LITTELLS LIVING AGE. 2... S 4 3 ______________________________ t~ a ~ } No. 1933. July 2,1881. .~ From Beginalig, CONTENTS. ON SOME NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY THE FRERES. By Mrs. Alexander, author of The Wooing Ot. Part XIII., A LAST WOI~D ON DISRAELI, MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING, THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONS. FIELD Contemporary Review, Temple Bar,. Contemporary Review, Blackwoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, P0 E T R Y. NORWEGIAN SONNETS, MISCELLANY, S S 0 0 0 0 0 S 64 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to Ike Paklishers, the LIVING Acm will be punctually forwarded for a year,free ofjSostage. 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 pay able to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, s8 cents. I. II. III. Iv. V. .3 20 29 41 55 2 2 NORWEGIAN SONNETS. NORWEGIAN SONNETS. To Norroway, to Norroway, To Norroway owre the faem I I. UP THE SKAGER RACK. IT was the point of dawn; and in the bow I stood alone, facing the grey north-east. Far on the left, like a huge brown sea-beast That had been chased and was oertaken now, Stolen on by night, lay Norway. From the prow A hissing of salt spray that still increased Rose plainly audiblefor the gale had ceased And the keel cut the sea-plain like a plough. And so with only a ripple on the sea, And neer a storm-cloud oer us muttering black, We voyaged with an easy course and free And disappointing, now on looking back; For the old sagas make the surges flee Like riderless horses up the Skager Rack! THE SCENERYGO AND SEE IT! AND speak ye may of grandeur and of gloom And all the dread magnificence that lies Where through the dale the foam-flecked torrent flies, Or gorgeous sunsets oer the mountains bloom. But who shall in the sonnets scanty room Set the majestic magnitude, the size, The mighty mountains and the widening skies Up on Norwegian table-lands assume? This you must see to feel within your heart, And cannot know from others: nature still In this defies all imitative art, Baffles all schools and soars beyond their skill: It is a joy she only shall impart, But, once received, it neer can cease to thrilL III. A TERROR OF THE TWILIGHT. FAfr in Norwegian solitudes we strayed: Behind us lay a long bright summer day, But evening now was stooping oer our way, When, at a sudden turn, alarmed we stayed. It was a terror by the twilight made Of river, cliff, and cloud, and the weird play Of sunsets one live liberated ray Piercing the horror of the pine-wood shade. Stood, like a charred cross, or a huge sword- hilt, Against the sky, above the cliffs black line, That seemed a bastion by Harfager built, A solitary thunder-blasted pine; On the dark flood below, the sunset spilt What now was blood and now was wassail- wine. IV. THE CLIMB FROM VALLE. STEEP was the climb from Vall~: far below The s~ter* we had left lay lost in mist, And still the height rose higher than we wist Beyond the ravings of the Otteraa.f And now a thin bleak air began to blow, And now the bispevei ~ to turn and twist, Here round a tjern no summer ever kissed, And there behind a hide of hoarded snow. The stars dissolved anon; and airy trills Of wavering music showed the day begun: We toiled to meet the morn oer rocks, oer rills; And, breathless but ~t last, our wish we won The top! and, lo, a countless herd of hills Tossing their shining muzzles in the sun! V. PAA HEJA: L~/eontheHeight.r. Is there a pleasure can with this compare? To leap at sunrise from your mountain bed, Roused by a skylark revelling overhead, And drink great draughts of golden morning air; A plunge, and breakfast simple rural fare; Then forth with vigorous brain, elastic tread, Hope singing at your heart oer sorrow dead, And strength for fifty miles, and still to spare! That joy was ours! 0 memory! oft restore us Those autumn runs, here in the smoky town, When through the woods our mad nomadic chorus Rang freedom up and civilization down! lo! my hearts! the world was all before us, And we nor owned nor envied king nor crown! VI. THE MOUNTAIN LAUREATE. MORNING is flashing from a glorious sun On the broad shoulders of the giant fells That outreach arms across the narrow dells And form a silent brotherhood of one Listening their skylark laureate! New begun He up the heavens in ever-rising swells Carries their thanksgiving in song that wells From his small breast as if twould neer be done. What life his music gives them! They are free In the wild freedom of his daring wing; And in the cataract of his song, the sea Of poetry that fills all heaven, they sing; 1-le is their poet-prophet in his gle4 And in his work and worth their priest and king! J. LOGIE ROBERTSON. Blackwoods Magazine. * Mountain farm t Pronounced Ottero. ~ Bridle-path. ~ Mountain lake, tarn. From The Contemporary Review. ON SOME NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. THE word society is employed in various senses. We use it in political sci- ence to designate the community of men united to a State; in the language of cer- tain aristocratic circles in Paris and Lon- don it means a league between a limited number of coteries, whose chief care is to keep their cfoors closed, in order to follo~v the important pursuit of amusement among themselves. It is not our purpose here to treat either of Rousseaus or of fashionable society, but of the totality of those classes which everywhere represent national culture, and are, properly speak- ing, not only its chief producers but chief consumers, which preside over national activity, which take the lead in State and Church, commerce and manufactures, let- ters and science, in short, of the whole of that stratum of the nation which in Germany, characteristically enough, goes by the name of the educated class (die Gebildeten). Now, the nature and habitus of this society has, in different nations, at different periods, assumed set forms under the determining influence here of this, there of that particular class, now of this, now of that predominating interest. It is clearly not unimportant whether a national society tookits definite form during the sixteenth or eighteenth century, ~vhether the decisive part in its formation was played by a community of peaceful burghers or by a nobility of sol- diers, whether the principle ~vhich pre- vailed in its constitution was that of art or religion, of science or the State. It may not be uninteresting to trace this progress of development in different na- tionalities, even should we keep strictly to the high-road without tarrying by the way, much less allowing ourselves to be en- ticed into any of the many byways lying invitingly on every side. I. NATIONAL society was a thing un- known to the Middle Ages. The spirit by which they were animated was a spirit of universality; throughout the whole of Europe there was but one religion, one 3 science, one form of government, and even in literature the substance at least was common to all nationalities. On the other hand, each single nation was divided into strictly severed castes; the citizens and the clergy, the clergy and the knights, ~vere sharply separated from each other without intermedium. In a similar ~vay all intellectual intercourse between the prov- inces ~vas impeded by differences of dia- lect, or could only be carried on by means of Latin Le., of a universal instrument, which hardly permitted the spirit of a nation to find utterance. The develop- ment of a national society dates only from the Renaissance, for it was not till then that the races of Europe began to form into individual nations, that each of these proceeded to develop a political and lin- guistic unity of its o~vn, which enabled the cultured classes to approach each other, to indulge in the interchange of thought and feeling, to act and live together, and to feel the healthy glow of common inter- ests. In this point Italy preceded every other European nation; for although, at the close of the fifteenth century, it had not yet formed a national State like the united kingdoms of Spain, England, and France, it had begun since the last German inva- sion to feel itself an independent nation, like the Greeks of old as opposed to the barbarians. A generation earlier, the written language of Italy had already been recognized as such from the Alps to the Passaro. Above all, the barriers of caste bet~veen the educated had well-nigh coin- pletely disappeared by the time the revival of classical antiquity gave all of them a common interest. Here, however, it was neither the army nor the clergy, it was the citizen class i ~o~oZani grassi especially the commercial portion of it, to~vards which the rest gravitated, which absorbed the others, or at least infused its spirit into them. At the time of the Renaissance Italian society was essen- tially a town society, nor has it ever ceased to be so. In political as well as in intel- lectual life, the towns stood in the fore- ground: Milan and Genoa, Venice and Florence, Bologna, Pisa, Siena, Perugia. During the fifteenth, and even until the CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 4 ON SOME NATIONAL beginning of the sixteenth century, some of these cities were great European pow- ers of about the same importance as the Netherlands in the seventeenth; and in the greater part of them the citizen class of ~vholesale merchants had early over- powered the military nobility of Germanic origin and possessed themselves of the sovereignty. Who does not know, by Dantes example, that a noble was not allowed to take part in the government of Florence until he had renounced his title and had himself inscribed in a corpora- tion? And the armies employed by each of these cities to fight its bloodless battles were no nursery-ground for a fresh aris- tocracy. Held as they vere in slight es- teem, recruited from the lowest orders, of very little influence in the State, they always remained dependants of the lords of the cities. Even in towns, ~vhere, towards the close of that period, the gen- erals mostly men of low extraction succeeded in seizing the reins of govern- ment, as, for instance, the Sforzas in Milan, their officers did not form a mil- itary nobility that gave the tone to society. Nor was it otherwise ~vith the clergy. Education having become diffused among the laity, their influence was very small, nor did they in any sense take the lead in society, neither had they any privileged position, nor did they enjoy any special reverence. The clergy intermingled with the rest of that citizen class from which they mostly sprang, and when a prelate became the object of any special regard, this distinction came to him in virtue of his superior attainments, the weight of his individuality, or his connection with powerful citizens, never in virtue of his clerical dignity alone. The men who rose to distinction in the State, in letters, in art, belonged almost exclusively to the citizen class. Petrarchs father was a notary, Boccaccio~s a merchant, Macchia- velli and Guicciardini were of middle- class parentage. Even long after cer- tain families had grown into dynasties and certain groups of families into oligar- chies, they still continued to trade as be- fore, not always to the advantage of the State which they ruled at the same time, while their relations towards those who in reality were their subjects remained in form those of fellow-citizens. The rela- tion of Cosimo de Medici towards Dona- tello and Brunelleschi resembled far more that of a friend than of a patron, and the intercourse between his grandson Lo- renzo and the Pulcis or Angelo Poliziano took place on a footing of familiar equal. ity. The fact is, that these sovereigns were not foreign conquerors, such as ruled in other countries and in Italy also at an earlier period, neither had their ancestors led a separate unapproachable life from times immemorial. Here rulers and ruled had grown up together, had transacted business w~tli one another, and the fiction that the rulers were only allowed to govern by the consent of the entire community was still retained. Hence the tone of complete equality which prevailed in these circles. Nor was it predominant in Florence only; for even in Ferrara, the only northern state of Italy whose sovereigns belonged to a nobility established by foreign conquest, the same tone reigned, albeit with some- ~vhat less freedom. The examples of the cities exercised in fact a decisive in- fluence. Outwardly at least, this demo- cratic equality has kept its ground in daily intercourse even to the present day. No- where are conventional forms less ob- served than in Italy, they are only brought forward on great State occasions; whereas in ordinary circumstances a famil- iar Zaisser-aller is the order of the day, which among Italians, chastened as they are by centuries of civilization, seldom degenerates into vulgarity. Still this Italian society, in spite of its ready wit, its brio, and its inborn gracefulness, had not at that time, nor has it now, the peculiar charm of French and Spanish society, as it appears in the comedies and novels of the sixteenth century; that charm which consists in the art of mov ing freely within the limits of conven- tional forms, of making them bend to the will, of allowing the individuality free play in spite of them, of knowing how to speak of anything and everything without infringing them. Such social intercourse was in fact a game of skill, which, though not without its dangers as well as its fas CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 5~4 cinations, differs as widely from vulgar familiarity as a sonnet does from dog- gerel. To be sure, doggerel, like the ver- sification of Faust and of the Wan- dering Jew, may be worth all Petrarchs sonnets put together; still even a Goethe hardly ventures to indulge in it always and everywhere, and readily returns to the sonnet, where circumstances require it, because he feels that it is precisely when the~ spirit begins to move most powerfully, that we learn the value of restraint; and may this not be applied in the main to every branch of culture? This social equality ~vhich acknowl- edged no superior, even while it sub- mitted in fact to rulers, in the Italy of the fifteenth century was coupled with a rare unity of culture. Each speciality having developed on the soil of a common culture, mankind here were no longer divided into merchants, statesmen, men of learning, and artists. Who among us can say whether it was his wool trade, State affairs (at that time still in the hands of a circle of families nearly allied to him), his friend Donatellos works, or the new university he had undertaken to found at his own ex- pense, which most absorbed the interest and attention of a Niccolo da Uzzano? Even the fair sex took a large part in this education and in this society. Convent education ~vas still the exception. Patri- cians daughters were taught Greek, Latin, and mathematics at home with their broth- ers. Thus the gulf which now yawns be- tween the sexes was at that time nowhere perceptible, nor was there any opportu- nity for the modern blue-stocking to arise, since she is a product of the unnatural state of things by which women are debarred from the educational advantages of men, so that those who contrive to obtain them find themselves isolated among their own sex, and are in danger of appearing and indeed of becoming unwomanly. In the hands of the women of the Renais- sance, as a contemporary writer finely expresses it, the education of their time only became an instrument with which to develop their feminine characteristics more brilliantly; not the result of an exterior, conventional education, but an interior harmony, arising from the co operation of all the forces of womans na- ture. Well might Arios to proudly sing: Ben mi par di veder ch al secol nostro Tanta virtu fra belle donne emerga Che qub dar opra a carte ed ad inchiostro Perch~ nei futuri anni si disperga. For, indeed, they were not a few, those highly educated women of the fifteenth century, who shared largely the conversa- tion, the intellectual pursuits, nay, even the business of the men; yet not one of them ceased to be a true ~voman. Let us but remember Lucrezia Tornabuoni, her- self a poetess and a friend of poets, the mother of Lorenzo de Medici, who super- intended the studies of her gifted son, who presided ~visely and cleverly over a large establishment, the master of which, Piero, was almost constantly ill, and let us call to mind that charming letter, in which she describes the beauty of her future daughter-in-law, Clarice Orsini, with the eye of a female connoisseur. The way in which Sandro Botticcelli has placed together the juvenile daughter of the Albizzis with Pico della Mirandola in his glorious frescoes at the Villa Lemmi near Florence, leaves no doubt, though this young lady is not mentioned in the chronicles and correspondences of the time which abound in allusions to so many of her contemporaries, that the handsome prodigy of his age, who knew everything that could be known, must have been an intimate and playfellow of the graceful girl. And, setting aside Florence, did not Caterina Cornaro, who -facilitated the first steps of a Bembo in his eventful career, continue to patronize art and science long after she had doffed her Cyprian crown and retired once more into private life at Venice? Did not Eli- sabetta da Urbino number a Castigli one, a Bernardo Accolti an author whose Virginia is too little known among her intimate friends? Were not Bojardo and Guarini, the humanist, guests at the table of the elder Leonora of Ferrara, just as, two generations afterwards, Tasso and Guarini, the poet, found favor and protection with the younger Leonora? And how learned was that graceful house- wife Portia, the mother of Torquato I .6 ON SOME NATIONAL Who does not recollect Vittoria Colonna, Michael Angelos beautiful muse? Above all, where can we find a finer type of true womanhood than Isabella of Mantua, whose letters to her husband, to her sis- ter-in-law of Urbino, to her artist friends, reveal a feminine soul of such finished grace through their somewhat constrained form. Now we find her receiving the most learned works of antiquity from Al- dus Manutius; now it is Ariosto who submits to her the sketch of his Orlando Furioso; Bellini is unable to supply her fast enough to please her; she listens to Plautuss comedies, ay, even to Cardinal Bibbienas Cahindra, a piece which men would nowadays hardly venture to read aloud to each other, and enjoys it merrily in company with the men belong- ing to her society; yet no one who had ever seen her found her a whit less wom- anly because she had read Vitruvius, or dreamt of casting a doubt on her purity and chastity because she could laugh heartily at Macchiavellis Manragola Girls under t~venty were, of course, not admitted to social intercourse with their elders, any more than boys of the same age, and unmarried women above twenty were so extremely rare at that time that they scarcely come into account. Womens influence in the State was, for the most part, quite indirect, although a few, like Caterina Sforza, took openly a leading share in politics. In general, the part played by women was confined to the truly feminine mission of receiving and returning ideas and aims; they sel- dom took th~ initiative either in thought or action ; but they lent the lives of those indomitable men moderation, grace, and refinement, whenever a lull in the inexora- ble struggle for existence gave them an opportunity of doing so. And thus they were indeed the first to realize that artistic ideal which the whole age had in its minds eye. For arti.e., the interpreting rep- resentation of nature was the principle which pervaded the whole intellectual atmosphere of the age. During the mem- orable interview between Charles V. and Pope Clement VII. at Bologna, which was to seal the fate of Italy for many years to come, the wonderfully wrought clasp, designed by Benvenuto Cellini to fasten the popes mantle, caused both sovereigns for fully a quarter of an hour to lose sight of the purpose for which they had met. It was their desire to ren- der not only their domestic surroundings, their dress, their dwellings, utensils, gar- dens, their banquets and entertainments, but even the State, and above all the indi- viduality, works of art. And here it was that the Renaissance, ~vhich possessed no conventional compass, too soon struck upon the rocks which were destined to wreck the vessel of Italian society. It had been able to reach the highest possi- ble pitch of art, because here liberty ~vas restrained by law, and Ariosto has re- mained the most striking example of an apparently unrestrained, in reality strictly controlled freedom. Not so in daily life; for here people only too readily forgot that the Muses should accompany, but are incapable of guiding life. An age which could see no more guilt in a Caesar Bor- gia than in a tiger lurking for and pounc- ing upon its prey, could not long hold together. Art is indifferent to morals; society cannot subsist without moral con- vention. Art is inexorably true; society cannot dispense with a certain amount of hypocrisy. The absolute indifference with regard to social morality, and the undisguised love of truth which charac- terize this period, a love of truth, by the way, ~vhich ~vas quite compatible with the use of direct falsehood or dissimula- tion in order to attain a given end,the worship of nature as infallible, and the contempt for any other authority, neces- sarily led this society to its dissolution, and had done so, in fact, long ere Span- ish influences fettered the life of Italy. Unrestrained political license had al- ready resulted in petty despotism before an unlimited intellectual freedom resulted in narrow-minded bigotry. True, art had not ceased to be cultivated; but it had become an exterior thing, and the artist degenerated with inconceivable rapidity into the virtuoso, the man of science into the pedant, poetry became academism, sociability a mere satisfaction of empty vanity and a coarse thirst for pleasure. Commerce declined, and with it a free, high-spirited class of citizens. Work began to be discredited; a man of quality lived on the inheritance of his forefathers nay, even down to the present day, Italians give the name sz~nori only to those who have enough to live upon with- out ~vorking. The ancient city patriciate itself became a nobility, not of arms, but of court offices. And what courts were those at which the descendants of the great merchants of the fourteenth cen- tury were now content to fawn for titles and dignities, even when, as at Florence, the new sovereigns descended from a race of traders They ~vere the courts of small vassals to great foreign poten CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 7 tates. The horizon had narrowed. No- where was there an open view to be had of the wide ocean of European politics. The noble freedom of intercourse which had prevailed during the previous cen- tury gave way to an oppressive etiquette, a formal, Spanish ceremonial replaced the preceding laisser-aller. Outside the court, it is true, the old tone of friendly inti- macy was still preserved in the intercourse between the cultured middle class and the newly-created nobles, ~vho were so numer- ous that their titles were almost meaning- less; but it had become purely a matter of form, and this merely external equality, which had been inherited from the age of the Renaissance, can only deceive the eye of the superficial observer. Then, as now, counts and marquises exchanged the familiar thou ~ with lawyers and pro- fessors, but only with the certain knowl- edge, that the distance which separated them inwardly could not be overstepped, as Don Giovanni is able to joke with Leporello with impunity, because both inwardly feel how great a gulf is fixed between them. In fact, a relationship of client to patron had taken the place of the former equality. The decline of com- merce and of manufacture, the wide ex- tension of the court and of the service of the State besides, had for their conse- quence a steadily increasing poverty and servility of the middle class; the number and influence of parasites was continu- ally augmenting. Contrary to the cus- tom elsewhere, the Church, justice, gov- ernment offices became a refuge for these reduced classes, who no longer felt it a humiliation to be patronized by the wealthy. The dignity with which reli- gion, jurisprudence, and the State are wont elsewhere to invest their servants, here had lost all its value; the priest was an affable bachelor to whom the smaller social functions were entrusted, nothing more; the man of learning, the poet generally also an abbi was the panegyr- ist, at times even the buffoon of the noble house; the judge was hardly anything but. a business agent; the State councillor was a steward to the signori. The wives and daughters of such professional men for commerce had almost entirely dwin- dled into a retail trade led the life of niaidservants, in extreme poverty, seclu- sion, and obscurity, from which they only issued on high days and holidays. The women of higher rank, it is true, con- tinued to be the centre of society, in the aristocratic acceptation of the term; but they, too, passed at a bound from the con- vent into marriage; on them likewise the absence of all public life acted depress- ingly, damping their energies; they also were shut out from the interests which animated the men; they also, like the men, allowed themselves to be absorbed by petty social and religious formalities and the jealousies of position and rank, or gave themselves up, behind closed doors, to every caprice of passion or in- clolence. The one thing which slightly relieved and enlivened the hopeless empti- ness of female existences such as these, was recognized, tolerated cicisbeism; while the inborn grace, the childlike sim- plicity, so nearly akin to nature, of Italian ~vomen, perhaps also the inheritance of th~ oldest of European civilizations, toned down and refined to a certain degree the inner poverty of such a life. The traces of this existence of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are not yet quite obliterated; but Italy is perhaps the coun- try which has undergone the greatest social revolution during the last forty years, a revolution which is still proceed- ing. French domination at the beginning of this century, and the almost uninter- rupted influence of French literature ever since; the levelling of all frontiers in the interior; the present rule of the Piedmon- tese, a race more nearly allied to the Swiss than to the Italians; above all, the rise of a new ruling class, and precisely of that very same middle class which for the two previous centuries had been so poor and so humbly dependent, and which to-day reigns supreme and is fully con- scious of the advantages of its position, all this has contributed to bring about a transformation, which is still far from being completed. IN France likewise the influence of Spain was powerfully felt after that of Italy; but in that country national life ~vas so vigorous, that it soon completely subjected and absorbed the foreign ele- ment. From time immemorial the State had been led, the Church governed, and the cultivation of literature and science appropriated to themselves, by the no- bility of the sword and the robe. These two classes had at an early period en- tered into a league with the crown against the higher aristocracy. But the more in- dependent the monarchy rendered itself of that aristocracy, the greater became the influence and importance of its allies. Finally, when Richelieu had overcome the higher nobility, they also entered into 8 ON SOME NATIONAL the service of the court, and that court soon became the centre of French life, first in Paris, then in Fontainebleau, St. Germain, Versailles. And, together with the importance of the court, that of the Parisian Parliament also increased, and it not only felt its own power as independent of the will of the king, but was occasion- ally inclined to make him feel it too; for France in the olden time knew no Jeifreys, the French judges always preserved their political and social independence, be- cause their half-inherited, half-purchased seats could not be taken from them, and the wealth of their families was constantly renewed by marriages with the daughters of rich citizens. The city now began to group around the Parisian Parliament as the court around the king. Intellec- tual and political centralization thus kept pace with one another. Court and city henceforth became synonymous with rep- resentatives of culture. Montesquieu naively says: Jappelle g~nie dune na- tion les mceurs et le caract~re desprit des diff~rents peuples dirig~s par linflu- ence dune m~me cour et dune m~me capitale. It is evident that, in Montes- quieus eyes, Germany could not lay claim to a national culture. But court and city meant the nobility of the sword and robe and all that belongs to it; and in fact the characteristic features of French culture were, down to the Revolu- tion, nay, even in the National Assembly of 1789, but especially during the Resto- ration (8141830), which may be looked upon as a distinct revival of ancient France, derived from the courtier and the man of law. Even to the present day the habits and customs, the forms and views of these two classes give the tone, if not in the State, at all events in society. At the time when this national society, to- gether with the national literature, as- sumed its definite form, i.e., in the second third of the seventeenth century, the former by throwing off the Spanish yoke and the latter by freely metamor- phosing Spanish forms, it was these two closely connected classes which took the initiative in the changes that were then wrought. A Voltaire and a Balzac, a Corneille and a Malherbe, met together with a Cond~ and a Retz, in the Marquise de Rambouillets drawing-room; all of them were more or less intimately con- nected with Parliamentary families (fa- milies de rob4 Pascal, like almost all Port-Royal, orig- inally belonged to the nobility of the robe, as did Montaigne before, and Mon. tesquieu after him. The great Gallican too, who impressed upon the French Church and French pulpit eloquence their lasting stamp, Bossuet, was the son of a judge. But he, as ~vell as Bourdaloue, FI& hier, Massillon, and many other dis- tinguished prelates of ancient France who followed him, became one of the stars of Versailles, who contributed in no smaller degree to the literary wealth of their country than courtiers of the highest rank, such as Larochefoucault and St. Simon. There were besides a number of professional writers living at Ver- sailles: La Bruy~re found his best-known types at court, and Racine sang Louis XIV.s connection with Mademoiselle de Ia Valli~re in his B~r~nice, and wrote Athalie and Esther for Madame de Maintenons St. Cyr. And side by side with the dignitaries of the Church and representatives of literature, State officials and military commanders assem- bled about the monarchs person, con- tracted friendships with these men, shared in their interests, profiting greatly by their intercourse, while they communicated to them in return their own wider and more liberal view of things. Every noble fam- ily of high rank, however, was in itself a tiny Versailles, with its own abb6s and men of letters who stood in no subordi- nate position towards its members, but rather associated with them as friends, giving them intellectual animation while they received a freer knowledge of the world in exchange; for the court, which was the prototype of this whole society concentrated around it, was no miniature court like that of Lucca or of Parma; it was the court of a great power, nay, of the great European power, icaT t~O%~v; there was nothing to limit or intercept the view. The highest interests were treated and decided here; nothing was petty, not. even court ceremonial, because it remained exclusively the form of life and never became at the same time its substance, as ~vas the case in Italy. The disputes bet~veen Jansenist and Jesuit, be- tween Protestant and Catholic, between the Gallican Church and the Roman Curia found their echo here. Here it was that the supremacy of the Continent and the defence of the country were planned. Here Moli~res latest comedies were dis- cussed with the same warmth of interest as Pascals letters against the Society of Jesus, or Bossuets funeral oration on the great Cond~. And as the court, so the city; all the educated and wealthy, to whatever class they might belong, took a CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 9 living interest in these questions, which at once grew into national ones not least the ~vomen. Even a century later, Sterne expressed his opinion, thaf with the French people nothing was Salic, except the monarchy. It is, in fact, the female element which always has reigned, and still reigns su- preme in France, especially in the capital. Even Bonaparte, who certainly cannot be accused of allowing too free play to the fair sex, was forced to admit when he came to Paris~-as a young man of twenty- six (1795) that this was the only place where they deserved to take the helm. The men thought of nothing else; lived only in and for them. A woman must have passed six months in Paris to know what was due to her, and how she might rule. It is easy to betray the secret. The French women of those times were content to fight with the weapons peculiar to their sex. A Madame de S6vign~, a Madame de Lafayette, were women be- fore they were anything else. With them authorship was quite a secondary matter, if, indeed, such writing can be called au- thorship. True, France was not without its professional authoresses, like Made- moiselle de Scud& y and Madame Des- houli~res, but even they had a far greater personal than literary influence in society, and their period was short. From the time when Louis XIV. attained his ma- jority, the political women of the seven- teenth, as well as the philosophical women of the eighteenth century, no longer ap- pear directly before the public. Even Madame de StaU, in reality only half a Frenchwoman, thought a great deal more of her personal connections than of her writings, and had a warmer heart for her political friends than for her political principles. Nevertheless, ~ve cannot deny that the unfeminine element began al- ready with her to make itself objection- ably felt. The women of the ancien regime shunned all publicity; they were content to exercise an indirect influence, ruling over the rulers in all departments, without ever thinking it necessary to re- sort to the kind of warfare which belongs to the other sex. Anacreon tells us that nature has given each created being its own special weapons, the bull its horns, the horse his hoof, man reason, and wom- en beauty. By this, however, we are by no means to understand that all women are unreasonable and all men ugly, any more than that all men are reasonable and all women beautiful. He means that every woman, without exception, has re ceived from nature a certain amount of grace, of which she often endeavors, not unsuccessfully, to divest herself. If even so proud a man as Louis XIV. thought fit to doff his hat before the lowest of his kitchen-maids, whom he miaht chance to meet on a back staircase at Versailles, this was merely a tribute which France, embodied in his person, was always ready to ~ay to a sex, whose humblest members could lay claim to the rights of grace and weakness. This grace is not confined to the passing bloom of youth, nor to the - outward person. There is also a grace- fulness of heart and of mind especially feminine. Thus, self-sacrifice and devo- tion, patience in suffering, intellectual freshness and suggestive na~ive/d, a shrewd, direct judgment, and an equally shrewd, direct speech, not less than cun- ning, tears, and the desire to please, are especially feminine ~veapons, seldom at the command of the other sex. Now, the French women of those two glorious cen- turies, from Madame de Ch~vreuse down to Madame Roland, owed their sover- eignty, their well-merited sovereignty over the heroes of thought and action, to the judicious use of these arms, not to an un- pleasing endeavor to compete with men on their own battle-field. For no species of interest was foreign to them, and so they presided over social life, while their influ- ence in politics, religion, and literature was completely decisive. Nor do I by any means allude here only to the most conspicuous figures, such, for instance, as Madame de Longueville, who succeed- ed in seducing her husband and brother, the great Cond6,* ay, even a Larochefou- cault and a Turenne, to open rebellion against the cro~vn; or as Madame de Maintenon, ~vho determined Louis XIV.s inner policy for so long; as Ang~lique Arnaud, or Madame Guyon, the souls of French Jansenism and of French Quiet- ism; as a Tencin and Geoffrin, whose salons gave the tone to the society of a whole century; I refer here to the num- bers of women whose names were hardly known to the public, though they stood behind the greatest statesmen, the first writers, the leading men of society, as we gather by the new discoveries made from year to year by the admirers and students of that unique age. Nor does it do to be * At the time of the Fronde such offensive and defensive alliances between influential women and am- bitious politicians were matters~cd everyday occurrence; of this kind were the unions between Retz and Madame de Ch~vreuse, Beaufort and Madame de Moutbazon, Cond~ and Madame de Chatillon. I0 ON SOME NATIONAL too quick to condemn the corruption or even laxity of morals of that period; for it presents fine, and by no means isolated, instances of conjugal fidelity and attach- ment. For example, the stout-hearted Duchesse de Chaulnes, of whom St. Si- mon relates that she refused to survive her husband; then the Duchesse de Choiseul, the friend of Madame du Def- fand and of the Abb~ Barth~lemy, who almost worshipped her husband, the min- ister to Louis XV., albeit he was twenty years her senior; and the Marquise Costa (le Beauregard, whose letters to her hus- band and children, published a few years ago, give us an insight into so noble a soul; the Mar& hale de Beauveau, and numerous others. Many of those more questionable liaisons, moreover, which were tolerated in those times, ~vere in real. ity little less than conjugal unions. What other name can we give to the bond ex- isting between the I)uc de Nivernais and Madame de Rochefort, or between the Chevalier de Boufflers and Madame de Sabran, even before the legal sanction in the one case after forty, in the other after twenty years had become possi- ble ? * Can we conceive purer relations than those which existed between Made- moiselle de Cond6 and Monsieur de Ia Gervaisais, to whom marriage was forbid- den, and who in vain sought to forget a hopeless passion, he on the battle-field, she in a convent? And can we ver~ture to confound even relatively less sacred con- nections, such as those between Madame dHoudetot and St. Lambert, Madame du Deffand and Horace Walpole, Madame du Chatelet and Voltaire, not to mention others connections which lasted for many years, and (lerived their nourish- ment from a mutual interest in mankinds loftiest aims, can we, I repeat, confound these with the thoughtless liaisons which begin and end in the caprice of a moment? When inclined to depreciate the moral value of these ~vomen of the ancien rdgi;ne, let us rather call to mind the heroism, the firmness, the resignation with which, in the time of the great Revolution, they mounted the scaffold ~vhere they were to expiate their enthusiasm for the ideals of their youth. It was a characteristic distinction, * The relations between the Comte de Toulouse and Madame de Gondrin, between the Duc de Sully and Madame de Vaux, between the Marquis de St. Aulaire and Madame de Lambert, between the Comte Lassaye and Madame de Bourbon, between the Mar~chal d Uxeiles and Madame de Ferriol were of a similar nature; the last of these, however, could never be rati- fied by marriage. though only consistent with the whole constitution of French society, that young girls should have been strictly excluded from it; for it was less the apprehension lest they might fall in love foolishly, or contract an early undesirable marriage, which suggested this exclusion, than the desire to be able freely to discourse on all topics, even such as young girls cannot understand, or which it is either irksome or prejudicial for them to listen to. Now, conversation was the great aim of all social intercourse in France, if it can be said to have had any aim except sociabil- ity. It was to the French, what art was to the Italians of the Renaissance, at once the substance and the form of their men- tal activity. On dit que lhomme est un animal sociable, says Montesquieu; sur ce pied-la il me parait que le Fran~ais est plus homme quun autre; cest 1 homme par excellence, car il semble fait unique- ment pour Ia soci~t6. It was not solitary thought, imagination, and feeling, not a direct contemplation and reproduction of nature, not enterprise and action with the adroit manipulation of varying inter- ests, but the intellectual elaboration we call conversation, i.e., the form of men- tal exertion in which thoughts and feelings are employed rather as stimulants to excite our faculties and bring them into play, than as their purpose and object, ~vhich was the crowning result of that culture. The sudden birth of ideas in living language, brought about by the contact of mind with mind; the art of imperceptibly guiding and turning the game; the satisfaction of having found a suitable, an elegant, or an eloquent form for an idea, of being able to introduce the highest subjects into conversation without becoming abstruse, the lowest without being vulgar, of speaking of natural things without impropriety, of artificial things ~vith simplicity, of gliding lightly over the surface of some matters yet so as to stimulate thought en ~assan/, of diving to the depths of others without effort, of opening out sudden views, touching on personalities lightly without entering more deeply into the subject, of suggesting ideas by such equivocalities; above all, the art of satisfying ones personal vanity by flattering that of others,this spirit it is ~vhich pervades the whole culture of a nation, whose gregarious propensities are not compatible with solitude, which is unable to exist without conventions, yet which feels the need of moving freely and gracefully within those arbitrary limits. Something of this spirit was communi CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. II cated to the family, to public life, and to although both were held in high esteem literature, and made of the cultured cir and widely cultivated, even before the des of France a society, the unwritten . great rebellion of the seventeenth century, la~vs and intangible organism of which never had been leading principles in En- have outlived even the Revolution and its glish society; for even at that time poli- Reign of Terror, a society which is only tics were already predominant. A high at its ease, morally and intellectually, in and independent tone prevailed in the moral tights, because that costume has society which Shakespeare and Ben Jon- become a second skin which no doubt son have shown us, and which ~vas repre- implies that it has lost all conception of the sented by men of the stamp of Spenser, nude i.e., the final in truth and nature. Bacon, Sidney, Russell. Women played I have said that this code of manners, a considerable and important, yet thor- like the preponderance of the two classes oughly feminine, part in it. Liberty of in ~vhich it had been developed in the speech was very great, and seldom de- course of centuries, lasted long after those generated into coarseness. Classical classes had lost their political privileges, education was universal and profound, although old Talleyrand used to say and ~vomen shared in it; the interest in He who did not live before 1789, and art and literature was extremely vivid. did not take part in the conversation of For a moment it seemed as if England those times, will never know the highest were destined to realize the ideal of enjoyment allotted to mankind. Let us modern society; as if, under the fortify. but call to mind the men of the cons/i/u- ing influence of public life, liberty, and ante, the Malouets, Lally-Tollendals, La- propriety, individual development and meths, Lafayettes, etc., and the Girondins, unity of culture, a taste for art and a nearly all of them men of law and guard- lively, witty conversation would have free ians of ancient forms; let us remember play. This healthy development, how- the leading circles of the Restoration, ever, was nipped in the bud by the great and the reign of Louis Philippe. Even Rebellion. To say of any great complex down to the second empire and third of events, resulting from a long series republic, literary productions were not of facts and circumstances, that it might deemed indispensable to the reception of have been different, would be unhistori- members into the ranks of the Academy, cal. What may be said, however, is, that dukes, prelates, and illustrious men of the natural growth of Englands moral law being admitted as mere representa- and intellectual life was stunted by the tives of the taste of ancient France in great Rebellion which saved Englands modern society. These forms, it is true, independence, the Protestant faith, and are no longer so clearly marked as they political liberty. Still this event was Un- were, and more than once passion has avoidable, for it was the product of a overstepped the bounds of propriety even second development, accomplished with- in the most select circles. Nevertheless, in the core of the nation, which ran par. what was essential in the tradition is still allel with that higher one proceeding from alive, and the present exclusion from the the Renaissance. However this may be, State of the educated classes, and of Puritanism brushed the bloom off the those who have any social importance, national spirit of England. Later on, it may perhaps have the beneficial result of is true, that spirit put forth a new bIos- allowing French genius to come to itself som, which from the time of Locke to again, and slowly to reconstitute its em- that of Hume brought En gland intellec- pire undisturbed by political interests. tually to the front; there arose even a period of belles-lettres with which noth Ill. ing in the European literature of the past SOMETHING analogous to French court century can compare; nevertheless, what- life had begun to appear in England un- ever may be its intrinsic value, this lit. der the Tudors and the Stuarts; and here, erature had none of the delicate fragrance likewise, it was the Church, the army, and emitted by the creations of Chaucer and the law, in a close alliance and assembled of Shakespeare, ~vhich is missing even in round the throne as their centre, which the inimitable productions of their suc- gave the tone in society. Even down to cessors, from Dryden and De Foe down the present day, these three professions to Goldsmith and Sterne. The modest, are the only ones which, far from depriv- delicate bloom, the subtle, changeful hu ing their members of the name antI posi- which feminine influences cast over a tion of a gentleman, actually confer it. national literature, was destroyed; hence- Still art, as ~vell as social intercourse, forth English literature became a litera. 12 ON SOME NATIONAL ture of men, as English society a society of men. The new impulse under Charles II. was but a sorry imitation of French manners and customs; even a St. Evre- mond and a Grammont lost all living sympathy with their countrys culture; the whole movement was, in fact, but a coarse caricature of French life; on the banks of the Thames the refined Epicu- reanism of French society degenerated into a low sensuality; liberty became license, high spirits dissolute reckless- ness, elegance luxurious ostentation. It was not till after the second Revolu- tion of 688 that a new kind of society was formed, which has maintained its ground down to our own time. Even during the reigns of William III. and Queen Anne, but more decidedly under the two first Georges, the disaf- fected gentry had by degrees withdrawn to their estates. If all of them did not care to express their dislike of those dd Hanoverians ~vith the blunt- ness of a Squire Western, most were at any rate of his way of thinking. Thus country life, which Englishmen have al- ways loved, became the normal existence of the higher orders. Even when the gentry, under Robert Walpole himself a country gentleman began to be recon- ciled to the court, the custom of remain- in~ in the country excepting during the Parliamentary session, i.e., the spring, was not discontinued; whereas, under Elizabeth and James I., it had been usual to spend at least three quarters of the year in London. True, the rusticated squire at first did not escape the shafts of the town wits and dandies; nevertheless the ridiculous figure of Sir Willful Wit- ~vould, who had never been to town since the Revolution (1700), soon gave way to the pleasing, humoristic form of Sir Roger de Coverley, till Squire Allworthy finally became the personification of all peculiarly English virtues. For though this gentry zor the most part bore no titles, still it was a nobility, and more than one plain Mr. could trace his pedigree back to the Norman Conquest. At the same time the younger sons of the nobles descended either directly, or by means of the three liberal professions we have mentioned, to the gentry, while wealthy merchants pro- cured their sons or grandsons the En- glish say it takes three generations to make a gentleman an entrance into the ranks of the gentry by the purchase of landed property or by means of the same professions. The English clergyman moreover, the greater part of whose pos sessions had not been confiscated during the Reformation, was, and in fact still is, himself a well-to-do country gentleman, whose rectory could often vie with the dwellings of county proprietors. Besides, he could marry and his sons and daugh- ters share the sports and pastimes of the county families; he was not irrevocably condemned, like the French and Italian priest, to a single life, and thus excluded from all intimate family connections, nor to that of the needy country parson in Germany, whose means scarcely suffice to make both ends meet, or, indeed, to place him on a level with the wealthier peasants. The successful barrister and judge, too (this class had begun since i688 to be virtually, if not legally, irre- movable, a quality which had done more than anything else to secure the indepen- dence of the judges in France), the pen- sioned officer, the sons of the retired merchant, and, later on, of the returned nabob, on their side also became part of the country gentry, at any rate as far as influence was concerned, if not equally in a social point of vie~v, in virtue of their landed property. Now it was this coun-- try nobility and gentry which gave the- tone in English society I say English, for circumstances were different in Scot- land, and under their influence Scotch society assumed a form more similar to that of Germany. It consisted of free and inclependenf men of wealth, most of whom had studied at Cambridge or Ox ford, while many had seats in Parliament. They managed the affairs of the villages which lay ~vithin the precincts of their estates; they were justices of the peace and magistrates, and commanded in- the militia. In a word, they did the State good and gratuitous service, and this alone, in the absence of an organized class of paid officials, would have secured them political predominance. In En- gland, however, the law did not play the same part, either in politics or in litera- ture, as in France. I can recall no ~vriter of note, no prominent English statesman of the past century, who ~vas a member either of the bench or the bar. Fielding, it is true, was a lawyer and even a London justice, but he was also a thorough gen- tleman both by birth and by education; and though Burke and Sheridan nomi- nally commenced the study of la~v, they can hardly be said to have belonged to the profession ; whereas the elder Lord Melville, who, like Lord Bacon before and Lord Brougham after him, really pro- ceeded from it, never occupied any corn- CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 3 manding position. The whole political world was almost exclusively recruited from the ranks of the country gentry, and though the literature of the time bore the impress of town life, nay, even of the life of the capital, we ought not to lose sight of the fact, that nearly all its representa- lives, from Addison, Steele, and Swift down to Gibbon, Burke, and Hume, passed into the public service, i.e., into a circle which consisted of statesmen who were also, for the most part, landed pro- prietors, and thus belonged to a class whose position, even when its members took no part in politics but spent their whole lives in a village, was still con- sidered the most enviable in the land. Even in our days, after the great changes which have been wrought in political af- fairs by the Reform Bills of 1832, 1867, and 1871, and in the economical condition of England by the development of manu- factures and free trade, the position of a country gentleman is still the ideal of all wealthy Englishmen. Even now an En- glishman of any standing does not feel that he has a real home until he pos- sesses a country-seat, and this country home is the one object of his life, the one aim of his ambition, the thing for which he toils day and night, and thus helps to increase the national wealth as well as his ox~n. He who is not rich enough to pur- chase an estate, puts up in the mean time with Putney, Weybridge, or some other rural suburb. The city is only the gi- gantic workshop, where business is trans. acted, and money earned where~vith to indulge in horses, dogs, conservatories, and unbounded hospitality in the country. For there the long days and evenings have to be filled up with prolonged re- pasts, deep potations, sports and pastimes of divers kindshunting, fishing, rowing, archery, flirtations between young people of both sexes; side by side with which go also the more useful pursuits of local business and reading, for which the well- stocked country libraries afford an excel- lent opportunity even now the English read more than any other nation in the world. At times, of course, life in these residences would become somewhat rough and boisterous; still, a healthy spirit on the whole animated this class, ~vhich was kept fresh in mind and body by out-door exercise and public tasks and interests; and in most essential respects this life has remained unchanged. True, English society, in which both sexes equally join, is to be found only in the country, for what goes by that name in town is more a labor than a recreation, and consists mostly of formally arranged, specially in- vited gatherings, where the guests sit side by side without ease or freedom, exchanging commonplace remarks, and the relatively small amount of unre- strained hearty sociability still to be found in the metropolis in our time, is now, as it was a hundred years ago, a society exclusively of men, only no~v it meets in clubs, even Parliament is a sort of gigantic club; whereas formerly it was wont to hold its gatherings at Wills Coffee-house, or, maybe, at the Turks Head. Women mind, I do not say young girls seemed, as it were, to have disappeared altogether from the higher existence of the nation during Englands most flourishing period. As far as I can remember, Lady Montague and Lady Holland were almost the only ones who, properly speaking, formed social centres, and neither of them wielded their sceptre with the grace that charms us most in women. We vainly seek a Jacqueline Pascal, a Lespinasse, a Boufflers, who exercised so decisive an influence over the religious, literary, and social life of the ruling class in France, not to speak of those innumerable women who deter- mined French policy, from Diane de Poitiers down to Madame du Cayla In England, politics, religion, letters, and society too, ~vere mens province,, for Hannah Mores influence was confined to a small middle-class clique. From Addi- son to Johnson, the whole intellectual life of England was masculine in character. In Swifts greatest works there is nothing that betrays the influence his connection ~vith Stella really exercised over his life. What we read of women in the writings of Pope, Richardson, Fielding, or Gold- smith seems to imply, that only girls played any part in society, and that, on attaining her twenty fifth year, a woman either withdrew from the world and de- voted herself entirely to her household duties, or that she appeared only at the theatre and the card-table to show her diamonds, her feathers, and her paint, or to indulge in the coarsest kind of flirta- tion. The era of the blue-stockings only began at the commencement of the pres- ent.century, with Miss Austen and Miss Edgewortli, though the name dates from the time of Lady Montague, and since then the azure tint has extended to other masculine interests besides letters. It is said that these female encroachments have entirely distorted the social relations between the t~vo sexes which constitute 4 ON SOME NATIONAL the whole charm of society, and that the intercourse between the sexes in England has lost a good deal of its former charm. This is not, however, the case with young, unmarried people, whose relations to each other have remained quite natural and pleasing, though their converse can hardly be called society, since it is limited to a mere interchange of feelinos whic totally different thino~ h is a ~. Whatever may be the part which women apparently play in English town society of the present day, however strongly they may muster nu- merically, their actual influence, especially in politics, is very slight. One is, indeed, rather tempted to reverse Sternes sen- tence with regard to France, and to say that in England everything is Salic but the monarchy. True, the queen presides over the Privy Council, and we find women sitting on school boards, charity commit- tees, etc. etc. No doubt also much of the work is done by them. The more impor- tant decisions, however, are given by men. The wife of a member of Parliament who makes no demur at standing on the hus- tings by her husbands sidea position, by the way, which would suffice to render him an object of ridicule, i.e., morally to annihilate him, for the moment at least, in France is quite content to watch over and admire her spouse as her prop- erty, without desiring to guide his politi- cal steps from behind the scenes as a Frenchwoman would. We have no wish to pronounce an opinion on the compara- tive value of the two social systems, but we wish to point out the difference be- tween them. Nobody can feel a truer regard and sympathy than the writer of these lines for the good Englishwoman, ~vho lives only for her husband, enjoying his triumphs, sharing his anxieties, and still holding ready for conversation with his friends a lively wit, a sound common sense, a large stock of reading, and who shows more real taste and elegance in her plain but neat walking-dress than all the votaries of high art. Where, indeed, is there a lovelier type of womanhood to be found than in an English maiden? Where one that is more worthy of regard than the English matron, such as we find her, surrounded by her numerous family, in the houses of the middle class? Un- fortunately, however, these types seem to be becoming rarer and rarer, and we find in their place crowds of authoresses, doc- toresses, prophetesses of womans rights, muses, priestesses of high art, and hunt- resses after names and titles. These ladies nowadays seem often to take a pleasure in appearing sexless, which is but another word for without influence, inasmuch as their influence proceeds from their sex alone. Friendship, from which every thought of difference of sex is ex- cluded, competition in business, in which all respect and consideration for sex is placed under an interdict, are false rela- tions, and, like all unnatural conditions, cannot be lasting. Womans ~vork is either inferior to mans, and then she must fail in the merciless struggle she has provoked, or it approaches it very closely in value, and then she generally sinks beneath exertions for which nature has not fitted her. It would be the same if we were to undertake her task in life, for Swanzig Miinner verbunden ertriigen nicht all die Beschwerde. Of the mother of a family, not to speak of a lady of fashion, Und sic sollen es nicht, doch sollen sie dankbar es cinsehen. And ought not women also to recognize that the laws of nature cannot be opposed with impunity, and that these have as- signed different spheres of action to the two sexes and different parts to each in the spheres which are common to both? As a man who betakes himself to female arms on the field they have in common, be- comes an object of ridicule, while he accomplishes but little, so does a woman lose all her charm as soon as she seeks to adopt mens weapons and a masculine style of warfare. These mutual relations, ho~vever, become yet more strangely per- verted, if consideration for the weakness of one sex is expected together with an annihilation of all boundaries between both, as is largely the case in English society. In competition, the form which the struggle for existence assumes in human society, all combatants must stand on a footing of equality, otherwise the conditions of the combat cease to be equal. The Tirez les premiers, Mes- sicurs les Anglais /is chivalry, not ~var, and if it pleases me to allow a competitor of mine to win the prize, because he may happen to be consumptive, this is gener- osity, not business. No~v, what