters next day to ask Kirke about it. ~ I take it for granted, he said at the end of a letter written about other matters that you have made over the jewels to the prize-agent as you said you intended to do; but the men in the regiment ap- pear to be talking about the thing, and to suppose that they were worth far more than their real value; while I infer from Futteb Khans manner that he thinks he ought to have had a share. The capture having been a joint one, it is perhaps now a little unfortunate that the things were not publicly given up, so that the men might have been without any ground for suspicion that we had taken any benefit by it. It would be a great satisfaction to hear from you that the transfer has been actually made. Pray excuse my troubling you about the matter. To which Kirke replied by the following postscript in his letter sent back by the messenger: Make your mind easy about the jewels, which were duly handed over to the proper party. . They turned out to be trumpery things. The great war having come to an end at last, and it being now the height of the hot season, the field force to which Kirkes Horse was attached was broken up, and the different regiments composing it, call- ing in their detachments, marched off to their respective summer quarters. Mus- taphabad was the station allotted to Kirkes Horse, several hundred miles off, and not to be reached till long after the fierce Indian summer should have passed its greatest heat; but the men veterans in campaigning, although young in years set out on the long march in high spirits, for Mustaphabad was not far from the dis- trict in xvhich the regiment was raised, and they. might now expect to get fur- loughs to visit their homes. What strange chance is it, thought Yorke, which brings us back to the old eventful scenes? Can it be that the dream of my youth is really to be fulfilled, and that Olivia will be won to share my lot in that very place? a lot just as I used to picture it a humble 84 THE DILEMMA. home, if not quite the shabby cottage of my subaltern days. But she, too, has since then known discomfort and simple ways of life, and whatever place she lives in will be sufficiently adorned. Surely it must be a good omen which takes me there again! Plenty of time had the young man to build his castles in the air, searching over and over ?gain in her let- ters for something substantial on which to erect a foundation for his hopes. At times it seemed as if her letters breathed a tenderness which, as if she was won already, at any rate invited him to declare his passion; and then , again, reading them under the influence of the reaction which would follow any excess of hopefulness, he thought he could detect only a spirit of resignation and sorrowful clinging to the memory of the past, which would ren- der his tale of love an insult. These let- ters were of old date, for during the late campaign he had received no news from her. The regiment had, however, been wandering a mid wild parts, difficult to communicate with; mails had been lost, and Olivias letters might have miscarried her notions about Indian geo~raphy and the movements of the different armies he knew to he somewhat vague, while he, for his part, had been too constantly on the move to write often; but now that they were marching along the main line of road, he would surely receive some news. Thus he thought and hoped, as the regiment slowly covered the long track, marching by night, and getting through the stifling day in their tents as best they could, for the heat seemed much harder to bear now that the excitement of active service was ended, and each camp- ing-ground looking the exact counterpart of the last a brown, barren, burnt-up plain. Now and then they would come to a European station, where the officers of the famous regiment were sure of a hos- pitable reception from the residents, and would pass the day in the comparative coolness of a house, setting out again at midni~ht on the dusty road. It was at one of these stations that Yorke heard for the first time of the death of Mr. Cunningham in England, which it appeared had been known in In- dia for some weeks. This accounts for her silence, thought~ he; no wonder she had not spirits to write when bowed down with this fresh calamity. And how heart- less my last letter to her must have seemed, for she could not have supposed that I was ignorant of what everybody in India seemed to know! And being full of the news, he naturally spoke to Kirke about it the first time they met. They were spending the day as guests at differ- ent houses, but were to dine together at a regimental mess, and he met his command- ant when riding into the mess-garden at dusk. They had never once referred to Olivia in conversation since the first day after Kirkes return from the hills in the previous autumn. Yorke was not sure if the other had guessed the state of his own feelin~s, hut Kirke was a man who was wont to speak somewhat contemptuously of women in general, and had often ex- pressed the opinion that soldiers were spoilt by marriage; and Yorke thought he would not look favourably on the idea of having a married second in command, still less one married to his cousin. In- deed Yorke fancied he could detect a tone of pique in Kirkes manner when congrat- ulating him on the high regard entertained for him by Olivia, which induced him to abstain from talking about her, still more from any expression of wonder at not getting letters from her; and a reserve of this sort once set up became every day more difficult to break through. Now, however, Yorke made the attempt. 1-lave you heard the news, colonel? he said, as the two met at the garden en- trance, and rode slowly up the drive to- gether to the mess-house. Have you heard the news of poor Cunninghams death?~ Oh yes, of course, replied Kirke; I heard~of that some weeks ago: I thought everybody knew it. A case of liver, I be- lieve; he ~vas very bad, as it turned out, when he xvent home. I only heard of it this afternoon. This will alter Mrs. Falklands plans, I suppose, and even delay her journey home? I have understood that she has no near rela~tions to whom she could go. It is a sad situation for her; I have been able to think of nothing else all day. When he said this, the young fellow felt himself like a selfish hypocrite, being sensible in reality of a sensation of rapture, as if the loss of her father brought her one step nearer to himself. Very good of you, I am sure, replied Kirke, drily, and speaking slightly through his nose, as was his manner when intend- ing to be sarcastic. Yes, indeed, it is difficult to say what she is to do under the circumstances, isnt it? A handsome young woman like her wants a protector of some sort, doesnt she? Here they had arrived at the mess- THE DILEMMA. house, and the conversation perforce end- ed. Nor did Yorke feel disposed to re- new it, for Kirkes tone jarred~ on him. And the subject was not referred to again during the rest of the march. CHAPTER XXXVIII. MUSTAPHABAD was reached at last, some time after the rainy season had set in. It was still very hot, but the country had now put on its green mantle again, and was no longer a wilderness; and it seemed to Yorke another good omen that on the very day of their marching in, the English mail arrived with another batch of honours; Kirke was promoted to a full colonel, and Yorke made a C.B. The regiment was met on arrival by the general for Mustaphabad was now the headquarters of a division no less a person than our old friend Tartar, now Sir Montague Tartar, K.C.B., who came out to meet it at the head of his staff as a compliment to this distinguished ~corps; and after a brief inspection, and some praise bestowed for the excellent appear- ance of both men and horses after the long march, the regiment proceeded to occupy the quarters allotted them, the na- tive cavalry lines on the right flank of the station, the officers taking possession of such of the vacant bungalows as they had engaged beforehand, comfortable houses enough, especially by contrast with tents, which had been lately rethatched and re- paired, and, with their neat gardens, looked none the worse for the mutiny damages. Kirke alone of the officers had not been able to make up his mind about hiring a house beforehand, and took possession of a couple of rooms in the mess-house until he could choose one for himself. During the first few days after their arrival, regimental business kept all the officers employed. Horses had to be cast, and mens furlough papers made out, and arms overhauled and replaced; but when this was all set in train, and Yorke thought he could be spared, he asked Kirke to forward his application for the usual sixty days leave. I cant let you go just now, my dear fellow, said Kirke, for I am just going to take privilege leave myself, and we cant both be absent together. But you shall have your leave as soon as ever I come back. Yorke thought this a little selfish, as Kirke had had long leave the previous season, and he not a day; however., the latter was commanding officer and could please himself, so there was no more to be said about it. And Yorke set himself to getting as best he could through the sixty days which had to be passed till his turn should come. It was pleasant to find that the station had quite recovered its ordinary aspect, for the ravage~ of the mutineers and plunderers who followed in their train, although awful to witness, had but a limited scope to work upon. The Anglo-Indian bungalow consists of substantial walls supporting a thatched roof, which, if it could be easily burnt, could also be easily replaced; this done and the walls whitewashed, the house looks as good as new, while the rapid growth of Indian vegetation soon obliter- ates any damage done to Indian gardens by trampling over the shrubs. The little bungalow at the other end of the station in the lines formerly occupied by the 76th Native Infantry, which Spragge and he used to live in, looked just the same as ever; it was occupied again, and there, standinb by the stable-door in the ~orner of the garden, as Yorke rode by on the evening of his arrival, was the new tenant smoking a cigar and superintending the littering-up of his horse, just as he used to do in the days of the gallant Devotion evidently a subaltern as he had been, but who probably surveyed life like a veteran from the vantage-ground of one or two campaigns. The residency, too, which of course he rode out to see on his first spare evening, had been coin- pletely restored, and with a fresh coat of plaster on the walls was looking quite smart; while half a score of scarlet-clad messengers lounged about the portico, just as in the old pre-mutiny days. The new commissioner, a civilian, from another part of the country, being out for his even- ing drive, Yorke took the liberty of dis- mounting and walking over the grounds, recalling the different points rendered memorable in his mind by incidents of the siege. There, for example, was the bush behind which the fellow was crouching whom Egan shot, the first man he saw hit. I-lard by, a stone with an inscription recorded that the body of Major Peart had been disinterred from underneath that spot, and removed to the cantonment cemetery. The bodies of the rebels, too, he learnt, had been exhumed from the well into which they were cast, and the interior filled up. He walked into the west veranda. The family of the new commissioner was in England, and the rooms on this side were unoccupied. Here was her room. How neat and trim she always looked when she stepped forth, even in those times! And 86 THE DILEMMA. here was the spot where was the old beer- rupee to bless myself with, and about as chest on which he used to sit when on much idea of being able to marry as of being guard, and when she would come and sit made governor-general. I tell Kitty she down too sometimes of an evening, and wouldnt have looked at me in those days. Falkland would look in and join in a few What a wonderful event this mutiny has minutes chat. How sweet her gentle been, to be sure! It has been the mak- laugh was that evening when Spragge was ing of us all, hasnt it? They were jolly hunting the scorpion! Only two years days too, though, when we were chumming ago, and it seems like twenty. But ah! if together with the old 76th, werent they? the end of my pilgrimage should now be though I was so awfully hard up then. near at hand! But the married state is the happy one, For the present, however, there was after all; I never could have supposed nothing for it but patience, and it hap- that any girl would have got to care for a pened that there was plenty of employ- rum-looking fellow like me and Kitty is ment to occupy his time, in the task which a wife beyond what words can express. now devolved on him of unravelling the You ought to follow my example, my dear regimental accounts. The financial econ- fellow; why dont you come up and pay omy of a native cavalry regiment, in which us a visit? There are no end of nice the men find their own horses, and a quasi- girls up here, and a swell like you might feudal system used to obtain, some of the have his choice. By the way, your old wealthier sort bringing their own retainers flame is about to console herself immedi- at contract rates, is always more or less ately, as of course you have heard. The complicated, involving the need for the wedding is to take place to-morrow, I be- employment of a native banker, who forms lieve, but it has been kept very quiet, and a regular part of its establishment. The no one is invited I suppose because the fact that the regiment had been raised in lady lost her father such a short time ago. a hurry and been almost constantly on act- Kitty says she was sure your C.O. was ive service did not tend to make matters. very sweet on her I dont mean Kitty, simpler, the men having scarcely ever had but the other when he was up here last a regular issue of pay, but having been rains; but I always thought he was such a maintained from allowances made from tremendous soldier, and woman-hater into time to time on account, which had still to the bargain, that matrimony was quite out be adjusted. Kirke, who. had kept these of his line. However, my little wife is affairs entirely in his own hands, was more knowing in these things than me. moreover not a good man of business, and As Yorke, stopping in his reading of the Yorke found the regimental accounts in letter at this point, looked round the room, such confusion that he would fain have he felt that while nothing in it had changed, abstained from taking them up during his he had entered in these few moments on temporary command; but the discharges anoth~r world. There on the table lay the had to be made out of some disabled men, shabby books of regimental accounts, the and to square their accounts involved floor was littered with Hindustani vouch- going into those of the whole regiment. ers and