LITTELLS LIVING AGE. ol, CXXXIX. Volume Series, No. 1790. October 5,1878. From Beginning, CONTENTS. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. CYPRUS. Part II. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS, . CHILDS PLAY 1\IR. FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF TJIOMAS BECKET. By Edward A. Free. man. Part IV. THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS, THE RELATION OF MEMORY TO WILL, GARDEN-PARTlES INVALIDS THE CREATURES SONG OF EXPECTA. TION LAMENT OF MARJORY COCKBURNE, MISCELLANY Macmi/ians Magazine, New Quarteriy,Review,. Corn/li/i Magazine, Contemporary Review, Nineteenth Century, Spectator, Spectator, Spectator, .3 II 18 32 50 59 65.. P0 E TRY. EIN JUNGLING LIEBT EIN MADCHEN, 2 2 EIN FICHTENBAUM STEHY EINSAM, 2 21 64 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to tke Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free of~ostage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE iS sent gratis to any one getting no a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents. THE CREATURES SONG OF EXPECTATION, ETC. THE CREATURES SONG OF EXPECTA TION. BY A J~. WARING. For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. RoM. Viii. 59. Tity creatures suffer, 0 Most High! And yet thy sons rejoice; Thy birds sing on to dying men With clear, exulting voice; Thy sunbeams dance among the flowers That veil our dead from sight, And sorrow lays a harmless hand On ever-fresh delight. 0 sacred Unity of Love! This life and death behind, Attracting heart aloof from heart And mind at war with mind. To the worn spirit grieved for thee At every passing jar, How touching in their fearless tone, How sweet thy concords are! If out of depths that sin has made, And would have filled with woe, We hear above creations groan Her music soft and low, It is that lovely things on earth The atoning truth declare The hallelujah of thy heaven Receives an answer there. Thou hast a spring of endless health, With issues great and wide, In the free heart that dares to live Because thy Christ has died; An element of bliss divine That passes mortal bound, And worships with the heavenly host At every joyful sound. When through the haunting shades of death We take our hallowed way, And see in resurrection dawn The place where Jesus lay, Still love to love in quest of him The word of comfort gives; Still angels watching at his grave. Bear witness that he lives. A gloom may gather as we go, And sound and sight grow dim; But day has risen on the paths That lead his friends to him. All through the dull decline of sense And even while we die, his triumph finds the listening ear And fills the expecting eye. We follow him, and earth shines on, From our faint gaze set free; Her psalms, that call no more on us, Pursue their praise of thee. While thou, on our eternal life Through all decay intent, Art keeping for the day of power Thy human instrument. Then may our silence in thy hand, Mid sickness and distress, Take part in that ascending hymn Which serves thee none the less; Till the whole Churchs bridal joy, Unblemishd and complete, Shall win a blessed universe To its Redeemers feet, Sunday Magazine. LAMENT OF MARJORY COCKBURNE. I SEWED his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse, myself, alane; I watched his body, night and day; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I diggd a grave, and laid him in, And happd him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul on his yellow hair; O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turned about, awa to gae? Nae living man Ill love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi ae lock of his yellow hair Ill chain my heart for evermair. EIN JUNGLING LIEBT EIN MADCHEN. A YOUNG man loves a maiden, She somebody else prefers, That somebody else loves another, Who makes him by wedlock hers. The maiden in mere vexation, Because of the loss she has had, Weds the first kind soul that offers, And this makes the young man mad. Tis an old, a very old story, But still it is always new; And when and wherever it happens, A mans heart is broken in two. HEINE. EIN FICHTENBAUM STEHT EINSAM. A PINE-YREE stands alone on A bare bleak northern height; The ice and snow they swathe it, As it sleeps there, all in white. Tis dreaming of a palm-tree, In a far-off Eastern land, That mourns, alone and silent, On a ledge of burning sand. HEINZ. From Macmillans Magazine. CYPRUS. II. UNDER the Sublime Porte the island of Cyprus formed part of the Vilaet of the Archipelago. The chief residence of the vali was at the Dardanelles. The govern- or of Cyprus, called a mutassurrif. resided in the island, at Leufcosia or Nicosia. He administered the affairs of the island with a council, over which he presided. This council was composed of the mufti, or highest Mussulman religious authority in the island, the Greek archbishop, the muhasebegi, or financial agent, the evcaf- nazir, or administrator of Mussulman re- ligio us property, three Mussulman and two Christian notables. The council met as often as it was summoned by the govern- or, and always once a week. Its decisions were embodied in documents called mus- 1cztas, which were signed by all the mem- bers present. These decisions relieved the governor of much personal responsi- bility, and received the highest considera- tion at Constantinople. The council occu- pied itself with all questions of public utility and general administration. From the large Mussulman majority in the coun- cil it will be evident that no initiative could be taken by the Christian members; in- deed, as a matter of fact, all initiative came from the governor. The council was ad- vantageous in giving the governor, invari- ably a stranger to the island, the benefit of local advice, and in obliging hi in to act in harmony with the representatives of the country. To a good governor the council never proved a hindrance; to a bad one it was an impediment to be over- come, but it was no protection against the evils of an inactive administration. The island was divided into five districts and sixteen arrondissements. The chief func- tionary over a district was called a caiina- kam, and that over an arrondissement was called a mudir. The caimakam, or pre- fect, administered with a council, and re- ported to the governor. The mudirs reported to the caimakam. The council of the caimakam consisted of the cadi, or judge, and four notables. Such was the system of administration which prevailed in Cyprus, and which is known in Turkey CYPRUS. 3 as the vilaet system. It assigned to the representatives of the people an important position, but, partly from incapacity and partly from servility, the Christian popula- tion did not profit by the liberal advan- tages accorded to it. The result was that the Christian represent~tive~ were in real- ity, although not avowedly, the choice of the governor and caimakams; but this was a defect, not in the system, but in its execution. It is evident that Amuch of the system which we have just described might be profitably adopted by the British govern- ment. Substituting British for the Turk- ish functionaries who ex officio are mem- bers of the councils, eliminating the ecclesiastical members, both Mohamme- dan and Christian, and giving to Mussul- mans and Christians equal representation, there would be the elements of a very desirable council, containing a highly civ- ilized element, in whose hands would be all the initiative, and a less advanced sec- tion, possessing local knowledge and prac- tical experience of the country. The evils of a too-greatly personal government would be avoided, and the people would be trained gradually to take an interest in the administration which ruled them. It can- not be too often insisted upon that our task is not to Anglicize Cyprus, but simply to preserve order, to facilitate the develop- ment of the material resources of the island, and to further the moral and intel- lectual interests of its people. We have to practise what we have so long urged on the Porte viz., to afford to the native races, by an enlightened and impartial administration, the means of moral eleva- tion and material prosperity. For this result too much government is nearly as detrimental as too little. Our administra- tion must be only the enlightened concep- tion which guides the native hand; and the queen of England must be not only the mistress of Cyprus, but also the hon- ored object of the love and devotion of its native races. There is a vast gulf between the natives of Cyprus and the natives of India, which we must not ignore, and our rule in Cyprus will be an utter failure if we apply to it, without important modifica- tions, our Indian notions of government. CYPRUS. 4 The prosperous days of Cyprus were those in which she enjoyed a large share of self- government; and it: is to this elevated position that we must again raise her out of the. depths of moral degradation and material bankruptcy into which an unen- lightened foreign domination has plunged her. The revenues which the Porte derived from Cyprus may be classified under three heads: (i) Revenues resulting from the administration of property belonging ex- clusively to the State. (2) A royalty upon the produce of all lands. (3) Taxes, direct and indirect. The general budget of re- ceipts may be estimated as follows 40,000 70,000 23,000 2,300 3,300 7,000 30,000 6,ooo 7,000 i. Revenue from the salt monopoly 2. tithes of land 3. customs and excise 4. the monopoly of weighing and measuring 5. Revenue from stamp duties and transfer of property 6. Revenue from tobacco monopoly 7. Revenue from direct contribu- tions called verghi 8. Revenue from tax on sheep and goats 9. Revenue from exemption from military service Total - - . ~886oo Such are the chief taxes, and we will proceed to examine them in detail. In a former article we explained the nature of the salt monopoly. It is simply an enterprise worked by the government for the exclusive benefit of the treasury, and only in so far as it imposes a fixed price upon the quantity of salt consumed in the island is it a burden upon the popu- lation. Of the revenue obtained, 27,0001. is derived from salt exported to foreign parts, so that only about i3,oool. is paid by local consumers. The working of this revenue is very simple, and the new ad- ministration will not do wrong in continu- ing the system of accounts and control which existed in the past. Some years ago there were extensive abuses perpetrated in the working of this administration, such as charging to the government expenses never incurred, and the delivery of larger quanti- ties of salt than was paid for to the treas- ury. But these abuses have been, in great measure, put a stop to by a fairly perfect system of control. The revenue from salt may be expected to increase under the British rule. Greater facilities for ship- ment must be provided, which will be of importance in increasing the export con- sumption. The expensive and inconven- ient transport by carts, from the salt mounds to the shore, must give place to a rapid and easy transport, either by train- way wagon, or by wire tramway bucket; and a good jetty should be constructed to facilitate the loading of small craft. With these facilities, and a slightly reduced tarif, the volume of export shipments may be considerably increased. As the chief object to be aimed at is the enlargement of the circle of consumption, it may be wise to supply the export trade for distant countries, such as England, at lower rates. The article is suitable for ballast, and con- sequently will be cheaply carried. It is expedient that this source of revenue from export should be developed to its fullest extent, seeing that it benefits the treasury without being in any way a burden upon the island. The second item of revenue we have described as a royalty upon the produce of all lands. This tax is called dimes, a contraction of decirna, the tenth part. Its existence dates back from very ancient times, and may justly be connected in the mind of the reader with the tithes or tenth part which Abraham paid to Mel- chizedek, king of Salem. In Turkey, all lands are sold and purchased with this burden, and the natives scarcely regard it as a tax, but rather as the share of the government in the cultivation of the land. It is upon this account that the tithe-tax, although apparently very heavy, is paid by the peasants ~vith far less grumbling than any other tax, and the only disadvantage connected with it is the impediment which the measures necessary for its proper col- lection are apt to throw in the way of the freedom of the cultivator. This disad- vantage is certainly a very serious one, and when speaking of the cultivation of cotton, in my former article, I had occa- sion to give a very good example of the hurtful manner in which it may operate. Many schemes have been proposed in CYPRUS. Turkey for the abolition of this tax, but the difficulty is to find an equally profita- able source of revenue which shall vary according to the prosperous or adverse circumstances of the cultivator. One proposition received considerable favor amongst Anglo-Turkish reformers at Con- stantinople, and that was the imposition of a fixed tax upon each pair of bullocks. Taxing the possession of land presented the inconvenience of imposing a burden upon lands which might not be under cul- tivation, a serious disadvantage in a coun- try where proprietors of large estates often leave extensive tracts of land fallow for years; and it was argued, that by tax- ing the cultivator according to the number of the bullocks which he possessed, this evil would be obviated. But a grave in- justice ~vould have been inflicted by the proposed new system. The tax per pair of bullocks would be necessarily a fixed one, without regard to the value or quality of the bullocks; and in this the small peasant would have been sacrificed. A goodpair of bullocks such as most large proprietors possess, will easily cultivate forty acres of grain land, while the small bullocks which the peasant rears and em- ploys cannot cultivate more than twenty to twenty-five acres. The burden of the tax would therefore fall with unjust sever- ity upon the small cultivator. Fuad Pasha, ~vithout exception the most enlightened of Turkish statesmen and whose ability would have done honor to any country, was quite conscious of the disadvantages arising from the tax of tithes, and, as an experiment, in oiie of the provinces of the empire, he converted the tax into a fixed money value, based upon the average of five preceding years. But the experiment dId not succeed, and he was obliged to revert to the old system at the urgent re- quest of the inhabitants whom he had wished to benefit by the innovation. Later on, a somewhat similar experi- ment was madein Cyprus during my resi- dence. Upon~ the urgent representations of Halet Bey, then governor of the island, the Porte did not lease the dimes of Cy- prus, but agreed, during three years, to give their collection to each village for a yearly payment of the average amount of its tithes during five preceding years. In. this way it was hoped that all arbitrary exactions, and all inconvenience to cultiva- tors would be avoided, and that the farm- ers of the island would benefit by the profits formerly gained by the tax collect- ors. What occurred in the village of Pyla, with which I was connected, will exemplify the working and defects of the experiment. All the three years were fairly good agricultural years. During the first the primates ofA the village adminis- tered the tax, and at its close declared that there was a loss of about one thou- sand piastres between the value of tithes collected -and the amount fixed by the treasury. The accounts, ho~vever, were very imperfectly kept. The loss had to be levied ~ro rata upon the cultivators, and gave rise to a great deal of angry talk the result of which was, that the villagers re- quested me to arrange for the futdre admin- istration of the tax. This was compara- tively easy for me, as more than a third of the tithe had to be paid by me. An accurate account was kept; every one was satisfied, and the village had a profit at the end 6f the second year of about seven thousand piastres, while the profits of the third year sufficed to pay the personal tax of all the village. Unfortunately, the experience of the first year at Pyla was general in all the island, and repeated during the remaining two years, so that at the end of the period there was a loud demand for a return to the old system. The mass of cultivators did not benefit by the profits, while all were responsible for the losses, and it was evident that if a bad year came round the consequences might be very disastrous. The danger to the treasury and to the peasant cultivators of the conyersion of tithe into a fixed yearly sum was thus clearly demonstrated. In a good year the peasant does not set aside of his profits for future contingencies. All his profits he invests in land or cattle if he is frugal, or he spends them thoughtlessly if he is not; and in either case they are not availa- ble when a bad year comes round. The land becomes absolutely unsalable, the cattle die off, and the credit of the farmer is so shaken that he generally cannot bor- row. In these circumstances, what be- 6 CYPRUS. comes of the claims of the treasury? They are either not satisfied, which cripples the treasury, or in being satisfied they cripple the peasant. Until the peasant has be- come more provident, and places his sav- ings where a bad year does not affect them, or until land is a sure source of credit at all times, it will be wiser for the treasury to accept the risk of the seasons with the cultivators, and defend itself against the consequences of a bad year by encashing larger revenues in a good one. The treas- ury will frequently find compensation for one bad crop in the goodness of another; but under the system of a fixed average tithe this advantage is lost. The tithe due by the unfortunate cultivator becomes a bad debt for which there is no compen- sation from his more fortunate neighbor. Some years ago it was the intention of the Sublime Porte, yielding to the outcry of XVestern critics, to substitute for the rev- enue of dime a tax of four per mille upon the estimated value of all lands, cultivated or uncultivated; and in Cyprus all the necessary estimations were made. To the peasant proprietor this system would gen- erally be advantageous, because, as a rule, he possesses little uncultivated land, but even he regarded the change with disfa- vor, as he would become subject to the dan- ger of capricious evaluation. I have entered at some length into this question for two reasons: firstly, because the revenue from tithes is the most impor- tant in the island, and, secondly, because I have reason to believe that the idea of imitating the Indian treatment of the question has found considerable favor in influential quarters. I do not deny the expediency of freeing agriculture from the inconveniences of the tithe-collector; all I insist upon is that any conversion into a fixed and invariable money value will be dangerous to both treasury and island un- til land has got to be a sure and good source of credit; and that any other sub- stitute, such as a fixed rate upon valuations arbitrarily established, or a tax per pair of bullocks, is certain to prove in great meas- ure unjust. In the preceding remarks I have not spoken except of a real dime or tenth part, but it is right to say that the Turkish gov- ernment in its extreme impecuniosity ex- acted during recent years an eighth part. As the British government happily is not in a similar condition, its first fiscal meas- ure ought to be the reduction of dime to its true proportion of a tenth part, and this reduction will be most highly es- teemed. The dimes of Cyprus were leased to the highest bidder. When leased as one lot they invariably fell into the hands of a Turkish, Armenian, or Greek banker of Constantinople. But in recent years the Sublime Porte, before adjudging them at Constantinople, authorized the governor of the island to receive and transmit local, offers, and these offers were generally made for the dimes divided into five por- tions the dimes of the Messorie, of Larnaca, Limasol, Paphos, and Kyrinia. In this way a very advantageous competi- tion was establ~shed. The smaller the lots into which the dimes were divided the greater the number of competitors. The dimes were leased from the i3th of March of each year, but it was never found expe- dient to adjudicate them until after the latter rains of spring, when the pros- pects of the agricultural year could be fairly estimated. The treasury had no ex- pense whatever in the collection. The revenue from the dimes is certain to increase rapidly and considerably, and this will afford the treasury an opportunity of favoring by reductions certain products which it may be for the interest of the country to encourage. Thus it will be very wise to abolish all dimes upon the product of trees. The loss from such a measure will not amount to 7,0001. per annum, and the advantage will be immense in encouraging the plantation of trees the surest remedy against drought. it will also greatly facilitate the collection of the revenue, for the tax upon the fruit of trees is paid in very small sums, and gives a disproportionate amount of trouble. We now come to the taxes direct and indirect, but it.may be well to draw atten- tion to the fact, that in the salt and dime revenues we have found more than half of all the revenues of the island. Of indirect taxes that derived from cus- toms is the most important. The customs tarif established by treaty represents eight per cent. upon all imports and one per cent. upon all exports. The justice of these proportions it is difficult to prove the inconvenience of it is very great. Thus the collection of an export duty of one per cent. is scarcely worth the trouble the gain is nearly all expended. in collection, and great trouble is given to the merchant for very little benefit to the treasury. There appears to be only one of two things to do, either to diminish the import duty and increase proportionately the export duty, or, better still, abolish the export duty. The custom-house administration in Turkey is exceptionally good, and CYPRUS. 7 greatly better in the provinces than at ever, paid more than two pounds ten shil- Constantinople. The system of accounts lings, and as their incomes frequently gives an effective control, and the fact that amount to one hundred pounds, their per- all the em~/oy6s of the custom-house are sonal contribution only represented an in- punctually paid out of encashments before come-tax of sixpence per pound. The these are accounted for to the treasury has large proprietors, not peasants, did not had a great influence in raising the stand- contribute their just share of this tax, and ard of integrity in that branch of the civil the Mohammedan proprietors especially service in Turkey. To his Excellency got off easily. It will be necessary to ob- Kiani Pasha are due the reforms in the tam accurate statistics of the contributions custom-house service, and while he ~vas of each class, and adjust the burden more at its head the co;n~tabi/itd of the depart- equitably. Many of the villages will be ment was quite equal to that of most Eu- found to be considerably in arrear of their ropean countries. The new administra- payments. Years of drought always left tors of Cyprus will find it an easy task to their mark in arrears of village contribu- continue the work of reform which his tions, and considerable sums must be due Excellency so well began. to the Porte from this cause. I hope, how- The monopoly of weighing and measur- ever, that the Porte will forego all such ing produces about 2,300/. per annun. This claims, as it would be impossible to allow revenue is leased out by the government the Turkish authorities to prosecute them, annually in the same way as the dimes, but ahd very disagreeable for British agents to it is a revenue which ought to be devoted exact them. In the majority of cases, the to municipal purposes. villagers would contest the exactitude of Stamps and a fee upon the transfer of the account furnished, invoking payments property produce about 3,300/. This rev- made to the provincial treasurers which enue may with advantage be considerably were misappropriated. increased, and indeed the increase is jus- A tax upon sheep and goats produced a tfied by the better commercial facilities revenue of 6,ooo/. net. This tax was and superior administration of justice leased annually by the government in the which are assured by British rule. same manner as the tithes of land. If I Since I left the island a tobacco mo- remember right, the amount paid for each nopoly has been instituted, which yielded sheep or goat was four-and-a-half piastres in 1875, 3.300!., and in 1876, 7,000/. All annually, while the average value of each such institutions are, however, in direct animal at that time was only thirty pias- antagonism to British notions, and only tres, and the annual income from it did not justifiable when extreme financial pressure exceed twenty piastres. As the proprietor exists. of a flock of about six hundred head, I The chief direct tax is one called found the tax exorbitantly heavy; but the verghi, which is a personal tax levied peasant shepherds relieve themselves upon all householders and bread-winners in from great part of its burden by cheating the island. The treasury does not directly the collector in regard to the number of either apportion or collect the tax. Each their flocks. The rate fixed was the same village has to contribute a fixed amount to all over the Turkish empire, and this pro- the treasury, for the payment of which the duced great injustice, as the sheep of villagers asa whole are responsible. The Roumelia are worth three times as much notables of the village apportion the quan- as those of Cyprus. tum of the tax to be paid by each bread- The last item of revenue which has to be winner according to his means, and as mentioned is the indemnity paid by the they judge just. As may be imagined, Christian population for exemption from absolute justice is not always meted out, military service. Either this tax upon the but on the other hand it would be difficult Christian population must now be abol- to find a better system. Proportionately, ished or it must be extended to the Mo- the well-to-do pay less than the laboring hammedan population as well; seeing that man, for the simple reason that the former both will in future be exempted.from mili- have most to do with the distribution of tary service. The sum produced by the the tax. The sum usually paid by a work- tax is only 7,000/., and it would seem most ing man not proprietor of land, is about expedient to abolish it altogether. twelve shillings per annum. His gross in- From this brief and general survey of come may be estimated at twelve pounds, the taxation of Cyprus under Turkish rule so that the tax represents an income tax, there appears to me to be much cause for without deductions, of one shilling per satisfaction to the British taxpayer. We pound. Few of the peasant farmers, how- have seen that, the revenue derived from 8 CYPRUS. the island amounts to about i8o,oool., and that nearly a quarter of the whole is de- rived from a property belonging exclu- sively to the government, and which is very slightly burthensome to the inhabi- tants of the island The tithes contribute more than one-third of the whole, and this source of revenue is certain to increase in proportion to the development of the agri- cultural resources of the island. Customs contribute 23,0001., and this income will also be largely augmented from the im- portations necessitated by a greatly in- creased population. British administration will certainly be more costly than that of the Turkish government, but as a set-off against that increase there will be an en- larged income. It will only, therefore, be mismanagement which can make Cyprus a burden to the imperial treasury, and the remedy for this mismanagement will speedily be found when accounts are pub- lished. The only urgent necessity is that the accounts connected with the general administration of the island should not be mixed up with those which concern impe- rial interests. For works of general utility, such as irrigation, roads, and government offices, the local administration may well be debited with the interest upon the capi- tal thus judiciously and economically ex- pended, but the imperial treasury alone has to support the cost of barrack accom- niodation, a harbor for ironclads, and mili- tary depots. It has frequently been said that Cyprus is unsuitable for imperial purposes in con- sequence of its complete want of harbors, in which the British fleet may find shelter. This defect must be acknowledged, but it is, I think, greatly exaggerated. In all the roadsteads on the southern coast of the island ships have the very best holding- with proper care, may ride crround, and, out any storm without the least danger. ~t is otherwise on the northern coast, where the sea-room is more restricted; but the northern coast will never be of value for imperial purposes. The great disadVantage of the roadsteads upon the southern coast is the shallowness of the water, which runs out a considerable dis- tance from the shore, and over which an uzly surf breaks in stormy weather. An- chored within the line of that surf, no vessel will hold in a storm, and in conse- quence native craft which have not enough of chain to lie outside come ashore yearly in considerable numbers; but during the nine years of my residence in Cyprus no casualty occurred to a European vessel at anchor, nor do I ever remember any such vessel being obliged to go out to sea for safety. January and February are gener- ally the most stormy months, and it then frequently happens that ships in the road- steads can hold no communication with the shore during several days. But there is no especial danger whatever in iron- dads or any seaworthy vessel with good anchors lying off Larnaca, Limasol, or Famagusta, in the worst of the winter months. At Famagusta. the Venetians had a little harbor of sufficient size to hold a small fleet of s)aips of the tonnage of that day. The harbor is now much filled up, but at a moderate expense could be cleared and repaired. The sea-wall is still sufficient to cause calm water within the harbor, and I remember a French steamer of the Frassinet Company entering the harbor and lying in it for some days, when undergoing repairs which could only be made in calm water. I confess that I cannot pretend to be a compe- tent authority, but I feel convinced that no difficulty will be experienced in greatly enlarging the Venetian harbor of Fama- gusta, and providing good shelter there for large vessels. -Such a harbor will be an immense boon to the shipping which fre- quents that part of the Mediterranean, for there is no shelter for vessels along all the coast of Syria. Any outlay, therefore, in- curred in the construction of a harbor at Famagusta would confer great advantages upon very extensive shipping interests, and in a few years a revenue of some im- portance might be obtained from harbor dues. Famagusta also presents great ad- vantages for a military depot. In the time of the Venetians it must have suf- ficed for a population of fully thirty thou-. sand inhabitants, and the walls of most of the houses are still standing. The town is surrounded by a ditch, and inclosed within well-built walls of strong masonry, which are in good repair. For the accom- modation of a garrison of, ten thousand men little more would be needed than restoring the stones to their former l)laces, covering the houses, and delivering the place from the stagnant pools which sur- round it and the mounds of ddbris which encumber it. Famagusta might thus be- come the imperial military station, while Leufcosia or Nicosia, in the centre of the island, was the seat of the local gov- ernment. With all these dry-as-dust~~ details about taxes and administration my readers must be sufficiently tired, and will feel pleased to change the subject. Equally glad were my sister and I to vary our life CYPRUS. 9 in Cyprus with a yearly excursion of three weeks into the interior of the island. Every year we went as much as possible over new ground, and so got to know the island from end to end. I hope many of my readers may decide upon following our example, and I desire for them a great treat when I wish them as much happiness as we experienced. It was always about the middle of April when we started, just as settled weather might be fairly expect- ed, and when the trees were still clad in foliage, the mountain streams boisterous in their fulness, and the fields rich in wav- ing corn, or carpeted in green. Our prep- arations were simple, for we made up our minds before starting to become, for the time being, children of nature, accepting the homely fare with which the land could furnish us. The only exception in this respect was in providing ourselves with coffee, tea, claret, and brandy the last only for medicinal purposes. Each had a travelling-bed, which folded into small compass, with its pliable mattress, pillows, sheets, and quilt; and the cavalcade, as it started, was as follows. First a muleteer on his donkey, which all followed, and which was always the freshest at the end of the days journey. Next came, on a mule, my cawass Hasen, bristling with pistols and dangling a sword, from vanity, not necessity; then your humble servant on his own horse, and my sister on hers. The worthy old Arab groom, Mohammed, who followed on a mule, would allow no one ever to interpose between him and my sisters horse, which he watched ~vith a kind of paternal solicitude. Next came Jacob, my servant, factotum, and pay- master; and behind him a muleteer, on his donkey, followed by a pack-mule, with the beds and bedding. Thus we started about two oclock in the afternoon, and made our first halt at the hospitable coun- try-seat of an Italian gentleman and large landed proprietor at Nisso, four hours dis- t~nt from Larnaca. On the way we had passed through the ancient Idalium, and just as we entered it had looked up to a slight rising ground on the left, where was the site of the temple of Venus, which I uncovered, thus recalling pleasant remi- niscenes of intensely interesting days. All the valley lying to tl~e left of the vil- lage of Dali was a vast cemetery, which the men of Dali turned over. The beauti- ful earrings of gold and the elegant vases which these tombs contained, speak of a wealth and refinement in past days far greater than is to be found amongst the simple Daliotes who cro~vd around to see our cavalcade passing, and the contrast reminds us that the world has not every- where been progressing. But in the grateful shade of the wooded valleys through which we pass, the fine grain crops, and the well-tilled land prepared for cotton, we may easily comprehend the wealth of the past, and indulge in hopes for the future. After enjoying the hospi- table cheer of Mrs. Matei, and sleeping comfortably without unpacking our beds, we start next morning, as soon as it is day, for Leufcosia or Nicosia, the capital of the island, three-and-a-half hours distant. About half-way we come upon a large bed of oyster-shells jolly big oysters, suc1~ as are got in England, not the puny ones of Constantinople and in the first moments of surprise we feel inclined to ask what oystermonger has been throwing out his shells here. Getting down, we pick up some of the finest specimens, thoroughly petrified, and in no danger of giving an indigestion, and look around to see where the ~ea was which left these disconsolate esculents stranded high and dry. We see ourselves in the midst of a remarkable country of hill and valley, which seems to speak of volcanic action during which the sea retired, and left dry land between the Bay of Morphou and that of Salamis. Just as the sun begins to feel ~varm we are passing on our left a little village in no way very attractive, and notice two or three men and women approach us asking alms. Had we been on the other road to Nicosia by Athienou, similar poor crea- tures would have offered us a drink of water from an aqueduct which crosses the road. From the noses, in some, eaten away, and in others, the fingers rapidly disappearing, we shudder before the sad victims of leprosy, which in these poor creatures we see before us, and then learn that that little village is solely inhabited by lepers, who procure themselves a liveli hood by begging alms and cultivating a little soil around the village. It is a sad sight to notice the different stages of the disease. Some are still comparatively fresh and fair, upon others the gradual death has made considerable progress. And yet, how insensible they seem to the dreadful reality! They clamor for food, and seem as thoughtless as other men. We are glad when, a few minutes past this village, we find ourselves on the breast of a plateau, and see Nicosia lying before us, in ~vhat seems nearly the centre of a valley at the base of the rugged-peaked hills of the northern range of mountains. The view is very picturesque, and espe I0 CYPRUS. cially striking, because it comes upon us unexpectedly. The tall minarets of the once Catholic Cathedral of St. Sophia, the zinc roofs of the Greek churches glisten- ing in the sunshine, and the rich foliage which surrounds all the houses, invest the first view of Nicosia with a peculiar charm. A quarter-of-an-hours further ride brings us to the city gateway. The town is coin. pletely surrounded by a ditch and well- bujit fortifications. It is entered by four gateways, that of Larnaca, Famagusta, Kyrinia, and Morpho. The gate of Lar- naca, through which we are now passing, looks as if it belonged to primeval times. It is formed of massive, rough-cut wood, of about nine inches thick, and the primi- tive fastening is simply a large, square-cut beam, fastened on a pivot to the one half of the door, and inserted, when closed, into an iron catch upon the other. When we enter the town, all the beauty which we saw from the outside is dispelled. We pass along ill-paved, narrow streets, the nasal organs rapidly attest that no atten- tion is paid to the cleansing of the town, and the ruined houses here and the broken aqueducts there serve as a signboard to declare that we are in the neglected do- mains of the crescent and the star. With difficulty we pass through the bazaars, which are crowded with donkeys, mules, and camels bringing produce, and a noisy rabble squabbling over their sales and pur- chases. From this troublesome crowd, after having rested and refreshed our- selves, we gladly repair to the Church of St. Sophia. The iron chain under which we must stoop in order to enter reminds us disagreeably, as it is intended to do, that this once Christian cathedral is now sacred to Mohammed. The change has affected the architecture as disagreeably as it does our feelings. The minarets blemish the external view just as the dirty mats, faded carpets, and trumpery pulpits destroy the interior. It requires some effort of the imagination to restore the building in thought to its once solemn and sacred aspect, when during three centttries the kings of Cyprus were crowned within its walls with royal pageant. We venture, ~vith considerable misgiving, to disturb the repose of myriads of fleas, and cause to be uncovered the marble slabs on the floor which mark the graves of some of the Lusignan kings. But we are glad to get up into the minarets, and look out upon the grand beauties of nature which are before us. The peaks of the northern range of hills are very fantastic in their cutting. One is called Pentadactylon, or the Five Fingers, from its resemblance to the half-closed fist, with the thumb extend. ed. The next is Mount Buffavento, three thousand two hundred feet above the level of the sea. On the summit of the next is the ruin of an old castle, and close to it the one hundred chambers cut out of the rock. Along all that range of mountains are found quarries of stone, excellent for building, and most durable. In Nicosia we find ourselves in the centre of a great plain, richly covered with grain, and stretching for sixty miles from sea to sea. The highest point of the southern range, five thousand three hundred and eighty feet, is still glistening with snow, and richly covered with pines. The next afternoon we start for Bella- pais, or Dellapais, a convent built in the time of the Lusignans for white-robed nuns. We cross the ridge of hills by a pass near the village of Dikom, and, after winding through wooded valleys for nearly an hour, get the first view of the fine ruins. We go at once inside, and pass to the left, into what was the refectory. Hardly can we tear ourselves away from the exquisite view which meets our eye on looking out from the windows. I will not attempt to describe it. The common sentiment which rises to our lips is that here we would like to stay. It is not like Naples, it is not like Constantinople, it is not like the Lebanon, but it is a sweet sylvan scene which speaks of peace and plenty. Ere many months pass I doubt not the old monastery will have been restored to its pristine com- pleteness, and will shelter British function- aries instead of the white-robed nuns of the past. On leaving the monastery we accepted the hospitality of a very quaint but worthy man, Haggi Sava, a notable of the village, blessed with the luxury of a one- storyed house in the midst of a dense orchard of fruit-trees of every kind. On another occasion, in the month of Septem- ber, in walking through these orchards I was astonished to observe the ground thickly strewed with fallen bitter oranges, and wondered why this waste. On inquiry it was explained to me that it was not worth while gathering them, for the price which they could obtain in Nicosia barely covered the cost of carriage. My sister thought this would be a paradise to mar- malade Keiller of Dundee. The fruit- trees are chiefly, and in some cases only, valued for their flowers, from which are made deliciously fragrant waters. The caroub and olive trees are in great abun- dance in this district, and our host gathers yearly, from his own property, two hundred AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. II tons of locust-beans. Both these trees require to be grafted, else the fruit is not good, and the graft used is simply the in- sertion into the stem of a shoot in the case of the olive, of what the natives call the male olive-tree, and in the case of the caroub, of an already grafted caroub-tree. The trees grow spontaneously, and are grafted after they have attained a certain height. Our host, Haggi Sava, has graft- ed the most of all his caroub-trees during his lifetime; and increases his wealth yearly by the same simple means. This leads me to say that in the district of Pa- phos there are extensive tracts of wild olive-trees which only wait for the hand of man to graft them. I could with pleasure continue to carry the reader along with us in our pleasant tour from Bellapais to Kyrinia, thence by Lapithos to Morphon, thence by lovely Soli to the convent of Chico, near the summit of Mount Troados; thence to Paphos, old and new; thence,. retracing our steps, to Limasol, by the ruins of an- cient Curium, and from Limasol to Lar- naca, accomplishing the whole tour, with- out any great fatigue, in twenty-one days. But I gladly leave the pleasant task to the more able pen of some equally fortunate tourist, of whom I hope ere long the names may be legion. The public will, how- ever, do well to refuse to read all impres- sions of Cyprus written before next April, and to prepare themselves for most lugu- brious accounts from the pens of all sum- mer excursionists. This leads me to say a few words in conclusion on the climate of Cyprus. The island is very commonly called unhealthy, but I object to the expression until I know what is meant. If it is meant that En- glishmen cannot go out there during the summer months without a considerable risk of catching fever and ague, I admit its correctness. But I ask to what country, with the thermometer generally about 9o~ in the shade, can Englishmen, with their national love of heavy eating, and of alco- holic liquors, be sent without incurring a considerable risk of sickness of some kind? It will be found, ho~vever, that a large proportion of those who go to Cyprus en- joy as good health as they can hope for in any country. Further, I object to blam- ing the climate for evils which result from defective sanitary regulations, ~nd espe- cially from the over-crowding, without previous preparation, of towns without sewers or street-cleansers, surrounded by stagnant pools and by all that the laziness and indifference of man can accomplish to infect the air. I would judge of the healthiness or unhealthiness of the climate from its effects upon those who, from long wont, live in accordance with its require- ments, and who inhabit places free from exceptional and removable disadvantages. Judged by this standard, the climate of Cyprus cannot be declared unhealthy. It is inhabited, and has been from time im- memorial, by a perfectly healthy and robust native population, free from all serious sickness, and living to a hale old age. A climate of wl1ich this can be said is not justly called unhealthy. Facts, however, often carry more conviction than reasoning, and it is a fact that I lived in Larnaca, and went about the island sum- mer and winter during nine years, and never enjoyed better health anywhere. My sister did so during four years ~vith a similar experience. The consular changes which I witnessed during my residence there were of three French consuls, three Italian consuls, three British and two American consuls, and the only casualties amongst them were the death of a French consul from cholera and of an Italian con- sul when absent from the island. All the others, although disgusted with an inac- tive life destitute of social resources, left the island in perfectly robust health, and never suffered from any serious sickness. Of the pernicious fevers which destroy many lives, reported by Dr. Clarke ~ who spent ten days in the island I can only say that I never heard of them during my residence, although they may have existed before my arrival. Of the dreadful asps, taruntulas, etc., I admit that they exist, but I only found specimens after consider- able search. August 9, 1878. R. HAMILTON LANG. From The New Quarterly Review. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. PART I. CHAPTER I. When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several sublects: heaven hath my empty words; Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, Anchors on Isabel. THE congregation in Tollamore church were singIng the evening hymn, the people gently swaying backwards and forwards like trees in a soft breeze. The heads of the village children, who sat in the gallery, were inclined to one side as they uttered 12 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. their shrill notes, their eyes lisfiessly trac- ing some crack in the old walls, or follow- ing the movement of a distant bough or bird, with features rapt almost to painful- ness. In front of the children stood a thought- ful young man, who, was plainly enough the schoolmaster; and his gaze was fixed on a remote part of the aisle beneath him. When the singing was over, and all had sat down for the sermon, his eyes still remained in the same place. There was some excuse for their direction, for it was in a straight line forwards; but their fixity~ was only to be explained by some object before them, This was a square pew, con- taining one solitary sitter. But that sitter was a young lady, and a very sweet lady was she. Afternoon service in Tollamore parish was later than in many others in that neighborhood; and as the darkness deep- ened during the progress of the sermon, the rectors pulpit candles shone to the remotest nooks of the building, till at length they became the sole lights of the congre- gation. The lady was the single person besides tife preacher whose face was turned westwards, the pew that she occu- pied being the only one in the church in which the seat ran all round. She reclined in her corner, her bonnet and dark dress growing by degrees invisible, and at last only h~r upturned face could be discerned, a solitary white spot against the black sur- face of the wainscot. Over her head rose a vast marble monument, erected to the memory of her ancestors, male and fe- male; for she was one of high standing in that parish. The design consisted of a winged skull and two cherubim, supporting a pair of tall Corinthiancolumns, between which spread a broad slab, containing the roll of ancient names,.lineages, and deeds, and surmounted by a pediment, with the crest of the family at its apex. As the youthful schoolmaster gazed, and all these details became dimmer, her face was modified in his fancy, till it seemed almost to resemble the carved marble skull immediately above her head. The thought was unpleasant enough to arouse him from his half-dreamy state, and he entered on rational considerations of what a vast gulf lay between that lady and himself, what a troublesome world it was to live in where such divisions could exist, and how painful was the evil when a man of his unequal history was possessed of a keen suscepti- bility. Now a close observer, who should have happened to be near the large pew, might have noticed before the light got low that the interested gaze of the young man had been returned from time to time by the young lady, although he, towards whom her glances were directed, did not perceive the fact. It would have been guessed, that something in the past was common to both, notwithstandin~ their difference in social standing. What that was may be related in a few words. One day in the previous week there had been some excitement in the parish on account of the introduction upon the farm of a steam threshing-machine for the first time, the date of these events being some thirty years ago. The machine had been hired by a farmer who was a relative of the schoolmasters, and when it was set going all the people round about came to see it work. It was fixed in a corner of a field near the main road, and in the afternoon a passing carriage stopped outside the hedge. The steps were let down, and Miss Geraldine Allenville, the young woman whom we have seen sitting in the church pew, came through the gate of the field towards the engine. At that hour most of the villagers had been to the spot, had gratified their curiosity, and afterwards gone home again; so that there ~vere only now left standing beside the engine the engine-man, the farmer, and the young schoolmaster, who had come like the rest. The laborers were at the other part of the machine, under the cornstack some dis- tance off. The girl looked with interest at the whizzing wheels, asked questions of the old farmer, and remained in conversation with him for some time, the schoolmaster standing a few paces distant, and looking more or less to~~ards her. Suddenly the expression of his face changed to one of horror; he was by her side in a moment, and, seizing hold of her, he swung her round by the arm to a dista,nce of several feet. In speaking to the farmer she had inad- vertently stepped backwards, and had drawn so near to th.e band which ran from the engine to the drum of the thresher that In another moment her dress must have been caught, and she would have been whirled round the wheel as a mangled carcase. As soon as the meaning of the young mar~s act was understood by her she turned deadly pale and nearly fainted. When she was well enough to walk, the two men led her to the carriage, which had been standing outside the hedge all the time. You have saved me from a ghastly AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 3 death ! the agitated girl murmured to the schoolmaster. Oh! I can never forget it! ~nd then she sank into the carriage and was driven away. On account of this the schoolmaster had been invited to Tollamore House to explain the incident to the squire, the young ladys only living parent. Mr. Allenville thanked her preserver, inquired the history of his late father, a painter of good family, but unfortunate and improv- ident; and finally told his visitor that, if he were fond of study, the library of the house was at his service. Geraldine her- self had spoken very impulsively to the young man almost, indeed, with impru- dent warmth and his tender interest in her during the church service was the re- sult of the sympathy she had shown. And thus did an emotion, which became this mans sole motive power through many following years, first arise and es- tablish itself. Only once more did she lift her eyes to where he sat, and it was when they all stood up before leaving. This time he noticed the glance. Her look of recognition led his feelings onward yet another stage. Admiration grew to be attachment; he even wished that he might own her, not exactly as a wife, but as a be- ing superior to himself in the sense in which a servant may be said to own a master. He would have cared to possess her in order to exhibit her glories to the world, and he scarcely even thought of her ever loving him. There were two other stages in his course of love, but they were not reached till some time after to-day. The first was a change from this proud desire to a long- ing to cherish. The last stage, later still, was when her very defects became rallying- oolnts for defence, when every one of his senses became special pleaders for her; and that not through blindness, but from a tender inability to do aught else than de- fend her against all the world. CHAPTER II. She was active, stirring, all fire Could not rest, could not tire Never in all the world such an one! And here was plenty to he done, And she that could do it, great or small, She was to do nothing at all. FIVE mornings later the same young man was looking out of the window of Tollamore village school in a fixed and absent manner. The weather was excep- tionally mild, though scarcely to the degree which would have justified his airy situa- tion at such a month of the year. A hazy light spread through the air, the landscape on which his eyes were resting being en- livened and lit up by the spirit of an un- seen sun rather than by its direct rays. Every sound could be heard for miles. There was a great crowing of cocks, bleat- ing of sheep, and cawing of rooks, which proceeded from all points of the compass, rising and falling as the origin of each sound was near or far away. There were also audible the voices of people in the village, interspersed with hearty laughs, the bell of a distant flock of sheep, a robin close at hand, vehicles in the neighboring roads and lanes. One of these latter noises grew gradually more distinct, and proved itself to be rapidly nearing the school. The listener blushed as he heard it. Suppose it should be! he said to him- self. He had said the same thing at every such noise that he had heard during the foregoing week, antI had been mistaken in his hope. But this time a certain carriage did appear in answer to his expectation. He came from the ~vindow hastily; and in a minute a footman knocked and opened the school door. Miss Allenville wishes to speak to you, Mr. Mayne. The schoolmaster went to the porch he was a very young man to be called a schoolmaster his heart beating with ex- citement. Good morning, she said, with a confi- dent yet girlish smile. My father expects me to inquire into the school ar- rangements, and I wish to do so onmy own account as well. May I come in? She entered as she spoke, telling the coachman to drive to the village on some errand, and call for her in half an hour. Mayne could have wished that she had not been so thoroughly free from all ap- parent consciousness of the event of the previous week, of the fact that he was considerably more of a man than the small persons by whom the apartment was mainly filled, and that he was as nearly as possi- ble at her own level in age, as wide in sympathies, and possibly more inflamma- ble in heart. But he soon found that a sort of fear to entrust her voice with the subject of that link between them was what restrained her. When he had explained a few details of routine she moved away from him round the school. He turned and looked at her as she stood among the children. To his eyes her beauty was indescribable. Before he had met her he had scarcely believed that any woman in the world could be so lovely. 14 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. The clear, deep eyes, full of all tender expressions; the fresh, subtly-curved cheek, changing its tones of red with the fluctuation of each thought; the ripe tint of her delicate mouth, and the indefinable line where lip met lip ; the noble bend of her neck, the wavy lengths of her dark brown hair, the soft motions of her bosom when she breathed, the light fall of her little feet, the elegant contrivances of her attire, all struck him as something he had dreamed of and was not actually seeing. Geraldine Allenville was, in truth, very beautiful; she was a girl such as his eyes had never elsewhere beheld; and her presence here before his face kept up a sharp struggle of sweet and bitter within him. He had thought at first that the flush on her face was caused by the fresh air of the morning; but, as it quickly changed to a lesser hue, it occurred to Mayne that it might after all have arisen from shyness at meeting him after her narrow escape. Be that as it might, their conversation, which at first consisted of bald sentences, divided by wide intervals of time, became more frequent, and at last continuous. He was painfully soon convinced that her tongue would never have run so easily as it did had it not been that she thought him a person on whom she could vent her ideas without reflection or punctiliousness a thought, perhaps, expressed to herself by such words as, I will say what I like to him, for he is only our schoolmaster. And you have chosen to keep a school, she went on, with a shade of mischievous- ness in her tone, looking at him as if she thought that, had she been a man capable of saving peoples lives, she would have done something much better than teach- ing. She ~~as so young as to habitually think thus of other persons courses. No, he said simply; I dont choose to keep a school in the sense you mean, choosing it from a host of pursuits, all equally possible. How came you here, then? I fear more by chance than by aim. Then you are not very ambitious?