consti- tutes the whole charm of social inter- course is a diversity of nature combined with an identity of intellectual inter- ests; and every consideration which imposes an exaggerated decency, nay, prudery, on men in their conversation with women, puts an end to all free intercourse CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 15 between them. Maxi;na debetur ~uero reverenfia. And that is precisely the reason why ~ueri and more especially puelice are out of place in societx-. It is certainly by no means desirable that gen- tlemen, still less ladies, should make use of improper language; still when natural subjects present themselves unsought in the course of conversation, is it really necessary carefully to shun them? Who- ever wishes to form part of society must be capable of taking part in all the inter- ests which animate it. A woman who desires to maintain any influence there, must be able to follow a philosophical discussion without lagging behind, a po- litical argument without yawning; nay, she must even be able to hear a spade sometimes called a spade without blush- ing. This does not render it incumbent upon her to advance new philosophical systems or develop original political theo- ries; for even in the struggle for exist- ence, women are not called upon to take the offensive, or at any rate not directly, and in the great work of universal genera- tion and development their activity is that of conception and giving birth, not that of creation and generation. But that it is quite possible for them to forego the ex- aggerated restraint which has been im- posed on conversation without becoming unwomanly, is sufficiently proved by the noble women of the Italian quat/ro cento and of ancient France; and that this ex- treme prudery was not natural to the English, but is a product of modern conventionalism, is shown by the bewitch- ing forms of a Beatrice and of a Rosa. lind, of a Portia and of an Isabella, of an Imogene and of an Ophelia, whose mod- esty and chastity is assuredly by no means tarnished by the naived with which they call things simply by their names, or jest upon subjects which in our days would be utterly tabooed. Or are we to take it for granted that Shakespeare never saw any such irresistible maidens and matrons, but conjured them all up out of his imagi- nation? This somewhat unnatural condition of English society was probably caused chiefly by that religious movement which interrupted the healthy development of England for a second time towards the close of the past century, as the political reaction did her constitutional progress. I have already shown elsewhere how En- glish intellectual freedom, which had vic- toriously broken the fetters of Puritanism and arisen from the mire of the Restora- tion, was again destroyed, and how cant regained an absolute dominion over the minds of Englishmen, as it had done in the seventeenth century, though in a some- what different form. Its power over society, however, was still more irresisti- ble. Whoever dared to oppose it, like Byron and Shelley, was driven into exile. Hypocritical respectability spread its grey shroud over English life, a leaden gravity took possession of society, an orthopa~di- cal prudery forced it into her strait-waist- coat. True, the England of the past century was neither very refined nor deli- cate in its habits ; still, even if an Addi- son occasionally took a glass too much, if a Fielding was not at all times over-nice in the choice of his expressions, if a Gold- smith gave himself up a little too freely to a Bohemian lifewhere so artistic a feeling for beauty of form, so great a moderation in political judgment reigned, a social criterion would not long have been wanting; and a Clarissa Harlowe, whose virtue we cannot question, a Sophia Western, whose every word breathes innocence, show us that the women also were on the way that leads to a union of liberty with self-restraint, of simplicity with culture. When the narrowest reli- gious interests were forced into the fore- ground and checked the free intellectual progress of the century, as Puritanism had done that of the Renaissance, society also was deeply affected by them. This was fortunately held somewhat in check by the political life, which at all times has purified and invigorated England like a current of fresh air. For politics still continue to be for Eno-land what art had been for Italy the all-pervading, all-en- grossing interest of the nation. And it is to this interest that English society is mainly indebted for the healthiness of its tone. By it the unity of national culture also was maintained, which sectarianism had menaced with destruction; the differ- ent classes were saved from isolation by political liberty, while the dismemberment that might have resulted from country life was prevented by political centraliza- tion, and thus an organic whole, with per- fect freedom in each of its members, came into being, which differed as widely from the mechanical whole produced by the centralization of the French State, as it did from the disconnection of national existence in Germany. Now the free air of public life such as this may not be favorable to the growth of so delicate a plant as the refined sociability which flourished under the Renaissance in Italy or during the ancien r6~irne in France; i6 ON SOME NATIONAL but the value of that social refinement should not be over-estimated. A healthy public life, a fertile intellectual and a vig- orous economical activity, an abundant if not over-refined enjoyment of existence, are things which, taken singly, still more collectively, far outweigh any such advan- tage. If a little less anxiety were shown to attain such a social refinement without accepting the conditions indispensable to its possession, it might well be that for- eigners would hardly feel its absence from English life as a loss, least of all we Ger- mans, who have no idea of the higher sociability which Italy and France once possessed. Iv. Is there any society at all in Ger- many, in the sense which other European nations attach to the word a thing, by the way, which is quite conceivable even without higher sociability? We are al- most inclined to question it. Three hun- dred years ago a society of this descrip- tion certainly existed in Germany, but it was destroyed during the Thirty Years War, and we Germans have been labor- ing ever since to reconstruct it, more especially in the present time, which has fortunately once more restored to us our national State. Before i6i8, German and Italian society ~vere not dissimilar, for the historical development of both nations has a striking, though easily explained analogy. Our cities at that time formed centres of culture, and it was the com- mercial patriciate which took the lead in them. Abundant riches, European con- nections, a solid education, resulted in a certain grandeur of existence which has since utterly disappeared. The wealthy delighted in refined surroundings, taste- fully decorated dwellings, elegant man- sion-houses and guild-halls, magnificent public buildings artistically designed and completed; but very few traces are pre- served of what is, properly speaking, lux- ury. The style of life and education was common to all the higher classes and to both sexes, as was the case in Italy; nor were religious and political, literary and artistic interests less common to all than the mode of life and education. Chival- rous pastimes, in which nobles and patri- cians indistinctively took part, alternated with hard work in the counting-house; for as yet it was no disgrace to earn ones bread, and commerce, althouo-h the newly discovered ocean highways had injured it considerably, was still flourishing. True, the Hanseatic towns had lost a little of their former importance, though Liibeck - still set the example of a metropolitan style of life; but the great commercial firms of Augsburg, Niirnberg, Frankfurt the Fuggers and Welsers, Hochstet- ters and Tuchers, Peutingers, Pirkhei- mers, Glaubergs, were still unshaken; and the heads of these firms were the associates of princes and nobles, artists and savants, their connections with Reuchlin, Hutten, Diirer, Erasmus, Me- lancthon, were of the most intimate kind, nor were their wives and daughters by any means excluded from intercourse ~vith the great representatives of classic lore and art. All this was changed by that dreadful war. Towns and villages had been de- stroyed, wealth annihilated, commerce ruined, the high spirit of the citizens was broken. Work had fallen into discred- it, as in Italy. Those only who had in- herited enough to live upon from their forefathers, were ranked among the aris- tocracy. All intellectual culture had van- ished. Even the very language had de- teriorated. A listless indifference had replaced the healthy interest exhibited by the higher orders of the preceding century in religious, literary, or political questions. The petty nobles as well as the city patriciates had lost their former independence; the princes alone had be- come more l)owerful and important at the expense of the central power as ~vell as of the higher middle classes. These princes now proceeded to organV ~neir power by means of a numerous oureau- cracy. The reduced petty nobles and shortly afterwards the half-reduced town citizens entered into their service. And ~vhoever had once passed into this class, never came out again; for the younger sons did not, as in England, return to the citizen class, and free labor was prohib- ited to those who possessed a title nay, even to their children and childrens chil- dren. And now began the title-mania. Nor ~vas this unnatural, since none but the titled were able to purchase Rittergii- ter, none but the titled were permitted to hold offices of State, none but the titled ~vere admitted to court; and these courts there were no less than five hundred of them, without mentioning the Reichsun- mi/te/baren, who were three times as nu- merous became the centres around which all social and political life gravi- tated; their ~vays and actions formed the subject of all conversation. And what courts they were! Without grandeur, cultivation, or originality; knowing n~ ww~ CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. 7 other interests than those of vanity, no higher ambition than that of aping the external culture of foreign lands. Their nobles delighted in empty flunkeyism; even military service was neglected in their miniature armies. Not a trace of wiental aspiration was to be found, save where some distinguished woman per- chance broke through the barriers, and thereby let in a fresh current of purer air from the outside. To be sure, it was hardly better outside either; in the ab- sence of all ~7entralization, without a cap- ital, without any common interests, the State, as well as society, broke up into hundreds and thousands of diminutive coteries. The horizon grew narrower and narro~ver, life became emptier and emp- tier. Prying curiosity, gossip, and envy developed to excess. Dependence en- gendered servility; constant surveillance, together with the absence of generally recognized forms, produced that want of self-confidence and assurance which char- acterizes our countrymen even to the present day, as soon as they leave their studies, and the snug and cozy round of their accustomed life, and which is so often taken for affectation by foreigners. Les Allemands sont les plus sinc~res des hommes, mais non pas les plus natu- rels, said Ch. de R~musat when he first visited Germany. To be sure, this is not quite so bad as if we were said to be the most natural of men but not the most ~.jncere. All traces of that petty spirit in s6c~4)jntercourse, which grew up during the ~ :nteenth century, are not yet ef- faced, nor is it a wrong judgment which G. Freytag pronounces, when he says that certain qualities were formed in the German character, which even to-day have not quite disappeared: a craving for rank and titles, an absence of freedom in our relations with, and behavior towards, our superiors in social position, whether they possess official rank or hereditary titles; aversion from publicity; above all a strong disposition to judge the life and nature of others in a narrow, disparaging, microscopic spirit. And what else had they to criticise or talk about? Shut out from every, or at all events from any in- fluential, share in State affairs; without public life, without any community of interests which might have promoted, so to say, a moral circulation, of which the most distant members would have felt the effects; restricted to the office and the tavern; debarred from all commercial or political contact with other nations; in poverty - stricken circumstances, having LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXI V. 1770 constantly to combat with distress; how could the middle class work its way up to a free, open point of view from which to regard life? The growth of the national wealth was exceedingly slow, for it was not, in fact, till our century, and properly speaking till Steins reforms in the ad- ministration and in the laws on property, till privileges had been abolished, inland barriers removed by the Customs Union (Zoll- Verein), the river tolls done away with and the coinage simplified, it was not until all this had been accomplished, that trade and manufacture once more revived, and with them the free life of the middle classes. In our fathers days all these arbitrary obstacles to commerce and intercourse were still in full force, impediments which at times seem almost to have been purposely established in order to prevent Germany from recover- ing the loss of two centuries, which other nations had gained upon her in conse- quence of the Thirty Years War. No~v, just as the national life lost more and more of its coherence, and all sym- pathy between one city and the other gradually ceased, the gulf between the different classes likewise widened: the army was separate from the bureaucracy, the citizens stood aloof from the country nobility, who grew coarser and poorer, and being of no use to the community squandered their strength, until the Prus- sian army commenced to draw them into the service of the State, whereby little by little they once more entered into the common current. Now, among these sharply separated classes, it was that of the officials with a liberal education which soon began to predominate, precisely because the sovereign, whose organ it had become, was the only acknowledged authority: this bureaucracy therefore in Germany played the part which a mer- chant patriciate, a nobility of the sword and robe, and a landed gentry played in Italy, France, and England, i.e., it grew to be the prevailing type of German so- ciety in the eighteenth century. The remaining notabilities which a little town contained professors, doctors, law- yers, and a small number of educated merchants followed their lead. But the German officials did not form an independent class like the ~vealthy, irremovable French magistracy. The German judge, like all the rest of the officials, was the instrument of the so-- ereign, without the princely salary which permits the English judge to play so im- portant a part in society; in this, as in ON SOME NATIONAL every other respect, he was, and re- mained, a modest, submissive official honest, hard-working, conscientious but without any decisive influence in the State or in society; poor and needy, timid and humble. It had become necessary to have recourse to the middle class, even at the beginning of the century, and rank in society was now conferred by office, as it formerly had been by birth. Of these citizen recruits in the bureaucracy a university education was required, and as all the above-mentioned notabilities attended the Latin school the only one to be found in such places every one, not excepting the few merchants who had the privilege of associating with them, acquired the same, often liberal, educa- tion, and this again led the way to the regeneration of society. For, as the State gradually became strengthened by the severe discipline peculiar to this bureaucracy, so was the intellectual life of the nation invigorated by the preparatory studies required of those who entered into it. Modern Ger- man literature is a product of our higher schools (Gymnasien) and universities, and for m~e than a century it ~vas for Ger- many what art once was for Italy and politics for England, i.e., the one great national interest, which left its impress upon the whole culture of her people. No ~vonder, then, if such a literature be- came a critically learned one, which stood in a close connection with science; no wonder if it was penetrated with philoso- phy and especially cultivated by those who taught, so as to form a literature of divines and professors different from that of any other time or people. This may, it is true, have had its disadvantages ,but it had great advantages also. If our polite literature for the most part por- trays narrow circles and circumstances, if its tone is often too didactic, its form ~t times wanting in elegance, its chief interests purely of a spiritual kind, if we miss the fresh current of public life in its pages, if in the idealism which pervades it, reality often falls short of its due; how great, on the other hand, is the inner nobility which is imparted to it by that idealism! What depth it acquires from this preponderance of the intellectual life of the individual over the external life of the collective community! We owe it precisely to the distance by which the circles that brought forth this literature were separated from reality, if we have arrived at the broad and unbiassed con- ception of life, which is unique of its kind, and distinguishes us from every other people. A firmly coherent society usually holds together by means of the cement of prejudice and convention; whereas the specific characteristic of our culture during that century was freedom from all prejudice. Let any one, who is inclined to doubt this, remember the life led at Weimar and in Berlin, the social position held by Jews and by actors, the tolerance in matrimonial matters, our literature, born during the sentimental period, may be said to have first intro- duced love matches, for till then manages de convenance had alone been tolerated in Germany; let him also call to mind the high degree of religious forbearance, united to a religious feeling equally deep. It was intellectual unity, above all, which we acquired through this literature, and which later on paved the way to our po- litical unity. By it, too, the nation once more gained a centre round which to gather. For a time literary and scientific interests stood entirely in the foreground. It forms a striking contrast between the history of our own and of other nations, that our higher orders voluntarily sub- mitted to the guidance of the teaching class, from ~vhich princes, nobles, officers, officials, merchants, and women alike de- rived their instruction, nay, their whole intellectual life. The women especially, even from the very beginning, stood in the closest connection with men of learn- ing, and it would be difficult to say whether they exercised or experienced a greater influence. Everywhere, from Sophie Charlotte, the friend of Leibnitz, to Anna Amalia, the patroness of Wieland, Germany has distinguished princesses and ladies of rank to show, who did much to further intellectual life. The biographies of Her- der and Goethe show how deep an influ- ence Marie zur Lippe and Fraulein von Klettenberg exercised over the religious views of these founders of our culture. Or who can forget the part which a Frau von Stein, a Frau von KaIb, and the two Lengefelds played in Thuringia, the J ewesses Rahel, Henriette Herz, and Dorothea Mendelssohn in Berlin? The wives of savants, too, a Caroline Her- der, an Ernestine Voss, a Caroline Schle- gel, like the ladies of the Pempelfort and Ehrenbreitstein circles, contested the palm with those of the metropolitan cen- tres and of the nobility. We hear that all this has greatly changed since those times; the different classes are said to be more sharply separated, the sexes to CHARACTERISTICS OF EUROPEAN SOCIETY. have greatly modified their relations with each other; religious strife has once more obtained admission into our life in spite or shall we rather say, in consequence of diminished religious feeling. Even our former cosmopolitan sympathies seem to have given way to a narrower feeling ?~ patriotism all which changes became inevitable, as soon as we undertook the task of forming a national society; and after all they are not by any means so harmful as the admirers of unrestrained moral and intellectual freedom would have us think, provided they be kept within bounds and not suffered to degen- erate into intolerance, the spirit of caste, and a rigid conventionalism. But has the advantage, for which we have paid so high a price, really been attained? And if not, how are we to acquire that social unity, without having to relinquish what still remains to us of that individualism and freedom from prejudice, which were ours in the time of our greatness? It is not much, after all; for if we are still far from forming a single herd, as the En- glish do, we nevertheless form a score of such herds in which individuality is scarcely better off. Liberals, Ultramon- tanes, professors, merchants, and ~vhat- ever other elements the nation may con- tain, each form a world in themselves, a seemingly impassable gulf separating them from one another, and each of them concealing within itself a number of tacit freemasonries. To be sure, many things are in progress which bid fair to heal this condition of internal dismemberment above all, the increase of material pros- perity, which is the foundation of a11 the more refined forms of life, and the im- provements in communication between different countries, which are constantly opening out a wider view and daily multi- plying the points of contact ~vith reality, not only for our learned middle classes, but also for the poor inhabitants of our inland towns. Sons of university men enter more and more frequently into commercial and in- dustrial life, to fight the battle of free competition and increase the nations wealth, while steeling their own character and developing its self-reliance. The sons of our clergymen may be found in all parts of the world, whether it be the far East of India or the far XVest of Amer- ica, transformed into robust, resolute, practical men, who return to the mother country as free and independent people that no longer tremble before every po- liceman they may meet. 9 Our political life is growincr daily more public, and thus gradually forcing into the background all the petty interest in ones neighbors l)rivate affairs, which had so disastrous an influence even in the most brilliant period of our intellectual history. Our political unity has not only given us a sense of our own worth, which was wanting in us, and which, in the bet- ter elements of the nation, is as far re- moved from national conceit as from our former submissive humility; it has given us political interests in common. The army, to which we are so largely indebted, yet which, despite the great national movement in 1813, had retained a good deal of its squire-like (/unker/ich) exclu- siveness during the prolonged peace, has drawn nearer to the rest of the nation, since our political revival, and tends more and more to become amalgamated with it. It is now the common school of all Germans, where the youth of all the edu- cated classes meet together, first as vol- unteers, next as officers of the reserve, and finally as officers of the Landwelir; and, unless I am greatly mistaken, this citizen-soldier is destined to become the type of German culture, as the country gentleman has become that of English. Especially is this likely to be the case should admission to the volunteer service again be restricted to the educated, and those only who have passed through the highest school classes be accepted, and should the officers corps in the standing army continue, as during the last fifteen years, to be more and more recruited from the middle classes. If it has hitherto been the official, with his habits,,some- times formal, sometimes off-hand, who predominated and gave the tone in Ger- man society, that position is now from day to day passing more irrevocably into the hands of the independent merchant and manufacturer, who is also an officer in the national army, and on ~vhose excess of nonchalance soldiery discipline acts as a wholesome check, while the starchness of his military bearing is advantageously corrected by the freedom of civil life. Yet these are all merely external matters. As the free atmosphere of a scientific culture and ideal spirit, breathed by our officials at the university, is the cause of their great superiority to the clerks of the French bureaucracy, so their pres- ence in the army brings our youth to- gether in the service o~ something high- er, of something which transcends the narrow interests of their every-day life; and this it is that, properly speaking, 20 THE FRERES. crowns the whole civilization. This mil- itary training, it is true, only aims at mak- ing good Germans of our sons; but they ought to be brought up to be human be- ings as well. This our colleges (Gymna- sien), our technical, commercial, and ca- det schools do not do, or rather have left off doing; they train them to be mer- chants, professors, engineers, and sol- diers, things which ought to be left to special schools, apprenticeship, or life it- self. This is the thing we must guard against as the greatest danger which men- aces German culture. It will only be when all the sons of the educated, no matter what career they may afterwards adopt, are once more obliged to sit on the same benches, to share the same pastimes, to derive their intellectual nourishment from the same source, that we shall again have a right to think and talk about a German society. Only then can we at- tain that social unity of which we all feel the want, as we have acquired our literary unity by hard ~vork, and our political unity by the force of arms. KARL HILLEBRAND. From Temple Bar. THE FRERES. BY MRS. ALEXANDER, AUTHOR OF THE WOOING OT. CHAPTER XVII. FOR reasons best known to himself, General Costello was eager to leave Lon- don, and would not delay his departure for a day. The preparations for his grand- nieces departure were consequently per- formed at a gallop, and no one had time for fears, hopes, or doubts. To Grace, the change brought fresh life. She was going into a new world. She would leave disappointment and mor- tification ay, and obscurity behind. For should she not have her mothers powerful and noble relatives to back her up? and did not money go twice as far in Germany as in England? And to Germany she was determined to remove mother, Mab, and their be- longings. The only drawback to her anti- cipations was the necessity of leaving Randal behind. Randal alone in LOndon represented an unknown quantity of extravagance, folly, and scrapes. Not wild or wicked extrav- agance, but errors of judgment, careless- ness of money, yielding to petty tempta tions. Ought she not to stay and watch over him? On the other hand, if Randal was ever to gather strength sufficient for self-governance and self-guidance, it was high time he should begin. An dMabde- served consideration, and the dear mother too; something ought to be sacrificed to give her life a littl~ brightness a little society of the class to which she had been accustomed. For was not foreign society easier, gayer, more cultivated, and in every way more desirable than En- glish? While for herself, on what regions of romantic adventure might she not be entering! So ran the currents of thought and im- aginati on, while her quick eyes and nim- ble fingers were busy about the many- sided arrangements requisite, not only for her own journey, but for the comfort of those she left behind. How often she explained to Mrs. Frere the system of supply and demand by which the weekly expenditure must be regulated! with ~vhat tender tact she con- fided the care of mother, Mab, and the housekeeping to Miss Timbs, who ac- cepted the charge with grim acquies- cence! But the rock of her security was Jimmy Byrne; and Jimmy promised all things to examine the housekeeping accounts, to visit Mrs. Frere at least once a week, to have an eye on Randal, to write to herself full private reports of how everything was going on, and to negotiate terms with Miss Timbs should Grace find quarters cheap enough and tempting enough to make emigration desirable. The intervening days were at once too short and too long. She rose early and went to rest late, yet could scarcely accomplish all she wished ; while the evening on which Uncle Costello pro- posed their journey seemed gone away ages back. But the moment of starting came at last, and then, in spite of her bright anticipa- tions, her keen pleasure at the notion of travel and variety, Graces heart sank within her, and she could have given up all rather than say good-bye. It was not that she feared for herself; she would hardly have done so had she to travel alone, and her complete sympathy with the count made his companionship one of the best ingredients in the visions of en- joyment which flitted across her brain. But the idea of her mother alone, and fretted, and comfortless, was almost more than she could bear. The thought that supported her was the hope of furthering THE FRERES. 21 the family welfare. For her own pleas- ure, she could not have left her dear help- less charges. It was a dull, damp evening when they set out, and both Randal and Jimmy Byrne were at the station to see them off. Dear Randal! you will be very care- ful while I am away? You know we must save all we can, or we shall not be able to leave London. Why, Grace! you talk to me as if I was a baby! Yes, of course I will take care. And now give us a kiss! You would be a first-rate girl, Grace, if you were not so given to preaching. And you will write, Randal? To be sure Come along, my dear! take your place, cried the count, who was got up in a most correct travelling-suit, and carried a roll of wraps properly bound up, with Baedecker thrust under one of the straps. Stand back, Randal. Oh, uncle, I must shake hands ~vith Jimmy! then, in a half-whisper, Jim- my, I trust everything to you; you have been my only help all these dreadful months. Write to me often, and and mind mind Randal for me! Faith, I will, Miss Grace dear! God bless you! Keep a good heart. Sure, the place will not be the same without you! A hearty hand-shakea hasty adieu from the general: You have been a good friend to my niece and her family, and I thank you, sir thank you sin- cerely. Accept this snuff-box as a slight remembrance. It once belonged to Ra- detzky, and ought to be only in the hands of an honest fellow. In another moment the doors were banged to the guard whistled shrilly, the train moved off, and the familiar faces were lost to sight. The family who had thus opened their doors to receive their unknown kins- woman were Saxon on the fathers side. Frau Alvsleben was the eldest daughter of Count Costello, and had married early a gentleman farmer (Gu/sbesi1zer~ of good, though not noble family. Losing her husband after a dozen years of matri- mony, she had devoted herself to her children and the management of her son s estate. Dalbersdorf, the family residence, was a Gut or farm of seven or eight hundred acres, lying between the Riesen and Erzgehirge, within two hours march of the Bohemian frontier, and on the edge of a hilly forest district, remarkable for the weird beauty of its curious water-worn rocks and winding, wooded gorges. The Alvsleben family consisted of a son, about the age of Grace; a daughter Frieda, nearly two years older; and an elder daughter, the first-born and most important, who had been left a large for- tune (according to the Saxon standard) by her godmother a scion of the noble house of Von Walwitz. Ulrich Alvsleben was already an officer in the Saxon hussars, and rarely at home; but the young ladies, after the usual course of governesses, and a school at Dresden till the period of confirmation, resided with their moth~r, sharing the many duties and simple pleasures of Sax- on country life. The advent of this un- known English cousin was looked for- ward to with great excitement and a little discomfort, as it was supposed that the niece of Herr Graf of whose great- ness and nobility at home they had heard so much would, like all English gran- dees, be accustomed to the luxury and splendor of a magnificent home, and con- sider the life of Dalbersdorf mean and dull. Still it would be a charming variety to have a girl visitor of her own age to lionize, and perhaps make a friend of, said Frieda. And to improve our Encrlish said Gertrud. And to teach our management to, said the mother; for the English are thriftless, and have no womanly ways. It was a fair September afternoon when the travellers reached Zittau, the nearest railway station to Dalbersdorf; and Grace, who was somewhat exhausted by a rapid journey and bewildering succession of new objects, roused herself to look with interest at the neighborhood of her tem- porary home. The station was large, new, and neat; and the red-capped station-mas- ter himself came to assist Count Costello and his companion to alight, with evi- dently a hearty and respectful welcome, though Grace could not understand a word he said. On the platform among a crowd of substantially-dressed peasants, small shopkeepers, soldiers, and ragged, jaunty, dark - eyed Bohemian reapers, Grace clung closely to her uncles arm, feeling awfully strange and desolate, even for a moment asking herself why she ven- tured into this unknown land a bit of cowardice of which she was heartily ashamed. Count Costello pressed her hand en- couragingly to his side and passed on, scattering bows and greetings right and 22 THE FRERES. left receivino~ r~verentia1 salutations in We are only skirting the town, said return taking off his hat every other Count Costello it is a nice old place, as minute. Indeed, Grace thought she wit- you will think when you see it. XVe have nessed more bowing and hat-lifting, in a drive of four or five miles before we the short transit through the station, than reach home. Youll be quite tired out, she had seen in all her life before. my dear. They found a motley gathering of No, no, returned Grace. I am so country wagons, Droschken (open public pleased with the look of the country, and vehicles), and two or three unwashed, old- the air is so fresh and reviving, that I fashioned landaus, before the entrance. seem to have shaken off my fatigue. The station stood on high ground, and The carriage rolled on. At the foot of beyond, lay a wide plain, dotted ~vith the hill they crossed a small river by a small villages, and chequered green and steep narrow bridge, and continuing their pale yellow where the stubble still re- route through a long straggling suburb, mained, sloping gently up to a range of struck away to the right by a rougher abrupt hills, covered with pine woods, road, which led always up-hill across an and broken here and there by ravines or open country where the various fields gorges; while far away on the left the were only discernible by the difference of blue outlines of bigger mountains rose colorno trace of hedge-row or fence against the sky, and showed where the being perceptible, nor scarce a tree the giant range approacl~ed its humbler breth- wide plain lying unsheltered in the blaz- ren a fair scene, smiling in the rich ing sunlight up to where the hills and sunlight, while the shado~vs of a few slow- dark pine woods rose a sudden mass of sailing clouds crept gently over its varied shadow. surface. A few exclamations, explanatory or Oh, uncle, this is beautiful! I did not otherwise, from her granduncle, a few think it would be so beautiful. replies from Grace, were all that passed Ay, it is a fine country; but come between them, till, after about an hours along, heres the carriage. Ah, Fritz! drive, they reached the brow of an unex- How goes it? This to a stout, square I)ected hill. The ground fell away in a man, in plain blue livery, much buttoned, gentle declivity, rising again like an ar- a round cap with silver band, and white rested wave at the other side of a wide cotton gloves, whose broad, sunburnt face hollow, not deep enough to be styled a was puckered up with a grin of unmistak- valley; so that, looking from the side by able pleasure, as he pulled off his cap which our travellers approached, the eye and bowed in reply to the counts greet- was carried on without perceiving the in- ing. equalityof surface. In this hollow, which Good, Herr Graf! and a short con- led in a slowly ascending slope to the versation ensued, in which the coach- hills now very near them, nestled a di- mans part seemed to consist in the repe- minutive village, clustered round a little tition of deep - chested, guttural 7a church with a bulbous steeple, and a wok is. large, square, grey house, with a steep A roomy landau, not in the highest roof, full of the queer, shy-looking, eye- condition of cleanliness or polish, drawn like windows peculiar to this part of Sax- by a pair of strong, but rough-looking, ony; a clump of lindens at one side, a brown horses, stood near the entrance; short avenue of fine walnut-trees in front, and into it the count handed Grace, while and a patch of pine wood behind, which the coachman assisted in placing the lug- seemed to be an arm outstretched from gage an operation inspected by the the forest, gave a comfortable look of droschky-drivers with lazy, placid interest, shelter to the mansion. A few more liftings of the hat, and, with Ha! cried the count, pointing to the a huge crack of the whip, they were off at village, while the coachman scre~ved on a tolerable pace. the micanique hard, and sent his horses After driving for some minutes up a down the hill at a trot, there is Dalbers- street bordered by handsome villas and dorf! their gardens, their carriage turned sharp Grac& s heart beat a little faster at this to the right, and descended a steep road, near approach to her unknown relatives. on one side of which were rows of trees, She stood up and gazed with great inter- and behind them a large architectural est at the scene before her; a few mm- building; while on the other were irregu- utes more, and they had passed the little lar quaint houses with arbors and balco- church passed the shop, ~vhere rolls of nies, evidently of early date. flannel and colored stuffs stood right and THE FRERES. 23 left of the door passed the German Empire Post-Office, with its bright blue letter-box passed a small deserted Platz passed a long, low Res/auration, with a gravelled space in front for chairs and tables, and a vine-covered arbor at each corner, ~vhere several people were drink- ing beer. As soon as they had cleared the village, they turned into the avenue of walnut-trees, which had no gate or fence, and the next moment were rattling over the pavement of a small court, enclosed on three sides by the centre and projecting wings of the old solid stone house; nar- row flower-beds ran along the walls, and at the end of the east wing was an arbor covered with luxuriant greenery- The large front door, which was orna- mented by a heavy pediment and much incoherent carving of the Renaissance order, stood open; and just within it were three ladies, while a rosy-cheeked maid- servant a marvellous conglomeration of towy-looking plaits twined round her head, and a grin of delight on her broad face occupied an advanced post on the steps. Grace observed, too, that the door ~vas framed in a thick green ~vreath, studded with bright blossoms; and above it was the word Wil/kommen in white let- ters on a red ground. It was written in the Latin character, and near enough to English to suggest pleasant ideas. A great whity-brown, rough dog sat with almost judicial gravity on the lowest step; but no sooner had Count Costello alight- ed, than ladies, Dienstmddchen, and dog flew upon him, and vociferous tongues hailed him. Ac/i Go/I! thou art welcome, thou best of fathers!,~ Welcome! thou beloved grandfa- ther!~ cried the ladies, clinging round him in a bunch. God be thanked, you have returned to us safe, Herr Graf! exclaimed the ser- vant, kissing his hand; while the dog added a hoarse, jubilant bark to the gen- eral chorus. The taller of the two young ladies was the first to disengage herself and approach Grace, who had descended from the car- riage, and stood back a little, contemplat- ing the scene ~vith sympathetic eyes. But, mother, she said, we are for- cretting the cousin, and, taking Graces hand with a smile, first dropped a curtsey, and then kissed her brow kindly. I am very pleased to receive you, my dear, and hope to make you happy while you are our guest. You are indeed wel- come! said Frau Alvsleben in very fair French, and embracing her young kins- woman. Here is your eldest cousin Gertrud; and this is my little Frieda. Come in come in, my good father; come, my child! You must want rest and refreshment after your long journey.~, So saying, she took Graces hand and led her into the house, followed by the count, on whose arms both his grand- daughters hung; the rear brought up by the red-cheeked servant, loaded with bags, parcels, and the minor etceteras of travel. Crossing a wide, flagged hall, decorated by a couple of deers heads and antlers, hung with wreaths of wild flowers and at one side of which was a broad oaken stair, Frau Alvsleben conducted her guest into a large dining-room. The un-English aspect of this apart- ment struck Grace on entering. True, there were tables, chairs, curtains, and a sideboard, which sounds like any dining- room from the Lands End to John o Groats house. But the absence of small, ornamental articles, the carpetless parquet, gave a look of bareness and heav- iness almost depressing. The walls were painted in panels, grey shading off to white, with pale blue cen- tres above the dado, which ~vas of oak; the furniture was of oak also, but darker, and shining with the vigorous rubbing of years. In two corners were /tag?res, on which were scattered books, l)apers, min- eralogical specimens, the miscellany ~vhich collect in a general living-room. The sofa and easy-chairs were covered in red leather, much dimmed and rubbed by time and use; other chairs were cane-bottomed, with high backs of rough open carving in nearly black wood. A tall circular stove of white tiles, fixed on a block of stone and surmounted by a vase or urn, was at one side of the room, and three windows at the other: from the centre one of which was suspended a bird- cage with a canary, over a wicker-work stand of plants. The large windows and lace curtains did not do much to counterbalance the sombre effect of the dark furniture and a huge buffet with shelves, drawers, and cupboards which faced the door, and was decorated with numerous green and white silver-topped beer-beakers, and a wire basket of flowers. A tall, elderly woman, with a strong, weather-beaten face, stood just within the threshold. She wore a dark, stuff dress, a ~vhite bib-apron, and a Haube, or species 24 THE FRERES. of muslin mob-cap, with a lace-edged bor- der standing up round it She greeted the new-corners with loud exciamations, and kissed the counts hand. He spoke kindly with her before placing himself at table, which was spread with various small dishes of sliced cold meat, cold partridge, green and potato salad, with fruit com~oe, black bread, and firtid- chen, equivalent to ~elits rains, all set out in china of unfamiliar shapes. Frau Alvsleben and her daughters pressed the travellers to eat with hospita- ble warmth ; while the elderly female above-mentioned, who seemed to be a housekeeper and was called Mamsell, after a short disappearance, returned with two large cups of bouillon, which was very acceptable to the new-corners. Count Costello and his daughter con- versed eagerly and noisily in German, with much gesticulation on his part, both evidently engrossed in the topics under discussion. Frieda meantime did the honors of the table to Grace, and Gertrud went to and fro bet~veen the table and the buffet, fetching spoons or forks, or passing round the Rhein wine, in which, with much clinking of glasses and hand-shaking, Frau Alvsleben drank every ones health. And you have never left England be- fore no? asked Frieda in English, as she handed the com~ole to her new cous in. Never! that is, since I grew up. We lived in France when I was a child. So! then you can talk with the moth- er; she never learned English, said Ger- trud, and we speak very little; but you ~vill help us, nicht wahr? Ach! can you not speak one word not one word German? asked Frieda, opening her eyes. Not a word; but I intend to work very diligently and you will help me, will you not? Yes, yes, with my whole heart! I will make you quite German in three four weeks. We will speak German all morning, and English all the afternoon. I think you speak wonderfully already, considering you have never been in the country. You flatter me. I shall do better now you are come. Eat a little more pray take some cheese a little cake! Ach Gott! you eat not at all. Grace, my child, broke in the count, how are you getting on? Maybe youd like to see your room, if you will not take anything more. Grace rose, and with her Frau Alvsle- ben. Oh, the mother can stay stay, dear mother. We will conduct you, my cous- in, said Fr~ulein Alvsleben. Yes, you young things go together! cried the count, and then addressed his daughter, who resumed her seat. Pray call me Grace; I shall feel a stranger if you do not, said our heroine, smiling. Na/zirlich, yes; you must not be strange you who are of our race cried Gertrud, drawing her cousins arm through her own, and walking with her down the room and past the centre win- dow. Grace had sat with her back to it at table, so now perceived, for the first time, that it commanded a view of a large yard, surrounded by irregular buildings of various heights, and occupied in the centre by a huge, oblong heap, enclosed by stout posts and rails, and of a rich brown color, diversified by the straw, green branchlets, and big, whitish cab- bage leaves strewn upon it. Looking back, too, at the table, she first noted distinctly the aspect of her newly-found relations. Frau Alvsleben was a large woman, who looked as if she was superior to the restraints of stays and whalebone. She was in black, with a large, black silk flounced apron and bib, to defend her dress against all exigencies. She had fine eyes, but a somewhat coarse mouth, deficient teeth, grey hair, and a skin pre- maturely wrinkled for her years. Her head was covered by a three-cornered handkerchief of black lace, one point of which was raised at the back by a high comb, while the other two were tied loosely under her chin; large hands, which looked as if they did good service, and an eager, anxious expression, com- pleted the picture impressed on Graces minds eye. The two young ladies were not like each other. The eldest was rather square- shouldered and short-necked, with a huge pile of plaits and curls on her head; a broad face, with a dull, thick complexion, and light-blue, watchful eyes. Frieda was taller, slighter, and more graceful. She, too, wore her hair in a profusion of coils, curls, and plaits ; but the hair itself was of a pretty, bright brown tinge, closely resembling her English cousins: she had also fine, dark eyes, like her grandfathers, a very fair skin and deli cate color, and a mouth rather like her sisters, only softer and kindlier. Both THE FRERES. 25 girls wore dresses of a nondescript pale grey-blue and brown check, very tight- fitting, and many-flounced; linen collars, the corners turned over, widely open at the throat, and fastened by large bows of blue ribbon. Grace was gratified by the frank cor- diality with which both sisters received her, but she was especially attracted by something congenial in Frieda. The three girls ascended the stair, and crossing a large landing or Vorsaal, en- tered a light and cheerful bedroom the chocolate-brown floor, pale grey walls, and crisp, fresh white muslin curtains, making a pleasant combination. A small bedstead in a corner (which, as is usual in foreign bed-chambers, seemed an acci- dental intruder, instead of the chief occu- pant), a sofa, and a writing-table, with a tolerable square of carpet under it; hand- some wardrobes or presses of dark wood, a dressing-table and small looking-glass almost buried in chintz drapery, a large oval glass between the windows; a high iron stove, of a greenish-brownish tint; some cane chairs, and a few fearfully hard oil-paintings composed the furniture and decorations. But on the table were two flower-pots, decorated with cut gold and silver paper, one containing a white azalea, the other a foreign heath little tokens of welcome, according to the gra- cious German fashion, with which Grace expressed her delight, and then ran to the window, which looked towards the hills and dark pine woods; for the room was in the eastern wing, and so escaped the farm-yard and the dung-heap. What a charming room! and how good you are to welcome me so kindly! cried Grace, taking a hand of each. You cannot think how delightful it is to look out on hills and woods again, after being shut up in London! Frieda embraced her on the spot, but Geitrud, smiling, said, I only fear it will all seem very poor and and mean to you, after the Pracki that is, the splendor you are accustomed to in England. But I have not been accustomed to splendor, cried Grace, laughing; do not imagine it! I shall enjoy myself im- mensely here. I hope so, said Frieda. And now it is the hour of repose; let us leave the dear new cousin to rest. You ~vill be quite refreshed by the time coffee is ready, and then we will help you to unpack. She cast a longing look at Graces large box and small valise, which had already been brought up-stairs; then kissing her hand to her guest, left the room. Fr~ulein Alvsleben lingered for a few minutes to point out the convenient hang- ing-press, the Schreibshrank (bureau), and commode (chest of drawers), all of which were empty and ready for her use. At last Grace was alone, and free to think her own thoughts. F irst she opened the door-like windows wide, and stood there drinking in the delicious air, the (to her) home-like look of hills and woods. Yet even nature, in a foreign landscape, has in it something unfamiliar. Some- thing in the coloring, something indefin- able in the pleasant odor of the warm air, kept up the sense of strangeness, but a strangeness s he no longer dreaded. The simple kindness of her reception, the ab- sence of all pretension, set her at ease. here was nothing formidable, no harsh, contemptuous criticism to be dreaded. She longed to describe it all to the dear mother, and make her share the agreeable impression she had received. After another scrutinizing look round her room, and a fruitless search for a bell, she set forth her writing materials, and placing herself on the sofa beside the writing-table, began her letter; but soon she paused, and leant back to think and select, out of the abundant stores of inci- dent which her travels supplied, what was most worthy of record. The sofa was comfortable, the evening warm, and a monotonous clack, clack, from some ma- chine in the farm-yard lulled her off to sleep, and she slept profoundly. The light was beginning to lose its golden tinge, when she was roused by the entrance of Frieda, who carried a small tray, on which was a coffee-service of beautifully painted china. Ah, you have had a good sleep! I knocked twice on the door, and then I peeped in, and you were deeply asleep. So I left you. And now I bring your coffee; we have already drunk ours, though the dear grandpapa slept long also. Will you, please, take suoar and milk? Oh, thank you! exclaimed Grace, sitting up, and rubbing her eyes. Ho~v good you are! Have I slept long? What oclock is it? It is nearly five oclock, and we have our Abendlrod (supper) at half-seven. How do you call it? half after six? Still, we shall have time to arrange all your Sac/zen your things first. You will let me help you? Ach, Gott in Him- THE FRERES. mel/you have slept with both your windows open! she exclaimed, flying to shut them Meine Liebe! you will kill yourself. On no! I often sleep all night with the ~vindow open, said Grace, smiling, and sipping her coffee, which was hot and fresh, if not very strong, while Frieda had already unstrapped the cover of the box, and Gertrud came in to assist, so Grace drew forth her keys unresistingly. In truth, she would have preferred un- packing alone. Her wardrobe, though in fair condition, was scarcely abundant or reclzerchd enough to bear the inspection of strange eyes: but hers was no distrust- ful, sullen spirit; and she accepted the offered aid without demur, although curi- osity had evidently no small share in her kinswomans readiness to save her trou- ble. Many were the exclamations of sur- prise, and some of admiration, at the treasures disclosed, at the difference of cut and the beauty of some materials, ~vhile the pointed shape of the boots and the absence of aprons excited strong dis- approbation. At length, with a vast amount of chat- ter and contention of a mild order Graces box was emptied, and its contents ar- ranged in drawers and wardrobe. During the performance she instinctively noticed a difference a very slight difference in the manner of the sisters. Frieda ad- mired or found fault with equal frank- ness; Gertrud was less outspoken; but there ~vas an expression of keen criticism in her look a silent feeling of a texture herea holding up of a trinket to the light there a slightly contemptuous turn of the lip or toss of the head, indic- ative of undervaluing what was not famil- iar. The shades of evening were closing when the empty box, its cover carefully stowed inside, was carried away by a stout-armed, not neat-handed Phyllis, and Grace was informed she had better make her toilette for the Abendbrod. Must I change my dress? Go/f bewahr! cried Frieda, who still stayed (Gertrud had bustled a~vay with her key-basket); only arrange your hair, and what you like. There is no one com- ing, only Herr Sturm. And who is Herr Sturm? asked Grace, as she shook down her long hair previous to replaiting it. Heinrich Sturm is the Verwalter the oh! what you may call the farmer, manager or inspector: in all Ri/fe?gufs there is a Verwalter. But I must put on another ribbon, and then I will return for you. The large dining-room looked dim as the two girls entered arm-in-arm. It was lighted by a single bronze lamp of good design hung over the table, now set for supper, and shone upon the white cloth, old-fashioned silver, and high, metal-cov- ered beer-glasses or beakers, glinting on the curves and angles of the quaint, highly polished sideboard, the d/ag?res gleam- ing occasionally as they caught the light here and there, in the gloom of their dis- tant corners, while the tall, sepulchral white stove loomed like a ghost in the semi-darkness. The maid who had welcomed them was placing the supper on the table dishes of sliced cold meat and sausages ,hotpo- tatoes served in their skins, cheese, bread and butter, sour cucumber (i.e. cucumber preserved with salt, and not to be de- spised), a large centre-dish piled with pears, and sundry small ones filled with diverse compo/es, made a goodly array. Frau Alvsleben had already taken her place at one end of the table, knitting in hand; Gertrud was placing the finger- napkins; and Count Costello was stand- ing in one of the windows talking ~vith a slight young man, whose abundant fair hair ~vas brushed back behind his ears, round which were secured a pair of gold- rimmed spectacles. He wore a morning- coat of a dark grey mixture with remarka- bly tight trousers of the same color. Though above middle height, he was dwarfed by the counts stately stature, and stood ~vith an awkwardly respectful air, one huge red hand grasping a chair-back, the other stroking a rather feeble whity- brown moustache, as if he was coaxing it to come ~ Come, 7neine Herren I said Frau Alvsleben, in German; all is ready come to table. Here is the dear cousin. Then changing to French: Are you rested, my dear, and ready to eat your supper? Let me introduce our good friend Herr Sturm Herr Sturm, my kinswoman Fr~ulein von Frere. Frau Alvsleben did not imagine that any relative of her fathers could be less than von. Whereupon Herr Sturm, coloring deeply, made a half turn, looked full to his front, and performed a bow which presented the crown of his head exactly on a level with Grace Freres eyes. She THE FRERES. 27 felt inclined to laugh, and from an irre- sistible sense of fun made him a deep, solemn curtsey, which appeared to her Saxon relatives all that it ought to be. But the count held out his hand, and she sprang to his side; it was quite delightful to meet him after all these hours. And are you as fresh as a rose, my darling? Begad! we have both slept it out, and you look all the better! Come and sit here between Theresia and my- self; well let Sturm have a sight of you from over the way; its not every day he sees an English Friiulein. So saying, the count placed her between his daughter and himself, while Gertrud took the foot of the table, and Frieda a seat to her left. Mr. Sturm, he speak very good En- glish yes, said Gertrud, as she began to distribute the potatoes. I spik a leetle, var leetle, returned Herr Sturm, with profound solemnity; but shall be var glad to exercise my- self. It is quite wonderful, exclaimed Grace, with genuine surprise, that you all speak so well, when you can only have learned from books! I suppose you sel- dom speak with my uncle? Not often, indeed, said Frieda, laugh- ing; the dear grandfather does not like my English. Faith! I cannot stand hearing my own tongue mangled, he returned. Now you have come, resumed Frieda, addressing Grace, ~ve shall do ~vell. But I am most eager to learn Ger- man, and I hope you will help me. 7a, gewiss certainly, cried Frie- da; we will begin to-morrow. Herr Sturm has a quantity of books lesson- books to learn English with, and and we can turn them round, you know. Is it not so, Herr Sturm? you will give us your English lesson-books for the Friiu- lein? Herr Sturm, whose mouth was full of sausage and potato, nearly choked himself in his haste to assure the young ladies that all he possessed ~vas at their service, an effort from which he did not recover till after copious draughts of beer. The count, though Germanized in most things,preferred grape-juice to beer; and a bottle of Hungarian wine was usually placed beside him. He was very liberal of the beverage, and insisted on every one taking a glass, whereupon there was much clinking of glasses. Then the young Verwalter rose up and made a speech in an odd singing accent, and with a guttural fluency which surprised Grace, as she thought him too shy for such an under- taking. She longed to understand what he said, for there was a good deal of it, and the count nodded approbation at in- tervals. At the end, Frau Alvsleben, the speaker, and the daughters of the house cried Hoch! ~vith much energy, and every one jumped up and ran round to clink their glasses against the counts, the young ladies and their mother kissing him at the same time, and uttering excla- mations of evident endearment. After this excitement, the evening meal progressed serenely; all were most kindly attentive to their young guest, who, after refusing Wursi, uncooked ham, and her- ring sa~ad, supped well on excellent cold roast-pork, sour gherkin, and hot mealy potatoes. I see you have already begun to sow the Wi;ztersaat, said the old general, after looking round as if in search of something, which something was supplied by Frieda, who handed him his cigar-case and matches. Yes, returned his daughter, the harvest has been fine and early. Herr Sturm has had his hands full. Good ! said the old man, taking the cigar from his lips. We have narrowly escaped a misfor- tune, however, remarked Sturm. The young brown horse, which you consid- ered so valuable, got into the clover field one day, when all were busy reaping, and we thought he would have burst. We had the Thierarzt (veterinary surgeon) from Zittau, and he did nothing; but an old shepherd from Ham cured him. I dont believe in old shepherds, said the count, puffing argumentatively. A veterinary surgeon must know more. I only know began Herr Sturm, when Frau Alvsleben interrupted. It matters not; but I have still better news, Vaterchen. My nephew, Falken- berg, has exchanged into the Zittauerreg- iment, and by his help we have got the Liefrrungs contract (supply) for oats and potatoes to the garrison it will be some three or four hundred thalers in our pocket. Wolff is a love-worthy being after all he is quite steady now. He has paid most of his debts. 