The Living age ... / Volume 150, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 838 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0150 /moa/livn/livn0150/

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The Living age ... / Volume 150, Note on Digital Production 0150 000
The Living age ... / Volume 150, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1933 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 838 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0150 /moa/livn/livn0150/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1933 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. July 2, 1881 0150 1933
The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1933, miscellaneous front pages i-vi

LITTELLS. / LIVING AGE. E PLuRIsus UNUM. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. FIFTH SERIES, VOLUME XXXV. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CL. 7ULY, AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, i88i. BOSTON: LITTELL AND CO. I, AP A~~7~ TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS 6696 OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CL. THE THIRTY-FIFTH QUARTERLY VOLUME OF THE FIFTH SERIES. JULY, AUGUST, SEPTEMBER, i88i. QUARTERLY REVIEW. Madame de Sta~l: a Study of her Life and Times 515 Walks in England 607 Florence, 643 Schliemanns Ilios: the Site of Ho mers Troy 771 CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. On Some National Characteristics of European Society, . - 3 A Last Word on Disraeli, . - 29 Boycotted, 113 The Unity of Nature 131 Notes from a German Village, . - 371 Lawn Tennis and its Players, . . . 734 Scottish, Shetlandic, and Germanic Water Tales 809 FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. The Visions of Sane Persons, - 95 Hindu Households 227 Denmark 323 Home and Foreign Affairs, - - . 345 Italy: her Home and Foreign Policy, 387 The Future of Islam 707 NINETEENTH CENTURY. Sir Henry Taylor on Carlyles Remi- niscences, Inielligence of Ants 176 The Early Life of Thomas Carlyle, - 259 President Garfield 571 BLAcKWOODS MAGAZINE. Mattie: the History of an Evening, - 41 A Talk about Odes, 195 Tunis 308 The Late Andrew Wilson, . 383 Besieged in the Transvaal, 424, 741 Edward Gibbon 579 FRASERS MAGAZINE. A Japanese Bride 102 A Pilgrimage to Cyprus in 13956, - 126 In Umbria 148 Consolations 248 The Late Governor of Madras, . . 292 In Trust, 332, 395, 463, 542, 593, 665, 719, 790 Greek Dinners The Great Southern Comet of 1880, CORNHILL MAGAZINE. Among the Dictionaries, Holiday Customs in Italy, Samuel Pepys, - . - A New Study of Tennyson, - Hector Berlioz: a Biography, - 493 - 760 - 239 - . 359 - . 408 - - 451 - . 478 MACMILLANS MAGAZINE. The Wit and Humor of Lord Beacons. field The Revision of the New Testament, 67 Timoleon 319 Two Theories of Poetry, - . - 682 Sketches and Reminiscences by Ivan Tourgenieff 692 TEMPLE BAR. The Freres, - 20, 298, 351, 563, 620 Mere Chatter 159 Personal Reminiscences of Lord Strat- ford and the Crimean War, . 170, ~ Richelieu 214 Cousin Felix 285, 418 Stray Leaves of History, . . . 377 A Siberian Exile Eighty Years Ago, . 438 GooD WORDS. Sir Walter Scott and his Mother, - Mr. Carlyle and Dr. Chalmers, - ARGOSY. The Shut-up Houses, At a German Silver Wedding, SUNDAY MAGAZINE. How She Told a Lie, . SPECTATOR. The Arabs of the Desert, - The Small Squires of a Century Since, Protective Diseases Masked Heartlessness The Grievance of being Overestimated, Summer Coolness in Poetry, - - Women at Fifty III 317 499 76, 139 . 489 - 209 186 188 752 753 756 757 820 Iv CONTENTS. SATURDAY REVIEW. A Squires Note-Book in the Seven- teenth Century Up-stairs in Westminster Ahbey, - - A Congress of Domestic Economists, - PALL MALL GAZETTE. 190 504 510 M Dufaure 445 The Destruction of Small Birds on the Continent 506 Untrodden Ways ~o8 A German Cremation Hall, - - 640 New Aspects of German Life, - - 703 Camping Out on the St. Lawrence, - 767 An Ancient Illyrian Capital, - - - 824 ST. JAMESS GAZETTE. Burmese Bells, - - - A Quakers Graveyard, - - The Last Journey of Pius IX, ATHENIEUM. Recollections of George Borrow, - NATURE. Fish Mortality in the Gulf of Mexico, LE JOURNAL DES DEBATS. The Return of the Jews to Spain, - - - 502 - - 637 - - 639 - 817 - 512 - 447 INDEX TO VOLUME CL. ANTS, Intelligence of . 176 Arabs of the Desert, The . . . i86 Adam, Mr., Late Governor of Madras, . 292 BEAcONSFIELD, Lord, A Last Word on. 29 Wit and Humor of ~ Bucharest, Curious Effect of the Earth quake at . 64 Boycotted, 113 Berlioz, Hector: a Biography, 478 Burmese Bells, 502 Birds, Small, Destruction of ~o6 Bonaparte 629 Borrow, George, Recollections of . . 817 Brigands and their Captives, . . 822 CARLYLES Reminiscences, Sir Henry Taylor on . . . . . Cyprus, A Pilgrimage to, in 13956, . 126 Crimean War and Lord Stratford, Per- sonal Reminiscences of - 170, ~ Consolations 248 Carlyle, The Early Life of - 259 Cousin Felix 285, 418 Carlyle and Chalmers 499 Cremation Hall, A German . . . 640 Comet, The Great Southern, of i88o, . 760 Camping Out on the St. Lawrence, . 767 DISRAELI, A Last Word on 29 Wit and Humor of - . Dictionaries, Among the 239 Denmark 323 Dufaure, M EUROPEAN Society, On some National Characteristics of - . 3 Economists, Domestic, A Congress of - 510 England, Walks in 607 FRERES, The 20, 298, 351, 563, 620 Foreign Affairs 345 Fish Mortality in the Gulf of Mexico, 512 Florence 643 GERMAN Village, Notes from a 371 German Silver Wedding, At a 489 Greek Dinners 493 Garfield, President . . . . 571 Gibbon, Edward . . , . . . 579 German Cremation Hall, A . . . 64o German Life, New Aspects of . . 703 How She Told a Lie, . . . . 209 Hindu Households,. . . . - 227 Home and Foreign Affairs, . . . 345 Holiday Customs in Italy, . . . 359 History, Stray Leaves from . . . 377 Heartlessness, Masked - . . . 753 ITALIAN Race, Decline of the . . 256 In Trust, 332, 395, 463, $42, ~ 665, 719, 790 Italy, Holiday Customs n . . . 359 Italy: her Home and Foreign Policy, . 387 Islam, The Future of . . . . 707 Illyrian Capital, An Ancient . . . 824 JAPANESE Bride, A 102 Jews, The Return of, to Spain . . 447 LAWN Tennis and its Players, . . 734 Lafayette Family, The . . . . 749 MATrIE: the History of an Evening, 41 Mere Chatter 159 My Poor Little Kite, . . . . 232 Mohammedanism, The Future of . . 707 NATURE, The Unity of . . . . 131 ODES, A Talk about - . . . 195 Overestimated, The Grievance of being. 756 PEPYS, Samuel 408 Pius IX., The Last Journey of . . 639 Poetry, Two Theories of. . . . 682 Protective Diseases, . . . . 752 Poetry, Summer Coolnes in - . . 757 Pyramids, The Newly-Opened . . 768 QUAKERS Graveyard, A. . . . 637 REVISION of the New Testament, - 67 Richelieu 214 Risano 824 SHUT-UP Houses, The . . , 76, 139 Sane Persons, The Visions of . - 95 Stratford, Lord, and the Crimean War Personal Reminiscences of . 170, ~ V vi INDEX. Small Squires, The, of a Century Since, i88 Tunis Squires, A, Note-Book in the Seven- Timoleon, - - teenth Century 190 Transvaal, Besieged in the Scott, Sir Walter, and his Mother, - 317 Tennyson, A New Study of Standerton, The Defence of - - 424, 741 Tourgenieff, Ivan, Sketches Siberian Exile, A, Eighty Years Ago, - 438 niscences by - Spain, The Return of the Jews to - - 447 Troy, The Site of - Silver Wedding, At a German . - 489 Sta~l, Madame de: A Study of her Life UNITY of Nature, The and Times 515 Umbria, In - . - Schliemanns Ilios: the Site of Ho- Untrodden Ways, - . mers Troy 771 Scottish, Shetlandic, and Germanic Water VIsioNs, The, of Sane Persons, Tales, - . . . - - 809 WILSON, Andrew, The Late - TESTAMENT, the New, The Revision of - 67 Westminster Abbey, Up-stairs in Taylor, Sir Henry, on Carlyles Remi- Water Tales, - - niscences, 8~ Women at Fifty, - . . 308 . . 319 . 424, 741 - - . 451 and Remi - - - 692 - - - 77 - - 3 148 - - 508 . 95 - 383 - 505 - . 8o~ - 820 ACHILLES, The Death of Cledmon, - . - - Comet, The Tale of a - Cyclamen, a White, Lines on. English Poet, The First - Garnered Giver, The, and the Taker, Holidays, - June Morning, On a Love and Pain, - Longings London Birds, - - . - Lords and Ladies, - Morning World, The - - Margery Daw Norwegian Sonnets, POETRY. . 770 Nestlings, Nightfall, - . 258 Night in June, A - . 450 Nightfall, - 578 Old Song, An - - - 258 Ottoman Poems, Two Out West, 130 - 578 Plea, A - . - - 578 Sonnet, . . . Sunflower, A - . - - 66 Swan, The, when Feeling that is Oer, 66 Sea, By the. -. - 130 258 Timoleon, - . -. - 322 Till Death us Fart, . - 386 Voices of the Sea, . - - - 450 Wye, The - - 2 Wheat, The, in Blossom,. - 386 . - 386 - - 642 - - 642 - - 194 - - 514 . - 706 - 130 66 322 450 706 - - 320 514 - - 514 its Hour - 94 770 TALES. COUSIN Felix 285, 418 Japanese Bride, A - Freres, The - 2o, 298, 351, 563, 62o Kite, My Poor Little - - How She Told a Lie, - - 209 Mattie:. the History of an Evening, In Trust, 332, 395, 463, 542, ~ 66~ ~ 79Q Mere Chatter Shut-up Houses, The 102 23Z 4 159. 76, ~

The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1933 1-64

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 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 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.

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The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1934 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. July 9, 1881 0150 1934
The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1934 65-128

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 retired to his study for a cigar, the sound of Myas piano reaching us ~vhere we sat. Well? You have not exaggerated, I said warmly; I find her all and more than you say. She is an exquisite creature and she loves me. XVhat more should a man seek in a wife, at least such a man as my- self? He did well to qualify the sentence, for certainly most of us do require a little sympathy in this, above all other relations of life. But Ellertons singularity might well except him from the common rule. He perhaps sufficed for himself. I fan- cied he seemed to breathe more freely when we were alone. And he became more animated, which was no wonder, seeing that now, for the first time, we talked of his art. To-morrow, ah! I have something to show you to-morrow, he said archly and joyously. I have achieved a marvellous triumph, perhaps for the first time realiz- ing, in marble, exactly the conception of my brain. How seldom does that happen even to the true artist? Much we talked of his work and of this especial piece of work in particular, till an imperious little, lady in black velvet with gold trimmings summoned us to tea. III. ELLERTON had built himself a superb sculpture-gallery as well as a studio on the same handsome scale, and next morn- ing we spent several hours in there, my friend having much to show me. He had bought largely and worked hard since my last visit rather more than a year ago. The gallery was enriched ~vith several fine antiques, and the studio with some lovely things. A JAPANESE BRIDE. 107 Nothing stimulates artistic creative- ness like being in love, Ellerton said laughingly, and certes I have never known him so prolific in good work. The artist seemed to have flung out his fancies at random, merely to rid himself of them; to have glowed under a redundance of intel- lectual force and fancy. Wonderfully beautiful things were here, some finished, others mere embryo, a few in the halfway stage between the bud and the flower. One group, covered with a crimson cloth, stood on a pedestal at the farther end of the studio. With his hand on the drapery, Ellerton stood still for a moment smiling at my ex- pectancy, glowing beforehand with the consciousness of well-earned praise to come. Then, lifting the curtain, he said I fancy his lips trembled with emotion whilst he spoke, By this, or nothing, I shall be remem- bered. Here is my title of honor. I saw before me the oft-embodied, beauteous legend of Pygmalion and his dream-bride, but what matter how often such a theme is handled by the genuine artist? Here was a conception of warm life, passion, and beauty that must live, that must assert itself and its authors claims before all the world. Idle were it to try to describe these two figures. The sculptor bending forward to embrace the maiden, their faces nearly touching each other, their frames a-tremble with the joy of the first as yet untasted kiss. Enough to say that the spectator held his breath as he gazed, so intense, so unexpected the vision of loveliness before him. It struck me as I gazed, that in Pygmalion, the sculptor, unconsciously without doubt, yet unmistakably, had portrayed himself, whilst in the figure of the awakened girl I could trace only the purest English type of beauty; and why, indeed, should En- glish sculptors seek any other? There are English faces, and, though much rarer, English forms as perfect as those recalled to us by Greek art; whilst the artist, instead of giving us a mere copy, gives us his own ideal, his own embodi- ment, thus in reality creating for us. Ellerton, much pleased with my praises, at length gently drew the curtain over the group. It is strange, he said, as we were about to quit the studio, Mya seems to have conceived almost a jealous dislike for this work. I suppose because I am so fond of it. This was said half playfully, yet with a sigh. I observed that he went out of his way to avoid allusions to it in the pres. ence of his wife. But for this little cloud, however, there seemed the most perfect understanding between thepair. She had fallen quite easily into her place as lady of the house, fulfilling her social duties, and directing the servants, as if to the manner born. When luncheon was over, a neat little pony-carriage was brought to the door, and, with a servant at her side, she made her calls, and would drive into the neighboring town to do her shopping. She got all the newest books from a sub- scription library, took up crewel work, painting on porcelain, and other fashion- able feminine occupations; she studied music assiduously, cultivated the acquaint- ance of all the neighbors for miles round, and, in fine, showed an inordinate capac- ity for amusing herself. This must have been a great comfort to a hard-working man like Elierton. You must positively stay till the end of the week, he said to me, when we separated after that first luncheon, he to work in his studio, I to take a long ramble in the New Forest. The Pygmalion is now quite finished, and I have invited a few friends in the neighborhood to come and look at it, be- fore it goes to the Academy. You have not a single plea to urge by way of ex- cuse. As I had not indeed! Afl~neur, alas! by profession, I might as well be in the New Forest just then as anywhere else anywhere else as in the New Forest. Ellerton had ever been, moreover, my most delightful friend he was that to everybody. I had grown deeply inter- ested in his Jal)anese bride. In need of no more urgent persuasion, were any more needed from such a host, I stayed. Mya was interesting me now from a wholly new point of view. I had begun by analyzing her beauty; I had next studied her as a curious intellectual phe- nomenon; I finally set to work as a l)5y- chologist to anatomize her character. There were some moral puzzles in it, not least of which was that curious aversion to her husbands art. What was the origin of such aversion? Did it arise from instinct, passion, or want of artistic perception? It might well be that this cold, pure sculpture world came as a mystery, pain- ful almost as death itself, to a child of voluptuous skies and warm, richly-colored outward existence; or it might be that she saw in this art of which her husband was so thoroughly the master, this art to I o8 A JAPANESE BRIDE. which he was so passionately devoted, something that divided her from him only, and, as such, to be distrusted and even hated; or, lastly, it might be that in her, as in many, artistically speaking, defective natures, the faculty of appreciating form was wholly wanting, thus rendering her quite insensible to the charm of Ellertons creations. Be this as it may, it was quite evident that she made no effort to conceal her antipathy, and that every expression of it caused Ellerton to ~vince. In spite of the passionate love on his part, the kittenish fondness in hers, a cloud already hovered over them, palpable to others. Would it vanish as it had come; would it break over their heads? This was the question I asked myself again and again as the hours glided by under their pleasant roof. The reception in honor of the statues destined for the Royal Academy had been put off for a few days, and I was pressed to stay on. There seemed no reason for going, so I stayed, every day getting a clearer insight, as I thought, into the character of my friends wife. On the eve of the reception, I strayed into the studio to see the effect of Eller- tons final arrangements. It was one of those pearly March twilights, peculiarly beautifying to a sculptors workroom. The limpid atmosphere lent an ample play of light and shadow to the graceful outlines and smooth, white surface of the marble, whilst the swift-stealing twilight, fading from warm, soft violets to cold, hard greys, soon filled the place with poetic awe and mystery. As I lingered in this dream-land, I heard a voice at my elbow calling my name, and looking up, saw the sculptors beautiful bride, her dusky loveliness heightened by dress of purest white, only the sparkle of a diamond here and there relieving its diaphanous folds. She approached me where I stood, and having our faces turned from it, we rested our elbows on the sill and gazed down the long vista peopled with white, shado~vy forms, standing still boldly out of the gathering gloom. How can you come here? How can you stay here? she asked, drawing her white lace sha~vl round her as if seized with sudden cold. It is to me a region of phantoms from some spirit - world. They hardly live, yet who can call them dead? They are dumb, yet to me they all seem possessed of a strange speech. Then, I replied ~vith a smile, why do you come here? Why do you stay? Because I am fascinated against my will; I feel enticed towards this room, above all others in the house, just because it makes me uneasy. Do you know? she said, turning to me suddenly, I think, Mr. Stevens, that my husband and I inhabit two wholly different worlds. This is his. It never can be mine. His life, his soul, his heart, are here. She lifted her hand in the direction of the Pygmalion, the stooping lover, the upraised maiden, still discernible in the creeping dusk, and added, I may be childish, perhaps whimsical, but these fancies disturb my peace and make me wretched. Oh! a sculptor needs no living love since his ideal exists in marble. But the artistic ideal is perpetually varying, whilst love lasts a lifetime, I replied, adding playfully, Take comfort in the thought that the statue yonder is to be removed to-morrow, and, unless you wish it, need never come under your eyes again. She was silent, as if musing on my words, which, however, seemed in no degree to reassure her. Are all sculptors thus absorbed in their work? she asked. All true artists like Ellerton must be, I replied, with emphasis. Were he one shade less devoted to his art, he would not hold the high position he now does by virtue of splendid achievements. He is rich. He does not need the money, she said, almost as if talking to herself. And were he a his-millionaire, it would be the same to him as to any other man of genius, I replied warmly. No, Mrs. Ellerton, your husbands intellectual life is indeed here, and proud must you feel that it is so. Would nothing ~vrench him from these pursuits? she asked, the words showing me the track of thought she was follow- ing. You are, he tells me, his oldest friend. Speak candidly the thought in your mind. Will one phantom after an- other continue to shut me out of my hus- bands heart? Before I could answer, Ellerton s voice on the threshold summoned us gaily to dinner. Iv. NEXT morning at breakfast Ellerton handed to his wife a little gilt-edged note with a handsome monogram, and said, You must look your very best to-day, for among our guests is to fiour princess. e a royal A JAPANESE BRIDE. 109 Then, while she read the missive, he turned to me, adding, The princess is staying at Lord s close by, and I must of course gra- ciously accept the honor she proposes doing me. Well ? he asked ,glancing at Mya. The little lady looked inclined to pout. The princess comes to see the sculp- tors statues, not his wife, she said with disdain; I need not appear at all. Nonsense Ellerton urged coaxingly; I have set my mind on your wearing the peony-colored brocade dress, with the waist-clasp and aigrette of antique gold and rubies. As to your hair, to-day I will dress it for you; for no one else can do it so well. That little speech seemed to make mat- ters smooth, and the moment breakfast ~vas over, Mya set to work on her prepa- tions, apparently in the highest spirits. I helped her to carry flowers from the con- servatory for the decoration of the stair- case and studio, making myself generally useful till luncheon. Immediately after Mya disappeared to go through the mys- teries of the toilet, and we did not meet again till three oclock, when the guests began to arrive. There is always an apogee in social gatherings, and one tableau out of the shifting groups in Ellertons studio that afternoon remains photographed on my memory. It was towards the close of the recep- tion ~vhen the most illustrious guests are always sure to arrive; and in this case, the coming of the royal princess and her train added the last touch to a scene of unusual brilliance. The guests, number- ing upwards of thirty, had fallen back, now forming a semicircle before the Pyg- malion, the princess and the sculptor standing a little in advance of the rest, whilst he spoke of his work and listened to her praises. The magnificence of the ladies dresses, all of rich material and warm colors as became the season, contrasted strikingly with the coldness and purity of the mar- bles, whilst a blaze of color even more dazzling than that of jewels and brocade was afforded by the abundance of hot- house flowers on every side. It was in- evitable that even Ellertons beautiful Japanese bride should undergo momen- tary eclipse. Perhaps the handsomest woman in the room, and certainly the only one exquisitely dressed, she had nevertheless been compelled like the rest to make way for her husbands illustrious guestno daughter of England, but of a royal house allied distantly with our ow-n, and herself, betrothed to a foreign noble- man, Italian on her mothers side. This young lady, standing by Ellerton, was peculiarly distinguished from the others by the simplicity of her dress, a white felt hat with nothing in the shape of ornament but a spray of jewels, and a long, white, fur-lined cashmere cloak, be. ing all that was observable. She was tall and graceful, and her pearly com- plexion, exquisite fairness, and pure con- tour, might well commend themselves to a sculptor. Ellerton was evidently fasci- nated by her appearance, and perhaps sa~v, or fancied he saw, as I think every- one did in the room, a certain shadowy resemblance to the beautiful statue before her. And just as the attitude of the lovers in marble, the bending artist, the upraised maiden, was that of eager passionate ex- pectation, so now Ellertons face glowed at the ladys praises, ~vhilst her own, up- lifted to his, beamed over with sympa- thetic ardor and delight. The likeness, fantastic though it might be, was apparent a few minutes only. XVhen the semicircle was broken to make way for Ellerton and his royal guest, and the brilliant company streamed into the hall where tea a~vaited us, every trace of the illusion had vanished. Except from the jealous mind of Mya! I noted her flushed cheek and the quick, uneasy glances she directed towards her husband as he still hovered, being in duty bound so to do, by the side of the princess. Not that she w-as any longer eclipsed, for all present seemed vying with each other to do homage to their hosts unique and fascinating bride. But these observances scarcely seemed to gratify her, and, if there was a world o~ injured feeling in her looks, none the less was there abun- dance of wistfulness. Ellerton all this time remained wholly unconscious of his ~vifes state of mind. I had never seen him gayer or more genial. He was en- joying an artistic triumph, prologue of a nobler triumph to come, and his flushed cheek, sparkling eye, and beaming smile made him doubly gracious and doubly handsome. Seizing an opportunity, I went up to Myas side and tried to engage her in conversation. Using the privilege of her husbands oldest friend, I praised everything her dress, the tea-table, the general arrangements. Will it soon be all over? she asked with a look of inexpressible ennui; I 110 A JAPANESE BRIDE. do not feel at home; I cannot understand the conversation of these people and their way of looking at things! To hear them talk, one might suppose there was nothing to live for but sculpture and painting. Are they only acting a part, or do they really live in a world which is not real and tangible? This question, by no means an easy one to answer, showed no little perspicu- ity on Myas part. Sure enough, to judge from the conversation of all pres- ent, an outsider might well suppose that the full significance, the real strength and vitality of existence lay here. How could I make clear to her the subtle distinction she could not see? How could I explain that art is indeed a life and a world in it- self, most real; most tangible to the true devotee, but a counterpart and an addi- tion, not a hollow image substituted for the true one? There were true critics, true art-lovers among Ellertons visitors, and thus it came about that the conversa- tion had been of an unusually intense nature. No mere conventional utter- ances were these, but the fervid thoughts of men and women who felt art, and to whom it represented the highest and best phase of human intellect. I was about to answer, when the young princess with extreme, almost affectionate graciousness, moved to~vards her hostess. You must, indeed, be proud of your husbands great work, she said, taking her hand and perusing her with curious interest, and when it is the admiration of the whole world, you will be prouder still ! You are very kind, was all Mya said, smiling and bowing, nevertheless, as in duty bound. The perfect self-possession and almost marble-like coldness of the princess, needless to say, a woman of the world, although but twenty-two, contrasted strangely ~vith the underlying yet ill-con- cealed restlessness and fieriness of the Japanese beauty. It was plain enough, at least to me, that here only a spark was needed to kindle the smouldering ashes into flame. Mere outsiders might well take these serpentine wreathings of her lissome form, these twitches of the beau- tiful lips, these side-looks and blushes, to mean common shyness and ingenuous- ness only. The princess, fearing to embarrass her hostess further, now took leave, and her going was the signal for a general disper- sion. The rest of the day, as is usually the case after a period of excitement, was unusually quiet, and we all retired to rest earlier than usual, Ellerton declaring himself quite worn out with the hard work of the last few weeks. But the climax rewards me, he said gaily, as he caught the bedroom candle; the Pygmalion is sold. It is to adorn a royal museum in Italy. Could higher praise be awarded to any English work of art? I congratulated him heartily and looked round for Mya, but she was gone. My wife is sadly tired with the long days fatigue. Excuse her abrupt depar- ture, Ellerton said kindly. Then we bade each other good-night arid went each on our way. V. I SLEPT uneasily, troubled, I knew not why, with vazue presentiment of evil. Ellerton, favorite school comrade, and oldest friend, was so dear and so very interesting to me we must love our friends in proportion to the interest with which they inspire usthat I could not discern a cloud on his horizon without a feeling of pain and apprehension. This sunny-tempered, joyous, joy-inspiring na- ture had never yet been harassed by trou- ble or real personal sorrow. Truth to tell, he had been hitherto a spoilt child of fortune, of his friends, and of the world generally. On this airy, enthusiastic, ever-buoyant temperament, it seemed un- fair to lay the burden of a care. He must be happy because he so relished happi- ness; and because it so well became him. Thus it came about that these fleeting visions of trouble in store for Ellerton disturbed me more, perhaps, than any personal chagrin of my own would have done. I was made of tougher material, and could better bear the stings and buf- fetings of evil fortune. I was, moreover, much less given to a romantic expectation and visions of unalloyed felicity. What effect a disenchantment regarding his marriage would be, I dreaded to contem- plate. For I saw that a terrible revela- tion ~vas in store for him. This world of art, this life ~vithin life, which was his, and never would be hers, must estrange husband and wife. Her womans jeal- ousy would have its way, and it was di- rected against what was dearer far to him even than love and life itself, namely, his art. I had seen clearly enough during the past week, and Mya had doubtless vaguely discovered too, that by this capricious marriage Ellerton had sought rather to adorn and beautify, than to strengthen A JAPANESE BRIDE. III and complete his existence. He sufficed for himself. What he had sought in a wife was a toy, brilliant, flawless, unique. How would it fare with him when too late he should find out the flaw? It was such thoughts as these that made my dreams feverish and the oft- broken hours of sleep seem almost inter- minable to me. When at last the cold, luminous March dawn came, I rose, and throwing on a wrapper opened the win- dow; an inhalation of pure air often act- ing as a sedative. My chamber overlooked the eastern side of the pretty little domain, a bare sweep of turf, planted with ornamental shrubs, along which a narrow path led to a side gate opening on to the high-road. Beyond slope and shrubs rose a clump of magnificent old trees, and between the bare branches could be discerned glimpses of the New Forest, one vast panorama, its vast serrated outline recalling mountain scenery. Just such purple undulations as these, with towering summit and deep clefts , greet the traveller in the highlands of the Jura and Auvergne. In the sharp, silvery light of this bright spring dawn, not a feature of the wide landscape was lost, and I was gazing on it in admiration, when two small, bending figures suddenly broke its wonderful, al- most solemn silence and stillness. The figures in question were not more than a hundred yards from me, that is to say, they were hastening along the narrow path, before mentioned, towards the road. It was impossible for me not to recog- nize the slight, somewhat conspicuously dressed figures at a glance; and I do not know why the sight of Mya, abroad at that hour in company with her little maid, should have struck me with something like dismay. The little lady of the house had only been seized with a sudden desire to ram- ble in the New Forest at dawn, and she was subject to caprices. This was but in keeping with the rest. The pair, moreover, were furnished with basketsJapanese baskets of un- usual sizeand it occurred to me as a happy solution of this enigma, that they were bent on simpling. Mya had set her mind on culling some herb of rare excellence with which to make cosmetics, or, who knows? some beautifying col- lyrium for eyes sore with weeping; or (I allowed my fancy full play) she might be in quest of some love-herb, which, care- fully decocted, should make whole her husbands heart. Still, I confess, this vagary on the part of my hostess inspired me with uneasi- ness. I longed for breakfast time to bring a solution of the mystery, occupying the interval with snatches of sleep and vivid dreams; the picturesque pair scut- tling along the garden walk, forming the central figure of each. When at last the breakfast gong sounded and I went down- stairs, it was to find Ellerton alone. It seems we must breakfast engar~on, he said with an annoyed look. Mya has taken it into her head to go out for a walk, and has not yet returned. I looked at the time-piece on the man- telpiece which pointed to nine, and, I suppose, arched my eyebrows, for Eller- ton said, You could not have heard the garden gate click at your side of the house? I have no idea, myself, at what time they started. I hesitated for a moment, and then told him what I had seen. The expression of annoyance deepened into one of concern. He sat down, how- ever, and poured out the coffee for us both, drinking his own hastily, and only accompanied by a morsel of bread. It must be but a caprice, he said deprecatingly, yet with uneasy glances down the grand walk, and at the time- piece. A vagary! Yet the New Forest is so vast and so intricate that I cannot bear the notion of her being there with only the little Hindoo girl. What if they should lose their way? or fall in with rough people, and Mya has a habit of wearing so many jewels! It was a foolish freak on her part He did not say, I cannot understand it. I saw quite well that something un- pleasant had happened the day before; that in fact for the first time the adoring husband had been ruffled by his lovely bride. And I am bidden to lunch at Lord s to meet the princess. How can I fulfil my engagement unless Mya be back by noon? Perhaps the!r large baskets meant a picnic ci dez~-? I suggested. The weather is fine enough to breakfast out of doors in a sheltered spot. No, he replied, his face growing darker and darker. I fear some more serious purpose is at the bottom of this step. We had an unhappy misunder- standing last night, and, would you believe it, about a statue? I showed no sur- prise at such a statement. You had divined as much? he went on. Then 112 A JAPANESE BRIDE. you were less blind than myself. This child of nature, for so she has ever re- mained in spite of the conventional gloss my so-called education has imparted, this incomparable inginue deemed me enam- ored of a statue! That exquisite marble ideal of my fancy became a hateful rival to her, and she sees, in my fondness for it, an alienation from herself. And to make matters worse, the fanciful theory was heightened yesterday by a resem- blance she was pleased to find between the marble lady and the beautiful prin- cess, our guest. I had but imagined in stone, my first, last, and only love! So she thinks. My ~vife is such a child that I can talk of her as I could not do, were she an ordinary woman, he added, and this childishness manifests itself, not at all in intellectual things; she can apply herselfas you have seento wholly ne~v lines of thought, and acquire quite foreign branches of knowledge, with ex- traordinary ease and rapidity. But she is a child, morally speaking, unable in the least degree to measure the consequences of her own acts, or her relations, as a responsible being, to others. And intel- lectually, though gifted largely with the power of perception and memory, she lacks the faculty of appreciating the rela- tion of things, the due preparation neces- sary in balancing human affairs. She was disappointed to find that, instead of filling my life, she only occupied a subor- dinate place in it. My devotion to the sculptors art first took her by surprise, then repelled her. But, for heavens sake, Stevens, tell me ~vhat is to be done. Time is going. It must be five hours or more since, according to your showing, they went away. I am really growing most uneasy. The only possible thing to be done was to instigate a search in the forest under the pretext that madameas she was always called must have gone out for a ramble with her Hindoo attendant and lost her way. I hurried off, to strike out in one direc- tion, an old manservant was sent out in another. Ellerton was to follow us, taking a third, as soon as he had despatched a note of excuse to Lord , and attended to other matters in the house of imme- diate concern. VI. Fro~n Frank El/er/on to C~arru/hers S/evens. IT is some months since that March night when, after a long day spent in my service, I so roughly, almost brutally, indeed, begged you to leave my home. The fact was, something had happened which was near maddening me, which, for the time being, did certainly deprive me of self-control, and on that account I wanted to be alone. I could not bear even my oldest friend to see me un- manned. To-day for the first time I take any one into my confidence. I could not do so by word of mouth. I doubt, in fact, whether I shall ever have courage to speak of the matter at all; but it is a kind of unburdening to write of it freely to you, and of course my letter is for you alone. Immediately you had quitted the house that March morning, in order to search for the missing Mya and her Hindoo, I sat down and penned a hurried note of excuse to Lord B. I then gave one or two necessary orders to the servants, and ~vas about to join in the search also, when an indefinable longing seized me to take a farewell look of my statue before it should be packed for transmission to the Academy. I felt as if a glance at the ineffable calm and mutely responsive beauty therein embodied would console me for the cruelty of the living love I had taken to my heart only to sting. Love is cruel, I thought, but art is kind ; and art shall henceforth be my mistress, my sal- vation, and my comforter! Outside the door I stood for a mo- ment with a sudden thrill of joy, and tri- umphant, foreseeing how the pearly spring light would beautify almost etherealize the marble, realizing my sunniest as- pirations and ripest experience. I felt that my work was good, so that I had rea- son to rejoice. I opened the door, and what was my horror and dismay to find, instead of the dream of loveliness with ~vhich my whole being was full, a torn, maimed, scarred, almost hideous thing! By some inon- strous piece of wickedness, and also no little manual dexterity, my beautiful statue had been ruined past help. Nothing short of a miracle of the olden time could no~v restore it. I stood for some minutes contemplat- ing the wreck like one in a dream, unable to move an inch or open my lips. Then, when I realized the true state of things, all the self-mastery went out of me, for a moment, and I believe I burst into tears. No more of the deed, and only a few words more about the perpetrator. I have not taken the world into my confi BOYCOTTED. I 13 dence with regard to either. No one knows why my much-talked-of Pygmalion never made its appearance at the Acad- emy. Still less does any one guess what part the sculptors ~vife played in this years shortcomings. Mya thus much you may have heard is living in Paris, and when you and other trusted emissa- ries were searching the New Forest, in bodily fear lest she had been murdered for the sake of her jewels, she was steam- ing from Southampton to Havre, bent only on whiling away a few days in the French capital till the wrath of her lord and master should pass away. She ex- pected, indeed, to have cured me of statue-making forevermore, and to have enticed me to Paris, all adoration and repentance. I need not say that in these surmises she has been entirely out of her reckoning. I make her a sufficient allow- ance, and we are and shall ever remain, in other respects, strangers to each other. So much for my Japanese romance. When will you run do~vn and see me? The New Forest is just now in full glory. The sooner the better, old friend. F.E. M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. From The Contemporary Review. BOyCOTTED. SOME EXPERIENCES IN IRELAND DURING LAST WINTER. IN order to make the outrage com- mitted on us last winter in Ireland intel- ligible, it is needful to state shortly why we lived in Ireland, and what we had done there. I have actually lived in Ireland for thirty-eight years since 1843. For the last twenty years, since our children were of age to require better teaching than could be had in Ireland, I have had a house in London, and came here for three to five months every year. For the first thirty years of my life my home was in Suffolk, on the very edge of Norfolk, and except for the absences that a public school and university and the bar required, I lived there, as most of the sons of country gentlemen live, and with the same tastes and habits. When I married in 1843, I settled in Ireland, wholly as a duty. It was very distasteful to me, and still more to my wife. But in those days there was no doubt tllat it was right to do so. It was before the great famine of 1846. I LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1776 There was an immense population and great poverty. The estate had been wholly neglected, except for a little I had done on it myself during the previous five or six years. There were not only many poor tenants, but a still larger num- ber of poorer laborers, often unemployed, and whose ordinary wages, when they were employed, were only 6d. per day, or 35. per week, and even that they were grateful to get. I paid 45., and was thought liberal. It was the most hapless and hopeless sea of misery that it is possible to con- ceive. As to thinking any impression for good could be made on it by the ut- most one could do, it was plainly impos- sible. To try to bale out the sea would have been as lik~ly to succeed; but it was the plain duty of those to whom God had given property in the country, to do what we could, and with that object alone my wife and I went over and settled there three or four months after our marriage. My Suffolk taste for farming made living in Ireland less unpleasant to me personally. I had no agent, but managed the estate wholly myself, with a Scotch bailiff for the small farm I then held, whose business it was to go amongst the tenants and teach them how to grow clo~er and turnips, of which before they knew nothing at all. It was in the very height of OCon- nells agitation for Repeal of the Union, and the country was much disturbed. That I could make a residence in Ire- land profitable, by farming myself, and improving land, never crossed my mind; it would have seemed unpractical folly to expect such a result. To rescue the es- tate from further decline was the most that I thought could be done. In Nor- folk, where most of my knowledge of farming was got, it ~vas thougllt that a gentleman could not make farming pay. he general o pinion was, that whatever a gentleman could honestly make out of a farm in his own hands, a responsible tenant could afford to pay him for it as rent, and make a living out of it besides. For some years before I settled in Ire- land I had managed the estate, going over twice a year for the purpose. Besides being very much out of order, it was much in arrear of rent. The first step was to ~vipe off nearly all the arrears, telling the tenants that, in future, what- ever rent any one had promised, he would have to pay regularly. That no one would be turned out, except for non-payment of rent, or very gross misconduct, and no 4 BOYCOTTED.