~~ I have my ambitions, such as they are. I thought so. Everybody has nowa- days. But it is a better thing not to be too ambitious, I think. If we value ease of mind, and take an economists view of our term of life, it may be a better thing. Having been tempted, by his unexpect- edly cultivated manner of speaking, to say more than she had meant to say, she found it embarrassing either to break off or to say more, and in her doubt she stooped to kiss a little girl. Although I spoke lightly of ambition, she observed, without turning to him, and said that easy happiness was worth most, I could defend ambition very well, and in the only pleasant way. And that way? On the broad ground of the loveliness of any dream about future triumphs. In looking back there is a pleasure in con- templating a tir~e when some attractive thing of the future appeared possible, even though it never came to pass. Mayne was puzzled to hear her talk in this tone of maturity. That such ques- tions of success and failure should have occupied his own mind seemed natural, for they had been forced upon him by the difficulties he had encountered in his pur- suit of a career. He was not just then aware how very unpractical the knowledge of this sage lady of seventeen really was; that it was merely caught up by intercom- munication with people of culture and ex- perience, who talked before her of their theories and beliefs till she insensibly ac- quired their tongue. The carriage was heard coming up the road. Mayne gave her the list of the chil- dren, their ages, and other particulars which she had called for, and she turned to go out. Not a word had been said about the incident by the threshing-ma- chine, though each one could see that it was constantly in the others thoughts. The roll of the wheels may or may not have reminded her of her position in rela- tion to him. She said, bowing, and in a somewhat more distant tone: We shall all be glad to learn that our schoolmaster is so nice; such a philosopher. But, rather surprised at her own cruelty in uttering the latter words, she added one of the sweetest laughs that ever came from lips, and said, in gentlest tones, Good morning; I shall always remember what you did for me. Oh! it makes me sick to think of that moment. I came on purpose to thank you again, but I could not say it till now ! Maynes heart, which had felt the rebuff, came round to her with a rush; he could have almost forgiven her for physically wounding him if she had asked him in such a tone not to notice it. He watched her out of sight, thin king in rather a mel- ancholy mood how time would absorb all her beauty, as the~ growing distance be- tween them absorbed her form. He then went in, and endeavored to recall every AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. Is word that he had said to her, troubling and racking his mind to the utmost of his abil- ity about his imagined faults of manner. He remembered that he had used the in- dicative mood instead of the proper sub- jective in a certain phrase. He had given her to understand that an old idea he had made use of was his own, and so on through other particulars, each of which was an item of misery. The place and the manner of her sitting were defined by the position of her chair, and by the books, maps, and prints scat- tered round it. Her I shall always re- member, he repeated to himself, aye, a hundred times; and though he knew the plain import of the words, he could not help toying with them, looking at them from all points, and investing them with extraordinary meanings.. CHAPTER III. But what is this? I turn ahnut. And find a trnuble in thine eye. EGBERT MAYNE, though at present fill- ing the office of village schoolmaster, had been intended for a less narrow path. His position at this time was entirely ow- ing to the death of his father in embar- rassed circumstances two years before. Mr. Mayne had been a landscape and ani- mal painter, and had settled in the village in early manhood, where he set about im- proving his prospects by marrying a small farmers daughter. The son had been sent away from home at an early age to a good school, and had returned at seven- teen to enter upon some professional life or other. But his fathers health was at this time declining, and when the painter died, a year and a half later, nothing had been done for Egbert. He was now living with his maternal grandfather, Richard Broadford, the farmer, who was a tenant of Squire Allenvilles. Egberts ideas did not incline to painting, but he had ambi- tious notions of adopting a literary profes- sion, or entering the Church, or doing something congenial to his tastes when- ever he could set about it. But first it was necessary to read, mark, learn, and look around him; and, a master being tem- porarily required for the school until such time as it should be placed under govern- ment inspection, he stepped in and made use of the occupation as a stop-gap for a while. He lived in his grandfathers farmhouse, walking backwards and forwards to the school every day, in order that the old man, who would otherwise be living quite alone, might have the benefit of his soci- ety during the long winter evenings. Eg- bert was much attached to his grandfather, and so, indeed, were all who knew him. The old farmers amiable disposition and kindliness of heart, while they had hin- dered him from enriching himself one shilling during the course of a long and laborious life, had also kept him clear of every arrow of antagonism. The house in which he lived was the same that he had been born in, and was almost a part of himself. It had beenk built by his fathers father; but on the dropping of the lives for which it was held, some twenty years earlier, it had lapsed to the Squire. Richard Broadford was not, however, dispossessed: after his fathers death the family had continued as before in the house and farm, but as yearly tenants. It was much to Broadfords delight, for his pain at the thought of parting from those old sticks and stones of his ancestors, before it had been known if the tenure could be continued, was real and great. On the evening of the day on which Miss Allenville called at the school Egbert returned to the farmhouse as usual. He found his grandfather sitting with his hands on his knees, and showing by his countenance that something had happened to disturb him greatly. Egbert looked at him inquiringly, and with some mis~iving. I have got to go at last, Egbert, he said, in a tone intended to be stoical, but far from it. He is my enemy after all. Who? said Mavne. The squire. Hes going to take sev- enty acres of neighbor Greenmans farm to enlarge the park; and Greenmans acre- age is to be made up to him, and more, by throwing my farm in with his. Yes, thats what the squire is going to have done. - . . Well, I thought to have died here; but tisnt to be. He looked as helpless as a child, for age had weakened him. Egbert endeav- ored to cheer him a little, and vexed as the young man ~vas, he thought there might yet be some means of tiding over this dif- ficulty. Mr. Allenville wants seventy acres more in his park, does he? he echoed mechanically. Why cant it be taken entirely out of Greenmans farm? His is big enough, Heaven knows; and your hundred acres might be left you in peace.~~ Well mayest say so! Oh, it is because he is tired .of seeiiig old-fashioned farn~i- ing like mine. - He likes the young gen- eratbons system best, I suppose. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. If I had only known this this after- noon! Egbert said. You could have done nothing. Perhaps not. Egbert was, however, thinking that he would have mentioned the matter to his visitor, and told her such circumstances as would have enlisted her sympathies in the case. I thought it would come to this, said old Richard vehemently. The present Squire Allenville has never been any real friend to me. It was only through his wife that I have stayed here so long. If it hadnt been for her, we should have gone the very year that my poor father died, and the house fell into hand. I wish we had now. You see, now shes dead, theres nobody to counteract him in his schemes; and so I am to be swept away.~~ They talked on thus, and by bedtime the old man was in better spirits. But the subject did not cease to occupy Eg- berts mind, and that anxiously. Were the house and farm which his grandfather had occupied so long to be taken away, Egbert knew it would affect his life to a degree out of all proportion to the serious- ness of the event. The transplanting of old people is like the transplanting of old trees; a twelvemonth usually sees them wither and die away. The next day proved that his anticipa- tions were likely to be correct, his grand- father being so disturbed that he could scarcely eat or drink. The remainder of the week passed in just the same way. Nothing now occupied Egberts mind but a longing to see Miss Allenville. To see her would be bliss; to ask her if anything could be done by which his grandfather might retain the farm and premises would be nothing but duty. His hope of good results from the course was based on the knowledge that Allenville, cold and hard as he was, had some considerable affec- tion for or pride in his daughter, and that thus she might influence him. It was not likely that she would call at the school for a week or two at least, and Mayne therefore tried to meet with her elsewhere. One morning early he was returning from the remote hamlet of Hawksgate, on the further side of the parish, and the nearest ~vay to the school was across the park. He read as he walked, as was customary with him, though at present his thoughts ~vandered incessantly~ The path took him through a shrubbery running close up to a remote wi ~-g of the mansion. Nobody seemed to be stirring in that quarter, till, turning an angle, he saw Geraldiaes own graceful figure close at hand, robed in fur, and standing at ease outside an open French casement. She was startled by his sudden appear- ance, but her face soon betrayed a sym. l)athetic remembrance of him. Egbert scarcely knew whether to stop or to walk on, when, casting her eyes upon his book, she said, Dont let me interrupt your reading.~~ I am glad to have he stam- mered, and for the moment could get no farther. His nervousness encouraged her to continue. What are you reading? she said. The book was, as may possibly be sup- posed by those who know the mood in- spired by hopeless attachments, Childe Harolds Pilgrimage, a poem which at that date had never been surpassed in congeniality to the minds of young per- sons in the full fever of virulent love. He was rather reluctant to let her know this but as the inquiry afforded him an open- ing for conversation he held out the book, and her eye glanced over the page. Oh, thank you, she said hastily, I ought not to have asked that only I am interested always in books. Is your grand father quite well, Mr. Mayne? I saw him yesterday, and thought he seemed to be not in such good health as usual. His mind is disturbed, said Egbert. Indeed, why is that? It is on account of his having to leave the farm. He is old, and was born in that house. Ah, yes, I have heard something of that, she said ~vith a slightly regretful look. Mr. Allenville has decided to en- large the park. Born in the house, was he? Yes. His father built it. May I ask your opinion on the point, Miss Allenville? Dont you think it would be possible to enlarge the park without taking my grand- fathers farm? Greenman has already five hundred acres. She was perplexed how to reply, and evading the question said; Your grand- father much wishes to stay? He does, intensely more than you can believe or think. But he will not ask to be let remain. I dread the effect of leaving upon him. If it were possible to contrive that he should not be turned out I should be grateful indeed. I I will do all I can that things may remain as they are, she said with a deep- ened color. In fact, I am almost certain that he will not have to go, since it is so painful to him, she added in the sanguine AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 7 tones of a child. My father could not have known that his mind was so bent on staying. Here the conversation ended and Eg- bert went on with a lightened heart. Whether his pleasure arose entirely from having done his grandfather a good turn or from the mere sensation of having been near her, he himself could hardly have determined. CHAPTER IV. Oh, for my sake, do you with fortune chide The guilty goddess of my harmful deed, That did not hetter for my life provide. Now commenced a period during which Egbert Maynes emotions burnt in a more unreasoning and wilder worship than at any other time in his life. The great con- dition of idealization in love was present here, that of an association in which, through difference in rank, the petty hu- man elements that enter so largely into life are kept entirely out of sight, and there is hardly awakened in the mans mind a thought that they appertain to her at all. He deviated frequently from his daily track to the spot ~vhere the last meeting had been, till, on the fourth morning after, he saw her there again; but she let him pass that time with a bare recognition. Two days later the carriage drove down the lane to the village as he was walking away. When they met she told the coach- man to stop. I am glad to tell you that your grand- father may be perfectly easy about the house and farm, she said; as if she took unfeigned pleasure in saying it. The question of altering the park is postponed indefinitely. I have resisted it: I could do no less for one who did so much for me. Thank you very warmly, said Egbert so earnestly that she blushed crimson as the carriage rolled away. The spring drew on, and he saw and spoke with her several times. In truth he walked abroad much more than had been usual with him formerly, searching in all directions for her form. Had she not been unreflecting and impressionable had not her life dragged on as unevent- fully as that of one in gaol, through her residing in a great house with no compan- ion but an undemonstrative father; and, above all, had not Egbert been a singularly engaging young man of that distracting order of beauty which, grows upon the feminine gazer with every glance, this ten- der waylaying would have made little dif LiVING AGE. VOL. XXIV. 1198 ference to anybody. But such was not the case. In return for Egberts presence of mind at the threshing she had done him - a kindness, and the pleasure that she took in the act shed an added interest upon the object of it. Thus, on both sides it had happened that a deed of solicitude casu- ally performed gave each doer a sense of proprietorship in its recipient, and a wish still further to establish that position by other deeds of the same sort. To still further kindle Geraldines indis- creet interest in him, Egberts devotion became perceptible & re long even to her inexperienced eyes; and it was like a new world to the young girl. At first she was almost frightened at the novelty of the thing. Then the fascination of the dis- covery caused her ready, receptive heart to palpitate in an ungovernable manner whenever he came near her. She was not quite in love herself, but she was so moved by the circumstance of her deliv- erer being in love, that she could think of nothing else. His appearing at odd places startled her; and yet she rather liked that kind of startling. Too often her eyes rested on his face; too often her thoughts surrounded his figure and dwelt on his conversation. One day when they met on a bridge, they did not part till after a long and interesting conversation on books, in which many opinions of Maynes (crude and un- formed enough, it must be owned) that happened to take her fancy, set her glow- ing with ardor to unfold her own. After any such meeting as this, Egbert would go home and think for hours of her little remarks and movements. The day and minute of every accidental ren- counter became registered in his mind with the indelibility of ink. Years afterwards he could recall at a moments notice that he saw her at eleven oclock on the third of April, a Sunday; at four on Tuesday, the twelfth; at a quarter to six on Thursday the twenty-eighth; that on the ninth it rained at a quarter past two, when she was walking up the avenue ; that on the seven- teenth the grass was rather too wet for a ladys feet; and other calendrical and me- teorological facts of no value ~vhatever either to science or history. On a Tuesday evening, when they had ~had several conversations out of doors, and when a passionate liking for his society ~vas creeping over the reckless though pure girl, slowly, insidiously, and surely, like ripeness over fruit, she further committed herself by coming alone to the school. A heavy rain had threatened to fall all the i8 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. afternoon, and just as she entered it began. School hours were at that moment over, but he waited a few moments before dis- missing the children, to see if the storm would clgar up. After looking round at the classes, and making sundry inquiries of the little ones in the usual manner of ladies who patronize a school, she came up to him. I listened outside before I came in. It was a great pleasure to hear the voices three classes reading at three paces. She continued with a laugh: There was a rowrh treble voice bowling easily along, an ambling sweet voice earnest about fishes in the sea, and a shrill voice spelling out letter by letter. Then there was a shuf- fling of feet then you sang. It seemed quite a little poem.~~ Yes, Egbert said. But perhaps, like many poems, it was hard prose to the originators. She remained thinking, and Mayne looked out at the weather. Judging from the sky and wind that there was no likeli- hood of a change that night, he proceeded to let the children go. Miss Allenville as- sisted in wrapping up as many of them as possible in the old coats and other apparel which Eghert kept by him for the pur- pose. But she touched both clothes and children rather gingerly, and as if she did not much like the contact. Egberts sentiments towards her that evening were vehement and curious. Much as he loved her, his liking for the peasantry about him his mothers an- cestry caused him sometimes a twinge of self-reproach for thinking of her so ex- chisively, and nearly forgetting all his old acquaintance, neighbors, and his grand- fathers familiar friends, with their rough but honest ways. To further complicate his feelings to-night there was the sight, on the one hand, of the young lady with her warm rich dress and glowing future, and on the other of the weak little boys and girls some only five years old, and none more than twelve , going off in their differ- ent directions in the pelting rain, some for a walk of more than two miles, with the certainty of being drenched to the skin, and with no change of clothes when they reached their home. He watched the rain- spots thickening upon the faded frocks, worn-out tippets, yellow straw hats and bonnets, and coarse pinafores of his unpro- tected little flock as they walked down the path, and was thereby reminded of the hopelessness of his attachment, by per- ceiving how much more nearly akin was his lot to theirs than to hers. Miss Allenville, too, was looking at the children, and unfortunately she chanced to say, as they toddled off, Poor little wretches! A sort of despairing irritation at her remoteness from his plane, as implied by her pitying the children so unmercifully, impelled him to remark, Say poor little children, madam. She was silent awkwardly silent. I suppose I must walk home, she said, when about half a minute had passed. Nobody knows where I am, and the car- riage may not 4nd me for hours. Ill go for the carriage, said Egbert readily. But he did not move. While she had been speaking, there had grown up in him a conviction that these opportunities of seeing her would soon necessarily cease. She would get older, and would perceive the incorrectness of being on intimate terms with him merely because he had snatched her from danger. He would have to engage in a more active career, and go away. Such ideas brought on an irresisti- ble climax to an intense and long felt de- sire. He had just reached that l)oint in the action of passion upon mind at which it masters judgment. It was almost dark in the room, by rea- son of the heavy clouds and the nearness of the night. But the fire had just flamed up brightly in the grate, and it threw her face and form into ruddy relief against the grey wall behind. Suddenly rushing towards her, he seized her hand before she comprehended his in- tention, kissed it tenderly, and clasped her in his arms. Her soft body yielded like wool under his embrace. As suddenly releasing her he turned, and ~vent back to the other end of the room. Egberts feeling as he retired was that he had committed a crime. The madness of the action was apparent to him almost before it was completed. There seemed not a single thing left for him to do, but to go into lifelong banishment for such sac- rilege. He faced round and regarded her. Her features were not visible enough to judge of their expression. All that he could discern through the dimness and his own agitation ~vas that for some time she remained quite motionless. Her state was - probably one of suspension as with Ulysses before Melanthus, she may have entertained a breast That in the strife of all extremes did rest. In one, two, or five minutes neither of AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 9 them ever knew exactly hOw long appar- ently without the motion of a limb, she glided noiselessly to the door and vanished. Egbert leant himself against the wall, alniost distracted. He could see abso- lutely no limit to the harm that he had done by his wild and unreasoning folly. Am I a man to thus ill-treat the loveliest girl that ever was born? Sweet injured creature how she will hate me ! These were some of the expressions that he murmured in the twilight of that lonely room. Then he said that she certainly had encouraged him, which, unfortunately for her, was only too true. She had seen that he was always in search of her, and she did not put herself out of his way. He was sure that she liked him to admire her. Yet, no, he murmured, I will not ex- cuse myself at all. The night passed away miserably. One conviction by degrees overruled all the rest in his mind that if she knew pre- cisely how pure had been his longing towards her, she could not think badly of him. His reflections resulted in a resolve to get an interview with her, and make his defence and explanation in full. The de- cision come to, his impatience could scarcely preserve him from rushing to Tollamore House that very daybreak, and trying to get into her presence, though it ~vas the likeliest of suppositions that she would never see him. Every spare minute of the following days he hovered round the house, in hope of getting a glimpse of her; but not once did she make herself visible. He delayed taking the extreme step of calling, till the hour came when he could delay no longer. On a certain day he rang the bell with a mild air, and disguised his feelings by looking as if he wished to speak to her merely on copy-books, slates, and other school matters, the school being profess- edly her hobby. He was told that Miss Allenville had gone on a visit to some relatives thirty-five miles off, and that she would probably not return for a month. As there was no help for it, Egbert set- tled down to wait as he best could, not without many misgivings lest his rash action, which a prompt explanation might have toned down and excused, would now be the cause of a total estrangement be- tween them, so that nothing would restore him to the place he had formerly held in her estimation. That she had ever seri- ously loved him he did not hope or dream; but it was intense pain to him to be out of her favor. - CHAPTER V. So I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the mao, Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake; Over head did my thunder combine With my underground mine: Till I lookedfrom my labor content To enjoy the event. When sudden how think ye the end? A WEEK after the crisis mentioned above, it was secretly whispered to Eg- berts grandfather that the park enlarge- ment scheme was after all to be proceeded with; that Miss AlIei~ville was extremely anxious to have it put in hand as soon as possible. Farmer Broadfords farm was to be added to Greenmans, as originally intended, and the old house that Broad- ford lived in was to be pulled down as an encumbrance. It is she this time! murmured Eg- bert gloomily. Then I did offend her, and mortify her; and she is resentful. The excitement of his grandfather again caused him much alarm, and even remorse. Such was the responsiveness of the far- mers physical to his mental state that in the course of a week his usual health failed, and his gloominess of mind was fol. lowed by dimness of sight and giddiness. By much persuasion Egbert induced him to stay at home for a day or two; but in- doors he was the most restless of creat- ures, through not being able to engage in the pursuits to which he had been accUs- tomed from his boyhood. He walked up and down, looking wistfully out of the window, shifting the positions of books and chairs, and putting them back again, opening his desk and shutting it after a vacant look at the papers, saying he should never get settled in another farm at his time of life, and evincing all the symptoms of nervousness and excitability. Meanwhile Egbert anxiously awaited Miss Allenvilles return, more resolved than ever to obtain audience of her, and beg her not to visit upon an unoffending old man the consequences of a yodng ones folly. Any retaliation upon himself he would accept willingly, and own to be well deserved. At length, by making off-hand inquiries (for he dared not ask directly for her again) he learnt that she was to be at home on the Thursday. The following Friday and Saturday he kept a sharp look-out;~ and, when lingering in the park for at least the tenth time in that half.week, a sudden rise in the ground revealed her coming along a path Egbert stayed his advance, in order that, 20 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. if she really objected to see him, she might easily strike off into a side path or turn back. She did not accept the alternatives, but came straight on to where he lingered, averting her face waywardly as she ap- proached. XVhen she x~as within a few steps of him he could see that the trim- mings of her dress trembled like leaves. He cleared his dry throat to speak. Miss Allenville, he said, humbly tak- ing off his hat, I should be glad to say one word to you, if I may. She looked at him for just one moment, but said nothing; and he could see that the expression of her face was flushed, and her mood skittish. The place they were standing in was a remote nook, hiddenby the trunks and boughs, so that he cuuld afford to give her plenty of time, for there was no fear of their being observed or overheard. Indeed, knowing that she often walked that way, Eghert had previously surveyed the spot and thought it suitable for the occasion, much as Wellington antecedently surveyed the field of Water- loo. Here the young man began his pleading speech to her. He dilated upon his sen- sations when first he saw her; and as he became warmed by his oratory he spoke of all his inmost perturbations on her ac- count without the slightest reserve. He related with much natural eloquence how he had tried over and over again not to love her, and how he had loved her in spite of that trying; of his intentidn never to reveal his passion, till their situation on that rainy evening prompted the impulse which ended in that irreverent action of his ; and earnestly asked her to forgive him not for his feelings, since they were his own to commend or blame but for the way in which he testified of them to one so cultivated and so beautiful. Egbert was flushed and excited by the time that he reached this point in his tale. Her eyes were fixed on the grass ;and then a tear stole quietly from its corner, and wandered down her cheek. She tried to say something, but her usually adroit tongue was unequal to the task. Ulti- mately she glanced at him, and murmured, I forgive you; but so inaudibly, that he only recognized the words by thefr shape upon her lips. She looked not much more than a child now, and Egbert thought with sadness that her tear and her words were perhaps but the result, theone of a transitory sym- pathy, th~ other of a desire to escape. They stood silent for some seconds, and the dressing-bell of the house began ring. ing. Turning slowly away without another word she hastened out of his sight. When Egbert reached home some of his grandfathers old friends were gath- ered there, syml)athizing with him on the removal he would have to submit to if report spoke truly. Their sympathy was rather more forhim to bear than their in- difference; and. as Egbert looked at the old mans bent figure, and at the expres- sion of his fa~e, denoting a wish to sink under the earth, out of sight and out of trouble, he was greatly depressed, and he said inwardly, What a fool I was to ask forgiveness of a woman who can torture my only relative like this ! Why do I feel her to be glorious? Oh that I had never seen her ! The next day was Sunday, and his grandfather being too unwell to go out, Egbert went to the evening, service alone. When it was over, the rector detained him in the churchyard to say a few words about the next weeks undertakings. This ~vas soon done, and Egbert turned back to leave the now empty churchyard. Pass- ing the porch he saw Miss Allenville com- ing out of the door. Egbert said nothing, for he knew not what to say ; but she spoke. Ali, Mr. Mayne, how beautiful the west sky looks! It is the finest sunset we have had this spring. It is very beautiful, he replied, with- out looking westward a single degree. Miss Allenville, he said reproachfully, you might just have thought whether, for the sake of reaching one guilty person, it was worth while to deeply wound an old man. I do not allow you to say that, she answered with proud quickness. Still, I will listen just this once. Are you glad you asserted your supe- riority to me by putting in motion again that scheme for turning him out? I merely left off hindering it, she said. Well, we shall go now, continued Eg- bert, and make room for newer people. I hope you forgive what caused it all. You talk in that strain to make me feel regrets; and you think that because you are read in a few books you may say or do anything. No, no. Thats unfair. I will try to alter it that your grand- father may not leave. Say that you for- give me for thinking he and yourself had better leave as I forgive you for what AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 21 you did. But remember, 5thing. of that sort ever again. Forgive you? Oh, Miss Allenville ! said he in a wild whisper, I wish you had sinned a hundred ,times as much, that I might show how readily I. can forgive all. She had looked as if she would have held out her hand; but, for some reason or other, directly he had spoken with emo- tion it was not so well for him as when he had spoken to wound her. She passed on silently, and entered the private gate to the house. A day or two after this, about three oclock in the afternoon, and whilst Egbert ~vas giving a less on in geography, a lad burst into the school with the tidings that Farmer Broadford had fallen from a corn- stack they were threshing, and hurt him- self severely. The boy had borrowed a horse to come with, and Mayne at once made him gallop off with it for a doctor. Dismissing the children, the young man ran home full of forebodings. He found his relative in a chair, held up by two of his laboring men. He was put to bed, and seeing how pale he was, Egbert gave him a little ~vine, and bathed the parts which had been bruised by the fall. Egbert had at first been the more trou- bled at the event throbgh believing that his grandfathers fall was the result of his low spirits and mental uneasiness; and he blamed himself for letting so infirm a man go out upon the farm till quite recovered. But it turned out that the actual cause of the accident was the breaking of the lad- der that he had been standing on. When the surgeon had seen him he said that the external bruises were mere trifles; but that the shock had been great, and had produced internal injuries highly dangerous to a man in that stage of life. His grandson was of opinion in later years that the fall only hastened by a few months a dissolution which would soon have taken place under any circumstances, from the natural decay of the old mans constitu- tion. His l)ulse grew feeble and his voice weak, but he continued in a comparatively firm state of mind for some days, durinb which he talked to Eghert a great deal. Eghert trusted that the illness would soon pass away; his anxiety for his grand- father was great. XVhen he was gone not one of the family would be left but him- self. But in spite of hope the younger man perceived that death was really at hand. And now arose a question. It was certainly a time to make confidences, if they were ever to be made; should he, then, tell his grandfather, who knew the Allenvilles so well, of his love for Geral- dine? At one moment it seemed duty; at another it seemed a graceful act, to say the least. Yet Egbert might never have uttered a word but for a remark of his grandfathers which led up to the very point. He was speaking of the farm and of the squire, and thence he went on to the daughter. She, too, he said, seems to have that reckless spirit which was in her mothers family, and ruined her mothers father at the gaming-table, though shes too young to show much of it yet. I hope not, said Egbe rt fervently. Why? What be the Allenvilles to you not that I wish the.girl harm? I think she is the very best being in the world. I love her deeply. His grandfathers eyes were set on the wall. Well, well, my poor boy, came softly from his mouth. What made ye think of loving her? Ye may as well love a mountain, for any return youll ever get. Do she know of it? She guesses it. It was my saving her from the threshing-machine that began it. And she checks you? Well no. Egbert, he said after a silence, I am grieved, for it can but end in. pain. Mind, shes an inexperienced girl. She never thinks of what trouble she may get herself into with her father and with her friends. And mind this, my lad, as another reason for dropping it; however honorable your love may be, youll never get credit for your honor. Nothing you can do will ever root out the notion of people that where the man is poor and the woman is high-born hes a scamp and shes an angel. Shes very good. Shes thoughtless, or shed never en- courage you. You must try not to see her. I will never put myself in her way again. The subject was mentioned no more then. The next day the worn-out old farmer died, and his last request to Egbert was that he would do nothing to tempt Geraldine Allenville to think of him fur- ther. CHAPTER VI. Hath misery made thee blind To the fond workings of a womans mind? And must I say albeit my Iseart rebel With all that woman feels but should not tell; Because, despite thy faults, that heart is moved~ It feared thee, thankd thee, pitied, inaddend, loved? iT was in the evening of the day after Farmer Broadfords death that Egbert first 22 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. sat down in the house alone. The bandy- legged little man who had acted as his grandfathers groom of the chambers and stables simultaneously had gone into the village. The candles were not yet lighted, and Mayne abstractedly watched upon the pale wall the latter rays of sunset slowly changing into the white shine of a moon a few days old. The ancient family clock had stopped for want of winding, and the intense silence that prevailed seemed more like the bodily presence of some quality than the mere absence of sound. He was thinking how many were the indifferent expressions which he had used towards the poor body lying cold up-stairs the only relation he had latterly had upon earth which might as well have been left unsaid; of how far he had been from practically attempting to do ~vhat in theory he called bestto make the most of every pulse of natural affection; that he had never heeded or particularly inquired the meaning of the different pieces of ad. vice which the kind old man had tendered from time to time; that he had never even thought of asking for any details of his grandfathers history. His musings turned upon Geraldine. He had promised to seek her no more, and he would keep his promise. Her interest in him might only be that of an exceedingly romantic and freakish soul, awakened but through lack of other idleness, and be- cause sound sense suggested to her that it was a thing dangerous to do ; for it seemed that she was ever and only moved by the superior of two antagonistic forces. She had as yet seen little or no society, she was only seventeen; and hence it was possible that a week of the town and fashion into which she would soon be initiated might blot out his very existence from her mem- ory. He was sitting with his back to the win- dow, meditating in this minor key, when a shadow darkened the opposite moonlit wall. Egbert started. There was a gentle tap at the door; and he opened it to be- hold the well-known f6rm of the lady in his mind. Mr. Mayne, are you alone? she whis- pered, full of agitation. Quite alone, excepting my poor grand- fathers body up-stairs, he answered, as agitated as she. Then out it all came. I couldnt help coming I hopeoh, I do so pray that it was not through me that he died. Was it I, indeed, who killed him? They say it was the effect of the news that he was to leave the farm. I would have done anything to hinder his being turned out had I only reflected! And now he is dead. It was so cruel to an old man like him; and now you have nobody in the world to care for you, have you, I5gbert except me? The ice was wholly broken. He took her hand in both his own and began to assure her that her alarm~ ~vas grounded on nothing whatever. And yet he was almost reluctant to assure her out of so sweet a state. And when he had said over and over again that his grandfathers fall had noth- ing to do with his mental condition, that the utmost result of her hasty proceeding was a sadness of spirit in him, she still per. sisted, as is the custom of women, in hold- ing to that most painful possibility as the most likely, simply because it wounded her most. It was a long while before she would be convinced of her own innocence, but he maintained it firmly, and she finally believed. They sat down together, restraint having quite died out between them. The fine- lady portion of her existence, of which there was never much, was in abeyance, and they spoke and acted simply as a young man and woman who were beset by common troubles, and who had like hopes and fears. And you will never blame me again for what I did? said Eghert. I never blamed you much, she mur- mured with arch simplicity. Why should it be wrong for me to be honest with you now, and tell everything you want to know? Mayne was silent. That was a difficult question for a conscientious man to an- swer. Here was he nearly twenty-one years of age, and with some experience of life, while she ~vas a girl nursed up like an exotic, with no real experience; and but little over seventeen though from the fineness of her figure she looked more womanly than she really was. It plainly had not crossed her young mind that she was on the verge of committing the most horrible social sin that of loving beneath her, and owning that she so loved. Two years thence she might see the imprudence of her conduct, and blame him for havino led her on. Ought he not, then, conside~ ing his grandfathers words, to say that it was wrong for her to be honest; that she should forget him, and fix her mind on matters appertaining to her order? He could not do it he let her drift sweetly on. I think more of you than of anybody in the whole world, he replied. And you will allow me to, will you not ? let AN INDISCRETION IN ThE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 23 me always keep you in my heart, and al- most worship you? That would be wrong. But you may think of me, if you like to, very much; it will give me great pleasure. I dont think my father thinks of me at all or any- body, except you. I said the other day I would never think of you again, but I have done it, a good many times. It is all through being obliged to care for some- body whether you will or no. And you will go on thinking of me? I will do anything to oblige you. Eghert, on the impulse of the moment, bent over her and raised her little hand to his lips. He reverenced her too much to think of kissing her cheek. She knew this, and was thrilled through with the delight of being adored as one from above the sky. Up to this day of its existence their affection had been a battle, a species of antagonism wherein his heart and the girls had faced each other, and being anxious to do honor to their respective parts. But now it ~vas a truce and a settlement, in which each one took up the others utmost weakness, and was careless of concealing his and her own. Surely, sitting there as they sat then, a more unreasoning condition of mind as to how this unequal conjunction would end never existed. They swam along through the passing moments, not a thought of duty on either side, not a further thought on his but that she was the dayspring of his life, that he would die for her a hun- dred times; superadded to which was a shapeless uneasiness that she would in some manner slip away from him. The solemnity of the event that had just hap- pened would have shown up to him any ungenerous feeling in strong colors and he had. reason afterwards to examine the epoch narrowly; but it only seemed to demonstrate how instinctive and uncalcu- lating was the love that worked within him. It ~vas almost time for her to leave. She held up her watch to the moonlight. Five minutes more she would stay; then three minutes, and no longer. Now I am going, she said. Do you forgive me entirely? How shall I say yes without assum- ing that there ~vas something to forgive? Say yes. It is sweeter to fancy I am forgiven than to think I have not sinned. With this she went to the door. Egbert accompanied her through the wood, and across a portion of the park, till they were about a hundred yards from the house, when he was forced to bid her farewell. The old man was buried on the follow. ing Sunday. During several weeks after- wards Egberts sole consolation under his loss was in thinking of Geraldine, for they did not meet in private again till some time had elapsed. The ultimate issue of this absorption in her did not concern him at all: it seemed to be in keeping with the system of his existence now that he should have an utterly inscrutable to-morrow. CHAPTER vii. Come~ forward, some great marshal, and organize equality in society. THE month of August came round, and Miss Allenville was to lay the foundation. stone of a tower or beacon which her father was about to erect on the highest hill of his estate, to the memory of his brother, the general. It was arranged that the school children should sing at the cere- mony. Accordingly, at the hour fixed, Egbert was on the spot; a crowd of vil- lagers had also arrived, and carriages were visible in the distance, wending their way towards the scene. When they had drawn up alongside and the visitors alighted, the master mason appeared nervous. Mr. Mayne, he said to Egbert, you had better do whats to be done for the lady. I shall speak too loud, or too soft, or handle things wronox Do you attend upon her, and ill lower the stone. Several ladies and gentlemen now gath- ered round, and presently Miss Allenville stood in position for her office, supported on one side by her father, a hard-featured man of five-and-forty, and some friends who were visiting at the house; and on the other by the school children, who be- gan singing a song in keeping with the occasion. When this was done, Geraldine laid down the sealed bottle with its en- closed memorandum, which had been pre- pared for the purpose, ai~d taking a trowel from her fathers hand, dabbled confusedly in the mortar, accidentally smearing it over the handle of the trowel. Lower the stone, said Eghert, who stood close by, to the mason at the winch; and the stone began to descend. The dainty-handed young woman was looking as if she would give anything to be relieved of the dirty trowel; but Egbert, the only one who observed this, was guid- ing the stone with both hands into its place, and could not receive the tool of her Every moment increased her perplexity. Take it, take it, will you? she impa 24 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. tiently whispered to him, blushing with a upon him as the days went on. There consciousness that people began to per- was no doubt about their being lovers, ceive her awkward handling, though scarcely recognized by themselves I must just finish this first, he said. as such; and, in spite of Geraldines warm She was resigned in an instant. The and unreflecting impulses, a sense of how stone settled down upon its base, when little Egbert was accustomed to what is Egbert at once took the trowel, and her called society, and the polite forms which father came up and wiped her glove. Eg- constant usage had made almost nature bert then handed her the mallet. with her, would rise on occasion, and rob What must I do with this thing? she her of many an otherwise pleasant minute. whispered entreatingly, holding the mallet XVhen any little occurrence had brought as if it might bite her. this into more prominence than usual, Tap with it, madam, said he. Egbert would go away, wander about the She did as directed, and murmured the lanes, and be kept awake a great part of form of words which she had been told to the night by theA distress of mind such a repeat. recognition broubht upon him. I-low Thank you, she said softly when all their intimacy would end, in what uneasi- was done, restored to herself by the con- ness, yearning, and misery, he could not sciousness that she had performed the last guess. As for picturing a future of hap- part gracefully. Without lifting her eyes piness with her by his side there was not she added, It was thoughtful of you to ground enough upon which to rest the remember that I shouldnt know, and to momentary imagination of it. Thus they stand by to tell me. mutually oppressed each other even while Her friends now moved away, but before they loved. she had joined them Egbert said, chiefly In addition to this anxiety was another; for the pleasure of speaking to her: The what would be thought of their romance tower, when it is built, will be seen many by her father, if he were to find it out? It miles off. was impossible to tell him, for nothing ~ Yes, she replied in a discreet tone, could come of that but Egberts dismissal for many eyes were upon her. The view and Geraldines seclusion; and how could is very extensive. She glanced round these be borne? upon the whole landscape stretched out be- He looked round anxiously for some fore her, in the extreme distance of ~vhich means of deliverance. There were two was visible the town of Westcombe. things to be thought of, the saving of her How long does it take to go to West- dignity, and the saving of his and her combe across this way? she asked of happiness. That to accomplish the first him while they were bringing up the car- he ought voluntarily to leave the village riage. before their attachment got known, and About two hours, he said. never seek her again, was what he some- Two hoursso long as that, does it? times felt; but the idea brought such mis- How far is it away? ery along with it that it died out under Eight miles. contemplation. Two hours to drive eight miles who He determined at all events to put the ever heard of such a thing! case clearly before her, to heroically set I thought you meant walkino forth at their next meeting the true bear- Ah, yes; but one hardly means walk- ings of their position, which she plainly did in~ without expressly stating it. not realize to the full as yet. It had never Well, it seems just t he other way to entered her mind that the link between me that walking is meant unless you say them might be observed by the curious, driving. and instantly talked of. Yes, it was his That was the whole of their conver- duty to warn her, even though by so doing sation. The remarks had been simple he would be heaping coals of fire on his and trivial, but they brought a similar own head. For by acting upon his hint thought into the minds of both of them. she would be lost to him, and the charm On her part it spread a sudden gloom over that lay in her false notions of the world her face, and it made him feel dead at be forever destroyed. heart. It was that horrid thought of That they would ultimately be found their differing habits and of those con- out, and Geraldine be lowered in local trasting positions which could not be rec- estimation, was, indeed, almost inevitable. onciled. There was one grain of satisfaction only Indeed, this perception of their dis- among this mass of distresses. Whatever. parity weighed more and more heavily should become public, only the fashiona AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 25 ble side of her character could be depr~- ciated; the natural woman, the specimen of English girlhood that he loved, no one could impugn or harm. Meetings had latterly taken place be- tween them without any pretence of acci- dent, and these were facilitated in an amaz- ing manner by the duty imposed upon her of visiting the school as the representa- tive of her father. At her very next ap- pearance he told her all he thought. It was when the children had left the room for the quarter of an hours airing that he gave them in the middle of the morning. She was quite hurt at being treated with justice, and a crowd of tears came into her sorrowful eyes. She had never thought of half that he feared, and almost questioned his kindness in enlightening her. Perhaps you are right, she murmured, with the merest motion of lip. Yes, it is sadly true. Should our conduct be- come known, nobody will judge us fairly. She was a wild, weak girl, they will say. To care for such a mana village youth. They will even suppress the fact that his father was a painter of no mean power, and a gentleman by education, little as it would redeem us; and justify their doing so by reflecting that in adding to the contrast they improve the tale. And calumny meanwhile shall feed on us As worms devour the dead: what we have dQne None shall dare vouch, though it be truly known. And they will continue, He was an art- ful fellow to win a girls affections in that way one of the mere scum of the earth, theyll say. Dont, dont make it so bad! she implored, weeping outright. They can- not go so far. Human nature is not so wicked and blind. And they dare not speak so disrespectfully of me, or of any one I choose to favor. A slight haughti- ness was apparent in these words. But, oh, dont let us talk of itit makes the time miserable. Hoxyever, she had been warned. But the difficulty which presented itself to her mind was, after all, but a small portion of the whole. It was how should they meet together without causing a convulsion in neigh boring society. His was more radi- cal and complex. The only natural drift of love was towards marriage. But how could he picture, at any length of years ahead, her in a cottage as his wife, or him- self in a mansion as her husband? He in the one case, she in the other, were alike painfully incredible. But time had flown, and he conducted her to the door. Good-bye, Egbert, she said tenderly.. Good-bye, dear, dear madam, he an- swered; and she was gone. Geraldine had never ~hinted to him to call her by her Christian name, and find- ing that she did not particularly wish it he did not care to do so. Madam was as good a name as any other for her, and by adhering to it and using it at the warmest moments it seemed to change its nature from that of a mere title to a soft pet sound. He often wondered in after days at the strange condition of a girls heart, which could allow so much in reality, and at the same time permit the existence of a little barrier such as that; how the keen, intelligent mind of woman could be ever so slightly hoodwinked by a sound. Yet, perhaps, it was womanlike, after all, and she may have caught at it as the only straw within reach of that dignity or pride of birth which was drowning in her im- petuous affection. CHAPTER VIII. The world and its ways have a certain worth, And to press a point while these oppose Were a simple policy: heat wait, And we lose no frisasis, and gain no foes. THE inborn necessity of ransacking the future for a germ of hope led Eghert Mayne to dwell for longer and longer peri- ods on the at first rejected possibility of winning and having her. And apart from any thought of marriage, he knew that Geraldine was sometimes a trifle vexed that their experiences contained so little in common that he had never dressed for dinner, or made use of a carriage in his life; even though in literature he was her master, thanks to his tastes. For the first time he seriously contem- plated a visionary scheme which had been several times cursorily glanced at; a scheme almost as visionary a~ any ever entertained by a man not yet blinded to the limits of the possible. Lighted on by impulse, it was not taken up without long calculation, and it was one in ~vhich every link was reasoned out as carefully and as clearly as his powers ~vould permit. But the idea that he would be able to carry it through was an assumption which, had he bestowed upon it one hundredth part of the thought spent on the details of its working, he would have th~own aside as unfeasible. 26 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN hEIRESS. To give up the school, to go to London and notice having been given ~t the school, or elsewhere, and there to try to rise to her there was very little else for him to do in level by years of sheer exertion, was the the way of preparation, for there was no substance of this scheme. However his family to be consulted, no household to be ladys heart might be grieved by his appar- removed. On the last day of teaching, ent desertion, he would go. A knowledge when the afternoon lessons were over, he of life and of men must be acquired, and bade farewell to the school children. The that could never be done by thinking at younger ones cried, not from any particu home. lar reflection on the loss they would sus Egberts abstract love for the gigantic tam, but simply because their hearts were task was but small; but there was abso- tender to any announcement couched in lutely no other honest road to her sphere. solemn terms. The elder children sin- That the habits of men should be so sub- cerely regretted Egbert, as an acquaint- versive of the law of nature as to indicate ance who had nkot filled the post of school- that he was not worthy to marry a woman master so long as to be quite spoilt as a whose own instincts said that he was wor- human being. thy, was a great anomaly, he thought, with On the morning of departure he rose at some rebelliousness; but this did not up- half past three, for Tollamore was a remote set the fact or remove the difficulty. nook of a remote district, and it ~vas nec- He told his fair mistress at their next essary to start early, his plan bein~ to go accidental meeting (much sophistry lay in by packet from Melport. The candle- their definition of accidental at this flame had a sad and yellow look when it season) that he had determined to leave was brought into his bedroom by Nathan Tollamore. Mentally she exulted at his Brown, one of his grandfathers old labor- spirit, but her heart despaired. He sol- ers, at whose house he had taken a tem- emnly assured her that it would be much porary lodging, and who had agreed to better for them both in the end; and she awake him and assist his departure. Few became submissive, and entirely agreed things will take away a mans confidence with him. Then she seemed to acquire a in an impulsive scheme more than being sort of superior insight by virtue of her called up by candlelight upon a chilly superior rank, and murmured, You will morning to commence working it out. But expand your mind, and get to despise me when Egbert heard Nathans crreat feet for all this, and for my want of pride in stamping spiritedly about the floor down- being so easily won; and it will end un- stairs, in earnest preparation of breakfast, happily. he overcame his weakness and bustled out Her imagination so affected her that she of bed could not hinder the tears from falling. They breakfasted together, Nathan Nothing was more effective in checking drinking the hot tea with rattling sips, and his despair than the sight of her despair- Egbert thinking as he looked at him that ing, and he immediately put on a more Nathan had never appeared so desirable a hopeful tone. man to have about him as now when he No, he said, taking her by the hand, was about to give him up. I shall rise, and become so learned and Well, good mornen, Mistur Mayne, so famous that He did not like to Nathan said, as he opened the door to let say plainly that he really hoped to win her Egbert out. And mind this, sir; if they as his wife, but it is very probable that she used ye bad up there, thlt always find a guessed his meaning nearly enough. hole to put thy head into at Nathan You have some secret resources! Browns, ill warrant as much. she exclaimed. Some help is promised Egbert stepped from the door, and you in this ambitious plan. struck across to the manor-house. The It was most painful to him to have to morning was dark, and the raw wind made tell her the truth after this sanguine ex- him shiver till walking warmed him. pectation, and how uncertain and unaided Good heavens, heres an undertaking! his plans were. However, he cheered her he sometimes thought. Old trees seemed with the words, Wait and see. But he to look at him through the gloom, as they himself had many misgivings when her rocked uneasily to and fro; and now and sweet face was turned away. then a dreary drop of rain beat upon his Upon this plan he acted at once. Noth- face as he ~vent on. The dead leaves in ing of moment occurred during the au- the ditches, which could be heard but not tumn, and the time for his departure seen, shifted their positions with a troubled gradually came near. The sale of his rustle, and flew at intervals with a little rap grandfathers effects having taken place, against his walking.stick and hat. He was AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 27 glad to reach the north stile, and get into the park, where, with an anxious pulse, he passed beneath the creaking limes. Will she wake soon enough; will sife be forgetful, and sleep over the time? He had asked himself this many times since he rose that morning, and still beset by the inquiry, he drew near to the man- sion. Her bedroom was in the north wing, fac- ing towards the church, and on turning the brow of the hill a faint light in the window reassured him. Taking a few little stones from the path he threw them upon the sill, as they had agreed, and she instantly opened the windo~v, and said softly, The butler sleeps on the ground floor on this side, go to the bow-window in the shrub- bery. He went round among the bushes to the place mentioned, which was entirely shel- tered from the wind. She soon appeared, bearing in her hand a wax taper, so small that it scarcely gave more light than a glowworm. She wore the same dress that she had worn when they first met on the previous Christmas, and her hair was loose as at that time. Indeed, she looked throughout much as she had looked then, except that her bright eyes were red, as Egbert could see well enough. I have something for you, she said softly as she opened the window. How much time is there? Half an hour only, dearest. She began a sigh, but checked it, at the same time holding out a packet to him. Here are fifty pounds, she whispered. It will be useful to you now, and more shall follow. Egbert felt how impossible it was to accept this. No, my dear one, he said, I cannot. I dont require it, Eghert. I wish you to have it; I have plenty. Come, do take it. But seeing that he continued firm on this point she reluctantly gave in, saying that she would keep it for him. I fear so much that papa suspects me, she said. And if so, it was my own fault, and all owing to a conversation I began with him without thinking beforehand that it would be dangerous. What did you say? I said, she whispered, Suppose a man should love me very much, would you mind my being acquainted with him if he were a very worthy man? That de- pends upon his rank and circumstances, he said. Suppose, I said, that in ad- dition to his goodness he had much learn- ing, and had made his name famous in the world, but was not altogether rich? I think I showed too much earnestness, and I wished that I could have recalled my words. When the time comes I will tell you, he said, and dont speak or think of these matters again. In consequence of this new imprudence of hers Egbert doubted if it would be right to correspond with her. He said nothing about it then, but it added a new shade to the parting. I think your decision a good and noble one, she iimrmured, smiling hopefully. And you will comAe back some day a won- drous man of the world, talking of vast schemes, radical errors, and saying such words as the backbone of society, the tendency of modern thought, and other things like that. When papa says to you, My lord the chancellor, you will answer him with A tall man, with a deep- toned voice I know him well. When he says, Such and such were Lord Hat- tons words, I think, you will answer, No, they were Lord Tyrrells; I was present on the occasion; and so on in that way. You must get to talk authorita- tively about vintages and their dates, and to know all about epicureanism, idleness, and fashion; and so you will beat him with his own weapons, for he knows nothing of these things. He will criticise you; then he will be nettled; then he will admire you. Egbert kissed her hand devotedly, and held it long. If you cannot in the least succeed, she added, I shall never think the less of you. The truly great stand on no mid- clling ledge; they are either famous or unknown. Egbert moved slowly away amongst the laurestines. Holding the light above her bright head she smiled upon him, as if it were unknown to her that she wept at the same time. He left the park precincts, and followed the turnpike road to Melport. In spite of the misery of parting he felt relieved of a certain oppressiveness~ now that his pres- ence at Tollamore could no longer bring disgrace upon her. The threatening rain passed off by the time that he reached the ridge dividing the inland districts from the coast. It began to get light, but hi S jour- ney was still very lonely. Ultimately the yellow shore-line of pebbles grew visible, and the distant horizon of water spreading like a grey upland against the sky, till he could soon hear the measured flounce of the waves. He entered the town at sunrise, just as 28 CHILDS PLAY. the lamps were extinguished, and went to a tavern to breakfast. At half past eight oclock the boat steamed out of the harbor, and reached London after a passage of five-and-forty hours. From The Corohill Magazine. CHILDS PLAY. THE regret we have for our childhood is not wholly justifiable: so much a man may lay down without fear of public ribald- ry; for although we shake our heads over the change, we are not unconscious of the manifold advantages of our new state. What we lose in generous impulse, we more than gain in the habit of generously watching others; and the capacity to enjoy Shakespeare may balance a lost aptitude for playing at soldiers. Terror is gone out of our lives, moreover; we no longer s~e the devil in the bed-curtains, nor lie awake to listen to the wind. We go to school no more; and if we have only ex- changed one drudgery for another (which is by no means sure), we are set free for- ever from the daily fear of chastisement. And yet a great change has overtaken us; and although we do not enjoy ourselves less, at least we take our pleasure differ- ently. We need pickles nowadays to make Wednesdays cold mutton please our Fridays appetite; and I can remember the time when to call it red venison, and tell myself a hunters story, would have made it more palatable than the best of .,auces. To the grown person cold mut- ton is cold mutton all the world over; not all the mythology ever invented by man will make it better or worse to him; the broad fact, the clamant reality, of the mut- ton carries away before it such seductive figments. But for the child it is still pos- sible to weave an enchantment over eata- bles; and if he has but read of a dish in a story-book, it will be heavenly manna to him for a week. If a grown man does not like eating and drinking and exercise, if he is not some- thing positive in his tastes, it means he has a feeble body and should have some medicine; but children may be pure spirits, if they will, and take their