1 have asked him to come here to hunt. I wonder where he found any money to pay with, growled the count. He has been a wild fellow, but pleasant enoughtoo pleasant l 28 THE rRERES. Hans Schuman, by Schwarze Mulle, has taken two-thirds of the corn this sea- son, and has fetched it himself, which, if I be allowed to say so, is the best bargain we have made for years. Indeed, my young friend has been tireless in his energies, chimed in Frau Alvsleben. After listening intently to this conver- sation, hoping she might here and there catch the meaning of some word from its likeness to French or English, but in vain, Grace turned to Gertrud, and asked: Do you ride much? You must have a charming country for riding here. Yes, sometimes Frieda rides with the grandfather, but I not. It is rather too bold. I like best to stay at home; I can walk well, and go fa.r enough in the gar- den and fields. But you are fond of riding, I hope, continued Grace to Frieda. Yes, yes, I like it immensely, and I am very brave; but the grandfather, he does not ride so often now, and Ulrich has taken away my pretty horse for him- self, he liked it so much when he came last; so I have only a very young one, and it goes not nicely. But Wolff my cousin Wolff has promised to to what do you say? make it go right. Break it in for you. That will be delightful! Then, perhaps, we can ride together. I dont much care what sort of a mount I have, so long as it can go. I do long for a gallop! And you shall have it! Po/z/ausend, you shall! cried Count Costello, who caught the last words. We must see about horses, mein lieber Sturm! My niece here can ride, Ill go bail. I doubt not, Herr Graf, but it is a difficult time; the Oh, well manage it, interrupted the count; and I have a saddle for you, my darling an English saddle, with three pommels, faith! I picked it up at poor Von Dahlheims sale, the last time I was at Vienna; and you wouldnt believe it, but my little Frieda prefers the old two- crutch concern she learned to ride on. Ach Gott! cried Frieda, three are so uncomfortable. While Grace was wondering why Frie- da, the taller of the two sisters, was always called little, Frau Alvsleben rose, and making her young cousin a curtsey, murmured something like te and kite; whereupon the count, also rising, took her hand in both of his, and said slowly, Gesegnete Makizeit! blessed meal that is our grace after meat. Is the lamp in the Garfensaai ? asked Frau Alvsleben. Gertrud answered in the affirmative, and they all followed the lady of the house into a smaller room on the right of the salle-~i-~nanger. It opened on the garden and had the same aspect as the one above, which had been assigned to Grace. The walls of this apartment were painted to represent a trellis covered with vine- leaves. The furniture was extremely sim- ple, and painted white tables and side cabinets, or rather small presses, and rush-bottomed chairs, all were white. The curtains were of lace and old-fash- ioned chintz; and through the centre window Grace could see the moonlight sleeping on a terrace walk, raised a cou- ple of steps above the garden, and fur- nished with sundry rustic seats. It led to the arbor at the end of the east wing, which she had noticed on her arrival that afternoon. Moreover; she perceived a piano and well-filled music-stand at one side of the room; of course her cousins were musicians art and music are the birthright of Germans. Frau Alvsleben had placed herself on a large sofa, behind an oval table draped with a dull grey-brown cloth of some can- vas-like material, the border of which was curiously worked, and over the centre a large napkin rather what ~ve should call a tray-cloth of choicest damask, like brocaded white satin, was spread dia- mond-wise, a finely-shaped bronze vase stand.ing in the middle. While Grace was taking in these de- tails, Herr Sturm was favoring her with queries and observations in his best En- glish, having followed her to the window. You have had a var long journey, miss. I wonder you can stand upright! Oh! we had a nice rest at Dresden. We slept there last night, but we were too late to see the gallery. The train from Cologne does not come in till twelve, and by the time we had had breakfast and dressed, it was nearly two. Ach so! returned Herr Sturm, with an air of deep interest. He had scarcely understood a word she said, and took refuge in that invaluable exclamation which means everything and anything in the mouth of a German. You will find it not not var ani- mated lively at Dalbersdorf. No ball, or theatre, or concert, continued A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. 29 Herr Sturm; nothing but meadows, and rocks, and trees! That is what I like best. I have been shut up in London for four months, and it is quite charming to get into the coun- try again. Ja, gewiss that is, certainly. Bravo! bravo, Sturm! you are getting on with the language, cried the count; but Herr Sturm, with an elaborate bow, told Grace that he had many busi- nesses to do before he slept; and with another obeisance to Frau Alvsleben, he left the room. You play the piano? asked Grace of her eldest cousin. Yes; but Frieda is the musician. And you? Oh I can play but little, although I like to hear it. After a little intermittent conversation, and the exhibition of some photographs, Count Costello bade them good-night. I am more tired than I thought, he said. But to-morrow Ill be all right, and open my treasures to show you what fine things I have brought you from Lon- don. Ach! meine liebe, liebe Grace! cried Frieda, as soon as he was out of hearing. I burn to know what the dear grand- father has brought us. You know, for he wrote that you and your good mamma helped him to choose. Will you not say? I think you had better wait and have the pleasure of surprise, returned Grace in French, as Frau Alvsleben had asked in that language what Frieda said. Whereupon she remarked to her eldest daughter that the Grossvater must have bought wagon-loads, as he had brought very little money back with him. And then she said it was late past nine oclock; so Grace rose and bade them good-night. Frieda escorted her to her room ran to find her matches and a night-light, which Grace declined to use; finally, kissing her and bidding her sleep ~vell, departed. After a short examination of a mysteri- ous arrangement by which the upper sheet was buttoned over the edge of a quilted silk counterpane a few minutes listening to the profound and solemn Si- lence a slight shudder at the notion of her remoteness from all she had ever known a loving prayer to God for the dear mother and Mab a last longing thought of them, and the unconsciousness of deep sleep crept over her. From The Contemporary Review. A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. BY SHIRLEY. IT must be now more than a quarter of a century since, in an article in Frasers Ma~azine, the writer applied to Mr. Dis- raeli the fine lines which are to be found in the finest of our memorial poems Who breaks his births invidious bar, And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance, And grapples with his evil star; Who makes by force his merit known, And lives to clutch the golden keys, To mould a mighty states decrees, And shape the whisper of the throne; And, moving up from high to higher, Becomes on Fortunes crowning slope The pillar of a peoples hope, The centre of a worlds desire. The appositeness of the application was questioned, and the closing lines are de- scriptive of a commanding position which Mr. Disraeli had certainly not attained, at the time; yet the last quarter of a century has seen them come true to the letter. The brilliant leader of a forlorn hope has been, for the past ten years at least, one of the most potent forces of the monar- chy. Years before his death, indeed, his fame had ceased to be insular. Out of England he was the most famous of our statesmen; one of the two great figures of contemporary politics. In England we had Beaconsfield and Gladstone; in Eu- rope they had Beaconsfield and Bismarck. And now, that potent personality has been withdrawn from the arena; and it is no longer the words of Tennyson, but of Pope, that return instinctively to the mind: Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh, More silent far, where kings and poets lie; Where Murray long enough his countrys pride Shall be no more than Tully or than Hyde! There has been a surprising unanimity of opinion about Lord Beaconsfield in the public journals since his death. It is felt by all classes that a prince and a great man has fallen in Israel. But it seems to me that the apologetic tone in which many of the most characteristic incidents of his life have been dealt with shows that the writers have failed to grasp the governing principle, the determining force, the vital idiosyncracies of his career. We have apologies for his early Radicalism; we have apologies for his conduct to Sir 30 A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. Robert Peel; we have apologies for his economical heresies; we have apologies for his Reform Bill; we have apologies for his foreign policy. That is the tone, for instance, which his eulogist in the leading journal adopts. If all these apol- ogies are necessary, it is difficult to un- derstand what is meant by the ui~iversal sorrow and sympathy that have been ex- pressed, not only in England, but over Europe. Treated in this spirit, the char- acter of Disraeli loses its picturesque identityany credible likeness of the man in his habit as he lived becomes im- possible what we get is a mere ca~ut mortunin. I believe (and I have enjoyed some rather unusual facilities for forming an opinion) that there is, throughout that remarkable career, from the point of view of the man himself, an essential consis- tency. I say, from his point of view; and that is the main matter; it is not neces- sary to maintain that the opinions which he held were ~vise or just, but only that they were sincere and his own. More than thirty years have passed since, at our university debating socie- ties, the character of Disraeli formed one of the stock subjects of controversy. The speeches of the majority of the mem- bers reflected the tone of the outside world, which ~vas then ferociously unfair. Mr. Disraeli was being assailed from ail sides; the Peelites were furious at the free lance who had driven them from office; the Whigs dimly recognized that a great and resolute will was marshalling the forces of their hereditary foes, and were bitter, in their icy way, against the plebeian chief who threatened their mo- nopoly of power; the Tory squires eyed him suspiciously, and accorded him a lan- guid and half-hearted support; the mag- nates of the newspaper press rudely ridi- culed the political adventurer who had once wielded a pen. But at that time Mr. Disraeli was to us (there were not more than half a dozen of us, all told, if I remember rightly) what Thacke:-ay was to Charlotte Brontd when to him, before the days of his fame, she dedicated Jane Eyre; we detected in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his contemporaries had yet recognized. The smaller the sect the warmer the zeal; and the devotion which, through many disas- trous years, a small band of true believers offered to Mr. Disraeli may have gained in intensity because we were few. There is a perilous delight in flinging one self, heart and soul, into a losing cause, which the martyr at least can appreciate. Then, as we followed each other into the bigger world outside the college quadrangle, ~ve carried our testimony along with us the gospel according to Dizzy, as they called it in those days. Most of us could do but little for the good cause, as we esteemed it. An occasional leader in a provincial journal, an occasional article in a London monthlythat was about the limit of our resources; though one of our number, to be sure, secured a wider influence and a larger audience; and I sometimes fancy that the change of tone and feeling which, about 1858, was per- ceptible in the Thunderer himself, is to be traced to the fact that a comrade, who had been rashly admitted within the temple, was then ministering on his altars. [Poor D! He has gone over to the majority in far from triumphal fashion. By no fault of his own, it may be; for at best it is a hard life, and the rewards of letters are even more uncer- tain than those of politics or war. Spes et ~ra?mia in ainbzguo; certa, funera et beet its.] My own share in this new crusade was but slight, yet it brought out to the full, in all sorts of pleasant and gracious ways, the generous nature of the man. As the years wore on, the scattered papers took shape and consistency; and at last, during 1862, in what was called a political ro- mance, much that had been said by us in glorification of our leader in Fraser and elsewhere, was presented in concrete form to the public. Mowbray was the real hero of this political romance; and Mowbray was Disraeli under a thin disguise. Some of the pages devoted to him are yet, I think, vitally recognizable, whereas the rest of it, after brief popu- larity, has long since fallen dead. Here are a few sentences, taken almost at random Here, then, they found one, who, though conversant with abstract systems, and with the artificial speculations of a literary life, had yet displayed an unrivalled capacity for the man- agement of public affairs, and manifested in- comparable energy, daring, and resolution, alike in the conception and in the achievement of a career. - . - Associated with the genius which Mr. Mowbray manifested in the conduct of practical politics, two features were very noticeable, especially in that intensely con- scious and imitative age. Of all its public men, in the first l)iace, he was the only one who relied implicitly upon himself. With cold precision he struck the blow that was, perhaps, to prove the turning-point of a diffi- cult and protracted conflict; and, when he had A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. done so, he was immediately content to hold his peace. - . . He had estimated the exact value of what he had achieved, and he was content in silence to abide the issue. It was from this characteristic that to many he seemed, as it were, to exert a direct and con- scious control over his career, as though he were not so much the creature of circum- stances as other men, and had more thor- oughly recognized and mastered the necessities of his position. He had rehearsed his career; and, consequently, he played his part with infinite accuracy and precision. And it was from this, moreover, that he never publicly manifested irritation, or annoyance, or vented his anger in the infelicitous language of pas- sion. He was not moved, because he was thoroughly prepared. - . - Nor, in the next place, was it possible to mistake the imper- sonal nature of the man. There was no part of his career which did not bear a direct and intimate connection with the rest; but, when- ever it had answered the purpose it was im- mediately designed to serve, it became de- tached and separated from him, whenever it ceased to engage the active energies of his mind, he was able to criticise it with passion- less historical impartiality, as an object out and apart from him, for which he was not in any wise solicitous or responsible. Originally published in Frasers Maga- zine during 1862, the papers were col- lected to~vards the end of the year into a presentable volume, to ivhich,a preface was prefixed. Therein it was intimated by the author that the age of dedications, like the age of chivalry, had departed. Had these pretty solemnities, it went on, been still in fashion, I should have ventured to inscribe a political story to Mr. Disraeli; not merely because loyalty to ones leader is the first and most neg- lected of political virtues; not merely be- cause that leader is to us in England what rully was to his countrymen in Rome o~liinus o7nnium ~atronus but because I recognize in him, when dealing with social and religious controversies, a breadth of aim and generosity of senti- ment which I do not find in his oppo- nents, and which comprise the best and most sterling elements of Liberalism. We were informed at the time that Mr. Disraeli was quite pleased with the devo- tional attitude which the book and the preface together expressed; and, cer- tainly, in the graceful little note which accepted the dedication (if it was a dedi- cation) there is no hint that any fault ~vas found with the portrait that had been limned DEAR SIR, Torquay, Dec. 28, 1862. I am honored and I am gratified by the dedi- cation of Thalatta. 3~I I entirely sympathize with the object of the work, which gracefully develops a tone of thought and sentiment on the prevalence of which the continued greatness of this country depends. Believe me, Your obliged servant, B. DISRAELI. There are one or two other letters to which I may here ~vithout impropriety refer, one, especially, which throws a curiously direct light upon certain am- biguous incidents of his life. In an arti- cle in Fraser for May, 1864, the contro- versy between Lord Macaulay and Earl Stanhope (when Lord Mahon) had fur- nished the text for a discourse on the historical antecedents of our political parties.* A few extracts from the article are necessary to enable the reader to follow Mr. Disraelis commentary The gage damour which Lord Mahon under- took to defend against all comers was a some- what startling paradox. I cannot but pause to observe, he said, how much the course of a century has inverted the meaning of our party nicknames how much a modern Tory resembles a Whig of Queen Annes reign, and a Tory of Queen Annes reign a modern Whig. Mr. Macaulay lifted the glove. The modern Tories resembled the Whigs of Queen Annes reign because the principles which these Whigs announced had been accepted by * Lord Stanhope afterwards pointed out to the writer that he had not followed the controversy to its close. Allow me also to assure you, he wrote, on March 8, i868, of the gratification with which a year or two since I read the Campaigner at Home. I was only sorry that you had omitted from that interesting series of chapters the one which I had read as an article in Fraser as to the transmutation of the Whig and Tory parties, the controversy carried on, now thirty-five years ago, between my lamented friend Lord Macaulay and myself. Your discussion of it was, I thought, very good; and it would have been better still if you had followed it to its final close. For, if you will now refer ~o Lord Macaulays second article on Lord Chatham, as published in the Edinburgh Review, October, 1841, and since collected in his Essays, you will find from the opening passages enforced by a most ingenious illustration from Dantes Malebolge that Lord Macaulays opinion of the point at issue had come to be very nearly the same as mine. I ask pardon for having so long detained you. I had forgotten, at the moment when the text was written, that the article of May, s564, was one of the Campaigner at ~ series a series which, when republished, elicited another letter from Mr. Disraeli, in which there is a pleasant glimpse of life at Hughen. den Hughenden Manor, July 35, s56~. Mv DEAR Sin, I am obliged to address you in your mask, for I cannot put my hand upon your letter, and therefore have lost your direction. Mrs. Disraeli is reading your Campaigner at Home, and gave me last evening a most charming description of it. We brought it with us into the country. I was ox surprised at her account, for I am well aware of the graceful fancies of your picturesque pen. Yours very faithfully, B. DxssAait. A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. 32 the Tories. The Whig had remained consist- ent; the Tory had come over to the enemy. It may be questioned whether the retort, though supported by Macaulays fluent and facile logic, and adorned with a wealth of pic- torial illustration, is entirely satisfactory. Is it fair to assume that a party must be incon- sistent because it adopts a policy which, fifty years before, it had opposed? During these fifty years the world has altered. Truth, in a political sense, is a relative term. The sci- ence of politics is not one of the exact sci- ences. Lord Bolingbroke correctly described the duty of a practical statesman when he said to Sir William Windham, It is as much a mistake to depend upon that which is true, but impracticable at a certain time, as to depend on that which is neither true nor practicable at any time. In this view the Tory who votes against an extension of the franchise during one century, and who votes in favor of its extension during the next, may be acting not only with sagacity but with consistency. The Whigs did not, as a matter of fact, pro- pose to reform the constituencies during the first half of the eighteenth century. Reform, as we understand it, was an unfamiliar idea to Somers and to Walpole. There were men of that generation who desired to subvert the constitution, and there were men prepared to defend it in its integrity; but there was no middle party. The notion of constitutional reconstruction was the growth of a later age. Moreover, it is positively incorrect to affirm that during the early part of the eighteenth century the Whigs presented an advanced and the Tories a stationary policy. The abso- lute position of the parties, Lord Macaulay remarked, has been altered; the relative position remains the same. The proposition is directly at variance with the fact. As mat- ter of fact, the parties had changed places. The order of nature had been reversed. The tail ~vent first; the head followed. And the anomaly is easily explained. The Tories wanted power; the Whigs possessed it. The \Vhigs had attacked the prerogative when it was directed against themselves, but the pre- rogative occasioned them no uneasiness when a Whig minister was in office. Impelled by similar motives, the Tories, when an unfriendly family of Dutchmen occupied the throne, were willing to impose limitations on that kingly authority which, as an ordinance of God, had once been vehemently defended by them. So, also, with regard to the question of electoral reform. As long as the Whigs corrupted the electoral bodies, the Tories clamored for change; while the Whigs did not become re- formers until the electoral bodies, under the second Pitt, went over by tens and by fifties to the Tories. This is the commentary by Mr. Disraeli, ~vhich, as I have said, is very curious and interesting Grosvenor Gate, May x6, 1864. DEAR SIR, I thank you for your article, which I received this morning. I read your criticisms always with interest, because they are discriminative, and are founded on knowledge and thought. These qualities are rarer in the present day than the world imagines. Everybody writes in a hurry, and the past seems quite obliterated from public memory. I need not remind you that Parliamentary Reform was a living question with the Tories for the quarter of a century, at least, that followed the Revolution of i688. Not only Sir William Wyndham and his friends were in favor of annual parliaments and universal suffrage, but Sir John Hinde Cotton even ad- vocated the ballot. These were desperate remedies against Whig supremacy. It ap- peared to me in 1832 that the Reform Act was another i688, and that influenced my conduct when I entered public life. I dont say this to vindicate my course, but to explain it. So, also, I looked then as I look now to a reconciliation between the Tory party and the Roman Catholic subjects of the queen. This led, thirty years ago, and more, to the OConnell affair, but I have never relinquished my purpose; and have now, I hope, nearly accomplished it. If the Tory party is not a national party, it is nothing. Pardon this egotism, which I trust, however, is not my wont, and believe me, Dear sir, with respect, Faithfully yours, B. DISRAELI. I have said enough to show the cordial relations which Mr. Disraeli maintained with outsiders, with men, I mean, who were neither in, nor of the Parliamentary world; and it may be added that this pleasant facility of intercourse was main- tained to the end. Just a year before he went out of office for the last time, a little brochure on the fierce philippics that were being directed against his criminal for- eign policy elicited a word or two of grace- ful thanks Hughenden Manor, Jan. 6, 5879. Mv DEAR SIR, It is capital; and worthy of the good old days of the Rolliad and the Anti-Jacobin. Yours faithfully and much obliged, BEAcONSFIELD. Before proceeding to discuss, with such light as we may have obtained,* what may be called Mr. Disraelis political code, - the principles which underlie the whole of his public life, and explain, more or less satisfactorily, its apparent and super- ficial inconsistencies,it will be well to look for a moment at the manner of man * I have nther letters in my possession which show Mr. Disraelis warmth and sensitiveness of feeling in a very unexpected way; hut they relate to private mat- ters, and can only be referred to now. A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. 33 he was the personal qualities which distinguished him throughout his career the weapons (so to speak) ~vith which art and nature had armed him to make his way through the wilderness of the ~vorld. One would hardly have fancied, after a passing glimpse of Mr. Disraeli in the House of Commons thirty years ago, that this was a man of quite unusual energy and resource. The face ~vas massive in- deed, but impassive; and the habitual manner spoke of indolence and languor. He was as ceaselessly vigilant as a wea- sel or a fox; nothing escaped that exqui- sitely sensitive perception; yet he looked all the time as if he were asleep. It was said long ago it would be about the year 54, I thinkthat Sir Edwin Land- seer had sent two pictures to the Exhibi- tion which the hanging committee, in compliance with the rule of the Academy, prohibiting the introduction of political topics, had been compelled to reject. The pictures represented Free Trade and Protection. I forget what animal was selected to represent the genius of unre- stricted competition, possibly a group of Chicago pigs suffering from trichino- sis (only the trichina was a later inven- tion); but in a forlorn and emaciated donkey and the venerable quadruped bore a curious resemblance to Mr. Disra. eli the principle of restriction received appropriate recognition. It is a pity, perhaps, that the Academy were so scru- pulous; for in no other form could the remarkably hanging and drooping expres- sion of his face and figure have been more aptly rendered. It was from this peculiarity, I fancy, that he always con- veyed to the onlooker the notion of a man utterly bored. It is possible, of course, that these dramatic contrasts added to the ultimate effect. At all events there was something curiously calculated to arrest attention in hearing this man utter, in the presence of an august historical assem- bly, and in a manner languid and insipid beyond belief, the most felicitous subtle- ties of a critical intellectthe plainest and most lucid expositions of public law and national policythe coldest, most bitter, direct, searching, and contemptu- ous irony that our mother-tongue is capa- ble of conveying. There can be no reasonable doubt now that Mr. Disraeli was a born leader. He belonged to the select class who are really capable of ruli;zg. There are not many, in any age, to whom that supreme faculty has been accorded; and day by day their LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1771 number is diminishing. We may call such a man Macchiavelli or Mephistophe- les; we may say that his aims are selfish, and that his instruments are base; but, at all events, his leadership is a real thing and not a sham. The magnetism ~vhich charms men into obedience is one of the rarest of gifts too fine and impalpable for scientific analysis. And yet without it, in any real crisis, the world ~vould be badly off. For it is better to have a bad government than no government at all the existence of any government proving that the sense of order, at least, is not dead in the nation; and sheer anarchy being the most hopeless of conditions. And this was the feeling which was grow- ing among the masses in this country ~vhen they saw ho~v politicians failed to settle the question of Reform. The deal- ings of the House of Commons with the question of the franchise were bringing the monarchy into disrepute. At length, Mr. Disraeli said This question muSt be settled; and quietly, steadily, watchful and imperturbable as the sphinx in Ten niels wonderful cartoon he set- tled it. I dont inquire now whether it was a good or bad settlement; but a set- tlement of any sort was an argument in favor of the monarchy. After all, this constitutional government of ours was able to do something, not merely to talk about doing it. And as any government is better than none, so it is better, I take it, to be governed by a real governor (though indifferently honest) who under- stands his work, than by a sham governor however eloquent and exemplary, in other respects, the sham may be. Who has not felt, of late years, that most of our so-called rulers were accidental fix- tures only that there ~vas no true con- gruity between them and the business which they had undertaken? Lord Palm- erston, no doubt, had some of the super- ficial elements in his nature which go to form a ruler; and, with calm seas and fair skies, he really was great in his o~vn light, dexterous way; but to a man like Disraeli, of sedate yet daring temper and boundless resource, not to be compared for a day. We have plenty of fluent ora- tors left; but put them side by side with Disraeli in the Iliad, and we find that it is the Tory chief who bears a family likeness to those great, practical, politic kings of men (as distinguished from the mere talkers) on whom, in Edthens words, the strong, vertical light of homers poetry falls. That a real leader must be more or less 34 A LAST WORD ON DISRAELT. of a poet is a proposition that Mr. Car- lyle would possibly have controverted. But it is true, nevertheless. Mr. Dis- raeli ~vas a poet, in the sense that he pos- sessed a powerful imaginative faculty; not the imagination, it may be, which blossoms into poetry into rhythm and ordered music; but the imagination which fires and kindles the intellect. A fantas- tic, ill-regulated imagination leads men astray; but true imagination, exalting and exciting, yet disciplining the mind, strengthens all its faculties. There is a visionary asceticism, no doubt, which reaches deep down into the life, and touches with its grotesque and whimsical colors every mood of the mind. Mr. Disraelis romance, on the contrary, was the mere by-play of his intellect, and did not disturb his working powers his shrewdness, his sound sense, his knowl- edge of men. The grosser sort of inor- tals will not believe that a really practical politician can be a dreamer or a visionary. But tfiis astutest of politicians was on one side of his mind an idealist; and, hence, no small measure of his power. Hence a certain loftiness of temper, which those who knew him best instinc- tively recognize without being able ex- actly to define; hence that decisive in- sight into character which sent a simple colonel of engineers to lead the English army in its brilliant dash upon the remote stronghold of King Theodore ; hence that felicity of epithet, that choice use of words, that distinction of style, in which he excelled all contemporary speakers. Speaking generally, an imaginative man is a magnanimous man; for the larger vision of the poet is incompatible with parochial pettiness. This was eminently the case with Disraeli; his temper was sweet, and he was neither spiteful nor malignant. Yet, men who were too dense and stupid to meet him in fair fight were always harping, parrot-like, on his vindic- tiveness. The fine edge of his intellect scared them, and they ran away exclaim- ing that the blow which they could not turn was foul. But what candid friend, with the best intentions, has succeeded in producing any specific act of meanness or baseness? He hit hard; there were times when he asked no quarter and gave none; but still, upon the whole, he was a magnanimous foe, who fought above- board, who looked his enemy in the face, who was not treacherous. He never feared the face of man; and there are no traces in any pait of his career of the tricks to which the coward resorts. For, after all is said, one of the most noticeable qualities of Mr. Disraelis in- tellect was its fairness. He was unfanat- ical. This neutrality of his seems to me to have sprung directly or indirectly frpm the ideality of which I have spoken. But whatever was the cause, the fact, I think, will not be disputed, except by the parti- sans who cannot see that the fine shafts of his irony were never dipped in the gall of malice or passion. At the head of a hot-tempered party stood a great neutral figure, supremely fair, tolerant, and im- partial it might be, as his enemies said, supremely indifferent. But was the insinuation true was it the fact that he wore his principles light- ly? Most of us have what we call our principles, the sort of spiritual habit into which we ~vere born; which we wear as we wear our clothes; and the continued reception of which does not imply any serious intellectual assent. That is one class of principles Mr. Disraelis un- selfish loyalty to his race, for instance, was a principle belonging to a very dif- ferent class. For the principle of Jewish enfranchisement he encountered much unmerited ridicule and invective; for it he was content deliberately to relinquish the highest object of his ambition. Surely that was a principle tenaciously adhered to and strenuously vindicated bearing a much more direct and intimate relation to his life than principles commonly do. It must be confessed that Mr. Dis- raeli was not so oppressively serious as the modern Radical is. But the modern Radical ~vould be a greater man if he could laugh at a joke especially at a joke against himself. Holding that polit- ical and financial arrangements are very much matter of time and chance, Mr. Disraeli, on the other hand, could not elevate a tax into an article of faith, or the tax-gatherer into a minister of religion. And hence his levity was the cause of much very virtuous reprobation. That there was an immense fund of gaiety in Mr. Disraelis nature is true. Like old James Carlyle of Ecclefechan, he never looked back. He did not in~ dulge in unavailing regrets. He accepted the inevitable with unshaken composure. He would not allow blunders and miscar- riages and misfortunes to touch him over keenly. He kept them at arms length his spirit was not to be clouded and stifled by the too close pressure of calamity. The gaiety was quite spontaneous; at times it had to be held in check; though even in solemn public assemblies, the A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. 35 mocking spirit of Puck (as in the assault on Lord Shaftesbury and his broad phy- lacteries) would sometimes break loose. When in Edinburgh during 1867, he had a great and enthusiastic reception from the democracy. We did not go to bed till quite late, he said next morning. Mrs. Disraeli and I were so delighted with our meeting, that we danced a Scotch reel (or was it an Irish jig?) over it in our bedroom. Of the dauntless courage of the man it is unnecessary to speak. He did not know what timidity or weakness meant, the careless audacities and surprises of his policy indeed implying the posses- sion of a temper that was above fear. The speculative intrepidity which gives a peculiar charm to his books was thus the native language of a character which in the most absolute sense was self-reliant. A great critic has said that Byron was a pure elemental force in English poetry; in the same sense, we may say that Dis- raeli was a pure elemental force in En- glish politics. No man was less under the sway of current influences. The au- thority of contemporary opinion did not enslave him as it does most of us. Of all our politicians he was the only one who dared to be eccentric. He never quailed from first to last. On the night of his death, they say, after a violent spasm of breathlessness he lay back murmuring in a low voice, I am overwhelmed. Yet, a little later, he raised himself from the pillows which supported him, threw back his arms, expanded his chest, and his lips were seen to move as if he was about to speak. To the friends who were at his side, the gesture was familiar it was thus that he rose in the House of Com- mons to reply to Gladstone, to Bright, to Russell, to Palmei-ston, to Peel. The action certainly was highly characteristic. He was not beaten he would not give in he was still eager for the fray.* And it is to be noted that ~vhile he was not moved by the jeers and taunts of his foes, he was always able to resist ~vhat is far more difficult to resist the re- proaches of his friends. He had to ed- ucate his party up to his own level, and full-grown men do not take their educa- tion easily. There can be no doubt, for instance, that a large majority of the Tory squires shared the opinion of Mr. Gladstone that Jefferson Davis had created a people. But Mr. Disraeli re * According to another version his last words were, .. Is there any bad news in the Gazette? which reminds one of Pith mained incredulous: he had no belief in the creative force of anarchy; the unity of America was an idea that appealed di- rectly to his imagination; and, when the secret history of these years is ~vritten, it will be found that his firmness mainly contributed to the preservation of friendly relations with our kinsmen across the sea. It was impossible that the literary ex- pression of a man so gifted, ~vhether in the senate or in the closet, whether with tongue or pen, could be otherwise than fine. It has been the fashion, all along, to speak slightingly of Mr. Disraelis novels. I cannot agree with the verdict, which seems to me essentially superficial. There can, I think, be no doubt that the later novels not Lothair and En- dymion, which were written when the pen had been laid aside too long to be re- sumed with perfect freedom and mastery, but Coningsby, Sybil, and Tan- cred disclose a supreme literary fac- ulty of its kind. There are often, no doubt, curiously immature passages in Mr. Disraelis writings passages of labored and tawdry rhetoric, which are brought into unfortunate and undesirable promi- nence by the airy finish and eminent exactness of the setting. But such pas- sage are rare in Coningsby; and in Sybil and Tancred there is all the mellowness of consummate work. Mat- thew Arnold complains (not unjustly) of the hard, metallic movement of Macau- lay. But there is no hard, metallic move- ment, but only the soft play of life, in that gay dialogue of Disraelis which indeed is finer than Congreves. Then, the irony of the novels is as delicate and incisive as the irony of the speeches the implied and constructive irony which is the last refinement of banter, of which ~ve see no sign in the emphatic satire of Dryden, only an occasional trace in the balanced invective of Bolingbroke and Pope, but which bursts into perfect flower in the serious books of Thackeray, and the satirical speeches of Disraeli. And the character-sketches are almost perfect in their waypainted with a force and clearness that has seldom been surpassed. One figure,especially, is worked out with pitiless consistency and untiringsco in; Taper, Tadpole, Mrs. Guy Flouncey, Count Mirabel, and the rest, might have been drawn by Congreve; the blustering baseness of Righy is worthy of Ben Jon- son alone. The literary excellence of the s~eecAes is quite as remarkable. Such airy quiz- zing, such good-natured banter, such bril 36 A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. liant chajy; was never before heard in the House of Commons. The invective against Sir Robert Peel is somewhat over- done, perhaps; but the lighter sketches of Wood, and Russell, and Palmerston, are inimitable; and it may confidently be affirmed that, in the fine but dangerous science of Parliamentary fence, Mr. Dis- raeli has had no rival since Bolingbroke. It may be true, it is true, that the eloquence of the demagoguemeaning thereby the eloquence of the man who can sway the demos by the magic of con- summate speech was not within the reach of Disraeli. It is notorious, how- ever, that the strongest men fail as he did, and for the same reason. The magic which bewitches the multitude is (so to speak) the melody of the !Eolian harp, it is the wind itself incarnated into articu- late music. So that the men who wield it are generally deficient in native insight, in independent force, in tough moral fibre; and their golden words remind us less of the Sermon on the Mount, than of the song of the Lurlei, the voice whose fatal sweetness, in union with no respon- sible will, lures men, to their destruction, into the depths. That Disraelis speaking raised the tone of the House of Commons, which be- fore his time was growing slovenly, is generally admitted now. He showed in it that the weapons of the old orators had not lost their cunning; that wit and ridi- cule, and choice words, and the fire of genius, were still potent factors in human affairs. Already, indeed, the House of Commons is not what it was when he left it. That light, gleaming ~veapon of his so dainty, so airy, so impalpable, and yet so deadlynot only silenced rudeness and violence; it made such things impos- sible. They were forced to admit that they were vulgar, incongruous, and out of place; and they slunk away to more con- genial haunts. But now the bores and the pedants and the obstructionists have taken heart of grace; and after nights of confused clamor, when patience and reti- cence, and self-respect and self-restraint have been cast off like an old cloak, not alone from the members of the opposition will the cry he heard 0 for one hour of Disraeli ! A great speech by Mr. Disraeli is a study in itself. A collection of them ~vill be made some day, and whoever aspires to become an orator, will do well to read, mark, and inwardly digest them. Mean- while, here is one lying at handa re- print of the speech on the labors of the session, delivered in August, 184S, which has much of the lightness, brightness, and deftness of his best mood. The min- istry had been complaining of the loquac. ity of the House of Commons. Mr. Dis- raeli undertook to vindicate the House; and in a footnote I have tried, very in- effectively I fear, to bring together one or two of the salient points of an address which absolutely sparkles with epigram.* * He began by stating that the charge had been pre- ferred, not only by individual members, but by the offi- cial organ of the ministry. Lord John Russell here inquired if it was the London Gazette. ~ said Mr. T)israeli, it was not the London Gazette, but a journal to which far more momentous official secrets were entrusted. And then, with becoming solemnity and amid roars of laughter, he proceeded to read the extract: We have authority to state (of course, if it was a forgery the Treasury Bench could contradict the statement) that the fishdinner which was fixed for the x9th, is postponed till the 26th. This postpone- ment is occasioned by the vexatious discussions in the House of Commons, the mania for talk among the members, etc. This was the key-note of the speech and the speaker then proceeded to show that the delay had been solely occasioned by the incapacity of minis- ters themselves, Sir Charles Wood being the chief cul- prit. - The chancellor of the exchequer had commenced his labors by advising the directors of the Bank of En- gland so break the law, and he had continued ever since to cackle over the achievement. I scarcely know to what to compare his conduct, except something that occurs in a delightful city of the south. A procession moves through the streets, in which the blood of a saint is carried in a consecrated vase. The people throng round the vase, and there is a great pressure, as there was in London at the time to which I am alluding. This pressure in time becomes a panic, just as it did in London. It is curious that in both cases the cause is the sameit is a case of con- gealed circulation (laughter). Just at the moment when unutterable gloom overspreads the population, the chancellor of the exchequer I beg pardon, the Arch- bishop of Tarento, announces the liquefaction of St. J anuariuss blood, as this chancellor of the exclsequer announces the issue of a government letter; in both instances a wholesome state of currency returns; the people resume their gaiety and cheerfulness, the panic and the pressure disappear, everybody returns to music and maccaroni, as in London everybody returns to business; and in both cases the remedy is equally effi- cient, and equally a hoax (laughter arid cheers). Mr. Disraeli then proceeded to narrate the history of the successive budgets which the chancellor had sub- sequently introduced and with~rawn. Some time ago they had had the government of all the talents; this was the government of all the budgets. In spite of the great events that had since occurred in Europe, he still recollected the first budget. It was communicated to the House by the prime minister in person. Tam worth itself could not have arranged a programme inure magnificent and inure solemn. But its main pro- posalthat the income tax should be doubledwas greeted with a howl of resentment. Soitwasnecessary to withdraw Budget No. s, and the chancellor of the exchequer was put forward to explain the speech of hia chief. Mr. Disraeli had listened with delight to the classic eloqueiice of the premier, and had no notion that his exposition had been enveloped in such a The han mist. But the chancellor of the exchequer was the man to put a thing right (loud laughter). So the first pudget was withdrawn; a second was thereafter preseiited to them in the handsomest manner; later on, a third, of the nature of an impromptu to be sure, was thrown carelessly on the table; and at last, in July, the fourth was produced. Alas for this fourth budget I I shall never forget the scene. It was a dreary moment. It irresistibly reminded me of a celebrated cliaracler who, like the chancellor of the exchequer, had four trials in lsis time, A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. So much for the man; what then were the principles which inspired the whole of his public life, and which explain, more or less completely, its apparent and ad- mitted inconsistencies ? The cardinal articles of his creed were (i) that it is the character of a nation which makes and keeps it great; and (2) that it is the first business of a statesman to wage war against the evil habits and the false opin- ions which by sapping and enfeebling the national character, produce cowardice, cor- ruption, and effeminacy. But the states- mans functions do not end here,it is necessary, moreover, that a high concep- tion of national duties and national respon- sibilities should be maintained among the people. In short, the preservation of our position as one of the governing races of mankind wasfrom first to lastthe motive of his political career. It was, he considered, the vice of the time that these cardinal principles of statesmanship had been lost sight of by our rulers. The extension of education was the panacea of one set of politicians; the extension of the suffrage of another set; the disestablishment of the Church of a third; the adoption of the ballot of a fourth; and so on. Now, in Mr. Dis- raelis view, all this was beside the mark. and whose last was the most unsuccessful I mean the grest hero of Cervantes when he returned from his fourth and final expedition. The great spirit of Quixote had suhsided (laughter); all that sally of finan- cial chivalry which cut us down at the heginning of the session, and which cantered over us in the middle, was gone (laughter). The villagers, like the Opposition, were drawn out to receive him: and Cervantes tells us that although they were aware of his weakness, they treated him with respect (great laughter). His imme- diate friends the harber, the curate, the hachelor Sampson ~ (here the speaker glanced along the Treasury Bench) were assemhled, and with demure reverence and feigned sympathy they greeted him, hroken in spirit, and ahout forever to renounce those delightful illusions under which he had sallied forth so triumphantly; hut lust at the moment when everything, though melancholy, was hecoming though sad was in the hest taste Sanchos wife rushes for- ward and exclaims, Never mind your kicks and cuffs, so youve hrought home some money. (Cheers and laughter.) But this was just the thing that the chan- cellor had not got. (Cheers). No, there had heen no ohstruction to husiness on the part of the House, though, to he sure, the year 1848 had furnished plenty of material for ohasruction, had they chosen to use it. During the ten months we have heen sitting here there has heen sedition in England, insurrection in Ireland, and revolution in Europe. I should like to have seen the Whigs in Opposition with such advantages as these (cheers and laughter). The peroration is one of the finest en he found in Mr. Disraelis speeches; hut it is only when taken in connection with the rest of the speech that its full artistic effect is appreciated. Throughout the whole of that easy and artless prattle, so innocent, so charming, so ingenuous, the orator has heen steadily working up to the climax. It is the case of Congreves heroine, Artless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem 37 Mr. Lowe had said that an uneducated people was unfit to govern itself, which was true in certain technical senses; but, after all, character was greater than culture. Education was immensely im- portant, no doubt; but education would never make a people great, if the national character was weak and unstable. The capacity for greatness must run in tIle blood of the people, as it had run in the Greek, the Hebrew, the Roman, and the Teutonic races. Mr. Disraeli had confi- dence in the character of the English people, to whatever station they belonged. We had been a great, reasonable, moder- ate, moral people for a good many hun. dred years past, and the weight, and grav- ity, and deliberate justice of our national character had always, and would always control our legislation. The idea of the delirious levities of a French Revolution being transacted among ourselves, was one which he could not realize. If we did come to revolution, we would accom- plish it soberly and gravely, sadly, as Froissart says, after the manner of our countrymen. We tnight be reasonably certain at least, that even household suf- frage would not induce the lower to chop off the heads of the upper classes could not possibly lead to Robespierre and the guillotine. For my part I have faith in the people of England in their genius, and in their destiny. But it appeared to Mr. Disraeli, when he entered public life, that the national character was in grave peril. The mean modern spirit was infecting and contami- nating the high spirit of the past. En- gland was ceasing to be the England of Elizabeth, of Cromwell, of Chatham, of Pitt. The maxim of buying in the cheap- est market and selling in the dearest had supplanted the old heroic watchwords of a people who could not brook defeat, and who had withstood a world in arms. The high spirit of an imperial race, ~vithout which, as Burke had said, your army would be a mob, and your ships no bet- ter than rotten timbers, had been en- feebled by success. The generous ideals of a great nation had been buried out of sight, and the people were being taught that to vote at elections and to make money as fast as possible were the con- ditions of national happiness. In Dis- raelis view this teaching was radically unsound. England would fall as Tyre had fallen, as Venice had fallen, if the sordid maxims of the money market were permitted to replace the wider concep- tions of national well-being which our 38 A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. forefathers had cherished. So he would have the nation touched to finer issues he would appeal to the imagination, the loyalty, the religion, the venerable tradi- tions, the obedient valor of a great race; and, drawing assurance from the l)ast, would seek security for the future. This was Disraelis conception of the new crusade, which he and his friends were to undertake; and which, of course, could only be worked out in this country through a Parliamentary career. It ~vas necessary, therefore, that he should attach himself to one of the great political par- ties; and, on the whole, even on the showing of their opponents, the high spirit of the English of Agincourt and the Armada was best represented by the party which, within living memory, had leen led by Canning and by Pitt. Now, if we keep this key-note steadily before us, I do not think that we shall find much difficulty in disposing of most of the worst charges that have been brought against Mr. Disraeli. i. The youthful affinity with Radical- ism may, on one side, as he has pointed out in the letter already quoted, be traced to his antipathy to the XVhigs. To the hard, dry, unimaginative Whigs he had no doubt a mortal dislike. Their solemn fumbling with difficult questions had the same effect on him that the somject and omject of poor old Coleridge had on Carlyle. The Whig nobles were to his mind a modern edition of the Venetian oligarchy in its decline, and their concep- tions of the scope of national life were as bare, meagre, and barren. Nor to youth- ful enthusiasm does the civitas Del, which Radicalism seeks to reach, appear so hopelessly far away; it is later in life that we discover that the holy city is far less accessible than we had fancied. But it is pretty clear that the moment Disraeli found out what economical Radicalism meant, as embodied in the persons of Joseph Hume and his friends, he beat a speedy retreat from their camp. That, at all events, ~vas not Jerusalem. It is not at all surprising, indeed, look- ing to his early schooling, or lack of schooling, that his first essays in practical politics should have been somewhat erratic. He was hardly a child of our pro- saic England, either by temperament or by training. The public school and the university knew him not. Sole sit- ting by the shores of old romance at Venice, at Damascus, on the plain of Troy, in the deserthe had worked out the puzzles of life according to his own lights, and had rehearsed a career. He was intoxicated with youth, with genius, with the memories of the past that were round about him, with his own vivid sense of the future that was in store for him. What a life! passion and poetry tem- pered by epigram; but scarcely a fit preparation for a seat on a back bench of the House of Commons, or for a steady- going hack in official harness. 2. But, if he naturally gravitated to the Tories, as the only possible party to which he could ally himself, it must have been clear from the first that any cordial alli- ance between Sir Robert Peel and this brilliant dreamer was out of the question. It has been said that he was willing enoucxh to serve under Peel, which is probably true enough. He knew the con- ditions of public life in England, and would have worked with Peel as with others. But it would have been against the grain; for the antagonism between the two men was vital. Disraeli was, in certain moods, as much a Bohemian as Heine; and Peel ~vas a Philistine of the Philistines. The rupture between the timid Harley and the daring Bolingbroke was, in the nature of things, not more inevitable. Sooner or later, it must have been war to the knife. How was agree. ment possible bet~veen the pure naked intellectual force of Disraeli and the timid empiricism of Sir Robert? And Disraeli had his special grievance Sir Robert had infected the party which he led with his own timidity. That party, as we have seen, ~vas identified with the high spirit and the masterful traditions of England; but, under the manipulation of Peel, it had come to be only a weak reflection of the faction which it opposed. It resisted change; but only in a deprecatory, half- hearted way. it could not deny that Catholic Emancipation, Reform, Irish Disestablishment, were all good things in their way though not to be had Just yet, or until the pressure was a little more severe. It was thus a negation of policy ~ a sort of humdrum hocus-pocus in which the order of the day was moved to take in a nation The merciless severity of the attack on Sir Robert has been often reprobated; but, after all, it proceeded on intellectual and not on personal lines. It was the intellectual poverty of the policy which roused his scorn. A statesman? why, a statesman was a man who con- nected himself with some great idea, not a man who trimmed his course according to the weather. Such a man was as much a great statesman as the man who got up A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. 39 behind a carriage was a great whip. In more, had misread the lessons of history. all the dreary pages of Sir Roberts inter- Nations do not live on bread alone, and minable talk reported in Hansard, there the politicians who proclaimed that mate- was not a single happy expression, nor a rial prosperity was better worth living for single original thought his whole life, than heroic ideas were sapping the springs indeed, had been one great appropriation of national greatness. 1 see no reason clause. And now, he had found the why you, too, should not fade like the Whigs bathing, and had run away with Tyrian dye, and moulder like the Vene- their clothes! Then look at his Parlia- tian palaces. mentary tactics. Whenever he had a big 4. That Mr. Disraeli should, by the measure to introduce, he was sure to rest Reform Bill of 1867, have introduced it on the smallest precedents; he ~vas household suffrage, is sometimes consid- always tracing the steam-engine back to ered the crowning proof of his want of the tea-kettle; in fact, all his precedents principle. We have seen that there was ~vere tea-kettle precedents. Of course no particular reason why Reform should the charge of betraying his friends was be considered the exclusive preserve of urged more than once; but even Sir Rob- the Whigs. Nor was there any reason erts warmest admirers could not deny why the Tory party in 1867 should have that he had deserted his party. Like the been anxious to abide by the tentative Turkish admiral, who after being em- settlement of 1832. That settlement had braced by the sultan and prayed for by given the government to their rivals; the muftis, he had steered his fleet during the thirty-five years that had straight into the enemys port. The Turk- elapsed they had not been in office for ish admiral, to be sure, had been much seven. Many of the ablest of the party, misunderstood and misrepresented. He, moreover, had objected to Reform, not too, had been called a traitor. But he yin- on grounds of principle, but because they dicated his conduct. He said: True it held that a continual tinkering, an annual is, I did place myself at the head of this disturbance of the Constitution was in- valiant armada true that my sovereign convenient and dangerous. These men embraced me, and that all the muftis in had maintained that, in the mean time, the the kingdom prayed for the success of the suffrage should be left untouched, but that expedition. But I had an objection to when a change became inevitable, it was war; I saw no use in prolonging the for the interest of the nation that a perma- struggle; and the only reason for my ac- nent settlement should be effected; and cepting the leadership was, that I might at any figure below household suffrage terminate the contest by betraying my they found no principle of permanence. master. This is pungent and incisive Nor can it be denied that throughout his criticism no doubt; but does it exceed the whole political career Mr. Disraeli had license of fair Parliamentary invective? held this vie~v. He held that the settle. Sir Robert was wounded to the quick: he rnent of 1832 was a Whig settlement; that ~vinced visibly under the attacks, and it had swept away the early popular fran- spoke of them in moments too testy for chises; that the old alliance bet~veen the so great a man to indulge in. But the country party and the people should, if scorn was perfectly genuine; the satire, possible, be restored. If the Tory party though direct and cutting, was entirely is not a national party, it is nothing. All impersonal; and the mute reproach of a this is on record; and the reader who will party which felt that it had been betrayed turn to the debates on the first Reform was sure to find expression sooner or Bill will find that Sir Robert Peel, in later. Si tu obiit7Is es, at Dii mernine- somewhat different words, had even then runt, merninit Fides. But it was certainly said the same thing. Neither the leaders unlucky for Sir Robert that the greatest nor the party they led can, in this view, master of irony in ourtongue should have be fairly accused of immorality when, in been in Parliament at the time. 1867, perceiving that Reform had become 3. What has been already said will ex- a State necessity, they boldly determined plain the attitude of Mr. Disraeli to the to settle the question for a generation doctrines of the Manchester economists. at least. The time had come when a Free trade might or might not be in ac- calculated rashness, an intrepid and gen- cordance with the immutable laws which erous confidence, constituted the truest govern the universe; but it was quite prudence. clear to his mind that a school which But to Mr. Disraeli such a change was ostentatiously aspired to make England acceptable on other grounds. The stolid the market-place of the world, and nothing ten-pounder, in whom the franchise had 40 A LAST WORD ON DISRAELI. been vested, was of all classes in the country the least accessible to ideas. There might be danger in the leap in the dark; but, to leave the future of the country in the hands of men who present (in Mr. Arnolds words) a defective type of religion, a narrow range of intellect and knowledge, a stunted sense of beauty, and a low standard of manners, was cer- tain death. If it be true that political institutions rest on national character, an institution resting on a character like that was obviously in a very hopeless condi- tion. It is possible that Mr. Disraeli, with his immense conviction of the im- portance of character to a nation, may have entertained an undue contempt for the working machinery of the Constitu- tion. Political arrangements and con- trivances ~vere valuable in his eyes only in so far as they enabled the classes which were most accessible to the idea of national greatness to wield political power. In this sense he was the most radical of our statesmen; a 10 fran- chise, a 5 franchise, household suffrage, manhood suffrage what did it matter, so long as the end was attained? 