figured statements, squatting by So he was obliged to apply himself to the which sat the patient moonshee, figured ab- troublesome task. stract in hand, waiting the sahibs pleasute But business and day-dreams were both to proceed with the addition; the punkah interrupted by the news he received one flapped to and fro lazily overhead; out- day. It was in a letter from Spragge, side the door a couple of orderlies were who, like himself, had been campaigning chatting in undertones, discussing proba- during the past season, leaving his young bly, as usual, the price of wheat in the wife in the hills for her confinement, and bazaar. Everything about him denoted had now rejoined her on leave soon after the same monotonous workaday world as the birth of his child. I found my dear it had been a few moments before, but a little wife, said the writer, making a world from which all hope and pleasure good recovery, and baby nearly a month had fled a world now inexpressibly flat old. Both Kitty and I want you to be and dreary for the future. Summoning godfather to the youngster, who is to be up courage, however, he called to the called Arthur Yorke Christopher her moonshee to proceed with the reading of poor father was called Christopher, you his vernacular abstract, while he checked know. I am sure you wont refuse us. It off the corresponding English account be- does seem so funny to be a papa, and to fore him, keeping his attention to it and think that only two years ago I was mere- yet wondering at his own calmness. Is ly a poor beggar of an ensign, without a it that I have really no heart, he asked THE DILEMMA. himself the while, that I am about to do these things? But no; the crushed feel- ing and the utter desolation that possessed him gave up a plain answer on this point. For an hour he continued the plodding occupation in hand hefore dismissing the moonshee, and then, pacing up and down the room, could think over the announce- ment in the bitterness of his heart. Once he stopped and took up the letter from the table to see if any doubt could he gleaned from it; but the facts were too plain to admit of consolation on this score. This was not mere station gossip; besides, it was only too plainly corroborated by what had gone before. Olivias silence, Kirkes sarcastic, triumphant manner, were now plainly accounted for. People call me the lucky major, he said bitterly; and I am the object of envy to half the young- sters in the country what a satire is this on the falseness of appearances! no whipped cuckold could feel meaner than I do now. Then the thought came up whether he was not paying the penalty for his modesty. Could it he that Olivia had accepted her cousin out of pique because he had not declared himself? This fool- ish id6a, however, was soon dismissed; though the young man said to himself, with a sort of savage joy, that after all the real Olivia was something less noble than the image he had carried so long in his heart. I kept back my tale of love be- cause I thought it would offend her gentle breast to hear it while mourning for her husband; and lo! all the while she was already consoling herself with another. Nor is it my Olivia who would he satisfied with the love of such a man as Kirke so hard, narrow, and selfish. Here his bet- ter judgment told him that he was talking nonsense; it was no wonder a woman and a cousin should fall in love with so splen- did a soldier. By heaven, if he is un- kind to her, I will kill him ! But no; Yorkes conscience told him that this would not happen. He was hard and cruel, but not to his own kind. Well, he said at last, what does it matter? My. idol is shattered; but I was a fool to carry about so unsubstantial a thing. I have my profession, and I sup- pose, like everybody else, I shall get over the disappointment. At any rate, there is no need to pose in the character of the jilted lover. No one knows what a fool I have been; even Spragge thinks my old flame, as he calls it, was burnt out long ago; and no one shall now discover my secret. Nevertheless he felt that he could not have faced the regimental mess-dinner that evening, where the approaching mar- riage of the commanding officer would certainly be the engrossing topic, and was glad that he had an engagement to dine out with his old friend General Tartar, at whose house he found himself taking an unconcerned share in the conversation, and a steady hand at whist afterwards. Only one allusion was made to the ~p- proaching event, when his host, .next to whom Yorke sat, said to him, So our pretty widow i~ about to console herself. Well, I shouldnt have thought Kirke was a marrying man; but if he was to commit himself in this way at all, he couldnt have done better. Tartar was a confirmed old bachelor himself, who married, a few years afterwards, a widow with a large family. Yorke replied, in an unconcerned voice, that he supposed Mrs. Falkland would be well off, as she had her first husbands property as well as her fathers. Falkiand didnt leave a penny~ he was notoriously liberal to prodigality but her father must have saved something; although you mustnt suppose, continued Sir Montague, who had the reputation of being very fond of money, and to be serv- ing in India because it was such a favour- able field for profitable investments, that a man living by himself in India cant spend his income easily enough. Well, Kirke will find the money useful; he wont have a rupee more than he has need for. This was an allusion to the fact that Kirke was supposed to be heavily in debt; but Yorke did not care to discuss the pri- vate affairs of his commanding officer with a third party, and the conversation dropped CHAPTER XXXIX. NEXT day Yorke received a letter from Kirke himself. It was chiefly on regi- mental business, but contained at the end the following paragraph You will, of course, have heard of my approaching marriage. My wife for so I may call her, since the marriage is to take place this afternoon will write to you herself in a few days, to explain why the matter has been kept so quiet, even from our mutual friends; but I must take this opportunity to thank you on her behalf for your many kindnesses. She will al- ways retain a grateful recollection of them, and continue to regard you as a warm friend. I dont believe she will write the prom- ised letter notwithstanding, said Yorke to 88 THE DILEMMA. himself (and, indeed, the letter never came); and he sat wondering idly how far the message was really sent by Olivia her- self, and whether Kirke guessed his feel- ings, and wished to express pity for his disappointment. A day or two afterwards the newspapers contained the announcement of the mar- riage of Colonel Rupert Kirke, C. B., Commandant Kirkes Horse, to Olivia, daughter of the late Archibald Cunning- ham, Esquire, Bengal Civil Service. No allusion to her being Falklands wid- ow, thought the young man bitterly, as he read the notice; it is as well, forsooth, that noble fellow should he forgotten. And yet, he added, apostrophizing him- self, why be a hypocrite? You would have been pleased enough, you know in your heart, that she should forget Falk- land for your benefit. Besides, it is not she, but the bridegroom, who has sent the notice to the papers. Yorkes first impulse was to take leave and go away to avoid being present when Kirke should return with his wife; but he was restrained by a fear lest the cause of his absence siould be suspected, and like the man whc lingers in a company be- cause he feels that his character will be discussed as soon as his back is turned, so Yorke held on at his post, determined to face the return of Kirke and his bride, at whatever cost to himself. This took place about a month after the wedding, just as the rainy season was coming to an end, and when a fresh cool- ness in the early mornings betokened the approach -of the charms of an Indian win- ter. Kirkes delay in taking a house had of course been explained by his intended marriage. He wanted to select a house himself instead of choosing one before- hand. And there not being one sufficiently good in the cavalry lines, he had now written to engage a large house in another part of the station. Thither the newly- married pair came, a day sooner than was expected, arriving at daybreak; and Yorke, returning that morning from a visit to the general, was riding at foot- pace down the road bordered by the gar- den of Kirkes house, when he came upon Kirke and Olivia, standing in the garden- drive a few steps within the entrance. Kirke called out to him as he passed by, and advanced towards him, and he had no resource but to turn into the drive to meet him, and dismounting to shake hands and to move on where Olivia stood afew paces behind. Kirke was neatly dressed as usual, in a light morning suit, with a wideawake hat covered with a drab silk turban, his face clean shaven save for the heavy black moustache. Olivia was dressed in a black- and-white muslin robe, with a large straw hat trimmed with black ribbon, her face shaded from the sun by a parasol, and Yorke could not help admitting to him- self what a handsome couple they looked, and how well suited to each other; while Olivias appearance and figure as she stood before him brought back forcibly the recollection of the day when he paid his first visit to~ the residency, and she walked across the park with her father to greet him. How like, and yet how changed! the first freshness of youth had passed away, although in his eyes she appeared as beautiful as ever, and he thought she looked nervous and distraught as he ad- vanced towards her. She held out her hand, which he took gravely. Does she confess that she has jilted me? thought he; and does that anxious look mean an appeal for mercy and forgiveness? But who am I that I should interpret looks a blockhead that is always fancying a light-hearted woman to be in love with him, when really she is handin~ her heart about all round the country? Probably she is wondering whether I am going to stay for breakfast, and whether there is enough to eat in the house. And yet, as he thought over it afterwards, surely, if she was not conscious of wrong-doing, this was a strange meeting for two old friends and constant correspondents. The conversation began with common- place. What sort of a journey had they had down? and was not this first feeling of cold delightful ? Cold I said Olivia, it seems so dreadfully hot after the hills. Then noticing his horse, she said Ah! there is Selim; how well he looks, going up to it and patting its neck, after all he has gone through, dear thing! What good care you have taken of him! Yorke remained silent, for he could not trust himself to speak, being tempted to bid her take back her gift, and an awk- ward pause ensued, ended by Kirkes plun- ging into business, and beginning to ask various questions about the regiment, while Olivia stood by listening. Presently several of the native officers of the regi- ment came up in a body to pay their re- spects, the news of the commandants ar- rival having now reached the lines, and Yorke took his departure, Kirke asking him as he mounted to ride off to come and dine that evening. They would be THE DILEMMA. 89 quite alone, he said, for they had not set- tled down, but were still all at sixes and sevens in the house. And Yorke accepted the invitation. The sooner I get accus- tomed to the thing the better, he said to himself, as he rode off, not knowing rightly whether he had gotten himself free from his chains, or was in closer bondage than ever. Fortunately for him, he was not as it turned out the Kirkes only guest at din- ner that evening, Maxwell the regimental surgeon being also of the party. Olivia was dressed in black, being still in mourn- ing for her father; but except that she seemed a little paler than before, Yorke did not now perceive any change in her; al- ready he was forgetting the old face and remembering only the new. The house, notwithstanding Kirkes apologies, seemed already to be in good order; it was indeed unusually well fur- nished for one in an up-country station; the servants were in livery with hand- some waist-belts and turbans ornamented with silver crests, and all the table ap- pointments were new and costly. The arrangements all showed careful pre-ar- rangement, for a large establishment is not to be set up without notice a thou- sand miles from Calcutta. How far had Olivia been cognizant of all this, and the engagement one of long standing? or had Kirke done it all in anticipation of her ac- cepting him? The conversation interrupted at times by Kirke scolding the servants loudly be- cause something or other had been for- gotten turned principally on the cam- paign, and the later parts of it, for Olivia had not met Maxwell since the residency siege, and there was an awkwardness in going back to those times. Kirke, how- ever, showed no delicacy on that score; for on Maxwell observing that the garden outside looked very neat and well kept, considering that the place had been so long unoccupied, Kirke said that the whole station seemed in capital order; and I am told, he added, that the residency is looking quite spick and span again. We must drive over there to-morrow, Olivia, if we have time, and have a look round the old place. Olivia looked distressed, but her hus- band did not notice it, and went on: I hear that they have moved Pearts body out of the garden, and the other fellows who were buried there. So they have got decent interment at last, which is more than ca~h be said for a good many of our old friends. Then Olivia rose from the table and went into the drawing-room, and Yorke could see that her face was pale, and that she looked hurt and ashamed. The man is perfectly brutal in his want of percep- tion, he said to himself. Decent inter- ment indeed! I wonder what dungheap covers poor Falklarids bones? When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, Olivia was outside in the veranda, but she joined them soon after- wards and made tea. Yorke noticed that the tea-service and appointments were all handsome and expensive. Presently Kirke proposed that Olivia should sing; and she xvent to the piano a large one, evidently new like every- thing else. Kirke, who did not know one note of music from another, sat in an easy-chair with his hands behind his head and went to sleep. Yorke felt that polite- ness demanded he should go up and stand by the performer, but he could not bring himself to do what would seem like an act of forgiveness and blotting out old memo- ries; so he too kept his chair. Maxwell did the same: and, after Olivia had sung and played for a few minutes, she stopped and joined them again. The cessation of the music awoke her husband, who held out his left hand as she passed his chair, and gave hers a caress. Yorke remem- bered the occasion when her first husband had done just the same thing, on the day when he first saw them tobether on the outbreak of the mutiny. Truly an old performer in the part, he thought, bitterly; and somehow the act made her sink lower in his estimation, although he could not help admitting to himself that, if he had been the second husband, he should not have thought the worse of her for permit- ting these little endearments. Maxwell and Yorke walked home to- gether, instead of riding, the evening air being now cool and pleasant. They were both silent for a little while, each appar- ently averse to discuss the matter which occupied his thoughts. At last Maxwell said, with some bitterness of tone, The commandant does not grow wiser in mon- ey matters as he grows older. What a foolish beginning, to be sure! It would need twice his pay to live in. that style. And he must be heavily in debt, to start with at least he was before the mutiny. But I suppose Mrs. Kirke succeeds to all her fathers property? He ought to have saved a good deal with his large salary. I doubt if he had saved a farthing. There is nothing easier than to muddle THE DILEMMA. 