enjoyment in a world of moonshine. Sensation does not count for so much in our first years as afterwards; something of the swaddling numbness of infancy clings about us; we see and touch and hear through a sort of golden mist. Children, for instance, are able enough to see, but they have no great [faculty for looking; they do not use their eyes for the pleasure of using them, but r by-ends of their own; and the things I call to mind seeing most vividly, were not beautiful in themselves, but merely inter- esting or enviable to me as I thought they might be turned to practical account in play. Nor is the sense of touch so clean and poignant in children as it is in a man. If you will turn over your old memories, I think the sensations of this sort you re- member will be somewhat vague, an dcome to not much more than a blunt, general sense of heat on sAummer days, or a blunt, general sense of well-being in bed. And here, of course, you will understand pleas- urable sensations; for overmastering pain the most deadly and tragical element in life and the true commander of mans soul and body alas! pain has its own way with all of us; it breaks in, a rude visitant, upon the fairy garden where the child wan- ders in a dream, no less surely than it rules upon the field of battle, or sends the immortal ~var-god whimpering to his fa- ther; and innocence, no more than phil- osophy, can protect us from this sting. As for taste, when we bear in mind the ex- cesses of unmitigated sugar which delight a youthful palate, it is surely no very cynical asperity to think taste a charac- ter of the maturer growth. Smell and hearing are perhaps more developed; I remember many scents, many voices, and a great deal of spring singing in the woods. But hearing is capable of vast improve- meift as a means of pleasure; and there is all the ~vorld between gaping wonderment at the jargon of birds, and the emotion with which a man listens to articulate music. At the same time, and step by step with this increase in the definition and intensity of what we feel which accompanies our growing age, another change takes place in the sphere of intellect, by which all things are transformed and seen through theories and associations as through col- ored windows. We make to ourselves day by day, out of history, and gossip, and eco- nomical speculations, and God knows what, a medium in which we walk and through which we look abroad. We study shop windows with other eyes than in our child- hood, never to wonder, not always to ad- mire, but to make and modify our little in- congruous theories about life. It. is no longer the uniform of a soldier that arrests our attention; but perhaps the flowing carriage of a woman, or perhaps a counte- nance that has been vividly stamped with passion and carries an adventurous story CHILDS PLAY. 29 written in its lines. The pleasure of sur- prise is passed away; sugarloaves and watering-carts seem mi~hty tame to en- counter; and we walk the streets to make romances and to sociologize. Nor must we deny that a good many of us walk them solely for the purposes of transit or in the interest of a livelier digestion. These, indeed, may look back with mingled thoughts upon their childhood, but the rest are in a better case; they know mor& than when they were children, they under- stand better, their desires and sympathies answer more nimbly to the provocation of the senses, and their minds are brimming with interest as they go about the world. According to my contention this is a flight to which children cannot rise. They are wheeled in perambulators or dragged about by nurses in a pleasing stupor. A vague, faint, abiding wonderment possesses them. Here and there some specially re- markable circumstance, such as a water- cart or a guardsman, fairly penetrates into the seat of thought and calls them for half a moment out of themselves; and you may see them, still towed forward -sideways by the inexorable nurse as by a sort of des- tiny, but still staring at the bright object in their xvake. It may be some minutes before another such moving spectacle re- awakens them to the world in which they dwell. For other chidren, they almost invariably show some intellige ntsympathy. There is a fine fellow making mud pies, they seem to say; that I can understand, there is some sense in mud pies. But the doings of their elders, unless where they are speakingly picturesque or recom- mend themselves by the quality of being easily imitable, they let them go over their heads (as we say) without the least regard. If it were not for this perpetual imitation, we should be tempted to fancy they despised us outright, or only consid- ered us in the light of creatures brutally strong and brutally silly; among whom they condescended to dwell in obedience like a l)hilosopher at a barbarous court. At times they display an arrogance of dis- regard that is truly staggering. Once, when I was groaning aloud with physical l)ain, a young gentleman came into the room and nonchalantly inquired if I had seen his bow and arrow. He made no account of my groans, which he accepted, as he had to accept so much else, as a piece of the inexplicable conduct of his elders and, like a wise young gentleman, he would waste no wonder on the subject. Those elders who care so little for rational enjoyment, and are ox-en the onemy of ra tional enjoyment for others, he had ac- cepted without understanding and with- out complaint, as the rest of us accept the scheme of the universe. We grown people can tell ourselves a story, give and take strokes until the bucklers ring, ride far and fast, marry, fall, and die; all the wjiile sitting quietly by the fire or lying prone in bed. This is exactly what a child cannot do, or does not do, at least when he can find anything else. He works all xvith lay figures and stage properties. When his story comes to the fighting, he must rise, get something by way of a sword and have a set-to with a piece of furniture, until he is out of breath. When he comes to ride xvith the kings pardon, he must bestride a chair, which he will so hurry and belabor and on which he will s& furiously demean himself, that the messenger will arrive, if not bloody with spurring, at least fiery red with haste. If his romance involves an accident upon a cliff, he must clamber in person about the chest of drawers and fall bodily upon the carpet, before his imagi- nation is satisfied. Lead soldiers, dolls~ all toys in short, are in the same category and answer the same end. Nothing can stagger a childs faith, he accepts the clumsiest substitutes and can swallow the most staring incongruities. The chair he has just been besieging as a castle, or valiantly cutting to the ground as a dragon, is taken away for the accommodation of a morning visitor, and he is nothing abashed; he can skirmish by the hour with a stationary coal-scuttle; in the midst of the enchanted pleasance, he can see, without sensible shock, the gardener so- berly digging potatoes for the days dinner. He can make abstraction of whatever does not fit into his fable; and he puts his eyes into his pocket, just as we hold our noses in an unsavory lane. And so it is, that although the ways of children cross with those of their elders in a hundred places daily, they never go in the same direction nor so much as lie in the same element. So may the telegraph wires in- tersect the line of the high road, or so might a landscape painter and a bagman visit the same country and yet move in different worlds. People, struck with these spectacles, cry aloud about the power of imagination in the young. Indeed there may be two words to that. It is, in some xvays, but a pedestrian fancy that the child ex- hibits. Tis the grown people who make the nursery stories ; all the children do, is jealously to preserve the text. One out of 30 CHILDS PLAY. a dozen reasons why Robinson Crusoe should be so popular with youth, is that it hits their level in this matter to a nicety; Crusoe was always at makeshifts and had, in so many words, to tlczj at a great variety of professions; and then the book is all about tools, and there is nothing that delights a child so much. Hammers and saws belong to a province of life that posi- tively calls for imitation. The juvenile lyrical drama, surely of the most ancient Thespian model, wherein the trades of mankind are successively simulated to the running burthen On a cold and frosty morning, gives a good instance of the artistic taste in children. And this need for overt action and lay figures testifies to a defect in the childs imagination which prevents him from carrying out his novels in the privacy of his own heart. He does not yet know enough of the world and men. His experience is incomplete. That stage wardrobe and scene-room that we call the memory is so ill-provided, that he can overtake few combinations and body out few stories, to his own content, with- out some external aid. He is at the ex- perimental stage; he is not sure how one would feel in certain circumstances; to make sure, he must come as near trying it as his means permit. And so here is young heroism with a wooden sword, and mothers practise their kind vocation over a bit of jointed stick. It may be laughable enough just now; but it is these same people and these same thougl~ts, that not long hence, when once they are on the theatre of life, will set you weeping and trembling. For children think very much the same thoughts, and dream the same dreams, as bearded men and marriageable women. No one is more romantic. Fame and honor, the love of young men and the love of mothers, the business mans pleasure in method, all these and others they anticipate and rehearse in their play hours. Upon us, who are further advanced and fairly dealing with the threads of des - tiny, they only glance from time to time to glean a hint for their own mimetic repro- duction. Two children playing at soldiers are far more interesting to each other than one of the scarlet beings whom both are busy imitating. This is perhaps the greatest oddity of all. Art for art is their motto; and the doings of grown folk are only interesting as the raw material for play. Not Th6ophile Gautier, not Flaubert, can look more callously upon life, or rate the reproduction more highly over the redity; and they will parody an ex- ecution, a deathbed or the funeral of the young man of Nain, with all the cheerful- ness in the world. The true parallel for play is not to be found, of course, in conscious art, which is an abstract, impersonal thing, and depends largely upon philosophical interests be- yond the scope of childhood. It is when we make castles in the air and personate the leading character in our own roman- ces, that we return to the spirit of our first years. Only, there are several reasons why the spirit is no longer so agreeable to indulge. Nowad~ys,when we admit this per- sonal element into our divagations we are apt to stir up uncomfortable and sorrowful memories, and remind ourselves sharply of old wounds. Our day-dreams can no longer lie, all in the air, like a story in the Arabian Nights; they read to us rather like the history of a period in which we ourselves had taken part, where we come across many unfortunate passages and find our own conduct smartly reprimanded. And then the child, mind you, acts his parts. He does not merely repeat them to himself; he leaps, he runs, and sets the blood agog over all his body. And so his play breathes him; and he no sooner as- sumes a passion than he gives it vent. Alas when we betake ourselves to our in- tellectual form of play, sitting quietly by the fire or lying prone in bed, ~ve rouse many hot feelings for which we can find no outlet. Substitutes are not acceptable to the mature mind, which desires the thing itself; and even to rehearse a tri- umphant dialogue with ones enemy, although it is perhaps the most satisfactory piece of play still left within our reach, is not entirely satisfying, and is even apt to lead to a visit and an interview which may be the reverse of triumphant after all. In the childs world of dim sensation, play is all in all. Making believe is the gist of his whole life, and he cannot so much as take a walk except in character. I could not even learn my alphabet with- out some suitable inise-en-sc?ne, and had to act a business man in an office before I could sit down to my book. Will you kindly question your memory, and find out how much you did, work or pleasure, in good faith and soberness, and for how much you had to cheat yourself with some invention? I remember, as though it were yesterday, the expansion of spirit, the dignity and self-reliance, that came with a pair of mustachios in burnt cork, even when there was none to see. Children are even content to forego what we call the realities, and prefer the shadow to the substance. When they might be speaking intelligibly together, they chatter senseless gibberish by the hour, and are quite happy because they are making believe to speak French. I have said already how even the imperious appetite of hunger suffers itself to be gulled and led by the nose with the fag end of an old song. And it goes deeper than this: when children are to- gether even a meal is felt as an interrup- tion in the business of life; and they must find some imaginative sanction, and tell themselves some sort of story, toaccount for, to color, to render entertaining, the simple processes of eating and drinking. XVhat wonderful fancies I have heard evolved out of the pattern upon teacups! from which there followed a code of rules and a whole world of excitement, until tea-drinking began to take rank as a game. When my cousin and I took our porridge of a morning, we had a device to enliven the course of the meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained it to be a country continually buried under snow. I took mine with milk, and explained it to be a country suffering gradual inundation. You can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions were made; how his pop- ulation lived in cabins on perches and travelled on stilts, and how mine was al- ways in boats; how the interest grew furi- ous, as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and grew smaller every moment; and how, in fine, the food was of altogether secondary importance, and might even have been nauseous, so long as we seasoned it with these dreams. But perhaps the most exciting moments I ever had over a meal, were in the case of calves feet jelly. It was hardly possible not to believe and you may be sure, so far from trying, I did all I could to favor the illusion that some part of it was hollow, and that sooner or later my spoon would lay open the secret tabernacle of the golden rock. There might some miniature Red Beard await his hour; there might one find the treasures of the Forty Thieves, and bewildered Cassim beating about the ~valls. And so I quarried on slowly, with bated breath, savoring the interest. Believe me, I had little palate left for the jelly; and though I preferred the taste when I took cream with it, I used often to go without, because the cream dimmed the transparent fractures. Even with games, this spirit is authori- tative with right-minded children. It is thus that hide-and-seek has so pre-eminent aso vereignty, for it is the wellsoring of 3 romance, and the actions and the excite- ment to which it gives rise lend themselves to almost any sort of fable. And thus cricket, which is a mere matter of dexter- ity, palpably about nothing and for no end, often fails to satisfy infantile craving. It is a game, if you like, but not a game of play. You cannot tell yourself a story about cricket; and the activity it calls forth can be justified on no rational theory. Even football, although it admirably simu- lates the tug and the ebb and flow of bat- tle, has presented difficulties to the mind of young sticklers ~fter verisimilitude; and I knew at least one little boy who was mightily exercised about the presence of the ball, and had to spirit himself up, whenever he came to play, with an elabo- rate story of enchantment, and take the missile as a sort of talisman bandied about in conflict between two Arabian nations. To think of such a frame of mind, is to become disquieted about the bringing up of children. Surely they dwell in a myth- ological epoch, and are not the contempo- raries of their parents. What can they think of them? what can they make of these bearded or petticoated giants who look down upon their games? who move upon a cloudy Olympus, following unknown designs apart from rational enjoyment? who profess the tenderest solicitude for children, and yet every now and again reach down out of their altitude and terri- bly vindicate the prerogatives of age? Off goes the child, corporally smarting, but morally rebellious. Were there ever such unthinkable deities as parents? I would give a great deal to know what, in nine cases out of ten, is the childs unvar- nished feeling. A sense of past cajolery; a sense of personal attraction, at best very feeble; above all, I should imagine, a sense of terror for the untried residue of mankind :go to make up the attraction that he feels. No wonder, poor little heart, with such a weltering ~vorld in front of him, if he clings to the hand he knows The dread irrationality of the whole affair, as it seems to children, is a thing we are all too ready to forget. Oh, why, I re- member passionately wondering, why can we not all be happy and devote our- selves to play?~ And when children do philosophize, I believe it is usually to very much the same purpose. One thing, at least, comes very clearly out of these considerations; that whatever we are to expect at the hands of children, it should not be any peddling exactitode about matters of fact. They ~valk in a vain show, and among mists and rainbows; CHILD~ S PLAY. 32 MR. FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. they are passionate after dreams and un- concerned about realities; speech is a difficult art not wholly learned; and there is nothing in their own tastes or purposes to teach them what we mean by abstract truthfulness. When a bad writer is inex- act, even if he can look back on half a century of years, we charge him with in- competence and not with dishonesty. And why not extend the same allowance to im- perfect speakers? Let a stockbroker be dead stupid about poetry, or a poet inex- act in the details of business, and we excuse them heartily from blame. But show us a miserable, unbreeched human entity, whose ~vhole profession it is to take a tub for a fortified town and a shaving- brush for the deadly stiletto, and who passes three-fourths of his time in a dream and the rest in open self-deception; and we expect him to be as nice upon a matter of fact as a scientific expert bearing evi- dence. Upon my heart, I think it less than decent. You do not consider how little the child sees, or how swift he is to weave what he has seen into bewildering fiction; and that he cares no more for what you call truth, than you for a ginger- bread dragoon. I am reminded, as I write, that the child is very inquiring as to the precise truth of stories. But indeed this is a very different matter, and one bound up with the subject of play, and the precise amount of playful- ness, or playability, to be looked for in the world. Many such burning questions must arise in the course of nursery educa- tion. Among the fauna of this planet, which already embraces the pretty soldier and the terrifying irish beggarman, is, or is not, the child to expect a Bluebeard ora Cormoran? Is he, or is he not, to look out for magicians, kindly and potent? May he, or may he not, reasonably hope to be cast away upon a desert island, or turned to such diminutive proportions that he can live on equal terms with his lead soldiery, and go a cruise in his own toy schooner? Surely all these are practidal questions to a neophyte entering upon life with a view to play. Precision upon such a point, the child can understand. But if you merely ask him of his past behavior, as to who threw such a stone, for instance, or struck such and such a watch; or whether he had looked into a parcel or gone by a forbid- den path; why he can see no moment in the inquiry, and tis ten to one, he has al- ready half forgotten and half bemused himself x~ith subsequent imaginings. It would be easy to leave them in their native cloudland, where they figure so pret tily pretty like flowers and innocent like dogs. They will come out of their gar- dens soon enough, and have to go into offices and the witness-box. Spare them yet a while, 0 conscientious parent! Let them doze among their playthings yet a little! for who knows what a rough, war- faring existence lies before them in the future? R. L. S. Fiom The Contemporary Review. MR. FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. PART IV. IN approaching the career of Thomas as archbishop, I must again remind the reader of the difference between Mr. Froudes way of looking at the matter and my own. Mr. Froude has undertaken to wage war on sacerdotalism, and in that quarrel to run a tilt against Thomas of London as a representative of sacerdotal- ism. In that warfare it would seem from Mr. Froudes practice that any weapon may be used except one. Accurate state- ment of what really happened, even though such accurate statement might serve Mr. Froude.s purpose, is clearly forbidden by the destiny which guides Mr. Froudes literary career. On the other hand, I have nothing to do with sacerdotalism or anti-sacerdotalism. I am not con- cerned to attack or to defend either, if only for the very good reason that neither of those long and new-fangled words gives me any very clear meaning. All that I have undertaken is the humbler task of finding out the things that really happened, and of trying to find out from the things which happened what manner of men they were who did those things. Above all things, let it be remembered that, while Mr. Froude holds a l)osition which makes it his business to make out all the acts of Archbishop Thomas to be as blameworthy as may be, I hold no position which makes it my business to make out any of his acts to be either blameworthy or praiseworthy. Mr. Froude fights against the archbishop; I fig~ht, not for the archbishop, but simply for truth. I am not concerned to defend a single action of Thomas ; everything that he did as archbishop may be proved to be altogether blameworthy, and I am none the worse. I am touched only if he can be shown to be a mere factious, intriguing hypocrite ; for that I believe that he was not. But, on the other hand, if any one action of Thomas as archbishop can be proved to be MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 33 praiseworthy, Mr. Froude is so far the worse. Something is taken away from the utter blackness of the picture of sacerdo- talism and its champion. I am in the happier position of having nobody to blacken, and indeed nobody to whitewash. My personal partisanship, so far as I have any, ceases when Thomas lays down the chancellorship. I have neither to defend the cause which the archbishop maintained, nor the particular way in which he main- tained it. All that I have to say on behalf of either is that the cause was one which in those days might honestly be main- tained, and that the way in ~vhich Thomas maintained it was one which was natural in a man of his character placed in his po- sition. It must always be remembered, though it does not seem always to be remembered by Mr. Froude, that there were, at differ- ent stages of the story, two distinct sub- jects of dispute between the archbishop and the king, and that the point for which Thomas died was not the point about which the dispute began. The dispute be- gan out of a number of small quarrels which gathered round the great question of the exemption of the clergy from temT poral jurisdiction. Thomas actually died for the rights of his own church, for the right of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and none other, to crown the king of England.* No doubt the two quarrels were closely connected; the second quarrel would never have arisen except as a kind of ap- pendage to the first. It is hardly possible that, had other things gone smoothly, any quarrel could have arisen on this particu- lar point; it is certain that, unless a great deal had gone be fore, such a quarrel, if it had arisen, could not have led to the pri- mates death. As a matter of fact, the immediate question for which Thomas was a martyr was the right of coronation, or, if any one chooses to be yet more precise, the right of undisturbed censure on those who infringed the right of coronation. The martyrdom was undoubtedly the re- sult of the earlier quarrel, and the instinct of the age was practically not wrong in looking on Thomas as the martyr of the general cause of ecclesiastical privilege. But it is well to remember what the imme- diate point at issue was. And we may perhaps be inclined to think that the im- mediate cause of martyrdom was a wor- thier cause than the more general matter of dispute. XVe can now hardly enter into * This is clearly brought out by Mr. Robertson: Becket, p. 290. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXIV, 1199 the intense feeling of the age with regard to all local and corporate rights. At least we can hardly enter into it when it takes an ecclesiastical shape. We could under- stand Thomas dying for the rights of the city of London better than we can under- stand his dying for the rights of the Church of Canterbury. But, if we throw ourselves into the feelings of the time, we shall per- haps learn to enter into the state of mind which, even if nothing else had gone be- fore would deem it a duty in the head or in any other member of the Church of Canterbury to die rattier than do anything which could seem to infringe the highest privilege of that Church or to lessen the guilt of those who had infringed it. This side of the case ought not to be forgotten; at the same time it should not be so pressed as to forget that the question would never have put itself in that form unless a great deal besides had gone before. I have already said that the claims of the clergy to an exemption from temporal juris- diction might be fairly said to be the breat- est evil of the time in 1164, though they certainly were not the greatest evil of the t:me in 1154. They were now the great- est evil, because the combined energies of Henry and Thomas had swept away the still greater evils which had been rife ten years earlier. When the power of the temporal law had been fully established over all other classes, the fact stood out more plainly that there was one class, more truly that there were two classes, in the realm who were exempted from its full sovereignty. If the layman wronged his fellow-layman, the sharp justice of the An- gevin king knew how to deal with him. King Henrys punishments were stern; but they were punishments at which mens feelings had not hitherto learned to revolt so long as they were meted out to the guilty only. Cruel mutilations were the penalty even of very trifling thefts, while, for the murderer and the robber on a great scale, the law of the Conqueror which for- bad the putting to death of any man had long passed out of mens minds. The means were bloody, but the work had been done. One group of exceptions only re- mained. Let the clerk slay or rob the layman, let the layman slay or rob the clerk, let the clerk slay or rob his brother clerk, and the hand of King Henrys jus- tice was shortened. The Church claimed that all matters in which ecclesiastical per- sons taking those words in the very widest sense were either doers or suffer- ers should be exempt from the secular jurisdiction, and should be reserved for her 34 MR. FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. own milder tribunals. Before those tribu- nals life and limb were safe; imprison- ment and stripes were, the heaviest sen- tences. King Henry found that such an exemption made his work imperfect; a crowd of offenders were every year res- cued from the authority of his own courts, and were handed over to tribunals which were believed to be often partial and cor- rupt, and which in any case could deal only very inadequately with the worst class of offenders. Holy orders were then be- stowed with such amazing lavishness, and the ecclesiastical privileges sheltered such large classes of persons ~vho were not, according to modern notions, in holy orders at all, that the number of clerical offenders to say nothing of the lay offenders against clerks was positively very large. The evil was a crying one. It was absolutely necessary to the completion of King Henrys work that both the priestly murderer and the murderer of a priest should be amenable to the kings justice like other men. To carry out this end Chancellor Thomas was, as far as we can see, perfectly ready; the king thence made the mistaken inference that Arch- bishop Thomas would be equally ready. Archbishop Thomas, as the facts show, was not so ready; if my estimate of his character is right, it was impossible that he should be. Mr. Robertson has gone through the matter at some length, and comes to this conclusion Nothing, as appears t ous, can be plainer than that the archbishops cause was decidedly wrong. * I have nothino to gainsay in Mr. Robertson s arguments; I have nothing to gainsay in his conclusion, if it simply means that the archbishops cause was wrong in the sense that we, seven hundred years later, can clearly see that it was wrong. A privilege which was thoroughly mischievous in itself was defended by arguments, scriptural, historical, and legal, all of which were thoroughly fallacious. But if Mr. Robert son means that the archbishops cause was wrong in the sense that he was morally blameworthy for supporting it that is, that it was so clearly wrong that he was morally bound to see that it was wrong 1 am hardly prepared to go that length. It is certain that many wise and good men supported the same cause, some of them men who thoroughly took in all that could be said on the other side. It was not left for the nineteenth century to weigh the actions of Henry and Thomas in the bal * Becket, p. So. ance of a perfectly fair judgment. Ages before either. Froude arose, William of Newburgh, the father of historical criti- cism, as Giraldus is the father of compar- ative philology, held his court on king and l)rimate, and, while ruling that the zeal of both was praiseworthy, gave sentence that the zeal of both had sadly outrun discre- tion.* The same line is taken by others from whom we might have looked for less impartiality than from a critic far away in another province. The kings case is stated with all fulness and fairness by more than one of th~ archbishdps own biogra- phers.j No one does more thorough justice to Henry than Herbert of Bosham, the primates most fiery admirer, the man who did not scruple to reprove King Henry to his face for setting a bad example to a long string of followers who have not known how an emperor of the Romans ought to be described.~ Herbert pours forth all his rhetoric to set forth the right- eous motives of both disputants. King and primate alike had a zeal for God which zeal was according to knowledge, he will leave God himself to judge. Now when men could so fairly and favorably judge what was to be said on the other * The two chapters of this writer which are given to this suhlect, the sixteenth and the twenty-fifth of his second hook, should he most carefully studied, as a wonderfully fair contemporary judgment on hoth sides. He says of the king (ii. 130): Acri motu turhatus, in spirito vehementi contra malefactores clericos posuit leges, in quihus utique zelum justitiw puhlic~a hahuit, sed fervor immoderatior modum excessit. Sane hujus immoderasionis regias nostri temporis episcopos tantum respicit culpa, quantum ah sis processit et causa. In speaking of the archhishop (ii. ~ he was tied hy the reverence due to a canonized saint; yet he ventures to say: Itaque quod a venerahili pontifice tunc actum est, nec laudandum ease ludico, nec vituperare pras- sumo; sed dico quod si vel modice in hujus modi a sancto viro per zeli laudabilis paulo immoderatiorem impetum est excessum, Isoc ipsum eat sacras, quas con- secuta noscitur, igne passionis ~ He argues that Gregory the Great, in his wise condescension to human weakness, would have acted otherwise than Thomas did. Henrys case is ~vell put hy the anonymous Lam- betis writer, Giles ii. 8~. And in the other accounts, as in Roger of Pontigny, 520, if Henrys case is not stated in the same formal way, yet the facts which were Isis justification are plainly set forth. ~ See the most remarkable conversation between the kiug and Herhert of Bosham, reported hy William Fitz-Stephen, Giles, i. 266; Rohertson, lll. ~ (On coming to England, I find Mr. Rohertaons edition of William Fite-Stephen and Herhert of Bosham. I have therefore thought It riglat to verify my references to Dr. Giless edition by the new, and doubtless more correct, text.) Herbert lass a whole chapter on this head, be- ginning at p. 502 (iii. 264, Robertson). At p. soS (272) he bursts into a torrent of declamation in joint honor of both disputants: 0 rex et 0 pontifex, quorum utrumque Del apprehendit asmulatio. He winds up more gravely: Certo enim certius quod uterque ha- huerit zemulationem, onus pro populo, alter vero pro clero; utrius tamen sorum fuerit cum scientia zelus, non hominis, qui cito fallitur, sed scientiarum Domini qul in fine declarabit judicium. MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 35 side, we must allow that a cause which they accepted, though it may rightly seem monstrous now, must have had something about it which hindered it from seeming utterly monstrous then. Again, nothing is plainer than that, ~vhile statesmen and great churchmen were divided, popular feeling everywhere, in his own province and out of it, in his own country and out of it, went enthusiastically along with Thomas and his cause, From his first struggle at Northampton to his last strug- gle at Canterbury, an admiring multitude is always ready to welcome, to applaud, to wait upon his steps. We may with advan- tage stop to think what this fact proves and what it does not prove. We need not dis- cuss the meaning put upon it by Thierry, though the fact is valuable the other way, as showing how well a man of Norman descent could win the love of all classes of Englishmen. Nor is the importance of the fact Ilut aside by Mr. Froudes easy process of talking about a mob. t Let it be that it was only the mob which followed Thomas from the gate of North- ampton castle to the gate of St. Andrews Priory, and that it was only the mob which came forth from every town and vil- lage of Kent, from Southwark, from his own London, to welcome him on his last return. Mobs often go wrong in their judgments, but they hardly shower their applause on men who are known only as unscrupulous and tyrannical ministers. The popular admiration for Thomas in no way proves his cause to have been a cause in itself wise and righteous, a cause which we could wish to have friumphed in the long run; but it does prove that his cause was not at the time palpably the cause of wrong and opl)ression. Thomas was the champion of clerical immunities; if cleri- cal immunities had been felt by the mass of the people as a wrong to themselves, they would not have applauded the cham- pion of those immunities. Besides the religious if it will please Mr. Froude, we will call it the superstitious feeling which would draw the mob to the pri- mates side, the mob would contain com- paratively few who had suffered heavy and unpunished wrongs from priestly offend- ers; it would contain many who had been themselves, who had seen their friends and neiThbors, rescued from the bloody sen- tences of the kings courts by the inter- position of the milder jurisdiction of the bishop. A cause which ~vas strongly sup- t LIVING AGE, No. I73O~ p. 368. Elsewhere there are crowds, swarms, and the like. - ported by many of the highest minds of the age, and which was no less strongly supported by the mass of the people, must have had more to be said for it than Mr. Froude, and even than Mr. Robertson, seems to see. The arguments from Scripture, the civil law, and other sources, by which it was sought to defend the edclesiastical privi- leges, may be fairly left to Mr. Robertsons ref utation.* They are much on a level with most other such arguments in those ages. When we read Robert Grossetestes dispute with his refra6tory canons, we de- cide that the bishop was right and the can- ons wrong; but we are in no way helped to that decisi6n by the bishops arguments about the sun, moon, and stars. When we read the great dispute about the relations between the crowns of England and Scot- land, whatever conclusion we may come to, we are not led to it by the statements made on both sides about the children and the contemporaries of Brutus. Those ages were quite capable of arguments purely legal or purely logical. I3ut in at- tempting disputation of a wider kind, they seem always to have mistaken mere illus- trations illustrations, some of them, which we should very likely make now, but which we should not make without a smile for serious arguments which proved something. But one special fallacy ran through all arguments on this subject. The course of affairs for several centuries in western Europe, while it had been such as to throw much temporal power into the hands of the clergy, had also been such as at once to extend the class of clergy more widely, and to draw the line between them and the laity more broadly, than in any other time or country. It is not too much to say, with a keener observer than either Mr. Froude or Mr. Robertson, that the clerical order in the Middle Ages extended far beyond the priesthood; it included in Henrys day the whole of the professional and educated classes. t There is nothing like this in our own time; there never was anything like it in Eastern Christendom, where such learning as there was never died out among the laity. In the \Vest the clergy taking that word in the widest sense formed so distinct a class, and a class in many respects so superior to all other classes, that it is not wonderful if there grew up among them the very strong. est form of that corporate or quasi corpo- rate spirit, that esprit de corps as it is * Becket, pp. 7785. 1 Green: History of the English People, i. u6i,. 36 MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. called, which is found in a greater or less degree in all marked classes and profes- sions. Considering again many features of the society in which they lived, it is not wonderful if the clergy sometimes fancied that they, the ministers of the Church, were themselves the Church, and if they applied to the clergy, as distinguished from the laity, much which Scripture says, or was interpreted to say, of the Church as distinguished from the world. This way of looking at things almost naturally led, on the part of the more zealous members of the order, into a way of looking at the civil power which is quite unintelligible in modern times, and which would always have been unintelligible in the East. It is of course, in all times and places, an easy figure of speech to compare a prince whose policy is disliked to all the persecu- tors and royal sinners in Scripture and ecclesiastical history. But the language of ecclesiastical writers sometimes goes far beyond this. It sometimes almost puts on a tone of Manichi~an dualism, as if that one of the two swords Which was wielded by Ciesar had been put into Ciesars hand, not by God, but by his enemy.* The doc- trine of the Ghibelline came as the needful answer, and Henry, with all his Guelfic alliances, was really fighting the Ghibelline battle. A prodigious mass of talk of all these kinds is to be found itt the writings of the time. It would not be hard to help Mr. Froude to a string of passages which would serve his purpose better than anything that he has either quoted or imagined. To a modern mind all this needs no refutation; my point simply is that the more reasonable forms of this teaching were accepted by good and moderate men, and that, even in its extremest form, it was no cunningly devised scheme for the enslavement of the laity, but was simply something which grew up, like other things, by the force of circumstances. But ~ve have the further fact that the champions of ecclisastical privilege won for themselves by such championship the admiration of the people in general, of the mob, in the words of Mr. Froude. Why should men sympathize with the exclusive privileges of a class to which they did not belono? The great master of English his- tory has lately taught us that there is a stage in constitutional development at which the * Some passages go almost further than this. Ed- ward Grim ~ in describing the kings seventies towards the criminous clerks, states the facts fairly enough; but when he comes to rhetoric, he speaks of sanctus archiepiscursus, dolens conservos suos ttro quibus Ckristlus mortuus eat tautis ascnibi indignitati bus. assertion even of exclusive privileges may be popular. The privileges gainedbyone class may be felt to be a kind of earnest that the same privileges may one day be gained by other classes.* This would seem to be true whenever the privilege is a mere exemption, when nothing is taken from the unprivileged class, but when all that is done is to exempt a single class from some grievance common to all. I confess that, notwithstanding Mr. Robert- sons judgment the other way,t I do see in the struggle for ecclesiastical exemp- tions a struggl4 for the mitigation of the criminal code. I do see in Thomass gen- eration the beginnings of a feeling against the barbarous punishments inflicted in the kin s courts of which there is no trace in the earlier part of the same century. Her- bert of Bosham, stating the case of Thomas, claims it as a clerical privi. lege to be exempted from branding and mutilation. But he also implies that branding and mutilation are punishments which ought not to be inflicted on any man. His reasoning indeed is as much theological as humanitarian; it is a crime to deface the image of God.t Still, in whatever shapes and by whatever argu- ments, the voice of humanity was making itself heard. Punishments which men ac- cepted as the ordinary course of things in the days of Henry the First were begin- ning to be cavilled at in the days of Henry the Second. It was openly said that such punishments were too bad for the clergy; it was beginning to be whispered that they were too bad for the laity also. In such a case as this, the establishment of the class privilege is distinctly a step towards the general deliverance. It is idle to dis- pute whether Thomas was or was not a kindred spirit to our modern reformers and mitigators of the criminal code. It is enough for my purpose that the cause which he maintained was one which tended, even if indirectly, towards the mitigation of that code, and that the peo- ple instinctively saw that it did so tend. * See Stubbs: Constitutional History, iii. 562. t Becket, pp. 86, 87. J Comparing the ecclesiastical and tempor8i inns- dictions (i. mon; Robertson, iii. 269), he says of the former: Jude est quod absque membrorum mutila- tione et sine omni deformatione corporis eat. Spiritu- alis est enim. Adeo etiam quod ordinis privilegium excludat cauterium, quam tamen pcenam communiter inter homines etiam jus forense damnat: ne videlicet in homine Dei imago deformetur. So the preachers of humanity in the eleventh and twelfth centuries de- nounced the crime of selling Christians into slavery; those of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries de- nounced the crime of selling men of any kind, vet there is one canon of Anselm (see Eadmer, 68) which stems to denounce slavery in the abstract. MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. Nor, while judging of the ecclesiastical privileges, must we leave oUt of sight the fact that the rule cut both ways. It is most important to insist on the fact, one which I have already tried to point out, that the privileges of the clerical order were in some cases privileges in which that word seemed to have come back to the older meaning of privilegium. Mr. Froude makes one of his most darin~ assertions when he says, speaking of the murderers of Thomas: They had been excommunicated, but they had received no further molestation. It has been conjectured that they owed their impu- nity to Beckets own claim for the exclusive jurisdiction of the spiritual courts in cases where spiritual persons were concerned. But the wildest advocates of the immunities of the Church had never dreamed of protecting lay- men who laid their hands on clerks. The explanation was that the king had acted hon- orably by taking the responsibility on himself, and had not condescended to shield his own reputation by the execution of men whose fault had been over-loyalty to himself.* I am afraid, as I have hinted more than once, that we must not expect to find kings, bishops, or any class of men in the twelfth century acting honorably in the sense in which Mr. Froude doubtless understands honorably. But let this pass. I do not know whether the phrase it has been conjectured is meant as a rebuke to Mr. Robertson ; if so, Mr. Froude has got on rather dangerous ground. Much as I differ from many of Mr. Robertsons conclusions ,greatly as I dislike the tone of much of his book, there are few people who are less likely to go wrong on a mere question of fact. Noth- ing is more certain than that Mr. Froude is utterly wrong in the above hasty assertion, and that Mr. Robertson is perfectly right when he asserts the exact contrary. As the law stood at the time of the murder of Thomas, his murderers could not be touched except by ecclesiastical censures. The law was presently altered we can hardly doubt that one reason for its altera- tion was because such offenders as the slayers of the martyr had escaped. These facts should surely have been known to the writer who so powerfully urges the claims of English law to be looked on as the foundation of English history, and it is one of the most surprising cases of Mr. Froudes constant ill-luck that they should not have been known. This will be seen * LIVING AGE, No. 1749, p. 732. 37 when we compare Mr. Froudes statements with Mr. Robertsons. Mr. Robertson, in discussing the gen- eral question of the immunities, says : No other answer is needed to the claims set up by Becket for the exemption of the clergy from the secular courts than such as is fur- nished by a letter of his immediate successor, written at a time when the clergy had begun to feel that their immunities were attended by considerable inconveniences. For the Churchs claim to exclusive jurisdiction over all cases which concerned the clergy had not only the effect of withdrawing clerical robbers and murderers from the secular tribunals, but also the robbers and murderers of the clergy, so that (as was most sz~gnally instanced in Beckets own case) the murderer of an ecclesiastic was sub/ect to no other than ecclesiastical tunish- ments; and the effect of this came to be so seriously felt that Archbishop Richard en- d~avored to procure an alteration of the law. He argues that misdeeds ought to be punished in any case. I should be content, he says,: with the sentence of excommunication, if it: had the effect of striking terror into evil- doers; but through our sins, it has become ineffective and despised. The slayers of a clerk or a bishop are sent to Rome by way of penance; they enjoy themselves by the way, and return with the popes full grace, and with increased boldness for the commission of crime. The king claims the right of punish- ing such offences; but we of the clergy dam- nably reserve it to ourselves, and we deserve the consequences of our ambition in usurping a jurisdiction with which we have no rightful concern. - . . The archbishops argument was intended to protect the clergy from vio- lence, but it is evident that it is equally appli- cable to the protection of the laity against the violence of clergymen (Becket, pp. 82, 83). Later, towards the end of the book, Mr. Robertson says again: We have seen that the immunities of the clergy were found a bar to the punishment of the murderers of ecclesiastics: and in conse- quence of this, Archbishop Richard, the suc- cessor of Becket, wrote the letter already quoted, in which the argument, although in- tended only to secure the punishment of offences against the clergy, is equally strong against that exemption of criminal clergymen from secular jurisdiction which had been the foundation of Beckets cause. It was prob- ably in consequence of this that, in 1176, a council at Westminster, under the legate Hugh Petroleone, enacted that the murderer of a clerk, on conviction or confession before the kings justiciary, should undergo the usual punishment for his crime, and, moreover, should forfeit his inheritance. At the same time it was decreed (although as Henry tells the pope, not without much opposition from the greatest and the wisest men of the realm) that clergymen should not be subject to the 38 MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF TI-IOMAS BECKET. secular courts except for offences against the forest laws, or on account of fees to which the duty of lay service was attached. The indig- nation with which contemporary writers assail the legate for consenting to these exceptions, appears to show that they were of great prac- tical importance; but in any case, the princi- ple of the immunity of ecciesiastics from all secular jurisdiction was abandoned, and the sanction of Rome was given to decrees which Becket would have denounced as intolerable and impious (pp. 209, 210). Mr. Robertson then quotes passages from Giraldus and Peter of Blois, in which Archbishop Richard is blamed for giving up rights for which Thomas had died. This was a somewhat inaccurate state- ment of the real cause of Thomass death; but it illustrates the received way of look- ing at the matter. Now Mr. Froude, who a few pages before had said that the wildest advocates of the Church had never dreamed of protecting laymen who had laid their hands on clerks, had, some- where or other, read about this act of Archbishop Richard; but he read it in his usual fashion. He saw enough to make merry about clerical deer-stealers; he never saw the passages which showed that hitherto laymen who laid their hands on clerks had been protected. Here stands his version, well worthy to be compared with Mr. Robertsons. For be it remem- bered, Mr. Robertson is just as glad as Mr. Froude to catch at anything that will tell against Thomas and his cause. But, unlike Mr. Froude, he sees and reads all that is in his book. Mr. Froude says In the October following, Cardinal Huge- zun came from Rome to arrange the vexed question of the liability of clerks to trial in the civil courts. The customs for which Henry pleaded seem at that time to have been sub. stantially recognized. Offenders were de- graded by their ordinaries and passed over to the secular judges. For one particular class of offences definite statutory powers were con- ceded to the State. The clergy were notori- ous violators of the forest laws. Deer-steal- ing implied a readiness to commit other crimes, and Cardinal Hugezun formally con- sented that orders should he no protection in such cases. The betrayal of their interests on a matter which touched so nearly the occupa- tion of their lives was received by the clergy with a scream of indignation. . . . Arch- bishop Richard, says Giraldus, basely sur- rendered the rights which the martyr Thomas had fought for and xvon, but Archbishop Ste- phen recovered them. The blood of St. Thomas had not been shed, and the martyr of Canterbury had not been allowed a monopoly of wonder-working, that a priest should be forbidden to help himself to a haunch of venison on festival days.* It may be a question whether a joke about a haunch of venison is worth the cost of a direct misstatement of the law; but, if the joke told against the clergy and the accurate statement of the law told in their favor, it might be too much to expect the assertor of the claims of the statute- book to count the cost in such a case. And it may be that a simple layman can- not throw himself into the Doint of view from which th~se things are looked at by one who has himself, like Thomas, put off the deacon. To the simple layman the fact that the ecclesiastical claims cut both ways, that they sometimes tended to the damage of the clergy as Well as to their profit, is an important element in the case, one which not only should not be denied, hut should be prominently set forth. By virtue of the privileges for which Thomas struggled, the blood of Thomas remained, as far as temporal pun- ishment was concerned, unavenged. In truth each side of the exemption was a further reason for abolishing the exemp- tion, because each side of the exemption increased the number of offenders who escaped the due reward of their deeds. But we can understand that the fact that the exemption did cut both ways, the fact that, while the clerk was liable to lighter punishments than other men, he was also placed under feebler protection than other men, did something to take away anything that seemed exclusive and invidious in the clerical exemption from temporal jurisdic. tion. Such then was the character, such were the various sides and aspects, of these famous claims of the clergy to answer for their crimes in the spiritual courts only which formed the subject of the first strug- gle between Thomas and the king. Here was a whole system of teaching, supported by great names and precedents, which formed a part, an essential and prominent part, of the clerical belief of the time. Into the midst of this teaching, into an atmosphere where its doctrines floated on every breath, Thomas was suddenly plunged. If he became archbishop, these were the principles which an archbishop was bound to profess and act upon. They were the principles which an archbishop who had sinned against those principles as chancellor was bound to profess and toact * LIvING AGE, No. I749~ ~. 735. MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 39 upon, even more strongly than his predeces- sors who had needed no such repentance. Anseim stood before his eyes, and, though we may greatly doubt whether Anseim would have tountersigned all the doctrines of Thomas he assuredly would not have approved of all his acts it was perfectly natural that both Thomas and his contem- poraries should honestly believe that he was walking in the steps of Anseim. Once archbishop, with Anselin as his chosen model, Thomas could not fail to become the champion of the ecclesiastical claims in all their fuiness. He could not fail to throw into his championship, not only all the inborn fervor of his nature, but the further artificial fervor of one who was acting a part, though ~ part in acting which he believed that he was only doing his duty. It is therefore almost vain to inquire whether Thomas was morally justified in taking up the cause which he did take up. Being the man that he was, in the position in which he found himself, it was impossi- ble that he should do otherwise than take up that cause. And being the man that he was, and in the position in which he found himself, it was further impossible that he should do otherwise than take up that cause with a fervor, with an obstinacy, with a kind of reckless defiance of conse- quences, which was peculiar to himself. Beside him all other assertors of the same claims in his own day, or before his day, seemed lukewarm. It was only natural that they should seem lukewarm. No one else had in the same way the necessity constantly laid upon him of carrying out the part of an ecclesiastical champion in all its fulness. We need hardly stop to argue whether a man was right or wrong in taking up a certain cause when he could not fail to take up that cause unless he had been another man. To Henry at this stage we may pay a higher tribute. We have seen that the most enthusiastic ad- mirers of Thomas fully admit the integrity of his motives. He found a great source of evil in his kingdom, weakening the course of justice and disturbing the peace of the realm. He gave the whole power of his mind to put an end to that evil. Thomas and Henry alike, in the general part which they took, acted as they could not fail to act. Of Henry we may further say that, in the general part which he took, he acted as it was abstractedly right to act. It is more profitable to examine the partigular acts both of king and primate, to look at the way in which each, starting from a perfectly defensible position, carried out the cause which he had in hand. In thus weighing their ~rticular acts, we are often driven to pronounce a harsh judg- ment on both. The pair of disputants with whom we have nox~ to deal have in- deed fallen away from the pair of dispu- tants two generations earlier whom they must have had before their eyes. Henry the Second and Thoma.s are not as Henry the First and Anselm. Each alike loses his dignity and forsakes his position. Thomas is violent, obstinate, provoking; 1-lenry does not shrink from any act of meanness or crueltyAwhich could crush or distress his adversary. But we must in- sist on king and primate alike being judged by their real acts, as recorded by writers of their own age, not by imaginary acts which ingenious writers of the nineteenth century may think good to discover for them. Now it is not too much to say that Mr. Froudes narrative of the first ground of quarrel between Thomas and Henry, of the events between the consecration of Thomas and the Council of Clarendon, is purely fictitious. The names of the chief actors are the same in the real and in the fictitious narrative. The general course of events in the fictitious narrative might seem to be suggested by the r~I one. But this is all that we can say. In all the details of the story, in all the points of law and fact on which the controversy turned, Mr. Froude gives us a story which is altogether different from that of the contemporary writers. Mr. Froude deals with facts in the kind of way in which the popes claimed to deal erAle;zitudine totes- tai~is with the kingdoms of the earth. He pulls down and he builds up, he plants and he destroys, after a fashion which may be lawful to those whose object it is to make a point against sacerdotalism or anti-sacer- dotalism, but which can only be looked at with simple wonder by those whose object is the lowlier one of finding out the truth of history. Mr. Froude begins his narrative of the grounds of quarrel by a statement of law. Knights holding their lands from the Church on military tenure had hitherto done homage for them to the crown. The new archbishop demanded the homage for himself. He re- quired the Earl of Clare to swear fealty to him f or Toubridge Castle. The Earl of Clare re- fused and appealed to the king, and the arch- bishop dared not at once strike so large a quarry. But he showed his teeth with a smaller offender. Sir William Eynesford, one of the kings knights, was patron of a benefice in Kent. The archbishop presented a priest to it The knight ejected the archbishops 40 MR. FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET nominee, and the archbishop excommunicated the knight.* The names here are the same as the names in the real story; so are some of the facts. But every fact is so altered, so colored, so mixed up with fictitious state- ments of fact and erroneous statements of law, that Mr. Froudes story, as it stands, can only be called a fiction. The statement that knights holding their lands from the Church on military tenure had hitherto done homage for them to the crown~~ is mere nonsense. Mr. Froude has doubtless got hold of some glimmering of the Conquerors great law of Salisbury, by which every man in the realm, knights holding their lands front the Church on military tenure among the rest, had to be- come the man of the king. But this did not, as Mr. Froude seems to think, shut out the homage due to the intermediate lord, ecclesiastical or temporal. Nor was there anything new, as he implies, in the archbishop demanding such homage. Knights holding their lands from the archbishop on military tenure owed hom- age to the archbishop, but a homage in which their higher allegiance to the king was reserved. Mr. Froude tells the story about Tunbridge Castle, as if the castle had been undoubtedly a fief held of the see of Canterbury by military tenure, and as if the archbishop was guilty of some in- novation in demanding homage for an estate so held. The real point of contro- versy was quite different. The archbishop asserted that the castle was a fief of the archbishopric. When the archbishop there- fore demanded homage for it, the earls answer was not, as Mr. Froude represents it, a mere refusal; it was a proposal of compromise, which reminds us of relations of homage between still greater person- ages than earls and archbishops. Earl Roger offered to do homage to the arch- bishop, but he declined to say for what fief the homage was to be done.t This * LIVING AGE, No. 1730, p. 361. I Herbert, i. 86 (iii. 251, Robertson): Comes vero hominium obtulit, ted super quo, quod quserebat archi- prxsul, exprimere recusavit. I take this to be the earls final answer, not as at all contradicting the ver- sion given by Ralph de Diceto (i. 311, Stubbs), wbicb, I conceive, refers to an earlier stage of the controversy. Here tbe earl, called on by the archbishop to do hom- age for the castle, archiepiscopo duriorem opposuit adversarium, respondens totum illud feodum in servitio militari et publicis pensionibus persolvendis regem potius attendisse quam archiepiscopum. The pro- posal put into the earls mouth by Herbert would, natu- rally come as a later compromise. But, in any case, Ralphs story is quite different from Mr. Froudes. In Ralphs version the earl refuses homage to the arch- bishop on the ground that he held the castle directly from the king. Granting the earls fact, his law follows as a matter of course. Granting the archbishops fact, would have had the effect of making the earl personally the archbishops man, as so many others were, but it would have left the claims of the see over the castle of Tunbridge undecided. The state of things would have been that which som& times existed between the crowns of En- gland and Scotland, when the two kings were on friendly terms, and when it was not the interest of either to stir the ques- tion whether the Scottish kings homage was done for the kingdom of Scotland or for anything else. All these touches, which give so n~uch life and meaning to the story, seem to have no meaning for Mr. Froude. They certainly count for nothing in an argument against sacerdotal- ism; but they count for a great deal in bringing the life and times of Thomas Becket as a living thing before us. Hav- ing done with Earl Roger, Mr. Froude passes on to William of Eynesford, and his story is still more utterly perverted than the other. As Mr. Froude tells it, it reads like a wanton attack on the archbishops part on the laymans right of patronage. Mr. Froude leaves out the fact, on which the whole story turns, that William, while one of the kings knights was also one of the archbishops knights, and that the archbishops claimed to ap- point clerks to all churches on lands held of the see.