5. It has been said, indeed, that his policy towards Ireland was exceptionally feeble and colorless. On the contrary, it seems to me to have been the only policy that of late years has had any chance of success. We have been gov- erning Ireland for some time according to Irish ideas, and we are beginning to reap what we have sown. A very plen- tiful harvest of Irish ideas is now in the market.. But according to Mr. Dis- raelis view, Ireland was an imperfectly civilized country, in which every germ of civilization needed to be vigilantly guarded. What always strikes me as a general principle with regard to Ireland is, that you should create and not de- stroy. The logic of Lord Macaulay on the Irish Church question, for instance, might be absolutely unanswerable; but there were deeper issues involved than logic would solve. If we destroyed the Irish Church, we destroyed an organiza- tion ~vhich not only restrained the fanati- cism, but stimulated the culture, of an imperfectly developed society. Reli- gious equality was a plausible, if am- biguous, watchword; but religious equality in Ireland meant religious intemperance, religious anarchy, religious riot. The Irish Church, from the peculiarities of its position, had become in many districts simply a lay institution devoted to char- itable and unsectarian purposes. The parson in such communities was nothing more than an Irish or English gentleman better educated, less fanatical, more liberal-handed than his neighbors; and the Protestant ascendancy meant only the natural ascendancy of skill and en- ergy and intelligence over ignorance and indolence and superstition the inevita- ble ascendancy of strong, sensible, God- fearing men. At the same time the Cath- olic Church itself was another bulwark against the anarchy of barbarism; and its ministers should have been attached to the State by the ties of interest and grati- tude. So, also, I looked then, as I look now, to a reconciliation between the Tory party and the Roman Catholic subjects of the queen. I have never relinquished my purpose, and have now, I hope, nearly accomplished it. It is a thousand pities that he failed. For the rest, he would have sent a lord high deputy across the Channel with full powers, and in- structions to give every man justice, and justice only, justice meted out with in- exorable impartiality, justice that cor- dially encouraged virtue, sobriety, indus- try, thrift, justice that sternly repressed mendacity, anarchy, self-indulgence. 6. The foreign policy of Lord Beacons- field between 1876 and i88o was, in point of fact, the realization on a great scale of all his previous teaching. England had been effaced in Continental Europe; she was again to speak with the voice of Chatham and of Pitt. The stimulating inspiration of imperial duties and impe. rial responsibilities was again to appeal to the conscience of the people. That Mr. Disraeli was un-English was the monotonous refrain of Mr. Grant- Duffs vacation soliloquies. Mr. Dis- raeli is an Englishman because he will, not because he must. His outer life is identified with ours, but his inner life belongs to another race and to another history. All English politics are to him only a game. But, seriously speaking, the kind of talk which makes Mr. Disraeli a sort of Bedouin sheik who has just stepped out of the desert into our draw- ng-rooms, scarcely deserves the name of criticism. The critic who fancies that a man whose father and grandfather were English citizens cannot be an Englishman because he has a dash of alien blood in his veins, must know little of ethnology. It is possible, indeed, that such a man may not be so insular in his prejudices as a Cumberiand squire. He is by race, per- haps, more a citizen of the ~vorld. But it is clear, looking to his whole career, that MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. 4 Mr. Disraeli was inspired throughout by a sense of the greatness of England; that the spectacle of this famous, historical world-wide dominion fascinated his imag- ination ; and that, in his foreign as in his domestic policy, he was animated by no mean or unworthy ambition, but by the profound conviction that he was adding to her security and her renown. The imperial and the parochial types of character have always been sharply opposed; and, in the mean time, the for- mer is under a cloud. The policy of brag and bluster has been succeeded by one which is supposed to be better adapted to the necessities of commerce. Whether the one or the other will best secure the ultimate well-being of the em- pire is a question that need not now be discussed. The opinion of Europe, in- deed, has been already expressed in no measured terms. Bran and bluster I said the Regierungsrath of Sauerkraut to me a year ago, as we were sailing up the Kdnigsee: Brag and bluster! And why not? What is the good of appealing to a polar bear in honeyed accents? Brag and bluster, indeed! Dont you see, mein guler Freund, that these were the only arguments the barbarians could under- stand? If the clamor of vindictive phi- lanthropy had not drowned and discred- ited the plain speaking of your prime minister, the czar would have thought once, twice, and thrice before he started for Constantinople. To philander with philanthropy may be a cheap amusement in quiet times; but when a hundred thou- sand lives are sacrificed to its cultivation, it becomes a costly and poisonous luxury. The sinister forces with which he had to contend may have proved too strong for Lord Beaconsfield; foreign foes and do- mestic faction may have prevented him from doing all that he designed; but in a great world-crisis he bore himself stead- fastly, patiently, strenuously, heroically; and he imparted his own spirit to En- gland. And more than that, mein Herr, much more if your people had but known it, your patriot minister, in his struggle with the barbarian, had all free Europe at his back. So far the Regierungsrath of Sauer- kraut; but the Regierungsrat h is only a German Liberal, and not an English Rad- ical. The British Radical knows better; his animosity to imperialism is unap- peased and unappeasable; and even in the grave his victims are not safe. At all events, the proposal to erect a monument to Benjamin Disraeli in that historic tern- pIe of our race, where kings and poets lie, ought not to have been entertained. The nice susceptibilities of Mr. Labou- chere and his friends below the gangway should have been consulted. Well, it does not much matter to us, or to him. He has a more lasting monument in the heart of England; and the memory of a great career will outlive the bronze and marble of the Abbey. His voice is silent in your council-hall Forever; and, whatever tempests lour, Forever silent; even if they broke In thunder, silent; yet remember all He spoke among you, and the man who spoke. From Blackwoods Magazine. MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. A DULL and tiresome October after- noon was passing away in what was too plainly a fit of the sulks, to admit of hopes being entertained, even by the most san- guine, that it would have any pleasant or inspiriting termination. Wednesday is not the worst day in the week for events to happen upon. There is no possible reason why a startling piece of news should not reach ones ear on a Wednesday why a budget of inter- esting letters should not arrive by the post on a Wednesday why an unex- pected turn of good fortune should not befall one on a Wednesday; but some- how, upon this particular Wednesday, the idea of anything occurring to break the monotony of its wearisomeness seemed absolutely preposterous to one, at least, of the persons with ~vhom we have to do, the mistress of Castle Cairntree, a lonely mansion on the Scottish coast. Mrs. Boscawen was an invalid, who, what- ever she might have been in the bloom of her youth and health, was, with shattered nerves and impaired temper, susceptive of every outward influence, more espe- cially ~vhen it was of a depressing or irri- tating nature. On the day in question she was so much tormented by the cease- less drone of the wind, varied as it was merely by the rattle of the passing show- ers which drifted from time to time over- head, that by five oclock she was only anxious to get rid of the remaining day- light, and try what closed shutters, large fires and candles could do towards restor- ing the aspect of things around her to that comfort ~vhich aided so materially her own cheerfulness. 42 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. The notion of comfort was certainly somewhat at variance with the outward appearance of the thin grey tower with its modern wings, which, according to the fashion of the district, was dignified by the appellation of Castle. There ~vas little of grandeur, still less of beauty, in its appearance ; the site was poor, the country around barren, in short the former laird, who had prided himself on the handsome manner in which he had restored and enlarged the old place, would have done his successors better service by razing it to the ground, and building another in its stead. Draughty, trouble- some, ill-constructed, however, as the mansion was, it was endeared to its pres- ent owner by association and possession; and consequently, by the aid of thick cur- tains, double doors, carpets, and endur- ance, his wife contrived to exist, and even to be satisfied with her home. Her standing grievance namely, her being unable to accompany her daughters into society did not perhaps embitter her existence as much as she would fain have had it supposed that it did. To lie on her sofa in the little sitting-room which was the one really luxurious apartment in the house, to keep herself ~varm in win- ter and cool in summer, to trifle with her needlework, and dabble amongst her correspondence, with intervals of desul- tory chit-chat as her husband and children went in and out of the chamber, this was the sort of routine which, to confess the truth, suited Mrs. Boscawen to a hairs breadth; and it was scarcely more from necessity than fro~m predilection that she had softly, and by gentle gradations, sunk into it. But then it was necessary to the pres- ervation of her spirits and general equa- nimity, that the machinery of the family and household should work smoothly, that perplexities should not be allowed to embarrass, or vexations to annoy, whilst, at the same time, agreeable interruptions were especially valued, as giving a fillip to the languid hours. Whether the letter which was put into her hand as daylight waned on the day whose length and dreariness she had re- peatedly bemoaned, was to prove a source of l)leasure or of trouble, remained to be seen; but at the moment of receiving it, the lady was certainly roused to curiosity. More than curiosity, more than mere ordi- nary interest, was visible on the counte- nance of the tall girl by her side, whose eyes by turns regarded the sheet and pe- rused the expression on her mothers face, and who betrayed by the varying color in her cheek and by the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands, a certain anxiety and agitation which she was endeavoring otherwise to conceal. Fortunately for the attempt she was not exposed to the scrutiny of a keen ob- server, for if Matties face had declared what was passing in Matties bosom, it would have been a sad piece of work. Mrs. Boscawen would have jumped off her sofa in surprise and bewilderment, and the letter and all it contained But never mind, let us confine ourselves to what really did happen, and not fritter away our time in idle conjectures. The weather having been so depress- ing, and the day monotonous to both mother and daughter, a little event out of the common, a trifling incident of this kind, was exactly the right thing, coming at the right time, and at the first brush the parent appeared to be the more eager of the two in discovering its nature; but no sooner had the contents of the note been mastered, and its object understood, than she relapsed into her usual state of nervous indecision and querulousness. I wish Adelaide or Julia were here, she said. So tiresome of them to be out just when they are wanted. I knew something would be sure to happen when they were out of the way. It always does. Her companion was silent. What oclock is it, Mattie ? Nearly five, mamma.~~ They will surely be here soon. But what is to be said? You see what your aunt wants you to go there with the rest to-night, and take l)ouglass place at the dinner-table. I suppose you will have to go. You would like to go? Yes, mamma. Ridiculous to send over at such an hour; it gives one no time to consider The door opened. What! An answer ~vanted? exclaimed Mrs. Boscawen, with the startled air of one unaccustomed to sudden demands. But, Boyd, how can I send one? Stop a mo- ment, Mattie, speak; what is to be done? What do you mean, mamma? said her daughter gently. What is it that you Dont you see, my dear? Boyd, you understand; Miss Adelaide is not come in yet; the man must wait. His orders is to be back immediately, maai~. I dont think the young ladies can be in yet a while, ma am. MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. 43 As he spoke, Boyd glanced at Miss Mattie, whose elder sisters were the de- linquents, and whom he, in common with the rest of the household, had as yet scarcely learned to take into account. Only a few months before she had re- turned to them from her foreign school, almost a stranger; and in what ways, and to what extent, she might be depended upon, had yet to be found out. Boyd himself had carried the fair maid in his arms as a baby, and was jealous as a par- ent of her dignity and her honor, but he was not sure that she was to be trusted with the ink-bottle on the present occa- sion. Lady Turner, to whom a note had to be ~vritten, was a person of great im- portance to the Boscawen household; and Miss Mattie was just Miss Mattie, who never put herself forward, never was sent for when visitors were in the drawing- room, never was taken into council on any matter of consequence, from whom, in short, nothing was expected but unob- trusive, dutiful acquiescence in all things soever that might be ordained by the rul- ing powers. As she stood meekly by, offering no suggestion, Boyd and his mistress alike debated what was to be done. Mrs. Boscawen was the first to speak, having naturally the most at stake; what- ever Boyd might think, she was not going to get off her sofa and set herself to the task of ~vriting, just when she was feeling particularly low, and nervous, and wretch- ed, startled, too anything sudden was always so tiresome and startling. Mattie must surely be able to pen a few words that would not disgrace her Mattie, on whose education so much had been spent, and who was, as it were, just off the irons. She felt, all at once, that it was foolish to have hesitated; and without permitting herself to reflect further, or even to con- sult the grey-headed dependant, who stood waiting, with her eye, observed de- cidedly, Then, Mattie, my dear, you must go to the ~vriting-table. She need not have feared, however, that any intervention would be offered. Boyd had come to the same conclusion as his mistress ere he respectfully withdrew; for although he shook his head wisely out- side the door, and prognosticated no great things of the performance now to be gone through, he felt that the emergency was extreme. The groom was impatient, the light was going: under such circum- stances, and since, although he stopped at every window along the gallery to peer out, in hopes of seeing Miss Adelaide and Miss Julia, they were not anywhere in view, the risk must be run. No~v, Mattie, said her mother, bright- ening up in spite of herself at the nov- elty of the proceeding, have you got proper paper? Dont put too much on one page, my love; a note should never be compressed. And a few lines are all that is needed, just to say that my poor head is so bad to-day that I have made you my deputy correspondent since your sisters are out; and ~ Stop a moment, please, mamma,, in- terposed Mattie. Write it nicely, my dear; your aunt is a great observer of little tli~ngs. Yes, mamma. I am ready now. Then you must thank her, and say I am very happy that you should accept her kind invitation. I cannot understand her asking you, nevertheless, added Mrs. Bosca~ven; for certainly one of the young Hamiltons or Wrays would have filled Douglass place better than you. You cannot fill a mans place. How can you hand Well, well, I wont speak; and it does not signify, either; it is your aunts own affair if her table is disar- ranged. How are you getting on, my love? How she was getting on the youthful scribe could scarcely tell herself. Pretty well, she thought. Her fingers might tremble, and her heart beat, but the page before her was neither blotted nor blurred. With some complacency she surveyed the whole, ere she carried it to the sofa for inspection, and watched for the effect it would produce, much as she had been wont to anticipate the commendation so fair and even an exercise would have won at school. It was this gentle glow of self-approval manifested in her daughters countenance which checked the My dear child! just rising to the parents lips. She looked at Mattie, looked at the letter, and looked up again with a smile. All at once the fair young face was suf- fused with color. Is it not right, mam- ma? Willitnotdo? Well, my love, yees, it will do, I dare say. It is not a very good note, you know, Mattie,not like Adelaides or Julias notes; but your aunt will under- stand to make allowances, and perhaps she may not look at it much,turning the sheet over in her hands dubiously; then, with a start, My child, you have spelt correspondent ~vith one r I Give it me, mamma, quick. I can put that in easily. 44 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. Softly, my love; dont be in too great a hurry. Yes, you can slip it in very well in the cornerat least you must do it as well as you can; you would not like to write it over again? Come here, let me show you. All these little sentences at the end,all this partBelieve me, your affectionate niece, Matilda Bosca- wen, should be in distinct, short lines, not running into one another as you have made them do. Do you understand? Then here againturningto the page before you should have begun afresh here made a new start with a large Al. A note or a letter ought not to be filled up like a copy-book. Of course, I could not see to direct you in this respect; and the phrases are all very well, you have said exactly what I told you; but these trifling points, the knowing where to stop and where to begin and your lines should be a great deal further apart be- sides, all this is of importance to the look of the thing. And let me tell you, my dear, that to write a good note should be one of a woman s chief accomplish- ments. But what am I to do?~ sighed Mat- tie. Let it go for this time, unexpectedly rejoined her mother, who, having had the satisfaction of pointing out the defects, felt, as many other people would, that they were not ~vorth further trouble. Re- member what I said for another occasion, my love; and now, ring for tea. I am to send this? Dear me, yes, there is no help for it. Such relapses into fretfulness were not uncommon to the speaker. It must go, 1 suppose. XVhat are you doing now? Directing the envelope, mamma. Is that still to be done? Then could you not just take out a fresh sheet, and But, no! I am so tired 1 really cannot go over it all again. No, I cannot look at the direction, my head aches too much. Take it do~vn-stairs yourself, like a good child; and dont let me have Boyd fussing in and out of the room more than can be helped. The door was scarcely heard to close behind the departing messenger, it slid so softly into its socket. But once out- side, it was the flight of a terrified bird that brought Mattie to the bottom of the great staircase, across the hall, along the passages, till she found her object. Boyd, she guessed, would not be far to seek; and sure enough, though her light foot- steps left no sound, he caught the rustle of her dress, and emerged from a door- way, ere she had considered by wbat means to summon him. The letter was now taken from Matties hands, and scarce a minute elapsed ere her listening ear caught the sound of a horses hoofs pass beneath the window where she stood on the watch, and she saw the groom despatched by Lady Tur- ner trot quickly out of sight. A sigh of ecstacy burst from her lips. A wonderful, well nigh impossible thing had come to pass. An event which she could not have stirred hand or foot to bring about, had been brought about for her. A mystery she could not fathom had been accomplished; a miracle had been wrought. All this, and nothing less, it seemed to this simple maiden, because the most ordinary common thing in the world had happened. What more natu- ral than that her brother having failed, she should be summoned by her aunt to supply his deficiency? What more likely than that she should he permitted to do so? What need of this fear, this trepi- dation, this emotion on so trite a sub- ject? And why should Mattie care to go at all? The night was dark and wildthe circle at Lady Turners would in all prob- ability prove formal and unattractive, formidable, moreover, to one so shy and unused to society. It would have been much more easily understood, much more in accordance with the young Matildas character, if she had shrunk from and shunned the ordeal. It would, and yet it had seemed as if her very heart would break if she had had to send a refusal. Underneath that passive exterior, veins were throbbing and s~velling: that gentle acquiescence hid a passion of entreaty. She had so envied the elder ones who had been preferred before her, had so patiently borne her deprivation, and so proudly hidden her desire, that the pres- ent reaction was almost too much. To none had a whisper of her secret been confided; and how childish would one and all have deemed her, knowing nothing, how much, how infinitely worse than childish a fool, a simpleton had the truth come out? That Frederick was to be there the handsome, haughty, stiffnecked Fred, the l)ride and object and worry of his moth- ers lifethe incomprehensible, unman- ageable, unsusceptible cousin, what should that have been to any of the fair Boscawens? They had been deeply an- noyed,at least Adelaide and Julia had, for the youngest sister knew nothing of MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. such matters, because a ridiculous ru- inor had got abroad, and been bandied from one to the other, founded on the mere fact of Fredericks having been seen galloping across the floating sands which lay between Rimmin and the Cas- tle, whereas he ought to have gone round to his uncles door by the road at the head of the bay. Suppose he had chosen the quickest path suppose he ~vere a dare-devil rider who risked his neck with- out much thought of its value was that to saythat h& would not as readily have done the same had the dangerous route led him to any other goal? He had brought Mattie a fragment of pink sea- weed from the islet in the heart of the bay, and Mattie had taken it with a burst of tears. This had been unfortunate, foolish. She had been spoken to, and told how absurd she was, and kept away from Rim- mm strenuously from that time. She had also been tutored to avoid her cous- in, to speak coldly to him, withdra~v her- self from his company when accident brought him to the Castle, and in all re- spects show that what had so unluckily happened was merely the effect of the shock consequent on finding that any one any one had been so thoughtless, and had had so narrow an escape. All this Mattie had done, and no further blame had in consequence attached itself to her. But now Frederick was going away; and going, as she felt, under an impres- sion so false, that if he left Rimmin at this time, according to his present inten- tions, all ~vas over that ever might have been between them. Once, she had felt nearly sure she was beloved, but of late coldness had begotten coldness, and re- serve, formality, so that the alienation at length had become complete, and one at least had well-nigh despaired of any- thing ever happening to break it down. But might not Mattie have this one chance more? Might she not just see him, hear him, be in his presence once again? The fiat went forth No. Adelaide and Julia alone accepted their aunts hos- pitality, and not a word or sign gave the little sister when she heard it. Hard as her fate was, she had borne it bravely; but none the less had the disappointment been bitter, and to find herself once more, without act or effort of her own, within a few hours of meeting her cousin ~vithin his o~vn halls, filled her with amazement and strange delight. No wonder that 45 tremors had overrun her frame as she stood in patient silence during her moth- ers deliberation; Mattie could never speak, but she could keenly feel. It was not the decision she had had to fear, ho~vever, it was the delay. And that we shall presently explain. Mrs. Boscawen, being precluded by the state of her health from leaving her o~vn apartments, had known nothing of what had passed between Frederick and his cousin. She saw Mattie gentle, quiet, composed as ever, and fancied that her youngest daughter, whose temper and disposition she had hardly so far had an opportunity of studying, was by nature silent and reserved, as she had certainly sho~vn herself to be under the diligent supervision before mentioned. Since the parent had nothing whereof to complain, she asked no questions, and was vouch- safed no information, there being no oc- casion for her to be enlightened. At least so thought Adelaide and Julia, and they had their own reasons for reti- cence. Fredericks gallantry had annoyed them to the full as much as had its effect upon their sister, and they had been even more out of temper with their friend and gossip, Norah Hamilton, than with either; for it was Norah who, referring to the foolhardy feat, had alleged that people talked, and that it was given out every- where that Sir Frederick was engaged to one of his cousins. This was the more provoking since there neither was, nor ever had been, any truth in such a state- ment, and the idea was repudiated with indignation, but it was not repeated at home. Mattie would think it did not signify what people said, averred Julia. Mamma ~vould show that there was something wrong before Aunt Caroline, added Adelaide. We should be prevented going to Rimmin ourselves, concluded both. And that settled the matter. For they liked going to Rimmin very much. if not quite so much as Mattie did; and as they came home along the shore from their walk to the village on the after- noon in question, they were in high good- humor at the prospect of spending the evening there. They had thought them- selves obliged to go out, stormy as the weather ~vas, alleging that a few little odds and ends ot messages, trifles that were wanted by one and another, would not be properly attended to unless they took upon themselves the task. Mattie ~vas no good; they did not think of asking 46 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. her to undertake the business; and on no account would they have out a carriage, a carriage being needed so soon again. That is to say they wanted the walk to exhale some of their exuberant spirits, and to heighten the roses in their cheeks for the evening. When Lady Turners messenger arrived at the Castle it was not far from the hour ~vhen the return of the two micrht be looked for, and it was the knowl~ilo~e of this which made all the time spent by Mrs. Boscawen in considering the ques. tion, and pointing out the errors of Mat- ties epistle, one of trial to her daughter. In every gust of wind she fancied she heard her sisters footsteps at the door; and once admitted to the deliberation, their influence was everything with their mother. By intuition she knew what scale it would weigh down in the present instance, and that her chance might goto the winds once Adelaide raised her voice, or Julia her eyebrows. But the note was written, and the man gone. Joy, joy! No one could now re- call him; the ~valkers were comino- from an opposite direction; and by th time they knew anything of the matter, the answer ~vould be in her aunts hands, and she might snap her fingers at all interfer- ence. But she must calm the flutter in her breath, and shade the light within her eye: none must suspect what she would hide, even from herself, if she could. At Rimrnin all would be easy; she was not afraid of betrayal once in Fredericks presence, the very thought that he was near was enough to silence and to petrify, but beforehand, an unguarded speech, a look of happiness, might attract fatal attention. Mrs. Boscawen, however, was still alone when Mattie returned to the boudoir. My tea, Mattie; I am so thirsty, child, she began plaintively. Your sisters really need not have stayed so long. It is past five now, and getting quite dark. I dont like their being out at this hour. It is only dark in this room, mamma; it is quite light outside. Adelaide will not have been able to match my ~vool, I am sure. I dare say she will; it is not a difficult blue to get. More difficult than you think; there are so many shades nowadays. I wish I had told her to bring another case of needles. If I should lose this needle to- night, I should not know what to do; it is my last; I have not another anywhere. Dear I how stupid of me not to think of that before, when she was actually going to the needle-shop! Now I shall have a whole doing nothing You must just not lose your needle, mamma, said Mattie gaily. Poor child! She could not but be gay, do what she would. Everything was now in her eyes as bright as in her mothers all was som- bre, and her conviction of the daylights having lasted, and of her sisters success- ful shopping, would have extended itself to further cheerfulness on any other sub- ject started; she could not conjure up needles, but she could say, You must just not lose yours, as though such words had a charm to retain it. The invalid, however, was not to be be- guiled from her mood. I do not drop it on purpose, my dear. But you know what a sad helpless crea- ture I am of an evening, when I have had all the ~vorries of the day to go through; and if it should slip through my fingers, how am I to find it again? I cannot hunt it up myself, and Harrison has no eyes. If I send for her it upsets me altogether. It is rather hard that I am to be left to Harrison alone for my entire evenino- This ~vas to be expected ; it was only wonderful that the prospective want of a companion during the hour which she spent in the sitting-room after dinner be- fore retiring for the night, had not pre- sented itself as a misery before. I had thought to have had you, at least, pursued Mrs. Boscawen, in accents conveying, You are not much, but still you are better than nothing. I had been looking forward to hearing the end of the book Julia is reading to me. But I suppose, now that Douglas is gone, you will all three want to go everywhere. I shall have to give in, for I dislike, of all things, making myself a drag upon my children; but I must say, my hours of solitude are the most trying part of all my ill health. But, dear mamma, it happens so sel- dom that you have an)-. You know we hardly ever go out at all, and you have never once been without one of us be- fore. You would not like it yourself, Mat- tie. Mattie was silent, assiduously bending over the tea-table, and by-and-by the be- nign influence of a strong and steaming cup began to appear. My head is really better, the invalid allowed, and perhaps it was as well that the others did MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. 47 not come in till I could better bear their voices. Be sure you keep the teapot warm, Mattie; they ~vill not like to find things uncomfortable. Mamma, there is a little rose in that glass, it is not doing much good there ____ Not doing much good? said Mrs. Boscawen, laughing. What good should it do? What do you mean, child? It would be just the thing for my hair to-night, if you do not want it very much. Is that it? No, I do not want it very much, at least I think I can exist with- out it, Mattie; bring the glass to me. Here, continued the speaker, raising herself on her elbow, this pretty bunch of scarlet geranium, and that spray of jes. samine will suit you better than the rose. But we want some green; thispieceof myrtle I almost grudge the myrtle; but, however, it will not be wasted take them now, my love; that is as pretty a bouquet as you could have. Thank you, thank you, mamma. I declare, you have quite a color to- day, Mattie. Have I, mamma? You are generally pale, and this morning I fancied you particularly pale; I wondered if your head, too, ached. No~v go and dress, my dear, for you will want help, and there is not so very much time. Harrison can go to you first, so as not to interfere with your sisters. They did not come in until the room had been silent for nearly a quarter of an hour. They had been round the garden and greenhouse after returning from their walk, having, like Mattie, a fancy for ~vearing natural flowers in their hair, and they ilow appeared laden with fresh- scented blossoms. Heliotrope, even, cried Julia gaily. I do think we manage well. Mamma, I would leave these with you, only I have nothing else to wear. I did remember some ferns for your glass, mamma, subjoined Adelaide. Here they are. But where are all the flowers gone? inquired she, in surprise. They were only gathered this morning. A marauder has carried them off. If I had known you were going to the green- house, I might have waited to see what you brought in; but I gave them all to Mattie. To Mattie? What did Mattie want to do ~vith them? To wear them to-night, as you and Julia do. But Mattie is not going to-night, main ma. Indeed she is. A little event hap- pened whilst you were out. Your aunt sent over a special messenger to invite her. She is wanted to fill Douglass place at the dinner-table. And she is to go? The voice was Adelaides, but so changed was it from the jovial pleasantry of its tone on her first appearance that it sounded in her mothers ears perfectly appalling. In an instant Mrs. Boscawen took the alarm. She had done the wrong thing, and there was now no escape for her; instead of hav- ing the pleasure of recounting the details of the little event instead of being able to dwell upon her difficulties in the mat- ter of the note, on Lady Turners civility, and the grooms impatience, with the unction of one who had not often the chance of being a narrator, she ~vas to be brought to the bar, and called on sharply for her defence. In her confusion and astonishment the poor lady shuffled. I did not like to refuse, she murmured uneasily. I I really did not know what to say. Did you accept the invitation for her, mamma? It was Julia whose accents now expressed, Answer me that, without further circumlocution. I Well, I allowed her to write for herself. And to say she would go? She said she would go. Yes. A solemn silence ensued, during which the parents heart quaked in spite of her- self. She could not stand it. If I had had a minute to think, her nervous apology ran, if I had not been hurried so, I might have managed to hit upon some excuse. But the man was waiting, and Boyd insisted, and Mattie was no help to me one way or another. She never is, poor child. I was left entirely to myself; and yet I was told the answer must be sent immediately! It was all so quickly done, in such a bustle. Why were you so late in coming home, you two? lf you had only been here We could not tell that we should be wanted, said Adelaide gloomily; but I am sure I wish with all my heart we had been. Then she glanced at Julia, and there was a passing aside What is to be done? If I had only had time, reiterated the culprit querulously. People have no right to rush at one in that impetu- ous way, demanding answers on the spot. 48 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. It makes one shake all over; I have been uncomfortable ever since, at least I was just quieting down when you came in to stir it all up over again. My head has been so bad this afternoon. It is no pleasure to me, I can tell you, she added, with some spirit, to have only a lonely evening before me. I do not send Mattie away br my own good. Mamma, why did you not think of that before? cried Julia. It ~vould have been the very thing to say, added her sister. Mrs. Boscawen looked troubled. I dont know, Im sure, she said; your aunt would immediately have set me down as selfish. Not if Mattie had written it herself. If she had said that she could not think of leaving you at least, that we could not think of your being left entirely by yourself Aunt Caroline would have un- derstood at once. But Mattie would have been disap- pointed. Did she say so? You know she never does say any- thing. No; I dont remember that she expressed any wish on the subject, but I think she was willing I am sure she was quite ready, to go. It is so seldom that she cares about being taken any- where, that I was really glad she should have the treat. That is it, mamma; it is a treat. Mamma, I do think you ought to know. Mattie likes to go to Rimmin, because Frederick because she and Freder- ick XVhat! exclaimed Mrs. Boscawen, bolt upright on her sofa, headache and grievances forgotten. Oh, nothing much, mamma; nothing at all much. But she is foolish about him; at least she behaved rather absurdly once, and I am not quite sure that if any- thing of the sort happened a second time, she might not do the same again. Anything of what sort? Then followed Julias version of the ride across the quicksands, and the favor which Mattie had been told to wear in her breast, and which had made her cry. But of course, added the sister, she ~vas very much ashamed, and has been on her guard ever since. As Fred is go- ing away, we thought there was no need to say anything, it will all be forgotten before they meet again; but, for Matties own sake, I am sorry she is to see him again just now. Has she ever seen him since? Only once or twice; and then she kept away from where he ~vas, and they hardly spoke to each other at all. It will be different to-night; he will be able to find her out if lie wishes, and she cannot well keep out of his way. I dont feel sure that she desires to keep out of his way, observed Adelaide bluntly. If I were certain of that, I should not mind her going so much. You see, mamma, pursued the milder Julia, it is a pity to make too much of it. Fred meant nothing, but Mattie was startled ,and thought him a sort of hero; and you know she is sensitive, and easily upset. Really, she subjoined charita- bly, I dont think she was so much to blame as appeared. But I would stop her going to-night, said Adelaide, with resolution. You would? Now? Mrs. Bosca. wen looked from one to the other, to make sure that both were in earnest,that in the midst of all these new thoughts and ideas she still retained sense enough to understand aright. Certainly there was no mistaking the expression on either daughters face. They were fine-looking girls, with abun- dance of flaxen hair, high noses ,andde- termined, well-shapen mouths. Mattie, who was chestnut, and had a small and tender lip, was not more unlike the elder pair in her shrinking, varying tempera- ment, than in the contrast her mobile fea. tures presented to their large, calm faces. By emotion it was certain neither of the two now under scrutiny would at any time be carried away, but at the present mo- ment they were roused as much as their mother ever remembered to have seen them. lt was not becoming; they did not look the better for it, as Mattle did; but it answered its purpose. The parent was mastered in time. The cardinals subdued their pope; forced from her a decree; and compelled her to name a le- gate. Meantime, within her large, dimly lighted chamber, Matties toilet was pro- ceeding joyously. Stepping from mirror to wardrobe, from table to cupboard, she hummed a tune in the pauses betwixt di- recting the maid and submitting to her nimble fingers. All ~vent well; the glossy locks were knotted up, the fragrant bIos- soms wreathed in and out between them, the white robe was on, and the pearls were clasped round the soft young throat Completely arrayed she stood, and no fairer form had ever been reflected in the ancient pier-glass than that which, like a MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. 49 pensive lily, with hanging head, almost too shyly satisfied to look, paused for a last survey in front. Oh, to-night, to-night! whispered a voice within the young girls bosom. What may to-night bring? What will to-night do? Who would ever have dreamed that there was to be such a to- night to such a morning? A tap at the door. Mattie started. Was it the wind? Was it the rattling of the old cornices which age had loosened, or was it a quick, im- perative voice without, demanding admit- tance? The latter. Blushing, she turned from the mirror, ashamed to be detected in such a contem- plation, and went quickly forward as the door opened. It was not bolted, Ade- laide; you need not have waited. The handle is stiff, that is all. Mattieoh, it is a pity that you are dressed. Matties eyes were raised in gentle wonder. A pity? She had let them fall on the ground, modestly awaiting the ap- proving glance which perhaps even her eldest sister might vouchsafe to such a toilet, and she could not understand that her cares and pains should produce only a pity. Mamma will tell you. I think she wishes to see you at once. I am in a hurry, said Adelaide, with a haste that was curious, all things considered, I cannot stop to talk. Is Harrison gone to our room? Adelaide, what is it? But Ade- laide was gone. The gloves and handkerchief just gath- ered into her sisters hand fell beneath the table; something of evil Mattie bod- ed, and even that something ~vas enough; it ~vas an effort to collect herself and go down-stairs. You are dressed? That is a pity. I was afraid you would be, said Mrs. Bos- cawen, using almost the same words as her daughter had done, but in a tone of more regret. I am really sorry you should have had the trouble, my dear; for, on second thoughts, I think it right to cancel my permission for you to ~o this evening. It had been agreed on during the coun- cil that no reason was to be given that nothing about Frederick, at least, was to be said. I had not fully considered the ques- tion, continued the speaker kindly, and yet ~vith a definite purpose and strength in her present resolution that had not LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV, 1772 been apparent in the former, I was taken by surprise, seized upon all at once, taken advantage of Oh, mamma! Well, well, my dear, I did not mean by you. It was Boyds fault, and your aunts, and and altogether I seemed to have no voice in the matter; I had no choice. Your sisters, when they came in, were quite astonished to find that I had been prevailed on to consent they thought it quite unwise; and though I wish that you had not had all the trouble of making ready looking so nice, too she could not resist adding still I am afraid, my love, I must send you to take off your things again. She paused for a reply, but in front of her stood a marble statue, dumb and motionless. Do you not understand? pursued Mrs. Boscawen, with a touch of irritation. Aunt Caroline, murmured Mattie, foron this rock she had builtfor security; what would she say? Adelaide will explain it to her. Both your sisters think that I ought not to be left alone on such a doleful evening; they will sho~v that it was natural I should not think of my o~vn comfort, said the in- valid, with the complacency of one who considered herself irreproachable in that respect; and you are so young, no one would expect you to be as thoughtful for me as the two ~vho have been more at home, and know what a poor, broken- down creature I am,broken down in every way. Even this wind tries my nerves almost more than I can bear, put- ting her hand to her forehead. Twice her auditor essayed to speak, and twice the trembling lips refused their office; but at length a low sound caught the parents ear. Well? she said. Mamma ____ Well, my dear, well? What is it? I hear you. Let me go this once. Mrs. Boscawen started. This was, in plain terms, more than she had bargained for; it had been hitherto so easy to govern and direct this child, that the idea of the child ever suggesting, far less insistino- on, a thing for itself, had never for a ment entered any ones head. I What did you say? she inquired in- credulously. Let me mamma. I ~o this once, if you please, shall not, said her mother, with asperity. 50 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. Dear mamma The eyes were she yielded to its blast she was at the swimming, and one large drop slipped mercy of any dominant power. from the lash on which it hung, and stole It had been distasteful to her beyond down the cheek. No more could be measure to find that there had been spoken at such a moment. passages scenes between the cousins, Fie, Mattie! To cry for this! To whereof she had known nothing. A dep- make so much of such a paltry sacrifice! rivation of this sort ~vas precisely what I am really hurt; it is the last thing I she could smart under; and, moreover, should have expected. Many a sick par- the consciousness of not having herself ent has to urge her children to leave her behaved with strict integrity, of having side for the sake of their own health, but been evasive and timorous during the mine require to be bidden to stay ~vith interview with the elder sisters, had found me. vent in an extra display of peevish author. Just this once. Dear mamma, dont ity when she had been called on anew to speak like that; you know I like to sit face the younger. They should not, one with you, and read to you, and play to and all, set her at naught as they had you, and you know I never did think it done; she would have one at least under any sacrifice, but to-night, I want oh, her maternal sway; and though Adelaide I want to go. and Julia had as usual made this sway Why should you want to go? What their cats-paw, Mattie could not kno~v, is there about an ordinary dinner-party to she flattered herself, that they had done make it an object of de~ire to any one? so. (Mattie, we may be allowed to sus- Jam not going; and though,of course, I pect, knew very well; but that is not to should like as well as others to do as they our purpose.) do, and take part in what they enjoy, you And then Mrs. Boscawen was really do not see me making a fuss and coin- vexed by what she had heard. plaining that I cannot. Sir Frederick might, of course, had he If you ~vould allow me ____ so chosen, have sought an alliance with I will not allo~v you. After this, after his Scottish cousins; it would have been your showing so much persistency and perhaps satisfactory if he had done so. self-will in the matter, I should consider But since nothing of the kind had ever myself quite to blame if I gave w a)-. been attempted, and since, up to the pres- Now you need not stand there any longer. ent time, they had all got on so amicably 1 am not going to have any contention on together, it was really too tiresome of the matter; it is for me to decide on such Mattie, a chit of a schoolgirl, to come a point, and your duty is to obey without home and introduce an element of discord hesitation. Go at once and take off your between the sober households. What things. should she know of Fred in three months? Mamma ____ Adelaide and Julia had been intimate Really, Mattie, I could not have be- with him for years, had stayed at his lieved it of you. I desire you to go, and hunting-box, where Lady Turner presided you stand as still as a stone! I never during the spring months, and met him would have thought that you, of all peo- every other night in town for several sea- ple, would be the one to ~vhom I should sons, yet to them he ~vas only an escort, have to speak twice. I shall say no more, a good-humored, influential cousin ,good but I am much disappointed by the way for tickets to shows and ft/es a man in ~vhich you have behaved to-night. ~vhom they liked to be seen with, but Then Mattie left. whom they had not the smallest ambition Mrs. Boscawen had seldom in her life to be with unless they were seen. They been so peremptory ~vith any one. She tried to believe that he admired them and was, as has before been hinted, a feeble- was proud of them; but there was suffl- minded, characterless person, who was cient uncertainty on the point to provoke seldom interested in much beyond her effort, to make them more than ordinarily own petty comforts or complaints, timid particular as to their appearance and man- by nature, yet jealous of maintaining such ners when he was present. power over the family and household as At least, however, lie should not amuse she could by any means keep within her himself with Mattie. He had never at- grasp. She was neither unkind nor inor- tempted anything of the sort with either dinately selfish; provided it cost no effort, of the grown-up Miss Boscawens, and she could agree to a request cheerfully, they had no idea of his paying their sister and listen to an account with patience; the dubious compliment of gallantry that but the moment an adverse wind blew, meant nothing. If there lurked a secret MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. 5 twinge of jealousy at her having attracted an attention, even a passing attention, ~vhich their charms had failed to inspire, at least the fair prudes did not themselves suspect as much. They felt that they had done the right thing as to the point now at issue, and attired themselves for the evening, with the peaceful conscious- ness that the desired end had been at- tained. But we need not say anything to your father, observed Mrs. Boscawen, to the first who came down after the interview above narrated. It chanced to be JuliaJulia in ruffles and flounces, ribbons and jewels, more ample, fuller blown than ever; and as she spoke, the mother surveyed the finery doubtfully. Mattie had looked different. To be sure, what suited Mattie would hardly have been the thing for Julia; and the simple folds of a white frock, which did excellently well for slim eighteen, were not perhaps calculated to set off the maturer form of robust five-and-twenty. There ~vas so much of this particular five- and-twenty, moreover, such a neck and bust, and arms and shoulders, that the fully trimmed, festooned, and rustling train could not be said to be superabun- dant; but, nevertheless, the effect was not so pleasing as it ought to have been. Had necessity compelled the mother to desire that it and all its accessories should be doffed, it is certain that she would not have ejaculated that looking so nice, too, which e~caped ere she was aware, when passing the decree upon her young- est. No fears nor doubts, however, dis- turbed the resplendent Julia herself. Satisfaction shone in her eye, showed itself in the tones of her voice, and even influenced the tenor of her reply. She agreed with her mother, and spoke of her sister as poor Mattie. I went to her room just now, she said, and she was so quiet that I should not have thought she had minded, only I saw that she had thrown down all her things, her nice white muslin and all, in a heap on the floor; and her hair was loose over her shoulders That was temper; there ~vas no need to have touched her hair. She might, at least, have let me have the pleasure of seeing it. nicely arranged, she need not have thought it wasted. You did not give any reason for stop- ping her, mamma? None whatever. I said exactly what you and Adelaide told me, nothing that she could have minded nothing, at least, that she ought to have minded. I could not believe my ears, when she actu- ally tried to make me alter my decision afterwards. Did shedo that? She did indeed. What did she say, mamma? She begged to go; that was all. Quite enough too, for one who never asks to be taken anywhere. It showed me immedi- ately that I was right that you and Ade- laide were right, in advising me to puta stop to it. I am really sorry for her. Mamma, dont say any more about it; it will do no good. And I am sure Ihave had enough of the subject. I wish now you would all get away as quickly as possible, and let us settle down to our quiet evening. I dare say we shall be quite happy together. Your father has brought in the parcel from the library; it was kind of him to call for it, and it will be quite an interest to Mattie to see what we have got. I am looking forward to her reading aloud it will keep the dismal howling of the wind out of my ears.~~ Already she was impatient to begin. I do wish you were all out of the way now, she proceeded. Could you not go down to the drawing-room and wait there? The going in and out, and the talking of many people in this little room, al~vays fusses me. Very ~vell, mamma; I will go down with the very next person that appears; but I may stay till some one does, may I not? This room is so nice and warm,~, with a little shiver. Have you wraps enough? Quite, mamma, thank you. You will not get blown about at either house, that is one good thing. The en- trance to Rimmin is as well sheltered as our own. Better; at least it was better until papa built up that archway. Oh, we shall be quite out of the wind going in and out of the carriage, but I wish we had not to drive along the shore-road: the tide is so high to-night that the waves are breaking right over the rocks. Indeed! said Mrs. Boscawen lan- guidly. She was not going to drive along the shore-road herself, and the waves seemed a good way off from her cosy pil- lows. Oh, here are papa and Adelaide at last. Now then, good-bye ; go down to the drawing-room everybody. What! Is the carriage there? Thats right, then. 52 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. Do shut the door, Boyd, the cold air com- ing in from the passage chills one all over. Put your shawls on, girls, quick- ly. But where is Mattie ? inquired her husband. She ~vill be here directly. As soon as you are gone, we shall have our little din- ner together Is she not going with us? Not to-night; she will go another ni(~ht b I wish her to go to-night, said Mr. Boscawen decidedly. Julia, call your sister, and say we are waiting. Papa Julia paused, looking round for support; and at the look, a voice was raised from the sofa. It is impossible, my dear, said the mother. If I had known that you wished it beforebut now it is too late. She is not thinking of going. She is not dressed, nor nor anything. Then she must dress, and tell her to be quick. The carriage is at the door. It can Wait a few minutes. Do as I desire you, Julia. To such a tone even Julia must sub- mit, and without a word she left the room. But who shall describe the shock of mingled feelings which that message gave? Oh, how bitterly did Mattie now repent her ill-advised haste, her passion- ate ~veeping! Get ready to go now? Now, when every single l)art of her attire would have to be put on afresh, when her hair, all dishevelled as it was, would in itself require care, pains, attention, and when the flowers lay broken on the floor? Now? Was she dreaming? Her trembling feet refused their office, as she rose in bewildered consternation, and down upon the chair she sank again. Could she ever, with such a beating heart and such nerveless fingers, begin from the beginning once more, and rehabilitate herself within the time permitted? Har- rison seemed an age in coming. And oh, Miss Mattie, cried the maid, twill take a good half-hour, your hair alone; and theres your dress to lace, and the bows to tie, and even then bless me, bless me! which later aspiration, murmured under the speakers breath, was called forth by a vision of the pale tear-stained face beside her, as contrasted with its glowing freshness when last seen so short a time before. I can be ready, Julia, indeed I can. Oh, Harrison, what need to brush my hair all over? Put it up as it was, oror any way you can. Oh, my flowers, my pretty flowers! Oh, Julia, why did mamma change so often? why did she insist on my undressing, as she did? Tell papa I will be ready immediately. Dear, kind papa. Please find my gloves, Harrison, I had them one minute ago. Another messenger, in haste and breath- less, a voice at the door saying, If Miss Matties ready, she is to come; if not, Miss Julia is to come immediately. Coachman says the tide is still rising, and the horses will be frightened if the waves come too near. Master says he cant wait another minute. Its of no use, Miss Mattie, said Harrison; with the calmness of despair; we couldnt be ready, not if we tried never so, for a quarter of an hour ____ I must go, you see, added Julia hurriedly. Dont go on trying, Mattie, it is of no use. I wish papa had let it alone. Get on, Harrison, get on, whispered the youthful mistress to her maid, as the two were left behind. Never mind what they say; I shall be in time yet. Are you nearly done? Oh, this dreadful gown! H ow far have you got? You must be half-way? I can be collecting my things If you jump about like that, miss, I cant find the holes. XVeIl; but tell me the moment you reach the top What is that? It was the carriage rolling away from the front door. Mrs. Boscawen rather enjoyed her din- ner after that. She considerately ex- plained that, if she had only known her husbands wishes in time, she would not have cancelled her permission, and would not have sent her daughter to unrobe; she also demonstrated that if Mattie had not been over-impetuous in fulfilling her commands, her toilet might have been effected for the second time without diffi- culty. Finally, she considered that every. body had been to blame, and that she, who had tried to please all, had been un- rewarded for her efforts. It was cer- tainly hard that her husband, who so seldom took any part in family matters, should have been vexed and put out by what had happened. She could not understand his caring about such a trifle at all, and still less his, Well, I suppose I can make it all straioht but I had not happened. it MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. With unusual discretion, she did not confide the above remark to her com- panion, aware that it might be ruminated upon more than would be advisable, but confined herself to general subjects, after a passing word of commendation to Mat- ties thoughtfulness in coming at once when summoned to the meal, instead of waiting for further alterations in her ap- pearance. It could do her pretty dress no more harm to wear it on this quiet occasion, than to take it out and have it crushed among a crowd of people. She liked to see her children nice, and so seldom had that pleasure, that really it did her good,and so on, and so on. But, alas! after dinner the headache re- turned, so that even books and music could not be thought of with any satisfac- tion. No, she must go to bed; she was very sorry; it ~vas vexatious, now that they might have had a nice, cheery even- ing together, but it was of no use bearing up any longer. And dont sit up late yourself, little one, exhorted the parent, as she left the room. You will not have above an hour or two alone, for it is nearly eight now, you might have come into my room, but I must try to get a sleep. Dont go on with the story to yourself, Mattie that ~vould be too bad of you, when we are both so much inter- ested. I think I shall take it with me, laughing, to put it out of the way, for fear you should be tempted. Good-night. Dear, that ~vind! But I dont think it is quite so bad as it was. Not a sound now broke the silence in the house, save the dull moaning of the blast ~vithout, and the occasional patter of a shower on the window-panes. The servants were too far off in their own regions for voice or laugh to penetrate the passages above; and in the weird still- ness which prevailed, the striking of the hour by the great clock outside made the solitary watcher start. She started still more when immedi- ately following the last note of eight there rang through the house the sharp, im- perative peal of the great door-bell. At such an hour, on such a night, who could be thus seeking admittance? Tenants did occasionally come of an evening, when business obliged them to speak to her father, and a message from the farm ~vas a thing of frequent occurrence, but such visitors or despatches were usually conveyed through the back door; and even the parcels sent up by the village trades. people found their way into the house without passing through the entrance-hall. 53 What could it be? The others re- turned? No, the road was never im- passable, even in a spring-tide; and if anything had happened to the horses, news must have been heard of it long before. They had had time to reach Rimmin and come back again, Mattie calculated. But what should the carriage return for? There was a carriage, she made out, as in some curiosity she hung over the staircase, listening and peering1 through the open door into the portico. How very odd! It must be their car- riage, of course, and what was it doing there? Come for her ~ Boyd was leisurely ascending the stair- case ere the thought had had time to do more than dart into the listeners mind ere she had had a minute wherein to can- vass its merits, and school herself for its rejection if necessary. And once more in that eventful evening she had to learn that the wheel of fortune had turned. Sir Fredericks carriage come to fetch you, Miss Mattie, by masters orders, said the old man, with cheerful sympathy in his eye and tone. Her ladyship hopes to find you in the drawing-room when they come out from dinner. And accordingly, a pale, silent girl was sitting in a distant recess of the great drawing-room at Rimmin, listening, or feigning to listen, to a companion of her own age, pretty Isabel Wray, who ~vas bearing her company, when Frederick cast his eyes around to see whether the day was like to be his own or not. He came in last of all the stragglers from the dining-room. He stood still in the door- way, as though he had no particular de- sire to enter further, pulling his long moustache, and speaking to no one; but something in the gesture, in the pause and halt, meant to Mattie that her cousin had seen her. Next she became a~vare, and that without once raising her head or turning from her companion, that he was coming. How do you do? said Fred. What a long way off from everybody you two have down! Did you come here to es- cape from us all ? Miss Wray, continued he pleasantly, after a ~vhile, how good it was of you not to have been singing before we came in! I was afraid we had been missing a great deal. May we hope you will now ah delight us all with a ballad? It ~vas too late, another lady had been prevailed upon. Have you seen these new prints? 