~~ ones rent be raised during his life. So every one held as if he had a lease for his life. The rent days were fixed, July 6th and Dec. 6th, as the most convenient periods for the tenants. The result very soon was great regu- larity of payment. For years I sat down to receive rents at II A.M., and by 3 P.M. half a years rent was lodged in the bank. There was no pressing, and not a rough word was used. Only good-will and friendliness appeared on both sides. There were, of course, occasional default- ers, but only from indolence and drink. These were forgiven all the rent they owed, and allowed to take away whatever stock and goods they had, and given a few pounds besides. Their land was ap- plied to enlarge the farms of those who remained and vere thriving. The improvement in the circumstances of the tenants, and the increase in the number and quality of their stock were wonderful. No stranger being brought in, but the land of all who were turned out being divided among those who re- mained, tenants being turned out became a pleasure to all except the poor fellows who had to leave. Still the whole system rested on potato growing, and when the potatoes failed, in the great famine of 1846, a number of tenants collapsed. These nearly all emi- grated, as did numbers of laborers; we have often since heard of them as doing well. Abatements of rent had to be freely given, till the effect of the famine had passed. Then the same system of order and regularity was resumed. Such order is very much disliked in Ireland, but I attribute great importance to it; it has gone on ever since, and the tenants with very few exceptions, have steadily l)rospered. They are much better off than on most other estates near. Some are wealthy men, and a great many are comfortable. My rent has always been easily and regularly paid, and disputes or differences between them and me have been simply unknown. Of the land given up to me during the famine, much remained in my own hands. I found I could not let it again at the old rent ; so, at first, I farmed it myself, with the intention of re-letting it ~vhen times mended. But when I found it was pay- ing I kept it in my own hands. The old rents were ~s. per acre on an average. For many years 1 have cleared a profit of 205. an acre beyond the 175. viz. 375. Some years I have cleared a total of over 405. per acre as rent and interest on capital. Of course, improvements of all sorts have been carried on. All wet land throughout the whole estate has been drained, except one bog, from ~vhich there is no outfall. Old fences have been levelled, and new ones made. Many cottacres for laborers built, twentx--t~vo good ones of two stories, and great em- ployment given in every kind of improve- ment. All tenants turned out were of- fered ~vork, if they chose to do it. A year ago I had between thirty and forty men regularly at work, paying /25 per week as wages/r,300 per annum. We gave 35. a week higher wages than any one else near. Our farm was flour- ishing, and so we could afford it, and it seemed a means of raising the condition of our people; 13s. per week included the value of c~ttage, garden, and potato ground in the field (as much as each had manure for), which together I valued at 25. per week. These were the wages of ploughmen and all our best men: tos. a week was the lowest the inferior men got. In many cases more than one member of a family ~vas employed. One family drew, in cash, for two or three years, 395. per ~veek. In sickness half wages were allowed, besides other help. A penny club provided blankets and flannel and other clothes at small cost. I have been assured, by one who had good means of knowing, that before ~ve ~vent there no laborer had a blanket, and very few farm- ers. Now they abound, and even cover- lets and sheets. One woman is believed to have taken a blanket every Christmas for over thirty years past. No one can guess what she did with them. Any signs of poverty or want have long been unknown among them. When, now and then, a new family happened to come as laborers, the change in their appearance after a few weeks was striking. With the laborers, as with the tenants, anything like quarrels or disputes were unknown. A jog now and then, to keep them up to their work, was the most. Every sort of relation between us and them, their wives and children, and my wife and children, were as friendly as can be conceived, and in any troubles and sickness they always came first to us. The former house on the proper~ had been stolen by a tenant in old times, who used the doors, windows, staircases, chim- ney-pieces, etc. in a house for himself on land which he had near. I had, there- fore, to build a new house on a different site, where I made a charming place; and BOYCOTTED. there we lived, in, as far as could be seen, thorough friendliness and good-will with all classes around us, in complete quiet and peace, without a thought of any out- rage being committed upon us. There was not one shilling of arrear due by any tenant. The Ladyday and spring rents of i88o had all been paid. The harvest of i88o was by far the best we had had for thirty years. Every one had planted Champion potatoes, and the crops of them were astonishing. Noth- ing nearly so good had been known since the famine in 1846. The oats of 1879 had also been good, though barley had suffered. Even then, many had grown Champion potatoes and had very profit- able crops. The price of butter had been low, so that 1879 was not a good year for farmers, though much better than 1878. 1878 had no doubt been a bad year, but by no means ruinous. The balance-sheets of my own farm, which was scattered among the farms of the tenants, enabled me to judge accurately what the loss to any was. EVERYTHING went on as usual until the month of November. Our district is usually a quiet one, and the people of a good sort. We saw accounts of the do- ings of the Land League in other parts of the country, and we knew a few men, of no weight or character, made a talk on the subject in the towns near, and held some meetings, but they and the meet- ings were alike contemptible. In Novem- ber reports began that our tenants would not pay their rents as usual on December 7; that only the poor-law or Griffiths valuation would be paid. Knowing the men s circumstances, I did not believe the reports; and their characters made me certain that, however they might be led into it by others, who might make them believe they would gain by refusing to pay, a spontaneous movement of the sort was very unlikely. I therefore took no notice of the reports, and went about among them as freely as usual. None of them said one word to me on the subject, or said they were ill off, or asked for any reduction, or even for time to make up their rent. About a week before December 7 every tenant received a threatening letter by post with a halfpenny stamp on it, open at the end, warning him on no account to pay more than Griffiths valuation. Sim- ilar threatening notices were posted in the town of Clonakilty and the neighbor- hood. One night a hole was dug in the grass near my hall door to represent a 5 grave, and a threatening notice was stuck on the door. The hole was about six inches deep; and as the notice said it was to hold both my son and myself, who are both more than six feet high (he is six feet six inches) and not slight, it did not appear to be a very practical threat; so the gardener filled up the hole, and we laughed at it. The rent day, December 7, was on a Tuesday, and on Monday there was a large fair at Clonakilty, where threats were again treely used. A most respecta- ble old tenant, who was known to be espe- cially friendly with us, and who is rich, and had no trouble in paying his rent, was going home from the fair in a car in the dusk, when three men rushed at him and threw a glass of water in his face, to prove how easily they could have thrown vitriol. By the side of the road along which most of the tenants came to my house there were the ruins of an old cabin, in these some men hid themselves on the morning of the rent day; and, as they saw a tenant coming up, they ran out and thrust before his face a sort of placard on a stick, threatening him if he paid. It is necessary to know the people and the country to realize the amount of fear such threats caused. Many were threat- ened four times, a frequency that could not have been necessary had they been known to partake in earnest in the views of the Land Leaouers It was known that an ill-conditioned, inferior shop- keeper, who holds some town fields near Clonakilty from me, was active in the League, and two or three country tenants had also taken more or less part in it. But most of the tenants had nothing to do with it, though no doubt they would ha~e no objection to profit by it, if it was possible without burning their own fin- gers. That would have been too great a height of virtue for such men to attain. With very few exceptions, and these caused wholly by drink, they were all more than able to ~ay their rent easily. The year, as I have said, had been very favorable in our district, both in produce and l)rices of all kinds. At the usual hour for paying they as- sembled at our gate, and a kind of infor- mal meeting was held, from which, how- ever, some kept aloof. The rents of a few happened to be less than Griffiths valuation. These came in and paid as usual. Altogether I received about ~ioo instead of 1,300. A deputation of four of the largest ten- i i6 BOYCOTTED.~~ ants then came in, and asked me to take Griffiths valuation. I wholly refused, telling them they had done well at their present rents for many years when times were good, and though times had been less good for two or three years, they had not been bad to such an extent as to make a reduction of rent right; and i38o had been a capital 3-ear in all respects. Nothing could be more civil than they were, nor did I use a hard word to them. Their chief anxiety seemed to be to en- treat that I would not blame them for not paying, and to assure me that it ~vas only the threats that had stopped them. I had had a message from one of these very men a day or two before to say I need not be afraid. He had the rent ready, and would pay soon. Another very old man lingered behind to tell me he had the rent in his pocket, and would pay it if I told him to do so; but he hoped I should not tell him. Of course I did not tell him to pay, but told him to go home, and leave me the rent in his will, in which way the Land League could not hurt him. At which he laughed heartily. They went away at last without paying. I told them finally that they could do as they pleased, and I should do as I pleased. From the window of the room where I sat I could see in the direction of the hall door, near which the rest of the tenants were; but it was plain they were very anx- ious to keep out of sight of the ~vindow. I could see them dodging round corners and getting quickly out of sight in a way that made me laugh. In fact I only got to know from others who ~vere, or were not there. The whole thing was the most sheepish piece of foolishness ever seen. I was told that when they again got out- side the gate, before they separated, a second kind of a meeting was held. One suggested that all should pay Griffiths valuation into the hands of two or three, who should lodge it irf the bank; but they were far too xvise fom that kind of dodge. Some paid their money into the bank in their own names, and when lately they paid me, sent me word it had been there safely all the time. During the following days rumors went about that our laborer~ would all be taken away, because we refused to obey the Land League. As I farm about one thou- sand acres, and have on them nearly one thousand head of stock, the prospect of having these left suddenly with nobody to feed them was not pleasant. They thought this would surely upset me. A flock of sheep were eating turnips on a hill facing our house, and we used to look the first thing in the morning to see whether the two men whose business it was to cut turnips put them into troughs, and shift the fold, were still at work. At last, at the end of the week, threat- ening notices ~vere sent to all our labor- ers, including coachman and gamekeeper, mason and carpenter~ and on Monday morning all ceased to work except one who had lately come out of hospital after rheumatic fever. Durino- his illness we had helped his wife and children. My land steward talked to the men during the previous ~veek, and they promised fairly, that come what would, they would not leave our stock to starve. But all went away, nevertheless. They all stopped work, as I said, ex- cept one laborer and two dairymaids. The coachman came for a few days early in the morning, and after dark to feed and do up the horses. The carpenter now and then went to the farm to do small jobs: one of the dairymaids soon gave up work. So we were left to our own resources. The garrison consisted of myself, my daughter, and son. My wife and another daughter had been obliged to leave home a week before to take care of a younger boy who had scarlatina at Rugby. We had our household servants, all English but one. The gardener, also English, and the one garden laborer. At the farm were Mr. D. Law, the Scotch land steward, and his two sons, one sixteen and the other fourteen, his daughter and the one dairy-maid. After a time a capital man came, William Brown, whom I had brought over twenty- five years before from Wraxall, Somerset, as gardener, and his son and daughter, neither very strong. He had been in busi- ness for some time on his own account, and was doing a job of building for me in Cork, which was just about to stop for the winter. Two policemen were sent to our house to protect us; and a large house at the village, a mile off and half-way to the farm, ~vas used as a temporary barracks for four more police. There was room in this house also for four or six laborers, to whom the police were a convenient protection. A drunken tenant had been turned out of the farm a few months be- fore. 1-le would, no doubt, have been BOYCOTTED. I 17 reinstated by the mob, as happened to a neighbor in a like case, had it not been for the police in the house. Thus we killed two birds with one stone. After a fortnight the police authorities added four more men, making eight in all, besides our own two. These kept up a patrol all night about the farm. Our own two men also patrolled near our house. There were dragoons at Bandon, ten miles off, and once they patrolled out to us, stayed an hour and returned home. They did good, as showing that help could be had, if wanted. The talk afterwards was that the country was red ~vith them. After a week or two a company of marines was sent to Clonakilty, three miles off, and they too now and then pa- trolled in our direction. I was very anxious to have as little pro- tection as possible, so that if we suc- ceeded in fighting through successfully, it might not be from the weight of protec- tion given us. It was needful to steer between running any unwise risk of outrage, and being over protected. In the case of the out- rage upon Captain Boycott in Connaught, such an army was sent to protect him and his helpers, as made it clear to all that similar protection could be give ntovery few; the resources of the British army would have been insufficient for that pur- pose. It soon came to our knowledge that at the Roman Catholic chapel of the parish in which my farm lies, after mass on Sun- day morning, my laborers were all called into the vestry (or sacristy, as they name it), where was the priest, and a publican from Clonakilty, connected with the Land League there. As is usual in such cases, the priest professed to be ignorant of what they came for, and asked them what they wanted? To this they gave no an- swer, but the matter soon was opened all the same. The man asked, Who ~vill pas us our ~vages? It ~vas answered, How much do you get? To which they seem to have replied truly. The publican then came forward and said they should be paid by the League at Clona- kilty, and the priest confirmed him, un- dertaking to see them paid. One of themselves said, There must be no black sheep. Nothing was said as to how long their wages should be paid. This is all that came out. If proof could have been got of it, no doubt it was enough, with what happened afterwards, to justify an indict- ment against the priest and publican for having helped to Boycott us. The gov- ernment tried to get evidence, but none could be had, as is always the case under such circumstances in Ireland. Twice in the following week a number of our former laborers were seen loiter- ing about the village. They were joined by the Rofuan Catholic priest, and some informal meetings were held. No evi- dence could be got of what passed at them. I had about sixty head of cattle tied up in stalls fattening. There was a score of very fine, half-bred, shorthorn bullocks among them, not yet two years old, only half fat, but which, having had cake and corn on the grass all summer, were in beautiful condition, as stores, thriving, growthy beasts that were sure to pay well. There were also between two and three hundred sheep, fattening on turnips. There were, besides, near one hundred cows, two hundred ewes, and as many younger sheep (stores), and the balance was young cattle of different sorts and ages. The Christmas market at Bristol was on the Thursday following; so, for fear of what might come, we ascertained that there ~vas room for them on the Bristol steamer, and on Monday night sent a lot off to Cork for the Tuesday steamer. We sent all the fat beasts and the score of shorthorn bullocks, thirty in all, so as to lessen by half the number and work of feeding those fattening, and also forty fat sheep. The half-fat bullocks were to try Bristol market; and, if they did not sell well, to go on by train to Sir Thomas Acland, at Killerton, to whom we often send store stock, who was willing to keep what he wanted himself, and his man would sell the rest to advantage. They were so good that my Scotchman said he could have cried, when he saw them turned out of the stalls, that he had not to finish them for the butcher. Get- ting clear of them of course relieved us much. In the previous week, having sent three cart-loads of oats in ordinary course to Bandon market for sale, they were fol- lowed about the town by a howling mob who would let no one buy them. And they were not sold. As our stock had to take the rail at Bandon, we feared they would be stopped there by the mob. They started early in the night,the police escorting them, and the Bandon police meeting them there. I suppose they ~vere not expected, as they were trucked and sent off without trou ii8 BOYCOTTED. ble. The police at Cork were also ready for them at the train. They were driven quietly across the town to the steamer, and put in the pens for shipment. The inspector visited them, and branded them as healthy for export. It only remained to put them on board ship. A mob sud- denly gathered. The poflce arrangements were capital. My Scotchman, on looking round as the row l~egan, could hardly see a policeman; looking a gain a minute af- ter, a line of them, well-armed, were drawn up in front of the pens. They had been kept out of sight, but near, and ~vere ready when wanted. He then ~vent to the office to pay the freight, there being plenty of room in the vessel near. A managing director was there. A few job. bers, who had stock on board, came in, and objected to our stock being shipped. The director took fright, though this com- pany is the chief steamship company in Cork, connected with many of the chief merchants, and representing them. He refused to carry the stock, and ordered them to be turned out of the pens. There they were running about the street, hither and thither, among the mob. i\Iy men and the police had great diffi- culty in getting them together again. In the mean time one of my men bought a load of hay, and brought it to the quay, to be put on board for the voyage. The mob seized on it, and scattered it in all directions. My Scotchman then xvent to the Glasgow Steamship Company, and asked them to take the stock. Their man- ager also refused. He then went to the Great Southern and Western Railway, when, after telegraphing to Dublin, they honestly and straightforwardly admitted their liability as common carriers, to take the stock. At last, they were driven to the railway yard, which luckily was en- closed ~vith a gate, so that the mob, which still tried to give trouble, could be kept out, and they were trucked to Dublin. As the Scotchman came home a yelling mob followed him to the I3antry station, and had twice to be driven out. It was needful to telegraph to every station up the line where the train stopped, to have a guard of police at it to protect them. At Dublin they went through to the North Wall, where the Liverpool steamers lie, and they ~vere put in the pens for ship- ment. Till they reached Dublin, more than twenty-four hours after starting from home, they had no food or water. Both ~vere got for them there. But our trou- bles were by no means at an end. Two companies run steamers between Dublin and Liverpool. Both hesitated to take them. The Glasgow company was again applied to, to take them to Glasgow, and wholly refused. In Dublin Mr. God- dard, of the Property Defence Associa- tion, who has since done so much good, by making effective the judgment decrees of the courts of law and neutralizing mob violence, very kindly took the matter up. He went to Liverpool to arrange for sell- ing the stock there; supposing, no doubt, they would be shipped and ~ollow him. They were not, ho~vever. A friend a very distinguished officer in the amy, who chanced to be in Dublin luckily heard of the trouble from me. He soon made out that the two companies running steamers to Liverpool feared that the other should get the credit with the job- bers and drovers, who belonged to the Land League, of ha ving refused to take the stock; so he caught the manager of one company, and took him in his car to the manager of the other company, and in three minutes got them to agree that each should carry half the stock, thus Boy- cotting the enemy. They were shipped, accordingly, to Liverpool. The salesmen who were asked to sell them in the mar- ket, being Irishmen connected with Dub- lin, refused to do so, for the same cow- ardly reason. An honest Scotch sales- man was, however, found above such un- worthy fear; and they were sold at the following Monday mornings market, hav- ing left home the previous Monday even- ing. Of course, they had been much knocked about, and looked much the worse for that and bad feeding, especially the sheep, which ~vere first-rate black-faced Shrop- shires, quite fat. They sold badly. I be- lieve they were killed in Manchester; and I have since heard that in more than one part of London some butchers shops had large placards stuck up with Mr. Bence Joness Boycotted Beef. To end this part of my story. My solicitor in Cork waited on the steamship company soon after with a claim for 125 I9s. for loss and expense in consequence of their neglect of duty as common car- riers. By that time they had become ashamed of their conduct, and got to know the contempt they h~d earned through the kingdom. A cheque was ac- cordingly sent me for the sum asked. I have heard that the Glasgow Company which refused to carry our stock has been well punished too. Many respectable o-raziers who were in the habit of sending ~at stock from counties near Dublin to BOYCOTTED I 19 Glasgow withdrew their custom from this company, and are believed to have caused it a heavy loss. I have since had no dif- ficulty in shipping my stock wherever I wished. Though very much relieved by getting rid of the fat stock, we had still very hard work for some time to get food drawn and the rest of the stock properly fed. All stores were turned out in lots, in separate fields, no attempt being made to house them at night whatever the ~veather, and it was terribly severe. Turnips and hay were drawn to them in the fields, and they were left to feed themselves, but in truth they were only half-fed; and, in conse- quence, as there was no one to mind them, they were always breaking out of the fields, and endless confusion and trouble followed. My son and the gardener undertook to manage the fold for the fat. ting sheep, shifting the hurdles every day; and they were left to eat the turnips off the ground, instead of having them pulled and cut for them. Some hay was drawn for them. But it was long before we could get corn and cake broken. The cows in December had, of course, shortened in milk, and were drying fast. I had two large dairies. The dairymaid who remained with us managed one at the farm. The other, of forty cows, near our house, was undertaken by my daughter, with the help of the housemaid, ~vho was able to milk, her father being a dairyman. All except twelve or fourteen cows were put dry, and those still milking were brought at night to a cowhouse near, where there ~vas less trouble in milking them night and morning. It was hard work for my daughter, who luckily had learnt to milk when a child. In time vol- unteer helpers appeared who could milk a little, and as all the cows but few were going off their milk, indifferent milkers less mattered. One of the police, whose duty it was to guard her with his rifle, be- ing a farmers son, and knowing how to milk, got ashamed of seeing her at work, put his gun behind the door, and doubled himself up under the cow to milk, which he did capitally. It was a droll sight, two policemen with their guns protecting a young lady milkino- cows. The cook and - 6 other servants in the house undertook to make the butter and scald the pans. The butler undertook to feed and ~vater the horses, and take care of them. Thus we got the concern fairly straight, except that some of the stock were not well fed. Still none died of starvation, which was the main point. Curiously, from first to last, not a single animal, not even a sheep died, or was ill, though at this time we usually lose some sheep on turnips upon frosty mornings. Of course our first object was to get laborers from far or near to feed our stock. At the end of a fortnight we had got enough to do so pretty well. They were a very mixed lot, knowing little of farm work, but were willing. We gave up all ploughing and general farm work, and attended only to the stock. A nephew came over from London to help us, duly armed with his revolver. We bought a lot more revolvers. The police were very helpful and willing. We had one lot of laborers in the same house with the police, and another lot in an empty cottage we chanced to have near the farm. And we began to see good hope of winning through successfully. During the first part of the time there was much excitement among the Land Leag- uers and in Clonakilty, and constant in- quiries from all coming from our direc- tion, whether we were not going to yield? and when we should do so? They were quite sure, with so heavy a stock, we could not get on after our men had left us. Unluckily for them, the only point our minds was quite made up on was, that whatever the loss, we would not give way a bit. This, of course, caused much dis- appointment. There were plenty of the sneaking suggestions that always abound in Ireland, that it would be better to make a settlement with them and concede something. But we held on our own way. The moral effect of my daughter and son, whom they know well, putting their own hands to the work, and persevering in it, was great; and encouraging rumors began to come back that we were going to win. Neighbors came to see us, full of thanks for the stand we had made, and for our not giving way; and telling us we had saved them from ~vorse trouble and more loss. Some said my daughter and son had given them a lesson in working, which, when needful, they should not for- get. And, though there were many draw. backs, and ups and downs, and at times the pressure was hard to bear, still there could be no doubt but we were doing right and doing good. Early in our trouble, sympathy from England began to arrive in every sort of form. Letters from old friends and new friends. Old acquaintances, and many we hardly knew, or did not know at all, from all classes of men, offers to come 120 BOYCOTTED. over and help us positively poured in day after day. One friend, son of a great engineer, wrote that he had four hundred of the best navvies in England at work, and would bring us over as many as ~ve liked, adding, significantly, They wont want any one to protect them. The head of a colleo~e in Oxford sent me word twenty of his under-graduates were ready to start for us any day. Two gentlemen whom I did not even know by name, wrote to ask who was my banker, one offering to place i,ooo to my credit, and the other a large sum, which he did not specify. I was too thank- ful to be able to tell them I had no money troubles. Such confidence and kindness I often thought no one ever had shown him be- fore. It was hard to refuse such good will, but our only want was farm laborers, and I fear I vexed some of our friends by saying we could not receive them and make them comfortable. Some wrote to say they did not want to be comfortable, but meant to rough it in every way, and were almost indignant at my idea of en- tertaining them. XVhen I wrote a letter to the Times describing what had happened, this brought us still more sympathy and good will, in newspapers and other ways. No doubt we never thouoht of giving way. Had such a thought been in our heads, no one above the condition of a cur could have yielded an inch after the encourage- ment we received. The knowledge that such numbers of Enolish men sympathized with us, and cared for us, was a support beyond words. One of the prettiest let- ters was a sort of round robin written on Christmas eve from a whole family, seem- ingly of no high position, near London, saying little more than, God speed you, and bless you. Thus we dropped into the routine of our struggle for six weeks. The orders the police had were to guard any of us whenever we left the house. This they did, with double-barrelled guns loaded with buck-shot, a much more satisfactory weapon for the purpose than a rifle, be- cause depending less on the policeman being a good shot. If we had been fired at, itwas sure to have been close. They are not good enough shots to trust to long shots, and our guard with buck-shot at fifty yards was safe to hit his man. 1 was so busy from io A.M. till 430 r.~i., when the post left, answering the multitude of letters, that I seldom had time to go out. My son and daughter were much more out, and had to be guarded in the same way. We were not allowed to go to church even on Christ- mas morning, though there were the three of us, all carrying revolvers, without our two policemen and their guns. I never, myself, believed there was much danger; the district is a very quiet one, and its people too, but, of course, where some were in correspondence ~vith the League at a distance, and knowing, as we did, the character of many of its mem- bers, it was not possible to tell what out- rage might be attempted by men of that sort. For the first ~veek or two my inclination was to laugh at the whole thing. The idea of such a barefaced outrage on all the laws and habits of a civilized commu- nity at the end of the nineteenth century was absurd and childish, and I found my- self laughing at it ten times a day. As the excitement went off the pres-~ sure of anxiety and care wore us, espe- cially as minor troubles occurred. One could not sleep well at night. 0 newent to bed in such a state of indignation ~vith Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Forster for hav- ing allowed law and order so to fall into abeyance, that the first thought on waking was to vent ones wrath on them, at least in words. Twenty times a day one ex- claimed, Surely the government of En- gland cannot allow its peaceable subjects to be thus outraged, and the vexation, as we realized that it was intended to allow it, was very painful. My daughters pa- tience at last gave ~vay; and, without say- ing a word to any of us, she wrote a letter to Mr. Gladstone, telling him in a simple, true-hearted way how much he was caus- ing us to go through; and begging him to consider what it must be to such as she was, to be unable to see her father or brother go out, without feeling uncertain whether they would not be brought home ~vounded or dying. Of course, she got no answer, but a formal one from his sec- retary. The Land League tried its usual device of cutting off our supplies of l)rovisions. This caused us very little trouble, and we easily defeated it. It a little plagued some of our people, a few shops refusing to sell them what they- wanted. But other. shops in Clonakilty soon sent us word we could have whatever they had; and, as there was a railway station at Bandon, ten miles off, by writing a note to Cork for anything, it came out addressed to a friend at Bandon; and a second note to BOYCOTTED. 