* There seems to have been fair ground for doubt whether this claim was a good one, and it may be that William was right in his law and that Thomas was wrong. In the case of the Earl of Clare, the dispute was a simple question of fact; in the case of William of Eynesford the dispute was a simple question of law. To say that Mr. Froude has misstated the fact in one case and the law in the other, would be paying his narrative too high a compliment. It would imply that his narrative contains intelligible statements which can be affirmed or denied. Instead his law follows equally. Mr. Froude takes, not the earls fact, but the archbishops, and gets his law out of his own head. * See the story in William Fitz-Stephen, 208 (Rob- ertsop, iii. 43), who says of the archbishop: Ejus est tam baronum suorum quam monachorum Cantuarien- slum vacantes in villis donare ecciesias. As Mr. Robertson says (Becket~ p. 72), the claim of the arch. bishop was a very doubtful one; but it was one which Thomas had inherited from his predecessor Theobald, while Mr. Froude makes the archbishops collation of the benefice an interference with the rights of a man with whom he had nothing to do. The references which Mr. Robertson makes to Gervase (X. Scriptt. 1667, 1675) throw great doubt on the archbishops right, which was given up by the next primate Richard. But I do not see that very much is proved by the fact that the monks afterwards received the advows.on as a gift ( Willielmus dominus ejusdem fundi dedit con- veotni Cantuariensi, exenio quoque reddidit). This sounds to me like a compromise. MR FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 4 of such statements, his narrative is mere careless confusion, but of course a confu- sion in which everything so falls out as to put Thomas in the worst light. And, again to mark the straws which show the way of the wind, where William Fitz- Stephen says ecclesiam donaverat, Mr. Froude says, The archbishop presented a priest to it. Mr. Froude ought to know that to talk of a bishop presenting in his own diocese is sheer nonsense.* It is a question whether this happened before or after the Council of Tours in 163. Mr. Froude seems to place it be- fore; Mr. Robertson places it after. The point is of some little consequence, as it involves a question whether Thomas was, in these proceedings, carrying out a canon of that council which decreed the restora- tion of alienated church property4 That Thomas had a general license from the king to recover the lost estates of the see is not stated by Mr. Froude, but it is stated by William Fitz-Stephen.~ It is likely enough in itself, though Henry may not have foreseen the special use to which the license was to be put. As for the rest of the Eynesford story, if Mr. Froudes study of the statute-book had gone as far back as the few genuine ordinances of the Conqueror, he might have made his case against Thomas stronger than he has done. William was a tenant-in-chief of the crown as well as a tenant of the archbish- op, and Mr. Froude understates his case when he says that it had been usual to pay the king the courtesy of consulting him before excommunicating such an one. It was no mere matter of courtesy, but a matter of law or established custom, of the Conquerors own ordaining; and the answer made by Thomas that it was not for the king to meddle in matters of abso- lution and excommunication was one which * The phrase of Ralph de Diceto (i. 3, Stuhbs), Thomas archiepiscopus vacantem ecciesiam Aine- fordian contulil in Laurentium, is still more accurate. I Mr. Rohertson (Becket, 71) argues that the ahuses forbidden hy the Council of Tours were of a different kind from those which rhomas was, rightly or wrongly, trying to reform. The words of the canon, as given by William of Newbnrgh (i. ~ stand thus: Statni- inns ut quisquis alicul laico in seculo rennanenti eccie- siam decimamve ~ etc. (The text seems to he somewhat different from that quoted by Mr. Rohertson.) But the words which go before, quidam fratrum et coepiscoporum nostrorum aliorumque pm- latomum ecclesian decimas eis, et ecciesiarum disposi- tiones jn~ulgent,~ seem to meet the case of the church of Lynesford, as cosceived by Thomas, an advowson wlsich had passed from spiritual into temporal hands. Hahere ecciesiam and similar phrases are often applied to advowsons. See Domesday, 280, and Nor- man Conquest, v. 502. ~ Giles, 1. 208 (Robertson, i. 43): Tamen prins a rege petitam obtinnerat archiepiscopus licentiam revo- candi pr dia ecclesian Cantuariensis, a ~randecessoribus 5015 male alitnata, vel a laicis occupata. goes to the very root of the matter, and might, one would have thought, have served Mr. Froudes purpose well. On the other hand, Mr. Froude seems not to men- tion that Thomas absolved William of Eynesford, that William, as his man, ap- peared as one of his sureties at Northamp- ton, and that the question i~bout the ad- vowson was settled by William giving it as a gift, not indeed to the archbishopric, but to the convent of Christ Church. Mr. Froudes account of the Council of Tours is also remarkable The English prelates attended. The ques- tion of precedence was not this time raised. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his suf- fragans sat on the popes right hand; the Archbishop of York and his suifragans sat on the popes left. Whether anything of conse- quence passed on this occasion between the pope and Becket is not known: probably not; it is certain, however, that they met.* It is proverbially hard to prove a nega- tive, and it is strange if so minute an ac- count as Mr. Froudes should be a pure dream. But there is nothing in any book, old or new, to which I have access at this moment which leads me to think that there was a single English bishop at Tours be- sides Thomas himself. Herbert of Bo- sham, who was clearly present, gives a minute account of Thomass journey and of his reception by Alexander. The En- glish primate was received with extraordi- nary honors, and was treated as first in rank after the pope himself. But of Mr. Froudes picture of the pope in the mid- dle, with Thomas on one side and Roger on the other, there is not a word.t More- over, it is known that something of very considerable consequence passed on this occasion between the pope and Thomas; that they met there is no need to prove. We need not accept the story of William of Newburgh which is doubtless trans- ferred hither from a later time that Thomas now resigned his archbishopric and received it again from the pope.~ But there is no doubt that it was now that Thomas tried to procure the canonization * LsvsNo Ann, No. 5730, p. 362. Herbert, l. 90 (Robertson, in. 255): Quod canteris majus adhuc, Romana ecciesia nostrum archipmansulem, tanquam cx multis qni convenerant primogenitom, quodam quansi primogeniti honors el cnltn honestabat pm canteris. Mr. Froude seems still to he foilowed by the memory of the day when Arclshishop Roger had to be drawn out of his ill-chosen place. ~ Il. 130: Ubi, ot dicitur, pontificatum, minus sin- cere et canonice, id est, per operam mauumque re- giam, susceptum, pungentis conscientian stimulus non ferens, secreto in manus domini papas resignavit. This must he a confusion with the scene of the same kind at Sens recorded by Edward Grim (52) and Wil- liam Fitz-Stephen (244). 42 MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. of Anseirn. Such an attempt is most sig- nificant in connection with what had gone before and with what followed. It could have no other meaning than that of de- claring to the world that Anselm was the model which Thomas had chosen to imi- tate. For Alexander the Sixth to canon- ize Anselm at the request of Morton was a very harmless proceeding, one which in no way threatened the throne of Henry the Seventh. For Alexander the Third to canonize Anselm at the request of Thomas would have been an act which could have had but one meaning, and that a meaning which might be understood to threaten the throne of Henry the Second. The wily pontiff qeither agreed nor refused, but bade Thomas bring the matter before the judgment of the English bishops.* Both Ihomas and the English bishops had be- fore long quite other matters to see to. Just after the matter of William of Eynesford a very remarkable sentence is found in Mr. Robertsons book. In an- other case the primate appeared as a sort of Hampden. t As Mr. Froude givesno narrative of this case, I am relieved from giving any counter-narrative and I am specially glad to be relieved from deciding whether the story has anything to do with Danegeld or no. It is enough to say that Thomas withstood, and successfully with- stood, the levying of a tax which he deemed oppressive and illegal that his so doing brought on him the kings anger and that Mr. Robertson, no very favorable judge, approves of his conduct. Surely we have here a side of the archbishops character which deserves some place in the narrative of his life and times. But then the character of a Hampden and the char- acter of an unscrupulous and tyrannical minister are hardly consistent with one another. Still less would it suit Mr. Froudes theory tb argue that the conse- crating hands of Henry of Winchester had changed the one character into the other. The Hampden-like side of Thomas there- fore remained invisible to Mr. Froudes eyes. And now we have reached the time when Henry deemed, and deemed most rightly, that the time was come to put an end to what, now the greater evils still had been put an end to, might be fairly called the greatest evil of the time, the immunity of criminous clerks from temporal juris- diction. Several gross cases of crimes ~ See the letter of Pope Alexander to Thomas; Giles, G. Foliot, a6s; and the bulls in Anglia Sacra, ii. 577. Becket, p. 73.. done by clerical offenders drew special attention to the matter at this time. Mr. Froude picks out one story to tell in detail. But, while he might have chosen more than one case about which there seems to have been no kind of doubt, Mr. Froude has characteristically chosen a case in which it is by no means clear that any crime was committed at all. As usual, he tells the story after his own fashion, con- fusing every fact and every point of law on which the real story turns. A canon of Bedford, named Philip of Broi or Broc, was charged with the mur- der of a knight. He was tried before his diocesan, the Bishop of Lincoln. As the tale is told to us, the evidence against him was insufficient he was therefore ad. mitted to a canonical purgation. That is, he was alloxved to declare his innocence by a solemn oath.* On this the kinsmen of the slain men declared themselves sat- isfied, and in ordinary course the matter would have ended. But the sheriff of Bedfordshire, Simon Fitz-Peter, having, it is said, a private grudge against Philip,j- demanded that he should be tried again in the kings court. Philip refused to an- swer a second time on the same char~e, especially before a lay tribunal, and being, as we are told, a man of high birth, he used very violent and abusive language to the sheriff. j The sheriff complained to * The story of Philip of Brois or Broc is told most fully by Edward Grim (22; Robertson, ~ 374), by Roger of Pontigny (sq), and by Garnier(3o). William Fez-Stephen (214; Robertson, iii. 43) sod Herbert (i. sos; Robertson, iii. 265) tell the storywithout reference so the charge of murder. They begin with the insults offered to the sheriff, or, as Herbert makes it, to the itinerant justices. The purgation comes out in the accounts both of Edward and Roger: Ecciesiastico jure purgasur, et solusa controversia liber a parentibus clamatus eat, quum coram episcopo suo super oh jecto sibi homicidlo sufficienser respondisset, et deficien tibus in causa adversariis ipse ad innocentiam suam certius comprohandum se sacramento purgasset. The purgatlo occurs again in the story of the dean at Scarborough (Will. Fil. Steph. 213 ; Robertson, iii. 44), in a passage which, at least in Dr. Giless text, is not easy to construe. This dean, one may add, was really brought before the king, which may have helped towards Mr. Froudes notion that Philip of Broi was. The 5urge/io was not always satisfactory, as in slse counterstory in Herbert (i. sos; Robertson, lO. 264), which begins so like this of Philip. Here a priest in the diocese of Salisbury is charged with murder. The accusers fail in their proof: the purgation also fails, and the accusers are not satisfied ( Sacerdote con stanter inficiante, quom non posset super isosnicidlo per accusatores convinci canonica indicitur purgasin accusato, accusatoribus prxsertim fama consentiente et ipsis etiam probabiliter arguentibus accusatum. Sed en in purgatione deficiente, mittit episcopus ad archi pisesulem de jure consulens). Thomass sentence is that thepriest be deprived of his benefices and kept in a monastery, under the strictest penance, for the rest of his days. And this though the charge seems to have been Not proven.~~ volens clericum deperire ex antiquo odin, says Edward Grim. 1 E. Grim, 23 (Robertson, iii. 375): Clericus aute~, MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 43 the king; the king, greatly wroth at the insult done to his officer, which he held to be done to himself,* ordered that Philip should be tried again on the old charge of murder. The archbishop was present, and asserted the freedom of the clerk from trial by a secular court. It seems at last to have been agreed that Philip should be tried at Canterbury by a mixed court of bishops and barons.t He was there arraigned for the murder. He denied the charge and pleaded his former trial and purgation. The plea was ad- mitted.1 His insolence to the sheriff he confessed and professed his readiness to give satisfaction. His sentence was that he should make a personal arnende ho- norable to the sheriff, that, his prebend should be forfeited to the king for two years, during which time he should leave England, and that his movable goods should be also forfeited to the king, to be disposed, some add, to charitable uses at the kings pleasure.II The king was very ut vir ingenuns, dolore tactus et indignatione, con- vitiis vicecomitem aggressus est. So Queen Eliza- beth in the ballad swore most like a royal queen, and there is a story of some one who knew that Sarah Duchess of Marlborough must be ~ a great lady, Jse- cause of her oaths. Roger (aq) and Gamier ~ Li clerc fu gentz horn) witness to Philips good birth; but they do not so distinctly connect his good birth and his bad language. in Mr. Froudes version, he becomes a young nobleman, though I do not think that there is anything elsewhere about his age. * Roger, 114: Sic se habere convitia ills militi sun illata, ac si sibi ipsi intulisset Philippus. Edward Grim gives the matter another turn: Gavisus, ut creditur, rex accepta occasione s~eviendi in clericum. t E. Grim, u. S.: Missis igitur a rege episcopis aliisqne ordinis utriusque, qui clericum judicarent. So Roger: Quosdam episcopus et proceres ad diem sibi ab archiepiscopo constitutam Cantuariam trans- misit. ~ Roger, 115: Quum venissent, Philippum de veteri querela homicidii instanter impetebant. Quum- que causam ecciesiastico ludicio terminatam iterari non debere judicatum fuisset, ventum est tandem ad con- tumelias regio militi illacas. The description of the amende is curious. Ed- ward Grim gives it thus: Quod nudus astaret ministro regis, laicali more, et ipsi offerret arms pro injuria, et in illius viveret subjectione. ipse vero ante mili tem, nudum se secundum morem patrix satisfacturus offerret, is Rogers account. In the French rime of Gamier (32), it stands Ultre go, Ii jng~rent nil se despuillereit, Devaunt It chevaler, at snifrir le voleit; Et, v~aunt set amis, armes aportereit, A la lei del pals de sus li jurereit, De tens mesfet de mi tens amendes prendreit. Herbert (102) says: Publics virgarum disciplins cierico adjudicata. William Fitz-Stephen (214) says nothing shout the arnende, but sends Philip into ban- ishment: Simul et regni inhabitatione Philippum privandum. So the best authority of all, Ralph de Diceso (i. 313~ Stubba): Pulsus eat e regno per bien- nium. I This stands in Gamier (is) Jugent li ke dons aunz as pruvende lerra, Et ii Reis entretant lea rentes en prendra, A musters et ~ pofres et ~ punz lea durra; Et en autres slmones, einse cun lul plerra. OrIe/ dire Fkeiz/ies ke ricke almoner a. According to Roger (115), the king was not bound in angry; he demanded that the bishops should themselves make a purgation, and swear that they had judged according to their consciences, and had not let Philip off because he was a clerk.* Now it is of the essence of this story that Philip was, rightly or wrongly, ac- quitted of the murder after a manner ~hich was usual in the jurisprudence of the time. It is open to Mr. Froude or to any other man to set very little store on a canonical purgation as a means of getting at truth; it~ is not open to him or to any other man to represent canonical purgation as being a quite different kind of thing from what it was. The canon law, like the older law of England, attached a cer- tain value to the accused mans oath. In default of conclusive evidence, his solemn denial of the charge was accepted. We know not. what the evidence against Philip was. For him there is the fact that th~ kinsmen of the dead man accepted his denial; against him there is the fact that the sheriff was dissatisfied with the pro- ceedings, balanced by the alleged fact one very easy to allege that the sheriff was Philips personal enemy. I should be sorry positively to affirm either that Philip had killed the knight or that he had not. The point is that he denied the charge, and that both the Bishop of Lincoln and the kinsfolk of the dead man accepted the denial. Mr. Froude, on the other hand, knows much more about the matter. Philip de Broi . . . had killed some one in a quarrel. The murder being thus assumed, the nature of canonical purga- tion has to be changed to suit the story. Instead of a solemn denial of a crime, it is turned into a penance or composition for a crime which is not denied. He made his purgation eccieslastico ,/urethat is, he paid the usual fees and perhaps a small fine. Mr. Froude would have us believe that the fact of the murder was allowed on all hands, but that the murderer was let off on payment of fees. This new view of purgation involved some further changes in the story. The king sent for Philip de Broi, and cross- questioned him in Beckets presence. It was not denied that he had killed a man.t this way to be Philips almoner: Rex ilerum [in- terim?] de reditibus ejus quod vellet faceret. Ed- ward Grim clearly distinguishes between the prebend and Philips other property. Decernimus ut biennio manest sub mann regis prsebenda tus, et possessiones, omniaque qux in reditibus babes, ad nutum ipsins eroganda psuperibus. * E. Grim, u. S.: Per oculos Dei, sit, jam mihi jurabitis quod justum judicium judicastia nec pepercis tins viro quma clericus ~ LIvINo Ana, No. 1730, p. 362. 44 MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. That the king sent for Philip is a pure imagination of Mr. Froudes. The cross- questioning was suggested by the words of Edward Grim, sc/a qucestione de cierico in ~rcesentia archiej5iscopi. But this does not mean a cross-questioning of Philip by the king, but a discussion of Philips case by king, sheriff, and arch- bishop. The words it was not denied that he had killed a man seem to be sug- oested by the words of Edward Grim a little later, negat ille homicidium. * To he sure, the words which suggest Mr. Froudes statement, and Mr. Froudes statement itself, have exactly opposite meanings, and on the opposition between their meanings the whole story turns. Still the words negat ilie komicidiurn have that outward and physical likeness to Mr. Froudes statement which seems to be all that Mr. Froude cares for in deal- ing with his authorities. There is in both something about a denial, and something about killing a man. The only difference is as to the place of the negatives in the sentence. But negatives are but little words after all, and it is easy to leave them out or to put them in. We have all heard of the edition of the Bible which left out the not in the seventh commandment. I have sometimes wondered whether, in an Oxford convocation, the proctors can always distinguish a vote of Placet from one of Non ~iacet. It is certain that Mr. Froude looks on the difference be- tween negat and non negat as a very trifling matter. In his eyes it is clearly open to a writer on the Life and Times of Thomas Becketto use either phrase at pleasure, according as the negative or the affirmative may best serve to blacken the character of Thomas and the ecclesi- astical order generally. And now we come to the great central point of the whole story, to the famous Constitutions of Clarendon, and to all that followed on their enactment or proposed enactment. From this point I shall cease * J~ is hardly possible that Mr. Froude can have fancied himself to be following the short account of Ralph de Diceto (i. 353 Stubbs): Controversiw prw- stitit occasionens Phillippus de Broc, canonicus de Bedeford, qui tractus in causam propter homicidium, in juaticiarum regis verbum protulit contumeliosum. Q nod cum coram archiepiscopo negare non posset, prwbendw suw multatus est beneficin, pulsus est a regno per biennium. Here certainly is the verb negare with a negative. The word homicidium is not very far off, and a reader who had seen no fuller account might doubt for a moment whether negare referred to ~ or to verbum contume- liosum, But the purgation and the other details, of which Mr. Froude has made so strange a use, can never have come from this source; they are clearly from Edward Grim. to follow Mr. Froude in detail. I have, I trust, already done my main work. I have, I trust, shown how utterly untrustworthy is Mr. Froudes whole narrative of the acts of Thomas, how utterly groundless is the imaginary portrait which he paints by way ot inference from a series of imag- inary acts. For the part of Thomass life with which I am most concerned, for his chancellorship, I have tried to substitute a more trustworthy narrative of his acts, and a portrait which, as it is drawn by way of inference from acts which are not imag- inary, is, I trust,itself not an imaginary portrait. I have also tried to show what was the real position of both parties at the opening of the quarrel between the king and the archbishop, to show what was the real nature d those ecclesiastical exemp- tions which formed their first main ground of quarrel, how they looked at the time, how they worked in practice. I have, I hope, done enough to show that the cause which Thomas took up, though a cause which, by the light of the nineteenth cen- tury, we see to be wholly wrong, was one which an honest man might well take up in the twelfth century. I wish to estab- lish, in opposition to partisan writers on either side, that king and archbishop alike were, as Herbert of Bosham so strongly sets forth, acting with thorough honesty, in Herberts phrase, with a zeal for God. It is not needful for my purpose to o~ through that long controversy, or to ex- amine in detail a long series of acts of both Henry and Thomas, many of which on both sides must be condemned. My general position I believe I have made good; and, as to Mr. Froudes way of telling particular stories, it is hardly need- ful to give any more detailed examples after this last of Philip of Broi. I shall now therefore do no more than make some further remarks on some aspects of Mr. Froudes treatment of the general story, without examining either the contemporary or the modern narrative in the same mi- nute way in which I have thus far exam- ined some portions of it. This then is the place for a word or two as to the famous Constitutions themselves. Were they, as the king and his party said, really the old law of England, or were they, as the archbishop and his party said, mere modern innovations, perhaps not of Henry himself, but of tyrants a little be- fore his day? Very vague language was used on both sides, and the state of the case was such that it is in no way wonder- ful that vague language was used on both sides. Looking at the Constitutions as a MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 45 whole, he would be a rash historian who should venture to call them, as a whole, either old or new. But there was quite air enough of both age and newness about them to make it perfectly natural for one side to call them old and for the other side to call them new. On the one hand, it is quite certain that not one of the Constitu- tions can be fairly called an innovation of Henrys own devising. On the other hand, it is equally certain that the Constitutions, as a code, would have had a very strange look in the eyes of an Englishman a hun- dred years earlier. Henry professed, and on the whole he was justified in the pro- fession, that his object was to restore the law as it had stood under his grandfather. A state of things two reigns back, a state of things ranging from thirty to more than sixty years back, commonly seems to states- men quite old enough for all practical pur- poses. But the fact that it was a state of things two reigns back, and not only one reign back, gave its restoration an air of innovation. After the time of anarchy anything might seem new. The root of the whole matter lay in the Conquerors separation of the ecclesiastical and tempo- ral jurisdictions. In the old times of En- gland these questions had never been stirred. Even after the Conquest there was for a long while very little disposition to stir them. Under the Conqueror we hear of claims to exemption from the mouth of Odo but William and Lanfranc knew how to deal with a Bishop of Bayeux who was also Earl of Kent. Under Rufus comes the much more remarkable but much less known story of William, Bishop of Durham, which I hope some day to have an opportunity of dealing with in the detail which it deserves.* Under Henry the First ecclesiastical claims grew, as they could not fail to grow at such a time, even with the strong hand of the Lion of Justice to keep them down.t Then, under the .anarchy, they grew apace; as we have seen, every aspect of the time combined to make them grow. They grew both for good and for evil. We may be sure that, when Henry and Thomas entered on their first work of reform, the question had put on much larger dimensions than it had ever borne under the earlier reign of law. Both clerkly murderers and murderers of clerks must have become much larger classes than they had been before the anarchy. Now that other classes of evil- doers had been brought under the power * ~ refer to the story in the Monasticon, i. 244. See Norman conquest, v. 236. of the law, Henry wished to complete his work by bringing these classes under the power of the law also. So to do was his duty as king, and with the experience of so many ages to enlighten us, we cannot deem that he did other than his duty as king in his attempt to secure the full eccle- siastical independence of England, to put a stop to all appeals, to all reference to a foreign power, in the affairs of his realm. It must always be remembered that, as far as dealings with the court of Rome went, what Henry the Eighth did Henry the Second had tried to Ado. We honor him for the attempt; but we see also that the attempt was premature. The mind of western Europe was not yet advanced enough for its success; Henry could not keep his own position; he forbade appeals and then appealed himself. The system of appeals was itself a novelty; but the new views had grown so fast that it was now their prohibition which had the look of innovation. The constitution about the revenues of vacant bishoprics and abbeys was a device of Randolf Flambard; it could no longer be called an innovation in the days of Henry. The constitution about ecclesiastical elections will be best understood if we bear in mind the won- derful irregularity which had prevailed in the way of appointing bishops and abbots at least down to the settlement between Anselm and Henry the First. It was thor- oughly understood at the time of Thomas s own appointment that the king was the real elector.* Henry the Second, like Henry the Eighth, wished to establish this acknowledged fact somewhat more clearly. One constitution, which generally gets overlooked, but which was not overlooked by Thomass French biographer,t that which forbids the ordination of villains without their lords consent, was founded on a very old piece of canon law which forbade the ordination of slaves in such cases. Granting the existence of slavery, there is nothing unreasonable in such a law. But, as applied to villains, the rule had, though itis quite possible that neither Thomas nor Henry remarked the fact, a special importance at that time when the free churls of an earlier day were fast sink- * Roger, 1o5: Regis voluntas . . . ex qua totam electionis summam pendere oporte~at.~~ t Gamier, 89: Fils ~ vilains ne fust en nui un ordenez Sanz lotrei sun seignur de cui terre ii fu nez. Et dens ~s sun servise nus a tuz apetez! Mieiz valt filz l~ vilain qui eat preuz et senez, Que ne feit gentilz hum failliz et debutez. See Robertson, 99. Stubba: Constitutional History, iii. 367. , 46 MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. ing into villainage * Taken one by one, was led to believe that the king would be the Constitutions, looked at as customs, satisfied with a mere verbal assent, to save cannot be called novelties. The novelty the kings honor, and that the matter would lay in drawing them up in precise language be pressed no further. When he was and in the form of a code, and in calling furthercalled on to set his seal to the doc- on men to promise obedience to them ument, he felt himself, I still venture to under their seals. Things to which people say, entrapped ;in the end he yielded are very well accustomed in practice often and repented. have an air of novelty when they are The successive scenes in the Nprthainp- drawn out in a formal way, still more when ton Council form such a vivid piece of men are called on to pledge themselves to personal history that Mr. Froude has, as it them in a formal way. Each way of look- were, in spite of himseif, allowed some ing at the Constitutions had in it an ele- measure of life to find its way into his nar- rnent of truth. In such cases party spirit rative of them.A Mr. Froude can tell a is commonly satisfied with the e4ement of story; he could have told this story no- truth which is on its own side. A priest bly; even as it is, the master of narrative of the eleventh century, with an element sometimes prevails over the hater of sacer- of truth in his case, was not likely to see dotalism. But the most touching incident the element of truth in his adversarys of all, when the fiery Herbert stirs up the case; he could hardly be expected to do archbishop to fierce action, when the so when an historian of the nineteenth is milder William Fitz-Stephen counsels pa- so carried away that he cannot see the tience, when the kings officer forbids him facts, even when all the truth is on the to speak to his master, and he still point~ other side and not even an element on his in silence to the suffering figure on the own. And yet Herbert of Bosham, Wil- crucifix,* this scene finds no place in ham of New-burgh, the writer of the anon- Mr. Froudes picture. But it is more im- ymous life, hive fully and frankly done portant to notice that again every detail on that justice to Henry, which Mr. Froude, which the issue turns is wrongly told by I will not say of set purpose, but under Mr. Froude. Of the nature of the great the influence of some misguiding and assembly which met at Northampton, Mr. avenging At 6, has refused to do to Thomas. Froude could have had no idea when he To these Constitutions, as every one talked about every~eer and prelate. It knows, Thomas gave a consent of which was the old assembly of England, which he afterwards repehted affected peni- Gilbert Foliot, rhetorically perhaps, speaks tence, Mr. Froude ventures to call it. It of as a gathering of the people, and to is not easy to get at the exact truth of the which at least all the kings tenants-in- matter; for it is not very clear whether chief were summoned.f Becket alone Thomas really set his seal to the Consti- had hesitated to appear. There is no tutions or gave a mere verbal assenttwo evidence that this was so; but, if so it was, it very different things in the morality of his was because he was not summoned in usual age. Some of the biographers look one form as a member of the assen~bly, but was way, some another, while Gilbert Foliot cited to appear before it as a party accused, has a version,t whose seeming differences from all other accounts remind us of the * This is told by William Fitz-Stephen: Post counter-statements of Aischin6s and modicum, idem Willielmus filius Stephani volens loqui archiepiscopo, et a quodam marescallo regis, qui cum D6mosthen6s. Still even his story may virga sua astabat, prohibitus, dicente, quod nullus ei perhaps, by allowing for a little exaggera- loqueretur. Post intervallum, intendens in archiepis- tion, be reconciled with the main facts of copum, erectione oculorum et motu labiorum, signum edt ei, quod crucis su~ exemplum, Ct crucifixi, quam the other stories with no very great trouble. tenebat, imaginem respiceret, et quod in ratione esset; I am not called on to defend the conduct archiepiscopus signum illud intellexit bene, et fecit sic, confortatus in Domino. He adds, that Thomas re- of Thomas from Mr. Froudes very harsh minded him of the incident some years later. It is constructions, all the less as, this time, worth notice that William Fitz-Stephen often mentions sufficient defence aoainst Herbert of Bosham, as well as John of Salisbury and a very Mr. others, in his narrative; but I do not think that Her Froudes worst charges has been made be- bert ever mentions William. forehand by Mr. Robertson4 On the t Generale concilium, says William Fitz-Stephen 215). Omnes qui de rege tenerent in capise mandari whole, it seems most likely that Thomas fecit, says Edward Grim ~ So the French rimer (50) * See Norman Conquest, v. 4754~9. Et prelaz et baruns par ban i fait venir t This is the famous letter printed by Dr. Giles, in Trestuz ceus ke en chef de ml deivent tenir. his collection of Gilbert Foliots Letters, i. 275~ and He does not here use the beautiful word which he has the genuineness of which is discussed by Mr. Robert- in p. 86, son: Becleet, p. 325. See especially Gilberts version Nuls qui tenist del rei sa terre chevairnent, of Thomass conduct, p. 272. I ~ Pp. 5O3~ 104. 1 which would hardly have been wide enough. MR. FROUDES LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 47 him, Edmund after him, assuredly never asked any such question. But then An- selm and Edmund had not been suddenly changed from chancellors into archbish- ops. They had never felt the joys of combat the certarninisgczudui in un- horsing Ingelram of Trie; so they never felt the kindred joy of excommunicating Roger of York and Gilbert of London. Human nature is so complex and contra- dictory that such a joy need not make us think that the tears and the broken voice with which some of Thomass excommu- nications and denum~ciations were pro- nounced * were in any degree counterfeit. A much later prelate has been known to sign himself the afflicted servant of a metropolitan whom he was routing with all the vigor of an unanswerable logic, and to speak doubtless in all sincerity of the pain which he felt in dealing blows which must have been attended by that satisfaction with which human skill cannot help looking on its own successful efforts. No wonder if Pope Alexander, calm, crafty, politic, with his o~vn objects to gain, felt the living saint. an encum brance till he was, so happily for all Alex- anders objects, changed into the dead martyr. We feel indignant with the way in which Alexander takes Thomas up and puts him down again, as suits the purpose of the moment; but we must remember how strange, how unintelligible, how un- toward for his own plans, the stubborn he would call it perverse obstinacy of the En~lishman must have seemed to the wily Italian. And, of all things in the world, when peace had been made, when Thomas came back to his Church, he surely should not have come back amidst a whirlwind of suspensions and excom- munications. However deeply the rights of the Church of Canterbury had been sinned against, that was surely the mo- ment for an amnesty. Moderate men,, warm admirers of his own, saw this fully at the timet So, earlier in his career, his wise and cool-headed friend John of Salis- bury warned him against studies, the canon law above all, which were lilcely to gender to pride and wrath rather than to to answer the suit of John the marshal. John the marshals name does not occur in Mr. Froudes account, where every- thing is wrapped in vague phrases, and where Johns suit is darkly alluded to in one of the vaguest of them. Yet the alleged denial of justice in the archbishops court in the cause of John the marshal was the root of the whole matter. It was solely for his conduct in that cause that Thomas was legally summoned to answer at North- ampton. All Mr. Froudes hints and sur- mises are without authority; they all come from one source, that ludicrous misunder- standing of Edward Grims language about the war of Toulouse of which I spoke long ago. Nothing is plainer than that Henry was now determined to crush Thomas by any means, right or wrong. Up to this point Henry was distinctly in the right. Outwardly he was so on every point; the only question as to his personal integrity in the matter is whether he had any delib- erate share in the process by which Thomas was undoubtedly entrapped at Clarendon. Anyhow he was formally in the right. Thomas had lost his ground by his conduct at Clarendon. But Henry could not keep in the right. Thomas was now his enemy, to be overthrown by any means, fair or foul. All money claims against the chancellor had been released to the archbishop at his consecration. Yet 1-lenry was not ashamed to bring them up a~ain,in order to crush Thomas yet fur- ther. All this shows the same spirit as Henrys later barbarous dealings with the guiltless kindred and friends of Thomas; it shows the spirit of the man who put out the eves of the children of the Welsh princes. Henry was a great king, a great lawgiver~ a ruler who did much for England and whose name England ought to hold in honor. But in a crowd of acts of this kind he showed the blood that was in him. XVe feel that we are dealing with a prince who ruled over England and Normandy, but ~vho was himself neither English nor Norman. In all this we see the man who came of the d~mon stock of Anjou. In the behavior of Thomas, on the other hand, we see throughout the artificial char- acter of his saintship. The thing is over- done ; there is no simplicity about it ; the * Herbert, i. 230 (Robertson, jll. 391): Confestim, fierce fanaticism, the overwrought spirit- omnibus, audientibus et constupentibus, miro modo the morbid craving for compunctus, voce quidem flebili et intentissimo corn ual excitement, passionis affecto in ipsum Anglorum regem Henricurn martyrdom, the evident delight in the nominative comminiatoijum emisit etlictum. Mr. of his spiritual arms, all Froude (LIVINO Ann, No. I733~ p. 546) naturally knows mere wielding nothing of this; but he adds that Thomas was in belong to the man who, honestly no doubt, high delight with himself, which is perfectly possible. but consciously, asked himself at each Excommunicavit is of course throughout translated cursed. stage what was the right thing for a can- I This is strongly put in the anonymous Lambeth didate for saintship to do. Anselm before Life, ii. is6, 119. 48 MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS I3ECKET. meekness and long~suffering.* Yet there was, after all, some meekness and long-suf- fering left in the man who took such an advisers rebukes in thorough good part.t All this part of Thomass career, the hard- est to justify, the most wearisome to study, is one on which I have no call to dwell. Yet even here I must ask for justice. It is hard measure when Mr. Robertson blames Thomas for outspoken English words a~~ainst the corruptions of the Ro- man court which in another mouth might have been hailed as signs of premature Protestantism.~ And though every ex- communication was in some sort a curse, it is an invidious way of putting it, when Mr. Froude always uses the word curse instead of excommunication. And now I have done. I have said enough for my purpose both as to the character of Thomas and as to his treat- ment by Mr. Froude. I conceive that, since~ men began to write history at all, not many so-called historical narratives have been written which have so utterly departed from the truth of fact as Mr. Froudes Life and Times of Thomas Becket. I know one parallel, and only one; that is The Annals of an English * See the letter in Giles, l. 194, of which Mr. Froude (LIvING AGE, No. s~, p. 543) gives a very singular summary. He leaves out all shout the Canon law, and when John says, Expedit conferre de moribus cum aliqun spirituali, cujus exemplo accendamini quam in- spicere et discutere litigiosos articulos swcularium literarum, Ise translates To confer with spiritual men, whose example may influence your devotion, would profit you more than indulging in li/igions steculnilons. It is hard to guess what idea Mr. Froudes readers will form of Thomass litigious speculations. The passage is translated with perfect accuracy by Mr. Robertson: Becket, 167. t It is some comfort that Mr. Froude does not make Thomas curse John of Salisbury for this letter. It seems, from Mr. Rohertsons n6te on the page lust quoted, that he would have found some precedents for so doing. 1 Mr. Robertson (Becket, 236) is much displeased with Thomass certainly very violent letter to the Car- dinal Albert in Giles, Ep. l. ~ The references to Barahbas and the like are the usual commonplaces of the time, which popes down to our own day have always known how to deal hack again. As I have now come to the end, I maymention a passage in a letter in the same collection which has a curious sound in connection with Thomass early plu- ralities. This is the letter of Nicholas de monte Rothomagensi (explained hy Mr. Robertson, 153, as master of a hospital, at Mont. S. Jacques, near Rouen), Giles, Ep. ii. 187. It is the letter which describes the reading of the Constitutions of Claren- don to the empress Matilda. Matilda makes a speech, in which, among the other evils of the time, she men- tions how uni clericulo quatuor ant septem ecciesite tribuuntur ant prnbendte, cum sacri canones uhique manifeste prohibeant, ne clericus in duabus eccieslis connumeretur. The whole letter is remarkable on many grounds, both those which have to do with the history of Thomas, and those which have not. She approved of some of the Constitutions, hut not of others, and she especially disapproved of their being put in the shape of a code. Abbey. I know of no other writings professedly historical in which page fol- lows page in which it is really safe to fol- low the rule of contrary. A large part of Mr. Froudes narrative can only be used negatively: when we have read his ac- count and have not yet turned to his authorities, we do not know how things did happen, but we know one of the ways in which they did not happen. Now, though there are other writers who are very untrustworthy, I know none beside Mr. Froude who has reached such a depth of untrustworthiness as this. The thing is quite distinct from mere ordinary blunders, springing from ordinary igno- rance or ordinary carelessness. Mr. Froude has plenty of them too; but mere blunders of this kind would not have given Mr. Froude that special character which is wholly his own, and which no one else can dispute with him. Mere inaccuracy in detail is quite another matter from the purely fictitious character of large parts of Mr. Froudes story. All inaccuracy is a fault; but some kinds of inaccuracy are not inconsistent with very high merits. The best historian, like the best general, is he who makes fewest mistakes. The difference between the accurate and the inaccurate writer is not that the accurate writer makes no mistakes, but that the accurate writer finds out his own mistakes, while the inaccurate writer leaves his mis- takes to be found out by other people. The all but unfailing accuracy I say all but, in order to be ready for any mischance, rather than from any distinct conviction that the qualification is needed of a Thirlwall or a Stubbs is not given to ordinary men. The rest of us must be prepared to make mistakes, and we must be satisfied if our mistakes are such that we can correct them in our errata or in our second edition. I am now speaking of mistakes strictly so called, as distin- guished from tieories and inferences which may be held to be erroneous. Take the work of Thierry. Never was a work founded on a theory more utterly ground- less; but the mere errors in detail are fewer than might have been looked for, and they are of quite another kind from Mr. Froudes. Thierry uses authorities in the wildest way; he has no notion of the different value of authorities; any book older than the invention, of printing seems to him to be as good as any other book. He takes a piece from one account and a piece from another, and puts them together without seeing that they are in- conslstent with one another. He kills the same man two or three times over by dif- ferent names, or he records his acts in two or three inconsistent ways, if Norman and English writers happen to give his name in different shapes. He colors too; so we all do more or less; but Thierry colors more than most of us. He puts in the word Saxon or Anglais wher- ever, according to his theory, the word Saxon or Ang/ais ought to have been found. Yet, with all this, for nearly every direct statement Thierry has, I will not say authority, but something which he chose to take for authority. We do not find in Thierry page after page which has no likeness to anything earlier than his own book, except the mere physical like- ness of names and words which seems to have been suggested, but only suggested, by the sight of some ancient record. Thierrys book could never be made a useful or safe book by any amount of cor- rection; but the reason lies far more in the general unsoundness of the theory, in the utterly uncritical use of authorities, than in the actual mistakes in detail, though they are not few. Sir Francis Pal- grave again I speak of those of his writings which he had himself corrected is full of theories which I must deem to be, if not erroneous, at least exag,, erated; he is full of inferences from his authori- ties which I cannot see that his authorities bear out. But every word is written from some authority; even if we reject the au- thority, if we refuse to accept the inference from the authority, the authority itself is not misrepresented or made to say the opposite of what it does say. Take again Dean Milman. It might seem a bold thing to call him an inaccurate writer; vet there is a sense in which the charge would not be untrue. No style is more massive and forcible than his; no narra- tive is more weighty and instructive. But go into details; there are many sentences which are not strictly grammatical, and the slips in names, titles, dates, and the like, are endless. But these are not mistakes which touch the essence of the matter ; a few strokes of the pen would set them all right for another edition. I know. not how Dr. Milman wrote; but his text always reads to me like the first draft of a manuscript which the author has not read over. The mistakes are of the kind which are sure to be made in such a draft even by the most accurate of men. Not long ago I was very severely taken to task by a most dis- tinguished German scholar for having quoted Mr. Greens Short History of the English People. I ought not, I was LiVING AGE. VOL. XXIV. 1200 49 told, to have quoted a book which, like Mr. Greens, swarmed with errors. Yet, notwithstanding the distinguished German scholars rebuke, I mean to go on quoting Mr. Greens Short History, ex- cept so far as I may find it more conven- ient to quote the more agreeable print of his longer history. Mr. Greens book at least its first edition did indeed abound in errors, errors xvhich one was amazed to find in a book of such astonish- ing knowledge, insight, and power of writing. But, allowing for what is a wholly different matter, conclusions in which one might not wholly agree, Mr. Greens errors were mainly I will not say always errors of the same kind as Dr. Milmans, errors which a correction here and there would set right. And there are a crowd of writers, some of great popular reputa- tion, against whom accurate scholarship has far heavier charges to bring. There are books, popular books, celebrated books, which are full of errors of a very different kind from the slips of Dr. Mu- man and Mr. Green errors of gross carelessness, gross ignorance. Still, the narratives of which I speak are not purely fictitious; the main outlines pf the real story are there; no amount of correction could make the narratives really good, but a careful improvement in detail might make them fairly trust- worthy. Mr. Froude stands alone as the one writer of any importance of whose writings one can say that on them ally process of correction would be thrown away. The evil is inherent, it is inborn. It is not mere coloring; it is not mere mistaken inference; it is not mere mis- takes in detail, however gross the care- lessness or i norance xv hich they might imply. It is the substitution, through page after page, of one narrative for another the substitution of a story which bears no likeness to the ori~inal story except that the same actors appear in both. When such narratives as that of Mr. Froude appear under the garb of history, it becomes the duty of those who have really studied the times which he ventures to touch to put in their protest in the name of historic truth. I leave others to protest against Mr. Froudes treatment of the sixteenth cen- tury. I do not profess to have mastered those times in detail from original sources. I have however been often led to particu- lar points in those times from various local and special quarters; and when I have been so led, I have always found Mr. Froudes treatment of the matter which I had in hand both inadequate and maccu- MR. FROUDE S LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS BECKET. 50 rate. But in the twelfth century I feel myself at home, only less at home than if Mr. Froude had come and sought me out in the eleventh. If history means truth, if it means fairness, if it means faithfully re- porting what contemporary sources record and drawing reasonable inferences from their statements, then IVIr. Froude is no his- torian. The Life and Times of Thomas Becket, whatever it may be, is not a his- tory; because history implies truth, and the Life and Times of Thomas Becketis not truth but fiction. It does not record the life of a chancellor and archbishop of the twelfth century, but the life of an imag- inary being in an imaginary age. It may be a vigorous and telling party pamphlet it is not a narrative of facts. Mr. Froude is a man of undoubted ability, of undoubt- ed power of writing. If there is any branch of science or learning in which accuracy of statement is a matter of indif- ference, in which a calm putting forth of statements which are purely arbitrary can be accepted in its stead, in that branch of science or learning Mr. Froudes un- doubted ability, his gift of description and narrative, may stand him in good stead. But for the writing of his tory, while those gifts are precious, other gifts are more precious still. In that field before all things truth beareth away the victory; and among those whom truth has enrolled in her following as her men, among those who go forth to do battle for her as their sovereign lady, Mr. Froude has no part nor lot. It may be his fault; it may be his misfortune; but the fact is clear. History is a record of things which hap- pened; what passes for history in the hands of Mr. Froude is a writing in which the things which really happened find no place, and in which their place is taken by the airy children of Mr. Froudes imag- ination. EDWARD A. FREEMAN. From The Nineteenth Century. THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. THE Chinese are, by common consent of all Western nations, pronounced to be an eccentric and impracticable race. And not without reason; for, in nearly every char- acteristic which marks a people, they seem to be hopelessly antagonistic to nations occupying the western hemisphere, and usually included in the conventional term civilized. Oil and water would seem to be scarcely less reconcilable to each other than is the Chinaman to the European or American; and the greater the opportuni- ties of intercommunication the less they appear likely to harmonize. Yet the Chi- nese do not, like most dark-skinned rates, flinch or degenerate in the contact. On the contrary; homogeneous, sturdy, clan- nish, and enterprising, they not only hold their own, hand to hand and foot to foot, with more favored races, but compete with them successfully upon Chinese soil, and bid fair to wrest from them the prizes of art, labor, and commerce even in their own territories. As a natural result, Chinese immigration hasAbecome a red rag to Aus- tralians and Americans alike, and the ques- tion of putting a decided stop to it, or so dealing with it as to keep it within man- ageable bounds, forces itself with daily increasing weight upon the attention of the several administrations concerned. Summarize the charges brought against Chinese immi ~ rants by those most nearly interested, namely, British colonist and United States citizen, and these may be stated as follows: They are pronounced to be the scum of the population of the worst districts of China; they migrate without their families, and the few women they import are shipped under a system of slavery for the vilest purposes; they intro- duce their own 1izzrre habits and ideas, and studiously eschew all sociability with colonists of other races; they outrage pub- lic opinion by hideous immoralities; they ignore or defy judicial and municipal insti- tutions; they form secret and treasonable associations amongst them~elv~s; they manage to afford, by their low, miserable style of living, to undersell and underwork white men as mechanics, laborers, and ser- vants; they fail to take root in the soil, making it their aim always to carry home their gains to the old- country, and even to have their bones conveyed back thither for interment; in a word, so far from seek- ing to become colonists or citizens in the true sense of the terms, ~nd striving to enrich or benefit the country of their tem- porary adoption, they are mere~ vagrants and adventurers, and that of a kind posi- tively hurtful to the general welfare and progress. Some of these accusations are serious enough, and the remainder of the traits as- cribed derive an importance which they would not otherwise possess from mere association with a race which has unfortu- nately rendered itself obnoxious. The object of this paper is to inquire how far the generally received opinion is to be ac- cepted as correct, and whether any, and, if so, what, steps can be talen to remove or THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. 