54 MATTIE: THE HISTORY OF AN EVENING. The polite host adroitly covered his de- feat. We have only just got the book. My mother is tremendously taken with them. In fact, Lady Turner had already in- flicted the volume on all present, and it had at length been made over to the girls. They had dutifully gone through the whole set, and everything that could be said had already been exhausted bet~veen them; but under Sir Fredericks guidance, to be sure, they were nothing loath to coin- mence the task afresh. He was bent on finding entertainment for both, directing his attentions to Isabel, but keeping by the others side. Yet lie scarcely spoke to Mattie, leaning across her even, to point out beauties to her companion; and she began at last to wonder whether she was really happy or wretched, and to commune with herself as to whether she had not better take the first opportunity of rising and leaving a seat which, although by her cousins side, yet brought her no closer to him. At length the sounds of music ceased. Miss Hamilton is tired, said Fred, shutting the book briskly; and she is not in voice to-night. We must not allow her to be tasked again. N ow it is your turn. And he rose, resolutely address- ing Isabel. Naturally she stood up also. A table which had been drawn in front of the trio for the heavy book to lie upon ~vas pushed aside by the gentleman, pushed right in froni of his cousin, that Miss Wray might pass by the more con- veniently, and in the movement a clumsy accident occurred a valuable vase of Lady Turners was thrown down and broken. Oh dear! cried both the horror- stricken damsels, in consternation. Pray go on, impldred the more hard- ened offender. Dont stop, or it will be noticed. 1 will pick up the pieces. In the name of charity, Miss Wray, rush to the piano, and save me from my mother. Miss Wray obeyed, and the coast was clear at last. Mattie, said Frederick, very softly, help me, will you? She stooped in search of the fragments, and lie, like a blockhead, took the same nioment for stooping also, at the risk of the two heads crashing together. Was it that which made her start, and the china fall from her hand again? No, it was not a blow, but a whisper from her cousin. I must see you for a moment alone. I must speak to you to-night. The song began. Go into my iiiothers little room, said Fred, with his back to the company, and his head still bent over the broken jar. Go out at this door, and no one can see, you wont refuse me? Wait till you hear. I will be ~vith you immedi- ately. How she got out, or whether she were really unobserved or not as she stole away, Mattie never knew. Fred declared afterwards that she did it admirably, but then lie allowed at the same time that lie had neither looked nor cared; he knew she went, and that was enough for liini. He found his own way out bytl~e prin- cipal entrance at the other end of the room, taking, as it ~vere, a casual stroll towards it, with a word here and a word there to one and another of the company whom chance threw in his way, and then seizing his opportunity to escape ~vhen all were engaged. Within a very few min- utes lie was keeping his tryst. But the light was so partial in the little room, only a single bar of moonshine having shot through the mullioned win- dow, that to the first survey no figure was discernible anywhere within. He stopped short. Mattie! I am here. She was nearly hidden from his view by the curtain, even when her voice di- rected him where to look; her dress might have been one of its folds, in the deep shadow where she stood. I am here. But she did not turn round, nor move towards him. The ~vaves were booming over the rocks below, but there was no longer the angry roar of a flowing tide to aid their clamor; the wind had subsided with its ebb, and a sullen swell had succeeded to the tumult of the waters. Even so ~vas Matties breast heaving with departed passions, conflicts, griefs, and bitterness. All these were over now; she scarcely trembled she was calm, solemn, wrapped in a sort of trance; a sense of ~vondering awe held her still, and quieted the beating of her heart. What had happened, or what was going to happen, she could but dimly realize. Yet was she neither confused nor bewil- dered, only conscious of a deep, strange peace, and then of a voice in her ear, a presence by her side, some one holding her in his arms. Why, Mattie! My darling! Mattie did not swoon away, she only turned very white and sank gently for- THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. 55 wards, before she was caught and upheld; and since even fainting people can do without water when it is not to be had, it is to be presumed that Frederick con- sidered this to be a case in ~vhich that restorative might be dispensed with. He did not go in search of it, he tried other means; and so successful were these, that tears ~vere flowing and cheeks were blushing rosy red again, long ere he had done: and so much had to be said, a~d vowed, and sworn, and the speaker o fervent and impetuous in his mode of saying it, and so resolute in claiming his right to add appropriate accompany- ing actions, that his fair companion was in no danger of mistaking reality for dreamland again. But, indeed, you gave me a fright when first I saw you to-night, said Fred, at last. I could not understand that pale, sorrowful face. I thought we had dragged you here against your will. Why, did your father not tell you all about it? My father? said Mattie, raising her eyes. Who else? Did he did you not know? I waylaid him this afternoon, got his consent and his promise to bring you. Then I went home and made my mother write. And when I did not come? Ay, indeed, when you did not come, I thought it was all up with me; but my uncle had the charity to take me aside before dinner and explain how it. was. So I sent for you. Why, the tide was nothing; that coachman of yours is an old wife for thinking of such rubbish. But, do you know, my little cousin, I had not the pluck to ask whether you had obeyed the summons or not! Upon my word, Mattie, I was such a craven, that I sat still in the dining-room, though I heard the carriage pass the window, and could not muster enough spirit either to make an excuse for going outside to meet you, or even to inquire if you were there. Until I beheld you with my own eyes, I had no idea what I was to expect. And now And now the victory was his, as he de- served it should be. Like a right bold gallant, he had gone straight on his course whatever of weakness he might choose to confess in a tender momentand the event had justified his temerity. His cousin, he had aroued within himself, had certainly been cold, constrained, and dis- tant to himbut that was all he could allege against his hopes of her. And what of that? Was it for him to be back- ward because the woman of his choice did not fling herself into his arms? Cold, indeed! Were she to all appearance as cold as ice, was that to say there was no warmth within, no smouldering volcano beneath the snowy surface? How could he tell if he never tried? He would have it out, yea or nay, and know her mind from her own lips. If she loved him, well; if not, if she would have none of him, the worst ~vas out, and there would be no more beating about the bush, dis- appointments, vexations, and heart-burn- in~s ever recurring. He would bear his rejection if need be, like a man, but he would at least meet it face to face. In short, our lover made a second dash through the quicksands, and a second time reached the shore in safety. Would that more were like him! But Matties ups and downs were scarcely over for that eventful evening even now. She had to go back to the great saloon presently, to run the gaunt- let of inquisitive glances, of affectionate anxiety, and of sisterly frowns. Even with Fred by her side, these could not but be felt, even with his shadow bet~veen her and the lights, her lip must quiver and her eyelids droop. While the rest of the company remained, the hour must have its drawbacks. But at length came happiness, complete and unalloyed. She was cleared in the eyes of all ; her father smiled, her sisters stared, she ~vas taken to her aunts heart, and she was Freds forevermore. Now, was there ever likely to be an- other evening in Matties life like unto this? From Macmillans Magazine. THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONS- FIELD. DEATH is the gate of criticism: the grave is, by a strange law of natural com- pensation, essentially memorial. Once let it close over an eminent person, and the justice of perspective is restored: ~ve remember much that ~ve have forgot- ten; ~ve forget much that ~ve have remem- bered. More especially is this the case on the decease of an author whose life implies eloquence before a prejudiced or preoccupied audience. His words seem to return in a sequence, connecting and characterizing his work, and the man re- vives in the manner. Above all, how- THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. ever, do these remarks concern Lord Beaconsfield. His individuality was so emphatic that impartial criticism has been hitherto impossible. On the one hand, there have been those who could not be- lieve that a brilliant statesman might also be a great author, just as many argue from a womans beauty against her ability; on the other, those who believed that rare literary promise had been blighted by rarer political success. To estimate Lord Beaconsfields posi- tion in the empire of letters is a task far beyond our present space. We might have chosen the marvellous consistency of his sentiments, or the remarkable method of their development in his ro- mances, or the invention by him (for such it is) of the political novel as our theme. But all these are not his most peculiar features, nor will they perpetuate him most. His wit and his humor are his style, and he himself has declared that it is on style that fiction most depends. We ought first, however, to distinguish aright between wit and humor, for these terms indicate qualities and results by no means identical, and seldom co-existent. We remember to have heard an acute thinker sum up the difference between them by terming wit a point, and humor a straight line; but this epigram is inade- quate. Wit is no resume of humor; the two qualities differ in kind. Wit is a de- partment of style; it is the faculty of combining dissimilars, abstract and con- crete alike, by the language of illustra- tion, suggestion, and surprise. Like mis- ery, it yokes strange bed-fellows, but with the link of ~vords alone. It is best when intellectually true, but its requisite is fancy. Humor, on the other hand, is an exer- cise, by whatever means, of perception; it is the faculty of discerning the incon- gruities of the concrete alone, particularly of human nature; it looks on this pic. ture and on that; it is most excellent when ethically sound, but its essence is analysis. Wit works by comparison, humor by contrast. The sphere of wit is narro~ver than that of humor; the subject-matter of humor more limited than that of wit. We laugh at humor, at wit we smile. Talent is capableof the former; the per. fection of the latter is reserved for cYen. ius. Wit is, as it were, Yorick, with cap and bells; but humor unmasks him with a moral. To define wit and humor one ought to be both humorous and witty, but we may epitomize by saying that wit is mirth turned philosopher humor, phi- losophy at play. If this account be correct, it is clear that humor is at once the more real and the more dramatic agency of the two. Yet wit has been infinitely the least fre- quent, particularly among the Western races. They, like their Gothic architec- ture, delight in rough, grotesque, exuber- ant animalities; but, if we except the Celtic race, it is to the East that we must turn for proverb and simile. The Hag- gadah contains more absolute wit ~m even Aristophanes, the prince of humor- ists, sprung too as he was from an Asian civilization. The wisdom of the Koran is wittily formulated. Holy Writ itself contains many examples of wit, though none of humor; while the Moorish and Jewish schools of medi~val Spain furnish wit as subtle and supple as the flashing and fantastic arabesques of their Alham- bra. If, we repeat, the Celts, who are both humorous and witty, be excepted, wit is of the Eastern, humor of the West- ern temperament, while the conjunction of both, the existence of what might be called Westoriensalism, is extremely un- common. Almost the sole examples of wit pure and simple in post-Shakespearian times have been Voltaire, Moli~re, Rochefou- cauld, Sheridan, and Heine: four were Celts, and the last a Hebrew, and in their company is to be enrolled Lord Beacons- field. But Moli~re, Sheridan, and Heine were also humorists, and humorists again typically different. The humor of Moli- ~re and of Sheridan is, like that of Dick- ens or of Hocrarth, direct and mainly didactic, pointing to the follies and foi- bles of mankind, the first chiefly by situ- ation, the latter chiefly by speech; the humor of Heine, like that of Sterne, and often of Thackeray, indirect and inclined to the sentimental, insinuating with all the machinery of playful surprise the inconsistencies that enlist feeling or awaken thought. The former is the broadsword of Cceur de Lion, the latter the scimitar of Saladin. It is of this latter species that Lord Beaconsfields finest humor must be reckoned. Let us begin with an instance from Tancred. He is describing the He- brew Feast of Tabernacles Picture to yourself the child of Israel in the dingy suburb or the stolid quarter of some bleak northern town, where thcre is never a sun that can at any rate ril)en grapes; yet he must celebrate the vintage of purl)le Palestine. - He rises in the morning; goes early to THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. 57 some Whitechapel market, purchases some willow-boughs for which he has previously given a commission, and which are brought probably from one of the neighboring rivers of Essex, hastens home, cleans out the yard of his miserable tenements, builds his bower, decks it even profusely with the finest flowers and fruit he can procure, and hangs its roof with variegated lamps. After the service of his Synagogue he sups late with his wife and chil- dren in the open air as if he were in the pleas- ant villages of Galilee beneath its sweet and starry sky. . . . Perhaps, as he is offering up the peculiar thanksgiving of the feast of Taber- nacles, praising Jehovah for the vintage which his children may no longer cull, but also for his promise that they may some day again en- joy it, and his wife and his children are joining in a pious Hosanna, that is Save us, a part) of Anglo-Saxons, very respectable men, ten-pounders, a little elevated it may be, though certainly not in honor of the vintage, pass the house, and words like these are heard I say, Buggins, whats that row? Oh! its those cursed ~ews! weve a lot of them. It is one of their horrible feasts. The lord mayor ought to interfere. However, things are not so bad as they used to be. They used always to crucfy little boys at their hullabaloos, but now they only eat sausages made of stinking pork To be sure, replies his companidn, we all make progress. We are at once remined by this blended pathos and humor of the sudden transi- tion at the close of Heines Moses Lump. Yet another example from the same Palestinic portion of the same book: Mr. Bernard is always with the English bishop, who is delighted to have an addition to his congregation, which is not too much, consisting of his own family, the English and Prussian consuls, and five Jews whom they have converted at twenty piastres a week, but I know they are going to strike for wages. And once more Barizy of the Tower, a Jew, one of the lifelike group of Jerusa- lem gossips, is made to say to Consul Pasqualizo : I dont think I can deal in crucifixes. I tell you what, if you wont your cousin Barizy of the Gate will. I know he has given a great order to Bethlehem. The traitor, exclaimed Barizy of the Tower. Well, ~/ people will purchase cruc4zes, and nothing else, they must be supplied. Commerce civilizes man. And indeed we shall find this same spe- cial vein of humor in his first novel alike and his last. Take this from Vivian Grey. The speaker is M. Sievers, the German statesman : We have plenty of metaphysicians if you mean them. Watch that lively-looking gentle- man who is stuffing Kalte Schale so vora ciously in the corner. The leaven of the idealists, a pupil of the celebrated Fichte the first principle of this school is to reject all expressions ~vhich incline in the slightest de- gree to substantiality. Existence is in his opinion a word too absolute. Being, principle, and essence, are terms scarcely sufficiently ethereal even to indicate the subtle shadow- ings of his opinions. Matter is his great enemy. My dear sir, observe how exquisitely Nature revenges herself on these capricious and fantastic children. . . - Methinks that the best answer to the idealism of AL Fichte is to see his pupil devouring Kalte Schale. And this from Endymion: The chairman opened the proceedings, but was coldly received, though he spoke sensibly and at some length. He then introduced a gentleman who was absolutely an Alderman to move a resolution condemnatory of the Corn Laws. The august position of the speaker atoned for his halting rhetoricand a city which had only just for the first time been in- vested with municipal privileges was hushed be- fore a man who ,nz~-ht in time even become a mayor. Of a like character is the remark of Lothair after the opera servants Thank you, my lord, had attested the over- powering honorarium . He knows me, thought Lothair; but it was not so. When the British nation is at once grateful and enthusiastic they always call you, my lord. Or, again, Lord Monmouths indignant advice to Coningsby : You go with your family, sir, like a gentle- man. You are not to consider your opinions like a philosopher or a political adventurer. Or Waldershares account of Englands ascendency: I must say it was a grand idea of our kings making themselves sovereigns of the sea. The greater portion of this planet is water, so we at once become afirst-rate power. Or the Homeric simplicity of the An- sary tribe, who believe London to be sur- rounded by sea, and ask if the English live in ships, and are thus corrected by the would-be interpreter, Keferin is: The English live in ships only during six months of the year, principally when they go to India, the rest entirely at their country houses. Similar too is the oblique sarcasm of Fakredeen : We ought never to be surprised at anything that is done by the English, who are after all in a certain sense savages verything they require is imported from other countries. THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. . . I have been assured at Beiroot that they do not grow even their own cottonbut that I can hardly believe. Even their religion is an exotic, and as they are indebted for that to Syria, it is not surprising they should import their education from Greece. And this light thrust at London architec- ture: Shall we find a refuge in a committee of taste, escape from the mediocrity of one to the mediocrity of many? . . . But one suggestion might be made. No profession in England has done its best until it has furnished its vic- tim. The pure administration of justice dates from the deposition of Macclesfield. - . - Even our boasted navy never achieved a victory until we shot an admiral. Suppose an architect were hanged! * Or finally, not to embarrass with riches, in the philosophy of hot plates, ~vhere the reason of cold dinners in Paris is ascribed to the inferiority of French pot- tery and the author concludes quite in the manner of Sterne : Now if we only had that treaty of commerce with France which has been so often on the point of compietion, the fabrics of our un- rivalled potteries in exchange for their capital wines would be found throughout France. The dinners of both nations would be im- proved; the English would gain a delightful beverage, and the French for the first time in their lives would dine off hot plates, an unan- swerable instance of the advantages of commer- cial reciprocity. But it is not this note alone, though to our minds this note is best, that Lord Beaconsfield strikes in the scale of hu- mor. Lie has rung almost all the changes it contains, from the broadest comedy to the finest irony. He has revelled in bur- lesque, and has yet developed characters whose humor is at once lifelike and astonishing. Thackeray himself, in his Mirobolant love-making by the dishes he has cooked, had not surpassed the mock gravity of the chefs conference with whiTh Tan- cred opens. The scene is laid in that part of the celebrated parish of St. George, which is bounded on one side by Pic- cadilly, and on the other by Curzon Street. - It is in this district that the cooks have ever sought an elegant abode. An air of stillness and sereni/v, ofexhaustedpassion and suppressed emotion, rather than of sluggishness or dulness, distinguishes this quarter during the day. It is in such august surroundings that Papa Prevost, the veteran chey; advises young Leander, his favorite pupil ( the * Tancred. chef of the age ), on his choice of an aide-de-camp in the approaching campaign of Tancreds coming-of-age banquet : What you have learned from me came at least from a good school. It is something to have served under Napoleon, added Prevost, with the grand air of the imperial kitchen. Had it not been for Waterloo I should have had the cross, but the Bourbons and the cooks of the empire never could understand each other. They brought over an emigrant chef who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to bring everything back to the time of the ceil de bceuf; when Monsieur passed my soup of Austerlitx untasted, I knew the old family ~vas doomed; but we gossil). - . . There is Andrieu . . - you had some hopes of him. He is too young. I took him to Hellingsley, and he lost his head on the third day. I in- trusted the souftYees to him, and but for the most desperate personal exertions all would have been lost. It was an affair of the Bridge of Arcola. Ak, mon Dieu, there are moments I ex- claimed Prevost. Equally too of the Thackerayan flavor is the account of Freeman and Trueman, the flunkeys attendant on Tancred in Pal- estine, who call an emir the Izaineer. The former comments on a Syrian cas- tle : There must have been a fine coming of age here, rejoined Trueman. As for that, replied Freeman, comings of age depend in a manner upon meat and drink. They aint in no way to be carried out with coffee and pipes; without oxen roasted whole and broached hogsheads they aint in a manner legal. And again while near the Lebanon. I know what you are thinking of, John, replied Mr. F. in a serious tone. You are thinking if anything were to happen to either of us in this heathen land we should get Chris- tian burial. Lord love you, Mr. Freeman, no I wasnt. I was thinking of a glass of ale. Ah! sighed Freeman, it softens the heart to think of such things away from home as we are. Do you know, John, there are times when I feel very queer, there are indeed. I catched myself a-singing Sweet Home one izzg-ht among those sava~ es in the wilderness. One wants consolation sometimes, one does, in- deed, and for my part I do miss the family prayers and the home-brewed. The Thackerayan irony is once more apparent in the picture of the sponging- house where Ferdinand Armine finds him- self immured: There were also indications of literary amuse- ment in the room in the shape of a Hebrew Bible and the Racing Calendar; THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. and in the money-lenders advice for diminishing the loan required: Fifteen hundred pound, ejaculated Mr. Levison. Well, I suppose we must make it 700/. somehow or other, and you must take the rest in coals; * in Mrs. Guy Flouncey, sure of an ally directly the gentlemen appeared, t (a Becky Sharp in miniature) as she cries in triumph after the aristocratic ball for which she has strenuously pined, XVe have done it at last, my love. ~ And in the Radical manufacturers confession of political faith, I dont like extremes. A wise minister should take the duty off cotton ~vool. But the broader humor, that of Field- ing and Dickens, is also forcibly repre- sented in Lord Beaconsfields pages. Perhaps few of our readers remember the squire in Venetia surely a country cousin of the little judge in Pickwick when Morgana, the suspected gipsy,. is brought up for trial before him. Trust me to deal with these fellows. - The hint of petty treason staggered him. - . . The court must be cleared. Constable, clear the court. Let a stout man stand on each side of the prisoner to protect the bench. The magistracy of England will never shrink from doing their duty, but they must be protected. Or again the music hall in Sybil with its entertainments redolent of Vin- cent Crummles and Miss Snevelhcci : Some nights there was music on the stage. A young lady in a white robe with a golden harp, and attended by a gentleman in black mustachios. This was when the principal harpist of the king of Saxony and his first fiddle happened to be passing through Mow- bray merely by accident on a tour of pleasure and instruction to witness the famous scenes of British industry. Otherwise the audience of the Cat and Fiddle we beg pardon, we mean the Temple of the Muses were fain to be content with four Bohemian broth- ers, or an equal number of Swiss sisters. Or Mr. Fitzloom, the Manchester man in Vivian Grey, who might have walked straight out of Little Dorrit, if he had not lived so long before that wonderful work was written That is Miss Fitzloom? asked Lady Madeline. Not exactly, my lady, said Mr. Fitzloom, not exactly Miss Fitzloom, Miss Aurelia Fitzloom, my third daughter. Our third eldest, as Mrs. Fitzloom sometimes says, for O Henrietta Temple. I Coningsby. Tancred. Endymion. really it is necessary to distinguish with such a family as ours, you know. Or Lady Spirituelle, described like Mrs. Wititterly herself as all soul, * or Mr. Smith, the fashionable novelist, that is to say a person who occasionally publishes three volumes, one half of which contains the adventures of a young gentleman in the coun- try, and the other volume and a half the ad- ventures of the same young gentleman in the metropolist In the same strain too is Lord Cadurcis prejudice against Pontius Pilate from seeing him when I was a child on an old Dutch tile fireplace at Marringhurst, dressed like a Burgomaster.$ And the school in Vivian Grey kept by sixteen young ladies, all the daughters of clergymen, merely to attend to the morals and the linen ; terms moderate, one hundred guineas per annum for all under six years of age, and a few extras only for fencing, pure milk, and the guitar. And (to terminate this section of our illus- trations) the celebrated Dartford election from Coningsby, the rival of that at Eatanswill in Pick~vick. Its nomina- tion day, lounging without an object, and luncheon without an appetite, Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck with their rival war-cries, and above all Rigbys speech He brought in his crack theme, the guil- lotine, and dilated so elaborately upon its qualities, that one of the gentlemen below could not refrain from exclaiming, I wish you may get it. This exclamation gave Mr. Rigby what is called a great opening, which, like a practised speaker, he immediately seized. He denounced the sentiment as un-English, and got very much cheered. Excited by this success, Ri~gby began to call everything else with which he did not agree un-English, until menac- ing murmurs began to arise, when be shifted the subject and rose into a grand peroration, in which he assured them that the eyes of the whole empire were on this l)articular election (cries of Thats true on all sides), and that England expected every man to do his duty. And who do you expect to do yours, in- quired a gentleman below, about that ere pension ? We must still, before we can consider our authors wit, treat, and of necessity briefly, his burlesque humor and his hu- morous development of character. The former is rifest, as is natural, in his earli- est works, and overflowing with high spirits, though never of an impersonal * Popanilla. t Vivian Grey. Venetia. 59 6o THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. nature. Their constant reference to poli- tics and society allies them more nearly to Gullivers Travels than to The Rose and the Ring, though the whimsical Beckendorif and the episode in Vivian Grey of the Rhine-wine dukes is an ex- ception to this rule. Let us commence with the earliest : I protest, said the king of Thessaly, against this violation of the most sacred rights. The marriage tie? said Mercury. The dinner hour? said Jove. It is no use talking sentiment to Ixion, said Venus, mortals are callous. Adventures to the adventurous, said Mi- nerva.* And the rubber between Teiresias and Proserpine in the Infernal Marriage: The trick and two by honors, said Pros- erpine. Pray, my dear Teiresias, you, who are such a fine player, how came you to trump my best card? Because I wanted the lead, and those who want to lead, please your majesty, must never hesitate about sacrificing their friends. And the ~vhole of Popanilla, particu- larly the parable of the pineapples and the trial of the hero, who, arraigned on a charge of treason, discovers the indict- ment is for stealing ca melopards, and is informed by the judge that originally Vraibleusia abounded with these splendid animals, to punish the destroyers of which his court was instituted : Therefore, his lordship added, in order to try you in this court for the modern offence of high treason, you must first be introduced by fiction of law as a stealer of camelopards, and then, being injresenti regio, in a manner, we l)roceed to business by a special power for the absolute offence. - - - The judge - - - summed up in the most impartial manner. He told the jury that although the case was quite clear against the prisoner, they were bound to give him the advantage of every reasonable doubt. It is this excessive buoyancy that, flout- ing graver themes, has often, and some- times not unjustly, been stigmatized as flippant, but which, in a famous passage f from one of the diatribes against Peel, was to be wielded as a formidable political weapon. In the delineation of humorous charac- ter, despite the fact that political or social aims contract their horizon, we claim for Lord Beaconsfield at least moments of mastery. He has created types instead Ixion in Heaven. I That about Popkius Plan. I of, like the conventional satirists, appro- priating them. To borrow his own lan- guage, his pleasure has been, to con- trast the hidden motive with the public pretext of transactions.* Because Si- donia is a paradox incarnate, we are not to forget that Lord Monmouth is a mas- terpiece, any more than the caricatures of Acres or Mrs. Malaprop should prevent our appreciation of the two Surfaces. In the masculine gallery, Lord Monmouth, Taper, and Tadpole (creations in Sheri- dans best manner, but too familiar to recapitulate here), Essper George f (the modern Sancho Panza to a master the exact reverse of Don Quixote), St. Alde- gonde, Rigby, Fakredeen (the Louis Na- poleon of Syrian intrigue), Lord Montfort, the cynic who knew he ~vas dying when he found himself disobeyed, are remark- able, as are Bertie Tremaine, who al- ways walked home with the member who had made the speech of the evenino- and who welcomed at his table every one except absolute assassins, and Mr. Putney Giles, who, intelligent, acquaint- ed with everything except theology and metaphysics, liked to oblige, a little to patronize, never made difficulties, and always overcame them, and Mr. Phebus, the muscular ~sthete: while Lady Bellair (Lady Blessington ) who hates people who are only rich, and in her old age always has a gay season, Lady Mont- fort; the Scheherezad~ of society, Zeno- bia, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey are attrac- tively so in the feminine; though in his treatment of womans character, Lord Beaconsfield chivalrously prefers the he- roic to the humorous. We have space to examine two only, and shall select them from what their author has styled the dark sex. Lord Monmouth is the Marquis of Steyne anatomized. He is the mauvais id/al of the old Tory .peers who were the pillars of the organized hypocrisy. Never wanting in energy when his own interests were concerned, dislikincr to hear of people who were dead, lookino- on human nature with the callous eye of a jockey, when he pleased rather f asci- nating to young men, his superb selfish- ness and sordid sagacity are built up block by block, like some Pharoah of Egyptian antiquity : * Coningsby. t Vivian Grey. The description of the Toadies in the same work, and the nomenclature in his earlier compositions, show how strongly Sheridan influenced the young J) Israeli. I Henrietta Temple. THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though if n~e ssary he could squander it like a calif. iTh had even a respect for very rich men. It was his only weakness; the only exception to his general scorn for his specieswit, power, particular friendship, general popularity, pub- lic opinion, beauty, genius, virtue, all these are to be purchased; but it does not follow that you can buy a rich man. You may not be willing or able to spare enough. A person or a thing that you could not buy became in- vested in the eyes of Lord Afonrnouth with a kind of halo, amounting almost to sanctity. His heartlessly diplomatic removal of Lady Monmouth through Rigby, his one sally of indignation provoked by his neph- ews enthusiasm, By , some woman has got hold of him and made him a Whio and his verdict on the Reform Bill, D the Reform Bill. If the duke had not quarrelled with Lord Grey, on a coal committee, we should never have had the Reform Bill, complete a portrait worthy of Juvenal. It is a grim figure, but we must not deny it almost its sole virtue, and that posthumous the bequest to his creature Rigby: Lord Monmouth left to the Right honor- able Nicholas Rigby the bust of that gentle- man which he had himself presented to his lordship, and which at his desire had been placed in the vestibule at Coningsby Castle, from the amiable motive that after Lord Mon- mouths decease, Mr. Rigby might wish perhaps to present it to some other friend. with the groan of a rebellious Titan, how I hate Sunday! Granville ! exclaimed Lady St. Aldegonde, turning pale. There was a general shudder. I mean in a country house, said Lord St. Aldegonde. Of course I mean in a country house. I do not dislike it alone, and I do not dislike it in London, but Sunday in a country house is in- fernal. We have dilated at some length on the various aspects of Lord Beaconsfields humor, for it is to our minds far the most important feature of his writings, but after all it is for his daring and dazzling wit that he will universally be remem- bered. It is, as we have said, a rare quality, and it is also a gift that lives. Wit has wings. A happy phrase becomes a proverb, and the wittier half of a work, like the favorite melodies of a composi- tion, survives the whole. The more will this be likely when the yvc5yr~ is to repeat ourselves intellectually true, when fancy jumps ~vith fact. This is, we imagine, the secret of Lord Beaconsfields wit. It may seem paradoxical to assert of his most popular pai-adoxes that they are just, but we do so. He, like his Sidonia, said many things that ~vere strange, yet they instantly appeared to be true. Be this as it may, ~vit is certainly the most plentiful element of his later novels. They are confessedly novels of conversa- tion. It is a relief to turn to Lord St. AIde- In life surely [he observes in Vivian Grey,] man is not always as monstrously gonde, the embodiment of the Radical busy as he appears to be in novels and ro- nobleman. Two quotations shall suffice mances; we are not always in action, not for the outlines of this delightful free always making speeches, or making money, or churchman, fresh in the recollection of making ~var, or making love. Occasionally all readers of Lothair we talk about the weather, sometimes about ourselves, oftener about our friends, and as A republican of the reddest dye, he often about our enemies. was opposed to all privilege, and indeed to all orders of men except Dukes, who were a ne- This conversational treatment is an cessity. He was also strongly in favor of the element of their originality. Gradually equal division of all property except land. as his political and social career became Liberty depended on land, and the greater the mu re definite and progressive, the humor land-owners the greater the liberty of a coun- in his novels recedes and the wit abounds. try. He would bold forth on this topic with Tb e only Englis energy, amazed at any one differing from him h prime minister who has As if a fello~v could have too much land, been a professed wit, he felt its efficacy he would urge with a voice and glance which as a weapon, used it, and we may add defied contradiction. - . . never abused it. Squib, repartee, epi- The meal was over. The bishop was stand- gram, and lampoon, all applied by him, ing near the mantelpiece talking to the ladies have yet never been misapplied to gloze who were clustered round him. The arch- immorality or profane religion. His very deacon, and the chaplain, and some other sneer is good humor, and if he ~vas in clergy, a little in the background. Lord St Aldegonde, who, whether there were a fire o any sense Diogenes, he was certainly a not, always stood with his hands in his pock- Diogenes who lived out of the tub. ets, moved discourteously among them then Wit, to classify roughly, is twofold. assumed his usual position and listened as it There is the lightning ~vit that flashes were grimly for a few moments to their talk. off a short sentence or an apt reply, and Then he suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice there is the lambent wit that sparkles 62 THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. either by description or dialogue. We shall begin with instances of the first. And here there is scarcely need to quote. Every one knows his aphorisms. The hansom cab, the gondola of London, and the critics, the men who have failed; ~ Tadpoles Tory men and Whig measures, and Rigbvs little words in great capitals; Don Juan, the style of the House of Commons, Paradise Lost, that of the House of Lords; All the great things have been done by the little nations, and Our young queen and our old constitution, The Whigs bathing, and, we may add, London, the key of India; are house- hold words. It is in Coningsby and Lothair that perhaps the best of his apophthegms are found. Thence spring The govern- ment of great measures, or little men of humbug or humdrum; and Youth, the trustees of posterity; The Austrians, the Chinese of Europe; and Diplom- atists the Hebrews of poltics ; Paris, the university of the ~vorld; and St. Jamess Square, the Faubourg St. Ger- main of London; The gentlemen who played with billiard-balls games that were not billiards; and The lady ~vho sacri- ficed even her lovers to her friends; Most women are vain, some men are not; and the lawyer who was not an intellectual Crcesus, but had his pockets full of sixpences ; Pantheism, atheism in domino; and Books, the curse of the human race; Pearls are like girls, and Malt tax is madness of Austria, Two things made her a nation she was German and she was Catholic, and now she is ucither; and of the Reform Bill, It gave to Manchester a bishop and to Birmingham a dandy. But in- deed ~vords fully as good as these are to be found throughout. It is time to recall Lord Squibs definition of the value of money, very dear; and Count Mira- bels (DOrsays) l)leasantry, Coffee and confidence; t Essper Georges Like all great travellers I have seen more than I remember and remembered more than I have seen ; ~ and Popanilla, The most dandified of savages and the most savage of dandies; Venus, the god- dess of watering-places ; and Bur- lington, with his old loves and new dances ; ~ Good fortune with good * Compare the Infernal Marriage.~~ Ixion. Are there any critics in Hell? Myriads, rejoined the ex-king of Lydia. The Voung Duke. Ixion in Heaven. ~ Vivian Grey. I The Young Duke. manacYement, no country house, and no children, is Aladdins lamp; * and the Treatise on a subject in which every- body is interested, in a style no one un- clerstands; ~ the French actress who avers at supper, No language makes you so thirsty as French ; ~ and the English tradesmen, who console themselves for not getting their bills paid by inviting their customers to dinner. The utilita- rian whose dogma ~vas, Rules are gen- eral, feelings are general, and property should be general; and the definition of liberty, Do as others do, and never knock men down. There has been scarcely time to forget the advice in Lo- thair to go in to the country for the first note of the nightingale and return to town for the first note of the muffin-bell ; or perhaps to remember Zenobia in En- dymion, who liked handsome people, even handsome women, and Mr. Ferrars who committed suicide from a want of imagination. A brace of very witty similes should not be here omitted. The one a comparison of the Parliament-built regio nof Harley Street to a large family of plain children, with Portland Place and Portman Square for their respectable parents; ~ the other, that of the de- tached breakfasttables at Brentham to a cluster of Greek or Italian republics, instead of a great metrol)olitan table like a central govern!~ent, absorbing all the genius and resources of society; nor should the Heinesque lyric on Charm- in~T Bionetta ~ ~ close, b vith its ~x1LLy be suffered to die away unreechoed Charming Bignetta, charming Bignetta, What a wicked young rogue is charming Big- netta! She laughs at my shyness, and flirts with his Highness, Yet still she is charming, that charming Big- netta! Charming Bignetta, charming Bignetta, What a dear little girl is charming Bignetta! Think me only a sister, said she trembling I kissed her. What a charming young sister is charming Bignetta! In the same category too are those felic- itous turns of terse expression, whether new or newly-shaped, which distinguish Lord Beaconsfield above any other modern novelist. The Parliamentary Christian, for Protestant, and the freetrader in * Tancred. t Vivian Grey. The Young Duke. The Young Duke. II Popanilla. Tancred. ** Lothair. THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. 63 gossip, for the bad listener in Lothair, the Midland sea, for the Mediterranean in Tancred and Venetia; the figure of unbut/oning ones brains, and * the jingle plundered and blundered, of Coningsby, the heresy of cutlets, from Venetia, the ortolans stuffed with truffles and the truffles with orto- lans from Endymion, the confused explanations and explained confusions, from Popanilla. The terms states- woman and anecdotage, melancholy ocean and Batavian grace, remind us that Benjamin Disraeli is the son of an author he has himself portrayed as saun- ten n g on his garden terrace meditating some happy phrase. It still remains for us to advert to the wit of sustained sparkle rather than of sudden flashes. Of this there is an ad- mirable specimen in Tancred. Lady Constance is alluding to The Revela- tions of Chaos, a tract on evolution. It shows you exactly how a star is formed; nothing could be so pretty. A clus- ter of vaporthe cream of the Milky Way, a sort of celestial cheese churned into light. You must read it; it is charming. Nobody ever saw a star formed, said Tancred. Perhaps not; you must read the Revela. tions. It is all explained. But what is most interesting is the way in which man has been developed. You know all is development. The principle is perpetually going on. First there was nothing, then there was something, then I forget the next. I think there were shells, then fishes; then we came, let me see, did we come next Never mind that we came, and the next change there will be some- thing very superior to us, something with wings. Ah! thats it, we were fishes, and I believe we shall be crows. . . . Everything is proved by geology, you know. . . . This is development; we had fins, we may have Wings. This passage is not only wit, but humor also, according as we regard the speaker or the speech, and as both combined as in fact XVestoriental, irresistible. Or again, Herbert in Venetia: I doubt whether a man at fifty is the same material being that he is at five-and-twenty. I wonder, said Lord Cadurcis, if a creditor brought an action against you at fifty for goods sold and delivered at five-and-twenty one could set up the want of identity as a plea in bar; it would be a consolation to an elderly gentleman. Or the ladys reasoning on the Gulf Stream theory, * This expression is Beethovens. I think we want more evidence of a change. The vice-chancellor and I went down to a place we have near town on Saturday where there is a very nice piece of water, indeed, some people call it a lake. My boys wanted to skate, but that I would not permit. You believe in the Gulf Stream to that extent, said Lothair, no skating. Or once more, a piece of raillery from Vivian Grey: What a pity, Miss Manvers, that the fash. ion has gone out of selling oneself to the devil. Good gracious, Mr. Grey! On my honor I am quite serious. It does appear to me to be a very great pity; what a cap ital p/an for younger brotbers. It is a kind of thing I have been trying to do all my life, and never could succeed. I began at school with toasted cheese and a pitchfork. Or the report of the debate in the House of Lords imposing particularly if we take a part in it. Lord Exchamberlain thought the nation going on wrong, and he made a speech full of currency and constitution. Baron Deprivy. seal seconded him with great effect, brief but bitter, satirical and sore. The Earl of Quar. terday answered these full of confidence in the nation and himself. When the debate was getting heavy Lord Snap jumped up to give them something light. The Lords do not en- courage wit, and so are obliged to put up with pertness. But Viscount Memoir was very statesmanlike and spouted a sort of universal history. Then there was Lord Ego, who vin- dicated his character when nobody knew he had one, and explained his motives because his auditors could not understand his acts.* Or the comparison of the Tories who supported Peel in his defection to the converted Saxons by Charlemagne: When the emperor appeared, instead of conquering he converted them. How were they converted? In battalions the old chronicler informs us they were converted in battalions and baptized in platoons. It was ut- terly impossible to bring these individuals from a state of reprobation to one of grace with a celerity sufficiently quick.t And last, though decidedly not least the dictum of Mendez Pinto : English is an expressive language, but not difficult to master. Its range is limited ; it consists, as far as I can observe, of four words, nice, jolly, charming, and bore, and some grammarians add fond. And now we have done. Whatever the divergenci es of opinion on the lit. * The Young Duke. Speech on the Repeal of the Corn Laws, May s~, 1846. 64 THE WIT AND HUMOR OF LORD BEACONSFIELD. erary merit of Lord Beaconsfield and this rests with the best critic, posterity it is at least unquestionable that in wit and humor he never flags. There are those who have called him dull, and they are dullards. The B~otians could hardly have proved fair judges of Aristophanes. But our object in this article has been to vindicate a much higher honor for Lord Beaconsfield than any such mere clever- ness. We have endeavored to prove that not only does he sparkle with epigram and blaze with repartee of unusual bril- liance, but that his humor, necessarily hampered as it was by his surroundings and his aims, can boast keen insight and original manipulation; that the bizarre and the frivolous is the mere froth on its surface unessential and evanescent and that as a wit and a humorist he is now, by the prerogative of death, classi cal. Nor is the least enduring of the wreaths heaped upon his bier that he always, and in the best manner, amused us while he instructed, and instructed us while he amused. His wit and his humor offer a complete refutation to the Shakespearian adage, XVhen the age is in the wit is out, for he preserved them youthful as a septua- genari an, and they in requital shall pre- serve his memory ever vivid and vigorous. Alas! poor Yorick, ~~here be your gibes now, your gambols, your songs, your flashes of merriment that ~vere wont to set the table in a roar? may exclaim one who discerns only in Lord Beacons- field the court jester. Our rejoinder shall be that of truth and reverence, He being dead yet speaketh. WALTER SYDNEY SICHEL. MIND IN WORK. Medical men see a great deal of life, and nothing strikes the observant family practitioner more than the number of feeble, sauntering, and loitering minds with which he is brought into contact. No incon- siderable proportion of the common and some of the special ailments by which the multitude are affected may be traced to the want of vigor in their way of living. The human or- ganism is a piece of physico-mental machinery which can only be successfully worked at a fairly high pressure. It will almost inevitably get out of gear if the propelling force is allowed to fall below a moderately high standard of pressure or tension, and that degree of tension cannot be maintained without so much interest as will secure that the mind of the worker shall be in his work. It is curious to observe the way in which particular temperaments and types of mental constitution are, so to say, gifted with special affinities, or predilections for l)articular classes of work. The men who work in hard material are men of iron will, which is equivalent to saying that the men of what is called hard-headed earnestness find a natural vent for their energy in work that re- quires and consumes active power. On the other hand, the worker in soft materials is commonly either theoretical or dreamy. There is a special type of mental constitution con- nected with almost every distinct branch of industry, at least with those branches which have existed long enough to exercise a suffi- cient amount of influence on successive gen- erations of workers. We are all familiar with what are called the racial types of character. It would be well if some attention could be bestowed on the industrial types, both in rela- tion to educational policy and the study, of mental and physical habits in health and disease. Lancet. THE Times Bucharest correspondent de. scribes a curious result following the recent earthquake which passed under that city. The soil of Bucharest is a rich, black, porous vege- table mould, very springy under pressure, and carriages passing in a street cause a strong vibration in the adjacent houses. The Grand H6tel Boulevard, however, was an exception to this general rule, and in the correspondents room, facing the principal street, on which there is a heavy traffic, he never could feel any sensible effect from passing vehicles. During the recent earthquake the windows and crock- ery in less massively constructed buildings rattled very sensibly, whereas there was no audible sound produced in the hotel men- tioned. Since the earthquake shock, however, this state of things has changed entirely, and every vehicle passing the hotel causes vibra- tion in the whole building. The singular I)art of this change consists in the fact that the effect produced by the vehicle is precisely the same as that accompanying the earthquake. It is not a jar as previously produced in other buildings, but a sawing motion similar to that described in the correspondents telegram re- lating to the late shock of earthquake. This movement is so great as to cause pictures to sway backwards and forwards on the walls, and it is equally perceptible in the rear corner rooms farthest from the street. The hotel is of brick, covered outside with mastic, which would show at once any crack in the walls. lie has carefully examined the exterior of the building and there is not a crack in it. Hence, he thinks, this change in the solidity of the structure appears to be due to some effect pro- duced in the earth underneath the building by the shock of earthquake.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 1934. July 9,1881. 5 From Beginning, Volume XXXV. ) Vol. CL. CONTENT S. I. THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT, Macmillans Magazine, II. THE SHUT-UP HOUSES,.....Argosy,... III. SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLES REMI- NISCENCES IV. THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS,. V. A JAPANESE BRIDE VI. BOYcO1TED, VII. A PILGRIMAGE TO CYPRUS IN 13956, ON A JUNE MORNING, LOVE AND PAIN, Nineteen/li Century, Fortnightly Review, Frasers Magazine, Contemporary Review,. Frasers Magazine, P 0 E T R V. 66 SONNET, MISCELLANY, . PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING Aoa will be punctually forwarded for a year,f~ee of~ostage 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. Ailpoatmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, i8 cents. 67 76 95 102 113 126 66 128 66 ON A JUNE MORNING, ETC. ON A JUNE MORNING. THE meadow-lands with golden king-cups glow, Strown oer their velvet carpet of pure green; Mingled with snowy pink-tipped daisy stars, And yellow-petalled cowslips. From the thorn, The fragrant-blossomed thorn, the blackbird pipes A carol jubilant; and close at hand His brother-minstrel, the brown, bright-eyed thrush, A rival challenge, with full-swelling throat, Sounds on the fair June morning! Bush and tree Gleam neath soft silver mist; whilst incense sweet Of countless flowerets, wet with glittering dew, Falls grateful on the sense. And bird and flower, Meadow and woodland, with bright beauty crowned, Silent, yet eloquent, alike proclaim The power and wisdom of the Makers hand! Chambers Journal. A. H. B. LOVE AND PAIN. I. LOVE held to me a chalice of red wine Filled to the very brim; About the slender stem the clinging vine Was closely twined and round the jewelled rim Love held to me a cup of blood-red wine, And made me drink to him. Around, the desert of my life lay bare, A ~vaste of reeds and sand, Love stood with all the sunlight in his hair, And yellow crocus blossom in his hand; And all around the cruel scorching glare, The waste and thirsty land. To his white feet the loose grey raiment hung, His flushed lips smiled on me, Across his pale young brow the bright curls clung, I would have fled, but lo! I might not flee, While through the heavy air thy clear voice rung, And bade me drink to thee, I took the graven cup, my lips I set Close to the jewelled rim, And to Loves eyes there stole a faint regret, Then a bright mist made all the old world dim; And in the golden cloud our blind lips met, And I drank deep to him. II. 0 Love, among the orchard trees I lay, Spring grasses at my feet, The flickering shadows fell upon the way, The pale narcissus made the fresh air sweet; Among the blossoming otchard trees I lay, Waiting my Lord to greet. Through the green woods the birds sang shrill and gay, And then a suddeu sound Of coming feet, a glimpse of raiment grey, And shaken blossoms falling to the ground; Sweet was my dream of Love and Life and May, And blossoms scattered round. And swift towards me his light footsteps came: 0 Love, I ~voke to see Strange eyes upon me, dark with some spent flame, So like to thine, 0 Love, and yet not thee: Thine was his raiment, and he bore the name Known but to Love and me. The yellow crocus blossoms in his hand Were crushed, and wan, and dead; Lo. as a wanderer on an unknown strand He stood beside me with discrown~d head: Love comes not twice, he cried, to any land, But I am in his stead! He held to me a chalice of red wine Filled to the very brim; The twisted snakes about the tall stem twine And closely coil around the jewelled rim; He held to me a cup of blood-red wine, And bade me drink to him. Love came, but never will he come again, Drink thou to me; Love did forsake, but I, his brother, Pain, Will now forevermore abide with thee; The dark earth-mist has gathered round us twain, Drink thou to me ! Coruhill Magazine. U. A. T. SONNET. Va, les jours dautomme mit aussi leur joje; Un dernier parfum des bruy~res sort, Et le cliquetis du feujilage mort Semble on fr?Aement de robe de soie. ARMANO SILVESTRE. I HOLD that day apart from all my days. A wan disastrous light was on the sea, And oer the moors the rain crawled drearily. We heard no l)lover pipe about the place Or shift his lonely tune a little space Across the drenched hollows, where the bee All spring and summer through went questing free To drop and feed upon the gorse-golds blaze. Only the rain-drip in the birch, the sigh Of the sere heather-bells that lingered yet, The arrowy swirl where tarn-born torrents met And tossed and whitened with a windy cry; But it was then you called me friend, and high Above all days and years that day is set. Frasers Magazine. W. A. SIM. THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. 