121 him, asking him to keep the goods till we could send for them, or to send them out to us himself, settled all. We had, thus, no trouble in these respects, except in getting beer for the servants, and we even got one cask of that sent to us. We had to feed the laborers who came from a distance, as they had not wives with them to cook, and this caused much trouble and some expense. But they could not have bought food for them- selves; so there was no choice. Then there were other troubles. Scar- latina broke out in the Scotch land stew- ards family, brought from Cork by one of his daughters. His eldest boy was for some days between life and death, which caused us sad anxiety, and lessened our workers. Again, we had some very severe weather twice, which added much to the labor of feeding the stock in the fields. Two or three laborers knocked up with cold, and we were again very hard pressed for men. I had to write to Dublin to Mr.. God- dard, of the Property Defence Associa- tion, and get down four laborers from Co. Cavan to help us for three or four weeks. Though the opinion of all the laborers of the neighborhood was strongly with us and they never ceased to ex- press their contempt for the folly of our former men in leaving us when they ~vere getting such good wages yet very few were willing to face the Land League and join us. They caine and talked and promised to come, but shirked at last, except a few. This is kept up to the present time: as often as the League hears of new men coming to us, though we have now in substance enough, an donly en. gage specially good men, the League tries to choke them off, and sometimes suc- ceeds. It no longer really hurts us, but it shows their ill-will. It is the same with tenants. Many have paid their rent, but the League still holds small meetings, and is not ashamed to get the tenants to whine for some small concession, after having treated me as they have done even wealthy tenants, who 1 have reason to believe actually have their rent in the bank. I have therefore directed writs to be issued against three of the large tenants who are best off. Last July two of these three came to me and said they had no money and could pay no rent. A few weeks after, as soon as Mr. Forsters Compensa- tion Bill had been thrown out by the House of Lords, when there had been no Line to make money, one of these, whose half-years rent was 47~ came unexpect- edly and paid in large notes: large notes being a sure sign that the money had been lying by. Two days after, the other, hearing his neighbor had paid, came in a hurry to pay. His half years rent was 67, and he paid it with Cork butter- dealers cheques, dated before the time when he declared he had no money to ~ay with, thus showinb his statement was only a lie. This is what ~ve have to deal with in Ireland, and in support of which the help of Parliament is asked through Messrs. Parnell and Co. When the Land League began its out- rages on us it made a collection of money in the neighborhood in support of it. Collectors in each parish were appointed, and all unwilling to subscribe were threat- ened. Some of those ~vho ~vere threat- ened came to consult me, if anything would happen them if they refused to pay? I told theIn I believed nothing would happen them, so they did refuse, and nothing happened them; and, when the list of those who paid was published in a local paper, I was very much thanked for having saved them the discredit of appearing in the list. The Land League Collection is believed to have amounted only to 60. I had stated publicly that I paid 25 per week wages, but one effect of the uni- versal want of truth in Ireland is, that when anybody does tell the truth, he is sure not to be believed. So they thought themselves strong with 6o. But the first pay day cost them over 20; and, as I showed no sign of yielding within three weeks, it was plain how long the 60 would last. My laborers were paid in a public-house in the town by a man from behind a screen, who was invisible; after the fash- ion of the man in the moon, who pays bribes at elections. After one or two pay days they changed the manner of payment for fear of the police, knowing well they were breakin~ the law. The usual result followed of paying wages near public-houses. Most of the men got drunk, even those we thought respectable and steady. It was painful to hear of such men staggering about the tow-n and falling in the gutter, with their wives trying to persuade them to go home. Some of those who had thus left us were old men, quite past their work, who had been with me thirty to thirty-five years. I had gone on paying them their 122 BOYCOTTED. full wages, the same as they had in their cattle in the summer on the grass, has best days viz., 13s. per week, though been answering wonderfully with us for the real value of all they could do was not the last year or two. This we shall carry worth half that amount. I did so from much further. mere kindness. There had never been a I have so far put much money into the shade of anything but good-will between land, especially and intentionally in em- us. Yet those men ~vent away, leaving ployment. All will now be changed, and my cattle to starve, though they had no what will pay best be the only end aimed connection with the tenants or the League, at. My own opinion and that of Mr. Law, except through the priests influence. my very experienced Scotch land steward, The Roman Catholic curate of the is that a much larger profit can be se- parish of Clonakilty, son of a common cured by keeping more land in grass. farmer a few miles off, whom I have So I shall need, shortly, much fewer Ia. known for many years, was one of the borers still. chief movers in the Branch Land League. When the outbreak occurred, our sixty He xvent to Dublin to try and get money acres for turnips this season, i88i, had all from the Central League there, to carry been ploughed and cleaned and laid up for on the war with me. It is believed he the ~vinter, ready to so~v in spring. This got very little, but some small sums were is now being done. In ordinary course got from branches of the Leagne in other we should have ploughed up sixty more towns in the county. In this ~vay pay- acres of grass last ~vinter for ley oats. ment to our men was kept up, more or Instead, we only ploughed one field of less. Yet our men were always in fear twelve acres, that wanted it. We shall and distrust as to what they would get, thus soon have nearly all our land in and for how long. It is believed some grass. It has been so well manured for money was also got from America. years past, that in our climate, with the The payments went on more or less stock eating plenty of cake, it is likely to until March, and then ceased. What the do well. unhappy laborers have done since I can- Early in our trouble we began to be not think. They had been looking mis- tormented by ne~vspaper correspondents erable ever since they ceased to work. seeking interviews. They came from far My Scotch land steward told me, though and near, London, New York every. the men did no work and got their wages, where. Some ~vere worthy, intelligent you would think they were falling away to men, others snobs. We had nothing to bags of bones, conceal, so I ~vas inclined to be quite open They were living in my cottages rent with them, and tell them all we knew. free, so by the advice of the Land League This answered well with those who ~vere they set up a claim to be cottier tenants, worthy, but with those of the wrong sort, and that I could only turn them out by from inaccuracy and by embellishing into ejectment. The object ~vas to hinder me untruth what they ~vere told, and by giv. from using the houses for new laborers. ing names that had been told them in I had to summon them before the Petty confidence, they caused me much annoy. Sessions, when it was soon decided that ance. Quite the best of these, and thor. they were only permissive occupiers, and oughly worthy, was Mr. Becker of the under an Act of Parliament they were Daily News; and the most offensive was obliged to leave. To most of them the the correspondent of the Standard. It loss must have been very serious, even if will show the sort of man. I-fe came on they found new employers. Sunday, and having seen the ladys-maid We have thus got our cottages, and are going in by the back door from church, gradually getting new and better laborers he mistook her for her mistress, and en- into them. And the ultimate result is tertained the readers of the Standard likely to be a large saving in the cost of with a description accordingly. For some labor on the farm, by our only keeping cause he took offence, and his account of really good laborers. This amounts, we us and our doings was as hostile as he think, to 6o per annum at least. could make it. I did not chance to see From the first outbreak we made up the correspondent of the New York Her. our minds to change our manner of farm- aid, as I was busy when he called. But ing, by leaving more of the land in grass, my son saw him and answered all his for which the climate is so favorable, questions. He was a gentleman, with a The expense for labor on the farm would secretary to write for him. After leaving thus be much less, and the net profit us he went to the young Roman Catholic larger. The new plan of giving cake to priest at Clonakilty, whom I mentioned BOYCOTTED. 123 before. We have a few tenants who are not thriving, almost without exception in consequence of drink, which is one main curse in Ireland In the small town of Clonakilty, with rather more than three thousand inhabitants, there are more than forty public houses. Since I first lived near it I have striven heartily to lessen this number, and I have reduced them from forty-seven or forty-eight to about forty. That is all the effect of a lifes work on that point. In the autumn of 1879 I had only five tenants who had any difficulty in paying their rents. Every one of these drank. One was a mere rake who lived at the next public house. I have more than once seen his corn stand- ing in the field unreaped at Christmas. It was too bad to be worth paying laborers to cut, and he was too lazy to cut it him- self. On& e his wife got so much ashamed of it that she took a scythe and cut it. Husband and wife are young able people with one child, a boy. Another was a publican in Clonakilty, and held twenty acres outside the town. He came to me before harvest to say that his son and daughter-in-law were so drunken, that shortly before she had got him down on the floor in the house, and seized a kettle of boiling water to pour over him. If he reaped the corn they would give him none of the proceeds, so if I would give him his potatoes, and those he had let in Con- acre to the townspeople, and half the corn after I had reaped it, he would give the land up to me, to which I agreed. The other three bad tenants who drink are still on the estate. The priest took the corre- spondent of the New York Herald to some of the worst tenants, who, of course, had many complaints to make also to the holders of some town parks who pay good rents for accommodation land, and the complaints and high rents of these people were all taken down as grievances, though many of the tenants are ~vealthy men. The Roman Catholic priest wrote let- ters to some of the London papers, not only containing these complaints, but representing them as the ordinary state of my tenants and adding a number of mere inventions not having a shadow of truth about them, but worded in such a way as might give me annoyance, whether they were contradicted or not. His letter only appeared in the Times. Other editors de- stroyed it. I took care to contradict his statements in such a way as gave him the reverse of satisfaction, so that a very able man here said to a friend, after reading my answer, \Vell, there is nothing now left for them to do but to shoot him. In due time, since I got to London, I have seen the New York Herald with a full page of a report about us. The facts follow in the same order as in the priests letter, so as -to leave no doubt they had a common origin. But all is exaggerated and embellished, and a large number of additional untruths are added. There are very few good things I ever did, ~vhich it is not declared I did not do. And as many things I never did, because it would have been wrong to do, I am stoutly as- serted to have done habitually; whilst my son and daughter, too, are abused in the grossest way, accused of untruth, and much else. Anything so vulgar and un- worthy as the whole report could not be conceived. This report was then copied into the Cork Land League and Roman Catholic papers; it is easy to guess from what influence. But the end was gained. The report appeared in America about the middle of January. It was known that money to pay our laborers was then running short, but more soon came over from America, it is believed, and they were able to go on paying the men for some weeks longer, until March. Long before this time, the certainty that we had won made it easy to bear any abuse. We had men enough to work the farm, though they were not the right sort. For example, ~ve had two stout lads from an industrial school in Cork: they were set to help with the sheep. One of them, in carrying some hurdles on his back to shift the fold, managed to fall down, with his arms and legs stretched out, like a spread eagle, and the hurdles on the top of him, fairly imprisoning him as if in a cage, and there he had to stay till some- body else came, who lifted the hurdles off him. The land steward declares that sent a horse and cart one day on some job with two men, they managed to upset it into a puddle and the horse only just escaped drowning. He often ex- presses a low opinion of the patience of Job, asking whether Job was ever Boy- cotted, and had to carry on a large farm with such men as he could pick up. An- other day the other lad manaoed to fall on his face in a heap of 5t~4 mud, and emerged leaving his likeness in it, to the great amusement of those who saw it. We let the Cavan men go home. The land stewards sons recovered from scar- latina. The courage of all who had stood 124 BOYCOTTED. by us or helped us grew confident. And precautions, three were sold before they after several weeks ~ve were able to thank found out they belonged to me. They God that the trouble in substance was stopped the fourth: it had to be sent over, home. For ourselves we never lost heart. William Brown who, once our gar- Much the worst part, all through, was the dener, had stood by mehad a house anxiety whether more outrages might not just outside Bandon, and in front of it a be committed, that would practically de- very pretty garden where he could gather feat us, hold out as we might. Outrage flowers every day in the year. His son- was the only chance the Land League in-law and daughter live there since he ever had of success, joined to the con- came to me last winter. They came one temptible fear of each other, ~vhich is so night, pulled up the paling and hedge, his remarkable and curious a fault in Irish- box edging, and all his flowers, and broke men. There is positively nothing of thirty-eight panes of glass in his house, which they do not believe their own coun- only because he worked for me. trymen and neighbors to be capable. The kindness and sympathy we have No doubt our resistance prevented received from every one in England, both many others from being attacked, and during the time of our trouble and since, defeated and exposed the ignorant vanity far exceed anything that could have been and want of sense of the people, who looked for, or was deserved by us. That thought themselves to be irresistible, If a man, not far short of seventy, should we had yielded they would have fallen have had such a chance at the end of his with tenfold violence on our neighbors. life of winning the good opinion of his I was told afterwards by one who had countrymen, passes any reasonable ex- means of knowing, If they ~vanted to pectation, and must be a cause of thank. Boycott you again, they would think ten fulness as long as I live. times before they tried it. The only In Ireland it suits the purpose of the other they tried it with, in the county Land League to tell lies about me, for the Cork, in earnest (except on the border of very same reason that it suited the Ro- Tipperary), was Mr. Hegarty, a large and man Catholic priest to do so. They hope most improving tenant farmer at Mill- that some will believe them, and so their street. lies will neutralize some part of ~vhat I A very intelligent and able land agent, say, and the influence I might have. I who thoroughly knew the country, said to am not myself afraid of much loss of me lately, You were the. most improving usefulness in this way. landlord in Munster, and Hegarty the I have several times been met by men most improving tenant, so they chose you of position who know both countries well, two out and Boycotted you. I left home and have said, I am so glad they at- when the trouble was over, because there tacked you. It was very lucky, and has was no more good I could do there, and done .good many times greater than if I hoped things might settle down better they had attacked others of greater social in my absence. But I or my son are position than yours, but who were less ready to go back at any time if wanted, well known in England. So many know Knowing the tenants and their farms, you, or know about you here, that your almost every field, thoroughly, I can di- wrongs have damaged them greatly. rect my solicitor what to do in enforcing This is rather of the nature of having rent and dealing with tenants. ones head broken by their precious balms, The Land League, of courseas silly like King David, though one is forced to people of that sort al~vays dokeeps up agree to the truth of what is said. all the petty spitefulness it can. I could But I must come to a close. One moral not take back the laborers who had left I wish to draw. The outrage upon me me, except a very few who were especially was tried in order to force me to reduce good and quiet; so they I)aid a lawyer to my rents. The movement was wholly try and hinder me from getting the use from outside, and not at all spontaneous of my own cottages for other laborers, from my tenants. It was, in substance, They are also still trying to prevent my ~vholly the work of a few Roman Catho- tenants from paying rent. A good num- lic priests, as has been the case in so ber, however, have paid, and more drop many other places ~vhere they were un- in weekly. On the whole, I expect no checked by their ecclesiastical sul)eriors. serious present loss, and in future gain. What I should have lost would have gone I lately sent four fat cattle to be sold into the pockets of my tenants, who were at Bandon fair. In consequence of our not poor, nearly all being well off before., BOYCOTTED. 125 After all, their outrage thus only put me to some inconvenience by postponing the payment of my rent. I shall get the most of it, except of a few tenants, who ~vill beggar themselves by the delay, and have to give up their land. Then they thought to injure me by tak- ing away all my laborers. Again, they caused me some inconvenience and pres- ent loss, which will, as I have said, be more than repaid by more economical working in future. But they have injured the unhappy thirty laborers who left me greatly; very few can get as good places as they had with me. None can get better places; for I was always ready to raise their wages when times made it right, or any one showed exceptional industry. Thus the true loss of the ~vhole disturbance has fallen on the laborers, and no one else. It has brought home to me more clearly than I saw before that none are really so much interested in law and order as the laboring classes. Though others may have more to lose by a dis- turbance, they do not, like the laborers, lose their daily bread. I would further observe that this out- rage has been suffered to go on in the end of the nineteenth centuryin these wonderful days of education and inven- tions, of railway, and immediate com- munication by telegraphs, without one single offender being punished for it. I am not entering into party politics. I I)elieve party politics are the cause of half our troubles. Men of both sides are thinking of their party, and the effect this or that will have on party interests; and forgetting the good old honest prin- ciple that the interests of England are those of truth and honesty, and are im- mensely above all party considerations, and that by keeping these principles alone the happiness of all classes can be promoted. Any who endured such an outrage as we ~vent through last winter in Ireland, can- not help feeling this to their hearts core. Rely upon it the Irish trouble is not caused by any real grievance, but is nothing else than the outcome of the low moral and social state of the people. Here in London there are few who do not know the condition of a great many Irish that live around us. Many have lived here from childhood, and have never even been in Ireland. Why do they differ from the English and Scotch among whom their lives are passed? Is it pos- sible they can be improved by yielding to their bad habits, and brinolno- down all around them to meet their low ways? That is just what we at least resisted in Ireland. We simply acted in Ireland as we should have done in my native county of Suffolk, or my wifes county of Somer- set, excppt that we have made not a few sacrifices to do right by living there. Yet Mr. Gladstone can venture to say we should have done more good, if we had acted more according to the usages of the Irish. Can he know what Irish usages are? They are such as I have described in this paper. The result has been, every effort has been made by many of those around us to destroy as much as possible the good we have done. And persecution and hatred, and the coarsest of ill-speaking and falsehood, have been used towards us personally, in hope that if they cannot upset what ~ve have done, they may deter others from doing the same. The one thing that is required of any Irish govern ment is, that it should punish crime. When coercion is denounced in Ireland, it only means the wish that crime should be unpunished. There is no need to make any new crimes i.e., to make anything a crime that has not hitherto been a crime. There is no need of any extra punish- ments; all that is ~vanted of coercion is, that the same offences which a judge and common jury would punish as a matter of course here, should somehow be equally punished in Ireland. By the scheming and ingenuity of the people, offences are not now punished in Ireland. As several judges stated at the late assizes, however clear the evidence, juries ~vill not find verdicts against many criminals. Trial by jury is made only a means of ensuring that culprits shall es- cape punishment. Witnesses, too, are intimidated by threats of violence. Can any sensible man doubt, when such things happen, that the law must be strengthened enough to insure the punish- ment of such offences, unless society is to be broken up and barbarism put in its place? In Canada, in consequence of many Irish being there, and having the same faults as at home, when a jury willing to act honestly cannot be found, offenders are tried before three judges without a Jury. Intimidation of witnesses can only be met by the 1-labeas Corpus Act being suspended. 126 A PILGRIMAGE TO CYPRUS IN 1395-6. The true question is, whether honest, quiet men like myself are to be punished and injured ~vith impunity in the manner I have described, or those who commit the outrages on them are to be made amenable to the law of the land, as all men are in England, and the same punish- ment to follow the same offences in Ire- land, as would fall upon those who com- mitted them here? Let me say, in conclusion, prosperity can only come in Ireland or anywhere else, by true and honest dealing. Indus- try and uprightness will rule the world. With the habits of drinking, and debt, and untruth, and want of industry that now prevail there, no possible change can do them any real and permanent good. More employment and better wages, for which the undrained land of the country gives full scope, are the best way of helping, with industry and upright- ness, to make the country prosperous. I beg every one to think over the facts that I have stated, and to ask himself if people who could act in this way are the simple innocents in favor of whom all the sound principles of free dealing that have ruled among us for thirty years past are to be set aside, that they may be pro- tected in doing to others, who may be less able to resist than I was, the same outrages they tried to inflict on me? May ~, i88i. W. BENCE JONES. From Fraser~s Magazine. A PILGRIMAGE TO CYPRUS IN 1395-6. OGER, Lord of Anglure, together with several other French noblemen, deter- mined to make a pilgrimage to the East. Homage at the various shrines en route was the primary object of their travels, but from the following account, written by Oger, of his Cypriot experiences, it will be seen that piety was only a convenient pretext in those days for setting outonan interesting tour; for my Lord of Anglure entered fully into all the diversions of travel ~vhich came across his path he enjoyed the days sport and good cheer given him by the Lusignan king of Cy- prus, he was immensely gratified by the royal receptions, and moreover had a wholesome dread of Cypriot fever, from his description of which we can gather that after the lapse of five centuries its character is but little changed, and that so indigenous a malady will require all the ingenuity of British sanitary commission- ers to keep it in check. The Lord of Anglure doubtless was a most excellent man, and felt much bene- fited by his visit to the Holy Cross in Cyprus; yet we cannot help feeling thank- ful that he was not as other pilgrims, and that he kept his eyes well open to grasp all the events which occurred around him. It is in a simple, straightforward manner that he relates his experiences. But, be- fore quoting them, let us take a rapid prefatory glance at the condition of our lately acquired island possession at the time our pilgrim landed on its shores. The importance of Cyprus as a mart for Eastern commerce after the failure of the Crusades was a fact recognized by all the commercial world of that period, yet the merchants of the fourteenth century al- lowed but little of the riches which passed westwards through the island to enter the coffers of the Lusignan kings. The Ital- ian republicans, who hurried to and fro from the East, the Venetians, the Gen- oese, and the Pisans, had each of them separate svarehouses, streets, and banks, in the principal cities of the island, and throughout the whole of this period the ~veak descendants of Guy de Lusignan found themselves little better than tribu- taries to these wealthy Italian traders. No greater disaster ever befell Cyprus in the course of her medkeval career than the war waged by the Genoese in 1373 against Peter II. of Lusignan; her com- mercial importance was crippled thereby. Henceforth she became a football for rival combatants, until at length, when Genoese and Venetians had drained her very life-blood, came Turkish oppression. And thus was it that, at the close of the fourteenth century, Cyprus entered into the abyss of darkness from which the British flag has just emancipated her. It had been owing to Venetian influence that Peter II. had ascended the throne of the Lusignans; it was at the instigation of the Venetians that the young king at his coronation ordered all the representatives of Genoa to be thrown out of the windows of the town hall at Famagosta, and to his Venetian supporters he handed over all the Genoese varehouses and merchan- dise, whilst he massacred every Ligurian trader who came within his reach. Not long were the Genoese in aveng- ing this insult to their name and com- merce; their general, Campo Fregoso, drove the Venetians out of the island, laid waste everything with fire and sword, seized the town,. of Famagosta for his country, and imposed a heavy tribute on the king, wl~ose,uncle, James de Lusignan, A PILGRIMAGE TO CYPRUS IN 1395-6. 127 together with his wife, the Genoese gen- eral carried back to a Ligurian prison as a pledge of good faith. in the words of an old pilgrim, an ardent lover of Venice, we have a descrip- tion of Cyprus at this time in the follow- ing strain: But alas! now for the kingdom of Cyprus; alas! for the oppression, tyranny, and inhuman avarice of those who flourish the red cross on a white ground the Genoese, I mean. The merchandise of the kingdom has perished, the inhabitants of the kingdom are become savage, and appear more dead than alive. For the Genoese came to Nicosia, and, without regard for the Divine Majesty, they publicly robhed the Cathedral of St. Sophia and all the other churches, Catholic, Greek, or schismatic, and from the Holy Mother they bore away the holy vessels, the relics, the chalices, and jewels of her church; nay, even worse the pavement of these very churches is red with the blood of priests slain in the exercise of religious rites. This description was in a measure true, though doubtless painted in glowing col- ors by the enemy of the oppressors. For, on the death of young Peter II., James de Lusignan in his prison at Genoa be- came lawful heir to the crown of Cyprus, and in this very prison in Genoa did his wife bear him his first-born son, whom they christened Janus out of compliment to the tradition, current amongst their jailors, that their city xvas founded by the mythical double-faced deity of the Ro- mans. Thus, with the king of Cyprus and the heir-apparent in her power, Genoa was enabled to impose what terms she chose on the Cypriots; and they were hard and stringent in the extreme, making the island but a tributary of the Ligurian republic for years to come. Thus it was when my Lord of Anglure started on his Eastern pilgrimage, and from his pen ~ve have the following inter- esting description of the island nearly five hundred years before Cyprus, once given by our own lion-hearted monarch to the Lusignan dynasty, came again in contact with English history. On the following Sunday we went ashore, at the town of Limesso to wit, which in former days was an exceeding fair city, and it was the Feast of St. Stephen, the 26th day of De- cember, in the year of our Lord 1395. Of a truth this city of Limesso is to-day but meagrely inhabited, for the Genoese wrought its ruin in the days xv hen they made war against the king of Cyprus; and they still are in pos- session of a very strong city in this island with a good port, which is called Famagosta; how- ever the king of Cyprus enjoys the possession of the rest of the island and its seven thousand towers. In this said town of Limesso we tarried from Sunday until the following Saturday, the day of the new year, xvhen the king of Cyprus* sent one of his squires to fetch us, bringing with him one thousand horses and mules to convey our baggage to the city of Nicosia, where the court then was. Now the object of our journey lay in making a pilgrimage to the Holy Cross, which is in Cyprus, and it is the one on which the good thief was hung on the right hand of our Lord Jesus Christ, and right wondrous is the virtue of this said cross. A truly marvellous thing it is to behold, for you must know that Madame Saint Helen, the mother of Constantine, bought this very cross on xvhich the good thief xvas set it up on the hi mountain in hung and ghest the whole kingdom of Cyprus, and in very truth the mountain is exceeding steep, and very difficult of access. On the topmost sum- mit stands a church surrounded by charming dwellings, and in this chtirch are two altars, namely the high altar, and another in a side chapel behind the high altar. In the choir of this church we were shown one of the nails with which our Lord Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross; but in the above-mentioned chapel behind the high altar it is that the Holy Cross of the good thief does hang, wonderful, indeed, to look upon from its great weight, and from the fact that it is suspended in the air xvithout a possibility of discerning the means by which it is hung, and xvhen touched it swings to and fro. After visiting this cross we set off about midday, and reached our lodging at a town called Nissa, which was in a house which be- longed to the king. On the 4th day of the new year we entered the town of Nicosia towards noon, and an ex- ceeding lovely and fair city it is; and in this city the king of Cyprus resides more frequently than in any other fair city or fortress within his realm. Now the king of Cyprus was rather a hand- some man, and spoke French pretty well. Great was the cheer he made us, and many were his tokens of regard for us pilgrims; for, as I have afore said, no sooner did he hear of our arrival at Limesso, and of our desire to interviexv him, than he sent us horses and sumpter mules to convey us to Nicosia, giving us permission to deposit our goods in the house of the Minorite friars; and thither he sent men to bring us some of his own beds from his own palace, that is to say, some mat- tresses to lie upon, and some carpets to put around our rooms. On Wednesday, the 5th day of January, being the eve of the Feast of the Three Magi, the king sent us pilgrims various presents one hundred head of poultry, twenty sheep, and two oxen, four skins full of most excellent red wine, and four pitchers full of the choicest * The above mentioned James de Lusignan. 128 A PILGRIMAGE TO CYPRUS IN 1395-6. vintage of Marboa, and, in addition to these, a be so until he returned from the presence of large supply of good white bread. the king as just related, when suddenly a slight On the following Sunday, being the 9th day fever seized him after having dined in the of January, the king sent us more presents, to company of, and at the table with, all the pil. wit, one hundred partridges, sixty hares, and grims on Saturday, the 15th of January. From five wild sheep, and they were of a truth right this fever he suffered three tertian fits, and on excellent things to behold, the fourth it changed, and he believed himself Now King James was a prince who dearly quite cured. Nevertheless he continued in the loved the chase, and he had in his possession hands of the medical men of the town, who a little dog, no bigger than a fox, which was assured all the pilgrim gentlemen who came called Carabale, and there was no sort of to visit him in his sickness that there was no wild animal which this little dog would not illness from which death could ensue. Like- hunt, more especially the above-mentioned wise my said lord told the pilgrims, and his kinds of game. own friends, that he did not feel the least ill, In short the king made us first-rate cheer, except that he could not sleep at his ease. and sent us his best coisrsers to convey us to On the next day, which was Sunday, the ifith his presence. And when we entered his court of January, to all appearances he was as well he received us with the warmest welcome; asif nothing had ever ailed him. And he gave and, after conversing with us for a while, he orders for a litter to be borrowed to convey him sent for the queen to come into the reception to Limesso with the other pilgrims, who were hall, and forthwith her Majesty appeared, con- on the eve of departure, and that night he slept ducted by a right noble following, to wit, her right ~vell. four sons* and five daughters, together with a On the Monday following the king of Cy- goodly train of knights, lords, and ladies, and prus sent him the Order* by the hands of his she saluted us most graciously. knights, and he received the knights and the Moreover the queen of Cyprus was right Order most courteously, and discreetly begging well arrayed with a golden head-piece, rich the knights at the same time to commend him with precious stones and pearls. Her four to the king, and thank his Majesty for the sons were most graceful in their attire and order he had so graciously sent him. mien, and her five daughters were likewise After this audience with the knights was richly adorned with head-pieces of gold and concluded, and he had bid them adieu, scarcely precious stones. Before her departure the was he alone than he felt a sudden pain in his queen turned and salutedi each pilgrim, and head, and so great a fever seized him that on after the audience the king took us to follow Tuesday, about noon, my said lord rendered the chase in the fields, and towards evening we up his soul to our Lord Jesus Christ with a returned to our lodgings right well pleased gladness and sweetness, which ~vas apparent with our days entertainment, to all. He prayed for pardon for his sins, and Of a truth this kingdom of Cyprus, which is that he might be received into Paradise. His an island, is a most unhealthy spot, and dan. remains were buried in the Church d)f the gerous for those to dwell in who are unaccus- Franciscan Friars in Nicosia with due respect, tomed to its climate. For there is a sI)ecies andi there is a well-executed tomb and an ap- of fever prevalent there which readily seizes propriate inscription over him. Above on the upon people, and it is a great chance if they walls were painted his arms, and his banner on recover from it. a lance, and his coat of mail were hung over Now it happened that Monseigneur Simon his grave. More than fifty knights and squires, de Salebruche, who in all our above mentioned together with all the pilgrim gentlemen, and travels had been hale and hearty, continued to those of the kings household ~vho had visited. him in his illness, attended the corpse to the * s. Janus, born in Genoa, who succeeded his fattier, grave. J. IHEODORE BENT. 2. Philip she Constable. 3. Hugh the Cardinal. 4 Henry, Prince of Galilee. * The Order of the Sword, established by Peter I. SUPERSTITION IN JAPAN. In the garden dispense wealth and prosperity among his ben- of the Shihan Gakko at Nakanoshima stands efactors. If, however, these modest require- an old pine-tree called Takonomatsti, among ments were not attended to, the houses in the the roots of which a badger has taken up his ward would surely be destroyed by fire. The abode. One of the residents in the vicinity credulous peol)le were much alarmed, and the had a dream lately in which the badger ap- wants of the badger are looked after very care- peared. He announced that as the winter is fully. The above curious little story (trans- very severe he has no food, and that if fried lated from a native paper) appears in the Yaz5an bean cake and boiled rice mixed with red beans Gazette of Feb. 8, iSSi. were placed at his disposal nightly, he would W. II. PATTERSON.