5 modify any difficulties which may actually lie in the way of acclimatizing (so to speak) the Chinese upon a foreign soil with ad- vantage to themselves and to those amongst whom they settle. It will be pre- sumed, as a matter of course, that the Chinaman has as much right to emigrate, and claim for his motto the maxim Live and let live, as any other denizen of this earths surface. Any one thinking other- xvise must seek elsewhere than in this paper for a refutation of his dog-in-the- manger doctrine. In dealing with the charges brought against the Chinese immigrant it would seem only necessary to give attention to the more material ones of vagrancy, immo- rality and insubordination. As regards those other traits which derive their impor- tance from association rather than, from any inherently objectionable features, it will suffice if their influence be not lost sight of ~vhen the question of remedial measures comes to be considered. If clan- nishness, patriotism, persistence in the habits and ideas to which one has been brought up, frugality, the desire to acquire money in order to lay it out at home, and a settled determination to lay ones bones on native soil, can be characterized as crimes or objectionable traits, then many are the Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, and Americans, who cannot afford to throw stones at the heathen Chinee. First, as regards the character of va- grancy ascribed to the Chinese immigrants as a class. This is to a certain extent merited, and it is a difficulty which, for some time to come at any rate, must beset the question more or less, seeing that it is of necessity chiefly the poor and wretched, who, finding existence at home impossible or intolerable, seek to better themselves by going abroad. But it is by no means the fact that it is solely the scum of the Chi- nese population who emigrate. It de- pends much upon the part of country from which they may hail. The chief, indeed the only, provinces whose populations have thus far shown a tendency to over- flow seaward, are those of Canton, Fukien, and Chekeang, and the principal points of embarkation are (commencing from the west and going northward and eastward) Haenan, Canton and Macao, Swatow and Chaochow, Amoy, Chinchew, and, to a lim- ited extent, Wenchow and Ningpo. The Haenan people make their way principally to the Straits of Malacca and that neigh- borhq~d, where they find ready and useful occupation as domestic servants. The province of Canton and some of its con- terminous districts are drained through Canton and Macao, whence a vast num- her of mechanics and petty tradesmen yearly go southwards to the straits and Australia, and eastwards to California; and these ports have been the chief centres of the abominable traffic in coolies, which, fed as it has been by the refuse of a redundant population, has given to Chi- nese emigration the low character which is now universally attached to it. Swato~v, Amoy, and Chinchew, although likewise outlets of late for coolies, ~vere points of escape for the adventurous Chinaman long before the country was opened up by treaties, or coolie emigration was rendered practicable by the complicity of the for- eigner; and it was from these districts principally that in those early times junks carried away the tradesmen, mechanics, agriculturists, fishermen, sailors, and huck- sters who had already formed large and thriving communities in Java, Singapore, Malacca, Penang, and a hundred other places in the eastern seas, when English guns first woke up the echoes upon the Chinese coast. Thus tradition and asso- ciation have alike helped to maintain the character of the emigrants who hailed from these particular districts, and to this day they constitute the most respectable type of the migrating class, and are per- haps as little open to the charge of be- ing the scum of the population as any emi- grants in the world. From this it will be seen that whilst the Pefuse of the Chinese population does to a great extent foul the stream of emigration goin~.. on from the Chinese shores, there is nevertheless in it a vast, if not preponderating, element of that class who form the backbone of trade, and have as much interest in lead- ing a quiet, well-ordered life as any colonist who leaves the shores of Great Britain for the purpose of bettering his prospects. The notable immorality ascribed to the Chinese immigrant comes next to be con- sidered. That the Chinese are without the vices common to mankind, no one can for a moment pretend to maintain; but the question is, are they so specially and hope- lessly addicted to the grosser forms of immorality as to render it inexpedient to encourage their introduction amongst Christian peoples? This query may safely be answered in the negative. Morality, although, properly speaking, a virtue hedged about with unmistakable limits, is practically and taking the world as it goes, at best but an elastic term. There is not a single nation, be it ever so Christian 52 THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. and civilized, in which immortality is not indulged in to a greater or less degree, and in which its practice is not tolerated by society so long as it is not obtruded too glaringly upon the public notice. Even religious and highly moral England has much to deprecate in this particular, and, if one may judge by what is to be seen every day in the streets, theatres, refresh- ment bars and rooms, places of entertain- ment, and other public resorts in the principal towns, the evil, instead of dimin- ishing, seems to keep pace with the high- pressure rate of advance which marks every phase of life. But China is heathen, and, taking her with this qualification, it may be safely asserted that her people act more strictly up to their limited lights, and that their immoralities are fewer and far less obtruded upon the notice, than is the case in countries which have been vastly more privileged in the way of teaching, examples, and opportunities. It has been too much the habit with some travellers, newspaper correspon- dents, and other hasty observers, who have ventured to write about China, to pander to the preconceived notions of their read- ers by mocking at the pretended mental and moral characteristics of the Chinese, and representing that, with all their loud talking about codes and maxims of re- nowned sages, they are, practically and without qualification, a dishonest, treach- erous, cowardly, cruel, and degraded peo- ple. But it is as false as it is unmanly so to picture them. As a matter of fact, and making due allowance for the proportion of evil which must exist in every com- munity, they regard the writings of their sages with all the reverence which we give to Bibles and liturgies in the West, and in the main carry out the excellent princi- ples therein laid down most strictly in their social economy and personal rela- tions. How otherwise could vast com- munities exist, as they do in Chinas thou- sand cities, person and property secure, peace, happiness, and plenty universal, education encouraged, local and general trade flourishing, business contracts sa- cred, poverty exceptional, and vice only to be found if sought out in its own special haunts? It is true, famine and flood periodically devastate huge tracts of coun- try, rebellion decimates whole provinces from time to time, official rapacity and cru- elty find their victims, alas too frequent- ly; cases of robbery, murder, infanti- cide, embezzlement, abduction, and other crimes are not uncommon ; gambling- houses, brothels, and opium-dens thrive, and are winked at by the executive; and opium-smoking has its votaries in the most respectable family circles. But all these blots and blisters upon society are, in China as elsewhere, exceptions, not the rule; and they are apt to attract the obser- vation of the superficial traveller or book- maker, while he shuts his eyes to, or purposely ignores, the background of the picture, where may be seen the Chinaman as he is at home, an intelligent, patient, hardworking, frugal, temperate, domestic, peace-loving, and law-abiding creature. Thus much fo~ the Chinese from a col- lective point of view. What this paper, however, has more directly to do with is the low character of that portion of the people which emigrate. Here circum- stances and associations have to be taken into consideration, and the two facts al- ready noticednamely, that it is chiefly the poor and wretched who leave the coun- try, and that no respectable females accompany the men go far to explain how it comes to pass that they appear to be addicted to so many and such serious vices. This tendency, however, seems to have been more markedly observed in the case of those Chinese who have migrated to San Francisco, and to a certain extent also in the Australian communities. It certainly cannot be said to characterize those who have found their way into the Malayan archipelago, owing no doubt to the fact that, finding themselves among kindred dark-skinned races, they have in most cases married, settled do~vn, and become serviceable members of society. Their successful introduction amongst such races ~vould go far to prove, at any rate, that,given the necessary encourage- ment and protection, as well as reasona- ble facilities for attaching themselves to the soil, they are capable of becoming as con- tented and useful xvorkers as they are in their own country. As regards the insubordination and im- patience of restraint ascribed to the Chinese immigrant, there is also some- thing to be said both for and against. A. frequent and well-founded occasidn for complaint against the Chinese on this score has been their tendency to form secret associations, which, originally con- stituted in China for political purposes, are apt, when entered into abroad, to de- generate into conspiracies to resist unpop- ular government measures, or to deterr mine disputes between clans or factions by resort to force. In fact, the instant and implacable severity with which any at- tempt to form a hoel or secret society in THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. China is met by the executive, however self or his neighbors with any obligations neglectful or venal otherwise, and the com- beyond what may be needful to keep parative immunity from interference which body and soul together. Such a thing as such associations have usually enjoyed an association for keeping streets clean elsewhere, except when brought into and in repair, facilitating traffic, improving notoriety by some overt act of resistance the drainage, securing general comfort and to lawful authority, have had the effect of health, and otherwise promoting the pub- fostering the growth of the evil amongst lic welfare, he is not accustomed to, and Chinese communities abroad; and until it is difficult to force upQn his comprehen- the same precautions are taken by foreign sion. No doubt he carries this prejudice governments to check the tendency in the with him into foreign lands, and thinks to bud, as is the practice in China, these so- live free of such superfluous luxuries, as cieties must always form a hot-bed of in- he does in his own country. But the trigue and machination against the public remedy of this weakness is a mere ques- weal. There seems to be but one remedy tion of time and effort. It is not so very for the nuisance, and that is to prohibit long since Western people were content by the severest penalties the formation by to exist amidst surroundings fully as the Chinese of any clubs or associations wretched, filthy, and obnoxious as any- whatever whose books and proceedings thing now observable in Chinese cities; are not open to periodical supervision by and the reformation which has since the police authorities. Apart from this proved possible in their case gives reason proneness to club together for defensive to hope that the Chinese are not incapable purposes, and which may be ascribed to of a similar regeneration, could similar in- governmental maladministration, rather ducements and opportunities be afforded than to any impatience of restraint in- them. A proof of what is practicable in herent in the Chinese character, there is this respect may at this moment be quoted every evidence to show that the China- in the Chinese quarter of the foreign set- man, in his own country and in his normal tlement of Shanghai, ~vhere the arrange- condition, is willingly submissive to con- ments for the public welfare, supported stituted authority, and gladly accepts its and aided to a great extent by the Chinese obligations and restraints, so long as his population, would do credit to many a rights as a man and a citizen are not un- European town. reasonably entrenched upon. Indeed, in- Assuming the premises above set forth stances may be pointed out, all over China, to be sound namely, that the Chinese as in which large villages, which in Europe a race are not hopelessly degraded nor in- would rank as towns, pass a peaceful subordinate to reasonable restraint, that and unobtrusive existence, free from the on the contrary they show every evidence, supervision of either civil or military offi- when in their own country, of being an cials, and governed solely by a system of industrious, intelligent, frugal, temperate, ancients or elders, by whom every dis- peace-loving, and orderly people, and that pute or difficulty is easily adjusted. that portion of them which emigrate do Under this category may be ranged not as a rule come from amongst the dregs another characteristic noticeable in the of the population the question very Chinese immigrant, namely, his contempt naturally presents itself, how it comes to for, and resistance to, municipal arrange- pass that these people, when they go ments for the public good. This is a abroad, become metamorphozed into such feature of social economy quite foreign to vicious, obnoxious members of society as a Chinamans ideas of what is necessary to be positively hurtful to any community or expedient in the general interest. In amongst whom they settle. The reason is China, if a charitable or wealthy individual obvious to any one who has studied the expends his spare funds in a public work, Chinese in their own country, and is not or if the government, or a club, or an as- inoculated by party or national prejudice. sociation of householders more immedi- It is that the many commendable traits ately interested take upon themselves to by which their character is marked have erect a bridge, pave a roadway, widen a not been sufficiently understood or encour- street, improve the drainage, and such like, aged, whilst their bad points, developed the general public gratefully accepts the unfortunately by adventitious and unfavor- boon, and avail itself of the advantages able circumstances, have not been dealt afforded. But, failing the occurrence of with in the manner best calculated to work any such fortunate contingency, the China- an effectual remedy. Misappreciation and man is content to take matters as he finds mismanagement have in fact been to a them, and never dreams of burdening him- great extent, if not altogether, the true 54 THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. source of all our troubles with Chinese immigrants. And how can it be expected to be otherwise, when a government un- dertakes suddenly to bring within the scope of its legislative enactments tens and hundreds of thousands of an entirely alien race, without having them in any way rel)resented in the executive, or without taking the precaution to see that some one member of the ruling power, at any rate, is familiar with the language, customs ,and habits of thought of the people governed? A move in this direction has fortunately been made of late in Hongkong and Sin- gapore, and with on the whole favorable results, considering the partial nature of the measures adopted. But until this re- form was introduced, and as is even now the case in Australia, the West Indian islands and the United States, it may safely be affirmed that there was no one in official circles who comprehended one word of the spoken or written Chinese lan- guage, and that the members of the gov- ernment one and all were utterly ignorant of the peculiarities of the people whom they were set to govern. Here at once would be a fruitful source of mutual mis- understandings between the governing and governed, leading inevitably to exac- tion and harsh treatment on the one side, and to shrinking, isolation, discontent, and despair on the other. Happily there seems to be a remedy for this untoward condition of affairs, and one not beyond the reach of accomplishment, if only the proper course be taken to adopt and apply it. Much may be effected in the first place by efforts to improve the type and condition of the Chinese who emigrate, and by encouraging female emi- gration in the case of those countries where the Chinaman finds himself thi-own among peoples of alien race to himself, as, for instance, in the British colonies and western American states. This result can only be attained by international arrange- rnent with the Chinese government, and, more than one Western power being con- cerned, it would be a happy thing if con- certed action could be brought to bear so as to secure unity of purpose in the gen- eral interest. The Chinese government, although always intolerant of the efflux of their people from their own dominions, have of late learned to accept the inevi- table, and to show an interest in the wel- fare of their expatriated subjects, as has been evinced by the commission sent a few years ago to South America to inquire into the condition and treatment of their people there, and by their negotiations with more than one foreign government with a view to the legislation of emigra- tion and its conduct upon humane and properly recognized principles. Nothing can have a more mischievous effect than the attempts which have been made both in America and Australia to legislate upon the subject independently of the Chinese government, and to place restrictions upon the influx of Chinese which kre utterly opposed to treaty stipulations, ai~d which foreign governments would certainly never tolerate in the case of their own subjects resorting to chinese territory. Then, again, an entirely different system will need to be introduced in respect to the treatment of the Chinese who settle upon foreign shores. Every administration, within whose jurisdiction Chinese happen to place themselves, should lose no time in supplying itself, as a sine gzu2 non, with respectable interpreters, competent both to speak and write the language such men, in fact, as those who, under the en- lightened policy of the British Foreign Office, have done so much of late years to smooth away the asperities of our rela- tions with China itself men who, on the one hand, can, by their experience of the Chinese character, pilot the government into a discreet threading of its many intri- cacies, and on the other, by their familiar- ity with the language, court the trust and confidence of the people themselves. Another most effectual method of con- ciliating the Chinese, and inducing content in their minds whilst under an alien rule, would be to hold out encouragements to individuals from amongst their own num- ber to merit the distinction of taking a part, however limited, in the administra- tion of their affairs. The Chinese are, as has been advanced at the commencement of this paper, an eccentric people. Their mental architecture is so entirely different from that of arfy other race as to be sim- ply unique, and to attempt to lead them to a result by any other process of thought or argument than that to which they have been accustomed is to court almost cer- tain failure. Hence the wisdom of humor- ing them to a certain extent; and this is nowhere more necessary than when deal- ing with them from an administrative point of view. The Dutch, with their usual acuteness, have detected this peculiarity, and met it in Java and their other Eastern possessions by appointing what are called ca~i/an Cheena over certain sections of population, a species of small court magistrates, in fact, to whom are relegated all cases, civil and criminal, of a petty na THE CHINESE AS COLONISTS. 55 ture arising amongst their several districts, which theoretically shQuld be his. But the and who are responsible to the higher white man may well be content to assert courts for the mode in which these are the ascendency which a more advanced dealt with. Important cases, as a matter state of civilization and intelligence has of course, are treated by the Dutch an- secured him, and to take the lead politi- thorities; and a system of appeal, it is cally of his darker brother. There can be presumed, exists, so as to obviate corrup- no justice in his attempting to appropri- tion or injustice. The system is found to ate likewise the loaves and fishes that work well, and the Chinese like it; and should be common to all, or to grudge to example might with advantage be taken the colored man the fruits of labor earned from it to introduce something of the same by the sweat of his own brow. If the in- co-ordinate jurisdiction in other foreign terests of the two races clash, or harmony states resorted to by Chinese. Could of sentiment and action be~ found difficult, ameliorations of the kind described be it is for the government of the country once introduced, no long time would concerned to meet the case by judicious elapse before the results would show them- legislation, which shall insure to every selves in the increased attraction to for- class the enjoyment of its reasonable and eign shores and happy settlement there of legitimate rights. For the masses to in- a people who, if properly understood and terfere, and to say, This or that shall not dealt with, are certainly capable of proving be so long as it does not suit us, is to the most tractable and useful colonists in throw contempt on all government, and the world, sooner or later to bring about a condition But, it may be argued, it does not suf- of anarchy dangerous alike to all. The fice merely to establish the fact that the latest accounts from San Francisco report Chinaman is capable of becoming a useful that vast bands of working men have asso- colonist if properly understood and dis- ciated themselves by oath to stop the creetly dealt with. There remains yet the immigration of the Chinese altogether, and, difficulty of reconciling the white man to if needs be; to destroy any Pacific mail the damaging competition in the labor steamer that attempts to introduce them. market to which he is subjected by the But let the case be reversed, and let a presence of the Chinaman, be he ever so Chinese mob attempt such a high-handed quiet, good, and useful. The experience measure as against American or other for- of all modern colonization goes to prove eigners arriving upon their native shore that the white working man cannot and will an outrage they would be quite capable of not tolerate the having to measure himself if driven thereto in retaliation and what against colored labor. Not only does it would be the consequence? Treatyrights inevitably drive him out of the market, but would be instantly quoted against the dis- its mere introduction amongst a commu- turbers of the peace, and the inevitable nity of white men seems to have th~ direct gunboat would forthwith appear on the effect of paralyzing their energies and scene to maintain these rights by force of creating a lower scale of society with which arms. The white man, in fact, considers the white working man can have no sym- himself entitled to bring China and her pathy, be he ever so poor and starving; commercial resources under tribute to his and the result is that he either .takes his untiring enterprise and greed of gain, and place above the black and employs him to the least he can do is to tolerate the ad- work for him, or he sinks to something mission into his own lands of Chinese below and becomes demoralized and lost, whose object in resorting thereto is not so This may be all very true, but it is open much to acquire wealth as to find bread for to question whether, as a consequence, the their daily needs. white man possesses the right to exclude The question very naturally suggests the colored man from sharing with him itself, what is then to be the future of the any portion of Gods earth, or competing Chinese in Australia and America? It is with him in the great struggle for life difficult to make a forecast on this head which is the lot of humanity. A curse of with any approach to precision in view of servitude seems indeed to have been placed the ever-varying phases which mark the by an inscrutable Providence upon the col- political atmosphere in these days. In the ored races, and however philanthropists United States especially paroxysms of po- may claim that the colored man is by na- litical fever so continually agitate individ- ture the equal of the white man, yet there nal states, and even attimes the nation at can be no doubt that the time is still far large, that he would be a bold man who distant when the colored man can fit him- would presume to predict what will be the self for the equality political and social condition of the country or any section of THE RELATION OF MEMORY TO WILL. the population a hundred or even fifty years hence. One thing, however, it would seem allowable to assert without risk of mistake. The Chinaman is by tra- dition and education a monarchist, regard- ing autocracy as the only reasonable form of government; and he thrives best under its sway, so long as his just rights are respected. For the elective franchise he is entirely unfit, nor would he care for the privilege of exercising it if thrust upon him. After generations of association with white races and experience of the advan- ta~es of freedom of thought, the case might be different; but until his nature is materially modified, and the scope of his aims and wants becomes more extended, he progresses more safely led than lead- ing. It follows that, whatever may be the political changes that may transpire in the countries to which Chinamen resort, their condition will be the happiest for them- selves and the safest for the country con- cerned if they are dealt with as a subject people, and, as has already been remarked, as a community possessing abnormal char- acteristics, and therefore needing other- wise than ordinary treatment. The preceding remarks represent the opinion of many who have been able to jud~e of the Chinese merely from observa- tion of them in their own country, and apart from foreign associations and influ- ences. But, as a matter of fact, little or no attention has been given to their con- dition and character as colonists abroad beyond the one-sided and sweeping con- demnation of them which it has been the purpose of this paper to deprecate; and until full information upon these heads can he obtained, it may be to a certain extent unsafe to come to a definite conclusion as to the proper course to be put-sued in deal- ing with the case. A very effective method of acquiring this information, and one that would have a most happy effect in concili. ating and satisfying the Chinese immi- grants themselves, would be to appoint a public commission of responsible persons, some of whom should speak and write the Chinese language, to visit all the places resorted to by Chinese, and to make it their duty to ascertain from the people themselves what grievances they have to complain of, what difficulties lie in the way of their harmonious incorporation with other colonists, and generally what reme- dial measures the circumstances of the case demand. Great Britain, as having an important interest in the results of such an inquiry, and as a power which is al- ways found in the Van where a policy of progress, enlightenment, and humanity is concerned, might very well take upon her- self this duty, and there can be no doubt that she would have the grateful co-opera- tion of the Chinese government and people in the undertaking, as well as the sympa- thy of other nations interested in the satis- factory solution of the problem. W~ H. MEDHURsY. From The Spectator. THE RELATIOI~ OF MEMORY TO WILL. AMID all the varied general interest of the great cause cdUrd of our day the Tichborne trial perhaps the most dis- tinct and important was the light thrown by it on peoples different ideas of what it was possible to remember and to forget. When the trial was under general discus- sion, the contrast, or possibly the resem- blahce, between the powers of oblivion demanded for the claimant, and those which A and B ~vere conscious of possess- ing, were matters of frequent mention, and most of us gained some knowledge of the different distance to which thepast recedes in different lives. Hardly any knowledge can be more interesting or more fruitful, whether we consider its bearing on the moral atmosphere of the persons thus dif- ferently affected, or on the suggestion so expressively conveyed in the German name for memory, Erinnerung (the inward faculty). Plutarch, in an attempt to vindi- cate the possible knowledge of the future, by showing the mysterious element in our knowledge of the past, calls memory the sight of the things that are invisible, and the hearing of the things that are silent and a thinker, whose great metaphysical achievement was almost avowedly the ob- literation from our mental inventory of all those powers which are supposed to deal with the invisible, recalls this description, in his confession that the analysis which reduced every other source of apparently ultimate knowledge to a trick of associa- tion was checked when we came to that within us which bore witness to a real past; and the concession that in this case we do know what we cannot prove, seems to us a pregnant one. How we know that these dim pictures on our walls at once faint and indelible are the work of another artist than ii~agination, must, J. S. Mill allows, be a question as vain as how we know that the things around us are real. But it is under its personal aspect that we would speak of memory to-day. THE RELATION OF MEMORY TO WILL. 57 Apart from some such test as the Tich- borne trial, we are curiously ignorant of the different aspects of the past to different minds. One would have expected, per- haps, that we should discern any idiosyn- cracy in this region clearly enough. A good memory may be avowed without vanity, and a bad one confessed without~ shame, while the exigencies of practical life are continually confuting or confirming the claim or the confession. But as for the test at all events, and we suspect as to the self-revd lation, it belongs exclusively to the recent past, and concerns rather what we should call the materials for mem- ory than memory. A man would say he had a bad memory if he forgot to call for an important letter at the post-office, but there is nothing in such a fact as this to throw any light on his relation to the past. While he is chafing at his forgetfulness, the words even the insignificant words of those who have been for more than a generation unseen among men, may be distinct in his inward ear; he may see the flower-beds whence he plucked nosegays with tiny fingers, and feel again the push of a door that taxed his childish strength, on the threshold of a house whose very bricks and mortar have long since been mingled with the dust. And on the other hand, the most unique and one of the long- est lives we ever knew the life richest i.n material of the knowledge that would have found an eager listener was obscured by the profusion of detail in the near past; far off, moved figures known to the histo- rian, but close at hand there were so many of the doings and arrangements of con- temporaries, remembered with a really sur- prising accuracy, that a glimpse at the giants who moved on our sphere when the century was young ~vas hardly discernible through the cobwebs. Of this memory for the distant, we may almost say, in the exaggeration permissible to any short utter- ance on such a subject, that it differs, with different persons, as a window by day dif- fers from a window by night. To some persons, hardly anything within the room is so distinct as its prospect. Those far- off hills, that winding road, that distant indication of busy life attracts their eye from open book, or pressing letter, or pic- ture of some far fairer scene within. To others, the past is much what the outlook becomes when the candles are lit. A hasty glance in that direction reveals nothing but the reflection of the observer on the win- dow-pane, and if he opens the window, and makes an effort to look out, still nothing is visible but the dim outline of things, close at hand. Yet it is likely enough that for all practical exigencies one of the last class may have a good memory, and one of the first a bad one. In this region our very silence is mis- leading. We are silent about what we have forgotten. We are silent also about what we remember most profoundly. Rien tie se ressembie (omme le neant et la profondeur. We are apt to make mis- takes both ways. Sometimes we take the silence of oblivion for the silence of pro- found and overpowering recollection, some- times our mistake is ~n the opposite direc- tion; and it is impossible to say which error is the commonest, for the one occurs when the deep mind judges the shallow, and the other when the shallow mind judges the deep. At all events, this misconcep- tion is one of the many causes which hide from us the meaning of memory in one mind and in another, and thus curtain off from us the moral background of every life. - We could be far more nearly just to each other, if we realized that with some per- sons the past years remain, and with oth- ers they depart. Take, for instance, the new light thus thrown on the sin of xvhich, perhaps, we can least bear to believe our- selves guilty. Ingratitude, in the sense of an opportunity deliberately neglected to repay a great benefit, we should hope was a crime as rare as it is repulsive, but in the sense of a half-voluntary oblivion of small benefits, of the importance of which it is possible to take very different views, we do not think it is at all uncommon. Now look at it in the light of this intellect- ual difference between man and man. You are surprised that So-and-so shows no recollection of the kindly dealings which, having happened at a time when he was nobody, and you were somebody, sure- ly deserved to be remembered. No intel- lectual explanation can exonerate one who has for~otten a kindness; still it makes a great difference, surely, if the ungrateful person has forgotten everything else that happened at the same time, wrongs to him- self included. To him, the long-ago means something it is an effort to see. To you, it may mean something it is an effort not to see. You, perhaps, are imag- ining him to see these past actions of yours, and choose to ignore them, while it needs as great an effort on his part to recall them (to return to our first figure) as to look out from a lighted room. And his loss is not pure loss. His shod memory may improve his relations with his fellow-men as often as it injures them; indeed, men and THE RELATION OF MEMORY TO WILL. women being what they are, it is to be however ardently we may wish that such feared rather more often. A generous and such things had not been, it is won- person dismisses the slight of yesterday to derfully difficult even to desire that they oblivion and recalls the kindnesses that should be forgotten. Whilst the past enriched his far-off youth, whatever be the seems a part of oneself, that clinging to medium thro4gh which he habitually views life which belongs to our whole being the past. But we shall never know the makes itself manifest in the recoil from difficulty in either action without some oblivion, even with regard to what we reference to this medium, and by the same would so gladly have avoided altogether. principle, we cannot, without such a refer- Oblivion is near enough; we approach ence to it, rightly jud~e him who forgets that time, to borrow the fine, though what he ought to remember, or who re- rather confused, image of Locke, when members what he ought to forget. our memory is to resemble the tombs to Nevertheless, the ought remains, which we are bastening, in which, though The very illustrations which bring home the marble and brass remain, yet the in- to us the difficulty of discarding or retain- scriptions are effaced,. and the imagery ing the past, impress on us also its aspect withers away. We will not go half-way as a part of duty, and while we shall best to meet the chill shadow; even pain is understand other lives by realizing its dif- less an object of dread than the loss~ of ficulty, it is a constant sense of its possi- something that has become a part of our bihity which we need in order to mould our intellectual being. own. That any one ougist to remember, It is true, there is in the effort to forget, indeed, and that recollection therefore is, something that seems a sort of intel- to some extent, a matter of will,.we admit lectual suicide. Nevertheless, there is a every time we blame a child or a servant sense in which forgetting, we believe, is for forgetting a message, whatever diffi~ as much of a duty as remembering. There culty we may find in carrying out our own is such a mental attitude, however difficult view consistently. But can we say that it be to describe, and though it is impos- the possibility of remembering at will in- sible to give it a single name, as turning volves the possibility of forgetting at will? our back on the past, or on part of the Because we may make a successful effort past. Duty has no more despotic claim to resist sleep, does it follow that we may on any part of our being than on that make a successful effort to resist wakeful- faculty which surrenders its possessions ness? There is a natural fitness in effort to oblivion. Doubtless it is impossible to to produce recollection, is there not also a put. into words the kind of effort a man natural fitness, in effort to prevent obliv- makes when he wills to do something which ion? Does not the very desire to forget, will, apparently, has no tendency to imply that ~ve are doomed vividly and per- achieve. Or rather, perhaps, the effort to manently to remember? This question move the will is a thincr indescribable in was, in fact, one of the great points of words. How can I make myself cease to interest in the famous trial to which we wish what I do wish? It must be possi- have alluded. The possibility of obliter- ble, for it is sometimes the demand of ating a painful past from the mind was the conscience. The past must remain, but plea put forward on the part of the person we may open the door to so.mething that who had, it was asserted, voluntarily re- hides it. The well-known and often re- duced certain parts of his life to a blank. peated condemnation of the Bourbons, This possibility, said the chief justice, that they had learnt nothing and forgotten in that masterly summing-up which most nothing, commemorates the general im- of its readers must have wished they had pression, which we believe to be a pro- made their exclusive source of knowledge foundly true one, that a man must forget of the history, will not be confirmed by in order to remember. There are some the experience of most people. How things in the history of every man which many, indeed, must have wondered that he must cease to contemplate, in ordet- to any other suggestion had not been Inade see anything else. XVe remember hearing in preference to one that defied all their the biography of one eminent lawyer by most vivid experience, that any one another criticised by a third as rendered should forget a part of his youth because nugatory by the constant reminder, I It was painful. You might as well sug- have been very much ill-used by him. gest that a speech had been unheard by The biographer needed to forget one fact him because of the loud voice of the about his hero, in order to state clearly speaker. And what is surprising is that, anything else about him. The necessity GARDEN-PARTIES. 59 is seen most clearly in the lives of the tures. This is what he says of a garden- great, hut it is common to them and their party, in the hot, bright days towards humblest fellow-men, the end of June: We believe that hardly anything would On such a day do more to open springs of sympathy, and These folk among the trellised roses lay. close those of bitterness, than the recog Nor did the garden lack for younger folk, nition of our responsibility for what we Who cared no more for burning summer s remember. That it should cease to be yoke true that Than the sweet breezes 6f the April-tide; Each day brings its petty dust, But through the thick trees wandered far and Our soon-choked hearts to fill, wide And we forget because we must, From sun to shade, mid shade to sun again. And not because we will, Both youths and maidens; and beneath their this, we believe, would bring about such feet a transformation of the moral nature as The grass seemed greener, and the flowers ~vould resemble, or rather as would sup- more sweet ply, new motives for all strenuous action, Unto the elders as they stood around. new dissuasion from all useless thought. We do not offer this as a complete de- It would be something like choosing from scription of a garden-party, but it is a out the whole circle of our acquaintance delightful sketch, in which no essential the wisest and best to be our daily corn point is omitted. We have been obliged panions, and so occupying our attention to cut out a few references to customs with their large and fruitful interests, that which are somewhat out of fashion. The all that was small, or futile, or bitter should, elders have perhaps grown wiser since under this beneficent encroachment, wither those days, and they do not usually lie away of itself. about on the grass while the young people take their gentle exercise. And certainly they do not employ these leisure moments in crowning themselves with flowers. From The Spectator. Many of them are quite as fond of telling GARDEN-PARTIES. stories now as then, but the practice does CAN it be possible that all writers of not, as a rule, attract the younger folk poetry and fiction are leagued together from distant corners of the garden. Still, to deceive mankind in the matter of gar- allowing for these little differences, the den-parties? The idea of such a con- picture, as far as it goes, is charming. spiracy must be a painful one, but the Details may be wanting, but we have most unsuspicious of men may well ask here all that is absolutely necessary, himself what other theory will fit the facts. garden and shrubberies, summer-time and Our poets and novelists are alike fond of flowers, chaperons and young people. introducing us to garden-parties, and in- Perhaps with us the garden-party season variably lavish their prettiest phrases on begins rather late for trellised roses, such descriptions. This might be proved and the words must be taken to represent if any proof were needed, by a multitude ribbon borders of geraniums and calceo- of quotations, but one or two will be larias. But poetry is apt to require a little enough. Every one will remember how adaptation, to make it fit the facts of George Eliot tells us of a festival where every-day life, and the rest is accurate the guests, enough. We have the maidens, the descending at the garden gate, daughters of the squire, the lawyer, the Streamed, with their feathers, velvet, and doctor, and the neighboring clergy; and brocade, the youths, the few eligible young men Through the alleys; who live within reach, or can be coaxed pleached from town for the day, eked out with a and how she gives us a charming glimpse sprinkling of tall schoolboys, and two or of them later; three officers from the. nearest garrison. A joyous hum is heard the gardens round; And they are certain to wander together as Soon there is Spanish dancing, and the sound far and as wide as the limits of the garden Of minstrels song, and autumn fruits are permit, having nothing else to do. But is it pluckt. quite like one of Mr. Morriss poems, after Or we may take, as even more to the pur. all? And is going to a garden-party really pose, a few lines from Mr. Morris, who the most perfe~t way of spending a sum- excels in painting such sweet summer pic- mer afternoon? 6o GARDEN-PARTIES. We begin to doubt when we remember many summer afternoons which we have spent indoors, even, it may be, with feet on the fender, for it must be con fessed that our climate is not to be trusted. There is a touch of shy caprice about the seasons, something of March and April underlying our summer weather. A wet, bird-haunted English lawn has a loveli- ness of its own, but on a chilly August day it is not exactly the spot where one would choose to linger, even though a brass band from the county town should do its best to make up for the autumnal silence. of the birds by playing a set of quadrilles. And our doubts increase if we leave the poets altogether, and attempt a sketch in more appropriate prose. We can easily make a study from the life, for garden parties do not seem likely to go out of fashion. In spite of wind and rain, they show themselves in our grounds year after year, like shrubs that put forth blighted leaves and blossoms, but will not die. Garden-parties are flowers which will not flourish in our chilly air, and since doubt, once admitted, spreads ever faster we may question whether they would be worth very much if they did. They do not harmonize well with the tra- ditions of old-fashioned country-houses and English hospitality. There is some- thing hollow and pretentious about them. A man might be dull, and his entertain- ment poor, yet you felt that he had done what he could when he welcomed you to his home. But there is something not quite so cordial about the hospitality which stops to shut the house-door before unfastening the garden-gate. It is true that the welcome, such as it is, is widely diffused. People do not send out invita- tions to dinner without considerino a little how their friends will suit each other, but they deal in a more haphazard fashion with the guests who are to stay out-of- doors, and be refreshed with tea and thin bread-and-butter. There is plenty of room, and The more the merrier is a proverb of hopeful sound, so why should any one be excluded? Unluckily there is nothing to be done with these miscellane- ous crowds when they arrive. The host and hostess can only walk about in smil- ing helplessness, devoutly hoping that all will go well, and that the pleasant peo- ple will come together and enjoy them- selves. They are secretly aware that they have invited a great many who are not particularly pleasant. If the bores would but fasten on each other, there might not be much harm done; but of course, being bores, they do nothing of the kind, and even the pleasant people seem less pleas- ant than usual. There is nothing to do but to talk, which would be very well in- deed, if it were not impossible to talk while standing on a lawn in the midst of a continually shifting crowd. Every one knows this who has made the attempt. Every sentence is broken by greetings from fresh arrivals, every body is anxious to make a remark about the weather, and to ask whether you have seen everybody else; the people you like best are going as you come or coming as you go, and the time slips a~vay in a succession of glimpses of faces, and tantalizing snatches of con- versation. Yet this is a garden-party under com- paratively favorable circumstances. Who does not know what it is when circum- stances are unfavorable? There have been three or four wet days in succession, and the morning comes with threatening clouds. Still it does not actually rain, and some one who is weather-wise says the glass is going up, and even if there ~hould be a shower, it will be nothing of any im- portance. There is one, of course, just to give a final touch of wetness to the grass; but after that it clears up more decidedly, and at the appointed time you start, hop- ing for the best. You are not one of those fortunate but unsympathetic people who do not care about the color of their weather, and the dull, grey sky oppresses you with a guilty sense of melancholy. As you drive up to the house, however, you remark on the pleasant animation of the scene, sorely as it needs a gleam of sunshine; and you hasten to join the groups that come and go, with a certain briskness of movement, along the paths and underneath the trees. You under- stand it better a few minutes later, when you have ascertained that the garden is bleak and exposed, and that the wind (which is decidedly getting up) is either north or east, or that delightful mixture of the two which has found a poet of its own. There is lawn-tennis, of course, but the greatest happiness of the greatest number was never more deliberately ignored than when lawn-tennis was introduced at gar- den-parties. For every four who play, there are forty who must stand out, either because they cannot play, or because there is no room for them. It is not very amus- ing to look on, especially when an old lady at your elbow wants the game explained to her, but cannot get rid of the impression that it is very like battledore and shuttle- cock, and that they might keep the ball up INVALIDS. 6i better, if they tried. It is only fair, how- ever, to say that the players are not really enjoying themselves either. They are playing badly, and they know it. The men want to take off their coats, and the girls are evidently hampered by their un- business-like dresses, and afraid of slip- ping on the wet grass. The closely-shaven lawn is unpleasantly like a damp sponge, and the forty who are standing on it, and getting very chilly, feel it a distinct aggra- vation of their misery that the four who are actively exerting themselves should be very much too hot. Presently the neces- sity for exercise sends the lookers-on to wander once more, perhaps to find their way into the kitchen-garden. But they will not stay there long, for cabbages are hideously depressing on a dreary day, and a time comes when every possibility of amusement is exhausted. It is terrible to realize this, and to know that the carriages have been sent to the village a mile and a half away, and that yours will not come for another hour or more. Then it is that you feel that you are certainly catching cold, and that you hate your shivering fellow- creatures, though you hate those mOst who shiver least. You do not wonder that un- der certain circumstances people take to: drinking. You begin to think that they are far from inexcusable, if the circum- stances are at all like yours. You would take to it yourself, only, fortunately for your reputation and your future career, you can find nothing to drink but claret-cup with gnats in it, and there is not much to be got out of that except the gnats. So you resign yourself to your fate, and gloomily resolve that you will go to no more garden-parties, unless, indeed, one should be given in the grounds of the Palace of Truth. It would be worth while to go to that; for there would never be another. Some such experience as this is only too common in the months of August and September, and yet there are people who cherish a dream, made up of poetry such as we quoted, and of memories of sunshine in sweet, old-fashioned gardens. To such we can only say, If you care for your beautiful vision, deal tenderly with it. Call it up by the fireside on win- ter evenings, when the ground is like iron with the blackest of frosts, and the bleak wind tyrannizes over leafless trees. But think of it as little as may be when the long days come round once more, and never, if you prize it, take it with you to one of the garden-parties of the present day. From The Spectator. INVALIDS. Miss MARTINEAU s low estimate of her Life in the Sick-room strikes us as a curious (though in this case quite expli- cable) example of the inability of authors to judge the relative value of their own productions. It is the o~ne of her writings we should place highest. The fresh, pure sense of natures homely grace, ex- pressed as it is in so many pictures which owe their charm wholly to the painter, or at least in the origin~ls of which a com- mon eye would find no attraction; com- bined with an appreciation, which is indeed seldom separated from this taste for nature, of the pathos of ordinary human life, with its undistinguished joys and sorrows, give the book a refreshing influence which it is curious to find in any volume with such a title. It is, indeed, an eminently healthy book. After saying this, we need hardly add that we cannot accept it as a picture of average life in the sick-room. Though full of shrewd and thoughtful observation, or perhaps because of this wealth, it fails to represent the usual experience of the invalid who, gazing round this little room, Must whisper, This shall be thy doom. Here must thou struggle, here alone Repress tired natures rising moan.~~ Miss Martineaus experience was, in- deed, modified by too many exceptional influences to allow her to feel this trial as it weighs on hundreds and thousands, and perhaps hardly any one who feels it could describe it. However, she was far too clever a woman to write on any subject she understood without giving many sen- sible hints about it, and although other parts of the book seem to us more valu- able, these suggestions, based on experi- ence, and bearing on one of the most difficult problems of life, form no despica- ble portion of this particular invalids legacy to her kind It would be a very valuable book which should teach the sick to understand the healthy, and the healthy to understand the sick. No two classes so urgently need this mutual understanding, and perhaps no two classes find it equally difficult. It is very desirable that the rich should be just to the poor, and the poor to the rich, but it is a great alleviation of mutual misun- derstanding in this case that the rich and the poor live apart. The sick and the well, on the other hand, are sel)arated not by a dividing line crossing society, but by 62 [NVALIDS. a thousand small centres of divergence sprinkled all over it. This difficulty divides families and separates friends; it intro- duces sources of hopeless misapprehen- sion between those who have been inti- mate from childhood, and who are still, and must continue, in direct outward con- tact. Moreover, it is not only more ne- cessary for sick and well to understand each other than for rich and poor, it is also more difficult. How misleading are the external suggestions of illness! Who can approach some one lying on a couch, in an atmosphere of stillness and careful order, and not find his imagination filled with the idea of repose? And yet noth- ing is so unlike any sensation of lifelong illness as repose is. Hurry, and over- driven weariness, and distracting annoy- ances, and all the disasters of an over- busy life, give one far more insight into the condition of an invalid than that which is suggested to us by every thing about him. We cannot always remember this paradox, but it does not cease to be true when we forget it. The great hindrance to an understanding of lifelong illness is that every one knows a little of illness, and most people fancy that transitory experience enables them to judge of a permanent condition. No mis- take is more natural, but we believe none to be more entire. We can judge about as well of the hardships of poverty from remembering some Alpine journey in which dinner was not to be had when it was much wanted, as we can, by recalling some attack of sharp fever, or the confinement of a sprained ankle, imagine what it is to exchange the interests, pains, and pleas- ures of this busy world for those of the sick-room. There are two main reasons for this misleading effect of what is transi- tory. The most important, perhaps, is our inability to represent to ourselves ade- quately the effect of difference of degree. We are apt to reason about cause and effect as if we could by multiplying a small result arrive at a large result. And yet the every-day lessons of nature are full of warnings against this kind of. reasoning. Imagine a logical thinker for the first time learning that a certain degree of cold made water solid; any attempt on his part, short of success, to verify the statement would make it seem more improbable. It is true, he might say, we cannot get the thermometer quite so low as what you call the fr9ezing-point, but you see we have come very near it, without detecting the slightest tendency to this startling change from fluid to solid. The laws of chemis try are a standing protest against this kind of reasoning, and it would be well for every logician to be forced to study them. People are constantly arguing about moral questions in the style of our supposed disbeliever in ice, and we believe nobody can quite shake off the influence of this fallacy in judging of illness. It is wonder- fully difficult to realize that the effect of some condition may be different, ac- cording as it is permanent or transitory, not only in degree, but in kind. Yet it is undeniable. A short taste of some priva- tions might prove a positive enjoyment; a day of painless blindness, for instance, might prove to a busy worker a delightful rest. Such a person would, after such an experience, be further from knowing what it is to be blind always, than one who had never been blind at all. A short trial of illness, therefore, or indeed of any misfor- tune, is not only an imperfect means of forming any judgment as to its permanent effect, it is very often the means of form- ing a wrong judgment. It resembles, in this respect, a slight knowledge of a foreign language. A foreigner, speaking English, once said of Beethoven, whom he had personally known, He was very bru- tal. The information thus conveyed to an English ear by a veracious and well- informed ~vitness was as correct as much opinion that is founded on a short experi- ence. But in the case of illness, we fear, the reality is brutal in English ,and not in French. But in the second place, it is very impor- tant, and not very easy, to remember that the actual circumstances of anything per- manent are altogether different from the circumstances of anything transitory. There would be abundant sympathy for the ills of life, if they would last only a short time. Many invalids will say that they do not want sympathy, but this is hardly ever entirely true, and it is never true that they do not want what sympathy brings. Eager and devoted attention may sometimes actually lessen suffering, and if this is often not the case, it is undeniable that an atmosphere of tender, absorbing anxiety does make bearable all but the worst and rarest physical ills. Many who can recall some short attack of dan~.,erous illness; preceded and followed by health, will say that no memory is more precious to them. When death and estran ement have done their work, the recollection of hours of feverish pain, in which the pa- tients acceptance of food or drink caused more gratitude than all the beneficence of his subsequent career, shines through the INVALIDS. vista of cold, loveless years with a radi- ance that is only partly delusive. That experience did really belong to the strug- gle between life and death, but it is utterly unlike the experience of the very same physical condition when death and life have alike receded, and that awful, potent, all-healing fear of separation is as remote as the hope and stir that belong to the ordinary course of things in the world. is it no trial to watch relaxed devotion, and feel it the result simply of the heaviness of the misfortune which first called forth devotion? Let no one plead in answer that the sufferer gets used to pain. His nearest and dearest get used to the thought of his suffering it is a law of na- ture, to which they can but submitbut never let us suppose that the pain of an- other grows less because we think less about it. It is possible to get used to priva- tion, and to some kinds of minor discom- fort. Any one who says it is possible to get used to pain has forgotten what pain is. It is wonderfully easy to forget pain. We have often thought there was a sort of witness to immortality in the strange fact that while emotion remembered, is, to some extent, emotion experienced, sensa- tion is never really remembered at all. Whatever belongs to the body seems to bear the stamp of mortality, it passes at once into the region of oblivion when we are delivered from its pressure. How diffierent is the relation of memory to the maladies of the soul! Place the unkind- ness of long years ago side by side in your recollection with the toothache of last week, and you feel at once you are comparing a living thing and a dead thing. The un- kindness, whether remembered by him who felt or inflicted it, is a living reality, potent to reopen and envenom the wound it had made. The toothache is gone, as if it had never been. To this fact, we are convinced, must be traced the common assumption that any degree of bodily suf- fering would be chosen rather than severe pain of mind. What people mean in say- ing this is, no doubt, that they would rather remember physical than mental pain, and of course a short experience of the pain which leaves no trace is to be pre- ferred to an equally short experience of the pain which leaves a profound trace. But we are considering the case of one who knows that this fierce companion will not quit his side till the clay which gives it its power is laid in the grave,and no sufferer, we think, is to be set by his side. The deadliest mental anguish allows some respite, when the body claims its due; an undying grief does not prevent faint gleams of pleasure when sleep come,s on after fatigue, or hunger and thirst are relieved. But there is no converse to the picture. An unintermittent pain of body, when very severe, leaves room for nothing but itself. The effort at understanding a state very different from their own, like every other effort, cannot be urged on the sick as it can on the sound. Yet we are far from thinking that it ought not to be urged on the sick at all. Lifelong illness would be, we are certain, more tolerable, if the inva- lid could realize the difficulties it imposes on the surrounders. Doubtless tbere is pain in the recognition, and a sort of pain to which there is nothing parallel in the corresponding effort on the part of the sound. But it would save far more pain than it inflicts, in all circumstances, to recognize the cost at which every one puts himself in the place of another. Those who are bustling about in the world must take their neighbors as they find them. They at any moment can change their atmosphere, and they do not carry about a moral thermometer, to see whether it is exactly suited to their taste and tem- perament, or, if they do, they are taught their mistake. The invalid, on the other hand, has a right to demand that you should bring no jarring ideas to an atmos- phere he cannot change at will; but he seldom sees that this, like every other peculiar demand, must release some form of energy to compensate for that which it absorbs. The principle of the conserva- tion of force is the greatest help to mutual toleration that the intellectual world can supply, and translated into the language of common life, this scientific expression means no more than the homely adage that you cannot eat your cake and have it. We are always experiencing the truth of this saying, and always forgetting it. It is a constant temptation to believe that any one who behaved rightly would be able to spend great moral energy in one direction, without having less to spend in another. Certainly a mans moral energy is not lim- ited in the way that his purse is. Practi- cally, however, it is limited. Every ex~ ceptional claim implies some surrender. The invalid whose nerves must be shel- tered, who must have intercourse adjusted to suit him, cannot be looked up to as a source of influence. He must not expect to be at once deferred to as a capable per- son and sheltered as a weak one. But one of the great difficulties of the. sick-room is the absence of those circum 64 INVALIDS. stances which help self-appreciation. Most people overrate themselves in certain directions, but in the jostling of the world, most of us are taught our place. The atmosphere of the sick-room, on the other hand, quite shuts out the possibility of the small checks which make us feel that x~e have thought too much of ourselves. It is quite evident that Miss Martineau suf- fered in this way, though perhaps her deafness had as much to do with the result as her ill-health. At any rate, she is a memorable example of the disadvantages of being cut off from the discipline which teaches modesty. No doubt a great deal of the deference which fed her vanity was both deserved and sincere, but probably not quite all. And with ordinary inva- lids, there is and cannot but be much illusion as to the interest they inspire, for is so like deference as well-bred compassion. But indeed it has been a truth insufficiently considered, although its causes are obvious, that all influences which isolate the soul tend to give it an undue idea of its own importance. It is hard we believe alm6st impossible for a solitary being to attain humility. What, we may be asked, in conclusion, is our remedy for all these disadvantages ? Or what is the use of dwelling on disad- vantages for which there is no remedy? Is it not better to forget incurable ills, till they are forced on the mind ~by the pres- sure of experience? No, emphatically no. The ordinary mis- fortunes of the world would lose much of their pain if they were distinctly recog- nized. And although it is true that we do not remove misunderstanding in account- ing for it that we cannot make it other- wise than painful yet the difference between a pain which we trace to unkind- ness or selfishness and that which we trace to inevitable mistake, is as great as the difference between the pain of a sprained ankle when we try to stand on it, and when we let it rest on a cushion. The mind loses the bitterness of its sufferings in discerning their necessity, and is some- times surprised in this acquiescence to find them almost disappear. THE treaty between Japan and Corea of February 26, 1876, gave the Japanese the right to settle and trade on certain points of the Corean coasts. The first of these settle- ments was formed in Fusan, not far from Torai, and a correspondent thence to the Jap- anese journal Sak~g-ake Shinbun says It was very cold in January at Fusan: the thermometer stood between ~ and ~22O F. (~19Q and 3O~ C.). Our settlement num- bers about a hundred houses, with about eight hundred Japanese inhabitants of both sexes. A school for teaching the Corean language was lately opened in the newly-built temple of Honganji. The populous city of Torai, which is about three ri (seven miles) from our settle- ment, is frequently infested by tigers, and on that account every door is closed early in the evening, after which no one ventures into the streets. An animal called tonpi by the Coreans, and which resembles a cat, attacks the tiger, which seems to fear it greatly. No- ticing this, the Coreans, when they go into the hills, put on a cap of tonpi-skin. Very few of the lower class of Coreans sleep in beds; most of them have only a sheet of Corean paper for a couch, and keep up a fire beside them for warmth. The articles of import are chiefly muslin, silk, dyes, tin, copper, and various small wares. The Coreans, on the other hand, bring golden and other valuable manufactured goods for export. No customs are paid in trading. THE Rev. W. G. Lawes, the well-known New Guinea traveller and missionary, has communicated to the (olonies an interesting account of a visit which he paid, towards the close of last year, to the previously unknown village of Kalo, on the western bank of the Uanekela (or Kemp-Welch) River, which empties into Hood Bay, New Guinea, not far from Kerefunu. Mr. Lawes says that the village is laid out in streets and squares, all of which are kept scrupulously clean, being swept every day by the women. He induced one of the chiefs to accompany him some three miles up the river, which he found takes a sharp curve a little way above Kalo, and be- comes narrower, but after about a mile it widens out again into a fine broad stream. It is said to be navigable for a long distance, and, according to native accounts, runs to Manumanu, in Redscar Bay. On the Kalo side of the river groves of cocoanut trees abound, and betel-palms are also plentiful, while on the east bank numerous and exten- sive plantations of bananas and sugarcane were seen. Mr. Lawes states that the villages round and near Hood Bay are inhabited by a fine race of men, who are industrious and kindly-disposed, though at first shy and sus- picious. They have a warlike character, but their hostility to each other would probably be soon removed if more constant intercourse were established among them. Cocoanuts are at present the only article of any commer- cial value which the natives possess, and it is probable that some day large quantities of copra will be exported from this part of New Guinea; no doubt, too, the country has other resources which are as yet undeveloped.