67 From Macmillans Magazine. THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. ONCE more the quiet 3-ears, from their long slumber leap, and England, after a silence of ten generations, is en- gaged in revising her Bible. Between 1526 and i6i new translations, partial or complete, were constantly coming forth. From 16[I down to very recent times, there was nothing of the kind. The Au- thorized Version seemed to share the im- mutability of the solar system; partly, no doubt, because it was an authorized ver- sion or rather was supposed to be so, for, as a matter of fact, it never was for- mally authorized either by crown or Par- liament, or convocation and partly per- haps because, of the two parties which so long divided the Church, the one was less occupied with the words of the Bible than with the formularies derived from them, while the other regarded those words with an exaggerated reverence which would have shrunk from the idea of amendment as a profanation. Is the present move- ment a sign that these two great parties have somewhat modified their views, or that their exclusive don~nation is no more? However this may be, it affords a fitting occasion for recalling some of the leading points in the history of our En- glish Bible. And first, as to the name. It may be asked, Whats in a name? but every one who has reflected at all on the subject, knows how powerfully names may.influ- ence thought. The late Mr. Charles Buxton, in his Notes of Thought, speaks of it as nothing short of a national calamity that the record of our Saviours life and teaching should be designated by the word gospel, a word which has to the mass of those who hear it no signifi- cance or connotation, instead of by the word nood tidings. Perhaps this is not a very strong case; for it may be maintained that gospel does carry with it a meaning to those who think at all; and further that to express any complex phenomenon of world-wide importance there must be one word set apart and which a corn of wheat dies, and by dying becomes capable of bringing forth much fruit. At all events, if gospel has the negative defect of su~~ressio yen, it is at least free from the far graver fault of suggestiofalsi. It is not so ~vith an allied term, reli- gion. XVhatever may be the etymology of the Latin reiigioand Max Muller agrees with Cicero in deriving it from reiegere, the opposite of uegbgere, to ex- press thoughtfulness, the opposite of carelessness it will hardly be denied that in nine out of ten cases where it oc- curs it carries with it an evil flavor of unmanly fear, seeking refuge in slavish service. Tantu;n ReiliWlo ~otuit suadere malorum is the line which it at once recalls to every scholar. And this even in its English form it has never quite lost. In the Bible, religion and religious are very rarely used, and never in their best if even in a good sense. Their distinctive use is as the equivalents of Oprjoxeia and Op~yaxog, as in James i. 26, 27, where the whole object of the writer is to impress on his disciples how unworthy of God is the idea of his service which un- derlies those words. And though reli- gion is now enthroned on the lips and in the hearts of men as the recognized name for the highest aspiration of the hu- man soul towards God, it is constantly betraying its meaner origin, not only in such phrases as Sister in religion, the religious order, a religious, but also, though less obviously, in many oth- ers, as when we speak of the religious life, as something distinct from the godly, righteous, and sober life after which every true Christian strives. Who shall & ay how much in this case, as in others, the mortal word may have clogged the immortal though t;to how great an extent a good cause may have suffered from the imperfection of a watchword, misleading those within the camp as to the true strength of their position, and keeping out many who might have been within it? The name Bible, as applied to the Holy Scriptures, is perhaps open to some withdra~vn from its ordinary uses; that to objection of a similar kind, as tending to fit it for its great mission it must l)~55 make us forget their multifarious charac- through a process analogous to that by ter; that what we are speaking of is not 68 THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. one book but a collection of books; how else, indeed, could it have fitted into every part of human life, every corner of the human heart? Bibliolkeca sacra, Jerome calls it, the holy library; and the early English form of it was bibliothece. It was through the Normans that Bible came to us; the neuter plural biblia hav- ing been, according to a well-known la~v, changed into the feminine singular. There is, however, a very real and impor- tant sense in which the Scriptures are one; and there is some advantage in a title ~vhich brings this prominently for- ward. Only it is the more necessary constantly to remind ourselves that their unity is that of a literature and not of a boo:, and can never be fully realized but by those who appreciate their diversity. The title of New Testament for the Christian Scriptures is happily as appro- priate, as it was inevitable from the mo- ment when St. Paul, in writing to the Corinthians,* spoke of the Hebre~v Scriptures (or at least the earlier portion of them) as the Old Testament; and it seems hardly credible that the Christian Church should at one time have hesitated between it and the New Instrument. The Greek word represented here by Testament means properly a disposi- tion or arrangement ; but it is often used in a special sense, to mean an ar- rangement made by one who is leaving the world, for the benefit of his friends. In the phrase New Testament is re- produced and perpetuated that inextrica- ble confusion of the general with the special sense which is found in more than one passage of the gospels and epistles. And carrying thus with it a meaning which hovers between a merciful ar- rangement and a loving friends be- quest, what name could be more happy for the written record of our Saviour s utterances respecting the relations be- tween God and man? But what is this English Bible of which we speak, and how have its contents come to be what they are? It is clear that be- fore such a book can be produced at least three distinct processes must be gone through. The canon of Scripture must be settled; the text must be ascertained; and that text must be translated. Of these processes the first has hitherto received comparatively little attention in this coun- try. Even the valuable labors of Canon Westcott have awakened but a faint inter- est in the subject. The vast majority of students of the Bible are quite content to take it, in this respect, as it is ; putting aside, as to them of no moment, any doubts which they may hear expressed as to the canonicity, for instance, of the Song of Solomon, or of the 2nd Epistle of St. Peter. Nor is there anything sur- prising in this indifference. Extremes meet; and as in the early days of Chris- tianity, with the sound of the Apostolic voices still rinoin~ in their ears, men felt no need of a canon, and none was formed until the persecution of Diocletian, acting as a re-agent, threw it into shape, so the solvent of the modern spirit has taken something both from the definiteness of the canon then formed, and from its au- thority. Men feel that the question ~vheth- er a certain book ~vas or was not included in the Carthaginian Catalogue, or quoted by Origen as Scripture, is to them of little importance coml)ared with the question whether its contents are good to the use of edifying. It is not very many years since the same, or nearly the same, might have been said of the text. If the spurious- ness of the passage about the three wit- nesses * was too patent to be denied, this ~vas treated as an isolated and exceptional accident. Or if the subject of various readings generally was brought forward, it ~vas set aside by a reference to the re- mark of a celebrated critic, that all the various readings that had ever been sug- gested, however ingeniously they might be twisted, could not so disguise Chris- tianity but that every feature of it will still be the same. But, so far as the New Testament is concerned, a succes- sion of Biblical scholars notably, Lach- mann and Tischendorf, with their rare mastery of diplomatic lore, and Dean Alford, with his unrivalled industry and * 2 Cor. iii. 4. * i John v. 7, 8. THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. 69 candor in collecting, and sifting, and pop- and original text has to be picked out. ularizing the results of more original The broad principles on which this is to laborers have changed all this; and be done are in themselves sufficiently readers who do not know a word of Greek obvious. ceterisparibus, that reading is have been put in possession of all the to be preferred, as most likely to repre- facts, and called in, so to speak, to assist sent the words actually used by the evan- in the formation of an improved text. gelist or the apostle, which is found in Few of us, it may be, have ever handled the earliest MSS., the earliest versions, a Greek MS. of the New Testament, but the earliest quotations. That reading is every schoolboy now knows that there to be preferred ~vhich has the support of are three such MSS. of primary author- the greatest number of independent au- ity; one of the fourth century, discov- thorities; for the mere multiplication of ered in our time by Tischendorf at Mount them, ~vhen they are clearly derived from Sinai, and now at St. Petersburg; anoth- each other or from a common source, adds er, also of the fourth century, which lay nothing to their ~veight. That reading is ~erdie in the Vatican for three hundred to be preferred which gives a sense most years, and has only recently been fully in conformity with the modes of thought published; the third, of the fifth century, and expression which characterize the presented to Charles I. by a patriarch of particular writer. A peculiar or difficult Constantinople, and now one of the treas- reading is deserving of attention in pro- ures of the British Museum. Next to portion to its singularity or difficulty, un- these, if not quite in the same line, are less it can be traced to some probable to be placed the Paris MS., probably of working of the mind of the copyist, or the fifth century, which was brought to some natural tendency of his pen. France by Catherine de Medicis; and But if the rules are easy to state, they the one which, just three hundred years are often very difficult to apply. Provok- ago, was presented by Beza to the Uni- ing conflicts of evidence arise. The ~vit- versity of Cambridge, containing only the nesses who ought to know best disagree Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles. among themselves, or are contradicted by After these, but at a great distance from a host of others nearly as well informed; them in value, come about thirty MSS., or their story is inconsistent with itself, or fragments of MSS., reaching down to or with known facts; nor is it always easy the eleventh century. All those that even to make out what they say. It needs have been mentioned are written in the the skill and patience of a trained judge great unciat or capital character. There to get at the truth. Happily for us, judi. is a much larger number of others, of cial intellects of no mean order have been much later date, in the small character employed upon the task, and the results called cursive, or running. In addition have been for some time before the gen- to these MSS. of the Greek text, there eral public. By the aid of such books as are a great many versions Alford refers Alfords New Testament for English to as many as fifty in various languages, Readers, Bagsters Critical New Tes- and of very various ages, the oldest be- tament, and the Tauchnitz edition of the ing the Syriac Peshito, supposed to be of same, the least learned among us are in the second century. Lastly there has a position to form some idea how far the been collected from a long succession of text from which the Authorized Version the fathers of the Cburch, several of was made, a text based on MSS. of which whom wrote as early as the second cen- none is older than the tenth century, is tury, a vast number of passages in which susceptible of amendment. the words of the New Testament are Subsequent, in theory, to the settle- either expressly quoted or distinctly re- mont of the text, but general1y in fact ferred to. ~ari passz~ with it, comes the work of Amid this great variety of authorities translating it. This is not the place for there exists, as might be expected, a great more than the briefest notice of the chief diversity of texts, from which the true English translations of the New Testa 70 THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. ment. Three of them stand out promi- nently from among the others \Vycli ffes, published in 1381; Tyndalesin 1526; and the Authorized Version in i6~i. What the dawn is to the sunrise, Wycliffes work was to Tyndales. It would he dif- ficult to exaggerate its historical impor- tance, or its interest in connection with the character of the man, and the enlight- ened patriotism of his aims. But it was one of those dawns which are soon over- clouded with a darkness that has to be dispelled afresh when the sun reaches the horizon. Before Tyndales version came forth Wycliffes had almost entirely dis- appeared out of the land; owing chiefly, no doubt, to the cruel vigor employed in suppressing it, but partly also to the great change which, in the interval, had l)assed over the English language. Tyndale was born about 1480, and therefore had the benefit of the general revival of learning which followed upon the taking of Con- stantinople in 1453, and the consequent dispersion of Greek scholars and Greek 1)ooks throughout the XVest. He had also, as compared with his great prede- cessor, the inestimable advantages of a formed language in which to write, and a printing-press to give at once currency and stability to his writings. With these aids, and giving his life royally, if ever man did, to his self-imposed task, he pro- duced a work which is for all time. His translation of the New Testament, the first ever made into English direct from the original Greek, though it has been often altered and revised, not always for the better, is still substantially the Bi- ble with which we are familiar, with the peculiar genius, if such a word may be permitted, which breathes through it, its mingled tenderness and majesty, i~s Saxon simplicity, its preternatural grandeur. * It is painful to think how this noble gift and its donor were treated during his lifetime, not indeed by the English peo- ple, but by its rulers; how he lived an exile, and died at the stake, praying with his last breath, Lord, open the king of En glands eyes. A few months more, and the prayer ~vould have been a thanks- giving; for in 1537, the year following his martyrdom, Coverdales complete Bible, containin~ a New Testament based main- ly on Tyndales, was published in En- gland, set forth with the kynges most gracious license. From that date the license has never been withdrawn, except during Queen Froudes History of England, iii. 84. Marys reign; an exception which fur. nishes an interesting and instructive epi- sode in the history of the subject. For in that dark time a number of English scholars, finding themselves debarred at home from the free use of the Scriptures, con~ re gated at Geneva, and there in the city of Calvin, and under the influence of his teaching, produced a translation com- monly known as the Geneva Bible, but sometimes called, o~ving to a peculiar ren- dering of Genesis iii. 21, the Breeches Bible. Of course it could not be kept out of England, or from passing on to Scot- land; but having to be introduced surrep- titiously and under difficulties, it obtained all the firmer hold on the minds and affec- tions of the people; so strong a hold that the Bishops Bible, published in i~68, quite failed to displace it, and its use only died out in the time of Charles I., after the appearance of the Authorized Version. Its effects survived, first in the bias of British theology towards Puritanism and Independence, and secondly in the fusion of the English and Scottish forms of speech, which have never since been so distinct as they were before the Genevan New Testament was published in Edin- burgh in 1576. It was partly with a view to getting rid of this Bible, and its notes, savoring too much of dangerous and traitorous conceit, that James I. was induced to issue hisfat, in 1604, for one uniform translation, without comments. A com- mittee of about fifty translators was at once appointed the most learned that could be found in Oxford and Cambridge and after about seven years they issued a translation which before long superseded all others, and has been kno~vn for two hundred and seventy years as the Authorized Version. It is no light thing to touch an heir- loom of so many generations; and no one can ~vonder that when the question of a fresh revision was first mooted about a quarter of a century ago, many heads were shaken, and faint hearts shrank from the possible consequences of pub- licly admitting that our Bihle fell short of absolute perfection. Some reassurance came with the reflection that the contem- poraneous existence of two different ver- sions of the Psalms one in the Bible, the other in the Prayer-Book had not pre- vented their being an unfailing fountain of comfort to devout hearts ; nay, that the double translation, acting like a stereo- scope, often made the meaning stand out in greater clearness and fulness to the THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. mental eye. And it was soon observed that the numerous specimens of retrans- lation which issued in various shapes from the press the most important of them the work of one whose labors in connection with the text have been already mentioned, Dean Alford while almost demonstrating the necessity of some alteration, showed at the same time within how narrow limits it would, in competent hands, be confined. Thus the world heard with great equanimity, if not ~vith cordial satisfaction, in February, 1870, that it had been formally resolved in the Upper House of Convocation to appoint a revision committee. It was among the last of the many excellent movements set on foot or headed by the inexhaustibly versa tile energy of Bishop Wilberforce; who, having once started it, wisely left it to be conducted by others of more solid learning and more specially devoted to the cause than himself. Two companies ~vere formed one to revise the Old, the other the New, Testament; the latter (with which alone we are now concerned) consisting of twenty-five specialists in Biblical criticism, represent- ing almost every section of British Chris- tians with the exception of the Romanists, and aided by a secretary worthy of such a board. Within a few months the work was taken in hand, and pursued ~vith a steady perseverance beyond all praise. Before long, however, there a rose the question, how were the inevitable ex- penses to be borne? Private subscrip- tions could not be counted upon ; still less a subsidy from government. The great printing-presses of Oxford and Cam- bridge stepped into the breach, and by purchasing the copyright supplied the necessary funds. Non hoinines, 7W;i Di, sed concessere co/um;u~. And now, within the last few days, the results of their ten years labors have been given to the world. What is the character of this Revised Version, and how far is it fitted to fill the place to which it aspires? It would obviously be impossible, on so short acquaintance, and in a limited space, to give an adequate answer to these- ques- tions. All that can be attempted here is to notice a few of the features which san- tent aua-yezer. To the eye or ear familiar with the old version it will be at once apparent that the number of alterations is very great. By the chairman himself, in his address to convocation, it was stated to amount, in some parts, to an average of three for 71 every verse, one-tenth of them being due to changes of text. Let us consider first those which belong to this smaller class. A revision of the Greek text, say the revi~ers in their preface, was the neces- sary foundation of our work; but it did not fall within our province to construct a continuous and complete Greek text. A complete edition, however, of the text which underlies their version has been l)ublished by one of their number, Arch- deacon Palmer, ~vith all the displaced read- ings set out at the foot of the page.* A large proportion of these displacements cannot be said to be of any great impor- tance. It is well known that the text from which the old version was made contained a multitude of words and phrases and even sentences not found in the old MSS., and introduced apparently into the later copies, in the long course of successive transcriptions, either by mere inadvertence, or with the object of l)Oint- ing or explaining the acknowledged mean- ing. Connecting particles like and and but were freely inserted; he said~ was expanded into he answered and said; the name of the speaker ~vas sub- stituted for the pronoun he. Often a few ~vords which helped to bring out the meaning more fully were brought in from a parallel passage; or a note which had been written on the margin of an old MS. was incOrl)Orated by a copyist into the text of his copy. It was inevitable that these interpola- tions should be discarded, and their omis- sion is in most cases quite unimportant. A few of them, however, will be missed. Thus, St. Lukes version of the Lords Prayer suffers greatly by losing the words which art in Heaven, Thy will be done as in Heaven so in earth, but deliver us from temptation. It will be observed, however, that these words are retained in the parallel passage in St. Matthews Gospel, from which they ap- pear to have been imported into St. Lukes. Similar omissions will be noticed in some of the accounts of the Last Sup- * Simultaneously with t~is, but quite independently of it, has come forth the long-expected edition of the Greelt text, by two other revisers, Canon Westcott and Dr. Hort, the fruit, we believe, of a quarter of a centurys labors to which is appended an extremely valuable summary of the contents of an Intro-Jisetion which is to follow, on the true principles of textual criticism generally, and the leading results wlsich follow from their application to the New Testament (The New Testament in the Original Greek. The text re- vised by B F Westcott, D.D., and F. J Hurt, D.D. Crown Svo. Macmillan and Co., ifS x.) Truly this is a jubilee year for English Biblical students. 72 THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. per; but here also the combined result of all the accounts remains unaltered. A marked instance of a note improperly em- bodied in the text is the fourth verse of John v., containing an unauthorized, though probably early explanation, from the writers point of view, of the docking of the sick, blind, halt, and withered to the pool of Bethesda. This is now re- stored to its proper place in the margin. The thirty-seventh verse of Acts viii. is not found in the best MSS., but was apparently added in perfect good faith as expressing what was necessarily implied in the narrative of the eunuchs baptism by Philip. It is relegated to the margin in the new version. The same fate has befallen the so-called doxology, in Mat- thew vi. 13. It has happened also to ~vords which, in some respects, cannot so well be spared; those in which (Luke ix. 55, 56) our Lord rebukes his disciples for pro~)osing to call down fire from heaven on the Samaritans, saying, Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of: for the Son of Man is not come to destroy mens lives but to save them; words which are less likely to have been put into our Lords mouth without authority, than to have been omitted from the original Gos- pel records along ~vith those many sayings and doings which would have filled more books than the world could have con- tained. Some passages of considerable interest and importance are retained in the text, but with a note to show that their authen- ticity is doubted. Prominent among these is the last part of the last chapter of St. Mark, ~vhich does not occur in the best MSS., and which, consisting of little more than an epitome of facts already recorded elsewhere, and differing widely in point of language from the rest of the book, is not likely, whatever may be its origin, to be the writing of St. Mark. This may be a relief to some on whose ears the six- teenth verse of that chapter, as given in the old version, has grated harshly. On the other hand many will regret to find the note of spuriousness attached to that striking passage at the beginning of the eighth chapter of St.Johnthe story of the woman taken in adultery ~vhich, as has been truly said, of all the incidents in the New Testament, most clearly em- bodies the justice, mercy, and tenderness of Christ, and supplies us with the most precious traits of his personal manners. It seems hardly possible to doubt that it is a contemporary record of a real inci- dent: whether, as some maintain, really written by St. John and suppressed from an idea that it might lead to making light of sin, or, as others somewhat strangely suppose, a fragment that has got loose from the end of Luke xxi. and strayed into this place. There is even a doubt, which one would fain treat, with Alford, as of no moment, regarding the authentic- ity of the words recorded in our version of Luke xxiii. 34, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do; words, says Renan, which if they were not on the lips of Jesus, were certainly in his heart. To one passage of importance in the old version the revisers accord no place in text or margin, viz., the verse, already referred to, in 1st John v. 7, 8, concerning the three ~vitnesses, which has no sup- port either from ancient Greek MSS. or ancient versions. Nor have they, appar- ently, seen sufficient ground for bestow- ing any notice on the words which in one MS. of great authority, and one only, are found after the fourth verse of Luke vi., words pregnant with the highest wisdom On the same day having seen a cer- tain man working on the Sabbath, he said unto him, Man, if thou knowest what thou doest, blessed art thou; but if thou knowest not, thou art cursed, and a trans- gressor of the la~v. It seems almost as if they must have been in St. Pauls mind when he wrote to the Romans (xiv. 22, 23), Happy is he that condemneth not himself in that thing which he alloweth. And he that doubteth is condemned if he eat, because he eateth not of faith; for whatsoever is not of faith is sin. One large class of textual alterations consists of cases in which errors had crept into the received text by the sub- stitution of one word for another, gener- ally owing to similarity bet~veen them either in shape or in sound; for it appears probable that the copying was often done by dictation. For instance, it is remark- able how often, especially in the Epistles, you,~~ and your have been substituted for w-e us and our, or vice versd, and perhaps still more remarkable how seldom the sense of the passage is ma- terially affected by the substitution. The restoration of the true reading in these cases is almost al~vays a gain to the reader. A few instances may here be given, not as by any means the most important, but as fair specimens of a large class. In the opening words of the sixth chap- ter of St. Matthew it is a decided im- provement to have the general term rzght. eousness. Take heed that ye do not THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. 73 your righteousness before men~~ in- stead of the particular alms; which finds its proper place in the following verses, along with prayer and fasting, as one of the special forms of the kind of right- eousness which is here spoken of. In the account of the transfiguration as given by St. Matthew, we now find St. Peter saying, If thou wilt I will make here three tabernacles, which is more characteristic of his impetuosity and self- confidence than the old reading, Let us make. In the account given by St. Mark of the father who brought his son to have a dumb and deaf spirit cast out, in answer to the fathers piteous appeal, If thou canst do anything have pity upon us and help us, Jesus is made, in the old ver- sion, to say, If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth. There is more of vividness and point in the new reading, according to which our Lord repeats in a tone of reproachful sur- prise the words of doubt: If thoze canst / All things are possible to him that be- lieveth. In 2 Corinthians xii. I, it seems cer- tainly more in St. Pauls manner to write, I must needs glory, though it is not ex- pedient, than to write It is not expedi- ent for me doubtless to glory. But it is time to turn to that which is, after all, the most important part of the book, and consider the numerous altera- tions made, not on grounds of textual criticism, but as improved renderir~s. The difficulty of this part of the work can hardly be exaggerated. The five cler- gymen who tried it in a partial and ten- tative manner about twenty-five years ago, were fain to confess that they found it a difficulty such as was scarcely capable of being entirely surmounted. The more credit to them, let us say heartily, that they should have persevered in their arduous undertaking. For to them, and more especially to the prime mover among them, the present Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol, it is mainly due that the pres- ent revision was ever taken in hand; and to him apparently the revisers are chiefly indebted for the admirable directions under which they have acted, as well as for the contagious example of his in- defatigable zeal and conscientious thor- oughness of work. For more than ten years they labored; four hundred and seven sittings were held, of which the chairman attended at all but two; seven times the translation was revised; twice it crossed and re-crossed the Atlantic, to obtain the benefit of suggestions from American coadjutors. The judicious char- acter of the directions on which they pro- ceeded has been already noticed. The reverence with which they took up the time-honored version committed to them for revision is expressed in their preface in the strongest manner: The longer ~ve have been engaged upon it the more we have learnt to admire its simplicity, its dignity, its power, its happy turns of ex- pression, its general accuracy, and, we must not fail to add, the music of its cadences and the felicities of its rhythm. Nor can any one find fault with their description of the ideal which they kept before them : to produce a version that shall be alike literal and idiomatic, faith- ful to each thought of the original, and yet, in the expression of it, harmonious and free. Neither is our confidence in them diminished by the candor of the concluding words in which they express their consciousness that their own ideal has not been perfectly realized. While we dare to hope that in places not a few of the New Testament the introduction of slight changes has cast a new light upon much that was difficult and obscure, we cannot forget how often we have failed in expressing some finer shades of mean- ing which ~ve recognized in the original, how often idiom has stood in the way of a perfect rendering, and how often the attempt to preserve a familiar form of words, or even a familiar cadence, has only added another perplexity to those which already beset us. A work conceived in such a spirit, and carried through with so much industry by a set of men so abundantly qualified for it both individually and collectively, is not to be disposed of in a few sentences of hasty criticism. And yet, under the shelter of St. Pauls I must needs, though it is not expedient, it may be permitted even at this early period to offer a few remarks which, if necessarily superficial and sporadic, are at least made in no captious vein. A translator has two distinct duties: he has to make out the meaning of his author so as to be able, if necessary, to explain it in paraphrase or periphrasis; and he has to clothe that meaning in suit- able language. The one is the province of the scholar, who must, in a case like this, be also a theologian ; the other, con- sidering the conditions under which this translation had to be made, demanded the skill of a consummate literary artist. Of the first part of the task it may be said 74 THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. emphatically that in the multitude of counsellors there is safety. Twenty-four men, including at least four the bishops of Gloucester and Bristol and of Durham, and the deans of Westminster and LIan- daff ~~hose previous publications show a lifelong study of the subject, having at their command all the vast resources of modern learning, working in cordial co- operation, and repeatedly revising each others suggestions, were not likely to go far astray in their corporate and collective judgment. It will probably be allowed on all hands that in this point of view, as correcting the acknowledged errors in the old version, removing ambiguities ,giving a meaning where there ~vas none, and setting forth, either in text or margin, the most probable interpretation of obscure and dimcult passages, the new version deserves our cordial gratitude, and leaves in fact little, if anything, to be desired. We no longer read, in Philippians ii. 6, that Jesus thought it not robbery to be equal with God, which is manifestly wrong, but that he counted it not a prize, or, as explained in the margin, a thing to be grasped at. In Acts vii. 45, and Hebrews iv. 8, it is made clear that Joshua is meant, and not our Lord. In Timothy vi. 5, instead of supposing that gain is godliness, which has no meaning, we have supposing that godli- ness is a way of gain, which has a mean- ing exactly suited to the context. Such chapters as Romans vii., 2 Corinthians iii., m& y now be read with as full compre- hension as ~ve can ever hope to attain of the scope of their argument; for in St. Pauls writings there will probably al~vays remain to us, in any translation, as to St. Peter in the original, some things not easy to be understood. But ~vhen it comes to clothing in suit- able language the ascertained meaning, numbers are no longer an advantage; indeed, it may be doubted whether any composition of a high order in point of literary form was ever produced by co-op- eration. The Authorized Version may be cited as an example; but it does not appear that the Authorized Version was the result of any real discussion in com- mon; and Mr. Froude is probably right in attributing, as he does in the passage already referred to, its peculiar grace to the impress of the mind of one man, William Tyndale. It has always been a marvel that this charm has been so little impaired by the revisions which his work has already undergone; and it seemed more than could be hoped that it should survive the corporate and collective correction of twenty-four zealous hands. And yet it will probably be admitted by every candid reader that in the new ver~. sion it has been preserved in a manner truly admirable; that in spite of all the multitudinous changes, the general char- acter and tone and hue of the book are practically unaltered. The real question which will be asked by all, most pressingly by those who have the greatest verbal familiarity with our present Bible, is whether all these many changes were really necessary; whether, to use the words of the first of the rules laid down for the ouidance of the revisers, they have introduced as few alterations as possible, consistently with faithful. ness. There are probably few persons who will not be disposed, at least on a first perusal, to answer this question unfavor- ably. Take a few instances out of many thousands. If some of them are in them- selves trifling, this makes them only the more to the point. The l)assage to which every one will turn, on first opening the book, is the Lords Prayer. The altera- tions there made in consequence of change of text have been already noticed for them the translators, as such, are hardly responsible. Two others may fairly be said to have been demanded by faithfulness. Have forgiven is un- doubtedly a more correct rendering than forgive, and the substitution of the evil one for evil, is at least important, and rests on substantial grounds of criti- cism. There is indeed nothing in the Greek to show whether the word is mas- culine or neuter; but in preferring that alternative which is least consonant to modern ideas, the revisers may well have been influenced by the fact that the word here used in the Syriac Peshito, the earli- est of all the versions, and therefore the most likely to represent the ideas of Apostolic times, is one which is invaria- bly applied to a person, never to an ab- straction. But why should the familiar lead us not into temptation have been changed into bring which conveys, for all practical purposes, precisely the same idea? On the other hand it may be asked, by way of parenthesis, in connection with the same passage, why no notice is taken either in text or margin of an alternative of some importance in the punctuation. There are those to whom both the turn of the thought and the form of the expres- sion, especially when exhibited to the eye as in Westcott and Horts edition, appear THE REVISION OF THE NEW TESTAMENT. 75 to demand that the words as in heaven so on earth should be connected with the two first petitions as ~vell as with the third; so that the common burden and, so to speak, the point of all this first part of the prayer should be an aspiration after a heavenly ife on earth; that on earth as in heaven Gods name should be hallowed, his kingdom established, his will done. With full stops after name and come this is impossible; but commas would have left the question open. Per- haps the revisers would have objected to this, on the principle, with ~vhich no one can quarrel, of never leaving [in the text] any translation or any arrangement of words which could adapt itself to one or other of two interpretations. But the alternative might at least have been men- tioned in the margins as other variations of punctuation are. To return to sins of commission. Why should Ye shall know them by their fruits, in Matthew vii. i6, have been ex- changed for By their fruits ye shall know them? No doubt the latter is in accordance ~vith the order of the original words; but in translation keeping the order of the original words is always a question of discretion and taste, often of ear. In this case the ear of the old trans- lators ~vould seem to have required the one arrangement of words in the six- teenth verse to balance the other in the twentieth. Whether they were right or wrong in the matter of taste, may be a question; but can it be said that faith- fulness required that they should be corrected? I n the twenty-fourth verse of the same chapter the old version had, 1herefore whosoever heareth these say- ings of mine was it really necessary to alter this into Everyone therefore which heareth these ~vords of mine? Instances of these trifling and appar- ently gratuitous alterations might be mul- tiplied to any extent; but there is one of more interest and importance which must be separately noticed. After the Sermon on the Mount, there is probably no pas- sage in the New Testament which so many people know by heart as the de- scription of charity in the thirteenth chapter of i Corinthians. In the New Version they will find the familar word gone, and love substituted for it. The proper translation of the word ~tyair7~ is an old subject of dispute. Bacon, as is well known, objected to the use of the word love for it, as being already appropri- ated to ~ Professor Eadie tells us that the rendering love was adduced, in the Scottish Parliament of 1543, as an objec- tion to the free circulation of Scripture. * It was one of the handles for Sir T. Mores coarse and bitter vituperation of Tyndale. His defence of it was that Charity was no known English for that sense which Agape requireth. Times have changed since then, and with them the sense of many a word ; for words are not dead matter, but, like men, they insensibly change their character, and develop new powers according to the po- sitions which they fill. Charity is not the same word as it was in i6i i. During the two hundred and seventy years for which it has occupied its present place in the Authorized Version, associations have grown up around it ~vhich make it, to the feeling of many, the only known English for that sense which Agape requireth in the passages in which it occurs; and its suppression now in these passages cannot be accounted for except as the result of some unhappy theory of inconsistency and uniformity. But these and like instances are not required to show how warm is the attach- ment of the revisers to uniformity. It is sufficiently declared in that part of their preface which refers to alterations nec- essary by consequence, which should be studied by any one who wishes to see how they have persuaded themselves that such alterations, though not in themselves required by the general rule of faithful- ness, are nevertheless not at varjance with the rule of introducing as few changes as faithfulness would allow. It may be doubted how far their reasoning on this point will satisfy the majority of their readers. To Englishmen in general and it is for Englishmen that the book may be supposed to be primarily intended uniformity for its own sake has no charm. On the contrary, they have a pos- itive weakness for anomaly, one phase of ~vhich is that love of inequality which Mr. Gladstone recognizes in them. In literary compositions certainly they like, or used to like, variety of expression, as conduc- ing to strength and richness of style, and indirectly to fulness and freedom of thought. The idea of guarding against unequal dealing towards a great number of good English words, though it may have a comical sound when solemnly propounded by a body of grave translat- ors, is quite in keeping with the national humor. Add to this that the ordinary * The English Bible, i. x9o: a mine of informatioO on the whole subject. 76 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. Englishman, whatever may be his politi- cal creed, is, in matters of sentiment, highly conservative, and we have a two- fold reason for fearing that in proportion to the degree in which uniformity has in this revision been insisted upon at the cost of changes otherwise unnecessary, will be the length of time that must elapse before it will be taken home, if ever it is taken home, to the hearts of the people. In the mean time many will be ~vatch- ing its course with keen interest, and per- haps endeavoring to cast its horoscope. The circumstances under which it is launched on the world are in some re- spects very different from those of its great predecessor. On the one hand the Bible of i6ii had, though in no strictly formal shape, royal authority, whereas the new version, as we have been warned by the metropolitan bishop, cannot le- gally be used in any church, so that it will not really be a case of what has been termed competitive circulation.~ Again, the former was brought out with the de- clared object of putting a stop to disputes and rivalries among contending versions; the latter comes as a claimant, to disturb a peaceful possession of three centuries duration. On the other hand, the very length of the reign of the present version is an ar- gument in favor of some change; while both the lapse of time, and the great revo- lutions of thought and criticism in recent years, made it certain beforehand that this revision would be a greater advance on its predecessors than any one of them was on those which preceded it. At the same time the enormous number of cop- ies of it which have gone forth to all the ends of the earth, secure for it, better than any royal proclamation, a large au- dience, and a fair if not a favorable hear- ing. By many who are not prepared to receive it as a Bible, it will be welcomed as a handy-volume commentary, giving, in convenient form, the net results of the latest criticism. It has been suggested that it should, as was the case with the Bishops Bible, remain, so to speak, on the stocks for a fe~v years, to receive such corrections as may appear necessary after the searching examination to which it is sure to be submitted. And tl~ougl~, from the proceedings in convocation, it would appear that the revisers consider them- selves and are considered asfuncti officio, the world no doubt would welcome the announcement that they were willing to remain in office until the committee of the whole house, to which their bill has been referred, shall have made its re- port. What will be the upshot of that report it would be rash to predict. Mans first word, says one of the brothers in Guesses at Truth, is Yes, his second No, his third and last Yes. It may be that many whose first feeling about this new version was one of unmingled ad- miration of its great excellences, and de- light at finding the general character of the old Bible so loyally preserved, may on closer inspection be provoked and re- pelled by the great amount of liberty taken with the old text in matters of de- tail, the multitude of alterations which will appear to them uncalled for and pe- dantic. And yet, in the third stage they may come to reflect that this is, after all, an offence rather against rules prescribed by the Convocation of Canterbury than against any permanent and essential canons of literary taste; that the incon- venience of these changes would not out- live a generation, while the benefit of them, if they are improvements at all, would be permanent; and their third and last judgment may be that in aiming at ultimate permanence rather than at imine- diate acceptance, the revisers have shown themselves not only true to a higher ideal, but wiser, even in their generation, than either their employers or their critics. THEODORE WALROND. From The Argosy. THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, AUTHOR OF THE OCCUPATIONS OF A RETIRED LIFE, THE MYSTERY OF DR. HARDYS MARRIAGE, ETC. I. - EVERYBODY in the City knew these shut-up houses. They stood in all their gaunt dreariness and desolation, on the great iriain thoroughfares, like loathsome beggars basking in the sunshine beside the market cross or on the palace steps. There vere many of these houses, and they did not all stand together. There were two immense buildings going to decay on Hay Hill, not three minutes walk from the cathedral; there ~vas an- other, in a busy little street in the lawyers quarter; and there were three or four more, all in a row, at that corner of the Great South Road where it is intersected by Wharf Street. The country cousins, THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 77 arriving at the railway terminus there, saw these as their first glimpse of Lon- don, and began to wonder whether the streets were likely to be paved with gold, when the buildings were allowed to moulder into dust and ashes. Nobody seemed to remember when these houses had been in any different condition. Nobodys memory seemed to recall them as anything but shut-up houses. For years and years they had not seemed to grow more dingy or dilapi- dated, having long since reached that state ~vhen any change for the worse was not likely to be very apparent. From attic to area not one pane of glass remained in the windows. The boys who had broken them must have grown into elderly men. Yet most of the windows were shuttered and barred, though here and there a heavier stone or a more vigorous throw had snapped a rusty hinge or smashed a rotten board. If on a Sunday afternoon, or at early morning, or any other time of silence, a passer-by stood motionless opposite one of these openings, he might see a rat run across the floor of the room ~vithin, or a stray breeze stir the torn paper or loose straw which the last inhabitants had left behind them. Who were those last inhabitants? and why did they go? The houses on Hay Hill had shops to them, but the names and trades had faded quite from the signboards. Of course there were stories about the shut-up houses. The worst of it was, there were so many of them and each so different that they could not all be true. It is also a melancholy fact that those shut-up houses caused a great deal of dissension among those respectable folk who are known as the oldest inhabi- tants. Mr. Towers, the great grocer on Hay Hill, said they were in Chancery, as if that magic phrase was quite enough to explain everything mysterious. But Mr. Brown, the baker, laughed the Chan- cery idea to scorn. His story ~vas that there had been a murder committed in one of the houses, by the man who was the owner of them all, and that so he had disappeared, and could never come back to claim his property for fear the police should come down upon him. Sam Wilks, an attorneys clerk, who wanted to be a detective, made a pilgrim- age to the Great South Road, and had a gossip in the Wharf Street shops con- cerning the shut-up houses there. He came back highly delighted with the re- sult of his expedition. There had been a murder done there too, down in the kitchen of the last shut-up house from the corner. There had been mysterious lights seen there more than once and, better than all (and everybodys flesh began to creep), on a certain Christmas Eve, after dark, a boy who with a string, a dump, and a lucifer-match was fishing about in the area for a fourpenny bit he had seen there while it ~vas daylight, had been suddenly scared by hearing a scrap- ing, shovelling sound within, as if some- body a ghost, of course wa~ dio-rincr a grave. It did not go on for - many min- utes, but it was quite certain he had heard something, because he stayed there till other people came, and the first two or three heard something too. Quite a crowd gathered, and were very angry because by this time there was nothing to hear; and would not disperse till the policeman made a feint of taking one man to the station-house. Then of course they followed him and forgot all about everything else. But after Sam Wilkss delightful hor- rors concerning the lights and noises in the shut-up mansions in Wharf Street, the dwellers on Hay Hill began to whis- per concerning things which hitherto they declared they had kept to themselves. First and foremost among those whis- perers was Miss Wince, who lived next door to these mysterious buildings, carry- ing on her calling as dressmaker in a first-floor room, and retiring into private life ~vith her apprentices in the large, low attics, which, on such an eminence as Hay Hill, had a really fine sky view, and looked down on a wide landscape of red tile and gray slate. She was a great reader of romances, and bought old ones cheap. She soon put in circulation a stock of present-day rumors which speed- ily threw poor old Mr. Brown and his ancient legends quite into the shade. I know what I know, she would say oracularly, with a pin in the corner of her mouth, but what Ive always held to is, that them who say what they know when theyre sure nobody will believe em, is fools! (Gores are all the fashion now, maam, and yours is just the figure theyll suit not like some of my ladies.) When I just mentioned what Id heard to the doctor the other day, lie said it was the wind, or rats, or a little of both! Tell me its the wind! Tell me its rats! Has the wind two voices? And do rats swear? I know what I know, but a poor woman earning her bread has no right to speak. I trust I can keep myself to myself as 78 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. well as any in St. Mitres Parish, and bet- ter too, for theyre a low, gossiping set generally. (You shall have your dress on Saturday evening, faithful, maain, and dont you fidget if its ten oclock before it comes.) Now St. Mitres, of whose parishioners Miss Wince thought so poorly, was a big church, standing on the highest part of Hay Hill. It was a handsome building, not without historical associations, for it was full of the effigies of nameless knights, and these and sundry worn-out brasses attracted a great many antiquarians to it. It also boasted some very fine old stained glass and some rich oak carving. Its in- cumbent ~vas an earnest, faithful man, and as his parish was not so utterly given up to offices and warehouses as those of many City churches, St. Mitres still pos- sessed a fair congregation. Myers, the beadle, made a very decent income out of the combination of his Christmas boxes, the fees from the anti- quarians, and his settled salary. Besides, he and his wife enjoyed the use of two pretty little rooms over the church porch. With the discontent common to human nature, Mrs. Myers looked upon these rooms as a very doubtful advantage. The American ladies who came to see the chipped knights and the great poets neglectedlooking grave in the church- yard, were often asked to rest a while in Mrs. Myerss little parlor, and they would tell her how they envied her mullioned windows and queer corner cupboards. But Mrs. Myers always answered, with a sigh, that it was not a cheery thing to be left alone with the dead. Myers was above all such nonsense, so that his wife had to hide her feelings ; which meant that she talked of nothing but her self-restraint from morning till night. When the new mysteries concerning the shut-up houses began to leak out, Mrs. Myerss sufferings were intensified. She began to take cold shivers when- ever she walked near a certain illegible memorial stone in the chancel, which ru- mor had somehow connected with some of the more remote dead-and-gone owners of the desolate property. At last, one Wednesday evening, when she and her husband had chosen to retire to their own apartment during the week- night evening service, they had an argu- ment on the subject, and Mrs. Myers, finding herself flatly contradicted, and not too politely characterized by her bet- ter half, went into violent hysterics. Her shrieks resounding through the church, two weak women in the congregation caught the subtle infection, and began to scream too, the babes brought for baptism set up a terrible roaring, and such a scene of general confusion ensued that the in- dignant clergyman had no resource but to stop in the middle of the prayers, and dismiss the worshippers. And through the parish of St. Mitres, from supper-table to supper-table, flew the report that the beadles wife had seen the ghost of either the murderer or the murdered of the shut-up houses. II. WHAT is all this about? asked the parish doctor, Dr. Bird, of the Rev. Mr. Lane, when he met him next day walking with young Mr. Dun can, the lawyer. You ought to know better than I can, doctor, said the clergyman. Dr. Bird laughed knowingly. Then I should say it was about nothing, he remarked. This is the recipe for the grandest uproar and mystification a few weak women, a pound of self-decep- tion, and an ounce of fancy. What do you call fancy? asked the clergyman. The ~vorking of the mind in uncer- tain material, answered Dr. Bird prompt. ly. A good definition, I think, said Mr. Lane. Well, do you know, I think that should have come first, and not last, in your recipe. It matters to us all, and therefore not surely least to those whom you call weak women, whether our fan- cies be pleasant or unpleasant. You are not giving in to the cold shiv- ers and the creeps and the voices, sure- ly? asked Dr. Bird, with something very like a sneer in his tone. No, certainly I am not, returned the clergyman in his quiet, dignified manner. I think it is you who give in to them by ignoring the unpleasant and unwholesome fancies which breed them. I believe that from nothing comes nothing. Certainly, the doctor assented stout- ly. There can be no effect without a causethe cause in this case being the woman s fears and weakness. But these, too, must have their cause for outbreak, said the clergyman. The root of any plant is not simply the point at which the stem passes out of our sight into the ground. A deeper cause for all this uproar, Dr. Bird, is those shut-up houses. Tut! cried the doctor, if they had not one thing to frighten themselves about THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 79 they would find another. I cannot under- stand peoples minds being affected by such trifles as these houses. How do they hurt them? They are not their busi- ness. They lose nothing by them. You dont know what effect it mic~ht have even on you, if the sun turned black and stayed so, said the clergyman. You are an educated man; you have read much. You move among people of simi- lar education and mental capacity. You have travelled and have laid in a large stock of remembered scenery, which, so to speak, you can shift at pleasure for your o~vn entertainment. But these other people have few or none of these things their lives are confined within the nar- rowest limits. Now for years these mis- erable, shut-up houses have been a centre of unhealthy curiosity and gossip. They have stimulated invention in the direction of ghastly crimes; they have filled empty and hungry imagination with a phantas- magoria of evil spirits and malignant pas- sions. It seems to me that you, as a scientific man, should be the very last to deny the almost irresistible power of sub- tle influences. Well, well, there may be something in what you say, assented the doctor. But, after all, it is none of our business, and I dont see what all our wisdom can do in the matter, since these unfortunate houses are neither my patients nor your parishioners. If I could find out to whom they be- long, said the clergyman, I would try to bring some influence to bear in that quarter. Cant Mr. Duncan give us any infor- mation on that point? asked Dr. Bird, suddenly turning to the young lawyer, who had walked silently beside them, a very attentive listener to their argu- ments. Mr. Duncan smiled and shook his head, which might or might not be a polite and perfectly legal way of conveying that he did not mean to say anything. Mr. Duncan was quite a young man, with bright, kind, gray eyes, which always looked as if he was going to tell some good news. He had a fair, pale face, and that peculiar style of plain features which wear a refinement that handsome faces rarely have. Mr. Duncan was a much imposed-upon man. Even a lawyers pro- fessional reputation for astuteness and severity could not serve to keep off the crowd of intentional swindlers and natu- ral-born sponges who surrounded him. Yet he was a clever lawyer, and won his clients cases, and then could not bear to charge many of them anything except costs out of pocket. He had a great many clients, yet he often would say, Somehow, I do not get a paying connec- tion. How could he, when he had not the heart to make it pay? Mr. Duncan was certainly not making his fortune; but he was paying his ~vay, and as his constant prayer was that he might die in harness, he looked forward hopefully, had always a merry word on his lips, and thought the world such a bright and pleasant place, that he was accustomed to say he could realize heaven best by thinking of it as something just better than earth. His favorite hymn was Bonars Meeting-P lace, and he had a special mark set against the lines, Loving on, unchilled, unhindered, Loving once, and evermore. Mr. Duncans house was kept by a maiden aunt. She loved him, she spoiled him, and to his face she called him a fool, well knowing that she would not have loved him half so well had he been other than he ~vas. The moment Dr. Bird tried to draw him into the conversation he paused, looked at his watch, and rThiarking that he had an appointment at a certain court within the hour, he shook hands with his two companions and hastened away. He knows a good deal about the prop- erty hereabouts, said Mr. Lane, but there doesnt seem much to be drawn from him. Perhaps there isnt much to draw, returned the doctor. Poor fellow! Why poor fello~v? asked the cler- gyman. I dont see why he is to be pit. ied, doctor? Dont you? said the doctor. Well, I hate looking at ones neighbors in a professional way, but sometimes one can- not help it. He is as fine a case of phthisis as ever I saw every symptom marked. 1-le has one foot in the ~rave, Mr. Lane, no matter how long he takes before he puts in the other. Dear me, answered the clergyman. I thought he looked delicate, but then he is always in such spirits why, he is one of the gayest and most hopeful men I know. Thats one of the symptoms, said the doctor. At that moment somebody tapped the clergyman on the shoulder. It was Mr. Duncan come back again. Dr. Bird started, and rather uneasily reflected that 8o THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. it was impossible he could have overheard anything. The young lawyers face was even more bright and eager than usual. Have you never heard the slightest rumor, Mr. Lane, he asked, to whom these empty houses belong? I ask you in the first instance, because as you say you have been interested in this side of the matter, you have probably made some inquiries yourself. It is easy for me to tell you all I know, replied Mr. Lane. I was told that the person ~vho makes herself respon- sible for these houses when absolutely compelled to do so, is a poor old woman living in Wharf Streetnear the other shut-up hoi~ses, you understand. I dont know who has seen her, but nobody can fathom whose agent she is, and I should not think it at all unlikely that she does not know herself. I remember hearing, in some casual way, that she was quite a needy person, like an old female servant. I remember somebody trying to make something out of her years and years ago. She ~vas threatened with an action of some sort. But she kept still and held her tongue and the matter blew over. I should think she must be dead by this time. Perhaps some of the rate-collec- tors may be able to give you more re- cent information than this, Mr. Lane added. Thank you, very much, but I dont think Ill trouble them, you have told me quite enough for the present. Good morning, again. And once more he hastened away. I told you he knew nothing, observed Dr. Bird. I wonder what he has taken into his head. I dare say he thinks those houses have stood still long enough. Lawyers live on the steam of stirring property. I am not so sure that he knows noth- ing, said Mr. Lane, who always cultivated a cautious and take-nothing-for-granted tone when he was with a man of science. However, we shall see whether anything comes of it. II. WHAT could Mr. Duncan have taken into his head? Probably he matured his plans as he walked towards the court, for as soon as he had fulfilled his appoint- ment there, he sauntered straight in the direction of the Great South Road. It led through some of the busiest City streets, and then across the river. He stopped and looked down at its silvery highway, for he liked to see the red-sailed barges heavy with their loads of yellow hay. But he did not linger long. Now the Great South Road is not a genteel or fashionable locality. It is a place to buy cheap chairs, ready-made coats, and cotton pocket-handkerchiefs. A smell of tar and tallow pervades it. It has an old church behind a few pale trees, and one or two clingy charitable institu- tions of the minor sort. Mr. Duncan looked up at the great manufacturing premises around him, and then pushed on to Wharf Street, where he came to a dead pause and gazed up at the great ruinous shut-up houses, fac-similes of those he knew so well in his own parish of St. Mi. tres, Hay Hill. There were three of these dismal build. ings, and as he looked at them, his eye travelled on to the next house, exactly like them in size and architectural ar- rangement, and not altogether unlike them, he suddenly noticed, in its desola- tion and dreariness. Like them it had been built for private residence. They had all been grand houses in their day, for there were dusty, chipped architraves of richly carved wood above the doors, and the link-holders had not yet been wrenched from the railings beside them. The upper ~vindows of the house, which was still apparently inhabited, vere all closed, and the shutters looked as if they had not been disturbed for years. But none of the glass panes were broken. The parlor windows were open: that is to say they were screened only by old. fashioned venetian blinds in two divisions, which went up one-third of their height and were then met by thin, worn, but per- fectly clean, white linen blinds. Mr. Duncan took note of all these things, and then looked round about him, and straightway turned into a grocers shop on the opposite side of Wharf Street. It was a small, prim, old-fashioned shop, with very bright copper scales on the counter. A respectable-looking man, with grizzled gray hair, was making some en- tries in a ledger. Mr. Duncan enquired if he happened to keep a local directory, and the grocer instantly produced one. He looked up the numbers of the houses opposite. Nos. i, 2, and 3 were left in blank. No. 4, the half-desolate house, was filled in by the name of Mrs. Celestina Turner. Oh, said Mr. Duncan, still running his finger down the list of names. No. 4 is occupied by a Mrs. Turner, is it? Yes, sir, answered the grocer, and THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. she has always lived there since our time, though you might have asked many people in this street, and they wouldnt have known her name. Then shes a very old lady, said Mr. Duncan, only half interrogatively. \Vell, sir, she must be that when one comes to think of it, replied the grocer. But one does not see much of her. She was certainly oldish when we came here, and weve been here full thirty-five years. Is she really very queer, or is she merely a woman with certain ways of her own? asked Mr. Duncan confidentially. Well, sir, I hardly like to say, an- swered the grocer, settling down into a leaning position on his counter. As you say, folks have a right to their own ways. If shes rich, she must be a miser, and if shes poor, then there must be some mystery that keeps her from letting off the rest of that great, big house, which is just lying waste. For its generally believed hereabout that it is her own house, and also all those other houses alongside of it, and some people do say a deal of property elsewhere. You see all that is queer, sir. Now, my missus makes a great deal out of the clothes the poor old body wears faded, old-fash- ioned satins and silks and gauzes. The women all harp on that string. I dont see much in that myself. Why should she buy new clothes, while shes got the old ones to wear out? I tell my wife Mrs. Turner shows her sense there and sets an example to the neighborhood. But Ill own to you she does look a sight sometimes. Ive seen her once or twice in a lo~v-cut gown ~vith short sleeves. And she always has her hair in curls, and when one comes to remember that she must be nigh eighty, thats queer. I hope you dont think Im askincr these questions with any view to injure or molest Mrs. Turner in any way, said the young lawyer straightforwardly. The plain fact is I am going to consult with her on a matter of business, and knowing nothing of her, I wished, before approaching such a recluse, to be quite sure that she is the person 1 want to see, and to have some idea of the present state of things. Tell me just one thing more does Mrs. Turner live alone? No, answered the grocer, there was an old woman, nigh as old as herself, who lived with her and waited on her till two years ago. She was as queer as her. self nearly, and almost as little seen or spoken with, only we saw her going in and out sometimes, whereas Mrs. Turner LIVING AGE. VOL. xxxv. 1774 h erself never crossed the threshold. But about two years ago the old woman dis- appeared: whether she went away or is bed-rid in the house, I cant say. And then a girl arrived from somewhere, and bids fair to grow into another queer old woman if she lives long enough. Thank you very much for all your kind information, said Mr. Duncan. It has helped me in my work. Good afternoon.