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The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1935 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. July 16, 1881 0150 1935
The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1935 129-192

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 1935. July 16, 1881, 4 From Begnuiing, Volume XXXV. Vol. CL, CONTENTS. THE UNITY OF NATURE. By the Duke of Argyll. Conclusion THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. Conclusion, IN UMBRIA MERE CHATTER PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LORD STRAT. FORD AND THE CRIMEAN WAR, INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS THE ARABS OF THE DESERT, THE SMALL SQUIRES OF A CENTURY SINCE, A SQUIRES NOTE-BOOK IN THE SEVEN- TEENTH CENTURY LONGINGS A PLEA Contemporary Review,. Argosy, Frasers Magazine, Temple Bar, Temple Bar, Nineteenth Century, Spectator, Spectator, Saturday Review, 131 - 39 148 59 170 176 i86 188 190 P0 E T R V. 1301 GARNERED, 130 130 192 MISCELLANY PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. d TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free olpostage. 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 shonidhe sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LSTTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, iS cents. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. 130 LONGINGS, ETC. LONGINGS. IN mist and gloom the daylight swiftly dies, The city lamps shine out along the street; No vesper glory charms the weary eyes, No leafy murmurs make the gloaming sweet. Ah me, the tranquil evening hours, she cried, ~Amid the rushes by the river-side! The busy feet forever come and go, The sounds of work and strife are never still. Oh, for the grassy pastures, green and low, The strawherry blossom and the daffodil! How peacefully the mellow sunshine died Amid the rushes by the river-side! I loved the toil amid those reedy shades, At sunrise or at sunset, gay and light; The song of waters and the laugh of maids Come back to me in happy dreams at - night; Oh, blessed hours, when free from care and pride I bound the rushes by the river-side! This is no dwelling-place for hearts like mine, Hearts that are born for freedom and for rest. Ah me, to see the marshy meadows shine In the low sunlight of the saffron west! I will go home to find my peace, she cried, Amid the rushes by the river-side. SARAH DOUDNEY. Sunday Magazine. A PLEA. I- O YE in all the world who love true song, Be gentle to the singers who uplift In innocent delight a cradle gift, So often found to work them fatal wrong. Judge them not wholly as the tuneless throng, But if within their instrument a rift Be found to mar not music, give it shrift, Song justifies itself, if sweet and strong. Song justifies itself, but they who sing, Raining etherial music from a height Lonely and pure, grow strong upon the wing, And more and more enamored of the light, But faint for any earthly journeying, And fain to seek a lowly bed at night. And oh! be tenderest to the seers who lack The wild-birds song, the wild-birds wing to rise, And bathe their souls in light of summer skies, Poets who gather truth with bended back, And give forth speech of it as on the rack; Speech urgent as the blood of grapes that dyes His garments who must tread it out with sighs, And ceaseless feet that follow no fair track. Think of the manful work of those who bruise The grape in setting free its life divine, And if some favor they should thereby lose, Count it no marvel that a soul should pine, Which often for its sustenance must use But dregs of that it pours thee forth as wine. III. Words that are idle with the songless crowd Are as the poets ripest deed, the fruit And flower of all his working days, the suit He weaves about his soul, which, if endowed Too richly, and so called to ends more proud, Builds with his breath a house of high re- pute, Wherein he chants the office for the mute, Appealing ones, who at his feet are bowed. Yet let the Maker mould them as he will, A spirit that he knows not to control Works in his words beyond his utmost skill, Making them yield his measure, and the whole Form of his being, be it good or ill, For no mans work is greater than his soul. 7une, iSSi. EMILY PFEIFFER. Spectator. GARNERED. The harvest of a quiet eye. WordsworM. OH, unlived lives that pass away In dark of night and light of day, Whose dreamless hearts no music find In southern breeze or northern wind; Who know each bird and flower by name, Yet find their language all the same; Ye lose a sweet world ever nigh The harvest of a quiet eye. In springs first smile, in summers glow, In autumns rain, in winters snow That shrouds the dying year and gives A cradle to the one that lives, In siml)lC5t things is scattered round A world of beauty, thought and sound, For those that reap in passing by The harvest of a quiet eye. Ah, blessed friends that neer grow strange, And happy world that neer will change, You seem to weep if we are sad, And gaily laugh if we are glad; Your language is in every tone, You make a thousand dreams our own, If we can reap with smile or sigh The harvest of a quiet eye. RE~ CasseiF a Magazine. THE UNITY OF NATURE. From The Contemporary Review. THE UNITY OF NATURE. BY THE DUKE OF ARGYLL x. THE ORIGIN OF RELIGION CONSIDERED IN THE LIGHT OF THE UNITY OF NA- TURE (concluded). IN the beginning of this Chapter I have observed how little we think of the as- sumptions which are involved in putting such questions as that respecting the ori(rin of relioion. And here we have b 8 come to a point in our investigations at which it is very needful to remember again what some of these assumptions are. In order to do so let us look back for a moment and see where we stand. We have found the clearest evidence that there is a special tendency in re- ligious conceptions to run into develop- ments of corruption and decay. We have seen the best reason to believe that the religion of savages, like their other l)ecul- iarities, is the result of this kind of evolu- tion. We have found in the most ancient records of the Aryan language proof that the indications of religious thought are higher, simpler, and purer as we go back in time, until at last, in the very oldest compositions of human speech ~vhich have come down to us, we find the divine being spoken of in the sublime language which forms the opening of the Lords Prayer. The date in absolute chronology of the oldest Vedic literature does not seem to be known. Professor Max Muller, how- ever, considers that it may possibly take us back five thousand years.* This is probably an extreme estimate, and Pro- fessor Monier XVilliams seems to refer the most ancient Vedic hymns to a period not much more remote than 1500 B.C.f But whatever that date may be, or the corresponding date of any other very ancient literature, such as the Chinese, or that of the oldest Egyptian papyri, when we go beyond these dates we enter upon a period when we are absolutely without any historical evidence whatever, not only as to the history of religion, but as to the history and condition of man- Hibbert Lectures, p. 2 x6. t Hinduism, p. 59. 3 kind. We do not know even approxi- mately the time during which he has existed. We do not know the place or the surroundings of his birth. We do not know the steps by which his knowl- edge grew from more to more. All we can see ~vith certainty is that the earliest inventions of mankind are the most won- derful that the race has ever made. The first beginnings of human speech must have had their origin in powers of the highest order. The first use of fire and the discovery of the methods by which it can be kindled; the domestication of wild animals; and above all the processes by which the various cereals ~vere first devel- oped out of some wild grasses these are all discoveries with which in ingenuity and in importance no subsequent discov- eries may compare. They are all un- known to historyall lost in the light of an effulgent dawn. In speculating, there- fore, on the origin of these things, we must make one or other of two assump- tions either that man always had the same mental faculties and the same fun- damental intellectual constitution that he has now, or that there was a time when these faculties had not yet risen to the level of humanity, and when his mental constitution ~vas essentially inferior. On the first of these assumptions we proceed on the safe ground of inquiry from the known to the unknown. We handle a familiar thing; we dissect a known structure; we think of a known agency. We speculate only on the manner of its first behavior. Even in this process we must take a good deal for granted we must imagine a good deal that is not easily conceivable. If we try to present to our own minds any distinct image of the first man, whether we supposed him to have been specially created or grad. ually developed, we shall soon find that we are talking about a being and about a condition of things of which science tells us nothing, and of ~vhich the imagination even cannot form any definite conception. The temptation to think of that being as a mere savage is very great, and this theory underlies nine-tenths of all specu- lations on the subject. But, to say the very least, this may not be true, and valid 132 THE UNITY OF NATURE. reasons have been adduced to show that resenting any reasonable probability. it is in the highest degree improbable. But at least such imaginings as these That the first man should have been born about our first l)arents have reference to with all the developments of savagery, is their external conditions only, and do not as impossible as that he should have been raise the additional difficulties involved born with all the developments of civiliza- in the supposition that the first man was tion. The next most natural resource we half a beast. have is to think of the first man as some- Very different is the case upon the thing like a child. But no man has ever other of the two assumptions which have seen a child which never had a parent, or been indicated above. On the assump- some one to represent a parent. We can tion that there was a time when man was form no picture in our minds eye of the different in his o~vn proper nature from mental condition of the first man, if ~ve that nature as we know it no~vwhen he suppose him to have had no communica- was merely an animal not yet developed tion with, and no instruction from, some into a man on this assumption another intelligence other than his own. A child element of the unknown is introduced, that has never known anything, and has never seen example, is a creature of which we have no knowledge, and of which therefore we can form no definite concep- tion. Our power of conceiving things is, of course, no measure of their possibility. But it may be well to observe where the impossibilities of conception are, or may be, of our own making. It is at least possible that the first man may not have been born or created in the condition which we find to be so inconceivable. He may have been a child, but having, what all other children have, some inti- mations of authority and some acquaint- ance with its source. At all events, let it be clearly seen that the denial of this possibility is an assumption; and an assumption too which establishes an ab- solute and radical distinction between childhood as we know it, and the incon- ceivable conditions of a childhood which was either without parents or with parents who were comparatively beasts. Profes. sor Max Muller has fancied our earliest forefathers as creatures who at first had to be roused and awakened from mere staring and stolid wonderment, by cer- tain objects which set them for the first time musing, pondering, and thinking on the visions floating before their eyes. This is a picture evidently framed on the assumption of a fatherless childhood of a being born into the world with all choose. Besides assuming something as the innate powers of man, but absolutely to the condition and the powers of the deprived of all direct communication with first man, we must also make one or other any mind or will analogous to his own. of t~vo assumptions as to the existence No such assumption is admissible as rep. or non-existence of a being to whom his which is an element of absolute confu- sion. It is imoossible to found any rea- soning upon data which are not only unknown, but are in themselves unintelli gible and inconceivable. Now it seems as if many of those who speculate on the origin of religion have not clearly made up their minds whether they~ are proceed- ing on the first of these assumptions or on the second; that is to say, on the as- sumption that man has always been, in respect to faculty, what he now is, or on the assumption that he was once a beast. Perhaps, indeed, it would be strictly true to say that many of those who speculate on the origin of religion proceed upon the last of these assumptions without avowing it, or even without distinctly recognizing it themselves. It may be well, therefore, to point out here that on this assumption the question cannot be discussed at all. We must begin with man as man, when his development or his creation had made him what he is; not indeed as regards the acquisitions of ex- perience or the treasures of knowledge, but what he is in faculty and in power, in the structure and habit of his mind, in the instincts of his intellectual and moral nature. But, as we have also seen at the begin- ning of this chapter, there are two other assumptions between which we must THE UNITY OF NATURE. 33 mind stands in close relation. One is the given their strength to all ideas of moral assumption that there is no God; and obligation. Accordingly, we see that the then the problem is, how man came to same hatred which inspired Lucretius invent one. The other is that there is a against religion because of its power for God; and then the question is, whether evil, now inspires other men against it he first formed, and how long he left, his because of its power for good. Those creature without any intuition or revela- who wish to sever all the bonds which tion of himself? bind human society together, the State, It is really curious to observe in many the Church, the family, and whose spirits speculations on the origin of religion are in fierce rebellion against all law, hu- how unconscious the writers are that they man or divine, are and must be bitter are making any assumption at all on this enemies of religion. The idea must be subject. And yet in many cases the as- unendurable to them of a ruler who can- sumption distinctly is that, as an objec- tive reality, God does not exist, and that the conception of such a being is built up gradually out of wonderings and guess- ings about the infinite and the invis- ible. On this assumption I confess that it does not appear to me to be possible to give any satisfactory explanation of the origin of religion. As a matter of fact, we see that the tendency to believe in divine or superhuman beings is a univer- sal tendency in the human mind. As a matter of fact, also, we see that the con- ceptions which gather round this belief the ideas which gro~v up and are devel- oped from one consequence to another respecting the character of these super- human personalities and the relations to mankindare beyond all comparison the most powerful agencies in moulding hu- man nature for evil or for good. There is no question whatever about the fact that the most terrible and destructive cus- toms of barbarian and of savage life are customs more or less directly connected with the growth of religious superstitions. It was the perception of this fact which inspired the intense hatred of religion, as it ~vas known to him, which breathes in the memorable poem of Lucretius. In all literature there is no single line more true than the famous line, Tan- fUrn re/li~io ~o/ui/ suadere ma/orrem. Nor is it less certain, on the other hand, that the highest type of human virtue is that ~vhich has been exhibited in some of those whose whole inspiration and rule of life has been founded on religious faith. Religious conceptions have been histori- cally the centre of all authority, and have not be defied, of a throne which cannot be overturned, of a kingdom which en- dureth throughout all generations. The belief in any divine personality as the source of the inexorable laws of nature is a belief which enforces, as nothing else can enforce, the idea of obligation and the duty of obedience. It is not possible, in the light of the unity of nature, to reconcile this close and obvious relation between religious conceptions and the highest conditions of human life with the supposition thatthese conceptions are nothing but a dream. The power exercised over the mind and conduct of mankind, by the belief in some divine personality with whom they have to do, is a power having all the marks that indicate an integral part of the system under which we live. But if we are to assume that this belief does not repre- sent a fact, and that its origin is any other than a simple and natural percep- tion of that fact, then this negation must be the groundwork of all our speculations on the subject, and must be involved, more or less directly, in every argument we use. But even on this assumption it is not a reasonable explanation of the fundamental postulates of all religion namely, the existence of superhuman be- ings to suppose that the idea of per- sonality has been evolved out of that which is impersonal; the idea of will out of that which has no intelligence; the idea of life out of that which does not contain it. On the other hand, if we make the only alternative assumption, namely that there is a God, that is to say, a supreme being, who is the author of creation, 34 THE UNITY OF NATURE. then the origin of mans perception of this fact ceases to have any mystery other than that which attaches to the origin of every one of the elementary perceptions of his mind and spirit. Not a few of these perceptions tell him of realities which are as invisible as the Godhead. Of his own passions his perception is immediate of his own love, of his own anger, of his o~vn possession of just au- thority. The sense of owing obedience may well be as immediate as the sense of a right to claim it. Moreover, seeing the transcendent po~ver of this percep- tion U~Ofl his conduct, and throuTh his conduct, upon his fate, it becomes ante- cedently probable, in accordance with the analogies of nature and of all other cre- ated beings, that from the very first, and as part of the outfit of his nature, some knowledge was imparted to him of the existence of his Creator, and of the duty which he owed to him. Of the methods by which this kno~vl- edge was imparted to him, we are as ignorant as of the methods by which other innate perceptions were implanted in him. But no special difficulty is in- volved in the orioin of a perception which stands in such close relation to the unity of nature. It has been de- manded, indeed, as a postulate in this discussion, that we should discard all notions of antecedent probability that we should take nothing for granted, ex- cept that man started on his course fur- nished with what are called his senses, and with nothing more. And this de mand may be acceded to, provided it be well understood what our senses are. If by this word we are to understand nothing more than the gates and avenues of approach through which we derive an impression of external objects our sight, and touch, and smell, and taste, and hearingthen, indeed, it is the most violent of all assumptions that they are the only faculties by which knowledge is acquired. There is no need to put any disparagement on these senses, or to un- dervalue the work they do. Quite the contrary. It has been shown in a former chapter how securely we may rest on the wonder and on the truthfulness of these faculties as a pledge and guarantee of the truthfulness of other faculties which are conversant with higher things. When we think of the mechanism of the eye, and of the inconceivable minuteness of the ethe- real movements which that organ enables us to separate and to discriminate at a glance, we get hold of an idea having an intense interest and a supreme irnpor- tance. If adjustments so fine and so true as these have been elaborated out of the unities of nature, ~vhether suddenly by what we imagine as creation, or slowly by what we call development, then may we have the firmest confidence that the same law of natural adjustment has prevailed in all the other faculties of the perceiving and conceiving mind. The whole struc- ture of that mind is, as it ~vere, revealed to be a structure whch is in the nature of a o-rowth a structure whose very property and function it is totakein and assimilate the truths of nature and that in an as- cending order, according to the rank of those truths in the s)-stem and constitu- tion of the universe. In this connection of thought too great stress cannot be laid on the wonderful language of the senses. In the light of it the whole mind and spirit of man becomes one great mysteri- ous retina for reflecting the images of eternal truth. Our moral and intellectual perceptions of thin~s which in their very nature are invisible, come home to us as invested with a new authority. It is the authority of an adjusted structure of a mental organization which has been moulded by what we call natural causes these being the causes on which the unity of the world depends. And when we come to consider how this moulding, and the moulding of the human body, deviates from that of the lower animals, we discover in the na- ture of this deviation a law which can- not be mistaken. That law points to the higher power and to the higher value in his economy of faculties which lie behind the senses. The human frame diverges from the frame of the brutes, so far as the mere bodily senses are con- cerned, in the direction of greater help- lessness and weakness. Mans sight is less piercing than the eagles. His hear- ing is less acute than the owls or the bats. His sense of smell may be said hardly to exist at all when it is com- pared with the exquisite susceptibilities of the deer, of the weasel, or of the fox. The whole principle and plan of struc- ture in the beasts which are supposed to be nearest to him in form, is a princi- ple and a plan which is almost the con- verse of that on which his structure has been organized. The so-called man- like apes are highly specialized; man on the contrary is as highly generalized. They are framed to live almost entirely on trees, and to be dependent on arbo- reaUproducts, which only a very limited area in the globe can supply. Man is framed to be independent of all local conditions, except indeed those extreme conditions which are incompatible with the maintenance of organic life in any form. If it be true, therefore, that he is descended from some arboreal animal with pointed ears, he has been modified during the steps of that descent on the principle of depending less on senses suchas the lower animals possess, and more and more on what may be called the senses of his mind. The unclothed and unprotected condition of the human body, the total absence of any organic weapon of defence, the want of teeth adapted even for prehension, and the same want of power for similar purposes in the hands and fingersthese are all changes and departures from the mere animal type which stand in obvious re- lation to the mental powers of man. Apart from these, they are changes which would have placed the new creature at a hope- less disadvantage in the struggle for existence. It is not easy to imagine indeed, we may safely say that it is im- possible to conceive the condition of things during any intermediate steps in such a process. It seems as if there could be no safety until it had been completed until the enfeebled physical organiza- tion had been supported and reinforced by the new capacities for knowledge and design. This, however, is not the point on which we are dwelling now. We are not now speculating on the origin of man. XVe are considering him only as he is, and as he must have been since he was man at all. And in that. structure as it is, we see that the bodily senses have a smaller relative importance than in the beasts. To the beasts these senses tell them all they know. To us they speak but little compared with all that our spirit of interpretation gathers from them. But that spirit of interpretation is in the na- ture of a sense. In the lower animals every external stimulus moves to some appropriate action. In man it moves to some appropriate thought. TI~is is an enormous difference; but the principle is the same. We can see that, so far as the mechanism is visible, the plan or the prin- ciple of that mechanism is alike. The more clearly we understand that this or- ganic mechanism has been a growth and a development, the more certain we may be that in its structure it is self-adapted, and that in its working it is true. And the same principle applies to those other faculties of our mental constitution which 35 have no outward organ to indicate the machinery through which their operations are conducted. In them the spirit of in- terpretation is in communication with the realities which lie behind phenomena with energies which are kindred with its own. And so we come to understand that the processes of development or of creation, whatever they may have been, which culminated in the production of a being such as man, are processes wholly governed and directed by a la~v of adjust- ment bet~veen the higher truths which it concerns him most to know, and the evo- lution of faculties by which alone he could be enabled to apprehend them. There is no difficulty in conceiving these processes carried to the most perfect con- summation, as we do see them actually carried to very high degrees of excellence in the case of a few men of extraordinary genius, or of extraordinary virtue. In science the most profound conclusions have been sometimes reached without any process of conscious reasoning. It is clearly the law of our nature, ho~vever, that the triumphs of intellect are to be gained only by laborious thought, and by the gains of one generation being made the starting-point for the acquisition of the next. This is the o-eneral law. But it is a law which itself assumes certain primary intuitions of the mind as the starting-point of all. If these were wrong, nothing could be right. T he whole proc- esses of reasoning would be vitiated from the first. The first man must have had these as perfectly as we no~v have them, else the earliest steps of reason could never have been taken, the earliest re~vards of discovery could never have been secured. But there is this great dif- ference between the moral and the intel. lectual nature of man, that whereas in the work of reasoning the perceptions ~vhich are primary and intuitive require to be worked out and elaborately applied, in morals the perceptions which are primary are all in all. It is true that here also the applications may be infinite, and the doctrines of utility have their legitimate application in enforcing, by the sense of obligation, whatever course of conduct reason may determine to be the most fitting and the best. The sense of obli- gation in itself is, like the sense of logical sequence, elementary, and, like it, is part and parcel of our mental constitution. But unlike the mere sense of logical se- quence, the sense of moral obligation has one necessary and primary application which from the earliest moment of mans THE UNITY OF NATURE. 136 THE UNITY OF NATURE. existence may ~vell have been all-suffi- cient. Obedience to the ~vill of legitimate authority is, as we have seen in a former chapter, the first duty and the first idea of duty in the mind of every child. If ever there was a man who had no earthly father, or if ever there ~vas a man whose father was, as compared with himself, a beast, it would seem a natural and almost a necessary supposition that, along with his own new and wonderful po~ver of self- consciousness, there should have been associated a consciousness also of the presence and the power of that creative energy to which his own development was due. It is not possible for us to con- ceive what form the consciousness would take. No man hath seen God at any time. This absolute declaration of one of the apostles of the Christian Church proves that they accepted, as metaphori- cal, the literal terms in which the first communications between man and his Creator are narrated in the Jewish Scrip- tures. It is not necessary to suppose that the Almighty was seen by his first human creature walking in bodily form in a garden in the cool of the day. The strong impressions of a spiritual pres- ence and of spiritual communications which have been the turning-point in the lives of men, living in the bustle of a busy and corrupted world, may well have been even more vivid and more immediate when the first being worthy to be called a man stood in this world alone. The light which shone on Paul of Tarsus on the way to Damascus may have been such a light as shone on the father of our race. Or the communication may have been what metaphysicians call purely subjective, such as in all ages of the world do sometimes flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of soli- tude. But none the less may they have been direct and overpowering. The earli- est and simplest conception of the divine nature might well also be the best. And although we are forbidden to suppose the embodiment and visibility of the God- head, we are not driven to the alternative of concluding that there never could have been anything which is to us unusual in the intimations of his presence. Yet this is another of the unobserved assumptions which are perpetually made the assump- tion of an uniformity in nature~vhich does not exist. That all things have con- tinued as they are since the beginning is conceivable. But that all things should have continued as they were since before the beginning is a contradiction in terms. In primeval times many things had then just been done of which we have no knowledge now. When the form of man had been fashioned and completed for the first time, like and yet unlike to the bodies of the beasts; when all their organs had been lifted to a higher signifi- cance in his; when his hands had been liberated from walking and from climbing, and had been elaborated into an instru- ment of the most subtle and various use; when his feet had been adapted for hold- ing him in the erect position; when his breathing apparatus had been set to musi- cal chords of widest compass and the most exquisite tones; when all his senses had become ministers to a mind endowed with wonder and with reverence, and with reason and with love then a work had been accomplished such as the world had not known before, and such as has never been repeated since. All the conditions under which that work was carried for- ward must have been happy conditions conditions, that is to say, in perfect har- mony with its progress and its end. They must have been favorable, first, to the production and then to the use of those higher faculties which separated the new creature from the beasts. They must have been in a corresponding degree ad- verse to and incompatible with the preva- lence of conditions tending to reversion or to degradation in any form. That long and gradual ascent, if we assume it to have been so, or, as it may have been, that sudden transfiguration, must have taken place in a congenial air and amid surroundings which lent themselves to so great a change. On every conceivable theory, therefore, of the origin of man, all this seems a necessity of thought. But perhaps it seems on the theory of develop- ment even more a necessity than on any other. It is of the essence of that theory that all things should have worked to- gether for the good of the being that was to be. On the lowest interpretation, this toil co-operant to an end is always the necessary result of forces ever weaving and ever interwoven. On the higher in- terpretation it is the same. Only, some worker is ever behind the work. But under either interpretation the conclusion is the same. That the first man should have beemi a savage, with instincts and dispositions perverted as they are never perverted among the beasts, is a supposi- tion impossible and inconceivable. Like every other creature, he must have been in harmony with his origin and his end with the path which had led him to where THE UNITY OF NATURE. 