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. ol. CXXXIX. Vi ~ No. 1791. October 12, 1878. (F~om Beginning, CONTENTS. L HENRI GREVILLES SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. By W. R. S. Ralston, IL AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. By Thomas Hardy. Conclu- sion III. THE PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL CHAR- ACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. By James IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Rowley SELLING THE SOUL, A FETISH CITY, SARK, AND ITS CAVES, THE HABIT OF READING, AN AMERICAN ZOLLVEREIN,. THE SPRAY OF SEAWEED, - THE SEA-HORSE, MISCELLANY Nineteenth Century, New Quarterly Review, . Frasers Magazine, Contemporary Review,. Blackwoods Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, - Saturday Review, Pall Mall Gazette, 67 76 9 104 - .. III 116 ~[24 - . 127 P0 E TRY. 66 So WANDL ICH WIEDER DEN ALTEN 66 WEG, 66 - . . 128 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GAY, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remstCed direcCly Co Cke Publizisers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,freeof~5ozCage. An extra copy of THE LIVING AGE is sent gratis to any one getting un a club of Five New Subscribers. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of Ihese can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & GAY. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, s8 cents. 66 THE SPR AY OF SEAWEED, ETC. THE SPRAY OF SEAWEED. NESTLED below the hollow bank, In the rugged northern land, Where the breakers leap and the wild winds sweep Over the long grey sand; Where the great tides ceaseless ebb and flow Leave curving lines of foam, Amid rush and sedge, on a rocky ledge, The fisherman made his home. Forever through blaze of noonday, Through midnights solemn sleep, Through morns soft ray, and gloaming grey, Thrilled the music of the deep; And the foam-flakes flew on the breezes, And rested, where sparse and thin, The grasses shook in the sheltered nook~ As the flood-tide thundered in. She stands in the lowly doorway, The girl with the wild blue eyes, The floating hair, and the startled air, And the blush that deepens and flies, Whenever a sudden footstep Treads the path oer the turfy down, Or the bells peal out, or a laugh or a shout Rings up from the little town. She goes not with the red-cloaked girls To the pier at evening tide, Nor lingers to watch for the herring catch, On the staithes at the harbor side; Nor wanders among the sand-hills, Where the sea-pinks creep and cling, Nor to lanes where they know the violets blow, And the merry bluebells ring. But ever she keeps her vigil By her fathers lonely cot, With a listening ear what would it hear? Fixed eyes, that strain for what? And always the frail, soft fingers Toy with a strange love-token; A seaweed spray from the rocky bay, Its trails all dried and broken. They talk sometimes in whispers, Among the fisher-folk, Of a stranger who came with a foreign name, To win a heart he broke; And one would tell he watched them, On the sands-reach by the heath, And saw him twist, round the curls he kissed, The sea-blooms coral wreath. Fast fled that golden summer. Oh, many a lonely year, Through change and loss, through care and cross, Has the pale girl wasted here! For him who wooed, and won, and went, Fair promise on his tongue~ Nor ever returned to the faith he spurned, To the heart his falsehood wrung. Yet still she keeps the seaweed, That as his pledge he gave, That happy night, in the soft rose light, At the margin of the wave; And ever she waits and watches, For him who will never more Trace the winding road, too often trode, To the cottage on the shore. And the few life leaves to love her, No longer strive to win The wjldered brain from the sweet, dull pain, It so long has wandered in; Better they think to let her keep Her poor dim dream of trust, Till at last at rest,she bears on her breast, The seaweed and the dust. All The Year Round. A THE SEA-HORSE. SEA-MINNOW this with ponys crest, Just one of Amphitrites toys, With which her Nereids coax to rest The little stormy Triton boys; In truth, a tiny twisted thing Which, cast upon that golden shore, The dark-eyed lads to strangers bring Where sang Parthenope of yore. Device befitting sculptured page, Quaintly with whiffs of song entwined, Waif from the ebbing tide of age, A hippocampus of the mind, Which seeks from out the old and new, A happy canto to compile, Whose signs and words around may strew The soothing of a quiet smile. Now in the fish some hearts may claim A symbol ever dear to us; And some the pony pet, though lame, A little mule of Pegasus. Then haste, thou atom of a book, To young and old with cheery call; In town or train, or pastoral nook, Thy message has a word to all. A Century of Emblems. SO WANDL ICH WIEDER DEN ALTEN WEG. So again I am pacing the well-known streets, The road I so oft have taken; I come to the house where my darling dwelt, How blank it looks and forsaken! The streets are too narrow, they shut me in! The very stones of them scare me! The houses fall on my head! I fly As fast as my feet can bear me! HEINE. HENRI GREVILLE S SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. 67 From The Nineteenth Century. HENRI GREVILLES SKETCHES OF RUS SIAN LIFE. A FEW years ago a lady offered a novel to a well-known French editor. He not only refused it, but spoke of it most slight- ingly. Never, never, said he to her husband who offered him the manuscript, will any newspaper or review accept any of your wifes writings if she ever obtains the slightest success in Paris, come and tell me I was mistaken. So discouraged was she by her repeated failures that she was inclined to abandon Paris for St. Pe- tersburg, a city which had more kindly received her literary efforts. Suddenly, as in so many other instances of long-unap- preciated talent, a change came. News paper after newspaper opened wide its columns. In the year 1876 she published with full success no less than six (long before written) novels, and four more in 1877. At present her position is assured. What the above-mtntioned editor now thinks of his outspoken condemnation has never been made public. For a great many y~ears the professor- ship of French in the University of St. Petersburg has been held by M. Jean Fleury, the author of a highly successful work on Rabelais.* His daughter, Mlle. Alice Fleury, was educated by him so well that at fifteen she was well acquainted with Latin, English, and Italian. it was when she had attained that age that she accompanied her father from Paris to St. Petersburg, where she spent many win- ters, generally passing the summers in Russian country houses. Having thus gained a perfect knowledge of Russian life, she began to publish her experiences, the French 7ournal de St. Pdtersbourg opening its columns to a series of her novels between the years 1871 and 1876. Meantime she had married M. Durand, a professor of French at St. Petersburg, and had left that city for Paris, which long, in its literary capacity, treated her with the inhospitality described above. Now, how- ever, all is changed, and her fame as a novelist is established under the pseudo- * Rabelais et sea CEuvres (Didier). nym of Henri Gr~ville. That name is taken from a hamlet in Normandy, the province from which the Fleurys originally came.* In a few of Henri Gr~vilIes novels the scene is laid in France. Suzanne Nor- misis the record of a fathers affection for a daughter married to an unworthy husband. Au/our dune P~areis the story of a faithless wifes remorse. La Maison de Maur?ze relates the story of a noble and pure-hearted wife who strug- gles onwards amid many sufferings and leaves them behind her at last. But these stories of French life have not the charm of novelty which renders so attractive those of the authors novels of which the scene is laid in Russia. In the latter all is new and strange. The reader is trans- ported into an unknown land. The land- scapes are unfamiliar, the peasants who till the fields or meet together before the village church are different from those of other lands, and even the superior beings who inhabit the seigneurial halls speak and think and conduct themselves in a manner which often offers a sharply de- fined contrast to that to which we are ac- customed in better-known regions. And about these pictures of Russian life there is a singular charm. The splendor of the summer nights, when the glorious moon reveals the landscape revelling in the fresh coolness which has followed the intolerable blaze of the day; the silence of the win- ter, when the crackling frost goes about seeing that the rivers are well bridged, and the earth well wrapped in snow, and the trees adorned with their crystal gauds~ The dull villages, with their dark wooden cottages drawn up in two lines separated by a space of mud in spring, of dust in summer, of snow in winter; the xv hite- walled, green-domed church, and the seigneurs house with its surroundino~ b household buildings and its adjoining wood all these are brought as clearly before the readers eyes as they could be in the Russian novels of which he is prob- ably unable to read a line. Then the * For many of these details the writer is indehted to an interesting and trustworthy article hy M. Louis Leger in the Bi~lioMe~que Universelle et Revue Suisse for last March. 68 HENRI GREVILLES SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. time-honored customs of the villagers; their half-savage life, but little altered from what it was in the olden days before Peter introduced his reforms, when Russia was warred upon by Lithuanians and Poles, or still earlier when the land lay prostrate beneath the Mongol yoke, or earlier still when it was divided among countless in- dependent princes of Ruriks line, or even earlier in pre-historic times when the Slav immigrants first dotted the country with their village communities and shared the lands they tilled among the fathers of their families; and the easy-going, hos- pitable manners of the country house, where the superiors used to recline like gods upon their divans careless of the peasant kind who paid them worship and worked wearily for their pleasure; the constant comings a~d goings, the long drives over the crackling snow in winter, the cheery wanderings on fine summers evenings beneath the dreaming trees, the frequent tea, tbe gossipings, the flirta- tions, and the unceremonious visitings all these things are clearly pictured in Henri Gr6villes hooks, and .may be clearly realized by all who read them. Let us give an idea of some of the most characteristic. The darkest picture which they contain is that offered by LEa~y5 ia/ion de Savili, a record of the fearful sufferings inflicted upon a village community by a tyrannical proprietor in the old days of serfdom. As a general rule the Russian nobles were easy landlords, who treated their serfs with no small kindness, being regarded by their vassals with a respect, even with an affection similar to that which the Scotch Highlanders entertained for the chief of their clan. But here and there were bru- tal exceptions, like the Bagrianof of the tale, a domestic tyrant, who ill-used his trembling wife, and gave his mind to mak- ing his villagers miserable, sending their sons to Siberia or into the army, and be- having even worse towards their daugh- ters. Long did the peasants suffer under his cruel wrath. At length they rose against him; and one night seized and bound him in his bedroom and prepared to slay him. But he spake them fair, sware by all that was holy that he would bear no malice, and promised them all manner of advantages if they would let him live. They yielded, trusting to his oaths. But he laughed all his pledges to scorn, and soon the soldiers were called in, and the ringleaders were pitilessly flogged and sent to Siberia. A little time passed, and his wrath fell upon Sav6li, a young peasant, who was about to marry the fair village maiden F6dotia. In an ill-starred moment she went to the tyrant to ask for mercy. WhenA she left his house her cheeks were white, her eyes were wild, and, rushing down to the river, she ended her insulted life beneath its waves. Then her betrothed swore vengeance. Again the brutal lord was seized in bed by his peasants, who this time faltered not, and his foul life ended beneath their strong blows. Then they set fire to the house and retired. And in the flames would have perished his wife and child had not Sav6li come to their rescue. Years passed by: the tyrant dead, the village flourished, and among others Sav6li grew rich, and his son was well educated, and became a handsome and cultured lad, who eventu- ally won the heart of the late seigneurs daughter, the girl whom Sav~li had res- cued from the flames. Then Sav6li felt himself obliged to tell his son the fearful story of her fathers death, and how they two must be forever kept apart by the stream of blood which his hand had caused to flow. Till then he had known no re- morse for the murder he had committed, but at last his sin had found him out, and, prostrated before the holy pictures, his head smiting the floor, he passed long hours crying aloud for pardon to The God against whom he had sinned. Nor did peace revisit him till he lay on his death- bed, and the young girl whom he had ren- dered fatherless pronounced his pardon and made the sign of the cross over the forehead of her fathers murderer. Then a strange joy lighted up the features of the guilty man, and he died. Lest any one should think the horrors in this story have been exaggerated beyond belief, let him turn to Mackenzie Wallaces Russia, ii. 251, where he will find a ref- erence to the case of a fiend in human HENRI GREVILLE S SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. shape, a Madame Saltyk6f, who was brought to justice in 1768. In the course of eleven years she had killed by inhuman tortures about a hundred of her serfs, in- cluding several young girls of eleven and twelve.years of age. But let us turn from this dark realistic picture to the idyllic scenes portrayed in Sonic-i, one of the most charming of Madame Durands sto- ries. General Gor6line was a good-natured Russian seigneur, who was kept in a state of chronic subjugation by an imperious and scheming wife. When in the country his principal delight was to smoke long- stemmed pipes, which he was always leav- ing about in all manner of out-of-the-way places. So there was attached to his ser- vice a little peasant maiden, ten or eleven years old, whose chief business it was to recover the stray pipes and bring them back to the forgetful general. A pretty child she was, bronzed of course by the sun, and but scantily clothed, for she was an orphan with none to care for her, but full of life, and running about deftly on feet which, though always bare, were not flat or distorted. The only person besides the general who ever gave her a kind word was the tutor, young Boris Grebof, who had been engaged by the generals wife to spend the summer in the country in order to superintend the education of her ex- ceedingly spoilt child Eugene. With his pupils sister, the fair and somewhat fool- ish Lydia, the young tutor of course fell in love, and she, full of romance, and being naturally thrown much into his company, fully returned his young affection. There could be but one termination to such a courtship. The good-natured old general was not disinclined to look favorably on Boris; but when that ingenuous youth asked the generals wife for permission to marry Lydia a terrible scene ensued, which ended in his being ordered to leave the house. He did so, of course, but before he went he asked the general to let him take away with him the little Sonia. For the poor child had been driven away from the house in a fit of passion by the gene- raislia. A pin left in the carpet of her mis- tresss room had entered one of Sonias bare feet as she carried a pitch& r of water, 69 and the pain it caused made her forget her- self so far as to drop her burden upon one of the generalshas dresses. The poor child would have been compelled to beg from door to door for a livelihood had not Boris, for whom she had contracted a sort of canine attachment, taken her away with him and consigned her to the care of his mother, an excellent old lady who doated upon her only son. The generalsha strongly objected to this improvement in Sonias prospects, and ordered her hus- band to refuse to l~t her go. But h e,for perhaps the first time in his life, had the hardihood to refuse to listen to her imperi- ous voice, and sent away his little pipe- finder with a kindly farewell. How hap- pily then went the days of Sonia by when she found herself well clothed, well fed, well cared for in the quiet household of Boriss mother and her three old servants who had lived with her all her life! Into this quiet family circle she entered almost a little savage, ragged and wild and igno- rant of all civilized life, astonished at the church services which she had scarcely ever been allowed to attend in her former home, wondering at finding herself no longer cold and famished and aching from cruel blows. It was long indeed before she could be induced to allow herself to be shod, but a word from Boris was enough to persuade her to submit. For his desires were a law to her. She followed him about with her eyes, and, when he left his home for Moscow, her heart was heavy within her as she stood amid the snows watching his sleigh disappearing into the distance. Three years elapsed, and Boris, whose love for Lydia Gor~line had never lessened, though it was evidently fated to remain a dream, was recalled home by the news of his mothers illness. He came in time to hear her last words, to pay her the last sad rites, and after he had laid her in the village graveyard, escorted to her last resting-place by the sorrowing peasants to whom she had all her life been an untiring benefactress, he returned to Moscow, tak- ing with him the young Sonia, in whom it was now difficult to recognize the little savage who had run about the Gor6lines domains ragged and barefoot. She had learned much in the interval, and now in 70 hENRI GREVILLES ~SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. Moscow she taught herself to read and write, working through the long evenings when Boris was absent, to the accompani- ment of the monotonous ticking of the cuckoo clock on the wall, till sleep would render dim her weary eyes. At length Boriss relations with Lydia came to a cri- sis. Determining to marry an elderly general, she demanded back her letters from her faithful lover, an unexpected blow which reduced him to despair. Long he sat alone and heartbroken in his room, thinking of the past, of how he had been treated by her whom he had loved so long and so well. Then Sonia came to the res- cue. Standing by his side in the darkening twilight, her arms hanging down straight beside her, her somewhat severe teatures wearing an air of tender reproach, she told him it was a sin thus to yield to grief, and solace entered into his heart as he lis- tened. Two years later he ~vas com- pletely consoled. Good and steady work abroad had soothed his grief, and he could enjoy life once more. Meanwhile Sonia had grown into womanhood. And with her body her mind had developed, her nat- ural intelligence stimulated by a well- chosen course of study. Scarcely could Boris, when he returned and saw her for the first time after his absence, believe that the graceful girl who stood before him could be the Sonia whom he had saved some seven years before from the sad fate which awaits a homeless orphan. Strange, very strange, did the past seem to him that night, as he gazed from his open window, and listened to the three thousand bells of Moscow proclaiming that Lent was past, and Easter had come, and light and joy were about to take the place of darkness and sorrow. Is it needful to say how the story ends? Methinks not. As a companion sketch to the charming portrait of Sonia, may be taken that of Dosia, a young Russian girl whose uncon- ventional behavior is long the despair of her aristocratic relatives, but who, under the care of a charming woman who under- stands how to treat this somewhat fitful being, deve lopes into a heroine worthy to win the hearts of all who see her. The story has already gone into seven editions in France. Nor is it wonderful, for a more attractive figure than that of Dosia has seldom been put upon a novelists can- vas. Perhaps the best way of describing her will be to quote a few lines from the introduction to The Fortunes of Nigel The author of Waverley, apologizing for the White Lady of Avenel, says to Captain Clutterb~ick: Could I have evoked an esj5rit follef, at the same time fantastic and interesting, capricious and kind; a sort of wildfire of the elements, bound by no fixed laws or motives of ac- tion; faithful and fond, yet teasing and uncertain upon which the captain breaks in with: If you will pardon the interruption, sir, I think you are describing a pretty woman. Of such a kind is Dosia Zaptine. Another noble woman is the heroine of Les Ej5reuves de Raissa. Rafssa is the daughter of an old couple, honorable but not aristocratic, who doat upon their onty child. Suddenly their happiness is destroyed, their lives are be- fore long shortened, by the horror which comes over them when they learn how she has been treated by a young aristocrat, an officer of the Guard. His friends endeavor to hush up the matter, but she and her father persist in crying for vengeance, and at last the matter comes to the knowledge of the emperor, who behaves somewhat as did our James the First in the case of Lord Dalgarno and the Lady Hermione. Count Gretsky is ordered to make Raissa his wife, and is then sent to Siberia. Raissa finds herself a countess, with a gorgeous palace awaiting her, and vassal and serf ready to obey bar orders. But she will none of these things. Continuing to live as modestly as before, she consti- tutes herself the ste~vard of her husbands property, and forwards him the money which is brought to her. He meanwhile lives in Siberia, black hatred towards his enforced wife devouring his heart. At length she goes down to one of his estates in the country, and finds herself the neigh- bor of his sister Helen Marsof. Of this sister-in-law, at first most unwilling to see her, she becomes the guardian angel. On one occasion she saves Helens child when an attempt to poison him had been made by a villanous peasant woman of the name of Mavra Moroza. Soon afterwards she appears just in time to save both Helen and her child, against whom the peasantry had been excited by Mavra, who pretended that their mistress had poisoned their wells. And finally she is able to disperse a dark cloud of calumny which had long hung over Helens head, due to the slan- ders of Mavra and her husband, who had murdered Helens husband, and managed to direct suspicion against her. No won- der that Rafssa becomes the bosom friend of Helen, who does all she can to plead her cause with Count Gretsky. For in reality Rafssa is in love with the husband who hates her. Long does she strive in vain. But at length comes the news that HENRI GREVILLE S SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. 71~ Count Gretsky is ill in his Siberian exile. Rafssa loses no time in flying to the em- peror to ask for leave to visit and to nurse him. Not only is her request granted, but she obtains his pardon too. And so she speeds away on her long journey eastward towards her husband, accompanied by his faithful old servant Fadei. She finds him alive but insensible, and she watches long and anxiously over his couch. Her tender care, her skilful nursing, saves him from sinking; but when he becomes conscious to whom he owes his life, nothing warmer than a feeling of obligation is stirred with- in his heart. He is coldly polite and def- erential, but neither liking nor love can she obtain. One day, as they sit together, she takes from her finger her marriage- ring and gives it to him, saying that they had better be separated on their return to Europe, so that he may be a free man once more. And he is pleased, little thinking how passionate a love for him is burning within the heart of the wife who has done so much for him, and for ~vhom he still feels so strong an aversion. But more time passes by. He learns from his com- panions all that has taken place during his illness, he gradually begins to awaken to a sense of Raissas merits, and a suspicion of her feelings towards him begins to dawn upon his mind. At length one day, as they sit together in their sleigh travelling westwards towards civilization, happiness, and home, there comes a sudden change in his feelings. All the admiration he had concealed, all the tenderness he had turned into hatred, all the gratitude which he had forced into ingratitude, mounted to his lips like an overflowing stream; but he could not utter a word. Only he took the wedding-ring which RaYssa had given back to him, and once more placed it upon her finger. It will have been observed that the au- thor does not love tragic endings. We can read her stories without being de- pressed. She loves a clear and tranquil sunset, full of the promise of the morrows brightness, better than such a lurid ending of the day as brings to a close the sad for- tunes of Lucy Ashton. In this Henri Gr~ville differs from the Russian authors themselves, who are apt to write the most lugubrious stories. Even Ivan Tourgu6- neff, by far the greatest literary artist whom Russia has produced, even he who has lived so much abroad that he is some- times styled a Zcz5adnik or Western, dwells with manifest fondness on the dark side of human life, and, in many of his stories, almost crushes the readers spirits. Take, for instance, his wonderful tale called Ne.rchastrnzya, or The Unhappy One, in which a cruel step-father perse- cutes out of the world an unoffending step- daughter, feeling no remorse even when she dies, and he throws clods of earth into her grave with the air of a man stoning an enemy. After reading this saddest of stories, the gloom of which is, from first to last, relieved by scarcely a gleam of light, you feel as if, like Henry the First, you never cared to smile again. There is one, however, of H,~nri Gr6villes stories which is an exception to the general rule, for it is melancholy throughout. It re- cords the sorrows of one those poor pil- grims through the world xvho never have a chance of faring well, who seem to be op- posed by some such cruel fate as that which,, to the eye of the ancient Greek, ever low- ered over certain families destined to constant sorrow and ultimate extinction. Probably the story is an over-true one, and therefore it has been invested with a sad. ness which its fellows do not wear. The Institute N. at St. Petersburo in- tended for young ladies of noble birth, enjoyed a high reputation, patronized as it was by the imperial family, and attended by the daughters of many of the best families in Russia. Unfortunately it was exploited for her own benefit by the directress, a Madame Batourof, who had received the post as a mark of respect for her late husband, a general who had died of his wounds on the field of battle. In twenty-seven years she contrived, out of what in America would be called her stealings, to settle in life three daughters to whom she gave good dowries, and to en- able her four sons in military service to live sumptuously. For all this the institutki, the young ladies who were ruled over by Madame Batourof, suffered greatly. They used to arrive as little girls, rosy and vig- orous. Seven or eight years afterwards they were restored to their relatives who, if they lived at a distance, had never seen them in the interval thin, haggard, weak, the shadows of their former selves. Far worse, however, than Madame Ba- tourof was Mademoiselle Grabinof, one of the teachers, a jealous, malicious, hateful creature, always striving to stand well with the pupils of influence and to crush be- neath her feet those of less estate. One day when the young ladies were assembled in class, and the professor of history was detailing to their drowsy ears the rea- sons for the decline of the House of Aus- tria, a rich contralto voice suddenly burst HENRI GREVILLE S SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. 72 into loud, clear song. General stupefac- tion occurred for a moment, and then the offender was discovered to be Ariadne Ranine, an orphan girl, poor, unprotected, fitted to be an object of scorn and hatred to Grabinofs. Summoned before the di- rectress, and asked why she disturbed the class, she quietly replied that she could not help doing so; she felt that she must sing, or she would die, or at least choke. Whereupon she was ordered to sing again, and, as it turned out that she had a mag- nificent voice and great musical aptitude, it was resolved that she should be allowed to study seriously the art to which she was already devoted. For a time all went well. Her life became more tolerable to her, her studies soothed her, in the sacred music which she sang in the chapel she poured forth all her soul. It seemed for a while as if her evil destiny had forgotten her. But the Grabinof had not, and at last came an opportunity for poisoning the happiness of the orphan girl she hated. A grave scandal made itself heard in the establishment. Three of the pupils, in the silence of the night, met three young guardsmen in one of the deserted rooms, and supped with them off the pies and champagne which their admirers had brought. The story came round to the ears of the directress, who trembled for her post. It was necessary to punish some one, to make an example of some vile person. As to expelling the real culprits, the young princess Olga Orline and her aristocratic friends, such a course was not to be ti~ought of; and so, at the instigation of the Grabinof, the directress solemnly ex- pelled the innocent Ariadne, an uncon- scious scapegoat destined to suffer for others sins. Fortunately for her, Ariadne had found a friend. An old lady who was acquainted with Madame Batourof, and who thus knew the story of Ariadnes ill- treatment, took her home to live with her. Finding for her a phcenix of singing- masters, she enabled her to carry on her studies, and in the course of time Ariadne appeared in public, under a feigned name, and achieved a thorough success. But the second time she appeared in the con- cert-room, just as she was about to sing, she heard a voice say, Her real name is Ranine; she was expelled from the insti- tute on account of an intrigue with a young man ; and for a moment she almost lost consciousness. Then by a great effort she drove away the recollection of the words which had stung her, and sang with even more fire and pathos than before. But her heart was almost broken. Return- ing home she found her kindly friend, the old lady who had protected her, prostrated by illness. A little later, and her friends death left her alone in the world, with none to turn to for aid, and with thirty-two roubles in her purse. But another friend unexpectedly appeared. Olga Orline, the young princess for whose fault she had been punished at the institute, had always resolved to repay the obligation. In order to be able to aid her, she was obliged to tell the whole story of the midnight sup- per with the young guardsmen to her mother, who quickly pardoned her for the indiscretion she confessed, and determined to help the poor orphan who had suffered in her daughters behalf. And so, after a while, Ariadne was installed in comfort in the house of the Orlines. With time her voice increased in power and compass, until at length a new success was achieved by her. At the opera one of the principal singers ~vas suddenly taken ill. Ariadnes master compelled her to take the default- ers place. She sang with full success, and was received by her hearers with the enthusiasm which a St. Petersburg audi- ence has always at its command. But even then she was not destined to be happy. A few days later appeared an article in a journal, once more telling the old scandalous falsehood about her charac- ter. Overcome by the shock, she decided to sing no more at the opera. 1hen the princess Orline invited her to accompany her and her daughterto France for a while. She went, and the party was joined by a young Constantin Ladof, who had paid Ariadne much attention, and had indeed become the object around which her young affections had twined themselves. At last a chance of happiness seemed to glimmer before her from out of the darkness to which she ~vas accustomed. But at F& camp she learned that Ladof and Olga Orline were to be married. Not long afterwards her body was found at the base of one of the high chalk cliffs. She was buried in the F6camp cemetery, and the princess Orline paid the gardener of the graveyard to look after her tomb, on. which he places flowers during the summer sea- son. But when the visitors have left, it remains as desolate as her whole life had been. For descriptions of country life, and for a careful study of a lady who, without being aware of the fact, and without mean- ing to do wrong, renders miserable her niece and ward, the reader may be re- ferred to the longest of our authors works, Les Ko~emizssine, which occupies two HENRI GREVILLES SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE.1 73 volumes. But its incidents are too nu- merous to allow of justice being done to it by so sbort an account of it as could be given bere. Another interesting story of society is La Princesse Oghirof, which tells how the slanderous tongue of Pauline Hopfer, a jealous German governess, sep- arates two loving hearts. Marthe Mila- guine, instead of marrying Michel Av& ief, weds the Prince Ogh6rof, and the rejected lover seeks for solace in the Caucasus. There he is supposed to have died while attempting to save from her burning hut a Circassian woman, but in reality he es- capes, and makes his way back to Russia. Meanwhile Prince Ogh6rof is drowned in an attempt to rescue from the waters of a frozen river the scandalmonger Pauline Hopfer; and at last all is cleared up, and the long-parted lovers are brought together again. There still remain to be noticed a num- ber of characteristic stories of Russian life which do not deal so exclusively with the loves of princes and princesses. With some account of them the present article may be byought to a close. They are grouped under the title of Nouvelles Russes, and they contain in a small com- pass some of the most remarkable of the pictures which our author has drawn. Stepan Makarief is a Russian peasant, honest and pious and thoroughly dutiful to his old father, who chooses for him a wife whom he at once accepts. But the choice turns out to be a bad one. She often leaves him at home while she goes on pilgrimages to the neighboring church- es, where she does not disdain the atten- tions paid her by the village youth. At lengib the old father dies, telling Stepan on his death-bed that his wife does not fear him enough, and that he ought to chastise her vigorously. Stepan, for once, does not obey his father, but when the advice is a second time given him by a respected female neighbor, he follows it, and when his spouse Irene returns home from her next gadding about, he receives her in a way which leaves its traces behind for several days. This action, we learn, raised Stepan high in the opinion of his fellows, and when he went to work next day the married men of the villaoe received him with marked respect. His wife is congratulated by her female friends on the beatino~ as a mark of her husbands return- ing love, and all goes well for a time. But at the end of the fourth year of wedded life, while Stepan is absent in Moscow on commercial business, his wife deserts him, going away with a travelling petty mer- chant. Stepan returns to his desolate home, which he continues to inhabit, aided in his household arrangements by a neigh- b6r, a poor widow with two small children. One day, however, when he comes home at night from afield, he finds that his wife has returned. He orders her to leave him. She refuses to depart, saying that she has no one else to turn to, for the companion of her flight is dead, and her husband is bound to support her. Vainly does Ste- pan appeal to the head of the village. He is told that nothihgcan be done, for she is only claiming what is her legal right. Vainly on his return home does he beat his wife. She bears the blows, but will not release him from her hated presence. Next .Sunday she dresses herself in her best, decks herself with beads and false pearls, and prepares to seek for admira- tion in church. But he tears the finery from her back and strews her brnaments upon the ground. Still she will not leave him. And so this terrible life goes on for a time, Stepans house becoming for him a hell, from which he seeks refuge in the dram-shop. Finally in a quarrel, ~vhen she has provoked him more than he in his drunken state can endure, he takes his axe and frees himself forever from his burden. The head of the commune comes with others among the villagers, and they find the wife dead in a pool of blood, with the murderer crouching beneath the holy pictures. Stepan tells them what has taken place, how his faithless wife vexed him beyond all endurance, how she even struck him, her lord a statement which sends a thrill through the assembly and how he had at last avenged himself. She was a wicked woman, he ends by saying; I was not wrong in killing her. Still, if the commune orders me to Siberia, I will go. I ask for no favor. Then the feeble voice of the head of the commune is raised in reply, saying: We are all sinful men no one among us knows what he might do if temptation came in his way. Brother, thou hast taken away a life; but she was a wicked woman, as thou hast said. We are not agents of the law; we are thy brethren. Is it not so? A murmur of assent arises from the crowd of peasants to whom he has turned. Thou bast been unhappy, he continues; is it for us to judge thee ? No, replies the crowd; let God forgive him And so no fur- ther notice is taken of the fatal deed. The body of the dead woman is prepared for the funeral, and on the next Sunday is in- terred in the village cemetery. Stepan 74 HENRI GREVILLE S SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. lives peacefully in his now quiet home. His neighbors respect him, no remorse troubles him. But his countenance wears a strange expression. Ever do his blue eyes gaze at those who look him in the face, with a steady regard which seems to say, Knowest thou what I have done? And if thou dost know, dost thou condemn me? Thoroughly Russian is the tale entitled Le Mezuzier. The miller in question is an old ruined noble, M6rikof by name, who, after the loss of almost all his prop- erty, retired to a small estate still remain- ing t~ him in the country, and there lived like a hermit, occupying himself with the business of a mill, and consoling himself with strong liquors. One of his neighbors is a Countess Marie, a handsome and charming woman, who is .touched by the sad tale of M6rikofs life, and sets to work to draw him from his hermitage, and to render his existence brighter than it was before. In this she succeeds thoroughly, and Mdrikof becomes attached to her with a kind of humble devotion. One day she expresses her horror of drink, and says that if she happened to see one of her friends under its influence, she would never be able to look at him again without aversion. M6rikof listens, and when he goes home he takes from a cupboard a bottle of spirits, empties it out of window, and makes a vow to drink no more. And he long keeps his vow. But once, during the absence of the countess from her es- tate, he consents to assist at the christen- ing feast of the sacristans child, a boy to whom he has stood godfather. And at such a feast in Russia it is hard for any one to be present without drinking much. That same day the countess unexpectedly returns home. The next morning, sur- prised at not receiving a visit from her ~tame bear,~ she goes down to the mill with her children to ask for news of him. His old servant Stepanida says he is ill, and tries to prevent him from being dis- turbed. But the countess ,grieved to hear of her old friends illness, insists on seeing him, and makes her way into the room where he lies. He is sleeping heavily, his face flushed, his breathing stertorous. A strong smell of spirits pervades the room, but to this the countess pays no special attention, and goes away without perceiv- ing that her old friends sleep is a drunken slumber. But when two hours later M6ri- kof awakes, he knows not this. He imag- ines that she must have become aware of his condition, and that henceforward he will be an object of aversion to her eyes. Stepanida could have undeceived him, but his fury when he discovers that the count- ess has visited him is so great that she becomes frightened, and postpones what she has to say till the evening. - To him, however, that evening never comes. Go- ing down to his mill, he walks across a little wooden bridge which crosses the mill- stream, and throws himself into the swiftly running waters. The truth is never known, his death being universally attrib- uted to an accident. The countess mourns for him as for a kinsman, and her children go every year,,on the anniversary of his death, to lay on his grave chaplets of fresh flowers. Only his old servant, the faithful Stepanida, has her own ideas as to the cause of his death. She lives alone in a small cottage near the church, from which she can see the grave of her late master without moving from the window, by the light of which she sees to knit the socks which bring her in her daily bread. One more story, this time of a more cheerful nature, and the present sketch may be brought to a close. It depicts a few scenes taken from that professorial life which Henri Gr~ville has had such ex- cellent opportunities of studying. It is called LEa-aminateur. Professor Mar6guine was peacefully smoking his pipe one day on the verandah o~ his little country house, a modest home to which he delighted to betake himself when the summer vacation allowed him to leave hot and dusty Moscow. The profes- sor was forty-two years old, and had never so much as dreamed of marriage. Ab- sorbed in his work, he thought of little else while at Moscow. XVhen the summer came he was perfectly happy in his little house amid the woods, to which he retired along with two old servants. Contented, but somewhat sad, he there spent his time without ever yielding to day-dreams about a possible wife or child. On the evening in question, however, while the professor calmly smoked his long pipe, he was at- tracted by the noise made by a number of village children who had collected around the well, the centre point of rustic gossip, and were amusing themselves by plaguing in a friendly manner a big dog which came to drink from the trough alongside. They hung round his neck, they pulled his ears, his tail, they kept him from the water he longed for. But he bore no malice. Only at last, uttering a warning bark, he plunged through their ranks, upsetting them on all sides, and thrust his hot muzzle into the cool water. Then sitting quietly down, with half-closed eyes, and tongue hanging HENRI GREVILLES SKETCHES OF RUSSIAN LIFE. 75 from his mouth, the drops of water stream- ing down on his white chest, he delivered himself up to the embraces and teasings of his young friends. All this the professor watched from the other side of a thick hedge, enjoying the sight, and finally dis- persing the children by the gift of a coin capable of procuring them gingerbread. The sun sank lower. Mar6guine found himself alone and disposed to melancholy. Presently he was conscious of the voices and laughter of a couple of village lovers and he pensively went indoors. Over his tea he questioned one of his old servants about her experiences of married life, espe- cially about her recollections of her chil- dren, listening long to her pleased gossip- ing. Then he went to bed, and all night long saw before his eyes the dog with its lolling tongue and the children with their bare feet and shocks of uncombed hair. Some months later Mar6guine hap- pened to act as examiner of a number of young ladies who wished to qualify them- selves as governesses. One of the candi- dates was rejected, and so great was her sorrow at being refused her diploma that Mar6gnine was greatly touched. She was a certain Annette Larionof, who had come with her mother from the government of Yaroslaf to obtain leave to practise as a teacher, having no other means of liveli- hood. So much did Mar6guine sympa- thize with her distress that he promised to give her gratuitous instruction, thereby greatly delighting her and her old mother. For the mother and daughter were very poor, possessing only some seven hundred roubles a year, barely enough to furnish them with the necessaries of existence. Twice a week, then, they came to the pro- fessors rooms, and with the greatest pa- tience he attempted to instruct Annette. But it was time thrown away. She could not learn. One morning she came alone and said that her mother was ill. In the afternoon Mar6guine took a droschky and went to visit her in the far-away abode from which Annette used to make her way to her lessons on foot. Madame Larionof was in bed, but still engaged in the knit- ting which she never seemed to abandon, and ~vhich it appeared enabled her to earn some twenty kopecks a day. That even- ing when Mar6guine returned home he forwarded a hundred-rouble note anony- mously to Madame Larionof, with a few lines in a feigned hand to say that it was sent in payment of an old debt by one who wished to remain unknown. At length came the eve of the day on which Annette was to be once more exam- med. What will these poor women do if she fails again ? thought Mar6guine as he lay down to rest. For a long time he could not sleep, and when at last slumber came it brought with it strange dreams. He saw before him his little country house. Before it lay stretched the watch-dog. A swarm of childrei. threw themselves upon it and played it all manner of tricks. Long it put up with them. Then becoming bored, up it jumped and trotted a~vay out of sight, followed by the laughing little ones. Mar6guine found himself alone and sad. Then on the v,erandah appeared a female form holding a child by the band. And her face, he presently felt, was the face of Annette and he woke with a start. Next day came Annette in the deep- est grief to tell him she was again unsuc- cessful, and to entreat him to break the sad news to her mother. Suddenly at the sight of her utter despair his dream re- curred vividly to his imagination. An- nette, he cried, I am neither young nor handsome, but I think we might be happy together. And so the old bachelor be- came a married man, and Annettes mother spent the last years of her life in knitting socks for his five children. Mar~guine is perfectly happy. The dog has died of old age, but it has a successor exactly like it. Among the many points in favor of the stories of which an attempt has been made to give some idea, is their moral tone, one which enables them to be safely recom- mended for general reading. And, with the exception of the scene of crime in the open. ingof Les E~reuves de Raissa, there is nothing in them which can shock an En- glish taste. The best proof that they have attained to a happy medium in dealing with passion is afforded by the fact that some of the clerical journals of France have objected to them as being too out- spoken, while some more mundane French critics have accused them of English cold- ness and reticence. To Dosia, it may be added, the Acad6mie Fran~aise allotted last May a PrixMontyon of two thousand francs. In the present article, however, they have been regarded from a special point of view. From the majority of Henri Gr~villes works much may be learned about a great country of which we, as a general rule, know little. What is said in them about Russia may be taken by English readers as accurate. It may be that Russian eyes may see flaws, may detect here and there a line, a hue, which are not absolutely Russian, may hear a foreign accent, as it were, in Henri Gr& 76 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. yules words. But into that question it is quite needless for the foreign reader to enter. The Russians may be described, to borrow an idea from. Dr. Wendell Holmes, after three fashions. There are the Russians as they really are, the Rus- sians as they themselves think they are, and the Russians as they appear to for- eigners. It is enough that the present works represent them graphically after the third fashion. It is possible that no such sweet, fair maiden as Sonia could ever be developed from a barefooted Russian peas- ant girl. It is possible that into the char- acter of Dosia may have entered some- thing of French esji4glerie. But no foreign author has ever before drawn so generally correct a series of Russian fe- male portraits; no one has made so clear to foreign eyes the inner life of Russian homes. With what artistic skill and deli- cacy these pictures have been drawn and colored all readers of Henri Gr6villes works will be able to judge for themselves. W. R. S. RALSTON. From The New Quarterly Review. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. PART II. CHAPTER I. lIe, like a captain who beleaguers round Some strong-built castle on a rising ground, Views all the approaches with observing eyes; This and that other part in vain he tries, And more on industry than force relies. SINCE Egbert Maynes situation is not altogether a new and unprecedented one, there will be no necessity for detailing in all its minuteness his attempt to scale the steeps of fame. For notwithstanding the fact that few, comparatively, have reached the top, the lower tracts of that trouble- some incline have been trodden by as nu- merous a company as any allegorical spot in the world. The reader must then imagine five years to have elapsed, during which rather for- midable slice of human life Egbert had been constantly striving. It had been drive, drive from month to month; no rest, nothing but effort. He had progressed from newspaper work to criticism, from criticism to independent composition of a mild order, from the latter to the publica- tion of a book which nobody ever heard of, and from this to the production of a work of really sterling merit, which appeared anonymously. Though he did not set society in a blaze, or even in a smoke, thereby, he certainly caused a good many people to talk about him, and to be curious as to his name. The luminousness of nature which had been sufficient to attract the attention and heart of Geraldine Allenville had, indeed, meant much. That there had been power enough in the presence, speech, mind, and tone of the poor painters son to fascinate a girl of Geraldines station was of itself a ground for the presumption that he might do a work in the world if he chose. The attachment toAher was just the stimulus which such a constitution as his required, and it had at first acted admirably upon him. Afterwards the case was scarcely so happy. He had investigated manners and cus- toms no less than literature; and for a while the experience wa~ exciting enough. But several habits which he had at one time condemned in the ambitious classes now became his own. His original fondness for art, literature, and science was getting quenched by his slowly in- creasing habit of looking upon each and all of these as machinery wherewith to effect a purpose. A new feeling began to animate all his studies. He had not the old interest in them for their own sakes, but a breathless interest in them as factors in the game of sink or swim. He entered picture-galle- ries, not, as formerly, because it was his humor to dream pleasantly over the images therein expressed, but to be able to talk on demand about painters and their peculiar. ities. He examined Correggio to criticise his flesh shades; Angelico, to speak tech- nically of the pink faces of his saints Murillo, to say fastidiously that there was a certain silliness in the look of his old men; Rubens for his sensuous women; Turner for his Turneresqueness. Rom- ney was greater than Reynolds because Lady Hamilton had been his model, and thereby hung a tale. I3onozzi Gozzoli was better worth study than Raffaelle, since the formers name was a learned sound to utter, and all knowledge got up about him would tell. Whether an intense love for a woman, and that ~voman Geraldine, was a justifia- ble reason for this desire to shine it is not easy to say. However, as has been stated, Egbert worked like a slave in these causes, and at the end of five full years was repaid with certain public applause, though, un- fortunately, not with much public money. But this he hoped might come soon. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 77 Regarding his love for Geraldine, the most noteworthy fact to be recorded of the period was that all correspondence with her had ceased. In spite of their fear of her father, letters had passed frequently between them on his first leaving home, and had been continued with ardor for some considerable time. The reason of its close will be perceived in the follow- ing note, which he received from her two years before the date of the present chap- ter: Tollamore House. MY DEAR EGBERT, How shall I tell you what has hap- pened! and yet how can I keep silence when sooner or later yo~i must know all? My father has discovered what we feel for each other. He took me into his room and made me promise never to write to you, or seek you, or receive a letter from you. I promised in haste, for I was frightened and excited, and now he trusts me I wish he did notfor he knows I would not be mean enough to lie. So dont write, poor Egbert, or expect to hear from miserable me. We must try to hope; yet it is along, dreary thing todo. ButI will hope, and not be beaten. How could I help promising, Egbert, whenhecom- pelled me? He is my father. I cannot think what we shall do under it all. It is cruel of life to be like this towards us when we have done no wrong. We are going abroad for a long time. I think it is because of you and me, but I dont know. He does not tell me where we shall go. Just as if a place like Europe could make me forget you. He doesnt know whats in me, and how I can think about you and cry at nights he cannot. If he did, he must see how silly the plan is. Remember that you go to church on Sunday mornings, for then I think that perhaps we are reading in the same place at the same moment; and we are some- times, no doubt. Last Sunday when we came to this in the Psalms, And he shall be like a tree planted by the waterside that will bring forth his fruit in due sea- son: his leaf also shall not wither; and look, whatsoever he doeth, it shall pros- per, I thought, Thats Egbert in Lon- don. I know you were reading that same verse in your church I felt that you said it with us. Then I looked up to your old nook under the tower arch. It was a mis- ery to see the wood and the stone just as good as ever, and you not there. It is not only that you are gone at these times, but a heavy creature blankness seems to stand in your place. But how can I tell you of these thoughts now that I am to write no more? Yet we will hope, and hope. Remember this, that should anything serious happen, I will break the bond and write. Obliga- tion would end then. Good-bye fora time, I cannot put into words what I would fin- ish with. Good-bye, good-bye. G. A. P.S. Might we not write just one line at very wide intervals? It is too much never to write at all. On receiving this letter Eghert felt that he could not honorably keep up a regular correspondence with her. But a determi- nation to break it off would have been more than he could have adhered to if he had not been strengthened by the hope that he might soon be able to give a plausible reason for renewing it. He sent her a line bidding her to expect the best results from the prohibition, which, he was sure, would not be for long. Meanwhile, should she think it not wrong to send a line at very wide intervals he would promptly reply. But she was apparently too conscientious to do so, for nothing had reached him since. Yet she was as continually in his thought and heart as before. He felt more misgivings than he had chosen to tell her of on the ultimate effect of the prohibition, but could do nothing to re- move it. And then he had learnt that Miss Allenville and her father had gone to Paris, as the commencement of a so)ourn abroad. These circumstances had burdened him with long hours of depression, till he had resolved to throw his whole strength into a production which should either give him a fair start towards fame, or make him clearly understand that there was no hope in that direction for such as he. He had begun the attempt, and ended it, and the consequences were fortunate to an un- expected degree. CHAPTER II. Towards the loadstar of my one desire I flitted like a dizzy moth, whose flight Is as a dead leafs so the owlet light. MAYNES book having been launched into the world and well received, he found time to emerge from the seclusion he had maintained for several months, and to look into life again. 78 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. One warm, fashionable day, between five and six oclock, he was walking along Piccadilly, absent-minded and unobservan t, when an equipage approached whose ap- pearance thrilled him through. It was the Allenville landau, newly painted up. Eg- bert felt almost as if he had been going into battle; and whether he should stand forth visibly before her or keep in the background seemed a question of life or death. He waited in unobserved retirement, which it was not difficult to do, his aspect having much altered since the old times. Coachman, footman, and carriage ad- vanced, in graceful unity of glide, like a swan. Then he beheld her, Geraldine, after two years of silence, five years of waiting, and nearly three years of separa- tion; for although he had seen her two or three times in town after he had taken up his residence there, they had not once met since the year preceding her departure for the Continent. She came opposite, now passively look- ing round, then actively glancing at some- thing which interested her. Egbert trem- bled a little, or perhaps a great deal, at sight of her. But she passed on, and the back of the carriage hid her from his view. So much of the boy was left in him still that he could scarcely withhold himself from rushing after her, and jumping into the carriage. She had appeared to be well and blooming, and an instinctive vexation that their long separation had produced no perceptible effect upon her, speedily gave way before a more generous sense of grat- ification at her well-being. Still, had it been possible, he would have been glad to see some sign upon her face that she yet remembered him. This sudden discovery that they were in town after their years of travel stirred his lassitude into excitement. He went back to his chambers to meditate upon his next step. A trembling on Geraldines account was disturbing him. She had probably been in London ever since the beginning of the season, but she had not given him a sign to signify that she was so near; and but for this accidental glimpse of her he might have gone on for months without knowing that she had returned from abroad. Whether she was leading a dull or an exciting life Egbert had no means of knowing. That night after night the arms of interesting young men rested upon her waist and whirled her round the ball-room he could not bear to think. That she fre quented gatherings and assemblies of all sorts he calmly owned as very probable, for she was her fathers only daughter, and likely to be made much of. That she had not written a line to him since their return was still the grievous point. If I had only risen one or two steps further, he thought, how boldly would I seek her out! But only to have pub- lished one successful book in all these years such grounds are slight indeed. For several succeeding days he did nothing but look about the Park, and the streets, and the ~ei~hborhood of Chevron Square, where their town house stood, in ,the hope of seeing her again; but in vain. There weie moments when his distress that she might possibly be indifferent about him and his affairs was unbearable. He fully resolved that he would on some early occasion communicate with her, and know the worst. Years of work remained to be done before he could think of appearing before her father; but he had reached a sort of half-way stage at which some as- surance from herself that his track was a hopeful one was positively needed to keep him firm. Egbert still kept on the look-out for her at every public place; but nearly a month passed, and she did not appear again. One Sunday evening, when he had been wandering near Chevron Square, and look- ing at her windows from a distance, he returned past her house after dusk. The rooms were lighted, but the windows were still open, and as he strolled along he heard notes from a piano within. They were the accompaniment to an air from the Messiah, though no singer~ s voice was audible. Egbert readily imagined who the player might be, for the Mes- siah was an oratorio which Geraldine often used to wax eloquent upon in days gone by. He had not walked far when he remembered that there was to be an exceptionally fine performance of that stir- ring composition during the following week, and it instantly occurred to him that Geraldines mind was running on the same event, and that she intended to be one of the audience. He resolved upon doing something at a venture. The next morning he went to the ticket-office, and boldly asked for a place as near as possible to those taken in the name of Allenville. There is no vacant one in any of those rows, the office-keeper said, but you can have one very near their number on the other side of the division.