90 away your income, however large it may be. He told me just before he started for England that he should have nothing but his pension to live on, barely enough for a bachelor who never gave money a thought; and he was saying what a com- fort it was to him that his daughter was so well provided for. No, I can fancy a heedless youngster starting off in ex- travagance like this on his marriage it was just the sort of thing a foolish young civilian might have done in old days; but a man like Kirke ought to have more sense than to begin by buying a lot of things he cant pay for. If he does not pull up soon there will be a smash, take my word for it. Well, I am glad I shall not be here to see it. No, he con- tinued, seeing that the other looked sur- prised, the war is over, and my work i~ done; I am entitled to my full pension, and may as well take it at once. I know we could not have expected you to stay much longe rwith us; it must be close on your time for promotion: but surely it is a bad time to retire, just as you are coming into the good things of the service. Good things of the service, what are they? To become a superintending surgeon, and spend your day in an office making out returns and reports, and never seeing a real case from one years end to the other? No, I am too fond of my pro- fession for that, and I have enough for my wants. Besides, I daresay I may practice a little at home, if needs be. And to tell you.the truth, Yorke, continued the doc- tor, stopping short for they had now got to the point in the road where their ways parted I dont care to stay here any longer. Falkland was a dear friend of mine, and so was her father, point- ing with his hand in the direction of the house they had just left, and I cant bear to see her toying with another man in that way, and so soon, too, after that noble fellows death. I am not a marrying man myself, and may be peculiar in my ideas, but there seems a sort of degrada- tion the thincr Yorke, too, as he walked away, felt that there had been degradation, and yet he knew in his heart that th~ offence would have vanished from his eyes if Olivia had reserved her fondling for himself. And what would my old friend Maxwell think of me, I wonder, if he knew that the feel- ing uppermost in my heart is envy, and not contempt? A big dinner given by the officers of Kirkes Horse at their mess to the corn- mandant and his bride, at which Yorke as second in command occupied the cen- tre of the table, with Olivia on his right hand, was the first of a series of entertain- ments held in honour of the newly-mar- ried couple; and society at Mustaphabad was as lively during that cold season as it had ever heen in pre-mutiny days, the Kirkes soon beginning to return freely the hospitalities they received. A hand- some new carriage for Olivia had arrived from Calcutta, with a pair of fast7trotting Australian horses; Kirkes own chargers were the best that could be got in India; and the officers of the regiment, who during the war had been dressed in plain drab little better than that worn by the men, were now requested to procure an elaborate uniform covered with embroid- ery, of a pattern designed by the colonel, and with horse-appointments to match. It was plain to everybody that this style of living would not be met by the salary of a commandant of irregular cavalry; but, although there were rumours in the station, where gossip as usual was rife, of servants wages and bazaar bills unpaid, the general presumption was that Mrs. Kirke had been left a fortune by her father. A man who had drawn a large salary for many years, and kept only a bachelor establishment, would naturally have saved a good deal, which must have come to his only daughter. So society was satisfied, although pronouncing the Kirkes to be foolish in the matter of ex- penditure, and criticising freely the costly style of entertainment in which they in- dulged. Rather, they might have said, in which Kirke indulged, for he was the sole manager of their domestic concerns. His wife had had no experience of house- keeping, and Kirke found it easier to do things himself than to show her how to do them. Thus he began by ordering the dinner during their honeymoon, and kept up the practice, Olivia being quite satis- fied to leave the matter in his hands, as well as the management of the servants and dealings with tradesmen. Her own toilet once furnished, she had no need for money, for there were no ladies shops in Mustaphabad, and if there had been, cash payments would not have been employed. Thus, beyond ordering the carriage when she wanted it, or sending for her ayah when that domestic failed to appear at the proper time, Olivia took no more part in the management of the household than if she had been a guest in it, even h~r notes of invitation being carried out by one of the colonels orderlies; and of the state WALT WHITMANS POEMS. 9 of his ways and means she was wholly ignorant, as she was equally of the gossip about hi~ debts. She had always been surrounded by easy circumstances, and the sort of life they led seemed quite in the natural way. After all, her establish- ment was not on a larger scale than that of Mrs. Plunger, whose husband com- manded the dragoon regiment now at Mustaphabad; but then Olivia did not know that Colonel Plunger was a man of fortune, whose presence in India was an accident due to the mutiny, and who was anxiously casting about for the means of exchanging out of it again. Any misgivings Yorke might have al- lowed himself to entertain lest Kirke should ill-treat his wife proved to be unfounded. Kirke, though a hard man and cruel in his dealings with enemies and rebels, was gentle with her; although not manifesting much of the little endearments which might naturally have been given to a newly-married wife, he was thoroughly kind, and Yorke could never detect any- thing in his treatment of her to which in his heart he could take exception. Kirke was disposed to be harsh to his men, and somewhat overbearing towards his officers, now that the war had come to an end; and was often violent with his servants, abusing them at meals if anything went wrong, and striking them for trifling offences; and this used at first to distress Olivia, who had never seen anything of the kind before, for her father was a man slow to anger, and Falkland used to treat everybody about him, native and Euro- pean, with gentle courtesy; but after a a time she appeared to get accustomed to these ebullitions, and Yorke could not help admitting that she was both fond and proud of her husband, and that any qualms she might have felt at discarding himself and he Was not sure that she had ever entertained such a feeling had become lulled to rest by the familiarity of the new footing on which they now stood to each other. Thus the time passed on under these new and strange conditions. Among other liberal tastes Kirke indulged in, was that of keeping open house for the officers of the re~iment. Although fond of his wifes society, and frequenting the mess but little, for he neither smoked nor played billiards, he was not a man of much mental resource, and preferred always seeing his wife at the head of the table with more or less company sitting at it, to dining alone with her; Yorke especially was very frequently there, and even when her health no longer permitted her to dine out, or receive general company, he still received frequent invitations as an old friend to join their dinner, and was thus constantly at the house, as constantly making resolutions to break off the inti- macy and to get transferred to another regiment, or at least to go on leave, but nevertheless still hangin~ on, accepting the invitations received almost daily, watching the condition of his hostess with feelings strangely compounded of interest, anger, and self-contempt. From The Contemporary Review. WALT WHITMANS POEMS.* THE critic who calls our attention to true poetry does us one of the best possi- ble services; for no imagery derived from the beauty or the bounteousness of nature from golden islands of the sunset or pearly dews of dawn, from corn, or wine, or glowing fruit can express too strong- ly the goodliness of poetry that is really such; but in proportion to the gracious beneficence of this service is the malefi- cence of critics who, by their wit or their authority, beguile us into reading atro- ciously bad verse. If I ever saw anything in print that deserved to be characterized as atrociously bad, it is the poetry of Walt Whitman; and the three critics of repute, Dr. Dowden, Mr. W. Rossetti, and Mr. Buchanan, who have praised his perform- ances, appear to me to be playing off on the public a well-intentioned, probably good-humoured, but really cruel hoax. I shall state briefly what I found the so- called poetry to be, presenting a few sam- ples of Whitmans work: if these are such as the English public will regard with any other feelings but scorn and disgust, I for one have mistaken the character of my countrymen. The Leaves of Grass, under which designation Whitman includes all his poems, are unlike anything else that has passed among men as poetry. They are neither in rhyme nor in any measure known as blank verse; and they are emitted in spurts or gushes of unequal length, which can only by courtesy be called lines. Neither in form nor in sub- stance are they poetry; they are inflated, wordy, foolish prose; and it is only be- cause he and his eulogists call them * Leaves of Grass. By Walt Whitman. Wash- ington and London. 92 WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. poems, and because I do not care to dis- pute about words, that I give them the name., Whitmans admirers maintain that their originality is their superlative merit. I undertake to show that it is a mere knack, a trick of singularity, which sound critics ought to expose and de- nounce, not to commend. The secret of Whitmans surprising newness the principle of his conjuring trick is on the surface. It can be indi- cated by the single word, extravagance. In all cases he virtually, or consciously, puts the question, what is the most ex- travagant thing which it is here in my power to say? What is there so paradox- ical, so hyperbolical, so nonsensical, so indecent, so insane, that no man ever said it before, that no other man would say it now, and that therefore it may be reckoned on to create a sensation? He announced himself as poet with a con- temptuous allusion we shall see its terms farther on to those poets whose fame has shed lustre on America, and he expressly declares war against all regu- lated and reasonable things. I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws, to unsettle them, I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could ever have been had all accepted me; I heed not, and have never heeded, either ex- perience, cautions, majorities, nor ridi- cule. And the threat of what is called hell is little or nothing to me; And the lure of what is called heaven is little or nothing to me. Goethe said that the assent of even one man confirmed him infii~itely in his opin- ion; Whitman is only the more peremp- tory in his egotism when he finds that peo- ple of sense disagree with him. In. spite, however, of his fakir-like gesticulations, his extravagance generally continues dull. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touchd from; The scent of these armpits, aroma finer than prayer; This head more than churches, Bibles, and all the creeds. If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body or any part of it. Mr. Ruskin insists that there are errors and blemishes of such exceeding and im- medicable vileness that, if you find a sin- gle instance of their occurrence in the work of an artist, you may, with assured heart, turn once and forever from his pic- tures, co~fident that, since the tree is cor rupt, its fruit will always be noxious. Whether Mr. Ruskin is absolutely right as to the fact I shall not undertake to de- cide; but I challenge Professor Dowden, Mr. W. Rossetti, and Mr. Buchanan, to produce, from any poet of acknowledged excellence, a single passage so offensively silly as the preceding. I beg readers to force themselves to look well at the lines. It is a man who talks of himself as divine inside and out, and drivels nauseously about the scent of his armpits, whom we are called upon to welcome as a great poet. Whitman, as Professor Dowden will by-and-by attest for us, prints incom- parably more indecent things than this, but the words are thoroughly character- istic. They have exactly the originality of Whitman, and we cannot refuse to a~- mit that they are unique. One of the most favourite extravagan- ces of Whitman is extravagant conceit, and h~ occasionally indulges it in forms which in England would simply be regard. ed as evidence of idiocy. I conned old times; I sat studying at the feet of the great masters Now, if eligible, 0 that the great masters might return and study me! Much good would it do them. Equally silly, but more pompous in its silliness, is what follows : The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place; The suns I see, and the suns I cannot see, are in their place The palpable is in its place, and the impal- pable is in its place. Do men of talent mumble truisms like this? And is there any excuse for such pretentious twaddle after the doctrine that everything is right iii its own time and place had been stated, with a pith and quaint humour not likely to be surpassed, by the author of the Proverbs of Solo. mon? Whitmans writings abound with repro- ductions of the thoughts of other men, spoiled by obtuseness or exaggeration. He can in no case give the finely correct applic?tion of a principle, or indicate the reserves and exceptions whose apprecia- tion distinguishes the thinker from the dogmatist: intense black and glaring white are his only colours. The myste- rious shadings of good into evil and evil into good, the strange minglings of pain with pleasure and of pleasure with pain, in the web of human affairs, have fur- nished a theme for musing to the deepest minds of our species. But problems that were felt to be insoluble by Shakespeare WALT WHITMANS POEMS. 