37 he stood, with the work which made him what he was. It may well have been part of that work nay, it seems almost a necessary part of itto give to this new and wonderful being some knowledge of his whence and whither some open vision, some sense and faculty divine. With argument so deeply founded on the analogies of nature in favor of the con- clusion that the first man, though a child in acquired knowledge, must from the first have had instincts and intuitions in harmony with his origin and with his des- tiny, we must demand the clearest proof from those who assume that he could have had no conception of a divine being, and that this was an idea which could only be acquired in time from staring at things too big for him to measure, and from won- dering at things too distant for him to reach. Not even his powers could ex- tract from such things that which they do not contain. But in his own personality, fresh from the hand of nature, in his own spirit just issuing from the fountains of its birth, in his own will, willing ac- cording to the law of its creation, in his own desire of knowledge, in his own sense of obligation, in his own wonder and reverence and awe, he had all the elements to enable him at once to appre- hend, though not to comprehend, the infin- ite being who was the Author of his own. It is, then, with that intense interest which must ever belong to new evidence in support of fundamental truths that we find these conclusions, founded as they are on the analogies of nature, confirmed and not disparaged by such facts as can be gathered from other sources of infor- mation. Scholars who have begun their search into the origin of religion in the full acceptance of what may be called the savage theory of the origin of man who, captivated by a plausible generalization, had taken it for granted that the farther we go back in time the more certainly do we find all religion assuming one or other of the gross and idolatrous forms which have been indiscriminately grouped under the designation of fetishism have been driven from this belief by discovering to their surprise that facts do not support the theory. They have found, on the con- trary, that up to the farthest limits ~vhich are reached by records which are prop- erly historical, and far beyond those limits to the remotest distance which is attained by evidence founded on the analysis of human speech, the religious conceptions of men are seen as we go back in time to have been not coarser and coarser, but simpler, purer, higherso that the very oldest conceptions of the divine being of which we have any certain evidence are the simplest and the best of all. In particular, and as a fact of typical significance, we find very clear indications that everywhere idolatry and fetishism ap- pear to have been corruptions, whilst the higher and more spiritual conceptions of religion which lie behind do generally even now survive among idolatrous tribes as vague surmises or as matters of specula- tive belief. Nowhere even now, it is con- fessed, is mere fetishism the whole of the religion of any people. Everywhere, in so far as the history of it is known, it has been the work of evolution, the devel- opment of tendencies which are deviations from older paths. And not less signifi- cant is the fact that everywhere in the im- agination and traditions of mankind there is preserved the memory and the belief in a past better than the present. It is a constant saying, we are told, among African tribes that formerly heaven was nearer to man than it is now; that the highest God, the Creator himself, gave formerly lessons of wisdom to human be- ings; but that afterwards he withdrew from them, and dwells now far from them in heaven. All the Indian races have the same tradition; and it is not easy to conceive how a belief so universal could have arisen unless as a survival. It has all the marks of being a memory and not an imagination. It would reconcile the origin of man with that law which has been elsewhere universal in creation the law under which every creature has been produced not only with appropriate powers, but with appropriate instincts and intuitive perceptions for the guidance of these powers in their exercise and use. Many ~vill remember the splendid lines in which Dante has defined this law, and has declared the impossibility of man having been exempt therefrom Nell ordine ch io dico sono accline Tutte nature per diverse sorti Piji al principio loro, e men vicine; Onde si muovono a diversi porti Per lo gran mar deli essere; e ciascuna Con istinto a lei dato che la porti. N~ pur le creature, che son fuore D intelligenzia, quest arco saetta, Ma quelle c hanno intelletto ed amore.* The only mystery which would remain is the mystery which arises out of the fact that somehow those instincts have in man Paradiso, Canto i. 1,0lao. 138 THE UNITY OF NATURE. not only been liable to fail, but that they and, indeed, of an immeasurable super- seem to have acquired apparently an in- structure. If the unity of nature is not a eradicable tendency to become perverted, unity which consists in mere sameness of But this is a lesser mystery than the mys- material, or in mere identity of composi- tery which would attach to the original tion, or in mere uniformityof structure, birth or creation of any creature in the but a unity which the mind recognizes as condition of a human savage. It is a the result of operations similar to its own; lesser mystery because it is of the essence if man, not in his body only, but in the of a being whose will is comparatively highest as well as in the lowest attributes free that he should be able to deviate of his spirit, is inside this unity and part from his appointed path. The origin of of it; if all his powers are, like the in- evil may appear to us to be a great mys- stincts of the beasts, founded on a perfect tery. But this at least may be said in harmony between his faculties and the mitigation of the difficulty, that without realities of creation; if the limits of his the possibility of evil there could be no knowledge do not affect its certainty; if possibility of any virtue. Among the its accepted truthfulness in the lower lower animals obedience has al~vays been fields of thought arises out of correspon- a necessity. In man it was raised to the dences and adjustments vhich are appli- dignity of a duty. It is in this great cable to all the operations of his intellect, change that we can s~e and understand and all the energies of his spirit; if the how it is that the very elevation of his na- moral character of man, as it exists now, ture is inseparable from the possibility of is the one great anomaly in nature the a fall. The mystery, then, which attaches one great exception to its order and to to his condition now is shifted from his the perfect harmony of its laws; if the endowments and his gifts to the use he corruption of this moral character stands made of them. The question of the origin in immediate and necessary connection of religion is merged and lost in the ques- with rebellion against the authority on tion of the origin of man. And that other which that order rests; if all ignorance question, how his religion came to be cor- and error and misconception respecting rupted, becomes intelligible on the suppo- the nature of that authority and of its sition of wilful disobedience ~vith all its commands has been and must be the consequences having become inherited cause of increasing deviation, disturbance, and organized in the race. This is the and perversion,then, indeed, we have formula of expression which has been in- a view of things which is full of light. vented or accepted by those who do not Dark as the difficulties which remain may believe in original instincts or intuitions, be, they are not of a kind to undermine even when these are in harmony with the all certitude, to discomfit all conviction, order and ~vith the reasonableness of na- and to dissolve all hope. On the con- ture. It may well therefore be accepted trary, some of these difficulties are seen in a case where we have to account for to be purely artificial and imaginary, tendencies and propensities which have whilst many others are exposed to the no such character which are exceptions suspicion of belonging to the same class to the unity of nature, and at variance and category. In some cases our misgiv- with all that is intelligible in its order, or ings are shown to be unreasonable, whilst reasonable in its law. in many other cases, to say the least, If all explanation essentially consists in doubt is thrown on doubt. Let destruc- the reduction of phenomena into the terms tive criticism do its work. But let that of human thought and into the analogies work be itself subjected to the same rigid of human experience, this is the explana- analysis which it professes to employ. tion ~vhich can alone reconcile the un- Under the analysis, unless I am much questionable corruption of human charac- mistaken, the destroyer will be destroyed. ter with the analogies of creation. That which pretends to be the universal ______ solvent of all knowledge and of all belief, will be found to be destitute of any power For the present I must bring these to convict of falsehood the universal in- papers to a close. If the conclusions to stinet of man, that by a careful and con- which they point are true, then we have scientious use of the appropriate means in them some foundation stones strong he can, and does, attain to a substantial enough to bear the ~veight of an immense, knowledge of the truth. THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 39 From The Argosy. THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, AUTHOR OF THE OCCUPATIONS OF A RETIRED LIFE, THE MYSTERY OF DR. HARDY S MARRIAGE, ETC. Iv. I WILL tell you my history, said Miss Turner, fixing a wistful gaze upon Mr. Duncan. It will open floodgates that have been long Closed, and probe wounds that only death can heal; but there is something that compels me to open my heart to you. Strange as that ~vill be, it is not more strange than the fact of your being in this room, where for years no intruder has set foot. Mr. Duncan did not speak, but the sympathy he felt needed no form of words to declare itself. I was born in this very house, she went on, after a moments pause, and so was my sister Agatha, who died lately, and she named a date, which was thirty years back. When we were children we were the gayest of the gay. We had no mother, but our father indulged us in everything that was for our benefit. We had a car- riage to drive in: we had excellent mas- ters for the accomplishments that were taught in those days: we were taken to the hills and the sea for our health. We sa~v very little company, except gentlemen who used to come to see my father, ap- parently on business, and then stay and spend the evening. Very fine gentlemen they were. Ive heard the highest titles in the land used in that room overhead, which ~vas then the drawing-room. And they all paid great deference to my father, and had many compliments for Agatha and me. And sometimes we noticed some of the younger ones seemed very sad and gloomy, and we used to be so sorry for them. But when we grew to be young women, the gentlemen were never asked to spend the evening in the draw- in~-room, and if by any chance one did so, my father required us to keep our own rooms in the higher stories of the house. It ~vas in those days that old Hannah came to be our servantnot a house-ser- vant, but a sort of personal attendant for Agatha and me. And very soon after that, somebody came courting me. I will own that it was he I thought of when your strange message was sent in to me. He was none of my fathers fine gentle- men friends, but the pupil of an architect whom my father had employed on some of his property. My father was very angry about it, and it was then that Agatha and I first began to notice what solitary lives we had led, and how my father had withdrawn us from all kinds of society. It was not that my father ob- jected to anything in my lover himself: he had made a great favorite of him even before I knew him, and while he spoke harshly to me of our affection for each other, he owned how good and clever he was. Years afterwards, when I found out all the truth of our history, I fancied my father had meant to take us far away perhaps to the Continentand introduce us where nothing would be known of us, except that we were a rich mans daugh. ters. He said something like this to me when wanting me to break off my engage- ment; but I was so full of my love, with all its joy and pain, that I did not pay much attention except my own resolution to be faithful to the end. She paused again for a moment, and then went on. I never knew much of Pauls family. He had no nearer kin than a married sister, ~vho lived in France. So there was nobody to take our part. But I would have gone away and married him then and there, only that his health broke do~vn, and the doctor said his one chance of life was a long voyage and a change of climate. I would still have married him at once and gone with him, but we had no money of our own, and all we could do was to weep and part, translating the cloc- tors forlorn one cl~anceinto a brighter certainty. I deceived myself, sir if ~ve did not deceive ourselves sometimes, I dont think we could endure life at all but this I know, when I stole out to the docks to watch him go aboard his ship, I knew I should never see him again in this world. Everything went on the same at home. Father made believe to forget everything, and was as kind to me as evereven kinder. But one day, after breakfast, he kissed us both and went out, as was his wont, and he never, never came home again. No, never, she said, springing up like a girl, never. Its sixty years ago since I last saw him that day, and I know no more what happened to him than we knew that first terrible night. Oh, that has been a grievous trial, cried Mr. Duncan. You dont know what youre talking about, she said, with a sudden return to her quiet, commonplace manner. No ~4O THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. body knows what that is till theyve tried it. Ah, she exclaimed, looking up, that explains to me how mystery makes one fancy dreadful things! I went through and through the house, feeling as if father was shut up somewhere just out of our hearing. And when, in the course of the inquiries which were set on foot, strangers came about the place, I used to wonder whether this one or that one had mur- dered him. Terrible! muttered Mr. Duncan. And then it came out that he had left great ~vealth behind him, she went on; and also that he had made it by money- lending and bitter extortions. In the newspaper articles that were written about his strange disappearance he was called all sorts of bad names old vil- lain, usurer, and the like. And they were true. Only he was our father and had always been kind to us. There was ~vorse to follow. It came out that our mother had not died when we were babies, as we had always been led to believe, but that she was divorced from our father for her own selfish wick- edness, and had only died after we were grown up, and that we girls had known her name in the public prints as a shame- ful woman! And, oh! they made a bal- lad of it all, and sang it through the open strezts. They sang it down here. We had to go into the back rooms not to hear it. And none of the neighbors sent them away, she added, with a vivid recollection of what had been the bitterest sting in that hour of humiliationthe sense of loneliness, the withdrawing of sympathy. Ive heard one of your present neigh- bors speaking very kindly of you to-day, said Mr. Duncan. Ah, these present neighbors only know me old and miserable, she replied, with painful cynicism. You see the others had to rejoice over the downcome of happiness, and beauty, and wealth. No, no; it is not good foi you to think that! cried Mr. Duncan. You own your father had done wrong. By their love of justice, the people could not help feeling it meet when punishment over- took him. Because you loved him, you suffered with him, just as God suffers with us all when we sin and suffer. We had scarcely any money. Of course we could not touch our fathers property while there was no proof that he was dead. The only person who came forward to act as a friend for us was an old attorney of my fathers a base, bad man, who was mixed up with all sorts of wickedness. He managed our business for us somehow, and doled us out pittan- ces from somewhere. Hannah was faith- ful to us. But the other servants left, partly because they were afraid their wages might not be paid, and partly, as they frankly told us, because they might lose their characters if they stayed with such discreditable people as they found ~ve were. It was bitter. But I see now we had no right to demand others to sac- rifice themselves for us. Agatha was quite different from me. She cried a good deal. She would have borne on somehow through those days. She would never have left off going to church. She would have gone on dealing with the old tradespeople, though they would give nothing except for ready money, and we had only pence to spend where once we had had pounds. Conse- quently, if ever a ray of sunshine had come near our lives, Agatha would have been there to catch it. But my blood was high and hot it seems leaping and burning again to-day. Oh, why did you waken me? I had always taken the lead. I would not bear. I could not make the best of what seemed so bad Let us shut ourselves up, I said. We are three together faithful to each other. We are sacrificing very little: we shall not want the world till Paul comes back; all will then go well again. Oh, it seemed such peace for a time! Such peace not to see the curious, sneer- ing faces not to have to parry the cruel, inquisitive questions. Agatha and Han- nah, who had not liked the idea at first, owned I had been right, and were glad they had let me have my own way. We vere almost happy. I dare say folks who have just escaped shipwreck dont notice at first that they are ashore on a desert island. I have got yards of lace which Agatha made in those days, intending them for my wedding dress! And then in the twilight we used to talk of what we should do when Paul came back. But he never came! I used to feel a strange s inking of heart sometimes when I read his letters; yet there was really nothing in them to prepare me for the end when somebody else wrote, saying he was dead. I dont remember much about that time. I dont think that an- nouncement letter was ever acknowledged. I know I never heard where Paul was buried. The days, and weeks, and months just went by. Do you suppose a day would come when we could say to each other, Now THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 4 let us go out into the world again? Nev er. I was the one who had the force to shut the prison door upon us all, but I had no force left to open it. And what was there for us in the outside world? Nothing. The old lawyer went on doling us out pittances for years. He brought papers for us to sign sometimes; and we always signed them. He paid himself ~vell for all he did for us or lent us; but had he stripped us of everything, I dont think we should have resisted. And when the old leases of our house property fell in, he said they could not be renewed, as there was nobody who could satisfactorily grant new ones. That is ho~v those houses first stood empty. At last he told us that he believed we might now get a decree, whereby my father would be regarded as legally dead, and we should be able to act in his stead. And the very day that he got that rightly arranged on his way to his home after telling us that we were now the mistresses of our own property the poor old man dropped down dead in the street. Was this likely to send us back into the cruel world? What were we now but three women, disgraced, friendless, help- less, and ignorant of business deprived of the one adviser on whom we had learned to lean? When the estate thus became ours, we found ourselves in possession, besides the houses, of a funded sum of money, on whose interest we have lived ever since as you see us now. We never meant things to be thus. Oh, sir! it would have needed unnatural strength to build such a jail for oneself, and walk into it, reading on~es own sen- tence of sixty years imprisonment. We were not unnaturally strong. We were rather unhealthily weak. At first we thought it would all end when somebody came home, who never came; and after that, when we did not know what to ex- pect, we still seemed to expect something to come some day and deliver us. You cant tell how time slips by when all days are alike. Agatha died, poor thing. Its odd how often the people who cant do much else can generally do that quite easily. Hannah, the ser- vant, and I drew together more than did Agatha, my sister, and I. I always felt that Agatha somehow lost her own will in staying ~vith us: she did not give it in heartily. Now Hannah did. Agatha stayed here because she did not know what else to do. Hannah stayed because she chose it. She could easily have got another situation, and she had her own friends and relations in the country. But she stuck to us all through, and we never had any other help or service till she was struck down by paralysis two years ago, and then we got the girl you saw. She is an orphan grandniece of Hannah, and was in a workhouse in Norfolk before she came here. It is nearly two years since Hannah spoke. I missed her awfully at first. I missed her, dead in life before my eyes, more than I had ever missed Agatha, dead in her grave. Hannah was a woman who spoke up, and laughed heartily; be- sides, she was the last I could converse with. I shall never see anybody else who knew Paul. But one gro~vs used to any- thing. And I suppose God will let even Hannah and me die at last. She spoke calmly, but almost as if she despaired of this last hope of the smit- ten. In truth, she had had her nervous horrors on that point. She had had rec- ollections of the famous patriarch, Henry Jenkins, with his century and a half of earthly existence. At night she had had dreams of the weird legend of the wan- dering Jew. Mr. Duncan felt his heart sink within him at the thought of this ~voman s life, past and present. But, my dear madam, he cried, this will not do. You may live for years yet. Do to-day what you feel should have been done years ago. Why, if I have to feel that you are still sitting here like this, and the old pain is still go. ing on, I shall never be able to bear my own happy life, for the remembrance of what I have seen and heard from you to- day. She shook her head gently. Then she stretched out her thin, blanched hand, and laid it softly on his arm. It is not pain now, she said; it is part of myself. I am glad to have been reminded that I was not always so. It renews my hope that some day I shall be so no more. I shall die the sooner for your coming to-day; a very light breeze shakes off a dead leaf. God bless you. Nay, nay, but it is not our part to meddle with what is in Gods hands, pleaded the young man. To do right to-day is our business, and that will stand us in good stead, whether we die to-night or ~vhether we live for fifty years longer. Now, I would not say to you, return to the noisy world and its ways; you do not want that no~v, and your sufferings have surely earned you the right to a quiet re- treat. But take some kind thought and 142 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. care for others into your seclusion; for their sake, and no less for your own. I know nobody to think about, she answered simply. You cannot imagine how it confused me when I had to get Alice that is the girl to come here. I tried my utmost to do all the work myself, so that no other human creature might be enticed to enter this doomed house. But Hannah was not quite unconscious at that time, and when she saw me at my housework, she used to cry and wail so that it was quite pitiful to hear her. And then she fretted about the great-niece in the poor-house, where none of her family had ever been before. It was more for Hannahs sake than my own that I per- mitted the girl to come here. And every time she comes into the room I ask my- self, Is she to grow up like this? I would not have taken a girl from her own home for worlds, but this was a poor or- phan, left among strangers, and even this dismal life is better than the life to which, in my young days, I was told such girls often fall. But I feel as if I was letting Alice enter into the curse ~vhich has blighted us. You see, I do think of other people when I know them, she said for- lornly. Mr. Duncan saw his opportunity and rushed to seize it. Ah, he said, the world, dear lady, is full of sin and sorrow, and needs all our help. The property which you have been led into allowing to lie waste, would edu- cate crowds of little children, or solace hundreds of sick people, or help scores of young folk to start in life. If any of us have any means of doing good, God means us to use them to their utmost limit. He has given you the talent of wealth. Do not bury it in shut-up houses. You dont know what it is to be shut up for sixty years, with ones mind filled with images of crime and a bitter sense of wrong, she said. Pauls vanished love Pauls death was the brightest thought I had, and you can understand if that ~vas a diamond it was set in jet. I feel as if I had been inthedark,andyou had come suddenly and let in a flood of sunshine. I am blinded. I cant talk more to-day. You have made me live more in one hour than I have lived in all these sixty years. You must come again~ Certainly I will come again, if you will allow me, he answered. But I should like you to have a talk with some friends of mine through whom I heard the first hint of your existence the Rev. Mr. Lane, of St. Mitres, Hay Hill, a prudent, just.minded man, and the parish doctor there, Dr. Bird, who knows all the best and safest ways of doing good. Mr. Lane Dr. Bird, she murmured. But I shant want anybody but you. I shall not take to anybody else as I have taken to you. It was partly through your strange message -. and partly through a look you have. I suppose it cannot be can it? it is not possible that you can be any distant relation of Pauls? You have never heard such a name as Paul Desmoulins amono tions? b your family connec No, said Mr. Duncan, nor do I think I could ever have had a relation of that name. There has not been to my knowledge a foreign graft on our family trees since they were planted. My father ~vas of Scotch descent and my mother was Irish, born and bred. Well, I supposed it could not be, she answered, only certainly you are some- how like my Paul. You have a curious look of him just before we said good-bye for the last time. They spoke little more to each other after that. But she took his hand and led him to the old armchair, where the faithful maid Hannah sat, deaf, dumb, and motionless. One cannot be quite sure what she knows, said Miss Turner, with a strange softening. Touch her hand. Good as I am sure you are, you may yet be proud to do that. She was faithful for sixty years. Perhaps her heart is alive still. But if either the old woman or the young man Vaguely expected responsive sign, they were doomed to disappoint- ment. Miss Turner drew back with a heavy sigh. Go,~ she said, or in a minute I shall begin to cry. And it is such pain. Go, but come back soon. The little brown serving-maid was wait- ing in the hall to let him out. She had not been trained to render these civilities. She only obeyed a childish longing to see that kind face once again. And when Mr. Duncan was again out in the street he felt like one newly awak- ened from a bewildering dream. Had he really spent the last hour in the same world with these crowds of people bustling to and fro, buying and selling? He lifted his hat from his head, and let the fresh breeze play on his forehead and call him back to a realization of the every-day side of life. THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 43 As he went away he turned and looked up at the frowning, shut-up houses. Mur- ders? Ghosts? He felt that Miss Tur- ner had spoken well when she said that there had been three slow murders; and he felt, too, that he had just left the pres- ence of the most awful of ghosts the ghost of a life. And what had wrought it all? Only such sins as remained too common among the masses, who would yet shrink appalled from this, their awful sum total. Among the people hastening past him, among the dwellers on Hay Hill and in Wharf Street were many who would have no right to throw a stone at the sinful woman whose shame had been so terribly visited on her daughters, or at the covet- ous man the labors of whose life had lit- erally turned to dust and ashes. Heaven have mercy on us all, said the young lawyer to himself, solemnly. We may know what we do, but we scarcely know what we leave undone. stooping tenderly over her dear nephew, could not altogether understand. There were some men about Hay Hill who had thought Duncan rather soft, who, perhaps, had secretly chuckled over cheating him. He spoke of them once or twice. Perhaps they might not have liked to hear what he said. But the wandering mind did not dwell on the dark side. It went off to ancient kindnesses and pleas- ures. Poor Mr. Duncan, in his delirium, thanked sundry people over and over again for very infinitesimal favors re- ceived years and years before. Then he turned to what he wanted to do. He fretted a little about the poor old artist and his unfinished lawsuit. He ~vhispered about little presents he would like given to this one or to that. These were the thoughts of his first patient days of illness suddenly made audible. Aunt Rachel sat with straining ears. But there was a great deal she could not understand. And then towards morning there was V. an awful silence. And when the street IT came to pass that that was young was once more astir, the blinds of Mr. Mr. Duncans last long walk. He went Duncans house ~vere drawn. out again two or three times he took his He spoke much about some old lady, aunt to a scientific lecture and there he said Aunt Rachel, when it was all over, caught cold, and then he went out next and she sat dry-eyed, as brave women do day in the rain to attend a law court in sit, as long as there is something for them behalf of a poor old artist whose case he to do for sake of their beloved one. He would not trust to anybody less keen and seemed so desirous to help her. Look enthusiastic than himself. over the list of the clients for the old As a consequence of all this, on the lady, she directed the clerk, and then third morning he awoke in the clutches of we must take care that she gets some his very familiar enemy, bronchitis. No- other trustworthy adviser, now he is body thought much of it: it is a common gone. But where shall we find one like fact of experience that people seldom die him! of their chronic maladies. His aunt Ra- The clerk looked carefully through the chel at first felt inclined to give him the list of clients, through the callers book, usual lecture he received on these occa- and through the recent correspondence; sions, but there was something in his but he could find no clue to any such per- aspect which checked her remonstrances. son as his masters dying words had mdi- But every time she came in and out of cated. the sick-room her face was more and Aunt Rachel had to get through her more grave. And yet when, at last, the days of trial as best she could. There elder maidservant, noticing this, grew was plenty for her to do. She persisted grave too, Aunt Rachel felt as if she re- in seeing everybody who called seeming sented it. And Dr. Bird calledand to have any business with him. The old called back again, maidservant could not understand her But it was quite late on the third even- mistress. I know how Miss Rachel ing after his first seizure that the type of loved him, she said, an Im feared her his disease changed. Poor Aunt Rachel, heads going wrong. who had nursed him through a dozen In this troubled state of mind she was such attacks, and knew every step of the sweeping out the entry on the morning of way, suddenly found herself on new the funeral, when a little pale, shy girl in ground. a brown gown came timidly up to the door, The light of consciousness faded from and asked if a Mr. Duncan lived there the kind eyes: the cheery voice began to somebody had sent her for him. The murmur of things which Aunt Rachel, old servant gave a side glance at the 44 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. girls shabby dress and meagre appear- ance, and did not even pause in her s~veeping while she abruptly replied that Mr. Duncan was dead. Nor did she in- quire for any name or address; she did not want to have such to deliver to her poor, overburdened mistress. Her heart softened a little when she saw that the girl began to cry as she descended the steps, but it hardened again with the reflection that tears cost nothing, and are sometimes given in exchange for a great deal. That afternoon Aunt Rachel stood weeping at her nephews new grave in a far-off Kentish churchyard, and on Hay Hill neighbors and townsfolk exchanged solemn, kindly words about the good man they would see no more amongst them. But nobody dreamed that in a shaded, silent house an old woman and an orphan girl wept bitterly for him whom they had seen but once, and now should see no more on earth. 