~~ And a pleasanter-spoken gentleman I never met, said the grocer to himself, as he peeped between his wares and watched the lawyer across the street. Mr. Duncan mounted the worn old steps and pulled the bell. It rang with a startling clang, as if it had been asleep for half a century, and now roused itself with a jerk. Then, as he stood awaiting an answer, he looked about him. The doorsteps were faultlessly clean. The railings which skirted them, though rusty and almost devoid of paint, were so free from dust that Mr. Duncan, who was an observant and domesticated man, felt sure that not only a broom, but a duster, had been very carefully used upon them that very morning. The door, too, had been rubbed do~vn, and all the dust re- moved from its rather elaborate bevelling. These strange people did not love dirt it was plain that they shrank from it in spite of their having mysteriously re- signed the best rooms of the house to its undivided sway. Even the area was carefully swept up. The kitchen ~vas evidently in present occupation, though its windows, little as they ~vere exposed to public gaze, were completely covered up by chintz curtains, patched in many places, but spotlessly clean, having been washed so often that color and pattern had nearly disappeared. The door was not promptly opened, but there was no special delay. Mr. I)uncan had scarcely began to wonder whether it was time to ring again, when the latch moved, and he was confronted by the girl the grocer had spoken of. She held the door open only enough to show her figure : a thin, brown girl, with narrow shoulders. She had brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin a shade or two lighter and a dull brown gown, un- brightened by collar or bow. She neither repudiated Mr. Duncans presence nor asked his business. She only looked up at him, half timidly, half pathetically. This is Mrs. Turners house, I think, said he, in that wonderful conciliatory manner of his, which always seemed to 82 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. give him every right, because it claimed none. Miss Turner~ s, answered the girl, with a mild emphasis on the spinster pre- fix. I beg your pardon Miss Turners, he said. Is Miss Turner at home? I should so like to speak with her for a few minutes. The girls eyes were troubled. Per- haps she had received instructions how to receive and dispose of different kinds of callers, and could not classify this one with his bright, pale face and kind tones. I thinkwill you please tell me what message you have, sir? she said, hesi- tatingly, and opening the door a little wider. Mr. Duncan did not advance his foot one inch. Nay, he withdre~v it from. the threshold, and stood on the flagstone outside. He did not mean to storm this dismal castle. Well, it is scarcely a message that can he delivered, he said, with that win- ning smile to which even vice-chancellors had been known to respond. It is not exactly business, and yet it concerns busi- ness. One cant easily frame a friendly message which will bear repeating over and over again, you know. The pink grew clearer in the girls cheek. She nearly smiled. I would send in my name, said Mr. Duncan, only I am quite certain Miss Turner would not know it. And yet stop a moment. I will send it in all the same. There is my card. Please to tell the lady she will not know the name, but that I particularly wish to speak with her not exactly about business. And please say that she must not allow me to disturb her, if she does not care to see a stranger, or fears to be annoyed. The girl hesitated. She looked at him again, as if she was half inclined to take him into her own confidence and explain the difficulties of the commission he trusted to her. But she took his card, and abruptly turned back into the house, leaving him standing on the step, with the door ajar. He drew it gently to, shutting himself outside, and stood so, with his hand on the worn, bright handle. He thought she would never come back. She was away more than five minutes. When she did return, she opened the door wide. She had his card still in her hand, and her face was quite flushed. I beg your pardon for keeping you standing out there, she said. I tried to repeat exactly all you told me. But Miss Turner says there must be some mistake, sir. Miss Turner has not a friend in the world. She says there is nobody to send any message to her. Ah, said Mr. Duncan, quickly rais- ing the kind grey eyes which he had cast down while the damsel made her little speech, ah! but will you kindly go back and ask Miss Turner whether she has not a friend in another world. The girl disappeared without a word. This time she wasted scarcely a moment before returning. Miss Turner says, will you come in, sir, she said. Walk this way, please. She led Mr. Duncan through the meagre hall, with its threadbare oil-cloth and worm-eaten boards, to a door which opened into the front parlor. It was all done so quickly that Mr. Duncan could scarcely take note of anything except the ancient, airless sort o a mosphere. It was not exactly close: probably the win- dows were open. It was only air in which nobody spoke or laughed, or thought new thoughts. The girl threw open the parlor door, ushered him in without a word, and swiftly retired. The room in which he found himself was large and lofty, and sparsely filled with antiquated furniture. The things which struck his first glance were sundry huge busts standing on great black brackets, the whiteness of their mar- ble showing staring and ghastly against the dark wall-paper. Lie saw, too, a fire dimly burning on the wide hearth. Be- side it sat two female figures, one of which rose, and came rapidly towards him as he entered. She was a short, slight woman, and as she walked forwards, her back was turned towards such dim light as came through the muffled windows. From her step and her whole contour Mr. Duncan thought her scarcely middle-aged. But when she paused about a yard from him, and turned a little aside so that her face was more clearly seen, he thrilled from top to toe with the shock of her appear- ance. Yet there was nothing horrid about her, as that word is generally used. Neither disease nor accident had inflicted any dis- figurement on a face which must once have been singularly beautiful, nor was there any glare of madness or evil passion in the still strangely bright blue eyes. But all that he had recently heard of Miss Celestina Turner, and all the vagaries of his imaginative neighbors at St. Mitres, had not effectually prepared him for the reality. This was a ~voman, evidently older than THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 83 almost any woman he had ever spoken with before, yet with long curls fastened back with schoolgirl side-combs, and wearing a rich and elaborate robe, made in the fashion which had suited young maidens sixty years before. But it was the face itself which was so awful. For it, too, was a girls face, ~vithered and faded a very mummy of girlhood the face as of a spirit cursed with imperisha- ble union with an ever-perishing body not immortal life but immortal death. It was not often that young Mr. Dun- can lost his presence of mind. But for a moment he did so. His ever ready inspi- ration failed him. They stood gazing at each other. Ah, you look at me, she said, in a thin, high, but not unmusical voice. You should not wonder at anything strange, for you have sent me a strange message. Have you come from a tomb toatomb? But you are a living man, I know, though you have the look of one who She broke off suddenly, and her momen- tary flash of excitement subsided into a dull, commonplace manner. Sit down, young man, she said. I dont see many visitors, and I forget my manners. Sit down and say what you have to say. He had had time to recover his self- possession,ancl he glanced at the other figure by the fire. If a third party was to be present at the carrying out of his wild dream, he wanted to know from the outset to what the influence of that third party was likely to tend. But Miss Turner was watching him narrowly, and she detected the glance. You need not think about her, she said. You and I are alone. Hannah can neither see, nor hear, nor speak now: she cannot do anything: she cannot even die. Certainly Hannah was as motionless as the grim busts on the wall. Mr. Duncan looked round at them a little forlornly. Well? said Miss Turner interroga. tively. I have a message for you from hun- dreds and hundreds of people, said the young man turning towards her. He did not fall into a preaching tone. He spoke as if he had said he had a message from a cousin. But she did not respond. A shade of something could it be disappointment passed over her face. She did not yield to it: she sat looking straightbefore her: he could imagine her sitting so for hours. Mr. Duncan scarcely thought she heard what he said, but when she noticed his pause, she said promptly : I hear. These people want to say to you, he resumed, Is it kind to them to let these shut-up houses go to ruin in this dreadful way? They dont know you: they dont know to whom these houses belong. But one or two of them have got an idea that you know all about it, and they want you to deliver this, their message, to the own- er. I am the owner myself, she said. Oh, I am so glad! exclaimed Mr. Duncan. For now I kno~v the owner herself has consented to receive the mes- sageand I fancy she will hear me out, and forgive me for taking courage to come and speak to her. Again she said, mechanically, I hear. Dont you think all we have is given us to keep and will be required of us again, with an account of the use to which we have ptit it? he asked. You re- member how poorly that man fared who kept his talent folded up. Now these houses such beautiful houses, too ! are not even folded up and kept as they were at the beginning. They get ~vorse every day. I say nothing about the money that is wasted through their condition, though I think some little starving chil- dren and some helpless old people whom I saw on my walk here might have sent you a message about that. But, my dear madam, would you like to live opposite these houses yourself? It would not matter to me, she said, glancing at her own blinded casements. But the sense of beauty, dying hard with- in the woman, was vindicated by two huge nettle geraniums which spread their pale leaves to catch all they could of the ob- scured sunlight. Perhaps you are right concerning that, now, he admitted, with an infinite ten- derness in his tone. But, Miss Turner, like all of us, you have not only a present, but a past. Were there never days in your life when you would not have liked those terrible walls to make part of their scenery? He unconsciously repeated Mr. Lanes phrase. He paused again, and this time the dry, mechanical I hear did not urge him on. The awfully set features were quivering a little. You cannot imagine what dreadful ideas these houses put into peoples heads, he said. Up in St. Mitres par. ish, they have invented two or three mur 84 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. ders to account for their condition. Now those are not wholesome fancies, Miss Turner, are they? Oh! and now I think of it, they have given you a ghost for your very next neighbor, he added, with his irresistible playfulness. Just think of that! Cannot you fancy how it hurts the poor little children to dream of ghosts scraping graves in cellars, instead of guardian an gels keeping watch over them ! He could not tell how far she listened to him, but she spoke when he paused. A ghost next door! How did they invent that, I wonder? Ah, I think I know. I remember one night when a crowd gathered on the pavement in front of the house. XVe supposed they had heard old Hannah scraping up coals, and as she said old Hannah a motion of her head indicated the passive figure by the hearth. There is a way from this house into the cellar of the house next door; and we had always used that cellar for coals. Mr. Duncan looked at her as she paused. And so that was a ghost, was it? she xvent on, presently, ~vith a change of voice, and a strange touch of bitter, youth- ful scornfulness, as much out of place as all the rest of herself and her manner. Dear me! It seems I can gauge the depth of human folly well, for I said at the time that would make a fine ghost. But I never knew about the reported murders. The people must have known better than that, she added impatiently. They knew nothing, dont you see? said Mr. Duncan gently, and weeds always grow in waste land. You can judge what a terrible effect these houses must have had, when they made decent, respectable people fancy such things without any foundation whatever. She laughed a bitter laugh. I wont say without any foundation, but certainly without any foundation such minds could appreciate. I think there have been mur- ders, sir, she added, drawing a long breath; t~vo murders; three, I ought to say. Perhaps there will be four. Slow, slow murders. Some of us are not dead yet! The figure by the fireside gave a low, dreadful moan. Mr. Duncan started. She does not hear anything said Miss Turner coolly. That groan hap- pened to come in by chance. But you will tell me that you are not offended by my temerity in approaching you, pleaded Mr. Duncan meekly. Offended! she exclaimed. No, certainly not. I only wish you had come sixty years ago, she added presently. Mr. Duncan felt inclined to say that if he had been his own grandfather he might have done so. Not in levity: but be was a man of light heart and cheery tempera- men t. Do you suppose I deliberately planned to leave my houses as they are or to live as I do? she asked. If you do, you know little of the world. Mr. Duncan said nothing. He felt that the stagnant waters were stirring beneath,. arousing memories and regrets of which he knew nothing, and he was too wise to disturb their influence. Murders! she said presently, no longer in that wistful tone of mockery. Murders! Yes; one, two, three young women slowly, slowly murdered. God only knows by whom or by what! They were all stabbed to the heart, and then left stunned and bleeding on the worlds high- way, to creep away from being pelted and stoned, as the world always stones and pelts maimed creatures; and there was never a hand or a voice lifted up to call them back never a healing touch or a healing word given to bind the torn flesh over the wrung nerves ! Is this my voice I hear talking? she asked fiercely, with a return of the excitement she had mani- fested on Mr. Duncans first entrance. I remember I used to talk like this at first. No; not at firsta little after the first. I feel as if I had been asleep, and had wakened; as if I had gone to sleep very, very hungry, and had woke again to still find no bread. I did not want to wake till I was dead! she wailed piti- fully. You had no right to wake me! You little know what you did when you sent in that last message, asking if I hadnt a friend in another world. Mr. Duncan sat in silence, but she looked in his face and ~vent on. Im so old and so odd that I suppose it is no wonder if my mind is shaky. And so, though of course I knew better, I almost felt as if some miracle was going to happen as if one of my dead was coming back to life. I thought it might be all a dream the girl coming in and going out, repeating the words you said and I thought I would let it go on, and see what the end would be. There are two graves in my lifeand Ive never seen either of them in the earth. Yes, theres a third grave poor Agathas but thats nothing. She was buried, like [me, before she died, and the second sort SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ 85 of grave doesnt matter. Fancy goes a long way, I used to be told when I was a girl, and I knew it must be fancy if either of my dead came back. But its some- thing to get a moment of pleasant fancy after living, living, living, for sixty years with fancies of the other sort. But when I saw you, I knew you were not a fancy; and yet She turned to him suddenly, and a strange, soft, womanly light came into the hard, dry old eyes. God blesg you! she said gently. If people would always xvalk, like you, into earths dark places, theyd find noth- ing there but some shunned, blinded fel- low-creature, groping to get out. I will tell you my history, she added, gazing at him with a yearning look, as though he reminded her of some one in the dead past. You will have patience with me, I know and you will have pity! tells us, that he was afterwards uncon- scious of what he had done, and when ten years later I found the Irving MS. and asked him about it, he did not know to what I was alludino- In such a state of disturbance if a mans mind can be saved, it must be by occupation; and if any occupation is pos- sible, it will be that which has been habit- ual. The habit of Carlyles mind was to look into the past, to describe what he saw there, to give it shape and color in language, and to write about it; and this was the resource to which he betook him- self. Mr. Froude avows frankly enough his undivided responsibility for the publica- tion of xvhat had been~so written.* lie avows his responsibility; but, to judge by what he has done, with no adequate sense of what it amounts to. The reader has here before him, he says, Mr. Carlyles own handiwork, but without his last touches, not edited by himself, not cor- rected by himself, perhaps most of it not intended for publication. Just so; and the reader as he reads, if he feels as I do, will feel himself to be overhearing a solil- oquy; and not the less a soliloquy be- cause the diction is now and then strained and overwrought. It is for the most part less so than was usual with him; and men who have made the moulding of language the business of their lives may naturally fall into the practice in soliloquy from the force of habit. If then many of the things in this book which we are grieved to find in it had merely passed through Carlyles mind, unspoken and unwritten, should we have thought him so very much to blame? Do we not all of us, when not determined to shut our eyes, see failings and disfigure- ments in our friends and associates, and find no fault with ourselves for seeing them, provided we make no mention of them? But it will be said that in some instan- ces Carlyle has iniagined faults and dis- figurements which did not exist, and has failed to see merits and attractions which did. That also will happen to most of us; alloxving ourselves in our silent mecli- tations to come to conclusions, both posi- tive and negative, from inadequate prem- isses and with imperfect discernment. From The Nineteenth Century. SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLES REMINISCENCES. * THE publication of Carlyles Reminis- cences, with all, or, if not all, far too much, of what is said in them of his friends and acquaintances, has thrown a sad element of bitterness into the out- burst of admiration and sorrow which followed upon his death. It could not be otherwise, and the upas is not the tree that should be planted on the grave of a great man. I knew him for, I think, nearly fifty years, and what I know best is that he was not easily to be understood. One thing about him it is almost needless to saythat he was like nobody else. The world must judge men by its experience; and when the guidance of experience is wanting, the world is in a xv ay to mis- judge. It has had no experience what- ever of men like Carlyle; and the cir- cumstances under which most of these Reminiscences,~ were written may have made IIie~n even more liable to be misun- derstood than, under any ordinary condi- tions, Carlyle himself would be. Those to which any exception can be taken were written in deep distress, in the autumn and winter following the death of his wife. And so singular was * Mr. Carlyles will is now published, and adverts to his condition at this time, Mr. Froude the MS. in these terms: The manuscript is by no means ready for publication; nay, the question how, when (after what delay, seven, ten years), it, or any * Reminiscences. By Thomas Carlyle. Edited by portion of it, shall he published, are still dark to me; James Anthony Froud~. 2 vols. London: Long- but on all such points James Anthony Froudes practi mans and Co., xIS,. cal summing up and decision is to be taken as mine. 86 SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ No doubt it would be much better if we did no such thing; better if our secret thoughts went quite another way; espe- cially when measuring the merits of those who have been kind to us; and it is not surprising that when the misappreciation is made known it should be angrily de- nounced by the friends of those who have suffered wrong. They may be angry and sin not. And there are instances in which even others ~vho stand apart must feel strongly in sympathy with those who are aggrieved. On the other hand, not a few of these hasty or unfounded judg- ments, as they impute no moral infirmity and inflict nothing that can be called a personal injury, need not be matter of personal reproach to their author; and those to whom they come amiss, whether on private grounds or on the ground of public interests involved in literary repu- tations, will be better employed, if they happen to be competent witnesses, in the rectification of what they know to be wrong than in censure and complaint. As an example which falls to my own lot, I ~vill advert to what is said about Wordsworth. Carlyles insensibility to his powers as a poet it is needless to deal with. His work is before the world, and the world knows what it is worth. But everything that can throw light upon him is interesting, and when I read what Car- lyle says of his conversation, I feel it due to his memory to say something of its effect on myself. And the more as it was through me that Carlyle became ac- quainted with Wordsworth, and most of the conversations in question took place in a house which he speaks of as mine.* He accords great praise to Wordsworths faculty of delineating the men of his time. Never, or never but once, had I seen a stronger intellect, a more luminous and veracious power of insight, directed upon such a survey of fellow-men and their con- temporary journey through the world. ~ So far well; and it is evident that there was no desire to depreciate. But on another occasion when the talk was about literature, literary laws, etc., Words- ~vorth is represented as joyfully reverent of the wells of English undefiled, though stone dumb as to the deeper rules and wells of eternal truth and harmony, which you were to try and set forth by said un- defiled wells of English or what other speech you had! To me a little disap pointing, but not much, though it would have given me pleasure had the robust veteran man emerged a little out of voca- bles into things, now and then, as he never once chanced to do.* There is a good deal more of the like tone and tenor in giving an account of divers other con- versations. Now, all this might be a fair inference enough from what Carlyle happened to hear from Wordsworth in conversation; and Carlyle, speaking to himself, may not have thought it necessary to say to him- self that an inference from a few ex- amples is no more than an inference huc usque. But the inference was certainly an erroneous one. Those who have had a large experience of Wordsworth in con- versation know that it was mere matter of accident whether he trod upon the earth or mounted into the skies. He never dreamt of display, and whatever topic, celestial or terrene, happened to come across him, he was equally ready to deal with. Whilst, therefore, 1 maintain that there is no ground for imputing to Carlyle any deliberately unjust disparage- ment, I think that I may claim more credit, as founded upon more knowledge, for my own estimate of Wordsworths powers in conversation; and what that estimate was at the time of those conver- sations in my friends house in London, and what it is still, is expressed in a letter written there and then, thouTh no doubt prompted by other examples than those at which Carlyle happened to be present This old philosopher is one of the most ex- traordinary human phenomena that one could have in the house. He has the simplicity and helplessness of a child in regard to the little transactions Gf life; and whilst he is being directed and dealt with in regard to them, he keeps tumbling out the highest and deepest thoughts that the mind of man can reach, in a stream of discourse which is so oddly broken by the little hitches and interruptions of com- mon life, that we admire and laugh at him by turns. Everything that comes into his mind comes out; weakness and strength; affections or vanities; so that if ever an opportunity was offered of seeing a human being through and through, we have it in the person of this old man eloquent. I Vol. ii., pp. 3323. t Mr. Carlyles description, or rather his wifes, adopted by him, of Mrs. Wordsworth, whom they once saw, or thought they saw, at a dinner party, is so wholly opposite, not only to what she was, but to what * It was the house of an elderly lady, a friend and she was manifestly seen to be by those who did not connection of mine, with whom I was in the habit of know her as well as by those who did, that I cannot staying when she was in London. but think there was simply a mistake of one person for vol. ii., p. 336. another. She was not little but rather tall; and as SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ 87 Of Coleridges gifts of speech Carlyle is still less appreciative than of Words- worths I had him to myself once or twice in various parts of the garden walk and tried hard to get something about Kant from him about rea- son versus understanding and the like but in vain. Nothing came that was of use to me that day or, in fact, any day. The sight and sound of a sage who was so venerated by those about me, and whom I too would willingly have venerated but could not this was all.* So in the Reminiscences. But not altogether so in the Life of Sterling. t There we find Coleridge to be a sub- lime man; who alone in those dark days had saved his crown of spiritual man- hood; escaping from the black materi- alisms and revolutionary deluges with God, Freedom, Immortality still his: a king of men. And though this is followed by a long train of offsets, with denials of any meaning being to be gath- ered from the mysteries of his doctrinal declamations, yet, all this notwithstand- ing, there were glorious islets to be seen rising out of the haze balmy, sunny islets, islets of the blest and the intelligible and eloquent artistically expressive ~vords you always had; pierc- ing radiances of a most subtle insight came at intervals; tones of noble, pious sympathy, recognizable as pious though strangely colored, ~vere never wanting long.~ My experiences of Coleridges conversation were in accord with what is thus expressed in the Life of Sterling, and by no means with the passage from the Reminiscences. What opportu- nities Carlyle had of listening to Cole- ridge, I know only from the Reminis- cences. They may not have been very ample. And there is this to be borne in mind that Carlyle himself had a great gift of speech, and when these gifts con- front each other, however amicably, the gifts of auscultation, whether on one side or the other, are not generally found to be great in proportion. My own oppor- tunities were not so abundant in the case of Coleridge as in that of Wordsworth, to the other misrepresentations, what I have to say is, that her manner and deportment were in entire har- mony with her character unexceptionahie in their quiet grace and easy simplicity; and that, like another dweller in the woods and mountains known to her hus- hand, Nature had said of her when she was horn, This child I to myself will take, She shall he mine and I will make A Lady of mine own., This was ahsolutely true of Mrs. Wordsworth. * Vol. i., pp. 230-I. I Life of Sterling, chapter viii. but they were probably equal to those of Carlyle. It is only in his latter years and in his decline that he could be seen by either of us, and what I recollect is, that I could not sleep at nights after hearing him talk. Between April, 1823, and Feb- ruary, 1824, I kept an occasional diary, in which the last entries are these : February 24, 1824. Coleridge said he did not perceive his daughters beauty. The per. ception of female beauty was the only thing in which his mind was conscious of age. It had decayed with him. I expressed my ad- miration of a distinct contour of features. Coleridge concurred, but said the contour of the face should be an act of the face, and not something suffered by the face. February 26, 1824. Certainly the most ex- traordinary evening I ever passed; Coleridge with his luminous face and white head, Irvings wild dark locks and wilder eyes, and the keen analytical visage of Basil Montagu. The poring and mining of Wordsworth out of the depths of his intellect is not half so wonderful as Coleridge was to-night, and the buoyancy of Southey is only more delightful. August 5, 1824. At Coleridges again, and with the same company. I-fe was this evening less vehement than I have heard him, but no less extraordinary and admirable. His lan- guage was less interrupted by logical catches, and more fanciful and romantic. For instance, in speaking of men led by age to fix their thoughts on that which was permanent within them, when their eyes grew dimmer and their ears less apprehensive, and the objects which surrounded them more shadowy and cold, etc., etc. - . . He did not say that this would be the case with the man who had spent all his life in trading, with only the principle of money-getting, or in the pursuit of a not less foolish ambition, the man who chained him- self to the wheel of events and was rolled rap- idly on without being able to stop himself for an instant to think of anything further than the objects which surrounded him; who was in fact only a reflection of the surrounding ob- jectsit was not to be said, when the objects grew dim and disappeared, but that he would go outit was not to be said but that the mirror would be a blank, when the objects which were its population were removed, etc. My diary goes no further, but I can add a supplement from a letter (February 18, 1829): I have been two or three times to see the old gentleman this winter, and his talk has been sometimes exceedingly curious and sometimes very magnificent. I never knew such a scope of mind exhibited in any man, such largeness of views, together with such subtlety of insight, and a vivid imagination flashing through all. If Carlyle is less than just to Words- worth and Coleridge, on the other hand 88 SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ his description of Southey is genial as well as faithful and true. It was through me that they became known to each other the time soon after the publication of Carlyles work on the French Revolution. Southey, in speaking of it to me, called it a Pindaric history, adding that he should probably read it six times over. This augured well for a meeting between them, and judging from the Reminis- cences, the meeting was an unalloyed pleasure to Carlyle, nor is there, in the case of Southey, any backing out from his first impressions. Southey was of all the men of letteis of his generation that I knew the most personally attractive, and he found favor with Carlyle. Admiration is designated by Words- worth as one of the three vital elements in the mind of man.* For the historic heroes of whom he read and wrote Car. lyle could feel an abounding admiration; for his fellow-creatures whom he saw in the flesh he could find his way to it often enough, but not so surely or in so large a measure except through love. When that way was opened the approach was by no means uphill work, and least of all when it lay through the gates of death. Mrs. Carlyle made him an admirable wife, and it is with an impassioned admiration that he writes of her. Nor is there anything in his Reminiscences , ~vhich will be read with more interest and sympathy than his account of his father, to ~vhom also he had been ardently attached. In his portraitures generally he aims at force and intensity of first effects, accompanied, in some measure qualified, and even more or less counteracted, by subtle and dis- criminating reservations, or by casting of shadows across the lights. But love and death could clear away all subtle- ties and distinctions in perception, and even much of what was far-fetched or pe. culiar to himself in diction; and in the descriptions of his wife and his father we have for the most part a simplicity of lan- guage, passionate in the one case, affec- tionate in the other, which, whether or not it be chargeable with exaggeration, will have more of a charm for most peo- ple than the best of his elaborate utter- ances. And when the failure to see what was admirable in some of his contemporaries is complained of, the darkness which fell upon him at his wifes death is not the only thing to be borne in mind. From his twenty-second year till he was in mid- * We live by admiration, hope, and love. die age his life had been that of a forlorn man of genius, gloomy and irritable by temperament, disordered in health, con- scious in a measure, but not confidently or hopefully conscious, of the powers he l)ossessed, and above all despairing of their recognition by others. Nor was the despair so altogether unreasonable as re- sults may lead us now to suppose. At a time when he was slowly emerging from obscurity, and sadly struggling for the means of subsistence, I was in communi- cation on the subject of literary pensions with the one of our statesmen now gone to their rest who was the most distin- guished for his love of literature, whilst his feelings of benevolence certainly ex- ceeded what most of our public men have time for. I ventured to propose that a l)ension should be offered to Carlyle, and the answer was that a man who wrote such a style as thatought to starve. Car- lyle did not know of the proposal at the time, nor did it ever come to his knowl- edge, nor would it perhaps have met with his approval. But the reception given to it is significant of what was thought of him by most men of high cultivation in the orthodox and classical school of liter- ature. No vagrant or gipsy could have had to break his way through more bound- aries; The world was not his friend nor the worlds law; and the struggle ~vas naturally fierce as well as brave. No one can ~vonder that a spirit of oppugnancy should have been generated, or that it should have come into the keenest encounter with the favor- ites of that so unfriendly world. The feelings with which he fought his way ~vere softened when the victory was won; but then came his isolation after the death of his wife, which took him back to his earlier life; he fought his old battles over again, and whilst lovino with an agony of love her whom he had lost the morbid and morose contempt with which he had looked down upon the world that knew him not, possessed him once more. Even at other seasons, and indeed at all seasons, except that of his first youth, there was an habitual mournful- ness which pervaded his views of man- kind and lo~vered his estimate of their gifts and felicities. I find myself writing in 1844 (in a letter) of a man I kne~v (who was afterwards to take a high place in political life), and, after giving my own view of him, quoting Carlyles: He is a calm, immovable man, very leatned and SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ 89 very active in mind. . . . Carlyle says he is a melancholy, mournful man, like an old ruined barn filled with owlets; but I think the mournfulness is Carlyles own, who takes a mournful view of every- thing. The effect of low spirits in lowering Carlyles estimates of mankind may be the more clearly seen by comparison with those he formed at an earlier and healthier season a short one unfortunately, last- ing only from 1815, when he was nineteen years of age, till i8x8, when he says I was beginning in y four or five most mis- erable, dark, sick and heavy-laden years. I was without experience or connection in the sphere of human business, was of shy humor, proud enough and to spare, and had begun my long curriculum of dyspepsia which has never ended since. * Before that gloomy afterlife had set in, the spirit in which Carlyle regarded his fellow-creatures was by no means gener- ally uncharitable. In his walks he lodged with shepherds who had clean solid cottages; wholesome eggs, milk, oat-bread, porridge, clean blankets to their beds, and a great deal of human sense and unadulterated natural politeness. Canny, shrewd, and witty fellows when you set them talking. . . . No sort of peasant laborers I have ever come across seemed to me so happily situated, mor- ally and physically well developed, and deserv- ing to be happy, as those shepherds of the Cheviots. 0 fortunatos nimium! But per- haps it is all altered not a little now, as I sure enough am who speak of it.t No doubt; and had he happened to see the same peasants again after the altera- tion in himself, whether or not they had undergone alteration, he would probably have spoken of them in an altered tone. Nor is it only in the class in which he was born that he found at this earliest and undiseased period of his life much to be pleased with. In one of his expedi- tions he came across a Mr. Campbell and his sisters, of a superior richly fur- nished stratum of society; Mr. Campbell practical and most polite, and his sis- ters excellent lean old ladies, with their wild Highland accent, wire - drawn but genuine good manners, and good princi- ples. 4: And the friends and companions of these happier years wore an ever bright aspect to his eyes in after life, clouded only by pity for their afflictions or sorrow for their death. lrving, though it is rather nominally * Vol. i., p. 141. t Vol. i., pp. 1356. $ Vol. i., pp. 130-I. than actually that he is the subject of a volume, is of course the most conspicu- ous in the groups; and, in order to un- derstand the depth and ardor of which Carlyle ~vas capable in his personal at- tachments, it is above all necessary to trace the course of his relations with Irv- ing in each of their several stages and under the influence of the varying circuiri- stances belonging to each. But whilst the portion of Reminiscences to which Irvings name gives a title, supplies the necessary clue, the narration is so. entan- gled with undergrowths and intersected by cross-roads, that some thing more than merely reading it through is necessary to get any distinct conception of what the friendship was and of what it went through in the story of its life. I will endeavor to give it a more clear and consecutive effect, and if I should succeed, I think it will be apparent that Carlyle, under all the trials of time and circumstance, never lost hold of his great love for Irving, and never for more than a passing moment lost sight of the inborn qualities of Irvings noble and generous nature; retaining, even at the parting of the ways and in moments when syml)athy was impossible, some colors of the radiant admiration which had sprung up in the dawn and daybreak of the friendship. In their youthful and cheerful life at Kirkcaldy from 1815 to i8i8 there was no strain put upon Carlyles sympathies. Each was peculiarly fitted to be the others ci~mpanion, by force of genius, by intel- lectual and literary tastes, and, what is perhaps still more pertinent to the charms of companionship, by a sense of humor. The first change of circumstances was when in i8i8 they both threw up the occupation of schoolmaster at Kirkcaldy and went on a venture to Edinburgh. In Carlyles case the change from a small but certain income earned by dull but quiet labor, to a haphazard income to be earned how he could, may have had some- thing to do with the change to gloom and ill-health which followed. Irving was san- guine by temperament. Carlyle was not. Irvings voice [he says] was to me one of blessedness and new hope. He would not hear of my gloomy prognostications; all non- sense that I should never get out of these obstructions and impossibilities; the real im- possibility was that such a talent, etc., should not cut itself clear one day. He was very gen- erous to everybodys talent, especially to mine; which to myself was balefully dubious, nothing but bare scaffold po3es, weather-beaten corner-pieces of perhaps a potential talent, 90 SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ even visible to me. His predictions of what 1 was to be flew into the completely incredible; and, however welcome, I could only rank them as devout imaginations and quiz them away. You will see now, he would say, one day we two will shake hands across the brook, you as first in literature, I as first in divinity; and people will say, Both these fellows are from Annandale. Where is Annandale? This I have heard him say more than once, always in a laughing way, and with self-mockery enough to save it from being barrenly vain.* The next change was a separation, hut a separation in place of abode only, Irv. mo- croino- to Glasgow to be an assistant to Dr. Chalmers. Intercourse by visits and correspondence never ceased, and the relations between them were the same as before. The third change was a serious one for Irving and a sad one for Carlyle. In 1821 the good repute which Irving had estab- lished for himself at Glasgow brought him an invitation to London, and he accepted the ministry in Hatton Garden. The burly-burly of business attending the arrangements was hardly over when there came upon him what Carlyle calls his flaming popularity, spreading, mounting without limits; and, instead of business burly-burly, there was whirlwind of con- flagration :in which whirlwind the inter- course between the friends went to wreck. Carlyle looked and longed for the accus- tomed letters in vain. In some sense, he says, I had lost my friends society (not my friend himself ever) from that time. He was hurt and mortified and in- dicates a suspicion that his pride as well as his love had been wounded by Irvings silence, and that there had been a lurking jealousy as well as a sense of neglect. For Carlyle, if occasionally severe in his judgment of others, is, in his gloomier moods of self-inquisition, not very chari- table towards himself. No doubt it was not with altogether unmixed feelings that he regarded his friends popularity, the news of which reached him in such vague, vast, fitful, and decidedly fulz~gi- ;wiis forms, and ~vhich had made Irving for a time the property of all the world rather than of his friends ; but his love for Irving was unabated and his spleen spent itself upon Irvings worshippers and the nature of the homage they rendered: For though there were beautiful items in his present scene of life, a great ma- jority under specious figure were intrinsi- cally poor, vulgar, and importunate. * VoL i., pp. 1878. This sadness of silence was not to last for more than a few months. Irving, though ceasing to write, had not been forgetful of his friend, and the proof of care and remembrance given in providing him with Charles Buller for a pupil did much to reassure Carlyle and soften his feelings of separation. But when the enthusiasm which Irving had created carried him further and further into the wilderness, it was not the separation only which Carlyle regarded with regret for he was disturbed by doubtful forecasts of what would come of it to Irving. Still,so long as all that he saw was seen from a distance, and Irving himself was joyful and triumphant, he could feel a genuine satisfaction in his friends success. It was when Carlyle went to London in 1824 that a severer trial was to come. Fle then found himself in personal con- tact with Irving himself and with his preachings and popularities, and his friend seemed to him nothing like so happy as in old days; inwardly confused, anxious, dissatisfied; though as it were denying it to himself, and striving, if not to talk big, which he hardly ever did, to think big upon all this. . . . Happiness, alas, he was no more to have, ever, even in the old measure, in this world! And as Irving wandered into wilder and darker regions, Carlyle traced his erratic courses to inordinate aspirations, and a noble but not unambitious belief that he was himself to be the apostle of a new Christianity throughout the world. Nevertheless, whilst the delusion, and the swarming admirers and enthusiasts who ministered to it, were sad subjects to contemplate, there was a large measure of attributes left in Irving to be contemplated with sympathy and a loving appreciation : He had much quiet seriousness, beautiful piety and charity, in this bud time of agitation and disquietude, and I was often honestly sorry for him. Here was still the old true man, and his new element seemed so false and abomina. ble. Honestly, though not so purely sorry as nownow when element and man are alike gone, and all that was or partook of paltry in one s own view of them is also mournfully gone! Carlyles own condition during the ten months he spent in London (from June 1824 to March 1825) ~vas less than ever favorable to seeing things on their bright side. The accursed hag Dyspepsia had got me bitted and bridled, and was ever striving to make my waking living day a thing of ghastly SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ 9 nightmares. I resisted what I could; never did yield or surrender to her; but she kept my heart right heavy, my battle very sore and hopeless. And it can now be understood what he meant when he said that, from the time Irvine went to London, he had in some sense lost his friends society. They met frequently in London, but with a still diminishing freedom of communication, owing only to the pulpit popularity the smoke of that foul witches cauldron; there was never anything else to blame; Irving was sorrowfully occupied in scanning and survey- ing the wrong side of that immense popularity, the outer or right side of which had been so splendid and had given rise to such sacred and glorious hopes. The crowd of people flocking round him continued in abated but still superabundant quantity and vivacity, but was not of the old high quality any more. The thought that the Christian religion was again to dominate all minds and the world to become an Eden by his thrice blessed means, ~vas fatally declaring itself to have been a dream, and he could not consent to believe it such, never he I That was the secret of his inward quasi-desperate resolutions; out into the wild struggles and clutchings towards the unattain- able, the unregainable, which were more and more conspicuous in the sequel. He was now, I gradually found, listening to certain inter- preters of prophecy, thinking to cast his own great faculty into that hopeless quagmire along with them. And in this stage of Irvings career Carlyle took leave of him, and, having nothing more to do in London, betook himself to a farm called Hoddam Hill in Annandale. Hitherto the widening distance between the friends had grown out of religious divergences in Irving alone; but hence- forth there was to be a religious change in Carlyle. In his solitary life at Hod- dam Hill, and while Irving was plunging into more and more unfathomable depths, Carlyle was to rise into ethereal altitudes. Neither before nor after this period does it appear that Carlyle, when denouncing the creed of his friend, intimated what creed, if any, he would propose to sub- stitute. Hitherto the negative and de- structive forces seemed exclusively at work. And even now what part the af- firmative and constructive had to play is much of a mystery. endless solacement coming back with tidings to me! This year I found that I had conquered all my scepticisms, agonizing doubtings, fearful wrestlings with the foul and vile mud-gods of my epoch; had escaped as from a worse than Tartarus, with all its Phlegethons and Stygian quagmires, and was emerging free in spirit into the eternal blue of ether, where, blessed be Heaven! I have for the spiritual part ever since lived, looking down upon the welterings of my poor fellow-creatures in such multitudes and millions still stuck in that fatal element. - - - I had in effect gained an immense vic- tory, and for a number of years had, in spite of nerves and chagrins, a constant inward hap. piness that was quite royal and supreme. - - Nowhere can I recollect of myself such pious musings, communings silent and spontaneous with Fact and Nature, as in these poor Annan- dale localities. The sound of the kirk-bell once or twice on Sunday mornings from Had- dan Kirk, about a mile off on the plain below me, was strangely touching, like the departing voice of eighteen hundred years. No one ~vho knew Carlyle, least of all Irving, could fail to rejoice at the personal enfranchisement and illumination, so tri- umphantly announced; but if no sub- stance ofd octrine was brought to light along with it, it would be of little avail to turn Irving from the error of his ways or bridge over the gulf between them; and if Irving knew no more (and it does not appear that he knew anything) of Car- lyles new religion than is thus announced, he would learn as little of any articulate beliefs from Carlyle, as Carlyle learnt from the tongues which were soon to break out in the Irvingite congregations, and which, five or six years later, Carlyle had an opportunity of overhearing in Iry- ings back drawing-room. And although the lights from heaven which burst upon him in 1826 remained with him forty years later, when he wrote his Remi- niscences, there is no revelation from first to last from which his poor, welter- ing fellow-creatures can divine what he did believe and what he did not. Carlyle had a certain harsh kind of sorrow about Irving, and a conscious- ness growing more bitter that each was losing his hold of the other, as the hos- tilities and contentions Irving was pro- voking grew more wild and tempestuous; but he made no attempt to save him in this stage of his journey downwards, and felt that for the present it was better to I lived very silent, diligent, had long solitary be absolved from corresponding with rides - - - my meditatings, musings and re- him. flections were continual; my thoughts went wandering (or travelling) through eternity, The next stage was in 1827, when Car- through time and through space, so far as poor lyle was married and living at Edinburgh, I had scanned or known, and were now to my whither Irving came on some religious 92 SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES. errand, and in the midst of troubles, pass, the anger was all gone, and there haste, and controversy, paid Carlyle and was nothing left but a sad anticipation of his wife a visit of half an hour, but seemed the end to come, with the feeling How mnch changed, and before he went away are the mighty fallen I When the fall insisted upon praying with them, much was so soon after into the grave, there against their will, and left them with a remained a most loving remembrance of dreary impression that they were not a all they had been to each other in their little divorced from him and bidden to happier days, of all they had continued to shift for themselves. be when their ways lay unhappily asun- This, however, was but one of the vicis- der, and of all that they never ceased to situdes through which the friendship had be till parted by death. to pass. When Irving next came to Scot- Such is the story to be educed, or rath- land he stayed with Carlyle for a day or er extricated, from the strange, rambling, two at Craigenputtoch; and this time, sometimes confused but often luminous being on a mission which involved him and always sincere narrations, which rn no struooies or controversies, he was occupy almost entirely one volume of the in an easy and cheerful mood; the friends Reminiscences. And I have dwelt found themselves, on some points at least, upon it at some length because I am in accord; he was quite alone ~vith us, anxious that those who are indignant and franker and happier than I had seen (justly I admit) with some occasional dis- him for a long time; and it was beau- paragements which have seen the light tiful summer weather, pleasant to saunter they ought never to have seen, should be in with old friends in the safe green soli- led themselves to exercise the charitable tudes, no sound audible but that of our judgment they find to have been occasion- own voices, and of the birds and trees. ally clouded by misanthropic moods in Their next meeting was not till 1831, Carlyle, and, on a survey of the evidence and the scene was in London. By that affoided by the Reminiscences as a time the prophesyings and the tongues ~vhole, give him credit for the great and had been let loose in all their ravino ex- enduring love and the genial sympathies travagances, and Irving, riding oi~ the and admirations of which he was capable, whirlwind, having become a scare to the and in which in his better days he Scotch Church, had been indignantly cast abounded, and do their endeavor to forget out of its pale. The meeting between the instances in which his sad and soli- the friends, however, was quiet; Irving tary musings took a taint of moroseness. was brotherly as ever in his reception I have little to say of the second vol- of Carlyle, and they spoke without re- ume. It is occupied for the most part serve on the religious question. The with a funereal commemoration of his result of course was that they found the wife, sometimes passionate, sometimes division between them more and more prosaic; the threnodies interrupted by hopeless, more and more sorrowful; and long tracts of genealogical and other de- Carlyle, whilst intimating that the friend- tails which he must have known to be so ship stood its ground, and that they were wholly uninteresting to any reader uncon- both anxious it should do so, ascribes to nected ~vith the family, that there is per- Irving, as the nobler of the two in friend- haps in no part of the Reminiscences ship, the larger share in the reconciling stronger evidence that they were not meant element. to be read by others. His tributes to the In the course of the winter the crazy attractions and virtues of his wife, and antics which the weaker brethren gave his penitential reflections upon himself way to led to a division amonast Irvingites themselves, and the and his relations with her, may seem to there were point in the other direction; but repeated brawlings and riots in their own church. as they are again and again in almost Carlyle looked upon it all with l)rofound identical terms, they are more likely to brief, but with anger too. That it should have been mere ejaculations for the relief have been ~vith anger as well as grief, is of his mind from an intolerable burden. to be deplored; but is it always to be Of the lady thus commemorated such assumed that with the more anger there an interesting and charming account has is the less love? I think not; and, at all been given by Mrs. Olipliant,* whose events, when Carlyle had relieved his intimacy with her was far beyond what I feelings by telling Irving plainly what he could claim, that it would be idle for me thought, and his expostulations had been to follow in her steps. My meetings with met in a style of modesty and of friendly magnanimity which nobody could sur- * LIVING AGE, No. 1924, p. 307. SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES. 93 Mrs. Carlyle were chiefly in a country house where so many eminent persons were accustomed to assemble that she would naturally be more disposed to lis- ten than to talk, and I knew more of her powers of conversation from what has been told me by others than from per- sonal experience. I had ample opportu- nities of appreciating Carlyles own pow- ers in that kind; and as, in opposing my own to his estimate in the cases of Words- worth and Coleridge, I have produced contemporary notes of the impressions made upon me, I am glad to be able to do the like by Carlyle himself. They were put together in a work intended for posthumous publication and privately printed three or four years ago; and I have the more satisfaction in quoting them, as, owing to an accidental occur- rence, they came to Carlyles knowledge. A common friend of his and mine hap- pened to have the book in her hands when he paid her a visit, and he asked if he might be allowed to see it She natu- rally referred the question to me; and though I had doubts as to the reception it would meet ~vith at his hands, I did not like to find myself saying of him behind his back what I would not be prepared to say to his face, and I gave my consent. My doubts were soon dissipated, for in returning the book to our friend he told her he had been greatly pleased, and that sometimes I had been much too flat- tering, though in describing his charac- teristics I was sometimes quite out. The passage is the last of a series of sketches of eminent men with whom I had been acquainted, and with it I conclude what I have to say of Carlyle and his Reminis- cences. - - . I have reserved to the last place why I know not, unless it be on the principle that the last should be first and the first last one with whom England, Scotland, ~nd Germany have almost as intimate a~ d as friendly an acquaintance as I can claim for myself Thomas Car- lyle: and yet the acquaintance I can claim is very intimate and most friendly. His relations with the people are with- out a precedent, as far as I am aware, in these times or in any; the human para- dox of the period. He is their chartered libertine, assailing them and their rights, insisting that they should be everywhere ruled with a rod of iron, and yet more honored and admired by them than any demagogue who pays them knee-worship. In courting the people it is easy, no doubt, to err on the side of obsequious- ness, and to lose their respect. But it is far from easy to defy them, and yet to conquer. How the conquest has been achieved by Carlyle is a perplexing prob- lem. Is it that the man being beyond all question a genuine man, there is never- theless something unreal about his opin- ions; so that the splendid apparitions of them are admired and applauded by the people, as they would admire a great actor in the character of Coriolanus and another in the character of Menenius Agrippa, and still more an actor who could play both parts in turn? But then it may be asked how are we to reconcile the undoubted sincerity of the man, with the questionable reality of the opinions? And it is the solution of this problem which, to my apprehension, discloses the peculiar constitution of Car. - lyles mind. He is impatient of the slow processes by which most thoughtful men arrive at a conclusion. His own mind is not logi- cal; and, whilst other eminent writers of his generation have had perhaps too much reverence for logic, he has had too little. With infinite industry in search- ing out historical facts, his way of com- ing by political doctrines is sudden and precipitate. What can be known by in- sight without conscious reasoning, or at least without self-questioning operations of the reason, he knows well, and can flash upon us with words which are almost like the word which Isaiah the son of Amos saw. But when he deals with what is not so to be known, being intolerant of lawful courses, and yet not content with a negative, or passive, or neutral position, he snatches his opinions, and holds them as men commonly do hold what they have snatched, tenacious- ly for the moment, but not securely. And thence comes the sort of unreality of opinion which I have ventured to impute to the most faithful and true-hearted of mankind. An unlimited freedom of speech is per- mitted to his friends, and I remember when some wild sentiments escaped him long ago, telling him that he was an ex- cellent man in all the relations of life, but that he did not know the difference be- tween right and wrong. And if such casualties of conversation were to beac- cepted as an exposition of his moral mind, any one might suppose that these lumi- nous shafts of his came out of the black- ness of darkness. Perhaps, too, he is a little dazzled by 94 SIR HENRY TAYLOR ON CARLYLE S REMINISCENCES.