93 and Goethe have no difficulty for this known poetical idea, and inflates it into bard of the West. Extravagant optimism bombast. and extravagant pessimism, both wrong and shallow, conduct him to the entire Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sun- (the words are Professor ~ rise would kill me, denial of evil could not now and always send sunrise Dowdens), to the assertion that there is out of me. no imperfection in the present and can be none in the future, and to the vociferous It is a beautiful and touching thought announcement that success and failure are that our joy brightens the summer flowers, pretty much the same. and that our sorrow lends mournfulness to winters snow; but it is mere extrava- gant nonsense to say that sunrise would kill a man unless he sent sunrise out of him. The sun has been the prcy of po- etical charlatans time out of mind, and Whitman cruelly bedrivels the long-suf- fering luminary Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I say also that it is good to fall battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I beat and pound for the dead; I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have faild! And to those whose xvar-vessels sank in the sea And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements! and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes, equal to the greatest heroes known. Mr. Carlyles lifelong effort to show that the success of the hero is, on the whole, a proof that he deserved to succeed, has, it seems, been a waste o.f power. Vivas to those who have failed! Hurrah for the gallows! I do not know that a bet- er illustration could be found of the evil effeQt of Whitmans obliterating extrava- gance than these lines. They contain the blurred and distorted lineaments of a mys- terious and melancholy truth. Noble in- nocence and courage have been indeed laid low; beauty and virtue have iii every age been seen walking hand in hand the downward slope to death; and all hearts thrill at the thought of murdered Naboth and his sons, and of Lear hanging over the white lips of Cordelia. But the soul of the pathos in all these instances lies in their exceptional nature. It is because we feel that they violate the law of justice, the fundamental ordinances of human so- ciety, that they move us. It is because, whether from a veracious instinct, or from a blissful illusion, we believe success to be the natural reward of merit, and happiness the natural guerdon of virtue, that we are agonized by the death-shrieks of Desde- mona or the slow torture of Joan of Arc. if human affairs were a mad welter of causeless failure and unmerited success, as they are represented in this passage of XVhitmans, there could be no such thing as pathos either in life or in art. Whitman is never more audaciously ex- travagant than when he takes some well- I depart in air I shake my white locks at th~ runaway sun; I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. It would be interesting to know what meaning Whitmans admirers attach to the second of these lines: to my thinking it is not one whit more rational, and infi- nitely less amusing, than the talk of. the walrus and the carpenter in Alice through the Looking-Glass. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain, or halt in the leafy shade ! What is that you ex- press in your eyes? It seems ti) me more than all the print I have read in my life. Whitmans eulogsts tell us that he reads Shakespeare, Homer, and the Bible. Can they pretend to believe it to be anything but fantastic affectation to say that there is more in the eyes of oxen than in these? XVhitman must have been consciously af- fected when he wrote the words: they are stupid as affectation, incredible as any- thing else. But the brutes are rather a favourite theme with our poet. I think I could turn and live with animals they are so placid and self-contained; Istand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their con- dition; They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins; They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God; Not one is dissatisfied not one is demented with the mania of owning things; Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago; Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth. Wise men have long been, and are likely to be, content to learn from the bee and the ant; but neither the sage of the past WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. 94 northe scientific-man of the present can have anything to say for such teaching as this of Whitmans. His statements are neither accurate nor sagacious; they are a confused echo, extravagantly ab- surd, of teachings which he has not un- derstood. Patiently and closely observant of the animals, Mr. Darwin and his follow- ers have shown that they are much more like men than used to be thought: that they have, in germ, almost all human passions, as well as the institutions of marriage and property; that they exhibit in a pronounced form the human failinus of jealousy, hatred, revenge, and cun- ning, and some faint adumbration of the human virtues of tenderness, faithfulness, and self-sacrifice. But it is a wild cari- cature of Darwins teaching to panegyrize the animals for those qualities in which they are markedly below humanity; and there is curious infelicity in combining with this vague panegyric the particular libel of charging them with lack of indus- try, a virtue which, on pain of death, they are bound to exhibit. In beetledom are no poor-laws, and the beast that will not seek its livelihood perishes out of hand. Loafing and making poems, which Whitman describes as his favourite modes of existence, are privileges or per- versities peculiar to human nature. Nor would Whitman have learned from Dar- win the pitiful extravagance of despising, or affecting to despise, human qualities for no reason, suggested or implied, but be- cause they are human. There is no ap- parent reason why it should be more con- temptible for men to build temples than for crows to build nests; and since it has been in all ages and generations a habit with mankind to discuss their duty to God, it would have been less inhumanly inso- lent in Whitman to evince some respect for the practice than to say that it turns him sick. The sneer about weeping in the dark for sins might have been ex- pressly directed against one of the best- known verses of Goethe, a man not given to sentimental brooding or self-question~ ing, but who knew that tears shed at mid- night on solitary beds are not unpleasing to the heavenly powers. Let it not be thought, however, that be- cause Whitman speaks scornfully of duty to God and of sin, he never praises relig- ion. Self-contradiction is one of the coin- monest freaks of affectation, and Whit- man never hesitates to contradict himself. He oscillates, in fact, from extreme to ex- treme, and parades now this extravagance, now that, consistent only in avoidance of the golden mean. We have seen that it makes him sick to hear men discussing their duty to God. His extravagance in its pious tune is almost equally offensive. I say that the real and permanent grandeur of these States must be their religion Otherwise there is no real and permanent grandeur: (Nor character, nor life worthy the name, without religion; Nor land, nor man, nor woman,, without re- ligion.) This is just as silly as to praise pigs and foxes for not worshipping God. Here is another illustration of Whitmans habit of exaggerating truth or half-truth into false- hood. I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-dceuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow, crunching with depressd head, surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. This is exceptionally good for Whitman. -Several of the lines have a picturesque felicity. So recently as a quarter of a century ago they might have passed for true science and sound theology; but progress in understanding the constitution of nature has within the specified period been unprecedentedly rapid; truths which, five-and-twenty years ago, were but as streaks of pale crimson on the horizon, have flashed into gfmeral recognition; and the natural theology which revelled in talk like this, about the miracles of nature and the impotence of man, is irrevocably su- perseded. Those who have read with any carefulness in modern science know that throughout nature there is no perfection discoverable by man; everything is in perpetual change, perpetual movement; and the type of perfect, of which Plato dreamed and Tennyson has sung, can be found neither in mouse nor in mountain. It has been recognized that man invents, and that nature, with her task set her at every point by mechanical necessity, does not invent. The hinge in the hand does not put machinery, to scorn; and Helm- holtz, without incurring the charge of arro- gance from any scientific man, pronounces the eye an instrument full of defects. The line about the mouse convincing sex- WALT WHITMANS 1~OEMS. 95 tillions of infidels is a mere platitude of equal terms only then can you under- the kind for which Paley used to stand stand us. We are no better than you; sponsor; and we have to recollect that if what we enclose you enclose, what we en- the sextillions of infidels, when convinced joy you may enjoy. Did you suppose by the miraculous mouse, began to discuss there could be only one Supreme? We their duty to God, they would immediately affirm there can be unnumbered supremes, make Mr. Whitman sick. and that one does not countervail another, It must be confessed that this last any more than one eyesight countervails would be a frame of mind or of body another; and that men can be good or much more customary with him than that grand only of the consciousness of their in which he points out the unreasonable- supremacy within them. Neither in ness of infidels in declining to be stag- Goethe nor Carlyle will Whitman find gered by mice. Fierce disdain for faith anything but detestation for the sentiment in God, except as a phase of human fan- of these words. Those men migh.t teach cying, is one of his recurrent moods, and hero-worship; he teaches self-worship and though he may not express . it in words, fool-worship. Goethe said that poets there is no maxim which he more ener- raised men to the gods, and brought down getically enforces than this Reverence the gods to men; but that every man was nothing. himself as good as either god or poet, - Goethe would have denied with keenest Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious huck- brilliancy of scorn. Carlyle bade men sters; the reverence the hero, discern the heroic in Taking myself exact dimensions of Je- man as constituting his true majesty, de hovah; tect and honour it under all disguises, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Her- refuse to accept any sham heroism, how- cules his grandson; ever dignified, in its place; but so dis- Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, gusted was he to find that his unmasking Buddha;. . of sham kings and nobles was being mis- In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah taken for a doctrine of anarchic levelling on a leaf, the crucifix engraved, With Odin and the hideous Mexitli, and every and the kingship of blockheads and idol and image; scamps, that, in too violent recoil, he has Taking ~em all for what they are worth and latterly insisted that the rule of one des- not a cent more, pot is better than that of multitudinous With a flourish of his pen, he accounts fools, each fool proclaiming his own su for and effaces all gods. premacy. It is because of their subtle and pervasive flattery of the mob that What do you suppose I would intimate to you Whitmans writings are not harmless as in a hundred ways, but that man or they are worthless, but poisonously im- woman is as good as God, moral and pestilexit. And that there is no God any more divine Whitman is an intrepid destroyer of than yourself? other peoples thouo-hts, but he sometimes speaks a language wholly his own. No other human bein~, would have said this about touch: It is possible to hold with candid intel- ligence, and to teach without irreverence; the doctrine of mans divinity. The higher self of Mr. Matthew Arnold, the heroic in man of Carlyle, the rightly and perfectly developed humanity of Goethe, may, with- out much practical mischief, be an object of admiration to the pitch of worship. But theoretically the insanest, and practi- cally the most pernicious, of all faiths or no-faiths, is the crude self-worship, the de- ification of the ~rofanum vulgus, which, in so far as it admits of definition, is the creed of Whitman. Until I examined his book, I did not know that the most venomously malignant of all political and social fallacies that one man is as good as another had been deliberately taught in print. The messages of great poets, says Whitman, in his preface, to each man and woman are, Come to us on Blind, loving, wrestling touch! sheathd, hooded, sharp-toothd touch! Did it make you ache so, leaving me? Parting, trackd by arriving perpetual pay- ment of perpetual loan; Rich, showering rain, and recompense richer afterward: Sprouts take and accumulate stand by the curb prolific and vital: Landscapes, projected, masculine, full-sized, and golden. Thoughts quite his own being rare with him, he hugs them accordingly. No one, I suppose, will dispute his paternity of the thought, or rather the conceit, that grass is the beautiful uncut hair of graves. In my opinion it is a far-fetched and stu- pid conceit, but it might have passed 96 WALT WHITMANS POEMS. without blame in half a line, if the readers imagination had been left to make the best of it. Whitman wire-draws it thus Tenderly will I use you, curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men; It may be if I had known them I would have loved them; It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken out of their mothers laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers Darker than the colourless beards of old men; Dark to come from under the faint-red roofs of mouths. 0, I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. If this is not mawkish there is no pas- sage known to me in literature deserving to be so characterized. Whitmans poetry contains a vast deal about himself. I celebrate myself, he frankly remarks. He professes to in- augurate a religion, of which the one duty, the sole worship, is to be the dear love of comrades, and he speaks with the authority of a founder of a new church. No dainty dolce affettuoso I; Bearded, sunburnt, gray-necked, forbidding, I have arrived, To be wrestled with as I pass, for the solid prizes of the universe; For such I afford whoever can persevere to win them. The two last lines either mean nothing at all, or announce that Whitman is a god. Whichever alternative is chosen, the man is a demonstrated quack. Take another piece of self-portraiture. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, elec- trical, I and this mystery, here we stand. federated nations, the Mississippi an im- mense river; and he is impressed with the idea that a specially redundant and sonorous style is appropriate to these con- ditions. This feeling for magnitude might be of value if associated with consummate power, if dominated by a fine sense of proportion, grace, and order. But an itch of hugeness has much more frequently aped than evidenced the strength of gen- ius. Every one familiar with the history of art is aware that a multitude of bad painters have betrayed thc~ir badness by spasmodic aspiration after bigness, va- pouring about their capacity to rivcl An- gelo and Tintoret, if they had only walls large enough to display their conceptions. When they were permitted to work on their chosen scale, they did nothing but smear acres ot canvas. It would be an insult to the memory of Barry or Haydon to compare them with Walt Whitman; but the long lists of names, the auctioneer catalogues, the accumulation of words out of all proportion to ideas, which make up the body of Whitmans poems, recall their vain attempt to prove themselves great painters by using very large brushes and filling very large frames. Whitman, how- ever, must speak for himself. Here is part of a birds-eye view with which he favours us of sailors and theii doings throughout the world I behold the mariners of the world; Some are in storms some in the night, with the watch on the look-out; Some drifting helplessly some with conta- gious diseases. I behold the sail and steamships of the world, some in clusters in port, some on their voyages; Some double the Cape of Storms some Cape Verde, others Cape Guardafui, Bon, or Bajadore; Others Dondra Head others pass the Straits of Sunda others Cape Lopatka others Behrings Straits; Others Cape Horn others sail the Gulf of Mexico, or along Cuba, or Hayti others Hudsons Bay, or Baffins Bay; Are these the words of a sane man? Is Others pass the Straits of Doverothers en- there common sense in saying that you ter the Wash others the Frith of stand plumb in the uprights, well entretied, Solway others round Cape Clear strong as a horse, electrical, and side by others the Lands End; side with a mystery? - Others traverse the Zoyder Zee, or the Scheldt; If there is anything in Whitman decid- Others add to the exits and entrances at Sandy edly better than mere extravagant affecta- Hook; tion, anything that may claim the dignity Others to the comers and goers at Gibraltar, of legitimate mannerism, it is a certain or the Dardanelles; feeling for magnitude, an amplitude of Others sternly push their way through the northern winter-packs; mental visioft and descriptive grasp. Others descend or ascend the Obi or the Lena; America he discerns to be a very large Others the Niger, or the Congo others the place, the United States a republic of Indus, the Burampooter, and Cambodia; WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. 97 Others wait at the wharves of Manhattan, steamd up, ready to start; Wait, ~vift and swarthy, in the ports of Aus- tralia; Wait at Liverpool, Glasgow, Dublin, Mar- seilles, Lisbon, Naples, Hamburg, Bremen, Bordeaux, the Hague, Co- penhagen; Wait at Valparaiso, Rio Janeiro, Panama; Wait at their moorings at Boston, Philadel- phia, Baltimore, Charleston, New Orleans, Galveston, San Francisco. In ages when the science of geography was in its earliest dawn when npt one man in ten thousand had heard of towns or rivers beyond the frontiers of his own province a catalogue of names and countries might be what only a pre-emi- nently well-informed poet could give, and what every intelligent listener would ap- preciate and admire. Many interests, besides those of geographical curiosity, interests of a patriotic and clannish na- ture, enhanced the~ eager fascination with which the old Greeks heard the names of the nations that sent ships to Troy, or of the ports at which Jason or Ulysses touched. But any boy or girl of twelve, who can spell names of places on a map and write them down on a page, could fill a volume with such descriptive lines as these of Whitmans. Observe, there is no concatenation, no ordered sequence, no quickening or illuminating thought, in the list. The conception of a coherent and reasoned account of the water-ways of the world, on the principle either of their historical development or their com- mercial or political importance, is beyond him. Nothing could be more void of significance than his throwing together the Wash and Frith of Solway instead of the Thames, the Severn, the Mersey, or the Clyde, by way of indicating the marine activity of Britain. There is no cause why Bristol and London should not be named as well as Glasgow and Liverpool. The thing, in fact, could not be done more brainlessly. A poor piece of mannerism at best, it is here wretchedly worked, and though Whitman sometimes executes it with less dulness, this is a fair average sample of his success. When we consider that nine-tenths of Whitmans poetry con- sists of these catalogues that they, in fact, constitute, in respect both of manner and of matter, one of the differentiatina, elements in his work it will be seen that no small importance attaches to the fa- cility of the artifice. It is, in fact, the most childishly easy of all artifices. Think LIVING AGE. VOL. XIII. 631 of the materials afforded for such com- pilation in these days. Every town con- tains a library in which there are diction- aries of classical antiquity, translations from foreign languages, travellers volumes on every country under the sun. Every daily newspaper contains correspondence filled with the most picturesque and ex- citing details the correspondent can rake together. There is absolutely nothing in Whitmans lists that you could not match after a few hours turning over of the leaves of Lempriere, Livingstone, Du Chaillu, Figuier, or a few volumes of any one of fifty encyclopaedias. The world could, on these terms, be filled with poet- ry, if it were not an absurdity to apply the name to rant and rubbish. Having got at his secret, you soon learn to take stock of the American bard. Almost anything will do to start him off in his jingle, as all roads will suit if you dont want to go any- where in particular, but merely to raise a d~ist. Take, for example, the glorious burst of noise which breaks from the min- strel when he mentions the broad-axe. The axe leaps! The solid forest gives fluid utterances; They tumble forth, they rise and form, Hut, tent, landing, survey, Flail, plough, pick, crowbar, spade, Shingle, rail, prop, wainscot, jamb, lath, panel, gable, Citadel, ceiling, saloon, academy, organ, ex- hibition, house, library Cornice, trellis, pilaster, balcony, window, shutter, turret, porch, Hoe, rake, pitch-fork, pencil, wagon, staff, -saw, jack-plane, mallet, wedge,. rounce, Chair, tub, hoop, table, wicket, vane, sash, floor, Work-box, chest, stringd instrument, boat, frame, and what not. What not, indeed? There is no assign- able reason why everything else that ever was made of wood might not be added. But why, it is relevant to ask, give these? Ought expression to have no relation to sense? Ought words to have no propor- tion to ideas? Is there any definition of linguistic silliness, of verbiage, of hope- lessly bad writing, more just than that which turns upon extension of sound with- out corresponding extension of meaninb? And this is what Mr. XV. Rossetti pub- lishes in England with eulogistic preface! This is the kind of thing which we are commanded to receive as the rhythmic utterance of Western democracy, the voice of America! It is pleasing to reflect that, if people like such poetry, they may have plenty of it. Every auctioneers clerk will 98 WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. be a poet of the new era. Suppose the gotten,that, throughout nature as known subject to be Occupations a poetical to man, the transition from inorganic to subject enough. Who does not see how organic, and from ruder forms t. finer the bard of democracy would begin setting forms, is from largeness to smallness. A it to music? Here goes bird is a more exquisite piece of natures Oil-works, silk-works, white-lead works, the workmanship than a megalosaurus. And sugar-house, steam-saws, the grist-mills, if amount of work is one measure of great- and factories; ness, there is perhaps no test of the qual Stone-cutting, shapely trimmings for fa9ades ity of genius so sure as ~apacity to excel or window or door-lintels, the mallet, within narrow limits. A weak artist may the tooth-chisel, the jib to protect the mask his weakness by showing us enor thumb. mous limbs a-sprawl on ceilings, but only Is this not up to Whitmans mark? Is a consummate artist will conceive and ex- it not the genuine gurgle of the demo- ecute a faultless vignette. You might cratic Castalia? Listen suspect sham work, random smudging and brush-flinging, in Turners great storms, Leather-dressing, coach-making, boiler-mak- or billowy plains, or crowding hills, or ing, rope-twisting, scarlet Distilling, sign-painting, lime-burning, cotton- and golnen sunsets; but you learn picking, to trust them when the same hand traces Electro-plating, electrotyping, stereotyping. for you the shadows, and touches for you the rosebuds, in that garden arbour which The enlightened reader doubtless asks for forms one of the minor illustrations to more Rooer and it is easy to oblicre him ,, ss poems, or wnen it works into a The pens of live pork, the killing-hammer, the few square inches, with tiny flower-pots hog-hook, in fairy-like rows, and gem-like burnish- The scalders tub, gutting, the cutters cleaver, ing of flower-petals, a perfect picture of the packers maul, the conservatory at Farnley. All art And the plenteous winter-work of pork-pack- which is great in quality as well as in ing. quantity presupposes such work as we Am I outrageously caricaturing the fa- have in Turners drawing of Farnley con- vourite of Dr. Dowden, Mr. Rossetti, and servatory. Turner could not have given Mr. Buchanan? Every line, or rather the misty curve of his horizons, the per- every amorphous agglomeration of broken spective of his rivers winding in the dis- clauses, is Whitmans own. Page after tance, unless he had gone through such page of the like will be found flung to- work as is attested in the minute drawing; gether in what he calls a Carol of Occu- and if you take any ten pages in Carlyles pations. Mr. Rossetti expresses majes- greatest books, in his French Revolu- tical pity for us if we have no ear for tion, or his Cromwell, and examine such music. Time was when Englishmen them by reference to the sources, you knew quackery when they saw it. will find that, broad and bold as is his It must be evident that, on the terms touch, magnificently free as is his sweep and by the methods of which we are now of hand, he has been as strenuously care- able to form some idea, there would he no ful in the preliminary mastery of details difficulty in multiplying the number, or as was Turner in conning the grammar expanding the dimensions, of Whitmans of his art. Magnitude without worth, works. They are the most flagrant and breadth of scale without fineness of exe- offensive example ever met with by me of cution, is the refuge of aspiring and im- big badness trying to palm itself off as modest incompetence both in painting great excellence. Quantity of production and in literature. is without q~uestion one index of power; But we must devote more particular at- and it is true not only that the poet who tention to what Whitmans admirers have produces a hundred immortal poems is to say in his favour. We are met at. the greater than the poet who produces one, outset by the circumstance that they make but that the hand of the great artist has a admissions of a disparaging nature, such sweep and freedom, corresponding to the as no critical advocates ever made on be- largeness of scale on which he likes to half of their client.. They enable me, to work. No artist whose characteristic pic- my extreme satisfaction, to refer judge tures cannot be appreciated without a lens and jury to them on certain points which it though he paint, fold for fold, on the would otherwise have been impossible for limbs of Titania, the woven air of Cash- me to make an English audience under- mere is a great artist. But it is equally stand. Quotation of much that is most true, and it is much more apt to be fom- characteristic in Whitmans writings is out WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. of the question, and I am not equal to the task of making description do the work of sample. If there be any class of suh- jects, says Professor Dowden, whiclj it is more truly natural, more truly human not to speak of, than to speak of (such speech producing self-consciousness, whereas part of our nature, it may be maintained, is healthy only while it lives and moves in holy blindness and unconsciousness of self), if there be any sphere of silence, then Whitman has been guilty of invading that sphere of silence. This is a fe- licitiously correct account of what Whit- man has done; and most readers will, I think, agree with me that it is a grave of- fence, an abominable blunder. The man who does not know what to speak of, and what not to speak of, is unfit for society and if he puts into his bobks what even he would not dare to say in society, his books cannot be fit for circulation. As Dr. Dowden has defined for us the nature, he will also kindly tell us the extent, of Whitmans offence against civilized man- ners. Whitman, says Dr. Dowden, in a few passages falls below humanity falls even below the modesty of brutes. This is strictly true; and would, I sub- mit, be enough to sink a ship-load of poems with ten times the merits of Whit- man s; and although I shall not say that he often falls below the modesty of brutes, I do say that, not in a few but in many passabes, he is senselessly foul. But it ought not, pleads Professor Dowden, to be forgotten that no one asserts more strenuously than does Whitman the beau- ty, not indeed of asceticism, but of holi- ness and healthiness, and the shameful ugliness of unclean thought, desire, and deed. If such were his theory, the less pardonable would be his practice; but the truth to which the critics generosity seems to blind h~m is that Whitman has no fixed theory or settled practice in this or in any other case, but confounds good and bad, delightful and disgusting, decent and indecent, in his chaotic extravaganza. He may be foul on one page and condemn himself for being so on another, just as he may say on one page that there can be