1\Iiss Turner repeated to herself again and again the words of his strange message. And how nearly an angels visit had his been Like a touch of golden sunset on a prison or a scaffold, his death had shed a sudden sweet pathos over a hard and bitter tragedy of sixty years length. Eyes that had scarcely wept for more than half a century rained softly for him; and in that gentle rain the mists of dull despair ~vere washed away, and the shores of heaven gleamed once more on the gray horizon of those blighted lives. God had not forsaken them. Yet the shut-up houses did not change. All remained the same. Nobody could guess that a petrified heart had been sud- denly stirred into divine discontent and diviner aspiration. Outwardly all went on the same for two years. Only the grocer in Wharf Street noticed that all that time the little maid- servant attended church regularly, and occasionally went out apparently for a long walk. Also a daily newspaper was supplied to the recluse household, and a great many packets were left at the door by errand-boys. But after two years had passed, the end came. One night the little brown maid l)resented herself, trembling, at Dr. Birds door, and led off that astonished gentle- man to Wharf Street. Miss Turner was ill. The doctor, knowing nothing of her constitution, ~vas inclined to think hope- fully of matters, but she, herself, knew better. She knew she was dying, and she instructed him immediately to send a nurse to help and cheer the maid in her dreary watching. Beyond this, she en- tered into no conversation with the medi- cal man. He heard her name, of course, and having a strong suspicion who she was, he surveyed her dwelling and sur- roundings with considerable curiosity. But he found her reserved, and the young servant taciturn. Only he noticed in the dying woman an almost oppressive anx- iety to consider the comfort and guide the understanding of those who would be left behind her. The one confidence she rel)osed in him was on this line. She told him that, ex- cept for the young attendant, and a help- lessly invalided old servant, she was quite alone in the world, but that there was a letter by her bedside, directed to the Rev. Mr. Lane, of St. Mitres, which was to be given to that gentleman immediately after her death; and further, she charged Dr. Bird and the servant, in the presence of each other, to remember that all papers of importance would be found in a certain small oaken chest which stood on her toilet table. She died quite quietly. She never alluded to her approaching end except by the minute arrangements she had made for it. She continued speaking to the little servant on ordinary matters till within an hour of her death; speaking, as the weeping girl afterwards reported, very cheerfully and kindly, with a strange im- patient gladness in her manner. Then she lay in a sort of trance-like sleep till the end, when she opened her eyes and smiled. And with that smile on her face she died, and lay, so smiling, in her coffin. Dr. Bird arrived on his regular visit an hour after her decease. He took posses- sion of the letter to the clergyman, and as soon as he had given immediately neces~ sary instructions to the nurse, whom he left in charge of the house and the grief- stricken Alice, he hurried off to deliver it to Mr. Lane. It was brief enough. It simply repeated the instructions she had given the doctor as to her papers, and further stated that she had taken the liberty of appointing the clergyman and the medical man as her executors. The particulars of her property were found with her will in the little oaken chest she had indicated, and it was only on examining these that Mr. Lane and Dr. Bird found that she was actually the owner of the shut-up houses, and of other property, which, well used, would be worth nearly three thousand a year. THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 45 Tier xviii, which was drawn up by her- and sundry knicknacks of less value, but self, but had evidently been submitted to pointing to some far-off girlhood of taste some legal approval, was strikingly sim- and accomplishment. They found noth- pIe. The two gentlemen were named as ing more. her executors, certain sums were to be But in the front parlor, which had been set aside as provision for her two ser- the dead womans daily living room, they vants, and all the remainder of her estate found a strange trace of modern life. was to be applied to such charitable and There was a little pinched old bookcase beneficial uses as her executors should filled with new books. There were books direct, only she prayed them to give due of recent biography and social science. consideration, though not necessarily con- There ~vere books concerning education sent, to sundry suggestions of her own and every branch of good, progressive which they would find set forth in another xvork going forward in the world. paper, also in the box. Singular, isnt it? said Dr. Bird. It became, of course, their duty to go She seems only to have thought of these through and examine the personal effects things lately. The very will, I observed, in the house. is dated only a month or two after those But they found little to tempt their fools of ~vomen took their screaming fits curiositx-. There were no letters. Cer- in your church, which, if you remember, tainly few letters had come to that house was just before poor Duncans death, for sixty years, and they decided that scarcely two years ago. From the very Miss Turner had destroyed those of prior first time she sent for me, Lane, I have date. always wondered what put us into her They did not knownobody everknew head. Of course she had heard of you that just before Miss Tumners coffin as a parish clergyman and a devoted, was closed, the girl Alice, obeying some sensible man. But I cant understand of her dead mistresss instructions, had how she ever heard of me, or came to stolen to the death - chamber, and had send for a doctor from such a distance. slipped into the coffin, beneath the cold The clergyman could not understand it, hand, a little packet of old foreign epistles either. and a tiny miniature of a 3-oung man in She has not favored all the three pro- old-fashioned costume. The girl had fessions, added Dr. Bird meditatively. looked at it as she hid it from sight for- So we arefree to choose what solicitor ever. The face in the picture was so we will. If poor Duncan had been living fresh, and young, and happy; the face in I should have named him. Do you re- the coffin was happy too, but it was worn member his asking you about Miss Tur- and old; for all the strano-e nj girlish ness had faded - ockery of ner, and your fancying he knew more than from Miss Turners he showed. You see I was quite right face during the last months of her life, when I say I didnt believe he knew any- But the two were one still: all the long thing. I dare say he was pondering years and the dead silence had not whether he could hit on any plan to get quenched love. God is love, mur- the managein ent of her estate into his inured the girl Alice, whose mind had its hands. Quite legitimate and proper if it busy ~vorkings in her strange, silent life, was so. Any man with his heart in his so how could love die? And she profession longs to do any bit of its work pressed one kiss on the little picture of which is going undone. him she had never seen, and another on And he would have managed it hon- the cold lips of her who had been her best estly and well for her, observed the cler- friend, and then she shut the coffin-lid. gyman. He was a fine, upright young And she felt as if she had shut them into fellow, and the parish misses him a good their joy and rest, and herself out upon a deal. He had a wonderful way with peo- bleak and lonesome world. And the pIe, he could keep them in good temper: nurse met her coming from the room, ay, and restore them to it, when they crying bitterly, and thought within herself had got cantankerous. that the odd, monosyllabic girl was show- And then they laid their heads too-ether rng a little feeling at last! in consultation. They resolved to~open But the gentlemen knew of none of the Hay Hill houses first, since these these things. They found old certificates, seemed to have been the most talked-of old law papers, old receipts, a few old and romanced over. It had leaked out in profiles of gentlemen in tie wigs and the parish that the owner of these shut- ladies in elaborate turbans. They found up houses was dead, and that somehow costly old lace and quaint old jewelry, Dr. Bird and the clergyman had assumed LiVING AGE. voL. xxxv. 1778 146 THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. the control of her property. Therefore, upon it with a cry of delight, which, how- many sharp eyes were keeping special ever, ended in a prolonged 0oh of watch. So one afternoon it spread like disappointment. The papers were a Pa- wildfire that the doctor and the parson lice News and another common weekly were in front of the houses, trying great, print. They bore a date only about two rusty keys in the damaged old locks. The years and a half back, and in the news- errand boys and shopmen rushed out paper was a police advertisement for the madly, and stood around in grinning or apprehension of two men accused of bur. breathless expectation. As for Miss glary. Some tramps it might well be Wince, she was very busy executing a the very men the police were hunting wedding order, but when she heard the had carried in these treasures with them, rumor she popped her head out of the when they found what had proved a secure window to see if it was true, and then retreat. threw on her bonnet and shawl, and per- Miss Wince recovered herself speedily. emptorily forbidding her apprentices to She quite forgot she had ever thought of move, ran down-stairs, carrying a little ghosts. Youll believe me another time, band-box as an ostensible reason for her wont you? she said, with a mild steadi- outing. She was on the spot just at the ness. I knew it was not the wind. I moment when the door gave way and per. knew it was not rats. Their language mitted free access to the house she m~t made my very blood run cold, and I might wanted to see the house next her own. have been murdered in my bed. Would But Miss Wince liked to look genteel, you have believed me then? Or would and she coquetted with her intense curi- you have said Id killed myself, and buried osity till Mr. Lane, who had heard of her me under the lamp post ~t the four cor- stories, smilingly invited her to enter. ners? Theres been a many so dealt with, Well, thank you, sir, I dont mind, I do firmly believe. she said. Im not in a particular hurry; But time has passed on, and all the only these boys are so rough and striv- shut-up houses have been pulled down. ing! But heres Mrs. Brown. We two In Hay Hill the ground they covered is will just go in together. now occupied partly by a large foundation What was there to see? No bones: school and partly by a building which is no bloodstains: no nailed-up closets, used for literary and scientific classes and Only the broken potsherds and refuse lectures, with a public reading-room, in left by the last outgoing inhabitants; all which Mr. Lane takes a warm and even innocent marks on the walls where active interest, and ~vhich he finds a won- their little children who must be old derful ally to his teaching in the neigh. folks nowhad stood proudly to meas- boring church. Hay Hill is greatly beau- ure their gro~vth. But Miss Wince, once tified by the change. The new buildings out of the clergymans sight, gre~v as im- are of red brick faced with white free. l)atient as anybody, and pushing her way stone. Mr. Lane has caused evergreens up-stairs, said significantly, and with a to be planted within the railings which mysterious wink, I did not expect to see protect the front, as well as in the great anything down here. Come on, Mrs. stone vases which flank the wide steps. Brown. And Mrs. Brown, fat and puf- A little open space separates these build- fing, came on. Nor did Miss Wince ings from the neighboring houses, and spare her till they reached the attic floor, there he has planted some limes, and built where she turned and said, with still a fountain, and put up a seat. deeper significance, There is a dove-cot, too, whose gentle Does the wind have two voices? Do inmates the schoolchildren feed. It is rats swear? very fresh and pretty already, and when Mrs. Brown shook her head, too breath- the trees are fully grown there will be less to answer, and they both entered the be a cool, refreshing shade, beneath big, lo~v attic, ~vhich in this house formed which old folks ~vill sit and talk wisdom, the whole of the topmost story. Their and young lovers will come and say things feet were the first which fell here, and most interesting to each other. they left a mark on the dusty floor, al- The shut-up house in the lawyers quar. most as they might on the sands of the ter has been rebuilt, with all the modern sea. There was nothing to be seen but improvements for people occupied with a few broken boards and bottles. Yes; sedentary and studious business. The something more. In that corner of the upper floors are let as offices, and com- chamber near Miss Winces bedroom lay mand large rentals, which are devoted to a crumpled paper. Miss XVince pounced salary a lawyer who occupies the ground THE SHUT-UP HOUSES. 47 floor, and who is to hold his time and talents at the disposal of poor people who need legal advice, and to render them legal help when their cause is righteous. When the great houses in Wharf Street were pulled down, they and their long, forlorn gardens left an enormous clear- ing. This was turned into an open quadrangle, about whose sides were built open, stall-like shops for the sale of fish, vegetables, and meat under the strictest supervisiow as to freshness .and purity. In the centre of the quadrangle is a great stand for the sale of flowers and plants. Over the stalls are rows of neat little rooms where young orphan girls are trained in domestic service and in attendance on the sick, the inmates of the rooms being the helplessly aged or the hopelessly crippled the rent of the stalls and the income of the remainder of Miss Turners property being devoted to their maintenance. Her old servant Hannah died here, a well-authenticated centena- rian; and in due time the girl Alice was qualified to act as matron to the homely institution. It is a pretty sight on a summer day to see the contented-looking old folks sitting at their little windows watching the busy scene below, while their little attendants bustle to and fro, and every now and then the ~vhite.capped matron passes with a gentle smile and a quiet word. She wears a brown dress still; and though she is the kindest of the kind, the tenderest of the tender, her tongue has never grown swift and her shyness has not vanished. She has never broken down the reserve in which she shrouds the years she spent ~vith Miss Turner, and all that happened therein. Aunt Rachel left St. Mitres parish soon after her dear nephews death. But years afterwards, ~vhen she was growing quite an old woman, she came up on a visit, and was, of course, taken to see all the won- derful improvements. She owned they were beautiful and good. Only she could not help liking best the places that were not changed the places which remained exactly as lie had seen them. There ivas not much change in St. Mitres itself, and she lingered after week. day morning service, and went up and down the aisles, looking at the old carv- ings and the familiar memorial stones. Suddenly she paused and said aloud: This is new Yes, said Mr. Lane, who had left his vestry and come up behind her. That is ne~v. It was a stained glass window, very cool and soft in its coloring. It was in two divisions, neither of them very large. In one was a figure of our master just as he turned to bless the sick woman who touched him in the crowd; and in the other was the figure of the sower scatter. ing his seed on rock, and bramble, and good ground. And beneath the one was the inscription, The bruised reed thou shalt not break, and the smoking flax thou dost not quench; and beneath the other, Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might. Thats beautiful, said Aunt Rachel. Thats exactly what I should have liked to put up to the memory of my boy. The figures and the words, too, would suit him exactly. I like stained glass windows for memorials: they are types of our own tender memories, with the light of the world shining from behind them. There is a strange little history about that window, narrated Mr. Lane, as they left the church together. It was put up by the young woman who was Miss Turners servant, and who is now matron of the Home of Rest in Wharf Street. Was it not rather an expensive un- dertaking for her? asked l)ractical Aunt Rachel. Well, certainly it was, answered he. And when she came to me and pro- l)OSed it (she is a very still, reserved per- son) I ventured to hint as much. She was not at all offended; only she re- minded me that, besides her salary as matron, she possessed Miss Turners an- nuity, and that since she had held her present position she had saved up three entire years annuity for this very pur- pose. A singular fancy said Aunt Rachel, interested. So I thought, returned Mr. Lane. I was always interested in the young woman. I am sure there is a great deal in her if it would only come out. But I am afraid she has formed an incorrigi- ble habit of reserve. Some of these shy people do not open their minds, I fancy, for fear of being intrusive. Is it a me- morial window? I asked. Yes, she said simply. Of your mistress, Miss Turner? I further inquired, flattering myself I was getting to the truth. No, she said, I dont think No, I would not put up that sort of memorial for her. And would you like no name or initial introduced into the plan? I asked; for she had made every preparation, and had 148 IN UMBRIA. brought the drawings with her. No, thank you, sir, she said. That evening Aunt Rachel asked to be taken to see the Home of Rest. She chatted with the old people and exhorted the little servants. But when she was introduced to the matron she drew her aside and took her quiet face between her trembling old hands. And so you put up that pretty win- dow at St. Mitres, she said. The ma- trons pale face flushed. It is such a window as I should have liked to put Ul) for somebody I loved, Aunt Rachel went on; but I am old, and my means are scanty, and I could not do it. Thank you for doing it for me. It will stand for two as well as for one. What love does for love anywhere speaks for love everywhere. God bless you. The matrons face flushed deeper. She trembled a little. When the old lady was gone she went down-stairs and looked in the visitors book. She found there the name of Miss Rachel Blacklaw. She did not know that name; she knew nothing of Mr. Duncans aunt. Yet somehow she felt she would have liked to tell that old lady to ~vhose mem- ory she had dedicated that window. Only she always felt it had been great presuinp- tion in her to do it! From Frasers Magazine. IN UMBRIA. A STUDY OF ARTISTIC PERSONALITy. THE autumn sun is declining over the fields and oak woods and vineyards of Umbria, wherein the wide, undulating valley, enclosed by high rounded hills, bleak or dark with ilex, each ~vith its strange terraced white city, Assisi, Spello, Spoleto, Todi the Tiber winds lazily along, pale green, limpid, scarce rippled over its yellow pebbles, screened by long rows of reeds and thinned, yellowing pop. lars, reflecting dimly the sky and trees, the pointed medi~val bridges and the crenelated towers on its banks; so clear and placid that you can scarcely bring home to yourself that this can really be the Tiber of Rome, the turbid mass of yellow water which eddies sullenly mourn- ful round the ship-shaped island, along by Vestas temple, beneath the cypressed Aventine, and away into the desolate Campagna. Gradually, as the sun sinks, the valley of the Tiber fills with golden light moving along, little by little, travel- ling slowly up the wooded hillocks; cov- ering the bluish mountains of Somma and Subasio with a purple flush, making the white towns rosy on their flanks, and then dying away into the pale amber horizon, rosy where it touches the hill, pearly, then bluish where it merges imperceptibly into the upper sky. Bluer and bluer become the hills, deeper and deeper the at first faint amber; the valley is filled with grey- blue mist; the hills stand out dark blue, cold, and massive; the sky above be- comes a livid rose-color; there is scarcely a filament of cloud, and only a streak of golden orange where the sun has disap- peared. There is a sudden stillness, as when the last chords of a great symphony have died out. All the ~vay up the hill on wilich stands Perugia we meet the teams of huge oxen, not merely white, but milky, with great, deep, long-lashed eyes, sway- ing from side to side with their load of ~vine - vats; and the peasants returning home from ploughing up the last corn stubble. All is peaceful and very solemn, more so than after sunset in other places, in this sweet and austere Umbria, the fit home of the Christian revival of the early Middle Ages. And it makes us think, this beautiful and solemn evening, of the little book which epitomizes all the emo- tions of this new birth, of this charming new childhood of humanity, when the feelings of men seem to have somewhat of the dewy freshness of dawn. The book is the Fiord/i di San Francesco, a collection of legends and examples re- lating to the cycle of St. Francis of Assisi by some monk or monks of the end of the thirteenth century. Flowerets they may well be called flowers such as might grow, green and white-starred and deli- cately pearled with gold, in the thick grass across ~vhich dance Angelicos groups of the blessed. Yet ~vith a certain human- ness, a certain reality and naturalness of sweetness, such as the great paradise painter, with his fleshless madonnas, his glory of radiant, unearthly draperies and golden skies, never could have conceived. -~ singular charm of simplicity and lucid- ness in this little book; no fever visions or unhealthy glories; an earnestness not without humor; there is nothing grim or absurd in the credulity and asceticism of these Umbrian saints. The asceticism is so gentle and tender, the credulity so childish and poetical, that the ridiculous itself ceases to be so. These monks, so far from being engrossed ~vith the care of their own souls, or weighed down by the IN UMBRIA. dread of hell, seem to have awakened with perfect hope and faith in celestial good. ness, with perfect desire to love all around them in the most literal sense: religion for them is love and reliance on love. The gentleness with which they admonish the sinning and backsliding, the confi- clence in the inner goodness of man, from ~vhose soiled surface all evil may be washed, extends in these men to the whole of creation, and makes them fraternize with beasts and birds, as is shown, with a delicate, slightly humorous grace, in the stories of St. Francis and the turtle doves, and of the ferocious wolf, Frafe Lupo, of Gubbio, whom, rather than kill, it l)leased the saint to bring round to harm- lessness by fair words, expostulations, and faithfully kept promises, expecting from the wolf fidelity to his word as much as from a human being. There is in this little book a vague, floating, permeating life of affection, of love unbounded b5 difference of species. Communion with all men, with Christ, with angels, with doves, and with wolves; the force of love bringing down God and raising up brutes to the level of these saints. And as we think over the little book we feel in a ~vay as if ~ve, to whom Francis and his com- panions are mere mortal men, and the tales of the fioretti mere beautiful fancies, hollow and sad for their very sweetness, ~vere looking down upon a sort of holy land, as we look down in the ~vhite twilight upon the misty undulations of this solemn and beautiful Umbria. A serene country, neither rugged and barren, nor flat and fertile, not the grey, sharp Florentine valley, whose thin soil must be irrigated and ploughed, and on whose hillsides the carefully nurtured olives are stunted with winter wind and summer scorchings, where every outline is clear and bone-like in that same hard, light atmosphere which, as Vasari says, makes all appear hard and clear and logi- cal to the minds of the Florentines. Not the endless flatness and fruitfulness of Lombardy, where the mists steam up in the evening golden round the great misty golden descending sun-ball, and the build- ings flush like the cheeks of Correggios joy-drunken seraphs, and the thin, clear outline of the rows of poplars looks against the sky like the outshaken golden hair combed into minute filaments of one of Lionardos women. Nor the dreary wastes of sere oak woods and livid sand- hills of Orvieto; nor the sea of lush veg- etation gilded by the sun, merging into the vaporous damp blue sky of the plain 49 of Lucca. None of these things is the Tiber valley, not harsh nor poor nor luxu- riant; sober and restrained, without ex- cess or scantness; an undulating country of pale and modest tints, and, save in the distant Apennine tops, of simple outline, with what glory of colors it may have, due mainly to sky and sunse.t and cloud, and even in that more chaste than other parts of Italy; neither poor nor rich, without the commerce of Lombardy or the indus- try of Tuscany, wholly without any intel- lectual movement; rural, believing, with but little of the imported influence of revived paganism, and still much of the clinging moral atmosphere of Christian contemplation and ecstasy of the days of St. Francis. Such is this isolated Tiber valley, whose skies and whose legends are so perfectly in harmony, and in it was born, of the country and of the traditions, a special, isolated school of art. Is it a school or a man? a school concentrated in one man, or a man radiat- ing into a school? There are a great many men all about the one man Perugino, masters or pupils ; the first seem so many bungled attempts to be ~vhat he is, the second so many disintegrations of him. Even the more po~verful individualities are lost in his presence; at Perugia we know nothing of the real Pinturiccbio, the bright, vain, thoughtless painter of the pageant scenes, brilliant like pages of Boiardos fairy tales, on the valls of the Sienese Library. Raphael is no separate individual, has no l)ersonal qualities be- fore he leaves Perugia. Everything is Perugino, in more or less degree. The whole town, nay, the surrounding country, is one vast studio in which his themes are being developed, his works being copied, his tricks being imitated. A score of artists of talent, one or two like Lo Spagna and the young Raphael, of first- rate powers; and a host of mere mechani- cal drudges, give us, in all Perugia, noth- ing new, nothing mdiv idual~ no impres- sion which we can disentangle from the general, all pervading impression given by the one man Perugino. The country, physical and moral, has exhausted itself in this one artistic manifestation. One not merely; but unique and one-sided. What Perugino has done has been done by no other master; and what Perugino has done is only one thing, and that to all eternity. The sense of complete absence of variety, of difference; the itnpr& ssion of all being reduced to the minimum of everything; the vague consciousness that all here is one, isolated and indivisible, 150 IN UMBRIA. which haunt us all through the churches and galleries of Perugia, pursue us like- wise through all the works of the school, that is to say, of Perugino himself. This unique school, consisting in reality of a single man, possesses only one theme, one type, one idea, one feeling; it does, it attempts, but one thing, and that one thing means isolation, concentration, elim- ination of all but one single mood. It is the painting of solitude, of the isolated soul; alone, unaffected by any other, unlinked in any work, or feeling, or suffering, with any other soul, nay even with any physical thing. The men and women of Perugino are the most com- pletely alone that any artist ever painted; alone though in fours, or fives, or in cro~vds. Their relations to each other are purely architecturaL it is a matter of mere symmetry, even as it is with the mouldings or carvings of the frame which surrounds them. Superficially, taken merely as so many columns, or half arches of the pinnacled whole of the composi- tion, they are, in his larger works, more rigorously related to each other than are the figures of any other painter of se- verelv architectural groups; compared with Perugino, the figures in Bellinis or Mantegnas most solemn altar-pieces are irrelevant to each other: one saint is turn- ing too much aside, another looking too much on his neighbor. Not so with Pe- rugino: his figures are all in relation to one another. The scarf floating in strange, snakelike convolutions from the shoulder of the one angel flying, cutting across the pale blue air as a skater cuts across the ice, floats and curls in distinct reference to the ribbons which twist, like lilac or yellow scrolls, about the head and neck of the other angel; the lute, with down- turned bulb, of the one seraph, his shim- mering purple or ultramarine robe cling- ing in tight creases round his feet in the breeze of heaven, is rigorously balanced by the viol, upturned a~ainst the stooping head, of his fellow-seraph; the white- bearded anchorite stretches forth his right foot in harmony with the outstretched left foot of the scarlet-robed cardinal; the dainty, arch-angelic warrior, drolly designated as Scipio, or Cincinnatus on the wall of the Money-Changers Hall, turns his delicate, quaintly crested head, and raises his vague-looking eyes to match the upturned plumed head of the other celestial knight. All the figures~are dis- tinctly connected with each other; but they are connected as are the piilarets, various, but different, which balance each other in length and thickness and charac- ter, a twisted with a twisted one, a twin, strangely-linked pair with another such, on the symmetrically sloping front of some Lombard cathedral: the connection is purely outer, purely architectural; and the solitude of each figure as a human being, as a body and a mind, is only the more complete. There is no grouping in these cunningly balanced altar-pieces; there is no common employment or move- ment, no action or reaction. Angels and warriors and saints and sibyls stand Sel)- arate, the one never touching the other, apart, each alone against the pale green- ish background. They may look, the one towards the other, but they never see each other. They exist quite single and isolated, each unconscious that there is any other. Indeed, there is no other; in reality, every one is in complete solitude; it is only the canvas which makes them appear in the same place. They are not in the same place; or rather there is no place : the soft, green field, the blue hills, darkening against the greenish evening sky, the spare, thinly-leaved little trees, the white tower in the distance, this little l)iece of Umbrian country has nothing to do ~vith any of them. They, or rather each singly, is nowhere. Place, like sub- ject and action, has been eliminated; ev- erything has, which possibly could. The very bodies seem reduced to the least possible: there is no interest in them; all is concentrated upon the delicate, nervous hands, on the faces; in the faces, upon eyes and mouth, till the ~vh8le face seems scarcely more than tremulous lips, half parted, raised avidly to kiss, to suck in, the impalpable; than dilating pupils, straining vaguely to seize, to absorb, to burn into themselves the invisible. It is the embodiment, ~vith only as little body as is absolutely required, of a soul; and that soul simplitiecl, rarefied into only one condition of being: beatitude of conten-i- plation. As place and action have been eliminated, so also has time: they will forever remain, alone, in the same atti- tude; they will never move, never change, never cease; there exists for them no other occupation or possibility. And as the bodies are separate, isolated from all physical objects, so is the soul: it touches no other human soul, touches no earthly interest; it is alone, motionless, space of time and change have ceased for it: con- templating, absorbing for all eternity that which the eye cannot see, nor the hand touch, nor the will influence, the mysteri- ous, the ineffable. IN UMBRTA. 