~~ AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 79 Egbert was astonished that for once in his life he had made a lucky hit. He booked his place, and returned home. The evening arrived, and he went early. On taking his seat he found himself at the left-hand end of a series of benches, and close to a red cord, which divided the group of seats he had entered from stalls of a somewhat superior kind. He was passing the time in looking at the extent of orches- tra space, and other things, when he saw two ladies and a gentleman enter and sit down in the stalls diagonally before his own, and on the other side of the division. It delighted and agitated him to find that one of the three was Geraldine; her two companions he did not know. Policy, dont desert me now, he thought; and immediately sat in such a way that unless she turned round to a very unlikely position she would not see him. There was a certain half-pleasant misery in sitting behind her thus as a possibly de- spised lover. To-night, at any rate, there would be sights and sounds common to both of them, though they should not com- municate to the extent of a word. Even now he could hear the rustle of her gar- ments as she settled down in her seat, and the faint murmur of words that passed be- tween her and her friends. Never, in the many times that he had listened to that rush of harmonies, had they affected him as they did then; and it was no wonder, considering what an influence upon his own life had been and still was exercised by Geraldine, and that she now sat there before him. The varying strains shook and bent him to themselves as a rip- pling brook shakes and bends a shadow. The music did not show its power by at- tracting his attention to its subject; it rather dropped its own libretto and took up in place of that the poem of his life and love. There was Geraldine still. They were singing the chorus Lift up your heads, and he found a new impulse of thought in him. It was towards determination. Should every member of her family be against him he would win her in spite of them. He could now see that Geraldine was moved equally with himself by the tones which entered her ears. Why do the nations so furiously rage together filled him with a gnawing thrill, and so changed him to its spirit that he believed he was capable of suffering in silence for his whole lifetime, and of never appearing before her unless she gave a sign. The audience stood up, and the Hal- lelujah Chorus began. The deafening harmonies flying from this group and from that seemed to absorb all the love and po- etry that his life had produced, to pour it upon that one moment, and upon her who stood so close at hand. I will force Ger- aldine to be mine, he thought.. I will make that heart ache of love fdr me. The chorus continued, and her form trembled under its influence. Egbert was for seek- ing her the next morning and knowing what his chances were, without waiting for further results. The chorus and the per- sonality of Geraldine still filled the atmos- phere. I will seek her to-night as soon as we get out of this place, he said. The storm of sound now reached its climax, and Geraldines power was proportionately increased. He would give anything for a glance this minute to look into her eyes, she into his. If I can but touch her hand, and get one word from her, I will, he murmured. He shifted his position somewhat and saw her face. Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were slightly parted. Stretching a little nearer he whispered, My love! Geraldine turned her wet eyes upon him, almost as if she had not been surprised, but had been forewarned by her previous emotion. With the peculiar quickness of gras.p that she always showed under sud- den circumstances, she had realized the position at a glance. Oh, Egbert! she said; and her coun- tenance flagged as if she would have fainted. Give me your hand, he whispered. She placed her hand in his, under the cord, which it was easy to do without ob- servation; and he held it tight. Mine, as before? he asked. Yours now as then, said she. They were like frail and sorry wrecks upon that sea of symphony, and remained in silent abandonment to the time, till the strains approached their close. Can you meet me to-night ? said Egbert. She was half frightened at the request, and said, Where? At your own front door, at twelve oclock. He then was at once obliged to gently withdraw himself, for the chorus was ended, and the people were sitting down. The remainder was soon over, and it was time to leave. Egbert watched her and her party out of the house, and, turn- ing to the other doorway, went out like- wise. 8o AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. CHAPTER IlL Bright reason will mock thee, Like the son from a wintry sky. WHEN he reached his chambers he sat down and literally did nothing but watch the hand of the mantel-clock minute by minute, till it marked half past eleven, scarcely removing his eyes. Then going again into the street he called a cab, and was driven down Park Lane and on to the corner of Chevron Square. Here he alighted, and went round to the number occupied by the Allenvilles. A lamp stood nearly opposite the door- way, and by receding into the gloom to the railing of the square he could see whatever went on in the porch of the house. The lamps over the doorways were nearly all extinguished, and everything about this part was silent and deserted, except at a house on the opposite side of the square, where a ball was going on. But nothing of that concerned Egbert: his eves had sought out and remained fixed & pon Mr. Allenvilles front door, in momentary ex- pectation of seeing it gently open. The dark wood of the door showed a keen and distinct edge upon the pale stone of the porch floor. It must have been about two minutes before the hour he had named when he fancied he saw a slight movement at that point, as of some- thing slipped out from under the door. It is but fancy, he said to himself. He turned his eyes away, and turned them back again. Some object certainly seemed to have been thrust under the door. At this moment the four quarters of midnight began to strike, and then the hour. Egbert could remain still no longer, and he went into the porch. A note had been slipped under the door from inside. He took it to the lamp, turned it over, and saw that it was directed only with initials, To E. M. Egbert tore it open and glanced upon the page. With a shiver of disappointment he read these words in her handwriting It was when under the influence of much emotion, kindled in me by the power of the music, that I half assented to a meeting ~vi th you to-night; and I believe that you also were excited when you asked for one. After some quiet reflection I have decided that it will be much better for us both if we do not see each other. You will, I know, judge me fairly in this. You have by this time learnt what life is; what particular positions, acciden- tal though they may be, ask, nay, impera- tively exact from us. If you say not imperatively, you cannot speak from knowledge of the world. To be woven and tied in with the world by blood, acquaintance, tradition, and external habit, is to a woman to be utterly at the beck of that worlds cus- toms. In youth we do not see this. You and I did not see it. We were but a girl and a boy at the time of our meetings at Tollamore. What was our knowledge? A list of other peoples words. What was our wisdom? None at all. It is well for you now to remember that I am not,the unsophisticated girl I was when you first knew me. For better or for worse I have become complicated, exclusive, and practised. A woman who can speak, or laugh, or dance, or sing be- fore any number of men with perfect com- posure may be no sinner, but she is not what I was once. She is what I am now. She is not the girl you loved. That woman is not here. I wish to write kindly to you, as to one for whom, in spite of the unavoidable division between our paths, I must always entertain a heartfelt respect. Is it, after this, out of place in me to remind you how contrasting are all our associations, how inharmonious our times and seasons? Could anything ever overpower this in- congruity? But I must write plainly, and, though it may grieve you now, it will produce ultimately the truest ease. This is my meaning. If I could accept your ad- dresses without an entire loss of position I would do so; but, since this cannot be, we must forget each other, Believe me to be, with wishes and prayers for your happiness, Your sincere friend, G. A. Egbert could neither go home nor stay still; he walked off rapidly in any direc- tion for the sole sake of vehement motion. His first impulse was to get into darkness. He went towards Kensington ; thence threaded across to the LTxbridge Road, thence to Kensal Green, where he turned into a lane and followed it to Kilburn,-and the hill beyond, at which spot he halted and looked over the vast haze of light ex- tending to the length and breadth of Lon- don. Turning back and wandering among some fields by a way he could never after- wards recollect, sometimes sitting down, sometimes leaning on a stile, he lingered on until the sun had risen. He then slowly walked again towards London, and, feeling by this time very weary, he entered the AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 8r first refreshment-house that he came to, and attempted to eat something. Having sat for some time over this meal without doing much more than taste it, he arose and set out for the street in which he lived. Once in his own rooms he lay down upon the couch and fell asleep. When he awoke it was four oclock. Egbert then dressed and went out, partook of a light meal at his club at the dismal hour between luncheon and dinner, and cursorily glanced over the papers and re- views. Among the first things that he saw were eulogistic notices of his own hook in three different reviews, each the most prominent and weighty of its class. Two of them, at least, would, he knew, find their way to the drawing-room of the Allen- villes, for they were among the periodicals which the squire regularly patronized. Next, in a weekly review he read the subjoined note : Theauthorship of the book about which conjecture has lately been so much exercised, is now ascribed to Mr. Egbert Mayne, whose first attempt in that kind we noticed in these pages some eigh- teen months ago. He took up a daily paper, and presently lighted on the following paragraph: It is announced that a marriage is ar- ranged between Lord Bretton, of Tosthill Park, and Geraldine, only daughter of Foy Allenville, Esq., of Tollamore House, Wessex. Egbert arose and went towards home. Arrived there he met the postman at the door, and received from him a small note. The young man mechanically glanced at the direction. From her, he mentally exclaimed. What does it This was what the letter contained : Twelve oclock. I have just learnt that the anonymous author of the book in which the world has been so interested during the past two months, and which I have read, is none other than yourself. Accept my congrat- ulations. It seems almost madness in me to address you now. But I could not do otherwise on receipt of this news, and after writing my last letter. Let your knowledge of my nature prevent your misconstruing my motives in writing thus on the spur of the moment. I need scarcely add, please keep it a secret forever. I am not morally afraid, but other lives, hopes, and objects than mine have to be coi~sidered. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXIV. 1202 The announcement of the marriage is premature, to say the least. I would tell you more, but dare not. G. A. The conjunction of all this intelligence produced in Egherts heart a stillness which was some time in getting aroused to excitement. His emotion was formless. He knew not ~vhat point to take hold of and survey his position from; and, though his faculties grew clearer with the passage of time, he failed in resolving on a course with any deliberatene~s. No sooner had he thought, I will never see her again for my prides sake, than he said, Why not see her? she is a woman; she may love me yet. He went down-stairs and out of the house, and walked by way of the Park towards Chevron Square. Probably nobody will rightly appreciate Maynes wild behavior at this juncture, unless, which is very unlikely, he has been in a some~vhat similar position himself. It may always appear to cool critics, even if they are generous enough to make allow- ances for his feelings, as visionary and weak in the extreme. Yet it was scarcely to be expected, after the mental and emo- tional strain that lie had undergone during the preceding five years, that he should have acted much otherwise. He rang the bell and asked to see Mr. Allenville. He, perhaps fortunately, was not at home. Miss A said ivlayne. llenville, then, She is just driving out, said the foot- man dubiously. Egbert then noticed for the first time that the carriage was at the door, and al- most as soon as the words were spoken Geraldine came down-stairs. The madness of hoping to call that finishe.d creature wife! he thought. Geraldine recognized him, and looked perplexed. One word, Miss Allenville, he mur- mured. She assented, and he followed her into the adjoining room. I have come, said Egbert. I know it is hasty of me; but I must hear my doom from your own lips. Five years ago you sl)urred me on to ambition. 1 have followed but too closely the plan I then marked out, for I have hoped all along for a reward. What am I to think? Have you indeed left off feeling what you once felt for me I cannot speak of it now, she said 82 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. hurriedly. I told you in my letter as ward to him. He had planned methods of much as I dared. Believe me I cannot retrogression in case of defeat through speak in the way you wish. I will al- want of ability, want of means, or lack of ways he your friend. opportunity but to retreat because his And is this the end? Oh, my God! appetite for advance had gone off was And we shall hope to see you to din- what he had never before thought of. ner some day, now you are famous, she His reflections turned upon the old continued, pale as ashes. But I can- home of his mothers family. He knew not be with you as we once were. I was exactly how Tollamore appeared at that such a child at that time, you know. time of the year. The trees with their Geraldine, is this all I get after this half-ripe apples, the bees and butterflies lapse of time and heat of labor? lazy from the heat; the haymaking over, I am not my own mistress I have the harvest not begun, the people lively my father to please, she faintly mur- and always ou~ of doors. He would visit inured. I must please him. There is the spot, and call upon some old and half- no help for this. Go from me do go! forgotten friends of his grandfather in an Eghert turned and went, for he felt that adjoining parish. he had no longer a place beside her. Two days later he left town. The fine weather, his escape from that intricate web CHAPTER IV. of effort in which he had been bound these Then I said in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, fIve years, the sensation that nobody in so it happeneth even to me; and why was I then the world had any claims upon him, im more wise? parted some buoyancy to his mind; and MAYNE ~vas in rather an ailing state for it was in a serene if sad spirit that he several days after the above-mentioned entered Tollamore Vale, and smelt his event. Yet the lethean stagnation which native air. usually comes with the realization that all He did not at once proceed to the vil- is over allowed him to take some deep lage, but stopped at Fairland, the parish sleeps, to which he had latterly been a next adjoining. It was now evening, and stranger. he called upon some of the old cottagers The hours went by, and he did the best whom he knew. Time had set a mark he could to dismiss his regrets for Geral- upon them all since he had last been there. dine. He was assisted to the very little Middle-aged men were a little more round- success that he attained in this by reflect- shouldered, their wives had taken to spec- ing how different a woman she must have tacles, young people had grown up out of become from her old sweet self of five or recognition, and old men had passed into six years ago. second childhood. But how paltry is my success now she Egbert found here, as he had expected, has vanished! he said. What is it precisely such a lodging as a hermit would worth? What object have I in following desire. It was in an ivy-covered detached it up after this? It rather startled him house ~vhich had been partly furnished for to see that the root of his desire for celeb- a tenant who had never come, and it was rity having been Geraldine, he now was a kept clean by an old woman living in a man who had no further motive in moving cottage near. She offered to wait upon on. Town life had for some time been Egbert whilst he remained there, coming depressing to him. He began to doubt in the morning and leaving in the after- whether he cbuld ever be happy in the noon, thus giving him the house to himself course of existence that he had followed during the latter part of the day. through these later years. The perpetual When it grew dusk he xvent out, wish- strain, the lack of that quiet to which he ing to ramble for a little time. The gib- had been accustomed in early life, the ab- bous moon rose on his right, the stars sence of all personal interest in things showed themselves sleepily one by one, around him, was telling upon his health of and the far distancb turned to a mysteri- body and of mind. ous ocean of grey. He instinctively di- Then revived the wish which had for rected his steps towards Tollamore, and some time been smouldering in his secret when there towards the school. It looked heart to leave off, for the present, at very little changed since the year in which least, his efforts for distinction; to retire he had had the memorable meetings with for a few months to his old country nook, her there, excepting that the creepers had and there to meditate on his next cour~e. grown higher. To set about this was curiously awk- He went on towards the park. Here AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 83 was the place whereon he had used to await her coming he could be sure of the spot to a foot. There was the turn of the hill around which she had appeared. The sentimental effect of the scenes upon him was far greater than he had expected, so great that he wished he had never been so reckless as to come here. But this is folly, he thought. The betrothed of Lord Bretton is a woman of the world in whose thoughts, hopes, and habits I have no further interest or share. In the lane he heard the church-bells ringing out their five notes, and meeting a shepherd Egbert asked him what was go- ino~ on. Practisino~ he said, in an uninterested voice. Tis against young misss wed- ding, that their hands may be thoroughly in by the day fort. He presently came to where his grand- fathers old house had stood. It was pulled down, the ground it covered having become a shabby, irregular spot, half grown over with trailing Nants. The gar- den had been grassed down, but the old apple-trees still remained, their trunks and stems being now sheeted on one side with moonlight. He entertained himself by guessing where the front door of the house had been, at which Geraldine had entered on the memorable evening when she came to him full of grief and pity, and a tacit avowal of love was made on each side. Where they had sat together ~vas now but a heap of broken rubbish half covered with grass. Near this melancholy spot was the cottage once inhabited by Nathan Brown. But Nathan was dead now, and his wife and family had gone elsewhere. Finding the effect of memory to be oth- erwise than cheerful, Mayne hastened from the familiar spot, and went on to the parish of Fairland in which he had taken his lodging. It soon became whispered in the neigh- borhood that Miss Allenvilles wedding was to take place on the 17th of October. Egbert heard few particulars of the matter beyond the date, though it is possible that he might have known more if he had tried. He preferred to fortify himself by dipping deeply into the few books he had brought with him; but the most obvious plan of escaping his thoughts, that of a rapid change of scene by travel, he was unac- countably loth to adopt. He felt that he could not stay long in this district; yet an indescribable fascination held him on day ,after day, till the date of the marriage was close at hand. CHAPTER V. How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtfid thoughts, andrash-embraced despair And shuddring fear, and green-eyed jealousy! ON the eve of the wedding the people told Mayne that arches and festoons of late summer flowers and evergreens had been put up across the path between the church porch at Tollamore and the pri- vate gate to the squires lawn for the pro- cession of bride and bridesmaids. Before it got dark several villagers went on foot to the church to look at and admire these decorations. Egbert had determined to see the ceremony ovei~ It would do him good, he thought, to be witness of the sac- rifice. Hence he, too, went along the path to Tollamore to inspect the preparations. It was dusk by the time that he reached the churchyard, and he entered it boldly, let- ting the gate fall together with a loud slam, as if he were a man whom nothing troubled. He looked at the half-completed bowers of green, and passed on into the church, never having entered it since he first left Tollamore. He was standing by the chancel-arch, and observing the quantity of flowers which had been placed around the spot, when he heard the creaking of a gate on its hinges. Two figures entered the church, and Egbert stepped behind a cano- pied tomb. The persons were females, and they ap- peared to be servants from the neighbor- ing mansion. They brought more flowers and festoons, and were talking of the event of the morrow. Coming into the chancel they threw down their burdens with a re- mark that it was too dark to arrange more flowers that night. This is where she is to kneel, said one, standing with her arms akimbo before the altar-railing. And I wish twas I in- stead, Lord send if I dont. The two girls went on gossiping till other footsteps caused them to turn. I wont say tisnt she. She has been here two or three times to-day. Lets go round this way.~, And the servants went towards the door by a circuitous path round the aisle, to avoid meeting with the new-coiner. Eghert, too, thought he would leave the place now that he had heard and seen thus much; but from carelessness or design he went straight down the nave. An instant afterwards he was standing face to face with Geraldine. The servants had van- ished. 84 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. Good evening, she said serenely, not knowing him, and supposing him to be a parishioner. Egbert returned the words hastily, and, in standing aside to let her pass, looked clearly into her eyes and pale face, as if there never had been a time at which he would have done anything on earth for her sake. She knew him, and started, uttering a weak exclamation. When he reached the door he turned his head, and saw that she was irresolutely holding up her hind, as if to beckon to him to come back. One word, since I have met you, she said in unequal, half-whispered tones. I have felt that I was one-sided in my haste on the day you called to see me in London. I misunderstood you. Egbert could at least out-do her in self- control, and, astonished that she should have spoken, he answered in a yet colder tone, I am sorry for that; very sorry, mad- am. And you excuse it? Of course I do, readily. And I hope you, too, will pardon my intrusion on that day, and understand the circumstances. Yes, yes. Especially as I am most to blame for those indiscreet proceedings in our early lives which led to it. Certainly you were not most to blame. How can you say that? she answered with a slight laugh, when you know noth- ing of what my motives and feelings were ? I know well enough to judge, for I was the elder. Let me just recall some points in your own history at that time. Will you not hear a word? I cannot. . . Are you writing another book? ~ am doing nothing. I am idling at Monks Hut. Indeed! she said, slightly surprised. Well, you will always have my good wishes, whatever you may do. If any of my relatives can ever help you Thank you, madam, very much. I think, however, that I can help myself. She was silent, looking upon the floor; and Egbert spoke again, successfully hid- ing the feelings of his heart under a light and untrue tone. Miss Allenville, you know that I loved you devotedly for many years, and that that love was the starting- point of all my ambition. My sense of it makes this meeting rather awkward. But men survive almost anything. I have proved it. Theii~ love is strong while it lasts, but it soon withers at sight of a new face. I congratulate you on your coming marriage. Perhaps I may marry some day, too. 1 hope you will find some one worth your love. I am sorry I ever inconven- ienced you as I did. But one hardly knows at that age Dont think of it for a moment I really entreat you not to think of that. What prompted the cruelty of his succeed- ing words he never could afterwards un- derstand. It was a hard matter at first for me to forget you, certainly; but per- haps I was h~lped in my wish by the strong prejudice I originally had against your class and family. I have fixed my mind firmly upon the differences between us, and my youthful fancy is pretty fairly overcome. Those old silly days of devo- tion were pretty enough, but the devotion was entirely unpractical, as you have seen, of course. Yes, I have seen it, she faltered. It was scartely of a sort which sur- vives accident and division, and is strength. ened by disaster. Well, perhaps not, perhaps not. You can scarcely care much now whether it was or not; or, indeed, care anything about me or my happiness. I do care. How much? As you do for that of any other wretched human being ? XVretched? No! I will tell you I must tell you ! she said with rapid utterance. This is my secret, this. I dont love the man I am going to marry; but I have agreed to be his wife to satisfy my friends. Say you dont hate me for what I h ave told. I could not bear that you should not know! Hate you? Oh, Geraldine! A hairs breadth further, and they would both have broken down. Not a word more. Now you know my unhappy state, and I shall die content. But, darlino my Geraldine ! It is too late. Good-nightgood- bye! She spoke in a hurried voice, almost like a low cry, and rushed away. Here was a revelation. Egbert moved along to the door,. and up the path, in a condition in which his mind caused his very body to ache. Hegazed vkcantly through the railings of the lawn, which came close to the churchyard; but she was gone. He still moved mechanically on. A little further and he was overtaken by the parish clerk, who, addressing a few words to him, soon recognized his voice. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. The clerks talk, too, was about the wed- ding. Is the marriage likely to be a happy one? asked Eghert, aroused by the subject. Well, between you and me, Mr. Mayne, tis a made-up affair. Some says she cant bear the man. Lord Bretton? Yes. I could say more if I dared; but whats the good of it now! I suppose none, said Egbert wearily. He was glad to be again alone, and went on towards Fairland slowly and heavily. Had Geraldine forgotten him, and loved elsewhere with a light heart, he could have borne it; but this sacrifice at a time when, left to herself, she might have listened to him, was an intolerable misery. Her in- consistent mannner, her appearance of being swayed by two feelings, her half-res- ervations, were all explained. Against her wishes, he said; at heart she may still be mine. Oh, Geraldine, my poor Geraldine, is it come to this He bitterly regretted his first manner towards her, and turned round to consider ~vhether he could not go back, endeavor to find her, and ask if he could be of any pos- sible use. But all this was plainly absurd. He again proceeded homeward as before. Reaching Fairland he sat a while in his empty house without a light, and then went to bed. Owing to the distraction of his mind he lay for three or four hours medi- tating, and listening to the autumn wind, turning restessly from side to side, the blood throbbing in his temples and singing in his ears, and the ticking of his watch waxing 4p~rently loud enough to stun him. He conjured up the image of Geral- dine in her various stages of preparation on the following day. He saw her com- ing in at the ~vell-known door, walking down the aisle in a floating cloud of white, and receiving the eyes of the assembled crowd without a flush, or a sign of con- sciousness; uttering the words, I take thee to my wedded husband, as quietly as if she were dreaming them. And the hus- band? Egbert shuddered. How could she have consented, even if her memories stood their ground only half so obstinately as his own? As for himself, he perceived more clearly than ever how intricately she had mingled with every motive in hjs past career. Some portion of the thought, marriage with Geraldine, had been marked on every day of his manhood. Ultimately he fell into a fitful sleep, when he dreamed of fighting, wading, diving, boring, thro ugh innumerable multi- tudes, in the midst of which Geraldines form appeared flitting about, in the usual confused manner of dreams sometimes coming towards him, sometimes receding, and getting thinner and thinner till she was a mere film tossed about upon a seeth- ing mass. He jumped up in the bed, damp with a cold perspiration, and in an agony of dis- quiet. It ~vas a minute or two before he could collect his senses. He went to .the window and looked out. It was quite dark, and the wind moaned and whistled round the corners of the house in the heavy in- tonations which seem to express that ruth- lessness has all the world to itself. Eghert, do, do come to me! reached his ears in a faint voice from the dark- ness. There was no mistaking it: it was as- suredly the tongue of Geraldine. He half dressed himself, ran down- stairs, and opened the front door, holding the candle above his head. Nobody was visible. He set down the light, hastened round the back of the house, and saw a dusky figure turning the corner to get to the gate. He then ran diagonally across the plot, and intercepted the form in the path. Geraldine! he said, can it indeed be you? Yes, it is, it is! she cried wildly, and fell upon his shoulder. The hot turmoil of excitement pervad- ing her hindered her from fainting, and Egbert placed his arm round her, and led her into the house, without asking a ques- tion, or meeting with any resistance. He assisted her into a chair as soon as they reached th~ front room. I have run away from home, Egbert, and to you! she sobbed. I am not in- sane: they and you may think so, butl am not. I came to find you. Such shocking things have happened since I met you just now. Can Lord Bretton come and claim me? Nobody on earth can claim you, dar- ling, against your will. Now tell it all to me. She spoke on between her tears. I have loved you ever since, Egbert; but such influences have been brought to bear upon me that at last I have hardly known what I was doing. At last, I thought that perhaps, after all, it would be better to be- come a lady of title, with a large park and houses of my own, than the wife of any man ofgenius who was poor. I loved you all the time, but I was half ashamed that I loved you. I went out continually, that gaiety might obscure the past. And then 86 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. dark circles came round my eyesI grew worn and tired. I am not nearly so nice to look atas at that time when we used to meet in the school, nor so healthy either I think I was handsome then. At this she smiled faintly, and raised her eyes to his, with a sparkle of their old mischief in them. And now and ever, he whispered.. How innocent we were then! Fancy, Egbert, our unreserve would have been almost wrong if we had known the canons of behavior we learnt afterwards. Al) who at that time would have thought I was to yield to what I did? I wish now that I had met you at the door in Chevron Square, as I promised. But I feared to I had promised Lord Bretton and I that evening received a lecturing from my father, who saw you at the concerthe was in a seat further behind. And then, when I heard of your great success, how I wished I had held out a little longer! for I knew your hard labor had been on my account. When we met again last night it seemed awful, horrible what I had done. Yet how could I tell you plainly? When I got indoors I felt I should die of misery, and I went to my father, and said I could not be married to-morrow. Oh, how angry he was, and what a dreadful scene occurred ! She covered her face with her hands. My poor Geraldine! said Egbert, supporting her with his arm. When I was in my room this came into my mind, Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou should- est vow and not pay. I could bear it no longer. I was determined not to marry him, and to see you again, whatever came of it. I dressed, and came down-stairs noiselessly, and slipped out. I knew where your house was, and I hastened here. You will never marry him now? Never. Yet what can I do? Oh! what can I do? If I go back to my father no, I cannot go back nowit is too late. But if they should find me, and drag me back, and compel me to perform my promise! There is one simple way to prevent that, if, beloved Geraldine, you will agree to adopt it. Yes. By becoming my wife, at once. We would return to London as soon as the ceremony was over; and there y6u may defy them all. Oh, Egbert! I have thought of this You will have no reason to regret it. Perhaps I can introduce you to as intellec tual, if odd-mannered and less aristocratic, society than that you have been accus tomecl to. Yes, I know it, I reflected on it be. fore I came . . . I will be your wife, she replied tenderly. I have come to you, and to you I will cling. Egbert kissed her lips then for the first time in his life. He reflected for some time, if that process could be called reflec. tion which wa~ accompanied with so much excitement. The parson of your parish would per- haps refuse to marry us, even if we could get to the church secretly, he said, with a cloud on his brow. Thats a diffi- culty. Oh, dont take me there! I cannot go to Tollamore. I shall be seen, or we shall be parted. Dont take me there. No, no; I will not, love. I was only thinking. Are you known in this parish? Well, yes; not, however, to the clergy- man. He is a young manold Mr.. Keene is dead, you know. Then I can manage it. Egbert clasped her in his arms in the delight of his heart. Now this is our course. I am first going to the surrogate s,and then further; and while I am gone you must stay in this house absolutely alone, and lock yourself in for safety. There is food in the house, and wine in that cupboard; you must stay l)ere in hiding till I come back. It is now five oclock. I will be here again at latest by eleven. If anybody knocks, remain silent, and the house will be supposed empty, as it lately has been so for a long time. My old servant and waitress must not come here to-day I will manage that.. I will light a fire, which will have burnt down by daylight, so that the room will be warmed for you. Sit there while I set about it. He lit the fire, placed on the table all the food the house afforded, and went away. CHAPTER VI. Hence will I to my ghostly fathers cell His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. IN half an hour Egbert returned, lead- ing a horse. I have borrowed this from an old neighbor, he said, and I have told the woman who waits upon me that I am doing on a journey, and shall lock up the house to-day, so that she will not be wanted. And now, dearest, I want you to lend me something. AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 87 Whatever it may be, you know it is yours.~~ It is that, he a~nswered, lightly touch- ing with the tip of his finger a sparkling ring she wore on hers the same she had used to wear at their youthful meetings in past years. I want it as a pattern for the size.~~ She drew it off and handed it to him, at the same time raising her eyelids and glancing under his with a little laugh of confusion. His heart responded, and he kissed her; but he could not help feeling that she was by far too fair a prize for him. She accompanied him to the door, and Mayne mounted the horse. They parted, and, waiting to hear her lock herself in, he cantered off by a bridle-path towards a town about five miles off; It was so early that the surrogate on whom he called had not yet breakfasted, but he was very willing to see Mayne, and took him at once to the study. Egbert briefly told him what he wanted; that the lady he wished to marry was at that very moment in his house, and could go nowhere else for shelter hence the earliness and urgency of his errand. The surrogate seemed to see rather less interest in the circumstances than Mayne did himself; but he at once prepared the application for a license. When it was done, he made it up into a letter, directed it, and placed it on the mantelpiece. It shall go by this evenings post, he said. But, said Egbert, considering the awkward position this lady is in, cannot a special messenger be sent for the license? It is only seven or eight miles to and yet otherwise I must wait for two days posts. Undoubtedly; if anybody likes to pay for it, a special messenger may be sent. There will be no paying; I am willing to go myself. Do you object? No; if the case is really serious, and the lady is dangerously compromised by every delay. Mayne left the vicarage of the surrogate and again rode off; this time it was towards a well-known cathedral town. He felt bewildering sensations during this stroke for happiness, and went on his jour- ney in that state of mind which takes cog- nizance of little things, without at the time beinct conscious of them, though they re- turn~Avidly upon the memory long after. He reached the city after a ride of seven additional miles, and soon obtained the precious document, and all else that he required. Returning to the inn where the horse had been rested, rubbed down, and fed, he again crossed the saddle, and at ten minutes past eleven he was back at Fairland. Before going to Monks Hut, where Geraldine was immured, he has- tened straight to the parsonage. The young clergyman looked curiously at him, and at the bespattered and jaded horse outside. Surely you are too rash in the matter, he said. No, said Egbert; there are weighty reasons why I should be in such haste. The lady has at present no home to go to. She has taken shelter with me. I am doing what I consider best in so awkward a case. The parson took down his hat, and said, Very well; I will go to the church at once. You must be quick if it is to be done to-day. Mayne left the horse for the present in the parsons yard, ran round to the clerk, thence to Monk~s Hut, and called Geral- dine. It was, indeed, a hasty preparation for a wedding ceremony that these two made that mornino She was standing at the window, quite ready, and feverish with waiting. Kissing her gaily and breath- lessly he directed her by a slightly circui- tous path to the church ; and, when she had been gone about two minutes, pro- ceeded thither himself by the direct road, so that they met in the porch. Within, the clergyman, clerk, and clerks wife had already gathered; and Geraldine and Eg- bert advanced to the communion railing. Thus they became man and wife. Now he cannot claim me anyhow, she murmured when the service was ended, as she sank almost fainting upon the arm of Mayne. Mr. Mayne, said the clergyman, aside to him in the vestry, what is the name of the family at Tollamore House? Strangely enough, Allenville the same as hers, said he coolly. The parson looked keenly and dubiously at Mayne, and Egbert returned the look, whereupon the other turned aside and said nothing. Egbert and Geraldine returned to their hermitage on foot, as they had left it; and, by rigorously excluding all thoughts of the future, they felt happy with the same old unreasoning happiness as of six years be- fore, now resumed for the first time since that date. But it was quite impossible that the hastily married pair should remain at Monks Hut unseen and unknown, as they fain would have done. Almost as soon as they had sat down in the house they came 88 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. to the conclusion that there was no alter- native for them but to start at once for Melport, if not for London. The difficulty was to get a conveyance. The only horse obtainable here, though a strong one ,had already been tired down by Egbert in the morning, and the nearest village at which another could be had was about two miles off. I can walk as far as that, said Geral- dine. Then walk we will, said Egbert. It will remove all our difficulty.. And, first packing up a ~mall valise, he locked the door and went off with her upon his arm, just as the church clock struck one. That walk through the woods was as romantic an experience as any they had ever known in their lives, though Geral- dine was far from being quite happy. On reaching the village, which was larger than Fairland, they were fortunate enough to secure a carriage without any trouble. The village stood on the turnpike road, and a fly, about to return to Melport, where it had come from, was halting be- fore the inn. Egbert hired it at once, and in little less than an hour and a half bride- gro6m and bride were comfortably housed in a quiet hotel of the seaport town above mentioned. CHAPTER vii. How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair! THEY remained three days at Melport without having come to any decision on their future movements. On the third day, at breakfast, Egbert took up the local newspaper which had been published that morning, and his eye presently glanced upon a paragraph head- ed The Tollamore Elopement. Before reading it he considered for a moment whether he should lay the journal aside, and for the present hide its contents from the tremulous creature opposite. But deeming this unadvisable, he gently prepared her for the news, and read the paragraph aloud. It was to the effect that the village of Tollamore and its neighborhood had been thrown into an unwonted state of excite- ment by the disappearance of Miss Allen- ville on the eve of the preparations for her marriage with Lord Bretton, which had been alluded to in their last number. Si- multaneously there had disappeared from a neighboring village, whit her he had come for a few months retireme nt, a gentleman named Mayne, of considerable literary reputation in the metropolis, and appar- ently an old acquaintance of Miss Allen- villes. Efforts had been made to trace the fugitives by the young ladys father and the distracted bridegroom, Lord Bret- ton, but hitherto all their exertions had been unavailing. Subjoined was another paragraph, enti- tled Latest particulars. It has just been discovered that Mr. Mayne and Miss Allenville are alreidy man and wife. They were boldly married at the parish church of Fairland, before any person in th~ village had the least sus- picion who or what they were. It appears that the lady joined her intended husband early that morning at the cottage he had taken for the season, that they went to the church by different paths, and after the ceremony walked out of the l)arish by a route as yet unknown. In consequence of this intelligence Lord Bretton has re- turned to London, and her father is left alone to mourn the young ladys rash- ness. Egbert lifted, his eyes and watched Geraldine as he finished readino ceiving his look she tried to b On per- smile. The smile thinned away, for there was not cheerfulness enough to support it long, and she said faintly, Egbert, what must be done? We must, I suppose, leave this place, darling; charming as our life is here. Yes; I fear we must. London seems to be the spot for us at once, before we attract the attention of the people here. How well everything might end, she said, if my father were induced to wel- come you, and make the most of your reputation! I wonder, wonder if he would! In that case there would be little amiss. Mayne, after some reflection, said, I think that I will go to your father before we leave for town~ We are certain to be discovered by somebody or other, either here or in London, and that would bring your father, and there would possibly re- sult a public meeting between him and my- self at which words might be uttered which could not be forgotten on either side ; so that a private meeting and ex- planation is safest, before anything of that sort can happen. I think, she said, looking to see if he al)proved of her words as they fell, I think that a still better course would be for me to go to him alone. Mayne did not. care much about this plan at first; but further discussion gave AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. 89 it a more feasible aspect, since Allenville, though stern and proud, was fond of hi~ daughter, and had never crossed her, ex- cept when her whims interfered, as he considered, with her interests. Nothing could unmarry them; and Geraldines mind would be much more at ease after begging her fathers forgiveness. The journey was therefore decided on. They waited till nearly evening, and then, order- ing round a brougham, Egbert told the man to drive to Tollamore. The journey to Geraldine was tedious and oppressive to a degree. When, after two hours~ driving, they drew near the park precincts, she said shivering, I dont like to drive up to the house, Egbert. I will do just as you like. What do you propose? To let him wait in the road, under the three oak-trees, while you and I walk to the house. Egbert humored her in everything; and when they reached the designated spot the driver was stopped, and they alighted. Carefully wrapping her up he gave her his arm, and they started for Tollamore House at an easy pace through the moonlit park, avoiding the direct road as much as possi- ble. Geraldine spoke but little during the walk, especially when they neared the house, and passed across the smooth broad glade which surrounded it. At sight of the door she seemed to droop, and leant heavily upon him. Egbert more than ever wished to confront Mr. Allen- ville himself; morally and socially it ap- peared to him the right thing to do. But Geraldine trembled when he again proposed it; and he yielded to her entreaty thus far, that he would wait a few minutes till she had entered and seen her father privately, and prepared the way for Egbert to follow, which he would then do in due course. The spot in which she desired him to wait was a summer-house under a tree about fifty yards from the lawn front of the house, and commanding a view of the door on this side. She was to enter un- observed by the servants, and go straight to her father, when, should he listen to her with the least show of mildness, she would send out for Egbert to follow. If the worst were to happen, and he were to be enraged with her, refusing to listen to entreaties or explanations, she would hasten out, rejoin Egbert, and depart. Iii this little summer-house he embraced her, and b~de her adieu, after their honey- moon of three short days. She trembled so much that she could scarcefy walk when he let go her hand. Dont go alone you are not well, said Egbert. Yes, yes, dearest, I am and I will soon return, so soon! she answered; and he ~vatched her crossingthe grass and advancing, a mere dot, towards the man- sion. In a short time the appearance of an oblong of light in the shadowy expanse of wall denoted to him that the door was open her outline appeared on it; then the door shut her in, and all was shadow as before. Even though they were hus- band and wife the line of demarcation seemed to be drawn again as rigidly as when he lived at the school. Egbert waited in the solitude of this place minute by minute, restlessly swing- ing his foot when seated, at other times walking up and down, and anxiously ~vatching for the arrival of some messen- ger. Nearly half an hour passed, but no messenger came. The first sign of life in the neighbor- hood of the house was in the shape ofa man on horseback, gal loping from the stable entrance. Egbert saw this by look- ing over the ~vall at the back of the sum- mer-house; and the man passed along the open drive, vanishing in the direction of the lodge. Mayne, not without some pre- sentiment of ill, wondered what it could mean, but thought it just possible that the horseman was a special messenber sent to catch the late post at the nearest town, as was sometimes done by Squire Allenville So he curbed his impatience for Geral- dines sake. Next he observed lights movIng in the upper windows of the building. It has been made known to them all that she is come, and they are preparing a room, he thought hopefully. But nobody came from the door to wel- come him; his existence was apparently forgotten by the ~vhole world. In another ten minutes he saw the Melport broughain that had brought them, creeping slowly up to the house. Eghert went round to the man, and told him to drive to the stables and wait for orders. From the length of Geraldines absence, Mayne could not help concluding that the impression produced on her father was of a doubtful kind, not quite favorable enough to warrant her in telling him at once that her husband was in waiting. Still, a sense of his di~.nity as her husband might have 90 AN INDISCRETION IN THE LIFE OF AN HEIRESS. constrained her to introduce him as soon as possible, and he had only agreed to wait a few minutes. Something unex- pected must, after all, have occurred. And this supposition was confirmed a mo- ment later by the noise of a horse and car- riage coming up the drive. Egbert again looked over into the open park, and saw the vehicle reach the carriage entrance, where somebody alighted and went in. Her father away from home perhaps, and now just returned, he said. He lingered yet another ten minutes, and then could endure no longer. Be- fore he could reach the lawn door through which Geraldine had disappeared it opened. A person came out and, with- out shutting the door, hastened across to where Egbert stood. The man was a servant without a hat on, and the moment that he saw Mayne he ran up to him. Mr. Mayne? he said. It is, said Egbert. Mr. Allenville desires that you will come with me. There is something seri- ous the matter. Miss Allenville is taken dangerously ill, and she wishes to see you. What has happened to her? ~ gasped Eghert breathlessly. Miss Allenville came unexpectedly home just now, and directly she saw her father it gave her such a turn that she fainted, and ruptured a blood-vessel inter- nally, and fell upon the floor. They have put her to bed, and the doctor has come, but we are afraid she wont live over it. She has suffered from it before. Egbert did not speak, but walked has- tily beside the man-servant. The only recollection that he ever had in after years of entering that house was a vague idea of stags antlers in a long row on the wall, and a sense of great breadth in the stone staircase as he ascended it. Everything else was in a mist. Mr. Allenville, on being informed of his arrival, came out and met him in the corri- dor. Egberts mind was so entirely given up to the one thought that the life of his Geraldine was in danger, that he quite forgot the peculiar circumstances under which he met Allenville, and the peculiar behavior necessary on that account. He seized her fathers hand, and said abruptly, Where is she? Is the danger great? Allenville withdrew his hand, turned, and led the way into his daughters room, merely saying in a low, hard tone, Your wife is in great danger, sir. Egbert rushed to the bedside and bent over her in agony not to be described. Allenville sent the attendants from the room, and closed the door. Father, she whispered feebly, I cannot help loving him. Would you leave us alone? We are very dear to each other, and perhaps I shall soon die. Anything you wish, child, he said with stern anguish; ~and anything can hardly include more. Seeing that she looked hurt at this, he spoke more pleas- antly. I am glad to please you you know I am, Geraldine to the utmost. He then went out. They would not have let you know if Dr. Williams had not insisted, she said. I could not speak to explain at first thats how it is you have been left there so long. Geraldine, dear, dear Geraldine, why should all this have come upon us? he said in broken accents. Perhaps it is best, she murmured. I hardly knew what I was doing when I entered the door, or how I could explain to my father, or what could be done to reconcile him to us. He kept me waiting a little time before he would see me, but at last he came into the room. I felt a ful- ness on my chest, I could not speak, and then this happened to me. Papa has asked no questions. A silence followed, interrupted only by her fitful breathing: A silence which doth follow talk, that causes The baffled heart to speak with sighs and tears. Doyou love me very much now, Eg. bert? she said. After all my vacilla- tion, do you? Yes how can you doubt? I do not doubt. I know you love me. But will you stay here till I get better? You must stay. Papa is sure to be friendly with you now.~~ Dont agitate yourself, dearest, about me. All is right with me here. Your health is the one thing to be anxious about now. I have only been taken ill like this once before in my life, and I thought it would never be again. As she was not allowed to speak much, he remained holding her hand; and after some time she sank into a light sleep. Egbert then went from the chamber for a moment, and asked the physician who was in the next room, if there was good hope for her life. FRANCIS BACON. BY JAMES ROWLEY. 9 It is a dangerous attack, and she is From Frasers Magazine. very weak, he replied, concealing, though THE PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL scarcely able to conceal, the curiosity with CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON.* which he regarded Egbert; for the mar- riage had now become generally known. The evening and night wore on. Great events in which he could not participate seemed to be passing over Egberts head; a stir was in progress, of whose results he grasped but small and fragmentary no- tions. And, on the other hand, it was mournfully strange to notice her fathers behavior during these hours of doubt. It was only when he despaired that he looked upon Egbert with tolerance. When he hoped, the young mans presence was hate- ful to him. Not knowing what to do when out of her chamber, having nobody near him to whom he could speak on intimate terms, Egbert passed a wretched time of three long days. After watching by her for sev- eral hours on the third day, he went down- stairs, and into the open air. There intel- ligence was brought him that another effusion, more violent than any which pre- ceded it, had taken place. Egbert rushed back to her room. Powerful remedies were applied, but none availed. A faint- ing-fit followed, and in two or three hours it became plain to those who understood that there was no Geraldine for the mor- row. Sometimes she was lethargic, and as if her spirit had already flown ; then her mind wandered; but towards the end she was sensible of all that was going on, though unable to speak, her strength being barely enough to enable her to receive an idea. It was a gentle death. She was as ac- quiescent as if she had been a saint, which was not the least striking and uncommon feature in the life of this fair and unfortu- nate lady. Her husband held one tiny hand, remaining all the time on the right side of the bed in a nook beside the cur- tains, while her father and the rest re~ mained on the left side, never raising their eyes to him, and scarcely ever addressing him. Everything was so still that her weak act of trying to live seemed a silent wrestling with all the powers of the universe. Pale and hopelessly anxious they all waited and watched the heavy shadows close over her. It might have been thought that death felt for her and took her tenderly. She sighed twice or three times; then her heart stood still; and this strange family alliance was at an end forever. THOMAS HARDY. THE subject of this paper, difficult as it is even to men of exceptional knowledge~ and capacity, has yet two conspicuous ad- vantages its limits are marked with tol- erable distinctness, and the area those limits inclose is not too wide to be fairly taken in by any mind of average capacity. It is true that to most the mere mention of the name Lord Bacon suggests a field of intellectual laboi ~that stretches far be- yond the horizon of all ordinary and of most extraordinary observers; but that is because those that think and talk about Lord Bacon generally think and talk about the writer of the Noviun Organurn and History of Henry VII., not about the learned counsel, the attorney-general, the lord chancellor. My business at pres- ent is exclusively with the latter. Not only too is the range of the subject dis- tinctly limited, but also the facts it deals with have been fairly ascertained. Thanks to Bacons own care in preserving the let- ters and other documents that reveal or illustrate his actions, and the loving dili- gence of a succession of scholars of whom Mr. James Spedding is the latest, fullest, and worthiest the most eventful passages of his life have been laid bare to the satisfaction of rational curiosity. There is not much dispute about what Ba- con actually said and did on the occasions which supply the most abundant matter for controversy; it is almost invariably on the right interpretation of his sayin~s and do- ings that the disputants join issue. Ba- cons apologists do not deny that he had, been nobly befriended by the man against whose life he pleaded in court, that he watched so far as we know, without flinching the agonies of a half-crazy par- son in whose unpreached sermon the king professed that he saw most dangerous treason, that he allowed the favor- ite to write him letters desiring him as chancellor to show all the favor he might to particular suitors, that he took presents from parties to causes in his court whose cases were still undecided, and that he was active ~n many of the transactions that the historians of Jamess reign have visited. with emphatic reprobation; but they main- tain that in most of these alleged misdeeds Bacon was justified by their circumstances or by the practice of the time, and in the * This paper is the substance of a lecture given at the Museum and Library, Bristoi, in February last. 92 PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL remainder that his sin was not of so dark a hue as not to be easily forgiven by fellow- sinners. Even over the minor details of his actions there is little wrangling. Now the proper method of treating this subject seems to be, to fix the attention solely on Bacon as a lawyer and states- man, forgetting for the moment that he was ever anything else. If we do not carefully separate the chancellor from the philosopher, or rather to take a hint from the poet Cowley contemplate the chancellor of King Jamess laws apart from the chancellor of natures laws, do not succeed in isolating the former, ~ve shall be sure to go a stray. Bacon chose to cast in his lot with the Cecils, Howards, and Egertons of the day, and as a Cecil, a Howard, or an Egerton he must consent to be judged. In his will he leaves his name and memory to mens charitable speeches, and to foreign nations, and to the next ages.