no man or woman without religion, and on another that it makes him sick to hear people discussing their duty to God. Mr. Rossetti puts in the plea that eminent writers of all ages have sinned in this matter as well as Whitman. He cites no passages, names no authors, and I con- tent myself with affirming generally that his plea cannot be sustained. There is no author of renutation of whom Dr. Dow- 99 den could say that he sinks in immodesty below the brutes. And there is no author whatever who, like Whitman, is indecent from mere extravagance and affectation. They all give us something to redeem what, nevertheless, are blots on their work. Chaucer is gross, but he has humour; Fielding, but he has wit; Whitman has no fun in him. Homer is never gross: he has a vehement sympathy with all natural joys, and there is no monastic coldness in his description of the embraces of Jupiter and Juno, or of the ivory bed of Ulysses; but he is the gentleman always, less than the gentleman never; and his heroes, though they may kill mutton, never in- fringe that first law of good manners which we have heard Dr. Dowden define. Had Whitman ventured upon the hun- dredth part of his grossness in the camp of the Greeks, he would have been cud- gelled more cordially than Thersites. On the intellectual side, Whitmans critics make admissions which ar~ almost as strange as that which certifies his oc- casional descent, in moral respects, below the level of the brutes. Dr. Dowden speaks of the recurring tendency of his poems to become catalogues of persons and things. It is curious, by the way, that our bards panegyrists cannot speak of him without using language that sounds like irony. Selection, says Professor Dowden, seems forbidden to him; if he names one race of mankind, the names of all the other races press into his page; if he mentions one trade or occupation, all other trades or occupations follow. Ex- actly; but it used to be understood that the poet was bound not only to apply the process of selection, but of selection so searching and so keen that, like dross and slag from metal placed in a furnace heated sevenfold, every imperfection was purged away by it, and only the~ fine stream of liquid gold flowed out. Writing down the headings of a trades-directory, says Dr. Dowden again, is not poetry. No. But this, he adds, is what Whitman never does. I respectfully insist that it is a literal description of what Whitman, on Dr. Dowdens own showing, frequently e does; but Professor Dowden must admit, at least, that there are no other composi- tions passing current as poetry of whicli he would have thought it necessary to make the remark. He states that the logical faculty is almost an offence to Whitman, and owns to suspecting that his matter belongs at times rather to chaos than to cosmos, and that his form corre- sponds to his matter. But of all the con- WALT WHITMANS POEMS~ 100 cessions made by Whitmans eulogists, one tendered by Mr. Rossetti pleases me most. Each of Whitmans poems is, he says, a menstruum saturated with form in solution. To this I explicitly sub- scribe; when the solution crystallizes, it will be time to inquire whether the crys- tals are poetry. A marble statue in a state of solution is mud. We find, then, that the gentlemen who propose to assign Whitmans writings a place of honour in the literature of the world admit that logic is an offence to him, that his matter is occasionally cha- otic, that the form of his poems is form in solution, and that his immodesty passes the immodesty of brutes. Having reached this point, might we not expect to be told that the right thing ~o do ~~ith his productions is to cast them away, accept- ing, with philosophical resignation, the implied suggestion as to their treatment made by the poet himself, in the most reasonable of all his prophecies ? I bequeath myself to the dirt. If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles. But Whitmans admirers, of course, re- fuse to take the hint, and we are bound to give them audience when they attempt to prove that the unparalleled concessions they have made as to his defects are more than balanced by his merits. The main ground on which they commend Whitman is, that he has at last founded a distinct- ively American school of poetry. The new world, argues Dr. Dowden, may be expected to give birth to literary and artistic forms corresponding to itself in strange novelty, to a fauna and flora other than the European, requiring a new nomenclature, like other American things hickory, for example, and mocking-bird. American democracy being a great, new, unexampled thing, with faults enough, but yet deserving recogni- tion and respect, the poet of American democracy may, in like manner, though his works are surprising and questionable, deserve applause. Whitman himself set out, as was mentioned, with a determina- tion to write differently from his contem- poraries and predecessors. The Ameri- can poetry which he found existing was, he intimated, either the poetry of an ele- gantly weak sentimentalism at bottom nothing but maudlin puerilities, or more or less musical verbiage, arising out of a life of depression and enervation as their result or else that class of poetry, plays, etc., of which the foundation is feudalism, with its ideas of lords and ladies, its imported standard of gentility, and the manners of European high-life-below-stairs in every line and verse. I am the poet of America, virtually says the mod- est Whitman ; and our English critics bow assent. When we reflect that, among~the Ameri- can poets thus slightingly waived aside, were, to mention no others, Longfellow, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell, and Edgar Poe the justice of the remark that Whitman shows effrontery will be apparent. But his feeling as affected by the abundance, apart from all question as to the excel- lence, of existing poetry, when he first thought of becoming himself a poet, was not unreasonable. It arose from a more or less vague but substantially just per- ception of the fact that literature is old, that the libraries of the world are well stocked, that subjects, motives, images, incidents, plots, which were novel some thousands of years ago, have become stale. The first broad aspects, the salient facts and features, of that nature which man seeks to present again represent in his art, have long since been seized. The interest of dart-throwing and of heroic skull-cleaving was pretty well exhausted by Homer. Goethe says that if Shake- speare had written in German, he (Goethe) would, at the outset of his literary career, have been oppressed with something like despair; and the years which have passed since Goethe experienced this feeling, with their Scott poetry, their Byron poetry, their Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Campbell, Tennyson poetry, not to men- tion half a dozen American poets whose names are known throughout Europe, have incalculably enhanced the difficulty and hazard that face one who, using the English language, aspires to the fame of a poet. Under such circumstances, the temptation to false originality, to one or other form of affectation, is almost irre- sistible. I am deliberately of opinion that no young poet or painter, for what has been said applies, rnzitatis mutandis, to pictorial as well as to literary art, be his powers what they may, wholly escapes its influence. It causes men of undoubted genius to say things with a queerness, a quaintness, which I, at least, cannot con- ceive to be natural to them. Mr. Morris, for example, thus describes an occur- rence which, though interesting and de- lightful, has for many ages been a poetical commonplace In that garden fair Came Lancelot walking; this is true, the kiss Wherewith we kissed in meeting day, ~ that spring I scarce dare talkof the remembered bliss, When both our mouths went wandering in one way; And, aching sorely, met among the leaves, Our hands being left behind strained far away. To say that Lancelot and Guinevere kissed each other would certainly have been ordinary, and Mr. Morriss way of stating the fact is original; but since it is not possible that the kiss could havQ been performed as he describes it for al- though the lovers might hax~e restrained their natural impulse to embrace as well as kiss, and might have kept their hands before them or at their sides, it is incon- ceivable that they should have poked their hands out behind them while craning their necks forward to bring their lips together we must conclude that Mr. Morris con- sidered it a less evil to be fantastic than to be commonplace. Mr. D. G. Rossetti has written several poems which seem to me imperishably great; but he also has suffered from the tyrannical necessity of being original, after nature has been laid under contribution by poets for thousands of years. It would have been as common- place for Mr. Rossetti to say that he sat musing on the grass, as for Mr. Morris to say that Lancelot took Guinevere into his arms and kissed her. Accordingly Mr. Ro~setti writes thus The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill I had walked on at the winds will, I sat now, for the wind was still. Between my knees my forehead was, My lips, drawn in, said not, Alas l My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass. Original, no doubt, but is it not some- what odd? The posture described is gro- tesque, and in a room, when attempted by persons making no claim to the character of poet, cannot be achieved; but even on a peculiarly formed bank in the country, it would be uncomfortable. The feat per- formed by Mr. Rossetti might be recom- mended to professors of gymnastics, and, perhaps, if one sat with his head between his knees and his hair in the grass for an hour, the acoustic nerve would become so sensitive through torture that he could hear the day pass; but it is not easy to believe that the lines would have been as they are, if Mr. Rossetti had felt it ad- I0I missible to say so commonplace a thing as that he sat on a green bank and meditated. From the works of Mr. Browning, and even from those of Mr. Tennyson, illus- tration might be derived of the shudder- ing horror with which modern poets avoid commonplace; and the oddities and eccen- tricities of painters, during the present cen- tury have been equally conspicuous. I recollect seeing a picture of St. George and the dragon, by an artist admired by many eloquent young ladies, in which the dragon looked like a large green lizard, and St. George like a medical gentleman administering to it, by means of a long glass bottle which he poked into its mouth, a dose of castor-oil. I was given to un- derstand that the piece had a profound spiritual significance, but I had not soul enough to comprehend.it. If the necessity of being original lies hard upon poets in these days, is it not all the more, on that account, the duty of critics to press upon them the equally inexorable necessity of resisting the fas- cinations of false and affected originality? Novelty is essential to art; every gen- uine art-product, in sculpture, in painting, in poetry, is unique: but it is intensely untrue that everything that is novel and unparalleled is art; and so easy is it to ape or to travesty ribht newness, that Whitmans conscious and trumpeted pur- pose to produce something original ought to have been, in the eyes of critics so acute as Dr. Dowden and so accomplished as Mr. W. Rossetti, a presumption that the originality forthcoming would be spu- rious. Every art-product is new, but every art-product is also old; and the operation of producing a true poem or picture an operation too subtle to be described in words or executed by rule consists essentially in combining newness of form and colour and musical harmony with oldness of principle and law. An illustration of this union, applicable, to my thinking, with scientific acctu-acy to the case in hand, is afforded by nature every spring. When the brown hillside breaks, as Goethe finely says, into a wave of green, every hollow of blue shade, every curve of tuft, and plume, and tendril, every broken sun-gleam on spray of young leaves, is new. No spring is a represen- tation of any former spring. And yet the laws of chemistry and of vegetable life are unchanging. The novelty that the poet must give us is the novelty of spring; and the transcendant but inevitable diffi- culty of poetical originality lies in this, that the limits of variation within which WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. WALT WHITMAN S POEMS. 102 he is permitted to work are narrow. His poetry must be as different from that of any other poet as one spring is different from another; but it must izot be more so. It is a fundamental principle, laid down by that ancient nation which was inspired to write the bible of art, that all gigan- tesque, eccentric, distorted, extravagant art is barbarous. By working in the spirit of the lesson taught it once and forever by Greece, .Europe has gone beyond Greece; but as far as Europe, in Shake- speare, has transcended Greece, so far will America fall behind and below not Europe only, but Egypt, Babylon, and Assyria, if she cast the lesson of Greece to the winds and consent to the identifi- cation of democracy with lawless extrav- agance. It would, I belive, be unfair to the Americans tO speak of them as pledged to admiration of Whitman. They are not afraid to give every one a hearing, and in this they are bravely right; but they have a way, also, of getting, sooner or later, at the true value of a man, and I rather think they have found Whitman out. I have produced abundant evidence to prove that he exceeds all the bounds fixed to sound poetical originality, and is merely grotesque, and surprising. It is instructive to note that, whenever Whitman is, comparatively speaking, r~i- tional and felicitous, his writing becomes proportionally like that of other people. Of really good poetical work there is, in- deed, in those of his poems known to me and I have read, with desperate reso- lution, a great deal both of his prose and his verse, including productions which his eulogists specifically extol very little. Even his best passages have this charac- teristic of inferior writing, that they deal with sensational subjects and fierce ex- citements. His lack of delicate and deep sensibility is proved by his producing hor- ror when he aims at pathos. The true masters of pathos obtain their greatest effects by means that seem slight. A Shakespeare, a Goethe, will make all gen- erations mourn over the sorrows of an Italian girl, of a German grisette; a daisy, a mouse, a wounded hare, evoke touches of immortal pathos from Burns. Whit- man must have his scores massacred, his butcherly apparatus of blood and man- gled flesh, his extremity of peril in storm, his melodramatic exaggeration of courage in battle. Btt it is in the few sketches of such scents; occurring in the poem called Walt Whitman, that