5 Are they really saints and angels, and prophets and sibyls? Surely notfor all such act or suffer; for each of these there is a local habitation, and a definite duty. These strange creatures of Peru- ginos are not supernatural beings in the same sense as are those robed in irides- cent, impalpable glory of Angelico; or those others, clothed in more than human muscle and sinew, of the vault of the Sixtine. What are they? Not visions become concrete, but the act of vision personified. They are not the objects of religious feeling; they are its most ab- stract, intense reality. Yes, they are real- ity. They are no far-fetched fancies of the artist. They are the souls and soul- saturated, soul-moulded bodies which he saw around him. For in that lJmbria of the dying fifteenth centurywhere the old cities, their old freedom and industry and commerce ~vell nigh dwindled to noth- ing, had shrunk each on its mountain- side into mere huge barracks of merce- nary troopers or strongholds of military bandit nobles, continually besieged and sacked and heaped with massacre by ri- val families and rival factions; where in the open country, the villagers, pent up in fortified farms and barns, were burnt, women and children, with the stored-up fodder, or slaughtered and cast in heaps into the Tiber, and every year the tan- gled brushwood of ilex and oak and bri- ars encroached further upon the devas- tated corn-fields and olive-yards, and the wolves and foxes roamed nearer and nearer to the citiesin this terrible bar- barous Umbria of the days of C~sar Borgia, the soul developed to strange, un- earthly perfection. It developed by the force of antagonism and isolation. This city of Perugia, ~vhich was governed by the most ferocious and treacherous little mercenary captains, whose dark, precip- itous streets were full of broil and blood- shed, and whose palaces full of evil, for- bidden lust, and family conspiracy, was one of the most pious in all Italy. Won- drous, miraculous preachers, inspired and wild, were forever preaching in the midst of the iniquity; holy monks and nuns were forever seeing visions and curing the incurable; churches and hospitals were being erected throughout town and country; novices crowded the ever-in- creasin~~ convents. Sensitive souls were sickened by the surrounding wickedness, and terrified lest it should triumph over them; resist it, bravely expose them- selvcs to it, save or mitigate the evil of others they dared not: a moral plague was thick in the air, and those who would escape infection must needs fly, take refuge in strange, spiritual solitude, in iso- lated heights where the moral air was rarefied and icy. Of the perfectly human, sociable devotion of the days of St Fran- cis, of the active benevolence and right- eousness, there was now no question: the wolves had become too frightfully numer- ous and ravenous to be preached to like that Brother Wolf of the Flowerets of St. Francis. Active good there could now no longer be: the pure soul became inactive, passive, powerless over the evil around, contemplating forever a distant, ineffable excellence; aspiring, sterile and, meagre, at being absorbed into that glory of perfect virtue at which it was forever gazing. T his solitary and inactive devo- tion, raised far above this world, is the feeling out of which are moulded those scarce embodied souls of Peruginos. Those emaciated hectic young faces, ab- sorbed in one ineffable passion, which in their weakness and intensity are so infi- nitely feminine, are indeed mainly the faces of women of those noble and holy ladies like Atalanta Baglioni, living in moral solitude among their turbulent clan of evil fathers and brothers and hus- bands; the victims, or worse, the passive spectators, the passive accomplices of in- iquity of all sorts, whom the grand old chronicler, Matarazzo, shows by glimpses, ~valking through the blood and lust-soiled houses of the brilliant and horrible Gian- pavolos and Simonettos and Griffones of Perugia, pure and patient like nuns, and as secluded in mind as in any cloister. Theirs are these faces; and at the same time the faces ~vhich vaguely, confusedly looked down upon them ,glorified reflec- tions of their own, from above. These creatures of Peruginos are what every great artists works must be at once the portrait of those for whom he paints, and the portrait of their ideals, that is, of their intenser selves. He is the painter of the city where, in the Italian Renaissance, the unmixed devotional feeling, innate in the country of St. Francis, untroubled by Florentine scepticism or Lombard world- ly sense, thrust back and concentrated upon itself by surrounding brutal wicked- ness, existed most intense ; he is the painter of this kind of devotion. The very daintiness of accessory, the delicate embroidered robes, the long fringed scarves, the embossed armor, light and pliable like silk, which cannot wound the tender young archangels, the carefully waved and curled hair all this is the 152 IN UMBRIA. religious luxuriousness of nuns and nov- minute plaits and waves and curls, that ices, the one vent for all love of beauty she might go through the town as magnif- andeaseandcostlinessofthepoordelicate icent and quaintly attired as any noble creatures, ~vorn and galled by their shape- lady of the Baglionis or Antinoris or less haircloth, living and sleeping in the Della Staffas. In the workshop was the dreary, whitewashed cell. This is unmixed master and a host of pupils: Giannicola devotion, religious contemplation and Manni, Doni, the Alfani, Tiberio dAssisi; aspiration absolutely separated from any the exquisite anonymous stranger, of other sort of moral feeling. There is the whom we know only as John the Span- destructive wrath of righteousness in the iard; and perhaps that gentle, fair, femi- l)rophets of Michelangelo; and the gen- nine boy from Urbino, whom, in half vom- tleness of candor and charity in the Flor- anish gear and with wonderful delicate entine virgins of Raphael; there is th~ feather~ and jewels in his hair Perugino serenity~and solemnity of moral wisdom painted among the prophets in the Money. in Bellini, and the sweetness and cor- Changers Hall. A workshop indeed. Not diality of domestic love in Titian; there merely the studio of a master and his is even the half-animal, motherly love in pupils, but an enormous fabric of ~vorks of Correggio; there is, in almost all the devotional art; the themes of Perugino, schools of Italian painting, some character the same saints, the same madonnas, the of human goodness; but in Perugino same angels, in the same groups, forever there is none of these things. Nothing repeated, in large and small: some mere but the one, all-absorbing, abstract devo- copies, others slightly varied or composed tional feelingintense, passive contem- of various incoherent portions, by the plation of the unattainable good; souls pupils; some half by the master, half by purged of every human desire or will, iso- the pupil, some possibly touched up by lated from all human affection and action, him, one or two wholly from his own ex- raised above the limits of time and space; quisite hand. Things of all degrees of souls which have long ceased to be merit and execrableness, to suit the richest human beings and can never become an- and the l)OOrest; all could be had at that gels, hovering half-pained, half-joyful in a workshop, for Master Pietro had the limbo of endless spiritual desire. monopoly of the art, good, bad, or indiffer. Such is the work. Let us seek the ent, of the country. You could order master. Pietro Van ucci of Citt~ della designs for wood-carvings or silver ware; Pieve, surnamed Perugino, Petrus de you could hire church banners, of which Castro Plebis, as he signed himself, lived, store ~vas kept to be let out for proces- as tradition has it, in a very good house sions at so much the hour. You could in Via Deliziosa. Via Deliziosa is one of obtain men to set up triumphal arches of the many quiet little paved lanes of cardboard, and invent moulds for orna- Perugia, steep and tortuous, looking up mental sweetmeats, like those of Astorre at whose rough scarred houses you for. Baglionis wedding; patterns, doubtless ever see overgrown plants of ~vhite starred also, for embroidery and armor emboss. basil or grex marjoram bursting out of ing; you could have a young Raphael broken ewer~ and pipkins on the boards Santi set to repeating some Marriage of before the high windows, or trails of mot- the Virgin, for a Sforza or a Baglioni; tIed red and green tomatoes, or long, or some tattered smearer to copy a copy crimson-tasselled sprays of carnation dan- of some Madonna for a village church; gli ng along the broken, blackened mason- or you could commission the master him- ry, crevassed and held together by iron self to go to Rome and paint a wall of clamps; where, at every sudden turn you Pope Sixtuss chapel. For there never get through some black and oozy arch~vay was a manufactory of art carried on more a glimpse of green, sun-gilded vineyard methodically or satisfactorily than this and distant hills, hazy and blue thr6ugh one. There never was a commercial spec- the yellow summer air. Here in the best ulator who knew so well how much good part of the town, Perugino had his house and bad he could afford and venture to and workshop. In the house, full of pre- give; who knew his public so thorough- cious stuffs and fine linen and plate and ly. He had, in his youth and I)Overty, everything which a wealthy burgher could invented, discovered (vhich shill we call desire, lived the handsome wife of the it?) the perfection of devotional painting, master; for whom he was forever design- that which perfectly satisfied his whole in ~ and new ordering clothes, and whose pious Umbria, and every pious man or beautiful hair he loved himself to dress in woman of more distant parts; a certain strange fantastic diadems and helmets of number of types, a certain expression, a IN UMBRIA. 53 certain mode of grouping, a certain man- ncr of coloring which constituted a per- fect whole; a conception to embody which most completely he had in his youth ~vorked like a slave, seeking, perfecting all that which belonged to the style: the clear, delicate color, the exquisite, never excessive finish, the infinitely delicate modelling of finger and wrist, of eyeli.d and lip, the diaphanous sheen of light, soft, scarcely colored hair on brow and temple and cheek; he had coolly turned away from eveiything else. The prob- lems of anatomy, of perspective, of light and shade, and of grouping, at which in Florence he had seen men like Pollaiolo, Ghirlandaio, Filippino, Lionardo, wasting their youth, he never even glanced at. No real bodies were required for his saints as long as he could give them the right wistful faces; no tangible back- ground, no well-defined composition. All this was unnecessary. And he wanted only the necessary. When he had got the amount and sort of skill required for this narrow style, he stopped; when he had invented the three or four types of faces, attitude, and composition, he ceased inventing. He had the means of making a fortune. All that remained was to or- ganize his mechanism, to arrange that splendid system of repeating, arranging, altering, copying, on the part of himself and his scholars, by which he could, with- out further enlarging style or ideas, fur- nish Umbria and Italy with the pure, devotional painting it required, in what- ever amount and of whatever degree of excellence it might wish. He succeeded. True, other artists sneered at him, like that young Buonarroti, who had called him a blunderer; true, the Florentines complained that when he painted their fresco for them at St. Maria Maddalena dei Pazzi, he had cheated them, giving mere copies of works they had had twenty years before. About the judgment of other painters he cared not a fig; success was the only test. To the Florentines he calmly answered, that as those figures had pleased them twenty years before, they ought to please them now; that he at least was not going to seek anything new as long as the old sufficed. For men ~vho grew old in constant attempts after new styles, new muscles, new draperies, like Signorelli yonder laboring solitary on the rock of Orvieto, spending years in cramming new figures into spaces which he, Perugino, would have finished in a month with six isolated saints and a bit of blue sky; or frittered away time in endless sketches, endless cooking of new paints and trying of new washes, like Li- onardo da Vinci; or who ruined them- selves buying bits of old marble to copy, like crazy Mantegna at Mantuafor all such men as these Perugino must have had a supreme contempt. As long as money caine in, all was right; new ideas, improvements, all such things were mere rubbish. Thus he probably preached to his pupils, and kept them carefully to their task of multiplying his own works, till his school became sterile and imbecile; and the young Raphael, in disgust, left him and begged the Lady Giovanna della Ro- vere for a letter to the Gonfaloniere So- derini, which should open to him the doors of the Florentine schools. With what contempt must not Master Perugino have looked after this departing young Raphael; with what cynical amusement he must have heard how the young fool, once successful, kept forever altering his style, wearing his frail life out, meditating and working himself into the hectic, broken creature whom Marc-Antonio has etched, seated fagged and emaciated on the steps before his work. We can un- agine how Perugino descanted on all this folly to the other young men in his work- shop. For he was a cynical man as well as a grasping; he saw no wisdom beyond the desire for money and comfort. He had begun life almost a beggar, sleeping on a chest, going without food, in tatters, giving himself no respite from drudgery, sustained by one idea, one wish to be rich. And rich he had become; he had built houses on speculation at Florence, to let them out; and had farms at Cittk della Pieve, and land near Perugia. He had obtained all he had ever desired or ~ould conceive desirable: safety from poverty. In other things he did not be- lieve: not in an after life, nor in God, nor in good; all these ideas, says Vasari, could never enter into his porphyry-hard brain. This Peter placed all his hopes in the good things of fortune, and for money would have made any evil bar- rain This is how Vasari has shown us Peru- gino. The unique painter of archangels and seraphs appears a base, commercial speculator, a cynic, an atheist: the sort of man whom you could imagine transfig- ured into a shabby, pettifogging Faustus, triumphing over the fiend by making over to him, in return for solid ducats, a bond mortgaging a soul which he knew him- self never to have possessed. Some peo- ple may say, as learned folk are forever IN UMBRIA. 54 saying nowadays, that all this is pure slander on the part of Vasari; and indeed, what satisfactory historical villain shall we soon possess, at the rate of present learned rehabilitations? Be this as it may, there remains for the present the typical contrast between this man and his works; and looking at it, other contrasts between noble art and grovelling artists vaguely occur to us; and we ask our- selves, Can it be? Can a pure and ex- quisite ~vork be produced by a base na- ture? Can such anomaly exist must the mental product not be stained by the vileness of the mind which has conceived it? Must we, together with a precious and noble gift taken from a hand we should shrink from touching, accept the disheartening, the debasing conclusion, that in art purity may spring from foul- ness, and the excellent be born of the base? It is a conclusion from which we instinctively shrink; feeling, rather than absolutely understanding, that it seems to strip the holiness from art, the worthi- ness, nay, almost the innocence, from our enjoyment. XVe feel towards any beauti- ful work of art something akin to love; a sort of desire to absorb it into our soul, to raise ourselves to it, to be with it in some manner united; and thus the mere thought that all this may be sprung from out of unworthiness, that this noble, cen- tury-enduring work may be the sister of ~vho knows how many long-dead base thoughts and desires and resolves born together with it in the nature of its maker this idea of contamination of origin, makes us shudder and suspect. Also, how many of us, of the better and nobler of us, have not often sickened for a moment as the thought quivered across their mind, of the foulness out of which the noblest of our art has arisen. But in- stinctively we have struck down the half- formulated idea as we dash away any suspicion against that which ~ve love, and which our love tells us must be good. And thus, as a rule, we have l)ersuaded ourselves that, though by a horrible fa- tality our greatest artin sculpture, and painting, and music, and poetry has oftenest belonged not to a simple and austere state of society, to the strong, manly days of Greece or Rome, to the first times of Christian abnegation and martyrdom, to the childlike angelic re- vival of medi~val Christianity, to the solemn self-concentration of Huguenot France or Puritan England; that it has not sprung out of the straightforward purity of periods of moral regeneration, but rather from out of the ferment, nay, the putrescence, of many-sided, perplexed, anomalous times of social dissolution. That although our greatest art seems thus undeniably to have arisen in cor- rupt times, yet the individuals to whom we proximately owe it have been the nobler and purer of their clay. Nay, we almost persuade ourselves that in those dubious times of doubt and dissolution, the spotless, the unshaken were in a way divinely selected, like so many vestal virgins, to cherish in isolation the holy fire of art. And we call up to our minds men noble and pure, like Michelangelo and Beethoven ; we eagerly treasure up like anecdotes showing the gentleness and generosity of men like Lionardo and Mozart; trifling tales of caged birds let loose, or of l)OO~ fellow-workers assisted, which in our desire to trace art back to a noble origin seem to shed so much light upon the production of a great picture or great symphony. And yet, even as the ~vords leave our lips, words so sincerely consoling, ~ve seem to catch in our voice an unintentional inflection of deriding scepticism. So much light! these tales of mere ordinary goodness, such as we might hear (did we care) of so many a dull and blundering artisan, or vacant idler, these tales shed so much light upon the production of great works of art? A sort of reasoning devil seems to possess us, to twitch our little morsels of unrea- soned consolation, of sanctifying, mysti- cal, half-reasoning away from our peace- hungry souls. And he says: XVhat of Peruoino? What of so many undeniable realities which this Perugino of ours, even if the purest myth, so completely typifies ? How did this cynic, this athe- ist, come to paint these saints? You say that he was no cynic. no atheist, that it is all vile slander. Well, I wont dispute that: perhaps he was a saint after all. I will even grant that he was. But in re- turn for the concession, let us examine whether the saints could not have been equally well painted by the traditional, unrehabihitated Perugino, Vasaris Peru- ginonot the real one; oh no, I will admit not the real one by the typical Perugino; the man of exceeding little religion, who could never be got to be- lieve in the souls immortality; nay, with arguments suited to his l)orphyry intel- lect, obstinately refused all good paths; who placed all his hopes in the goods of fortune, and for money would have con- sented to any evil compact. Nay, even by a Perugino a good deal worse. IN UMBRIA. An ugly, impertinent, little reasoning fiend within us; but nowadays we have lost the formula of exorcism for this kind of devil, and listen we must; indignantly, and with mind well made up to find all his arguments completely false. Think over the matter, now that idea is once started, we can no longer help. So let us discuss it with ourselves, within our- selves, the place where most discussion must forever go on. Let us sit here on the low, broken brick parapet, which seems to prevent all this rough, black Perugia from precipitating itself, a mass of huddled, strangled lanes, into the ra- vine below; sit, with the grey, berry-laden olives, and twisted, sere-leaved fig-trees with their little brown, bursting fruit, push- ing their branches up from the orchard on the steep below, where the women dawdle under the low evening sun, sickle in hand, mowing up the long, juicy grass, tearing out wreath after wreath of vine and clematis, spray after spray of feath- ery bluish fennel, till their wheel-shaped, crammed baskets look as if destined for some sylvan gods altar, rather than to be emptied out into the sweltering darkness before the cows mewed up in the thatched hut, yonder by the straw- stack and the lavender and rose-hedged tank. The question ~vhich, we scarcely know how, has thus been started ~vithin us, and which (like all similar questions) develops itself almost automatically in our mind, without much volition and merely a vague feeling of discomfort, until it have finally taken shape and left our consciousness for the limbo of decided points, this ques- tion is simply: What are the relations between the character of the work of art and the character of the artist who cre- ates it? To what extent may we infer from the peculiar nature of the one the peculiar nature of the other? Such, if we formulate it, is the question, and the answer thereunto seems obvious : that as the peculiarity of the fruit depends, cceteris paribus, upon the peculiarity of the tree (itself due in part to soil and temperature and similar external circum- stances), so also must the peculiarity of the spiritual product be due to the pe- culiarities of the spiritual whole of ~vhich it is born. And thus, in inverted order of ideas, the finite character of the fruit proves the character of the tree, the re- sult argues the origin: there must exist a necessary relation between the product and that which has produced. if then we find a definite quality in the works 55 of an artist, we have a right to suppose that corresponding qualities existed in the artist himself: if the picture, or sym- phony, or poem be noble, and noble moreover with a special sort of nobility, then noble also, and noble in with that special sort of nobility must be the ar- tistic organism, the artist, by whom it was painted, or composed, or written. And this once granted (which we cannot help granting), we must inevitably con- clude that the man Perugino, who painted those wonderful spiritual types of com- plete renunciation of the world, could not in reality have been the worldly, un- conscientious atheist described by Va- sari. So, at least, it would seem. But tarry a while. We have decided on anal- ogy, and by a sort of instinct of cause and effect, that the work must corre- spond in its main qualities with the main qualities of the artist, of the artis- tic organism l)y which it is produced. Mark that we have said of the artist, or artistic organism. Now ~vhat is this artistic organism, this artist? An indi- vidual, a man ; surely? Yes, and no. The artist and the man are not the same : the artist is only part of the man. How much of him depends upon the art in which he is a worker? The work is produced by the man, but not by the whole of him; only by that l)ortion which we call the artist; and how much that portion is, what relation it bears to the whole man, we can ascertain by asking ourselves what faculties are re- quired for the production of a work of art. And then ~ve soon get to a new question. The faculties required for the production of a work of art may be di- vided into two classes : those which directly and absolutely produce it, and those which are required to enable the production to take place without interfer- ence from contrary parts of the individ- ual nature. These secondary qualities, merely protective as it were, are the mor- al qualities common, in greater or less degree, to all workers: concentration, pa- tience, determination, desire of~i mprove- ment; they are not artistic in them- selves, and are not more requisite to the artist than to the thinker, or statesman, or merchant, or soldier, to preserve their very different mental powers from the disturbing influence of laziness, or fickle- ness, or any more positive tendencies, vices, or virtues, which might interfere with the development of his talents. And of these purely protective qualities only so much need exist as the relative IN UMBRIA. strength of the artistic faculty and of the unartistic tendencies of the individual require in order that the former be pro- tected from the latter: and thus it comes that where the artistic endowment has been out of all proportion large, as in the case of such a man as Rossini, it has been able to produce the most ex- cellent work without much of what we should call moral fibre: the man was lazy and voluptuous, but he was, above all, musical; it was easier for him to be musically active than to be merely dissi- pated and inactive: the artistic instincts were the strongest, and were passively followed. When these moral qualities, merely protective and secondary in art, are developed beyond the degree requisite for mere protection of the artistic facul- ties (a degree small in proportion to the magnitude of the artistic instinct), they become ruling characteristics of the whole individual nature, and infThence all the actions of the man as distinguished from the artist : they make him as in~exible in the pursuit of the non-artistic aims of life as in that of mere excellence in his own art. The timorous and slothful Andrea del Sarto is quite as complete an artist as the eager and inquisitive Lionardo da Vinci; but, whereas Andreas activity stops short at the limit of his powers of painting, the increasing laboriousness and never satisfied curiosity of Lionardo extend, on the contrary, to all manner of subjects quite disconnected with his real art. When once the olorious fresco of the Virgin, seated, likes a happier Niobe, by the mealsack, has been properly fin- ished in the cloister of the Servite, An- drea goes home and crouches beneath the violence of his wife, or to the tavern to seek feeble consolation. But when, after never-ending alterations and additional touches, Lionardo at length permits Paolo Giocondo to carry home the portrait of his dubious, fascinating wife, he sets about mathematical problems or chemical experiments, offers to build fortresses for C~sar Borgia, manufactures a wondrous musical instrument like the fleshless skull of a horse, and learns to play thereon, or writes treatises on anatomy: there is in him a desire, a capacity, for work greater than even his subtle and fantasticating style of art can ever fully employ. Such are the non-artistic qualities required, merely as protectors from interference, for the production of a ~vork of art: the same these, ~vhatever the art, as they are the same if instead of art, we consider science, or commerce, or any other em- ployment. The artistic, the really, di- rectly productive qualities,~diffcr of course according to the art to which the work belongs, differ not only in nature but also in number. For there are some arts in which the work is produced by a very small number of faculties; others where it requires a very complex machine, ~vhich we call a whole individuality: and here we find ourselves back again before our original question, to what extent the im- personality of an artist influences the character of his work. We have got back to the anomaly typified by Peru- gino; back to it, and as completelywith- out an answer to the problem as we ~vere on starting. We have been losing our time, going round and round a question merely to find ourselves at our original starting-point. Not so: going round the question indeed, but in constantly narro~v- ing circles, which will dwindle, let us hope, till we find ourselves on the only indivisible centre, which is thesolution of the problem. For there are many ques- tions which are like the towns of this same Umbria of Perugino; built upon the brink of a precipice, walled round with a wall of unhewn rock, seeming so near if we look up at them from the ravine below, and see every roof, and cypress-tree, and pillared balcony; but ~vhich ~ve cannot apl)roach by scaling the u nscalable, sheer precipice; but must slowly wind round from below, circling up and down endless undulation of vineyard and oak wood, coming forever upon a tantalizing glimpse of towns and walls, forever seem- ingly close above us, and yet forever equally distant; till at last, by a sharp turn of the gradually ascending road, we find ourselves before the unexpected gates of the city. And thus ~ve have approached a little nearer to the solution of the ques- tion. We have, in our wanderings, left behind one part of the ground. We have admitted that the work of art is produced not by the man, but merely by that por- tion of him which we call the artist-; ~ve have even dimly foreseen that the case may be that in one art the artist, that is to say, the art-producing organism, com- prises nearly the whole of the mere indi- vidual; that the artistic part is very nearly the complete human whole. Now, in order to approach nearer our final conclu- sion, namely, whether the man Perugino could have painted those saints and those angels had he really been the mercenary atheist of Vasari, we must set afresh to examine what, in the various arts, are the portions of an individual necessary to IN UMBRIA. 57 constitute the mere artist, that is to say, the producer of a work of art. But stop again. Are we quite sure that we know what we mean when we say a ~vork of art? Are we quite sure that we may not, without knowing it, be talking of two things under one name? Surely not: when we apply the word to one of I~eru- gino~s archangels, we certainly refer to one whole object. So far, certainly: we mean (let us put it in the crudest ~vay) a certain amount of color laid on to a can- vas in such a manner, and with such ar- rangements of tints and shadows, that it l)resents to our eyes and mind a certain form; a form which we define, from its resemblance to other forms made out of flesh and bone, the face and body of a young man; a form, owing to cer- tain constitutional peculiarities and in- grained habits of our mind, we also de- clare to a given extent beautiful. This form, moreover, distinctly recalls to our mind real forms ~vhich experience has taught us to associate with the idea of moral purity, self - forgetfulness, piety; simply because we have noticed or been told since our infancy that persons with such bodily aspects are usually pure, self- forgetful, and pious: because, without our knowing it, thousands of painters have accustomed us, by giving us such forms as the portraits of saints, to consider this physical type as distinctly saintly. This l)erception, that the form into which the colors on Peruginos canvas have been combined, is such as we are accustomed to think of in connection with saintliness, immediately awakens in our minds a whole train of associations: we not merely see with our physical eyes the combina- tion of colors and lines constituting the form, but without mental eyes we rapidly and half unconsciously glance overall the occupations, aspirations, habits of such a creature as we conceive this form to be- long to. We not merely see the delicate, thin, pale lips, thrown-back head and neck, and the wide-opened, dilated grey- ish eyes; we imagine in our mind the vague delights after which those lips are thirsting as the half-closed, pale flowers thirst for the raindrops, the ecstasy of fulfilled hope ~vhich makes the veins of the neck pulse and the head fall back in weariness of inner quivering; the con- fused glory of heaven after which those wide-opened eyes are straining: while our bodily sight is resting on the mere colored surface of Peruginos picture, our mental sight is wandering across all the past and future of this strange being whose bodily semblance the artist has suddenly thrust upon us. All this is what we vaguely think of when we speak of a work of art. Perhaps we can so little disentangle our impressions and our fancies that their combination may thus be treated as a unity. But this unity is a dualism: the mere color arrangement constituting the form which we see with our bodily eyes, and with our bodily eyes find beautiful, is one half; and the whole moral apparition, conjured up by association and imagina- tion, is the other. And, as far as so infinitely interwoven a dualism can be divided, coarsely, and leaving or taking too much on one side or the other, we can divide this dual existence into that ~vhich has been given to us by the artist, the visible, material form ; and that which association, recollection, fancy has been added by ourselves to the artists work. Of this dualism, therefore, of im- l)ression and fancy, only that portion of the ~vork of art which is absolutely visible and concrete the form, whether it exist in combined color and shadow, or marble mass, as in the plastic arts, or in partially combined and partially successive vibra- tion and of sound, as in music; only this form is really given by the artist, is that which, with reference to his productive power, we can call the work of art. He may, it is true, have deliberately chosen that form which should lead us to such associations of ideas; but in so far he has been acting not as the artist, but as a sort of foreshadowed spectator, or listen- er; he has, before taking up his own ~vork with the mere material, visible, tan- gi ble, audible realities of the art, stepped into the place to he occupied by ourselves, and foreseen, by his knowledge of the effects which he can produce, by his ex- perience of what associations are awak- ened by each of his various forms, the imaginative activities which his yet un- finished work will call for in those who see or hear it. But he ~vill,in so doing, 1)e deliberately or unconsciously leaving his own ~vork, forestalling ours ; nay, the artist who says to himself, Now I will paint a soul in a condition of ecstasy, is in reality transforming himself into the customer who would enter his workshop and say, Paint me a figure such as your experience tells you suggests to beholders the idea of religious enthusiasm; copy the features of any religious enthusiast of your acquaintance, or put together such dispersed features as seem to you indic- ative of that temper of mind. All this, while the real artistic work has not be- 158 IN UMBRIA. gun; for that begins when the artist first places before his easel the model for his archangel: either the delicate, hectic, little girlish novice-boy, or the distinct outline of the armed young angel existing in his mind and requiring only to be printed off into concrete existence. Thus the work of art is merely the externally existing, definite form; and not the ideas of emotions which, by the force of asso- ciation, that form may awaken in our- selves. The archangel of Perugino, as much of it as is not created by ourselves, is merely a certain arrangement of color and light and shade which resembles a certain visible reality which we associate with the idea of a saint. Now suppose we remove from the indi- vidual all the qualities which are not directly connected with the production of arrangements of lines and colors, and lights and shades. What shall we get? A creature which can perceive with infi- nite keenness, and reproduce with perfect exactitude, every little subtle line and tint and shadow such as escape ordinary men; a creature whose delicate perception vi- brates with delight at every harmonious ~ombination, and writhes, as if it would shatter to atoms, at every displeasing mixture of lines or colors. A living and most sensitive organism which feels, thinks, everything as form and color; fostered with the utmost care by other such organis ins, themselves nurtured into intensity more intense than that with which they were born; forever put in contact with the visual objects which are, let us remember, the air it breathes, the food it assimilates ; until this visual organism be comes beyond compare per- fect in its power of perceiving and re- producing. Then, imagine this abstract being, this quivering thing of sight, placed in the midst of a country of austere, deli- cate lines, and solemn yet diaphanous tints; among the undulating fields and oak woods, beneath the pearly sky of Um- bria; imagine that before it are placed, as the creatures most precious and lovely, the creatures whose likeness must forever be copied in all its intensity, youths, young women, old men, delicate and ema- ciate with solitude and maceration, with eyes grown dilated and bright from strain- ing to see the glorious visions, the celes- tial day-dreams, which ~it across their mind; xvith lips grown tremulous and eager with passionate longing for con- stantly expected, never-coming bliss ; al- ways alone, inactive, ~vith listless limbs and workless hands, in the bare, un adorned cell or oratory; or if, coming forth, walking through the streets, pass- ing through the crowd (giving way with awe), erect, self-engrossed, seeing and hearing nothing around, like one en- tranced. Let us imagine this organism, thus perfect for perceiving and reproduc- ing all that it sees, forever in the l)resence of such lines and colors, such faces and figures as these; and then let us ask our- selves what this quite abstract, unhuman power ~vill produce, what this artist, who is completely divested of all that which belongs merely to the man, would paint. XVhat would that be, that work thus pro- duced? What save those delicate, wan angels and saints and apostles, stand- ing in solitary contemplation and ecstasy, those scarcely embodied souls, raised beyond the bounds of time and space, concentrated, absorbed in longing for heavenly perfection? And if this subtle visual organism, nurtured among these sights, should happen to be lodged in the same body as a sordid, base, cynical tem- per, can it be altered thereby? No in- deed. The eye has seen, the hand has reproduced seen and reproduced that which surrounds them and inevitably, fatally, although eye and hand belonged to the man who l)haced all his hopes in the good things of fortune, into whose porphyry brain no idea of good could enter, who for money ~vouhd have con- cluded any evil bargain, the work thus produced by this commonplace, grasping atheist, Peter Perugino, must be the ideal of aIF purely devotional art. He was an atheist and a cynic; but he was a great painter, and he lived in Umbria, in the country of sweet and austere hills and valleys, in the country whose moral air was still scented by the Flowerets of St. Francis. This is the end of our long wandering, up and down, round and round, the ques- tion of artistic personality, even as ~ve must wander up and down, round and round, before ~ve can reach any of these strange Umbrian towns. And, as after long journeying, when we enter the city, and find that that which seemed a castle, a grand, princely town, all walled and tow- ered and battlemented, is in reality only a large, rough village, with blackened houses and fissured church steeples, a place containing nothing of any interest: so also in this case, when we have finally reached our paltry conclusion that this painter of saints was no saint himself; we must admit to ourselves that to arrive at the conclusion was scarcely our real MERE CHATTER. 