~ But every one whom for- tune or his own energy has lifted into high place does pretty much the same, though he may not often say as much. One, how- ever, cannot help suspecting that the spoken appeal of the author of the Es- says and Advancement of Learning~ has been more potent ~vith the dispensers of posthumous justice than the dumb ap- peal of his unlettered brethren. Literature has taken charge of all alike, and literary men are not the kinless loons that Cromwells Scottish judges were; the jus- tice they deal out to historical characters of their own craft is more generously tem- pered with mercy than that which they deal out to tl)ose whose kinship they do not acknowledge. In this there is nothing to be surprised at, and little to blame; working in the full sunlight of a grand in- tellectual reputation, literature can hardly help being dazzled. But at present my course is clear; strictly speaking, it is to Viscount St. Albans, not Francis Bacon, that we must now give our attention. Yet, comparatively narrow as our field is thus made, there is in it, as experience has shown, ample scope for criticism and con- troversy. Bacons public career has pro- voked a good deal of both; of the latter something more than its fair share. For the criticism I make no apology. The subject demands it; I must only take care that it be as just as my knowledge, insight, and critical gift permit. Bacons public career stretches over thirty-seven years. He sat in every Parlia- ment nine in all that was called be- tween his t~venty-fo~rth and sixty-first years, being a member of the Commons House in all but the last, in the last being for a time not only a member of the Lords House, but in a certain sense, its leading member. There is no special distinction about his Parliamentary career, though constituencies and fellow-members seem to have been sensible of his fine qualities. Middlesex chose him to one Parliament, Cambridge University to another, the lat- ter carrying him off from Ipswich and St. Albans, which had also elected him. But the time had not yet come when men could rise to what Bacon seems to have sought afterpower, hon.or, and wealth by the Parliamentary ladder alone; and Bacon, though not undistinguished, cannot be said to have shone as a Parliament man. The day for shining In Parliament had, how- ever, not yet dawned. His name is found. in the debates from the very first, appears with increasing frequency in every succes- sive Parliament or session of Parliament, and is now and then conspicuous in origi- nating, supporting, or pushing forward important measures. There are two or three noticeable things about his notions and behavior in the Commons and the sen- timents of the other members regarding him. He had a somewhat higher concep- tion of the Parliamentary functions than prevailed in the sixteenth century. Think- ing it unworthy of a great nation that its representatives shourd be called together merely to vote money to the crown, he not only strove to give the appearance of a more dign ilied purpose and a loftier tone to the debates, but also did somewhat to take away their reproach by introducing several measures of public utility himself. One of these, for the repeal of superfluous laws, on which he tried to awaken some degree of interest in Elizabeths last Par- liament, is notable as showing Bacon s forecast of a monstrous abuse, and at- tempted anticipation of a great reform of modern times. Even in speaking on a subsidy bill a not very inspiriting subject he is seen endeavoring to pitch the note of the discussion a little higher than honor- able gentlemen were accustomed to, and to stir up within the Commons some sense of their own dignity. It is also honorable to Bacon that the Commons appear to have had a large measure of faith in his capacity, honesty, and discretion. He was their favorite in his mature days perhaps their invariable reporter of committees, as the chair- man was then called, and of conferences with the king or the Lords: and so entirely did the Commons trust him that they more than once put him at the head of commit- tees charged to carry out objects that he had strongly opposed. Many proofs of this unlimited confidence in his. punctual fulfilment of a trust are found in those stirring passages of Parliamentary history connected with the impositions, purvey- ance, and other grievances over which Jamess first Parliament was so fretful. For part of this time Bacon was solicitor or attorney general, and took the side of the crown on every disputed question with a promptitude and adhered to it with a steadiness that have drawn down on him the scorn of some modern writers; yet the House would have him and no other as the leading member of committees ap- pointed to search for precedents, argue before the Lords, or address the king, in favor of opinions that were the reverse of his own. And in no single instance did the House show the slight& st dissatisfac- tion with him; in the only one in which his conduct seemed open to exception, the acclamation of the House was these are the very words of the report that the course Bacon had taken on the spur of the moment in the kings presence was a testimony of their duty and no levity. * Mr. Spedding clearly has excellent grounds for his opinion that the Commons found Bacon to be the man among them in whose hands any business of delicacy or difficulty always prospered best. And in the Parliamentary element Ba- cons bearing was self-possessed, dignified, and manly. So far as We know, Parliament seldom heard an intemperate word fall from his lips; though his opinions were often ill-received by the majority in the most exciting debates, he maintained an unruffled serenity; he seems to have never once forgotten himself, when upholding unpopular views. F~r after the great queens death the temper of the Commons changed; the premonitory symptoms, though none understood them, of a great revolution began to show themselves; the House not seldom betrayed a disposition to fall into an ungovernable mood without precedent in Elizabethan Parliaments. This was a new experience to Bacon. He had hitherto striven to raise Parliament out of the region of humdrum, but had never dream~d of its asserting a position in the State injurious to the prerogative of the crown. A state of things in which the Commons should be supreme would have been to him a revelation of political chaos, a confusion worse confounded. To Ba- * Spedding, iii. 172. 93 con the idea that the affairs of a great na- tion should be controlled, and its policy dictated, by a miscellaneous collection of country gentlemen, lawyers, and mer- chants, would have been ridiculous. Ac- cordingly, from the beginning of the sev- enteenth century Bacon held steadfastly to the crown. He took the same side as King James on every publh question, was diligent in seeking arguments in favor of every pet scheme of the kings, pushed himself into the front of the kings parti- sans in every dispute, in a word placed his reasoning and persuading puwers abso- lutely at the kings disposal. It would not be easy to find a trace of a difference of opinion between the king and Bacon dur- ing the first fourteen years of Stuart rule. For all that, it is not necessary to pro- nounce Bacon a servile tool of tyranny, though some have not scrupled to do so. It is easy to point out the close association between Bacons worldly interests and the course he pursued, and to hint that like many philosophical politicians he had a turn for swimming with the stream. It is true that during a part of this time Bacon was hungry for office, during another part actually in office, the paid servant of the crown; but there is nothing to show that the opinions he expressed were not the opinions he held. We may have our sus- picions, may be eager to find indications that the motives ascribed to him did not operate, but we can confidently assert that in Bacons Parliamentary career there is nothing to fix a dishonorable stain on his name. If he wetit with the crown now, whereas he had once shown another incli- nation, the circumstances were altered. Instead of lying in stagnation, Parliament was now instinct with life. Bacon had now little reason to fear that the Lower House would settle down into a mere po- litical mechanism for increasing the royal revenue. His apprehension may now have been that it would show too great activity, and advance pretensions irreconcilable with order and good government, and Mr. Spedding actually credits him with such an apprehension; and Bacon, whose long- ing for good government was undoubtedly a genuine feeling, may have been convinced that with the crown only lay the possibility of giving the nation that one priceless blessing. For this is the theory on which his champions rest their Vindication of his conduct in attaching himself to the court. What his eyes desired to see above all things was the establishment of rational principles and sound methods of govern- ment; there was. but one means of secur CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. 94 PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL ing this, he thought, the royal prerogative, and so he was ready to defend the royal prerogative against all attacks. Unless I am much mistaken in my reading of Ba- cons political career, this is a well-founded theory; it seems to me to rhyme accurately with everything we know of his sayings and doings as a political thinker, a Parlia- mentary speaker, and a minister of State. If this he so, there is little to object to in Bacons conduct as a Parliament man. The case against him would have little plausibility if it drew its materials from this province of his life alone. But the far more active sphere of Ba- cons political labors lay outside Par- liament, and to it belong those parts of Bacons conduct over which historians and moralists have shaken their heads, and regarding which thoroughly informed crit- ics are not yet agreed as to their verdict. Into this sphere Bacon did not find admis- sion so easy as into Parliament. He had to wait for nearly a quarter of a century and to sit in seven Parliaments before he was appointed to any office under the crown, or ~-as even given any permanent public employment. XVhy he was kept in the antechamber so long has never been satisfactorily explained. His transcendent ability seems to have been admitted from the first; his father, who had been for twenty-one years among the most faithful and valued of Elizabeths ministers, had designed and partly trained him for the service of the queen; he was himself more than willing to he dedicated to the same service; the man kighest in the con- fidence of the sovereign was his close con- nection, for some years the young noble whom the queen delighted to honor was his enthusiastic friend and vehement advo- cate, for a time the royal ear was open to his own pleadings; one could hardly con- ceive an aspirant with greater advantages, internal and external, better gifted or bet- ter circumstanced. Yet, though a seeker as early as i~8o, he was not a finder of what he sought until 1607, when he was made solicitor-general. He had certainly been before this one of the learned coun- sel to both Elizabeth and James, and an occasional bit of employment had been thrown him, in which he did his part so well that it is surprising he did not get more. It would have been well for his fame, however, had he been passed over in one too notorious case; his appearance in court against his benefactor, Essex, and his acceptance of 1,200?. (about 6,oool. now), the fine of one of Essexs less un- lucky associates, still make a dark blot on his memory, which, to my mind, no-amount of apologetic literature will ever wholly wash away. The fact remains that the greatest intellect of his time was kept shivering in the shade for two-thirds of his working life. Some think that the Cecils, father and son, looked with a jealous eye on their young kinsman, and seeing in him a possi- ble obstacle to their own designs, craftily poisoned their mistresss mind against him. For this notion there is nothing that can be called evidence, unless the fact that Bacon and his ,mother were at one time strongly suspicious of, the younger Cecil and with Lady Bacon at least suspicions were certainties is to be taken as such. The elder Cecil gave him the reversion of the clerkship of the Star Chamber, a post worth i,6oo/. a year, equal to 8,oool. now; to the younger, Bacon is almost passionate in protesting his devotion. I do protest before God, he once wrote to Robert Ce- cil, without compliment or any light vein of mind, if I knew in what course of life to do you best service, I would take it, and make my thoughts, which now fly to many pieces, be reduced to that centre. * I am nearly sure that the tardiness in Bacons upward progress was not due to any active ill-will on the part of the Cecils. Some think that the deep offence that Bacon gave the queen by his unexpected displayof spirit in the Parliament of ~ when he helped to spoil an ingenious l)lan for entrapping the Commons into an ac- knowledgment of a co-ordinate power in the Lords over money bills, thrust him back from the door at a critical moment. There is no doubt that the queen was greatly displeased on this occasion, and denied the offender admission to her pres- ence for a considerable time. Yet patience and prudent management brought back the queens favor, though It did not bring the preferment his soul longed for. Elizabeth died, and all that Bacon gained from the new king was a pension of 6o1. a year, security in his position of learned counsel, and the cheap honor of knighthood: more than four years had yet to pass before the coveted solicitorship was given him. It might be thought that Bacon was un- fortunate in his choice of a profession. That a man whom so fastidious a critic as J oubert decides to have been a grand and noble intellect, and who was fully alive to his own powers, should have elected to win his way to wealth and learned leisure through * Spedding, iv. 247. CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. .95 The codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances, called the law of England, is not exactly what we should have expected. Bacon wrangling with Coke about the reseizure of the lands of a relapsed recusant * Cutting blocks with a razor is a most in- inexpressive image of such a proceeding; a Beethoven or a Wagner grinding Yan- kee Doodle on a barrel-organ daily from morning to evening would be more like the thing. But it was only when all other avenues were apparently closed against him that Bacon took seriously to practis- ing the law. Perhaps the true reason of Bacons :being kept waiting so long lies nearer the surface. May it not have been that both Elizabeth and James were unwilling to take him into their service because they thought him unfit for it? The most excel- lent of Elizabeths many royal excellences, historians tell us, was a keen insight into character and a readiness to be served by available merit, wherever found; it is well-nigh inconceivable that she would have declined to employ Bacon had she been assured that to employ him would have been for her advantage and the na- tions. And James simply picked up the reins as they had fallen from Elizabeths hands; the early part of his reign was merely a continuance of his predecessors so far as the change of charioteers allowed. It is not unlikely there are not a few touches in Bacons biography that sug- gest it that Bacon was regarded at court rather as a thinker than as a man of action, a speculative dreamer rather than an effi cient worker. Now, the clerkship of the Star Chamber was just the place for such a man; its income, managed with ordinary prudence, would have given him abundant leisure to dream on things to come and to build up great instaurations to his hearts content. And if Mr. Mill, the man in pos- session, had no sense of his responsibili ties, and kept Bacon out of the place for nineteen years by living unconscionably long, that was not Elizabeths fault or Burghleys. Now and then Bacon him- self betrays a consciousness of unfitness for the work he was so eager to under- take. Writing to Bodley in i6o~, he says: I do confess, since I was of any under- standing my mind bath in effect been absent from that I have done; and in absence are many errors which I do will- ingl~~ acknowledge; and amongst the rest this great one that led the rest; that know- * Spedding, iii. Is. ing myself by inward calling to be fitter to hold a book than to play a part, I have led my life in civil causes; for which I was not very fit by nature, and more unfit by the preoccupation of my mind. * Too much significance, however, may easily be given to words like these; so much de- pends on the humor a man is in when he writes them. Other passages may be found in Bacons letters and papers that speak a different language. One thing, however, is clear; if Bacon failed to ~vin preferment in early life, it was not through ai~y excess of modesty or backwardness in asking. There is no blinking the fact, Bacon was a sturdy beggar all his life. He prayed, and never fainted; he kept steadily knocking at the doors of office; no disappointment dis- heartened him, no rebuff daunted him; it would be curious t~ calculate what pro- portion of his extant letters thank for past or solicit future favors or support. The result of such a calculation would, I am afraid, be humiliating. Almost his first letter that has survived, one to his uncle Burghley, had no further errand but to commend unto your lordship the remem- brance of my suit which then I moved unto you ; t almost the last entreats Sir Humphrey May to sound the Duke of Buckinghams good affection towards me before you do move him in the par- ticular petitions. ~ And the forty-five years of Bacons life that lie between these two letters are of a piece with such a be- ginning and ending. His first suit, which lasted for some seven years, fairly over, no practice coming, and Mr. Mill, the Star-Chamber obstructive, being insensible to his clear duty, Bacon in his thirty-third year, briefless barrister as he was, ad- dressed himself to the task of winning the vacant attorney-generalship. His rival was Edward Coke, the great common-lawyer; but Cokes massive legal knowledge was, Bacon thouTht more than counterbalanced as an advantage by the warm friendship the queens favQrite, Essex, felt for him- self. Essex certainly did his part thor- oughly; he made his friends case more than his own, spending, as he said, his utmost friendship, credit, and authority in promoting Bacons suit, and during fourteen months of hot strife never letting slip an opportunity of pressing Bacons claim and driving in a nail for the nega- tive of the Huddler, as Bacon phrases * Spedding, vol. iii. 253. t Ibid. j. 12. ~ Ibid. vii. 548. 96 PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL it in one of his letters, Huddler l)eing Cokes nickname with Bacon and Essex, It was all lost labor, however; the Hud- dler got the place. But his appointment left the solicitorship vacant; and a fight began for the solicitorship which was kept up for eighteen months with an almost passionate, certainly injudicious, pertinac- ity on Essexs part. Essexs letters to Bacon testify to his utter abandonment of himself to his friends service. In one he writes, She [that is, the queen] in pas- sion bade me go to bed,if I could talk of nothing else. Wherefore, in passion I went away, saying while I was with her I could not but solicit for the cause and man I so much affected. * In another he comforts Bacon by telling him that the queen doth not contradict confidently, which they that know the minds of women say is a sign of yieldffig. f Bacon threat- ened that, if refused the place, he would retire with a couple of men to Cambridge, and there spend his life in studies and con- templations.t But neither Bacons threats, nor Essexs ardor, nor yet the colder advocacy of Burghley, availed Bacon auoht~ the solicitorship went to another. Bacon swallowed his disgust, and did not retire to Cambridge. In a few months Egertons elevation to the office of lord keeper threw open the mastership of the rolls to legal ambition, and Bacon at once turned a longing eye on the place. Essex was at Plymouth, deep in preparations for the grand enterprise against Cadiz, which in a months time was to make his own fame and the nations ring through Europe. Yet he responded promptly and heartily to his friends appeal. If Bacon was once more disappointed it was not through lack of zeal in Essex. While this suit was still waiting for a final answer, others were going on, the ghosts of which flit across Mr. Speddings pages. One of these is remarkable as involving in its re- jection the gravest consequences, if the suitor is to be believed. I will, writes Bacon to his uncle, use no reason to persuade your lordships mediation but this: that your lordship and my other - friends shall in this beg my life of the queen; for I see well the bar will be my bier, as I must and will use it rather than that my poor estate or reputation shall decay. But I stand indifferent whether God call me or her Majesty. That is, if I do not get this post, I will * Spedding, i. 289. t Ibid. i 290. 1 Ibid. i 291. Ibid. ii. 49. take to practising at the bar, and the bar is sure to be the death of me. He did not get the post, but he was, notwithstanding, no more careful to die than he had been before to retire to Cambridge. He then tried to make a bargain with Egerton, offering to give up the reversion of the clerkship of the Star Chamber to one of Egertons sons, if Egerton would only in- duce his mistress to make him master of the rolls. But Egerton declined the offer had, perhaps, no mind toso one-sided a compact. About this time the death of Sir William HaLton created a vacancy of another kind, and Bacon was as ready to take Sir Williams place in his family and household, as he had ever been to serve the queen. Essex rushed with character- istic energy and fire into this new suit of Bacons, but his fervent pleadings went the way of their predecessors ; the lady preferred to be consoled by Coke, who thus a second time carried off a coveted prize from Bacon. To go through the list of Bacons appli- cations for good things, that were nearly al~vays refused him, in the later years of Elizabeths and earlier of Jamess reign, were a wearisome and thankless task. It is worth while, however, to take a passing glance at the motives he sometimes as- signed for his eagerness to get them. In i6oo he petitioned the queen tor an estate. There were three feelings at work, he declares, to make him ask the favo~r his love for his mother, who he mightily desired might carry to her grave the com- fort of seeing her son with an unincum- bered property, his desire to secure Gor- hambury, and be able to entertain her Majesty there, and to trim and dress the grounds for her Majestys solace, and his wish to be freed from the contempt of the contemptible, that measure a man by his estate. * This last is that ignoblest of motives which the great-hearted Dioge- nes of our day has ca~l1ed striking the surrounding flunkeys yellow. And a few months after Jamess accession, when he found a royal favor, the then dishonoring honor of knighthood, which Ben Jonson refused, within his reach, he asks for it because of my late disgrace an arrest for debt, presumably and because I have three new knights in my mess in Grays Inn commons, and because I have found out (the. phrase is significant) an aldermans daughter, an handsome maiden, to my liking. t At that time the king * Spedding, ii. i66. CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. 97 never seemed so happy as when making knights; and in a few days the high-souled philosopher was able to woo his handsome maiden as Sir Francis Bacon. And hav- ing, after three years wooing, won the handsome maiden, he proceeds to utilize her as he had before utilized his mother. Pleading anxiously with the lord chancellor for the solicitorship, he wrote Were it not to satisfy my wifes friends, and to get myself out of being a common gaze and speech, I protest before God I would never speak wo~d for it. * And though one feels a shock at hearing or seeing the word shameless applied to any part of Ba- con s conduct, yet the word will leap to one s lips in front of one passage of his life. When the death of Elizabeth put him in a flutter of expectation, and he was busy speeding self-recommendatory letters to every person possessing influence with the new king that he could claim any de- gree of acquaintance with, he sent one to Southampton, the man who had been tried and condemned with Essex, on the day when Bacon stood among the accusers of his former benefactor. In this he assures Southampton, It is as true as a thing that God knoweth that this great change hath wrought in me no other change to- wards your lordship than this, that I may safely be now that which I was truly be- fore. j- Surely the force of philosophical effrontery could hardly farther go than this. At last, after twenty-seven years of crushing and pushing and elbowing among the press of place-hunters, Bacon got his feet planted on the lowest round of his Jacobs ladder; having, in i6o6, wrung from the king a promise of the solicitor- ship on the next vacancy, he became solicitor-general in 1607. Six years later he was made attorney-general, ten years later lord keeper, and eleven years later lord chancellor. Thus the ladder was ascended, and heaven gained! But neither in scaling nor in attainment did Bacons craving allow him any respite. Omitting the smaller instances, I shall just look at two prominent ones. In 1612 his cousin Salisbury, high treasurer and secretary of state; died. Bacon thought he would himself make an admirable secre- tary, and drew up, perhaps sent to the king, an application for the place. And this brings us face to face with a very un- pleasant feature in Bacons character, his habit of flattering men in their lifetime and * Spedding, iiL 296. t Ibid. iii. 75. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXIV. 1203 depreciating them after their death. Five years before he had told Salisbury: I do esteem whatsoever I have or may have in this world but as trash, in comparison of having the honor and hap~5iness to be a near and well-accepted kinsman to so rare and worthy a counsellor, governor, and pa- triot. * What is his language now? Now that he is gone, in whose lifetime the vir- tues might reckon on destruction with the utmost certainty. t The inducements, too, which he suggests to James are curious: I will be as ready as a chess- man to be wherever your Majestys royal hand will set me.~ James, however, chose to be his own secretary for a time. The second application is perhaps the strangest of all Bacons proceedings in this way. Lord Chancellor Egerton having fallen ill in February i6i6, Bacon jumps at the conclusion that he is going to die, and straightway pens a letter to the king worthy of careful study as a specimen both of Bacons literary style and charac- ter. He begins by making God the kings gardener. Your worthy chancellor, I fear, goes his last day. God hath hitherto used to weed out such servants as grew not fit for your Majesty. But now he has gathered to himself a true sage, or saivicz, out of your garden. But, he goes on to say, your Majestys service must not be mortal. To save it from such a fate he is of opinion that his Majesty should ap- point him to the dying mans place, and points out to his Majesty that his appoint- ment would give his Majesty the disposal of offices worth 7,6001. (about 40,000/.) per annum; a chancellor that would be ever on the look-out to prevent his Majesty be- ing distracted with business; that ~vas in the good graces of the Lower House, had some interest with the gentlemen of En- gland, and would strengthen the inventive part of the councib who now commonly do exercise rather their judgments than their inventions. This was the blowing of his own trumpet, a process for which Bacon never wanted breath; he made as little scruple to dwell on the defects of pos- sible rivals. The Lord Coke, his old enemy the Huddler, was of an over-ruling nature, and would ill fit an over-ruling place, would be more useful in a financial office, and was a popular man; and pop- ular men are no sure mounters for your Majestys saddle. Two days after writ- ing this letter he went to see Egerton. A * Spedding, iv. 12. t Quo vivente virtutibus certissimum exitium. I Spedding, iv. 282. Ibid. V. 2414. PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL 98 postscript of a note to Villiers tells us the false, that, he seemed, to think, never substance of the interview: My lord could. The first article of his creed was chancellor is prettily amended. I was the practical infallibility of his own judg- with him yesterday almost half an hour. ment. When still young he told his uncle He used me with wonderful tokens of that he had ~b taken all knowledge for his kindness. We both wept, which I do not province; and when over forty he dis- of ten. * The chancellor rallied, however, cerned in his nature a kind of relationship and Bacon had to keep the curb on his and familiarity with truth, as being gifted impatience for another year. with desire to seek, patience to doubt, All through these experiences his eye fondness to meditate, slowness to assert, often wandered to right and to left in readiness to consider, carefulness to dis- search of an occasional windfall. At one pose and set in order. It is significant of time he offers to farm the alienations for this element in Bacons character that on the king at a handsome rent; at another the only two pccasions when he took an he thinks the king ought to give him independent course that displeased the 2,000/. out of certain fines; at another he sovereicrn he was never for a moment beooed the privilege of making a baron, tempted, after he found out his mistake, that is, selling a peerage a usual and into an acknowledgment that he had been very lucrative practice in Jamess reign wrong. lie was ready to do anything to and pocketing the price. But it was after atone for his conduct; in the second in- his fall, when suddenly flung out of the stance, being chancellor, he promptly Olympus to gain which he had toiled so wheeled round and undid everything he painfully and borne so much, that he made had done before in the matter; but neither the most piteous appeals to Buckingham in the first nor in the second did he utter a and the king. He begs for an additional single word capable of being construed pension, for the provostship of Eton, for into a confession of error. The theory of payments anticipatory of a handsome pen- the unconsciousness of genius in its high- sion already granted him, for an immedi- est developments assuredly receives no ate remission of his whole sentence and sul)port from Bacons case. restoration to the House of Lords. He Now, either from natural impulse or even stooped to pray that an arrear of from motives of self-advancement, Bacon about 2,000/., which had been discovered to scrutinized very keenly and pondered very be due to. the crown by his half-brother, carefully the politics, domestic and inter- Sir Nicolas Bacon, should be given him. national, the burning religious questions, It is a suit, he writes to Buckingham, the tendencies, movements, and other whereunto I may as it ~vere claim kin- easily conceived manifestations of the then dred. t Towards the end of his life dominant time-spirit. Thus endowed with Bacon figures in history as a kind of St. a piercing and discriminating intellect, and Simeon Stylites, battering the gates of having of his own free will turned that heaven his heaven with storms of intellect on the subjects that then engaged prayer. the attention of the rulers of men, he con- So far for the way he took to win power sidered himself justified in giving advice, in the State. But how did he use the generally unasked, to those that needed it power when won? The best that can fairly most, the great personages that were in the he said for him is, I think, that he used it thick of the fight, and might therefore, in the main not altogether unsatisfactorily. Bacon may have thought, be the better of But it should not be forgotten that the side seeing things as the clearest pair of eyes of Bacons public life, which can be con- in Christendom saw them. Accordingly templated with the nearest approach to Bacon from his youth up seems to have unqualified admiration, was not connected constituted himself a sort of counsel-gen- with the direct exercise of political power. eral unattached, but very willin~ to be If I were asked what I believed to be Ba- attached to the great and powerful. He cons most conscious feeling regarding drew up weighty papers of considerations himself, I should answer, intellectual self- for the queen, for Walsingham, for Cecil, confidence. Pride of intellect, some would for Essex, for King James, for any one in perhaps prefer to call it, and perhaps they fact that was in a position to profit by the would be right. From first to last Bacon advice and bring profit to the advi5er. leaned with implicit faith on his own in- His first occasional paper, written in his telligence; whatever else might play him twenty-fifth year, is a letter of advice to the queen, in which he respectfully inter * Spedding, ~, 245. prets to her the leading questions of the t Ibid. vii. 451. hour, and prescribes the attitude she ought CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. 99 to take towards them. Many people would look on this as presumption and monstrous self-conceit. A youth of twenty-five thrusting his views and counsel on the veteran ruler who had taken her seat in the centre of public affairs before her self- appointed adviser was born, and had watched them Argus-eyed ever since, can- not certainly be quoted as an example of all that is most graceful in youth. Yet it is worth noting how much of this volun- teered advice is in harmony with the so- berest judgment of the present day, and how little of the passion or prejudice of the moment is visible in it. Indeed most of these extra-official observations are rich in thought of almost priceless value; a spirit of calm contemplation, as of one that dwelt in a serener atmosphere, far above the dust of systems and of creeds, pervades them; and to us who live on the safe side of the historic convulsions to the move- ments tending to which these papers be- long, they seem weighty with solid practi- cal sense as well. To give a single ex- ample: the Considerations touching the Queens Service in Ireland, which he sent to his cousin Robert Cecil, in 1602, to help him to see his way through the intricacies of the Irish problem then calling as loudly to English statesmen for solution as ever it has called in our own times, reveal him as not only perfect master of the subject, but as urging a policy that in most of its feat- ures every one not a fanatic now believes would have been the wisest. Let us take this extract as a sample. Therefore a toleration of religion (for a time not defi- nite), except it be in some principal towns and precincts, after the manner of some French edicts, seemeth to me to be a matter warrantable by religion, and in policy of absolute necessity. * Yet the one recommendation of Bacons regarding Ireland that he lived to see carried out, the plantation of Ulster, has been emphat- ically condemned by the intolerant doama- tism of later years that plumes itself on being judicial history; but fact, I take it, has abundantly vindicated the wisdom of Bacon in this particular in the eyes of those who have not surrendered their nat- ural eyesight to a theory. But I would limit this almost unqualified commendation of Bacons expositions of state policy to his comparatively unofficial days. When attorney-general or chan- cellor, he seems to have now and then allowed unworthy considerations to dim somewhat his clearness of vision, to have * Spedding, iii. 49. been a little disposed to find a solution of the question before him that would be agreeable to the king rather than one that would be just and politic. The same familiar ground furnishes us with an illus- tration of this. During his attorney-gen- eralship he advised the king to prohibit absolutely the exportation of wools from Ireland, thus doing his worst to strangle in the cradle, from purely selfish l)urposes, a natural and growing branch of Irish in- dustry, the suppression of which in later times did perhaps more to injure Ireland and to evoke the Nemesis under whose lash England still x~nces, than any other single cause. It is suggestive also to com- pare the tolerant course towards the Cath- olics that Bacon pleaded for when unem- ployed, with his actual treatment of the Catholics when he was attorney-general. Writing to the k.ing in 1615, he says: I have heard more ways than one of an offer of 2o,oooZ. per annum for farming the pen- alties of recusants. . . . Wherein I will presume to say that my poor endeavors, since I was by your great and sole grace your attorney, have been no small spurs to make them feel your laws and seek this redemption. * But these are among the exceptional cases that prove the rule, and the rule is that Bacons Considerations, whether upon a war with Spain or upon Suttons estate, upon the pacification of the Church or upon jury reform, are wise with a wisdom far beyond the wisest work- ing wisdom of his century, having but one obvious drawback that they were too far in advance of the times they were in- tended to benefit to be of much use to them. This passion for giving advice con- tinued with Bacon to the last. Two years after his fall he writes to Buckingham: But when I look abroad and see the times so stirrin~~ and so much dissimula- tion, falsehood, baseness, and envy in the world, and so many idle clocks going in mens heads; then it grieveth me much that I am not sometimes at your lordships elbow, that I mought give you some of the fruits of the careful advice, modest liberty, and true information of a friend that loveth your lordship as I do. ~ Clear-sighted, however, as Bacon was, he was as blind as the most horn-eyed among his contemporaries to the real sig- nificance of the signs of the times. Four- teen years after his death, the deepest and broadest political upheaval that has ever convulsed English life put itself in motion, * Spedding, V. 102. I ~bjd. vii. 4Z3~ 100 and in two years more became a war that shook the fi+mest-based political and relig- ious fabric in Europe to its foundations. The forces that gave birth to that upheaval were gathering, indeed must have been actively at work, in Bacons time. Their outward manifestations were familiar, and a subject of grave reflection to Bacon. Yet his writings betray little sensibility to the whitherward of English politics and religion in his day as they do to the other great spiritual phenomenon that makes his age so absorbingly interesting, the Shakespearian drama. The fact is really worth more than a passing thought. Here was the most penetrating and vigilant in- telligence that has ever employed itself on contemporary politics, and an imagination - of rare breadth and power, entirely igno- rant of the leading tendency of the politics they studied, and utterly indifferent to the noblest works of imagination that were getting produced and published within a miles distance. The party that in its manhood scattered princes and their armies at Naseby and \Vorcester, and gave to England its last ruler of the old colossal type, was called by Bacon in its infancy a small number of very silly and base people, now by the good remedies that have been used suppressed and worn out. And the picture of a contented people, a church luminous as an heaven of stars, a learned and just bench of judges, a care- ful, loyal, and free-spoken council, an effi- cient magistracy, and the rest, that Bacon painted for the king as a New Years gift for 16I9,* would be ludicrous if it were not so sad when looked at in the lurid light that a tragic event of almost exactly thirty years later throws upon it. Bacon could gaze fixedly on the face of the sky and of the earth, but could not discern the cloud that had already risen out of the xvest. The words of Mr. Ruskin, slightly altered, will convey the lesson to us. Above all things let us see that we be modest in our thoughts, for of this one thin we maybe absolutely sure, that all our thoughts are but degrees of darkness. j- The story of Bacons public acts will, I think, kindle in the unbiassed mind a very different feeling from that kindled by a study of his speculations. To me, at least, many of them are of a very questionable * Spedding, Vi. 452. t The essay Of Empire supplies another striking illustration of the dimness of even Bacons spiritual vision. In s6~~ he says of the Second Nohies or Gentlemen that kings need not apprehend much danger from them, heing a hody dispersed: they may sometimes discourse high, hut that doth little hurt. If he had only lived till x645 I character, though the best informed of Bacons biographers can see nothing in the worst of them that is not excusable. Bacons public career has one very suspi- cious feature its history is studded with facts that require elaborate explanations and apologies before any ingenuous mind ean be reconciled to them. For Bacons letters are not like Cromwells, do not bear the stamp of a disinterested spirit on their very face; unlimited comment and expla- nation are necessary. One can easily fancy an essentially upright man doing now and then a thing whose blamele~s charac- ter is not obvious at first sight; but an essentially upright man doing so many things that require such an expenditure of explanation to show that they were all right as Bacon did, is not so easily fancied. And Bacons justification necessitates the reversal of all that was seemingly solid in our long-established conceptions of En- glish history in Jamess reign, and a recon- struction of that history on an entirely new basis. For with Jamess whole course of policy, and with many of the proceed- ings of his reign that later history has pronounced wrong, unjustifiable, ilIjudged and wicked, Bacon was closely connected; the reputation of the reign must stand or fall with his reputation ; it is impossible to defend or excuse him without defending or excusing the master he served under and the men he acted with. From this task of revolutionizing our thoughts re- gardi ng the character of the British Solo- mon and of his reign, Mr. Spedding has not shrunk ; his sympathetic readers will carry away from the perusal of his pages notions the very opposite of those found in Lord Macaulays pages, and even radi- cally different from those given by that most scrupulous and veracious writer, Mr. Gardiner. This is the price, then, we must pay for getting Francis Bacon re- claimed to the paths of integrity: we must unlearn all that we have hitherto learned of a big section of English activity, and learn its history all over again, taking spe- cial care to change all our sinners into saints and all our saints into sinners. I am not sure whether we shall not also have to overhaul, in some measure, our old ideas of right and wrong at any rate have to make those we strive to judge by some- what elastic. Perhaps the chapter of Bacons life that looks ugliest to the casual observer, as yet a stranger to the power of explanations, is the cbapter that unfolds his dealings with the young Earl of Essex. Yet Bacons admirers find no difficulty whatever in it. PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. I0I They admit that Essex worked zealously to advance Bacons interests, became his champion against every possible rival, la- bored with a generous enthusiasm to win office and distinction for him, and when all his efforts failed to overcome the reluctance of the queen, gave Bacon an estate, which he afterwards sold for what would be nearly 9,0001. now. They assert, however, that Bacon paid for these benefits by services rendered to Essex of at least equal value letters of advice, and such like, accept- ing as literal truth Bacons own statement I did not only labor carefully and indus- triously in that he set me about, whether it were matter of advice or otherwise, but neglecting the queen~ s service, mine own fortune, and in a sort my vocation, I did nothing but devise and ruminate with my- self to the best of my understanding, prop- ositions and memorials of anything that might, concern his lordships honor, fortune, or service. * The obligations being thus about equal, there was no reason, they think, why Bacon should not bring into play all his powers of persuasion to insure his former friends conviction for treason, when he was manifestly guilty of treason. Bacon, they also say, had a stronger feel- ing within him than friendship a devour- ing zeal for the public service. Again to use his own words: Whatsoever I did concerning that act ion and proceeding (the trial of Essex) was done in my duty and service to the queen and the State; in which I would not show myself false-hearted nor faint-hearted for any mans sake living. Bacon, it is clear, was more an antique Roman than a vulgar Englishm~in: he would cheerfully have settled the rope round the neck of his own brother to save from the slightest harm a queen or State that had offices to bestow! As to the first of these pleas, it can owe its validity only to the principle that all friendship is but a debit and credit account, and that, when the two sides exactly bal- ance each other, the so-called friends are quits, their relations return to their original state, and each is at liberty to act as if he had never received from or done a kind- ness to the other. Bacons apology, after his friends death, is therefore a kind of lawyers bill; Dr. so much advice and looking after somewhat complicated af- fairs4 Cr. so much zeal on various occa- sions and a small estate. The columns are totted up, the amounts are exactly * Spedding, iii. 143. t Anxiety of Mind, Mythical Lawyers BilL equal; no one who knows how to do a sum in simple addition can reasonably blame Bacon for giving his professional services to the crown against Essex. Yet few, I am sure, can see without a pang the larg- est-brained philosopher of the modern world rising in court and coldly shutting the door of hope against the generous, unselfish, eager-hearted friend of former days who stood at bay before him gallantly fighting for his life. I have never yet seen in any case, he said, such favor shown to any prisoner; so many digres- sions, such delivering of evidence by frac- tions, and so silly a defence of such great and notorious treasons, * and so on ,giv- ing a keener edge to the axe by every sen- tence. To this, an eye-witness reports, the earl answered little; and we can well believe him.. What Essexs case is in Bacons extra- official public career Peachams is in his official. Peacham was a Somersetshire clergyman among whose papers was found a manuscript sermon that had never been preached, in which the kings policy was assailed with virulence, and a sweeping vengeance was predicted for the king and his ministers. James took fright; the spectre of a wide-spread nefarious Puritan conspiracy rose before his mind; Peacham. was seized, charged with treason, and measures were taken to make him disclose the names of his supposed accomplices. Peacham had no accomplices to disclose. Thereupon it was resolved in council to put him to the torture, and a warrant was issued to Winwood the secretary, Bacon the attorney-general and six others, to see the poor wretch tortured. The warrant was duly executedin the words of the report that Bacon himself signed, Peach- am was examined before torture, in torture, between tortures, and after torture. The case of the luckless would-be pulpit libel- ler need not be pursued in detail further. Thou6h a mighty fuss was made about it, the very record of which covers nearly forty pages of Spedding,t it is enough to say here that Peacham was tried for trea- son at Taunton, found guilty and left for death, the gaol fever, however, not the gal- lows, killing him a few months afterwards. It is surely startling to find Bacon assisting in person at the torture of a fellow-crea- ture only thirteen years before torture was unanimously declared by the jud~es to be contrary to law; yet his admirers preserve * Spedding, ~ 229. t V. 90128. 102 PUBLIC CAREER AND PERSONAL their equanimity. All we know, pleads Mr. Spedding, is that he (lid not refuse to be present at an examination under tor- ture. Even if this ~vere so, it could not much avail Bacon; but I submit that we know more. We know that he busied himself greatly about Peachams case, tak- ing the management of the process of screwing a pre-judicial expression of opin- ion out of the judges concerning it. We know that he wrote lightly, not to say un- feelingly, to the king regarding it : It grieveth me exceedingly that your Maj- esty should be so much troubled with this matter of Peacham, whose raging devil seemeth to be turned into a dumb devil. Bacon was always very sensitive to the sorrows of kings and great placemen. We know that five years later, on being called upon to deal with one Peacock charged with an attempt to infatuate the kings judgment by sorcery, and finding Peacock too possessed by a dumb devil, this chancellor of natures la~vs recoin- mended torture. His own words are: I make no judgment yet, but will go on with all diligence; and if it may not be done otherwise, it is fit Peacock be put to the torture. He deserveth it as well as Peach- am did. * But, another admirer urges, Bacon was doing no more than his duty in seeing Peacham tortured; he was first law officer of the crown; and as such was bound to carry out his instructions. XVhv, Hal, tis iny vocation Hal, tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation Bacons conduct as lord keeper and lord chancellor I have left myself little room to discuss. I am not aware that fault has been found with his general discharge of the duties of his office, and posterity seems to have acquiesced in his own judgment of himself: I was the justest judge that was in England these fifty years. The two broad blemishes to use the very mildest term possible regarding them on his judicial career are, that he too often lis- tened to Buckinghams one-sided applica- tions on behalf of suitors in his court, and that he had what Shakespeare calls an itching palm a few hundred pounds slipped into his hand by a litigant seldom found its way back to its original owner. Here is a sample of Buckinghams letters: Lest my often writing may make your lordship conceive that this letter has been drawn from me by importunity, I have thought fit, for preventing of any such con- ceit, to let your lordship know that Sir John Wentworth, whose business I now recommend, is a gentleman whom I es- teem in more than an ordinary degree. And therefore I desire your lordship to show him what favor you can for my sake in his suit, which his Majesty hath re- ferred to your lordship.: which I will acknowledge as a courtesy unto me. * With regard to the second blemish, Bacon himself, when impeached, pleaded guilty to twenty-seven circumstantially stated in- stances of taking gifts from suitors. But it is alleged that his guilt in these two par- ticulars, crimson as its dye looks to the carelessly glancing spectator, fades into a comparatively neutral tint before a search- ing examination. Neither of his aberra- tions marred the character of his deci- sions; he read Buckinghams letter or took the suitors money or cabinet, and then decided according to the merits of the case and the law that ruled it; no charge of having perverted justice was ever made against him ; the Commons themselves, while arrai, ning him as a corrupt judge, never questioned even the soundness of a single decision. Moreover, most of the gratuities that is the happy euphemism were received after the cause had been ended, and without relation to any precedent promise; and the accepting such gratuities, Bacon, to use his own words, conceived to be no fault. And to crown all, the chancellors oath con- tained no clause against corruption; and corruption in a chancellor was not forbid- den by either the written or unwritten law of England. These are the leading features of the case for the defence. Many topics of great interest connected with the subject still remain; but I must be satisfied ~vith a mere indication of one or two of them. Bacons love of manage~ ment, which he himself describes as . a middle thing between art and chance, strikes one very often in watching his ways. He took a pleasure in laying little traps, generally harmless; in arranging for a longish pedigree of events, in which the last was the thing sought; in aiming with a great show of earnestness at one object, while all the time he was intent at knock- ing over another. It was an innocent game of guile, appropriate in the servant of the great master of transparent king- craft that then ruled England. Then, his extravagant flattery of the great, especially of King James, must surely be offensive to every mind not yet fortified against * Spedding, vii. 77. * Spedding, vii. 6. 103 - CHARACTER OF FRANCIS BACON. healthy human feeling by reasonings and story gives a warmer tint to life. But Ba- explanations. And his taste for expense con prostrate and crying for mercy this and love of splendor, by keeping him con- is a sight that no one can care to look at; stantly in debt, accounts for much of the emotion it awakens is neither sympa- ~vhat is condemnable or questionable in his thy nor pity. The truth would seem to be career. that Bacon hardly ever touches humanity To conclude. The general impression on the moral and emotional side. He of Bacons character that a careful and seems to have been incapable of deep feel- certainly not unfavorably prepossessed ing, seems hardly ever to have known what reading of his letters and occasional love or hate was; there are few traces of papers has left on my mind is something tenderness in his letters and papers, there like this. He was not a man to whom are as few traces of malice. His was an superlatives or strong language of any almost passionless nature; there ~vas little color can fairly be applied. He was not moral spontaneity of apy kind. He had to the meanest of mankind. Base and jot down among his memoranda to bear despicable, generous and noble, in mind the attorneys weaknesses, and to are words that the historian of Bacons run up a column of that officials disadvan- life will never have occasion to draw from tages for his future use. Mr. Spedding his vocabulary. Most assuredly his place construes these and similar memoranda of is not with the morally great, the strong- Bacons into a proof of his goodness of hearted, much-enduring, self-sacrificing, nature; an evil nature would have remem- heroic spirits, the Keplers and Newtons, bered all these against a man whose place the Miltons and Johnsons. Bacons place it sought to fill without tables. This ex- is not with these; it is with the Lakes, the planation makes Bacon a man who deliber- Cranfields, the Yelvertons, the Nevilles of ately does violence to his own nature, his day; ranked with such men he is a commits treason against his own soul, for respectable figure enough. It is when you selfish ends. The fact seems rather to be withdraw him from the crew of contempo- that Bacon had no strong natural impulses rary politicians and courtiers, and set him either to good or to evil; and had his in- among the great and noble of all time, that tellect told him that it would be for his his figure shrinks and his features become interest to do a good action of a particular commonplace. There is no trace of the kind, he would have had to jot down a heroic about his moral character; there is memorandum of it also. For in Bacons nothing in the man that appeals to the uni- opinion intellect held the highest place. versal heart, nothing to stir enthusiasm, A man is but what he knoweth, he nothing to win admiration. His literary wrote in his thirty-fourth year; and then partisans struggle desperately for his good continues: Are not the pleasures of the name; but the utmost that their efforts, if affections greater than the pleasures of the successful, could gain from us is, that we senses? and are not the pleasures of the should refrain from condemning. His na- intellect greater than the pleasures of the ture wanted elevation, a finer tone, a richer affections? Yet this knowledge fiav& r; his motives were the motives of the crowd of self-seekers around him. What is she, cut from love and faith, We might even go farther and say that But some wild Pallas from the brain Bacon lacked common manliness. When Of demons? fiery hot to burst misfortune came, he lost all sense of dig- All barriers in the onward race nity, buried himself in his bedclothes, For power. Let her know her place moaned forth his confessions of guilt, and She is the second, not the first. begged piteously for mercy. My lords, it is my act, my hand, my heart. I do be- Born for the universe the phrase is seech you, my lords, be merciful to a almost his own Bacon narrowed, not his broken reed. Compare the demeanor of mind /hat was incompressible but his certain other historic Englishmen in the soul, and gave up to his worse self, to his presence of circumstances immeasurably craving after power, distinction, grandeur, more trying: the cheery humor of More, everything that the philosophical mind the calm self-possession of Ralei~h, the professes to despise most, those peerless stately self-respect of Strafford, the high- gifts which might have made his name an toned courage of Vane, remain forever part ennobling influence to all time. of Englands wealth and the worlds; their UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, BRISTOL. 104 SELLING THE SOUL. From The Contemporary Review. SELLING THE SOUL. This word Damnation terrifies not me, For I confound Hell in Elysium. A sound Magician is a demigod! MARLOWES Faustus. CYPRIAss. Oh, could I possess that woman, To my aid from Hell Id summon A potent Devil, sod my soul Give hy hood to his control; Suffering, wheresoeer he swept it, Endless tortures! DEMON (from helow). I accept it. CALOERONS ]lTaglco Prodzgioso. And had not his own wilfulness His soul unto the Devil hound, He must, with certainty no less, His self-damnation soon have found. GOETHEs Faust. WITHOUT seeking to fix the exact date when the greatest of Spanish poets wrote his lyrical tragedy of El Magico Prodi- gloso, it is certain that one of the great- est of our English dramatists had previ- ously written The Tragical Life and Death of Dr. Faustus. It appears to have been first published in 1604 (black- letter quarto), and Calderon de la Barca was not born till i6oi. The subject or ruling princil)le of each of these extraordinary dramas is essentially the same, and is in some respects identical with the Faust of the greatest poet of Germany. There are no signs whatever that Calderon knew anything of Marlowes tragedy, either in the original or through translation. That Goethe was conversant with both the above dramas is more than probable, although there is only a general resemblance in some of his earlier scenes. Howbeit, in our own period the richly-adorned poem of Goethe has (very unjustly, in our opinion) concentrated and absorbed the exclusive attention of the literary public in his ver- sion of the profoundly interesting legend of Dr. Faustus. The learned and adinira- ble essay by Dr. Hueffer is scarcely an exception. The theological and philosophical argu- ments in the Germart drama differ from those of the Spanish poet, chiefly in their greater breadth and their variet~r of illus- tration; as also from those of the English Faustus, who contents himself, for the most part, with certain scholastic problems in cosmogon y and astronomy, and a dec- laration of his determination to become a great magician. To obtain this power he is ready to barter his soul. He says Why should he not ? is not Isis soul Isis n? A Good Angel and a Bad Angel appear to him, and advance their several arguments. The latter prevails with him, and then the magnificent Kit Marlowe puts these words into the mouth of Faustus Had I as many souls as there are stars, Id give them all I The Bad Angel exhorts him to despair in God, and trust to Belzebub. Still, he is not without serious misgivings; and, when he is about to si,~n the deed of gift with his blood, the influence of the Good Angel prevails, and the blood suddenly stops flowing. My blood congeals and I can write no more l He l~adpreviouslyasked himself, Why waverest thou? Oh, something.soundeth in mine ear, Abjure that magic turn to God again Suddenly he sees the words Homo, fuge I written upon his arm. It van- ishes. He does not fly. It returns Yet he will not fly. He has duly read the Latin incantation; and in the end, after stipulating for four-and-twenty years of magical power and human enjoyments of every kind, he signs a deed of gift in a regular legal form, which gives it a ghastly air of diabolical reality. In the Magico Prodzgkso. the sale of the immortal soul is effected by a sim- ilar bond, which Cyprian signs with his blool; but the preliminaries are very different from. the above, and the main incentive and object is different. The Mephistopheles is also~ a far more learned, philosophical, and courtly person. On his first appearance, as Shelley translated it (in The Liberal ), we read, Enter the Devil as a fine Gentleman. * The sur- render of Cyprians soul to the demon, though preceded by intense intellectual struggles, dissatisfactions with the results of phtlosophical studies, theological argu- ments, ~nd a yearning after forbidden knowledge, is nevertheless finally deter- mined upon for the sake of obtaining per- sonal possession of a certain beautiful and virtuous lady. This lady (Justina) exer-