he is most success- ful; and then his affectations fall, to a re- freshing extent, from his loins, and he makes some approach to the perspicuity, compression, vividness, and force of good writing in general. If his English critics had contented themselv~s with discrimi- nating between what is passably good and what is insufferably bad in his work, com- mending the former and condemning the latter, not a word would have been written by me upon the subject. Dr. Dowden, Mr. Rossetti, Mr. Buchanan, and, most vociferously of all, Mr. Swinburne, accept him at his own valuation as the greatest of American voices, * and the poet of democracy. To do so is to wrong the true poets whom America has produced, and to strike a pang as of despair into the hearts of those who, amid all short-com- ings and delinquencies, amid Fiske trage- dies and $Iammany Rings, refuse to be- lieve that democracy means~, dissolution, and that the consummation of freedom must be an exchange of the genial bonds and decent amenities of civilization for infra-bestial license. Originality, true and clear, characterizes the real poets of America. There is in them a fragrance and flavour native to the American soil, a something that gives them a charac:er as distinctive as marks Qff the Elizabethans from Milton, or distinguishes Pope and his school from recent English poets. More than this was not to be looked for or desired; the strong presumption was that more than this would indicate mon- strosity, debility, or affectation; and this presumption has been verified by Whit- man. Nature in America is different from nature in Europe, but we do not, in cross- ing the Atlantic, pass from cosmos into chaos; and Mr. Carlyles expression, winnowings of chaos, would be a can- didly scientific description of Whitmans poetry if only it were possible to asso- ciate with it the idea of any winnowing process whatever. Street - sweepings of lumber - land disjointed fragments of truth, tossed in wild whirl with disjointed fragments of falsehood gleams of beauty that have lost their way in a waste of ugli- ness such are the contents of what he calls his poems. If here and there we have tints of healthful beauty, and tones of right and manly feeling, they but suf- fice to prove that he can write sanely and sufferably when he pleases, that his mon * These words are Mr. Swinhurnes, and perhaps would not he endorsed by the others. I take this portnniiy of protesting against ceriain comments made b~ Mr. Swinhurne (in a republished essay on the text Shelley) on an article written by me for this review in the year s867. I do not say what Mr. Swiisburne represents me as saying, and what I did say can be proved to be grammatically correct. THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 103 strosities and solecisms are sheer affecta- From Macmillans Magazine. tion, that he is not mad, but only counter- THE CURATE IN CHARGE. feits madness. He is in no sense a superlatively able man, and it was beyond CHAPTER XIV. his powers to make for himself a legiti- MILDMAY made his way back to Oxford mate poetical reputation. No man of high without any delay. He knew that the capacity could be so tumid and tautolog- master of the college, who was a man ical as he could talk, for instance, of the with a family, had not yet set out on the fluid wet of the sea; or speak of the inevitable autumn tour. But I must add aroma of his armpits, or, make the crass that though no man could have been more and vile mistake of bringing into light anxious to obtain preferment in his own what nature veils, and confounding liberty person than he was to transfer his prefer- with dissolute anarchy. The poet of de- ment to another, yet various doubts of the mocracy he is not; but his books may practicability of what he was going to at- serve to buoy, for the democracy of Amer- tempt interfered, as he got further and ica, those shallows and sunken rocks on further from Brentburn, with the enthusi- which if it is cast, it must inevitably, asm which had sprung up so warmly in amid the hootings of mankind, be wrecked.. Cicelys presehce. It would be very diffi- Always, unless he chooses to contradict cult, he felt, to convey to the master the himself for the sake of paradox, his polit- same clear perception of the rights of the ical doctrine is the consecration of muti- case as had got into his own head by nous independence and rabid egotism and what he had seen and heard at the rec- impudent conceit. In his ideal city the tory; and if all he made by his hesitation men and women think lightly of the laws. was to throw the living into the hands of His advice is to resist much and to obey Ruffhead! For Brentburn was no longer little. This is the political philosophy of an indifferent place the, same as any bedlam, un9hained in these ages chiefly other in the estimation of the young don; through the influence of Rousseau, which quite the reverse; it was very interesting has blasted the hopes of freedom wher- to him now. Notwithstanding the bran- ever it has had the chance, and which new church, he felt that no other parish must be chained up again with ineffable under the sun was half so attractive. The contempt if the self-government of na- churchyard, with those two narrow threads tions is to mean anything else than the of paths; the windows, with the lights in death and putres~ence of civilization. In- them, which glimmered within sight of capable of true poetical originality, Whit- the grave; the old-fashioned, sunny gar- man had the cleverness to invent a literary den; the red cottages, with not one wall trick, and the shrewdness to stick to it. which was not awry, and projecting at As a Yankee phenomenon, to be good- every conceivable angle; the common, humouredly laughed at, and to receive that with its flush of heather all. these had moderate pecuniary remuneration which come out of the unknown, and made them- nature allows to vivacious quacks, he selves plain and apparent to him. He would have been in his place; but when felt Brentburn to be in a manner his own; influential critics introduce him to the a thing which he would be willing to give English public as a great poet, the thing to Mr. St. John, or rather to lend him for becomes too serious for a joke. While his lifetime; but he did not feel the least reading Whitman, in the recollection of inclination to let it fall into the hands of what had been said of him by those gen- any other man. Neither did he feel in- tlemen, I realized with bitter painfulness dined to do as Mr. Chester, the late rec- how deadly is the peril that our literature tor, had done to expatriate himself, and may pass into conditions of horrible dis- leave the work of his parish to the curate ease, the raging flame of fever taking the in charge. Besides, he could not do this, place of natural heat, the ravings of de- for he was in perfect health; and he lirium superseding the enthusiasm of poet- could neither tell the necessary lie him- ical imagination, the distortings of tetanic self, nor, he thought, get any doctor to spasm caricaturing the movements, dance- tell it for him. As he got nearer and like and music-measured, of harmonious nearer to the moment which mus.t decide strength. Therefore I suspended more all these uncertainties, he got more and congenial work to pen this little counter- more confused and troubled in his mind. blast to literary extravagance and affecta- The ~master was the college, as it hap- tion. PETER BAYNE. pened at that moment; he was by far the most influential and the most powerful person in it; and what he said was th~ 104 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. thing that would be done. Mildmay ac- cordingly took his way with very mingled feelings, across the qu- drangle to the beautiful and picturesque old house in which this potentate dwelt. Had he any right to attempt to make such a bargain as was in his mind? It was enough that the living had been offered to him. What had he to say but yes or no? The masters house was in a state of confusion when Mildmay entered it. The old hall was full of trunks, the oaken staircase encumbered with servants and young people running up and down in all the bustle of a move. Eight children of all ages, and half as many servants, was the master brave man ! about to carry off to Switzerland. The packin, was ter- rible, and not less terrible the feelings of the heads of the expedition, who were at that moment concluding their last calcula- tion of expenses, and making up little bundles of circular notes. Here is Mr. Mildrnay, said the masters wife, and, thank heaven! this reckoning up is over; and she escaped with a relieved countenance, giving the new comer a smile of gratitude. The head of the college was slightly flustrated, if such a vulgar word can be used of such a sublime per- son. I hope no one will suspect me of Romanizing tendencies, but perhaps a pale ecclesiastic, worn with thought, and un- troubled by children, would have been more like the typical head of a college than this comely yet careworn papa. The idea, however, flashed through Mildniays mind, who had the greatest reverence for the master, that these very cares, this evi- dent partaking of human natures most ordinary burdens, would make the great don feel for the poor curate. Does not a touch of nature make the whole world kin? Well, Mildmay, said the master, come to say good-bye? You are just in time. We are off to-night by the Antwerp boat, which we have decided is the best way with our enormous l)arty. Here the good man sighed. Where are you go- ing? You young fellows dont know youre born, as people say coming and going, whenever the fancy seizes you, as light as a bird. Ah! wait till you have eibht chil- dren, my dear fellow, to dract about the world. That could not be for some time, at least, said Mildmay, with a laugh; but I am not so disinterested in my visit as to have come merely to say good-bye. I wanted to speak to you about Brentburn. Ah oh, said the master; to be sure, your living. You have been to see it? Well! and how do you think it will feel to be an orderly rector, setting a~good example, instead of enjoying yourself, and collecting crockery here? That was a cruel speech, and Mildmay grew red at the unworthy title. crockery; but the masters savage sentiments on this subject were known. What is a man with eight children to be expected to know about rare china? I believe there are much better collec- tions than mine in some country rectories, he said; but never mind; I want to speak to you of something more interest- ing than crockery. I do not think I can take Brentburn. The master framed his lips into that shape which in a profane and secular per- son would have produced a whistle of sur- prise. So! he said, you dont like it? But I thought you were set upon it. All the better for poor Ruffhead, who xvill now be able to marry after all. That is just what I wanted to speak to you about, said Mildmay, embarrassed. I dont want it to fall to Ruffhead. Lis- ten, before you say anything! I dont want to play the part of the dog in the manger. Ruffhead is young, and so am I; but, my dear master, listen to me. The curate in charge, Mr. St. John, is not young; he has been twenty years at Brent- burn, a laborious excellent clergyman. Think how it would look in any other pro- fession, if either Ruffhead or I should thus step over his head. The curate in charge! said the mas- ter, bewildered. What are you talking about? What has he to do with it? I know nothing about your curate in charge. Of course you dont; and therefore there seemed to be some hope in coming~ to tell you. He is a member of our ~wn college; that of itself is something. He used to know you, he says, long ago, when he was an under~ raduate. He has been Chesters curate at Brentburn, occupying the place of the incumbent, and doing everything for twenty years; and now that Chester is dead, there is nothing for him but to be turned out at a moments notice, and to seek his bread, at over sixty, some- where else and he has children too. This last sentence was added at a ven- ture to touch the masters sympathies; but I dont think that dignitary perceived the application; for what is there in common between the master of a college and a poor curate? He shook his head with, how- ever, that sympathetic gravity and defer- ence towards misfortune which no man THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 105 who respects himself ever refuses to show. St. John, St. John? he said. Yes, I think I recollect the name: very tall stoopsa peaceable sort of beincr? Yes. So hes Chesters curate? Who would have thought it? I suppose he started in life as well as Chester did, or any of us. What has possessed him to stay so long there? Well he is, as you say, a peaceable mild man; not one to push himself Push himself! cried the master; not much of that I should think. But even if you dont push yourself, you neednt stay for twenty years a curate. What does he mean by it? I am afraid there must be something wrong. And I am quite sure there is nothing wrong, cried Mi idmay, warmly, unless devotion to thankless work, and forget- fulness of self is ~vrong; for that is all his worst enemy can lay to his charge. You arc very warm about it, said the master, with some surprise; which does you credit, Mildmay. But, my dear fel- low, what do you expect me what do you expect the college to do? We cant pro- vide for our poor members who let them- selves drop out of sight and knowledge. Perhaps if you dont take the living, and Ruffhead does, you might speak to him to keep your friend on as curate. But I have nothing to do with that kind of arrange- ment. And Im sure you will excuse me when I tell you we start to-night. Master, said Mildmay, solemnly, when you hear of a young colonel of thirty promoted over the head of an old captain of twice his age, what do you say? Say, sir! cried the master, whose sentiments on this, as on most other sub- jects, were well known ; say! why I say its a disgrace to the country. I say its the abominable system of purchase which keeps our best soldiers languishing. Pray, what do you mean by that smile? You know I have no patience to discuss such a question; and I cannot see what it has to do with what we were talking of, he add- ed, abruptly, breaking off with a look of defiance, for he suddenly saw the mistake he had made in Mildmays face. Hasnt it? said the other. If you will think a moment Ruffhead and I are both as innocent of parochial knowledge as as little Ned there. (Ned at this moment had come to the window which opened upon the garden, and, knocking with impatient knuckles, had summoned his father out.) Mr. St. John has some thirty years experience, and is thoroughly known and loved by the people. What can anybody think what can any one say if one of us miserable subalterns is put over that veterans head? Where but in the Church could such a thing be done without at least such a