~~ the reflex of his wildfire, and feels for the moment that what is so bright must needs show forth what is true; not recognizing the fact that most truths are as dull as they are precious ; simply because in the course of ages they have worked their way to the exalted, but not interesting, position of truisms. He was one of the most valued and cherished friends of Lady Ashburton; and as he and I were both in the habit of paying her long visits in the country (at Bay Rouse, Alverstoke, when she was Lady Harriet Baring, at the Grange when her husband had succeeded his father), I had opportunities of knowing him such as London cannot provide. And from Bay House I find myself writing of him to Miss Fenwick thus (January 22, 1848): We have had Carlyle here all the time, a longer time than I have hitherto seen him for. His conversation is as bright as ever, and as striking in its imaginative effects. But his mind seems utterly incapable of coming to any conclusion about anything: and if he says something that seems for the moment direct, as well as forcible, in the way of an opinion, it is hardly out of his mouth before he says some- thing else that breaks it in I)ieces. He can see nothing but the chaos of his own mind re fiected in the universe. Guidance, theieforc, there is none to be got from him; nor any illumination, save that of storm-lights. But I suppose one cannot see anything so rich and strange as his mind is without gaining by it in some unconscious way, as well as finding pleasure and pain in it. It is fruitful of both. And I wrote in the same sense to Au- brey de Vere : As to the rest of the people we have had at Alverstoke, some of them were agreeable, but none interesting except Carlyle, who from time to time threw his blue lights across the con- versation. Strange and brilliant he was as ever, but more than ever adrift in his opinions; if opinions he could be said to have; for they darted about like the monsters of the solar microscope, perpetually devouring each other. I did not mean to imply, of course, that he had not, what he has made known to all the world that he had in a superlative degree, divers rooted predilections and unchangeable aversions. Both are strong in him; whether equally strong, it is not easy to say. There have been eminent men in all ages who have combined in different measures and proportions the attributes of idolater and iconoclast. They are undoubtedly combined in Car- lyle; the former perhaps predominating in his writings, the latter in his conversa- tion. XVhat was unaccountable was that such a man should have chosen as the object of his idolatry, isle s/uZborzem magisersuccess. Long before his life of Cromwell came out, I heard him insisting in conversation upon the fact that Crom~vel1 had been throughout his career invariably successful; and having with much satisfaction traced the long line of his successes from the beginning to the end, he added, It is true they got him out of his grave at the Restoration and stuck his head up over the gate at Tyburn, but not till he had quite done with it. He would scarcely have sympathized with the sentiment to which the last breath of Brutus gave utterance, I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By their vile conquest shall attain unto and the vile conqueror Frederick could engage more of his admiration than most honest men will be disposed to share. Perhaps, however, it was a waning admira- tion, less as he proceeded with his his- tory than when he began it; and it should not be forgotten that he ended by en- titling it a life of Frederick called the Great. His powers of invective and disparage- ment, on the other hand, are exercised in conversation sometimes in a manifest spirit of contradiction and generally with an infusion of humor, giving them at one time the character of a passage of arms in a tournament or sham fight, at another that of a grotesque dance of mummers; so that, forcible as they often are, they are not serious enough to give offence. He delights in knocking over any pag- eantry of another mans setting up. One evening at the Grange a party of gentle- men, returning from a walk in the dusk, had seen a magnificent meteor, one which filled a place in the newspapers for some days afterwards. They described what they had beheld in glowing colors and with much enthusiasm. Carlyle, having heard them in silence to the end, gave his view of the phenomenon : Ay, some sulphuretted hydrogen, I suppose, or some rubbish of that kind. In his invectives as well as in effusions when it would be less unexpected, there would generally be something which met the eye. When he spoke of a thing, un- der whatever feeling or impulse, he seemed to see it. He paid a visit to Lord Ashburton at a shooting-box in Scotland, at a time when the cholerawas supposed to be approaching, and there was a retired THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. 95 physician staying in the house to be ready for any emergency. Carlyle was not well, and was very gloomy, and shut himself up in his room for some days, admitting no one. At last Lady Ashburton was a little disturbed at his ways, and begged Dr. Wilson just to go in to him and see whether there was anything seriously amiss. The doctor went into his room, and presently came flying out again and his account was that Carlyle had received him with a volley of invectives against himself and his whole profession, saying that of all the sons of Adam they ~vere the most eminently unprofitable, and that a man might as ~vell pour his sorrows into the long hairy ear of a jackass. As in most of his sallies of this kind, the ex- travagance and the grotesqueness of the attack sheathed the sharpness of it, and the little touch of the picturesque the long hairy ear seemed to give it the character of a vision rather than a vituper ation. HENRY TAYLOR. From The Fortnightly Review. THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. IN the course of some recent inquiries into visual memory, I was greatly struck by the frequency of the replies in which my informants described themselves as subject to visions. Those of whom I speak were sane and healthy, but were subject notwithstanding to visual presen- tations, for which they could not often account, and which in a few cases reached the level of hallucinations. This unex- pected prevalence of a visionary tendency among persons who form a part of ordi- nary society seems to me suggestive and worthy of being put on record. In a pre- vious article * I spoke of the faculty of summoning scenes at will, with more or less distinctness, before the visual mem- ory; in this I shall speak of the tendency among sane and healthy persons to sec images flash unaccountably into exist ence. Many of my facts are derived from per- sonal friends of whose accuracy I have no doubt. Another group comes from cor- respondents who have written at length with much painstaking, and whose letters appear to me to bear internal marks of scrupulous truthfulness. A third part has been collected for me by many kind * See a previous article on Mental ~magery,~~ LIVING AGE, No. 1895. friends in many countries, each of whom has made himself or herself an indepen- dent centre of inquiry; and the last, and much the most numerous portion, consists of brief replies by strangers to a series of questions contained in a circular that I drew up. I have gone over all this matter ~vith great care, and have cross-tested it in many ways whilst it was accumulating, just as any conscientious statistician would, before I began to form conclusions. I was soon convinced of its substantial trustworthiness, and that conviction has in no way been shaken by subsequent experience. In short, the evidence of the four groups I have just mentioned is quite as consistent as could have been reasonably desired- The lowest order of phenomena that admit of being classed as visions, are the number-forms to which I have drawn attention on more than one occasion, but to which I must again very briefly allude. They are an abiding mental peculiarity in a certain proportion of persons (say five per cent.), who are unable as adults, and who have been ever unable as far back as they can recollect, to think of any number without referring it to its own particular habitat in their mental field of view. It there lies latent but is instantly evoked by the thought or mention of it, or by any mental operation in which it is concerned. The thought of a series of consecutive numbers is therefore attended by a vision of them arranged in a perfectly defined and constant position, and this I have called a number-form. lts origin can rarely be referred to any nursery diagram, to the clock-face, or to any incident of childhood. Nay, the form is frequently unlike anything the child could possibly have seen, reaching in long vistas and perspectives, and in curves of double curvature. I have even had to get wire models made by some of my informants in explanation of what they wished to convey. The only feature that all the forms have in common is their depen- dence in some way or other upon the method of verbal counting, as shown by their angles and other divisions occurring at such points as those wJ~ere the teens begin, at the twenties, thirties, and so on. The forms are in each case absolutely unchangeable except through a gradual development in complexity. Their diver- sity is endless, and the number-forms of different men are mutually unintelligible. These strange visions, which are ex- tremely vivid in some cases, are almost incredible to the vast majority of man- 96 THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. kind, who would set them down as fan- tastic nonsense, but they are familiar parts of the mental furniture of the rest, where they have grown naturally and where they remain unmodified and un- modifiable by teaching. I have received many touching accounts of their childish experiences from persons who see the number-forms, and the other curious vis- ions of ~vhich I shall speak. As is the case with the color-blind, so with these seers. They imagined at first that every- body else had the same way of regarding things as themselves. Then they be- trayed their peculiarities by some chance remark which called forth a stare of sur- prise, followed by ridicule and a sharp scolding for their silliness, so that the poor little things shrunk back into them- selves, and never ventured again to allude to their inner world. I will quote just one of many similar letters as a sample. I received this, together with much inter- esting information, immediately after a lecture I gave last autumn to the British Association at Swansea* in which I had occasion to speak of the number forms. The writer says I had no idea for many years, that every one did not imagine numbers in the same posi- tions as those in which they appear to me. One unfortunate day I spoke of it, and was sharply rebuked for my absurdity. Being a very sensitive child I felt this acutely, but nothing ever shook my belief that, absurd or not, I always saw numbers in this particular ~vav. I began to be ashamed of what I con- sidered a l)eculiarity, and to imagine myself, from this and various other mental beliefs and states, as somewhat isolated and peculiar. At your lecture the other night, though I am now over twenty-nine, the memory of my childish misery at the dread of being peculiar came over me so strongly, that I felt I must thank you for proving that, in this particular at any rate, my case is most common. The next form ofvisionof which I will speak is the instant association of color with sound, which characterizes a small percentage of adults, but appears to be rather common, though in an ill-developed degree, among children. I can here ap- peal not only to my own collection of facts, but to those of others, for the sub- ject has latterly excited some interest in Germany. The first widely known case was that of the brothers Nussbaumer, published in 1873 by Professor Bruhl, of Vienna, of which the English reader will find an account in the last volume of Lewiss Problems of Life and Mind~~ See LIVING AGE, No. 1895. (p. 280). Since then many occasional notices of similar associations have ap- peared, but I was not aware that it had been inquired into on a large scale by any one but myself. However, I was gratified by meeting with a pamphlet a few weeks ago, just published in Leipsic by two Sviss investigators, Messrs. Bleu- ler and Lehmann. Their collection of cases is fully as large as my own, and their results in the more important mat- ters are similar to mine. One of the two authors had the faculty very strongly, and the other had not; so they worked con- jointly with advantage. As my present object is to subordinate details to the general impression that I wish to con- vey of the visionary tendency of certain minds, I will simply remark, first, that the persistence of the color association with sounds is fully as remarkable as that of the number-form with numbers. Sec- ondly, that the vowel sounds chiefly evoke them. Thirdly, that the seers are invari- ably most minute in their description of the precise tint and hue of the color. They are never satisfied, for instance, with saying blue, but will take a great deal of trouble to express or to match. the partidular blue they mean. Lastly, no two people agree, or hardly ever do so, as to the color they associate with the same sound. I have one of the most ex- traordinary diagrams of these color asso- ciations that has, I suppose, ever been produced. It has been dra~vn by Mr. J.. Key, of Grahams Town, South Africa. He sent me in the first instance a coin- munication on the subject, which led to further correspondence, and eventually to the production of this diagram of colors in connection with letters and words. I have no reason to doubt its trustworthi- ness, and am bound to say that, strange as it looks, and elaborate as it is, I have other written accounts that almost match it. A third curious and abiding fantasy of certain persons is invariably to connect visualized pictures with ~vords, the same picture to the same ~vord. I have col- lected many cases of this, and am much indebted to the authoress, Mrs. 1-laweis, who sees these pictures, for her kindness in sketching some of them for me, and her permission to use her name in guar- antee of their genuineness. She says Printed words have always had faces to me; they had definite expressions, and certain faces made me think of certain words. The words had no connection with these except some- times by accident. The instances I give are THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. 97 few and ridiculous. When I think of the word f would not keep its shape steady for a Beast, it has.a face something like a gurgoyle. moment, but unfolded from within, throw- The word Green has also a gurgoyle face, With I ing out a succession of petals, mostly red the addition of big teeth. The word Blue I but sometimes green, and that it con- blinks and looks silly, and turns to the right. tin ued to do so without chano-e in brioht. The word Attention has the eves greatly turned to the left. It is difficult to draw them prop- ness and without causing him any fatigue erly because like Alices Cheshire Cat, so long as he cared to watch it. Mr. which at times became a grin without a cat, 1-lenslow, when he shuts his eyes and these faces have expression without features. ~vaits, is sure in a short time to see before The expression of course [Notethenai~ephrase him the clear image of some object or of course. F. G.] depends greatly on those other, but usually not quite natural in its of the letters, which have likewise their faces shape. It then begins to change from and figures. All the little as turn their eyes one object to another, in his case also for to the left, this determines the eyes of Atten- a tion. Ant, however, looks a little down. Of ~ long a time as he cares to watch it. course these faces are endless as words are, Mr. Henslow has zealously made re- and it makes my head ache to retain them long peated experiments on himself, and has enough to draw, drawn what he sees. He has also tried how far he is able to mould the visions Some of the figures are very quaint. accordino to his will. In one case, after Thus the interrogation What? always much effort, he contrived to bring the excites the idea of a fat man cracking a imagery back to its starting-point, and long ~ p. They are not the capricious thereby to form what he terms a visual creations of the fancy of the moment, cycle. The following account is ex- but are the regular concomitants of the tracted and condensed from his very words, and have been so as far back as interesting letter. the memory is able to recall. ~Then in perfect darkness, if the field The first image that spontaneously presented of view be carefully watched, many per- itself was a cross-bow; this was immediately sons ~~ill find a perpetual series of chan- provided with an arrow, remarkable for its ges to be goino on automatically and pronounced barb and superabundance of feath- b ering. Some person, but too indistinct to ~vastefully in it. I have much evidence recognize much more of him than the hands, of this. I will give my own experience al)peared to shoot the arrow from the bow. the first, which is stri ing to me, because The single arrow was then accompanied by a I am very unimpressionable in these fUght of arrows from right to left, which com- matters. I visualize with effort; I am pletely occupied the field of vision. These peculiarly inapt to see after-imaoes changed into falling stars, then into flakes of a phosphenes ii phenomena ght-dust, and other heavy snow-storm; the ground gradually ap. due to weak sight or sensi - peared as a sheet of snow where previously and, again, before thouoht of there had been vacant space. Then a well- tiveness; ~ known rectory, fish-ponds, walls, etc., all coy- carefully trying, I should have emphati- ered with snow, came into view most vividly call) declared that my field of view in the and clearly defined. This somehow suggested dark was essentially of a uniform black, another view, impressed on his mind in child. subject to an occasional light - purple hood, of a spring morning, brilliant sun, and a cloudiness and other small variations, bed of red tulips: the tulips gradually vanished Now, however, after habituating myself except one, which appeared now to be isolated to examine it with the same sort of strain and to stand in the usual point of sight. It that one tries to decipher a sign-post in was a single tulip, but became double. The the dark, I have found out that this is by petals then fell off rapidly in a continuous sen no means the case, but that a kaleido- es until there was nothing left but the pistil, but (as is almost invariably the case scopic change of patterns and forms 15 with his objects) that part was greatly exag- continually going on, but they are too gerated. The stigmas then changed into three fugitive and elaborate for me to draw branching brown horns; then into a knob, with any approach to truth. My defi- while the stalk changed into a stick. A slight. ciencies, however, are well supplied by bend in it seems te have suggested a centre- other drawings in my possession. They bit; this passed into a sort of pin passing are by the Rev. George Henslow, whose through a metal plate; this again into a lock and visions are far more vivid than mine. afterwards into a nondescript shape, dis- His experiences are not unlike those of tinctly suggestive of the original cross-bow. Here Mr. Henslow endeavored to force his Goethe, who said, in an often-quoted l)as- will upon the visions, and to reproduce the sage, that whenever he bent his head and cross-bow, but the first attempt was an utter closed his eyes and thought of a rose, a failure. The figure changed into a leather sort of rosette made its appearance, which strap with loops, but while he still endeavored LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1775 98 THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. to change it into a bow the strap broke, the two ends were separated, but it happened that an imaginary string connected them. This was the first concession of his automatic chain of thoughts to his will. By a continued effort the bow came, and then no difficulty was felt in converting it into the cross-bow and thus returning to the starting.point. I have a sufficient variety of cases to prove the continuity between all the forms of visualization, beginning with an almost total absence of it, and ending with a complete hallucination. The continuity is, however, not simply that of varying degrees of intensity, but of variations in the character of the process itself, so that it is by no means uncommon to find two very different forms of it concurrent in the same person. There are some who visualize well and who also are seers of visions, who declare that the vision is not a vivid visualization, but altogether a dif- ferent phenomenon. In short, if we please to call all sensations due to external im- pressions direct, and all others in- duced, then there are many channels throuTh which the induction may take place, and the channel of ordinary visual- ization in the persons just mentioned is very different from that through which their visions arise. The following is a good instance of this condition. A friend writes slowly as the mental effort to retain them is relaxed; the visions appearing and vanishing in an instant. The waking visions seem quite close, filling as it were the whole head, while the mental image seems further away in some far-off recess of the mind. The number of persons who see vis- ions no less distinctly than this corre- spondent is much greater than I had any idea of when I began this inquiry. I have in my possession the sketch of one, prefaced by a description of it by Mrs. Haweis. She says : All my life long I have had one very con- stantly recurring vision, a sight which came whenever it was dark or darkish, in bed or otherwise. It is a flight of pink roses floating in a mass from left to right, and this cloud or mass of roses is presently effaced by a flight of sparks or gold speckles across them. The sparks totter or vibrate from left to right, but they fly distinctly upwards: they are like tiny blocks, half gold, half black, rather symmetri- cally placed behind each other, and they are always in a hurry to efface the roses: some- times they have come at my call, sometimes by surprise, but they are always equally pleas- ing. What interests me most is that when a child under nine the flight of roses was light, slow, soft, close to my eyes, roses so large and brilliant and palpable that I tried to touch them: the scent was overpowering, the petals perfect, with ~aves peeping here and there, texture and motion all natural. They would stay a long time before the sparks came, and they occupied a large area in black space. Then the sparks came slowly flying, and gen- erally, not always, effaced the roses at once, and every effort to retain the roses failed. Since an early age the flight of roses has annu- ally grown smaller, swifter, and farther off, till by the time I was grown up my vision had be- come a speck, so instantaneous that I had hardly time to realize that it was there before the fading sparks showed that it was past. This is how they still come. The pleasure of them is past, and it always depresses me to speak of them, though I do not now, as I did when a child, connect the vision with any ele- vated spiritual state. But when I read Ten- nysons Holy Grail, I wondered whether anybody else had had my vision, Rose-red, with beatings in it. I may add, I was a Lon- don child who never was in the country but once, and I connect no particular flowers with that visit. I may almost say that I had never seen a rose, certainly not a quantity of them together. These visions often appear with startling vividness, and so far from depending on any voluntary effort of the mind, they remain when I often wish them very much to depart, and no effort of the imagination can call them up. I lately saw a framed portrait of a face which seemed more lovely than any painting I have ever seen, and again I often see fine landscapes which bear no resemblance to any scenery I have ever looked upon. I find it difficult to define the difference between a waking vision and a mental image, although the difference is very apparent to myself. I think I can do it best in this way. If you go into a theatre and look at a scene, say of a forest by moonlight, at the back part of the stage, you see every object distinctly and sufficiently illuminated (being thus unlike a mere act of memory), but it is nevertheless vague and shadowy, and you might have difficulty in telling afterwards all the objects you have seen. This resembles a mental image in point of clearness. The waking vision is like what one sees in the open street in broad daylight, ~vhen every object is distinctly impressed on the memory. The two A common form of vision is a phantas- kinds of imagery differ also as regards volun- maroria, or the ap tariness, the image being entirely subservient pearance of a crowd of to the will, the visions entirely independent of phantoms, perhaps hurrying past like it. They differ also in point of suddenness men in a street. It is occasionally seen the images being formed comparatively slowly in broad daylight, much more often in the as memory recalls each detail, and fading I dark; it may be at the instant of putting THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. 99 out the candle, but it generally comes on when the person is in bed, preparing to sleep, but is by no means yet asleep. I know no less than three men, eminent in the scientific world, who have these phan- tasmagoria in one form or another. A near relative of my own had them in a marked degree. She was eminently sane, and of such good constitution that her faculties ~ve~e hardly impaired until near her death at ninety. She frequently de- scribed them to me. It gave her amuse- ment during an idle hour to watch these faces, for their expression was always pleasing, though never strikingly so. No two faces were ever alike, and they never resembled that of any acquaintance. When she was not well the faces usually came nearer to her, sometimes almost suffocatingly close. She never mistook them for reality, although they were very distinct. This is quite a typical case, similar in most respects to many others that I have. A notable proportion of sane persons have had not only visions, but actual hal- lucinations of sight, sound, or other sense, at one or more periods of their lives. I have a considerable packet of instances contributed by my personal friends, be- sides a large number communicated to me by other correspondents. One lady, a distinguished authoress, who was at the time a little fidgeted, but in no way overwrought or ill, said that she saw the principal character of one of her novels glide through the door straight up to her. It was about the size of a large doll, and it disappeared as suddenly as it came. Another lady, the daughter of an eminent musician, often imagines she hears her father playing. The day she told me of it the incident had again occurred. She was sitting in a room with her maid, and she asked the maid to open the door that she might hear the music better. The moment the maid got up the hallucination disappeared. Again, another lady, appar- ently in vigorous health, and belonging to a vigorous family, told me that during some past months she had been plagued by voices. The words were at first sim- ple nonsense; then the word pray was frequently repeated; this was followed by some more or less coherent sentences of little import, and finally the voices left her. In short, the familiar hallucinations of the insane are to be met with far more frequently than is commonly supposed, among people moving in society and in normal health. I have now nearly done with my sum- mary of facts; it remains to make a few comments on them. The weirdness of visions lies in their sudden appearance, in their vividness while present, and in their sudden de- parture. An incident in the Zoological Gardens struck me as a helpful simile. I happened to ~valk to the seal-pond at a moment when a sheen rested on the un- broken surface of the water. After wait- ing a while I became suddenly aware of the head of a seal, black, conspicuous, and motionless, just as though it had al- ways been there, at a spot on which my eye had rested a moment previously and seen nothing. Again, after a while my eye wandered, and on its returning to the spot, the seal was gone. The water had closed in silence over its head without leaving a ripple, and the sheen on the surface of the pond was as unbroken as vhen I first reached it. Where did the seal come from, and whithet did it go? This could easily have been answered if the glare had not obstructed the view of the movements of the animal under wa- ter. As it was, a solitary link in a con- tinuous chain of actions stood isolated from all the rest. So it is with the vis- ions; a single stage in a series of mental processes emerges into the domain of consciousness. All that precedes and follows lies outside of it, and its charac- ter can only be inferred. We see in a general way, that a condition of the pre- sentation of visions lies in the over-sen- sitiveness of certain tracks or domains of brain action, and the under-sensitive- ness of others; certain stages in a men- tal process being vividly represented in consciousness while the other stages are unfelt. It is also well known that a con- dition of partial hyper~esthesia and par- tial an~sthesia is a frequent functional disorder, markedly so among the hysteri- cal and hypnotic, and an organic disorder among the insane. The abundant facts that I have collected show that it may also co-exist with all the appearances of good health and sober judgment. A convenient distinction is made be- tween hallucinations and illusions. Hal- lucinations are defined as appearances wholly due to fancy; illusions, as misrep- resentations of objects actually seen. There is, however, a hybrid case which deserves to be specifically classed, and arising in this way. Vision, or any other sensation, may, as already stated, be a directs sensation excited in the ordi- I nary way through the sense organs, or it I maybe an induced sensation excited 100 THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. from within. We have, therefore, direct vision and induced vision, and either of these may be the ground of an illusion. So we have three cases to consider, and not two. There is simple hallucination, which depends on induced vision justly observed; there is simple illusion, which depends on direct vision fancifully ob- served; and there is the hybrid case of which I spoke, which depends on induced vision fancifully observed. The prob- lems we have to consider are, on the one hand, those connected with induced vis- ion, and, on the other hand, those con- nected with the interpretation of vision, whether the vision be direct or induced. It is probable that much of what passes for hallucination proper belono~s in reality to the hybrid case, being an illusive inter- pretation of some induced visual cloud or blur. I spoke of the ever-varying pat- terns in the field of view; these, under some slight functional change, might easily become more consciously l)resent, and be interpreted into fantasmal appear- ances. Many cases, if space allowed, could be adduced to support this view. I will begin, then, with illusions. XVhat is the process by which they are estab- lished? There is no simpler way of un- derstanding it than by trying, as children often do, to see faces in the fire, and to carefully watch the way in which they are first caught. Let us call to mind at the same time the experience of past ill- nesses, when the listless gaze wandered over the patterns on the wall-paper and the shadows of the bed-curtains, and slowly evoked faces and figures that were not easily laid again. The process of making the faces is so rapid in health that it is difficult to analyze it ~vithout the rec- ollection of what took place more slowly when we were weakened by illness. The first essential element in their construc- tion is, I believe, the smallness of the area upon which the attention is directed at any instant, so that the eye has to move much beforc it has travelled over every part of the object towards which it is di- rected. It is as with a plough, that must travel many miles before the whole of a small field can be tilled, but with this im- portant difference the plough travels methodically up and down in parallel furrows, the eye ~vanders in devious curves, with abrupt bends, and the direc- tion of its course at any instant depends on four causes: on the most convenient muscular motion in a general sense, on idiosyncrasy, on the mood, and on the as- sociations current at the moment. The effect of idiosyncrasy is excellently illus- trated by the number.forms, where we saw that a very special sharply defined track of mental vision was preferred by each individual who sees them. The in- fluence of the mood of the moment is shown in the curves that characterize the various emotions, as the lank, drooping lines of grief, which make the weeping willow so fit an emblem of it. In con- structing fire-faces it seems to me that the eye in its wanderings follows a favorite course, and notices the l)oints in the pic- tures at large that coincide with its course. It feels its way, easily diverted by asso- ciations based on what has just been no- ticed, and so by the unconscious practice of a system of ti-ial and error, at last finds a track that will suitone that is easy to follow and that also makes a com- plete picture. The process is essentially the same as that of getting a clear idea from out of a confused multitude of facts. The fancy picture is dwelt upon, all that is incongruous with it becomes disre- garded, while all deficiencies in it are supplied by the fantasy. These latest stages are easily represented after the fashion of a diorama. Three lanterns are made to converge on the same screen. The first throws an image of what the imagination will discard, the second of that which it will retain, the third of that which it will supply. Turn on the first and second, and the picture on the screen will be identical with that which fell on the retina. Shut off the first and turn on the third, and the picture will be identical with the illusion. Visions, like dreams, are often mere patchworks built up of bits of recollec- tions. The following is one of these : When passing a shop in Tottingham Court Road, I went in to order a Dutch cheese, and the proprietor (a bullet-headed man whom I had never seen before) rolled a cheese on the marble slab of his counter, asking me if that one would do. I answered Yes, left the shop and thought no more of the incident. The following evening, on closing my eyes, I saw a head detached from the body rolling about slightly on a white surface. I recog- nized the face but could not remember where I had seen it, and it was only after thinking about it for some time that I identified it as that of the cheesemonger who had sold me the cheese on the previous day. I may mention that I have often seen the man since, and that I found the vision I saw was exactly like him, although if I bad been asked to describe the man before I saw the vision I should have been unable to do so. Recollections need not be joined like THE VISIONS OF SANE PERSONS. mosaic-work; they may be blended, on the principle I described two years ago, of making composite portraits. I showed that if two lanterns were converged upon the same screen, and the portrait of one person ~vas put into one and that of another person into the other, the por- traits being taken under similar aspects and states of light and shade, then on adjusting the two images eye to eye and mouth to mouth, and so superposing them as exactly as the conditions ad- mitted, a new face will spring into exist- ence. It will have a striking appearance of individuality, and will bear a family likeness to each of its constituents. I also showed that these composite portraits admitted of being made photographically * from a large number of components. I suspect that the phantasmagoria may be due to blended memories; the number of possible combinations would be practi- cally endless, and each combination would give a new face. There would thus be no limit to the dies in the coinage of the brain. I have tried a modification of this proc- ess with but small success, which will at least illustrate a cause of the tendency in many cases to visualize grotesque forms. My object was to efface from a portrait that ~vhich was common among persons of the same race, and therefore too familiar to attract attention, and to leave whatever was peculiar in it. I proceeded on the following principle. We all know that the photographic negative is the converse (or nearly so) of the photographic positive, the one showing whites where the other shows blacks, and vice versd. Hence the superposition of a negative upon a posi- tive transparency of the same portrait tends to create a uniform smudge. By superposing a negative transparency of a composite portrait on a positive of any one of the individual faces from which it was composed, all that is common to the group ought to be smudged out, and all that is personal and peculiar to that face ought to remain. I have found that the peculiarities of visualization, such as the tendency to see number-forms, and the still rarer tendency to associate color with sound, is strongly hereditary, and I should infer, what facts seem to confirm, that the tendency to be a seer of visions is equally so. Under these circumstances we should expect that it would be unequally developed in differ- * I have latterly much improved the process hope shortly to describe it elsewhere. and I0I ent races, and that a large natural gift of the visionary faculty might become char- acteristic not only of certain families, as among the second-sight seers of Scotland, but of certain races, as that of the Gip- sies. It happens that the mere acts of fast- ing, of want of sleep, and of solitary mus- ing, are severally conducive to visions. I have myself been told of cases in which persons accidentally long deprived of food became subject to them. One was of a pleasure-party driven out to sea, and not being able to reach the coast till night- fall, at a place where they got shelter but nothing to eat. They were mentally at ease and conscious of safety, but they were all troubled with visions, half dreams and half hallucinations. The cases of visions following protracted wakeful ness are well known, and I also have collected a few. As regards the effect of solitari- ness, it may be sufficient to allude to the recognized advantages of social amuse- ments in the treatment of the insane. It follows that the spiritual discipline under- gone for purposes of self-control and self- mortification have also the incidental effect of producing visions. It is to be expected that these should often bear a close relation to the prevalent subjects of thought, and although they may be really no more than the products of one portion of the brain, which another portion of the same brain is engaged in contemplating, they often, through error, receive a reli- gious sanction. This is notably the case among half-civilized races. The number of great men who have been once, twice, or more frequently sub- ject to hallucinations is considerable. A list, to which it ~vould be easy to make large additions, is given by l3rierre de Boismont ( Hallucinations, etc., 1862), from whom I translate the following ac- count of thestar of the first Napoleon, ~vhich he heard, second-hand, from Gen- eral Rapp In i8o6 General Rapp, on his return from the siege of Dantzic, having occasion to speak to the emperor, entered his study without being announced. lie found him so absorbed that his entry was unperceived. The general see- ing the emperor continue motionless, thought he might be ill and purposely made a noise. Napoleon immediately roused himself and without any preamble, seizing Rapp by the arm, said to him, pointing to the sky, Loolc there, up there. The general remained silent, but on being asked a second time, he answered that he perceived nothing. What! replied the emperor, you do not see it? It is my star, it is before you, brilliant; then animating 102 A JAPANESE BRIDE. by degrees, he cried out, It has never aban- doned me, I see it on all great occasions, it commands me to go forward, and it is a con- stant sign of good fortune to me. It appears that stars of this kind, so frequently spoken of in history, and so well known as a metaphor in language, are a common hallucination of the insane. Brierre de Boismont has a chapter on the stars of great men. I cannot doubt that fantasies of this desciption were in some cases the basis of that firm belief in astrology, ~vhich not a few persons of eminence formerly entertained. The hallucinations of great men may be accounted for in part by their sharing a tendency which we have seen to be not uncommon in the human race, and which, if it happens to be natural to them, is liable to be developed in their over- wrought brains by the isolation of their lives. A man in the position of the first Napoleon could have no intimate asso- ciates; a great philosopher who explores ways of thought far ahead of his contem- poraries must have an inner world in which he passes long and solitary hours. Great men are also apt to have touches of madness; the ideas by which they are haunted, and to whose pursuit they de- vote themselves, and by which they rise to eminence, has much in common with the monomania of insanity. Striking in- stances of great visionaries may be men- tioned, who had almost beyond doubt those very nervous seizures with which the tendency to hallucinations is inti- mately connected. To take a single in- stance, Socrates, whose dairnon was an audible not a visual appearance, was sub- ject to ~vhat admits of hardly any other interpretation than cataleptic seizure, standing all night through in a rigid atti- tude. It is remarkable how largely the vis- ionary temperament has manifested itself in certain periods of history and epochs of national life. My interpretation of the matter, to a certain extent, is this: that the visionary tendency is much more common among sane people than is generally suspected. In early life, it seems to be a hard lesson to an imagina- tive child to distinguish between the real and visionary world. If the fantasies are habitually laughed at, the power of dis- tinguishing them becomes at length learnt; any incongruity or nonconformity is noted, the vision is found out and dis- credited, and is no further attended to. In this way the tendency to see them is blunted by repression. Therefore, when popular opinion is of a matter-of-fact kind, the seers of visions keep quiet; they do not like to be thought fanciful or mad, and they hide their experiences, which only come to light through inquiries such as these that I have been making. But let the tide of opinion change and grow favorable to supernaturalism, then the seers of visions come to the front. It is not that a faculty previously non-existent has been suddenly evoked, but one that had been long smothered is suddenly allowed expression and to develop, with- out safeguards, under the free exercise of it. FRANCIS GALTON. From Frasers Magazine. A JAPANESE BRIDE. BY THE AUTHOR OF KITTY. I. MOST travellers have been whirled at some time or other of their lives, many again and again, by night express train from Geneva to Paris, though none, I venture to say, have as good cause for remembering any especial journey as my. self. What took place upon a certain occasion now nearly three years ,ago, and the strange story of which that nights experience formed the prologue, I will endeavor to relate as briefly as possible. No additions, ~vere I enabled to make them, could indeed lend fictitious charm or interest to such a narrative, nor is it necessary to exaggerate in the smallest particular by way of heightening the effect. The lights and shado~vs are there naturally. The picture, to use a technical phrase, seems to have composed itself. I had halted the night before at the little town of Bourg-en-Bresse, that shrine of Renaissance art in the heart of a French Bceotia, and here the Geneva ex- press at midnight picked me up in com- pany of another straggler or two. It was early in October, just when the great tide of tourists sets in from Switzerland, and as the train was crowded and the stop- page of a few minutes only, we had to bestow ourselves and our belongings where we could. Not a moment to spare for choosing a smoking, much less a half- filled carriage. I took possession of the first empty seat I could find therefore, tenanted by four ladies and a youth of fifteen. The lad, who served to keep me in countenance, was the only one of the party asleep, and before settling down to A JAPANESE BRIDE. 103 follow his example, I glanced round at the rest. Two of my fellow - travellers called for no remark, being simply a highly respectable English lady and her maid. The other two immediately ar- rested my attention. Mistress and maid were here also, but offering two distinct types, fascinating alike to both the student of beauty and of race, painter and ethnologist. The maid was a young Hindoo girl, whose brilliant complexion and naive graces were height- ened by the richness of her purely Ori- ental dress. The mistress was a young Japanese, dressed with that scrupulous elegance and minute observance of fashion seen in Frenchwomen and a few Ameri- cans. Everything, judged according to the latest canons of the mantua-maker and the milliner, was as it should be, the general effect in the eyes of the artistic beholder being somewhat perplexing, and perhaps unsatisfactory. Such beauty as hers beauty of the languorous, sensuous typeneeded more freedom, more ex- pansion in outward lendincrs than Parisian fashion-books allowed. She should have worn flowing drapery, bright hues, fanci- ful adornments in abundance; instead of all these she ~vas put into the barest, most prosaic of womans disguises; whilst, to make matters worse, her abundant hair was twisted into a microscopic knot at the back of her head, as the fashion of the day ordained, surmounted by a hide- ous bit of millinery called a bonnet. It was evident that every possible effort had been made, in fact, to translate her from a Japanese beauty into a young lady of fashion and the world. A beauty she undoubtedly was, remind- ing me of those wonderfully lovely Japan- ese types I had seen a few weeks before in the ethnological section of the Paris Exhibition. Few who were at the trouble of visiting a certain little pavilion in the gardens of the Trocad6ro can surely have forgotten the impression produced on their minds by the series of portraits there exhibited from Japan all, be it remembered, portraits from the life. I had now before me a living prototype of an especial kind of loveliness that had there taken my breath away a loveli- ness sensuous, almost voluptuous, yet imbued with the artless witchery and unconscious wi nni ngness of childhood. One hardly felt that there was a soul there, much less intellect, only a heart to be made happy by outward things. Keep your admiration to yourself, whispered a friendly voice close in my ear. She speaks English and French as well as we do. You shall hear her talk. It ~vas the middle-aged English matron who, under pretext of getting at her bao thus oood- naturedly took note of my growing interest in our outlandish neigh- bor. Then, as it was about the time for refreshment, she brought out wine and sandwiches, and offered them to the young beauty, evidently bent on bringing her out. They talked in French, a language which always seems to come natural when addressing foreigners. You must eat and drink, began the motherly English lady, pleased at the others naive acceptance of her hospital- ity. You will have need of all your strength for the fatigues of sight-seeing in Paris. The young Japanese smiled. Yes, I am to see everything that is t~ be seen in Paris, and after that London, and everything to be seen there. Then my education will stop, and high time too. And then? was written in unmistak- able characters on the face of her inter- locutor, who, however, too well bred to question, merely replied suggestively, You must, of course, feel very happy at the notion of seeing your own country and your own people once more.~~ But I am not going to see my own country or people, rejoined the girl, with- out the slightest touch either of longing or regret in her voice. I remain in your country. I hope indeed that you will like En- gland, said the elder lady, now dying with curiosity, yet refraining from a down- right question. Qul sail? was the careless reply. But there is no help for it. Then she added in the same voice of happy uncon- cern, not unmixed with something we should call ~vorldliness if we were speak- ing of an English or French woman the word seems inapplicable to a Japan- ese I am going to marry a rich En- glish man. My matter-of-fact countrywoman abso- lutely blushed with astonishment; I be- came at once more intensely absorbed than ever, whilst the heroine of our little nocturnal romance went on. It was he who wished me to be educated, and for that purpose I was sent to Switzerland three years ago. I was then fifteen, I am now eighteen ,and I am to be married before the year is out. 104 A JAPANESE BRIDE. And then you will be an English- woman, said her neighbor, delighted with that candid confession. Could I not pass for an Englishwoman now? asked the young lady with charm- ing innocence. Is there still anything of the Japanese about me? I think no one could ever wholly outgrow his nationality, be it English, French, or Japanese, was the reply. Why should you wish to lose every trace of yours? I do not wish it, I only want to look and behave like an English lady. It is his wish, the wish of the gentleman I am about to marry. I did not care about it myself. I should have been perfectly content to rest as I was. Thus she prattled on, encouraged by the ready sympathy of her travelling com- panion; after a time, however, she de- clared herself drowsy; the little Hindoo sprang forward at a sign to spread warm ~vraps over her mistress. Our little lamp was curtained, and all drowsed from time to time, all, alas but the poor little Hin. doo girl. Whenever I opened my eyes, I beheld the poor child murmuring to herself, So cold, so cold, and in the act of gathering her thin silk shawl closer round her. The night was very chilly, she was clad in raiment of almost trans- parent fineness, and had nothing in the ~vay of warmer clothing. I glanced from her to her mistress, so softly enshrined and luxuriously covered, and wondered when she would notice her handmaids forlorn condition. But though she woke up from time to time, and even beckoned the girl to besto~v the fur rug more care- fully about her own feet, she paid no heed whatever to her little shivering gesture and tlielowplaint. It seemed as if indeed she neither saw nor heard the little thing, and only became mindful of her presence when needing a service. I confess I was somewhat taken aback by what I was loth to believe a want of feeling; it might be, so at last I reasoned, that the young ~vait- ing woman alone was to blame, and that, in accordance with the custoIns of Japan, domestic servants ~vere expected to look after themselves; or it might be that her young mistress lacked not heart indeed, only a habit of caring for others. She was a spoiled child. 1 settled the matter thus. Seeing moreover that no help was likely to come from other quarters, I handed the poor child a spare plaid, and also proffered some refreshments, all of which were eagerly accepted. As the train sped on, every one grew drowsier and drowsier, only waking up at the last moment. No more conversation took place, and in the railway station I lingered to take, as I thought, a final glance of my beautiful Japanese bride- elect. SOME months passed and it is hardly necessary to say that the vision of the Japanese beauty, and her gorgeously-clad attendant, soon faded wholly from my memory. Greatly as I had been struck with her appearance on that nocturnal journey, the impression, vivid though it had been, faded from want of renewal. Other romances, other beauties, had oblit- erated this one. She became to me though for that one night I confess myself to have been desperately in love as if she had never been. What was my astonishment, therefore, to receive early in the spring the follow- ing note from my friend Ellerton, the sculptor: DEAR STEVENS, You, as well as the rest of my friends, must have won- dered what has become of me during the past few months. Come down any day you like, and be introduced to my Japan- ese bride. We returned only a week ago from our bridal tour. Yours, F. E. We can give you a bed. Now I think any one else would have naturally jumped to the same conclusion as myself. My friends wife must be the heroine of that journey from Bourg-en- Bresse to Geneva! There could not certainly be two Englishmen infatuated enough to have brought over to Europe a little Japanese schoolgirl to be trained as the fitting mistress of an imposing, if not wealthy, English home. I use the word imposing advisedly, for no other can so aptly characterize Ellertons house. Vast, airily proportioned, framed and fit- ted up on a scale suited to the large, handsome person, and widely cultured, facile character of the owner, it no more resembled any other place I knew of, than did he any one else I had ever seen. He had purchased a bit of land and built his house in a village bordering on the New Forest, and it seemed rather a palace designed for the denizens of that vast pleasure-ground, than the dwelling of an English artist, however favored of for- tune. A JAPANESE BRIDE. 105 I must have space enough for ample play of light and shadow; small rooms are the ruin of sculptors, he had said, and accordingly he had sacrificed every- thing else to proportion. It must be ad- mitted that the general effect was a little cold. You felt at first as if you had strayed into an art gallery. Ellertons ineffable geniality, however, and Eller- tons many-sidedness always animated the~ place, and made it glow. Without him it was unbearable. I never knew any human being who could so strongly influence his surroundings. With a vein of singularity in his character, at all times allowed full play, he was one of those men whom fortune and the world have done their best to spoil. Yet there was strength underlying this odd mixture of genius and whimsicalities, for, in spite of being born rich, gracious, and winning, in spite of being thrown by virtue of birth and social position chiefly among idlers, he had achieved more downright honest work than most men of his age. To name Ellerton, the sculptor, was to name a man, indeed, in whose productions all true artists had faith. Every one loved, none pretended to understand him, and this Japanese marriage was but of a piece with the bizarre?-ie of his whole career. Wondering how it would answer, my mind full of Ellerton and his bride, I travelled next day to Lyndhurst, and ar- rived just in time for a chat with my host before dinner. It was brilliant March weather, and the cold, vast landscape without was in keep- ing with the almost interminable perspec- tives within. In spite of the blazing wood fires everywhere, and the abundance of crimson hangings, I shivered. There are some English houses you can never warm, and this was one. Ah! said Ellerton, with the warmest greeting, you have lost no time, I see. Like the rest of my friends you are dying with curiosity to be presented to my Jap- anese bride. Then reading, I suppose, a questioning look in my face, he added, You want, of course, to know why I ~vent so far in search of an ideal, why I married this lady. I will tell you in a very few words. Simply and solely be- cause she is the most bewitching creature to look at I had ever seen throughout the course of my existence. I listened, all attention, and being one of Ellertons oldest friends had expected his confidence in this matter. If not with me, indeed, with whom should he be con- fidential? I hold theories, as you know, which seem fanciful enough in the eyes of most people, he ~vent on, and none more so, than with regard to beauty as a moral factor in mans existence; 1 maintain that beauty of itself is a virtue, wholly irre- spective of any ethical quality residing in it or emanating from it; and that lovers of beauty, artists at least, should not con- cern themselves with any other. For the true artist there is neither good nor bad, noble nor abject, in the moral world, only beautiful and ugly; and his duty is to seek the first and avoid the last regard- less of consequences. Thus, since the thought of marrying entered my head, I fully determined to choose for my wife, not the best.bred, nor the wittiest, nor the most fascinating woman of my ac- quaintance, but simply the loveliest. I said to myself~vhen I find my ideal of beauty, then I will marry, and if not then, never! I felt now convinced that I was about to be introduced to the beauty of that nocturnal adventure, and Ellertons next few sentences confirmed my belief. In a few glowing words he described how he had found his long-sought paragon of fe- male loveliness in an out-of-the-way Jap- anese village. You will marvel, I dare say, he said, that I did not leave her the wild rose she was; but no, Stevens, I could not live with a woman, no matter how I adored her, who should shock me in small mat- ters of taste. She must be fastidiously nice with regard to those social observ- ances we Europeans are wedded to. My friends, my servants, and the world must discern no flaw in the lady I make mis- tress of my house. This is why I sent the poor child to Switzerland, in order to learn English, French, and the ways of the world. How apt a pupil she has proved you will see presently. She is amply repaid for all the drudgery she has gone through, and I am more than com- pensated for the long separation. Her. taste is perfect, and only wanted guid- ance. There is in fact but one drawback to a most felicitous union ____ He stopped short, looked round in or- der to assure himself that we were alone, then added in a low voice She has no sympathy for my art. Sculpture is more than dumb and mean- ingless to her, it is gruesome and repel- lant a cold, death-in-lifethat chills her to the very veins, and even the beauty of which is full of awe. Artistic, rather, perhaps I should say, elegant in her tastes~ x o6 A JAPANESE BRIDE. she has taken kindly to every other phase of her new life but this. A look of positive trouble came over his face, and with a sudden change of voice, as if anxious to be rid of painful thoughts, he said: But now let us go to the drawing-room, where Mya awaits us. Accordingly we ascended the almost palatial staircase, and crossing a corridor, from which the mistress of the house had evidently removed some statuary familiar to me on former occasions, we entered the drawing-room. I had of course prepared myself to recognize, though not to be recognized in my turn; nor was I mistaken. The lady advancing to meet me so smilingly was the same I had travelled with on that viv- idly remembered night, but she had natu- rally then taken no heed of the muffled stranger occuping a seat at the other end of the carriage. We were formally in- troduced to each other, and, a few minutes later, I led her down to dinner. Our conversation must I admit it of Ellertons board ? was a trifle conven- tional. Ellerton seemed for the first time in his existence compelled to talk in a circle; and, although gay and genial, nat- urally lost much thereby as a talker. Per- haps he would have felt just the same necessity of limiting his subjects, had he married an Englishwoman exactly half his age. Certainly, on ordinary topics the literature of the day, foreign travel, English sceneryhis wife could con- verse as freely, and with as much spirit, as if she had been accustomed to such table-talk all her life. Whilst we chatted, therefore, lightly and pleasantly over our elegant little din- ner, I was observing my hostess with no small interest and curiosity. In so far as mere beauty went rich, warm, sensuous beauty needless to say that the woman outshone the child, the bride surpassed the girl fancle! A certain shy coquetry of maidenhood was replaced by an easy aplomb, an almost audacious candor even more becoming; whilst a glance told me that in all matters of social routine and etiquette she was entire mistress of her- self. From her manner as hostess and lady of the house, it was hard to believe that she had not been used all her life to the elegances of an English home, and the society of men and women of the world. Mya! Ellerton said, show Stevens the bracelet I designed for you as a wed- ding gift. I am quite proud of it. She did not take off the bracelet, but let me see it as it circled on her arm, with the fingers of her right hand indicating the fine workmanship of the monogram in l)earls and diamonds. I now noticed for the first time that this lovely lady wanted one attraction I have ever been slave to; namely, the white, blue-veined, dimpled hand of a well-bred Englishwoman. I felt a positive impa- tience with these thin, brown I must even say tawny fingers ; and wished that the incomparable Mya would always wear mittens! No, I could never reconcile myself to a woman without beautiful white hands. I no longer envied my friend Ellerton the wonderfully lovely face ever before him as a picture. Well? lie asked, when we re