clamour as would set half England by the ears? Softly, softly, cried the master. (Get away, you little imp. Ill come presently.) You mustnt abuse the Church, Mildmay. Our arrangements may be imperfect, as indeed all arrangements are which are left in human hands. But, depend upon it, the system is the best that could be de- vised; and there is no real analogy be- tween the two professions. A soldier is helpless who can only buy his promotion, and has no money to buy it with. But a clergyman has a hundred ways of making his qualifications known, and as a matter of fact I think preferment is very justly distributed. I have known dozens of men, with no money and very little influence, whose talents and virtues alone but you must know that as well as I do. In this case there must be something behind something wrong extreme indolence, or incapacity, or something There is nothing but extreme mod- esty, and a timid retiring disposition. Yes, yes, yes, cried the master these are the pretty names for it. Indo- lence which does nothing for itself, and hangs a dead weight upon friends. Now, tell me seriously and soberly, why do you come to me with this story? What, in such a case, do you suppose I can do? If you were a private patron, said Mildmay, I should say boldly, I have come to ask you to give this living to the best man the man who has a right to it; not a new man going to try experi- ments like myself, but one who knows what he is doing, who has done all that has been done there for twenty years. I would say you were bound to exercise your private jud~ment on behalf of the parish in preference to all promises or supposed rights; and that you should offer the living of Brentburn to Mr. St. John without an hours delay. That is all very well, said the master, scratching his head, as if he had been a rustic clodhopper, instead of a learned and accomplished scholar, and very well put, and perhaps true. I say, ~erIzaps true, for of course this is only one side of the question. But I am not a private patron. I am only a sort of trustee of the patron- age, exercising it in conjunction with va- rious other people. Come, Mildmay, you I o6 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. know as well as I do, poor old St. John, though his may be a hard case, has no claim whatever upon the college; and if you dont accept it, theres Ruffhead and two or three others who have a rio~ht to their chance. You may be sure Ru~fhead wont give up his chance of marriage and domestic bliss for any poor curate. Of course the case, as you state it, is hard. What does the parish say? The parish! I was not there long enough to find out the opinion of the parish. Ah, you hesitate. Look here, Mild- may; if I were a betting man, Id give you odds, or whatever you call it, that the par- ish would prefer you. It is impossible ; or, if they did, it would only be -a double wrong. But Mildmays voice was not so confident as when he had been pleading Mr. St. Johns cause, and his eyes fell before the masters penetrating eyes. A wrong if you like, but its human nature, said the master, with some tri- umph. I will speak to the dean about it, if I see him this afternoon, and Ill speak to Singleton. If they think any- thing of your arguments, I shant oppose. But I warn you I dont think it the least likely. His age, if there were nothing else, is against him, rather than in his favour. We dont want parishes ham- pered with an old man past work. He is just as old being curate as if he were rector. Yes, yes. But to give him the living now, at his age, would be to weight the parish with him till he was a hundred, and destroy the chance for young men like yourself. Yaze dont mind, but I can tell you Ruffhead does. No, no. Singleton will never hear of it; and what can I do? lain going away. Singleton will do whatever you tell him, said Mildmay; and you could write even though you are going away. Hush, hush, said the master, with a half-laugh, that is all a popular delusion. Singleton is the most independent-minded man I know and the others are as ob- stinate as pigs. Talk of turning them as one likes! Poor old St. John, though! we might hear of another place to suit him, perhaps. He has something of his own, I suppose some private income? How many children has he? of course, being only a curate, he must have heaps of children. (Coming, you rascal! com- ing, Ned.) He has two daughters grown up, said Miidmay, and two small children; and so far as I can judge is What is there to laugh at? he added, with a look of the greatest surprise. So, so; he has daughters? said the master, with a burst of genial laughter. That is it? Dont blush, my dear fel- iow; as good men as you have been in the same predicament. Go and marry her, which will be much more sensible; and I hope Miss St. John is everything that is pretty and charming for your sake. Perhaps Mildmay blushed, but he was not aware of it. He felt himself grow pale in a white heat of passion. This is a very poor joke, he said. Excuse me, master, if I must say so. I speak to you of an injury to the Church, and a serious wrong to one of her priests, and you an- swer me with a jest most inappropriate to the occasion. I saw Miss I mean Mr. St. John and his family for the first time two days ago. Personal feeling of any kind has not been my inducement to make this appeal to your sense of justice. But I have made a mistake, it seems. Good morninci; I will not detain you more. Why, Mildmay! a man may have his joke. Dont take it in this tragical way. And dont be so withering in your irony about my sense of justice, said the mas- ter, with a laugh, half-apologetic, half- angry. But he did not ask the young man to sit down again. Justice goes bcth ways, he added; and I have jus- tice to the college, and justice to its more distinguished members, and even to the parish, for whose good we are called upon to act to consider; as well as justice to Mr. St. John, ~vhich really is not our af- fair. But, my dear fellow, all this is very admirable in you and dont think I fail to see that, though you say Imadeapoor joke. Yes, I am in a hurry, there is no denying it; but Ill see Singleton, and leave the matter in his hands. Meet you in the Oberland, eh? My wife talks of St. Moritz, but we never can drag the children all that way. Good-bye. Mildmay marched out of the old house with all his pulses tingling. It seemed to him that poor Cicely, in the midst of, all the anxieties that lurked in her young eyes, had been insulted. Was it that sort of folly he was thinking of, or she, poor girl, who had said nothing to him but re- proaches? But yet, I will allow, that ab- solutely innocent as he felt of any such levity, the accusation excited him more, perhaps, than was needful. He could not forget or forgive it, as on.e forgives a sorry jest at one s own expense, the reason being, he said to himself, that it was an THE CURATE IN CHARGE. 107 insult to her, and that this insult had come upon a young innocent creature, through him, which was doubly hard. He was still tingling with this blow, when he met his second in succession, so to speak, Mr. Ruffhead, who was serving a curacy near Oxford, and who had a slight unspoken, unacknowledged grudge at his brother fel- low who had been preferred before him- self. Mildmay, in his excitement, laid hold upon this probable heir of his, in case he should give up Brentburn, and poured the whole story into his ears, asking with some heat and passion for his advice. I dont see how I can take the living over Mr. St. Johns head; it seems to me the most terrible injustice, he cried. Mr. Ruffhead shook his head. You must not ask m advice, said that sensible person. I you dont take it, and its offered to me, I shall of course. I dont know Mr. St. John, and if one neg- lected ones own interests for every hard. case one heard of, where would one be? I cant afford to play with my chances. I dare say you think I am very hard-hearted; but that is what I should do. This plain declaration of sentiment sub- dued Mildmay, and brought him back to matters of fact. I suppose you are right; but I have not made up my mind to de- cline the living, he said coldly, and did not ask Ruffhead to dinner as he had at first intended. No man, they say, likes his heir, and this kind of inheritance was doubly disagreeable to think of. Cer- tainly, if the only alternative was Ruffhead and his honeymooning (which somehow it disgusted Mildmay to think of, as of some- thing almost insulting to himself), it would be better, much better, that he himself should take Brentburn. He would not give it up only to see it passed on to this commonplace fellow, to enable him, for- sooth, to marry some still more common- place woman. Good heavens! was that the ~vay to traffic with a cure of souls? He ~vent back to his beautiful rooms in a most disturbed state of mind, and drew up impatiently the blinds which were not in- tended to be drawn up. The hot August light came in scorching and broad over all his delights, and made him loathe them; he tripped upon, and kicked away to the end of the room, a rug for which you or I, dear reader, would have given one of our ears; and jerked his Italian tapestry to one side, and I think, if good sense had not restrained him, would have liked to take up his very best bit of china and smash it into a hundred pieces. But after a while he smiled at himself, and reduced the blaze of daylight to a proper artistic tone, and tried to eat some luncheon. Yesterday at the same hour he had shared the curates dinner, with Cicely at the head of the table, looking at him with sweet eyes, in which there was still the dewy look of past tears. She had the house and all its cares upon her delicate shoulders, that girl ; and her innocent name had been made the subject of a jest through him! CHAPTER XV. I DO not suppose that Cicely St. John had really any hope in her new acquaint- ance, or believed, when she looked at the matter reasonably, that his self-renuncia- tion, if he had the strength of mind to carry it out, would really secure for her father the living of Brentburn. But yet a certain amount of faith is natural at her years, and she was vaguely strengthened and exhilarated by that suppressed ex- pectation of something pleasant that might possibly happen, which is so great an element in human happines~ and, with this comfort in her soul, went about her xvork, preparing for the worst, which, to be sure, notwithstanding her hope, was, ~she felt, inevitable. Mab, when the strangers enthusiastic adoption of her sisters suggestion was told to her, ac- cepted it for her part with delight, as a thing settled. A true artist has always more or less a practical mind. However strong his imagination may be, he does not confine himself to fancIes, or even words, but makes something tangible and visible out of it, and this faculty more or less shapes the fashion of his thinking. Mab, who possessed in addition that de- lightful mixture of matter - of - factness which is peculiar to womankind, seized upon the hope and made it into reality. She went to her work as gaily as if all the clouds had been in reality dispersed from her path. This time it was little Annie, the nursemaid Cicely having inter- fered to protect the babies from perpetual posing who supplied her with the nec- essary life. Annie did not much like it. She would have been satisfied, indeed, and even proud, had her picture been taken in her best frock, with all her Sunday ribbons; but to be thrust into a torn old dingy garment, with bare feet, filled the lit- tle handmaiden with disgust and ra6e great enough for .a full-grown woman. Folks will think as I haint got no decent clothes, she said; and Mabs injudicious consola- tion, to the effect that folks would never see the picture, did not at all mend the i o8 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. matter. Cicely, however, drew up her If you please, miss, I cant stop here slight person, and looked Miss St. no longer. Its time as I was looking John, according to Mabs description; after the children. How is Betsy to re- and Annie was cowed. There were at member in the middle of her cooking the least twenty different representations in right time to give em their cod-liver oil ? Mabs sketch-books of moments in which Ill go and look after the children, Cicely had looked Miss St. John; and it said Cicely. What you have got to do, was Mabs conviction in life as well as in Annie, is to stop here. art that no opponent could stand before Upon which Annie burst into floods of such a demonstration. Barefooted, in tears, and fell altogether out of pose. her rag~ed frock, Annie did not look an There aint no justice in it! she said. amiable young person, which, I am Im put up here to look like a gipsy or ashamed to say, delighted the artist. a beggar; and mother will never get over She will do for the naughty little girl in it, after all her slaving and toiling to get the fairy-tale, the one with toads and me decent clothes! frogs dropping from her lips, cried Mab, Thus it will be perceived that life- in high glee. And if it comes well I studies in the domestic circle are very dif- shall send it to Mr. Mildmay, to show we ficult to manage. After a little interval feel how kind he is. of mingled coaxing and scolding, some- Wait till he has been kind, said thing like the lapsed attitude was recov- Cicely, shaking her head. I always liked ered, and Annie brought back into obedi- the naughty little girl best, not that com- ence. If you will be good, Ill draw a placent smiling creature who knew she picture of you in your Sunday frock to had been good, and whom everybody give to your mother, said Mab a prom- praised. Oh, what a pity that the world ise which had too good an effect upon is not like a fairy-tale! where the good her model, drivin~ away the clouds from are always rewarded, and even the naugh- her countenance; and Cicely went away ty, when they are sorry. If we were to to administer the cod-liver oil. It was help any number of old women, what not a very delightful office, and I think would it matter now? that now and then, at this crisis, it seemed But I suppose, said Mab, somewhat to Cicely that Mab had the best of it, wistfully, for she distrusted her sisters with her work, which was a deli6ht to her, words, which she did not understand, and and which occupied both her mind and was afraid people might think Cicely her fingers; care seemed to fly the mo- Broad-Church, I suppose whatever may ment she got that charcoal in her hand. happen in the mean time, it all comes right There was no grudge in this sense of dis in the end? advantage. Nature had done it, against Papa is not so very far from th~ end, which there was no appeal. I dont and it has not come right for him. think, however, that care would have 0 Cicely, how can you talk so! Papa weighed heavily on Mab, even if she had is not so old. He will live years and not been an artist. She would have hung years yet