59 object; even as while travelling through this country of Perugino we make our guide confess that what, in all this expe- dition, we were meant to see and enjoy, was not the paltry, deceptive hilltop vil- lage, but the sere-brown oak woods, tinged russet by the sun, the grey olive hills through ~vhich we have slowly ascended, and the glimpses of undulating grey-green country and distant wave-blue mountains which we have had at every new turn of our long and uphill road. VERNON LEE. From Temple Bar. MERE CHATTER. BY THE AUTHOR OF TWO HANDSOME PEOPLE, TWO JEALOUS PEOPLE, AND A RING. Only believe half that you see, and nothing that you hear. FIRST class, sir? One seat in here, sirfarther corner facing the engine. There was no time to lose. The gen- tleman stumbled in, murmuring, I beg your pardon, to the other five occupants of the carriage, as he stamped across their toes to his place, dragging his trav- elling-bag, a fur wrapper, a bundle of sticks and umbrellas, two or three news- papers half unfolded, and a Bradshaw, with him. He flung his wrapper and his bag into the rack above his head. The bag stayed there, but the wrapper did not. For no sooner had he put his umbrellas and sticks upright in the corner of his seat, and the newspapers and the Brad- shaw at the back of his seat, and had sat down, than it fell from the top, knocked off his hat, and fell in graceful, but heavy folds on his head. Of course, by this time every eye in the carriage was directed towards him, and everybody felt very much disposed to smile, if not to laugh. If, however, his entry had been somewhat lacking in the dignity of repose, his exit, the very next minute, was decidedly eruptive in its na- ture. He had no sooner struggled from out the embraces of his wrapper, emerging from them with a red, confused face, than his glance lighted on the little baby girl (who was fast asleep and snoring with her little mouth wide open) and the young lady who sat directly opposite to him. The young lady was very prettyone could see that at the first glanceand when one looked again one could see that there was more in her face than mere prettiness. But her dress and manner ~vere too quiet to warrant the very evi- dent, one might almost say tragic, start that he gave when he was able to look at anything and saw her sitting there before him. Their eyes met. The young lady col- ored violently. There was an unmistak- able look of entire recognition passed between them. The gentleman became purple, yet though he had paused in his struggles with his rebellious rug and sat staring at his vis-d-vis, neither of them spoke. The young lady turned away her head. And the gentleman sprang to his feet murmuring something about Shouldnt of course have got in here, if I had known! pulled down his bag, caught up his bundle of umbrellas and sticks, crammed his papers into his side pockets and under his arm, and stumbled back again across thirty or forty alarmed, shrinking toes, dragging his rug after him like a fur-lined train, tumbled himself and his belongings out on to the platform, and disappeared. There was a simultaneous shout of laughter from everybody save the young lady. Even she smiled. Where there are half-a-dozen strangers together, there is sure to be at least one indiscreet person among the number. One of the passengers, a lady of uncer- tain age, turned to tile young girl whose hitherto gentle manner might perhaps have been supposed by her to indicate a meek character, and said: What an odd person! you did not know that gentle- man, did you, my dear? I thought he seemed to recognize you. It is saying little to say that the young lady reddened at the question. She be- came crimson to the roots of her hair, not with confusion, but with honest dis- pleasure at this indiscretion on the part of a total stranger. She hesitated, however, before she an- swered, because she felt that if she spoke at once she should say something unnec- essarily sharp, and she did not ~vish to do that. She waited, therefore, and after a moments pause, during which her wrath accumulated, said very sharply indeed: May I ask in what way that concerns you? The lady was startled. Oh dear me! said she with over-po- lite emphasis. In no way at all, of course. That person stared at you, and you did not resent it; so I presumed you knew him. Then he addressed you, and you turned away your head; so I was i6o MERE CHATTER. quite sure you did not know him, or I should not have spoken. I do know him intimately, said the young lady, after a slight pause. Oh! Im sure I beg your pardon, said the indiscreet lady, smiling a very disagreeable smile the sort of smile that baffled curiosity might find it consol- ing to exhibit. The young lady thought of fifty things to say, and did not say them. She was of a very fiery, quick-tempered disposi- tion so she did not trust herself with further speech, but looked, in one glance, all the deep annoyance she felt, and, tak- ing a book from her lap, deliberately turned her head away and began to read, fixedly and deliberately. The look pierced through several strata of idle curiosity, self-satisfaction, and cool impertinence, until it reached the elder ladys inner consciousness, and that be- ing not entirely invulnerable, it stabbed to the quick. The curious lady suffered the pangs of well-deserved reproof, and reddened too; and for many miles of the journey there ~vas nothing more said by any one. Two of the passengersthose who had not spoken at all got out by-and- by, and a gentleman got in, whom the in- discreet lady at once proceeded to attack conversationally, and between them there was a brisk interchange of small polite- ness: Do you wish the window up or down? May I offer you a portion of my rug? Would you like to see Punc/z? Afraid its going to rain. Country looks very bleak. Very cold for October. By-and-by they discovered that their views respecting the conduct of affairs in Zululand were alike. Presently a cartoon in PunCh led to their agreeing cordially that inebriationin the lower classes was a great evil that led to their avowing a cordial approval of the new plate glass windows at the Bigford Junction refresh- ment rooms. Subsequently they were unanimous in considering this Afghan- istan business to be a very sad affair altogether; finally they ~vere of opinion that Seaweed-on-Sea ~vas a very desirable spot. They then found that they were going to the same boarding-house, and that they were both martyrs to a combined form of rheumatic bronchitis, and in an elderly and most sedate manner, were quite fluttered at the thought of many pleasant chats to come, and confessed to themselves respectively that their fellow- traveller was an uncommonly agreca ble woman, and a very well-informed man. When the train stopped at a small sta. tion just before Seaweed is reached, the young lady, ~vho had been quite absorbed in showing some pictures to the little baby girl who was now awake and rather fretful, looked up as if she had forgotten all annoyance, and said brightly, and to neither passenger in particular, Oh ! Is this Seaweed Fields? The gentleman now for the first time noticed how very charming was the face of the quiet young lady in the farther corner, and smilingly answered, Yes. Will you allow me? and pro- ceeded gallantly to help her with her par- cels, while she muffled up the little girl, who seemed to be very ailing, and called to a porter. The other lady, however, turned her head away, and drew herself up ~vith such an unmistakable air of Pray dont come near me, or attempt to contaminate me, that it struck the gentleman quite forci- bly. A woman of a certain age may fairly be supposed to know something about which is which and who is who in her own sex, and he gave the young lady another and a bolder look. It occurred to him then that so ought middle-aged menand for the life of him he could not see anything in this pretty young woman s appearance or manner that might have alarmed the propriety of the most strict and severe of matrons. He therefore assisted her to get out, helped out her little companion, and even got out himself she was so very lovely! and watched her as she retreated. Meanwhile his friend sat silent and dis- gusted in her seat. The young lady had bowed to her with perfect politeness when she left the carriage; but she had not been able to dismiss twenty thousand little imps of mischief and fun that had taken the place of the fiery London looks, and were dancing all over her face, as she did so. For she was hugely delighted at having so successfully baffled that ladys curiosity, and she was thinking to her- self, Ha! ha! you were dying, and are still dying, to kno~v more, are you ? Well then you wont! Presently, the gentleman, having gazed enough, got into the carriage again, and said with no little ~varmth and boundless rashness, What a very good-looking young lady! Was she ? asked the other carelessly. I couldnt very well stare at that sort of person, you know. MERE CHATTER. i6r Oh ! indeed! I didnt know. She seemed very ladylike. Possibly. Of course I know nothing whatever of her. They were already in the carriage when I arrived. But there was a very odd recognition between her and a gentleman in London, and he seemed most anxious to avoid her. There was evidently more than met the eye in the whole affair. But I know nothing whatever, except that her manner was was hardly ladylike at the time. Oh, indeed I suppose we are very near Seaweed now? Yes will you allow me to do up your wraps? Oh! thanks so much, Two or three days later on, the morning had been damp and foggy, but the after- noon was so deliciously fine that Seaweed, e4 masse, seemed to have out come out to air itself and to stretch its legs on the parade. Specially two gentlemen must be no- ticed, who were strolling up and down in gay and criticising mood. Here she comes. See, to your righ t. The girl with the eyes, and the red rib- bon in her hat. To your right, man! quick, said gentleman No. i. The lady passed. Why! dont you know who that is? inquired gentleman No. 2. No; who is it? Thats the girl that Mason was talk- ing about that there was the row about in the rail~vay carriage. By George! Yes the people where he is staying, one or two of them, were in the same compartment when it took place. The man was obli~ecl to riage. ~ get into another car- What on earth did she do? Boxed his ears, I believe. Anyhow, she was very violent, it appears. Good heavens! That quiet little thing? Whatdid shedo it for? Hadhe annoyed her in any way? No. Oh! it was the sequel to a pre- vious row, they say. Well, commend me to your meek-look- ing people! Presently these two gentlemen were joined by a third. The three nodded, and stopped, straightened their backs and yawned. Beastly day. Beastly. Fine now! Tol-lol. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1779 Seen Spryggyns tumble over Lady Crouchs poodle? No Finest thing in the world! There he goes now. Just dropped his glove. Ah ! and who is he? Spryggyns? Dont know Spryggyns? Man that had the row with his wife in the railway-carriage? Wife is she his wife? Is who his wife? His wife went back to town heartbroken. The girl that boxed his ears before a whole carriageful of people. Oh! I never heard of that. Did she though, by Jove! Fact. Mason you know Mason? well he was there. But she didnt go back to Lon~lon, for shes in Seaweed now; and here she comes again. Girl with the red bow in her bonnet. Complete silence. The three gentle- men dissemble. Gentleman No. digs a little hole in the pathway with his stick. No. 2 looks up at the heavens with a crit- ical eye, and murmurs something about more rain. And No. 3, who has not yet seen Spryggnss wife, but is well ac- quainted with Spryggyns himself by. sight, looks fixedly out to sea across the spot which the lady must cross also in her progress. And she crossed, quite unconscious that she was beino watched. Well, said No. 3. Spryggyns must be hard to please. Perhaps Spryggyns is pleased. Per- haps its Mrs. Spryggyns who isnt pleased. Ha! Perhaps! Hullo, spot of rain! Ha, so there is. Going to pour. Bye. Tata. Nos. and 2 having exhausted all the condensed forms of Valediction that occur to No. 3s mind, lie is fain to content himself with a nod. The three further regale each other with a smile and sepa- rate. That same day, and at the same hour, in one of the green-shuttered, green veran- dahed houses opposite, a certain Mrs. Tighe had bidden her friends to partake frugally of music, tea, and ices. The friends had gone, and Mrs. Tighe reclined exhausted on her sofa, while her familiar, Miss Cackell of The Lau- rels, sat by her side and soothed her with gentle flattery. It was charming! So select, and yet so animated. And what delicious cakes you always do have, Augusta and what a lovely voice Mr. Toddlekins has, to be 162 MERE CHATTER. sure! By-the-by fancy my forgetting! I have been so impatient to tell you too how was it you asked that Mrs. Spryg- gyns to your house? What Mrs. Spryggyns? The girl that played the piano Played the piano where was I then? Do~vn-stairs ? Good graciou~, Augusta, you sat by her side, and nodded your head all the time. She had grey merino over grey silk. That girl? That isnt a Mrs. Spryg- gyns. Thats a Miss Blundell. Was once perhaps. But she is mar- ried now to a man called Spryggyns. Oh I you must be mistaken. She teaches music to Flossy and Lily. There was her card at the library, and Mr. Potts recommended her. She is a clergymans daughter. She may be the daughter of a dozen clergymen, and yet be Mrs. Spryggyns. But Letitiashe doesnt wear a ring. Besides, I know a Mr. Spryggyns and he isnt married. There may be other Mr. Spryggynses than yours. Oh yes! How do you spell your Spryggyns? Mine spells his name with two ys. I havent any Mr. Spryggyns of my very own, Augusta. The one I mean may spell his name with two ks. All I know is that Major Points recognized her the moment he saw her. You know his dread- ful way when he talks of goodlooking girls. He made me quite uncomforta- ble. Why, what did he say? Well, at first it was more his tone. Hullo, he said, is she here? And I said, Is who here, Major Points? Why, said he, that pretty little Spryg- gyns, to be sure! Of course I was natu- rally rather curious, and then he told me that there had been a fearful scene in the waiting-room of the station here, between this Mrs. Spryggyns and her husband, and that she tried to push him on to the rails ; and the porters had to separate them, and the station-master was obliged to interfere. Nonsense! It is a fact. Major Points wasnt there at the time, and he said he could hardly believe it; but yesterday, when he went up to the station for his Times, he just quietly said to the station-master, XVeIl, Mr. Brown, you had a pretty little scene here the other day, it appears, and he said he knew the story was true enough because Mr. Brown answered so very innocently, What scene, sir? And what did Major Points say then? He said, Oh, come Mr. Brown, you know what I mean. The lady and her husband who had their quarrel out so com- fortably in the waiting-room the other day. But he says that Mr. Brown had evidently been bribed to keep it all quiet, for all he said was, Well so they might have done, sir; but its the first Ive heard tell of it. And then he turned away as coolly as possible, and gave some trivial order to a porter. How very dreadful! and Ive actu- ally put her name up for our winter lawn- tennis club. Augusta! Isnt it provoking? I cant think how they can have been so negligent at the library. It will be very difficult to take her name off. And so awkward! but it must be done! Its against the rules. Can you see Lady Crouch to-morrow, and ask her? Ill make it my business. I thought I had better mention this to you, Augsuta. For though its painful Painful ! not at all ! said Mrs. Tighe energetically. These sort of per- sor~s always try to get into society, you know, and it is the duty of society to prevent their succeeding After all, said Miss Cackell, Major Points didnt say any great harm of her, only that she was separated from her hus- band, no more. No more! and she goes under an- other name, and worms herself into my house, and tries to kill her husband very nearly. Oh ! Augusta! Well, well. Anyhow, by your own showing she cannot be nice can she? Oh, no! And we cannot possibly play lawn-tennis with her. The next morning, therefore, when Mrs. Tighes little girls had finished their lessons, she bade them leave the room, and began nervously, Miss Blundell, I think perhaps it will be necessary for my little girls to discon- tinue their lessons _____ Miss Blundell was engaged in putting on her cloak. She stopped short with one arm in a sleeve, and one out, colored very much, then said very quietly, Just as you please, and put on the other sleeve. Perhaps, said Mrs. Tighe, rather MERE CHATTER. i63 baffled by this placid acquiescence perhaps I had better explain. Well perhaps, admitted Miss Blun- dell. I have been told, then, said Mrs. Tighe, that your name is no longer Blundell, but that it is Spryggyns. Miss Blundell looked up with a mysti- fied air, and did not answer, according to Mrs. Tighe, with either elegance or dignity. She merely said, Eh? I believe I am speaking to Mrs. Spryggyns. I have been told by people who know you well, and who saw you here yesterday, that that is your name. Mrs. Spryggynsl repeated the young girl, open-mouthed with astonishment. I am not married; my name is Blun- dell. So you have told me. Miss Blundell did not know whether to laugh or to be angry. I dont under- stand you, said she, aflame. I have been told that you are sepa- rated from your husband, pending an action for divorce. But I never was married in my life; I dont know a Mr. Spryggyns; I never knew of a Mr. Spryggyns. Who is this gentleman? I only know what I have been told by people who know you, said Mrs. Tighe. Whoever knows me, said Miss Blun. dell, beginning to feel and show great wrath, kno~vs very well that I am Miss Blundell and not Mrs. Spryggyns. I do not know, of course, what motive you may have for concealment; but but of course if you have seen fit to drop your husbands Aame you will not be likely to confess at once to having done so. Good heavens! exclaimed Miss Blundell with clasped hands. Burst into tears she would not. And she knew that she must either laugh or cry. So she laughed out suddenly and heartily, and then she was better. But Mrs. TiThe thought her conduct most unseemly, ~nd sat austere and silent until she had fin- ished. I suppose, said she then, that you will hardly deny the quarrel that took place at the station here when you met Mr. Spryggyns there the other day. What! cried Miss Blundell, more enraged than ever. And I think perhaps that in any case ____ I think that in any case, interrupted Miss Blundell quickly and decidedly that your remarks are most impertinent, and I shall not care to expose myself to any more of them. Wheth~r I am the victim of some remarkable likeness, or whether you know many of those ladies whose only aim in life seems to be to talk scandalous nonsense about people they dont know, I cannot tell. Your foolish nonsense will not annoy me longer than for a few hours, but I think I had certainly not better come here any more. I should be tempted every time to rel)eat what I now say that you are a silly, mischiev- ous simpleton, and that it would do you a great deal of good to be quietly and firmly put in your place by some older and wiser person than I. And I wish you a good. morninG- So saying Miss Blundell popped on her hat, snatched up her gloves, and.was out of the room, down-stairs, and out on the Parade before Mrs. Tighe could have said John Robinson, Esquire, which must have been her version of the vulgar Jack Robinson. She did not, however, repeat this con- versation word for word to her friend. No! Letitia, no! There are some things too painful to recall. Her brazen- faced impudence made me feel quite faint. Dont let us speak of her any more. I am only so thankful that we have all been warned in time, and that I did not recoin. mend her to Mrs. Prym. Meanwhile most of the 6/lie of Seaweed society ~vere greatly disturbing themselves about Miss Blundell, and Miss Blundell was in no wise disturbing herself about the 6/lie of Seaweed society. She noticed that she was not made welcome among them, and that on some trivial pretext her name had not been accepted at the last meeting of the Win- ter Lawn Tennis Club. But she had noticed this with almost complete indiffer- ence. She found no new engagements to teach music and languages, and although this grieved her, she hoped for better luck in other places nearer home, where she had so many friends, and was not at all cast down. She had been passed in the street with a rude stare by persons who had raved about her playing when she had met them at Mrs. Tigh es afternoon. This she did not understand, and some such thought passed through her head as must have passed through the concise midship- mans when he wrote in his report anent certain savage tribes Customs nasty manners none. She remembered toobut that with a smile of much amusement that she had been mistaken for a Mrs. Spryggns. 164 MERE CHATTER. She was, indeed, well pleased with Sea- just then was the one to whom they were weed. The air was perfect: the soil was alludino sandy. Baby ~vas almost well again. Th~re goes that Mrs. Spryggyns. Living was cheap. What more could any Spryggyns isnt her name. one require of Seaweed? Yes it is. Captain Badger must know. Yet Seaweed was up in arms about Dont you know thats the person that Miss Blundell. ~vent to the fancy ball dressed as the Queen of Beauty. They say she looked It was a charming afternoon, but there too lovely. But she was turned out. were very few people at that part of the No, no; that wasnt this one. That parade ~vhere Miss Blundell and her little was a Miss Tottie or Lottie a Miss sister were taking the air. Miss Blun- Lottie Vavasour, wasnt it? dell was walking. Her sister was leaning No, I tell you it was this Mrs. Spryg. back in a little old-fashioned go-cart drawn gyns. by an unkempt boy. I say it wasnt. If the ladies the few that were there Well, ~ve neednt quarrel about that, turned away their heads with an affec- need we? Im sure I dont care which it tation of embarrassment, the gentlemen was. Anyhow, this is the one that there did not attempt to do anything of the was that dreadful scene about in the rail- sort. And Miss Blundell, who had never way carriage. She tried to stab him, or been able to accustom herself to this dis- something like that. agreeable form of flattery, grew red and Oh, yes! indignant. This only made matters worse They say she lives quite quietly here. her emotion added to her beauty; and Yes and they do say, you know, that it is always impossible to walk up and she has a house in London so magnifi- down any public thoroughfare and look cent, that thethe duchess oftut! I supremely indignant at nothing in partic- always do forget names, but it doesnt ular, and pass unnoticed. matteranyhow, a duchess was so mad One gentleman, among the many who to see it that she actually disguised her- were incapable of offensively staring at self as a furniture polisher, and went over any one, man or woman, followed her, every bit of it. when she had passed by, with a look that What! The furniture? was full of love unutterable. He did not No, no. The house. know if she had noticed him, though he I didnt take a good look at her. was broad and tall enough to catch the Nudge me when she passes again, will eye, surely. And he did not wish her to you. see him. He was not young very near By-and-by she passed again. The forty, most likely. He was not handsome, nudge was given, and Miss Blundell well and he was not elegant. His awkward- stared at. ness was most marked. During the five She went on her way, however, neither minutes that he had been there, he had looking to the left nor to the right, but in opening his umbrella to shade him went on alone, for the little go-cart drawn from the sun sent one of the spikes into by the unkempt boy had stopped just past his neio~hbors eye. For he was at this the bench, and, ~vonder of wonders, the time sitting on a bench on which also little invalid ~vith a sweet, troubled face reposed two or three strange ladies. He looked at the gentleman and beckoned to had knocked off his own hat in calling him! his umbrella to order, and in picking up He could not believe his senses; he his hat he had let his open newspaper half rose and then sank back again into flutter into the faces of passers-by. But his place with a thud that made the he had for these several misdemeanors bench quiver. apologized so frankly and humbly that The baby face looked helpless and everybody had been instantly disarmed. the unkempt boy came forward. Those ladies who sat on the bench with Little girl wants you, I think, sir. him did not view Miss Blundell as she The gentleman rose at once and went passed with the same sort of eyes as his. to her; one glance he gave to Miss Blun- They discussed her freely. The gen- dells retreating form, but she did not tleman, however, not caring for their mis- even turn her head. chievous, silly chatter, did not follow the His heart beat violently as he bent over direction of their eyes as they spoke the child with a strange look of deep and for it did not interest him to know which painful sympathy, and laid a big, loving of the ladies that happened to be passing hand on her little hood. MERE CHATTER. 165 My darling! Dear baby, said he gently. How are you now? Better now, said she, and then she looked at a little piece of folded paper that she held in her hand, and presented it hesitatingly. Is that for me, baby? She nodded. Yes it was for him. It was folded, and addressed Daniel N. Brasthwaite, Esq. May I go on to darling Bab now? But he had unfolded the paper ~vith trem- bling fingers and was reading it. May I go on now ? said the baby voice again, and this time unsteadily, with large tears fast gathering in her little anxious eyes. For there ~vas all her earthly guide and sup- porther darling Babvani shing calm- ly in the distance and leaving her behind, in the grasp of an unkempt boy, a strange big man, and callous crowd. But his senses for the moment, save that of sights were useless for this is what he saw. I think it right to let you know, at all events in writing, that my little sister will not be a cripple for life. The doctors guarantee her perfect recovery. BARBARA BLUNDELL. Oh my God! murmured he, oh, my good, good God! He bent over the child again and laid his trembling lips on her little soft fore- head so swayed by a mighty rush of emotion that he found no more words. And the unkempt boy perceiving that Miss Blundell was making signs to him in the distance, went on, to the little in- valids great relief. Dear baby! said Miss Blundell. Good baby! did the gentleman say anything? Yes, said baby, with an effort to remember he said he said his pray- ers And now I suppose I must take you for a little sail. I dont think its too rough and it does give you such an ap- petite. My little poppleums, shall we go and find our old sailors? Those who had witnessed the above little incident had seen, with previously ill-disposed eyes, nothing but a young lady walking on as if nothing were hap- peninga letter, given by means of a chilcPs innocent little hands, and a hum- bug of a man pretending sympathy over a sick baby. They also saw the gentle- man return to his seat, and for full five minutes sit perfectly still, staring at his boots with a rapt expression of counte- nance. I should just like to see what she said to him in that letter, whispered the far. thest away. The others ~vere obliged to content themselves with meaning nods and nudges. Suddenly a form appeared before the big gentleman that did not pass away, but remained there, as it were, aggres- sivelyso close it was. The big gentleman looked up startled, and gave a jump that sent his umbrella again perilously near his neighbors eye. Really, sir Oh! pardon me, I am so awkward. Have I hurt you? The kindliness that reigned in tl~e awkward persons heart beamed out at his eyes, and the aggrieved one was instantly and totally disarmed. Oh! dear me, no. It was my fault. Pray dont mention it, The man who was the cause of this small disaster was the direct opposite to the gentleman on the bench. He was short, dark, fat, fussy, and important- looking, and he spoke in a short, fat, fussy, and important way. Sir, I believe I am correct in ad- dressing you. There is an absurd report going about that that er the lady who er I believe I am correct in saying your wife A moment, sir, interrupted the gen- tleman on the bench, smiling. Heres some mistake. I havent got a ~vife. It is not my business, of course,.to inquire whether you are married or not, sir, said the short man stiffly. Of course not! said the other, still very good-temperedly. And why the deuce do you? I dont care a hang whether the lady is your wife or not, said the short man, mistaking the others bonizomie for stu- pidity, and taking advantage of it. But I dont choose to go about the place with a a stigma upon me; and as our names are the same, I think I dont think they are, said the big gentleman. May I ask for yours? Mine, sir, is Spryggyns. XVeIl, mine is Brasth~vaite. Mr. Spryggyns looked puzzled and in- credulous. The other occupants of the bench pricked up their ears; for afar off, they already scented a battle-royal about to take place between the irate husband and the co-respondent sitting on the bench beside them. Then I have come to the wrong per- son and its a mystery! said Mr. i66 MERE CHATTER. Spryggyns presently. For you certainly riage. Some people believe me when I have been pointed out to me several deny it. Others dont. But everybody times as a Mr. Spryggyns or, possibly, seems to believe in some sort of connec- Spriggins. And certainly at the Royal tion between myself and this lady, ~vho Hotel, where I was first staying, there is calls herselforratheris-----a Mrs. Spryg- my name, Augustus Spryggyns, with t~vo gyns. It is exceedingly awkward for me, ys, and (for though you may not remem- because I may have in fact there ber it, I do) there is ~vhat you wrote your- is no reason why I should deny it I have self in the visitors book (for I saw you matrimonial views elsewhere. And it is do it immediately after me), namely, Dan- not pleasant to pass either as a married iel Nathaniel Spriggins. man living separated from his wife, or God bless my soul! You dont say as one who has lent his name temporarily so! exclaimed Mr. Brash waite. to a lady. Oh! yes, I know about the lady. Well, yes. I do certainly say so, She is unfortunately a person with whom answered Mr. Spryggyns, rather sur- it would be impossible to remonstrate prised at Mr. Brasthwaites violently ex- a person of very violent behavior and a pressed amazement. And, indeed, the deep cause of anxiety to her father, who head waiter, ~vho also saw you ~vrite, calls is a certain well-known barrister of the you Mr. Spriggins with two is to name of Bruce Blundell this day. What! shouted Mr. Brasthwaite. God bless my soul! Well, I am the The one word was like the sharp, loud most awkward, absent-minded fellow, crack of a gun. And Mr. Spryggyns re- surely, that ever lived. I remember think- treated a step or two quickly. mg to myself quite clearly now as Have you have you been daring to I wrote Daniel Nathaniel, I remember speak of Miss Blundell all this while, saying to myself Now I wonder if sir? He glared at Mr. Spryggyns as Spryggyns with two ys is merely an at- he spoke with such an amazed, indignant tempt at elegance or the proper way of face that Mr. Spryggyns instinctively spelling it. I only seem to know it so glanced around him for help. with two is and I must have written My dear sir the parade the peo- it! XVhy, I very well remember writing pIe a letter to a friend in India and directing Dn the parade and the people it to his mother in Rome, happening to too! How dare you mention that ladys be full of pity at the time for the poor name in the way you have done! Do ladys loneliness and anxiety about her you know of whom you are talking, sir! son so this isnt so wonderful. But Ill of a lady who is as likely to pass her- tell you what I ~vill do, Mr. Spryggyns; self off as anybodys wife as I am to Ill go over to the hotel, and set them all stand by calmly and hear her accused of right about it, and scratch out the second it? I am that ladys guardian, sir and Spriggins with pleasure. her fathers friend and by George, sir, I believe that my family spelt the Ill pull every mans nose who dares to so name with two ys at the time of the Cru- much as mention her name above their saders, said Mr. Spryggyns reddening breaths. Now then be quick with your very much. explanations, for Im not patient when You have the advantage of me then, Im roused, I can tell you, sirwhat is said imperturbable Mr. Brasthwaite. the cause of this impertinence of yours. For I cant find any ancestors farther Do you know back than William and Mary. There Mr. Spryggyns gasped, and was per- were Brasthwaites then. haps about to speak when t~vo or three I am sorry to have disturbed you people dashed violently past him took needlessly, sir, said Mr. Spryggyns with flying leaps on to the beach, and made as dignity. quickly as they could for the water-side. Oh! dont mind that. I hope youll Now then, stupids! said Mr. Spryg- find your lady. gyns irritably but more people came I have found the lady, said Mr. running up. From north, east. and west Spryggyns irritably. Its the gentleman from out of shops, out of houses from I want to find. The lady goes by her out of hired flies, all coming to one place. maiden name, but she is, or must be a A hundred pairs of eyes had seen simul- Mrs. Spryggyns, because I am continu- taneously what Mr. Brasthwaite and his ally being annoyed with congratulations bench companions and Mr. Spryggyns of a sarcastic nature, and worse than sar- had been too eagerly engaged in conver- castic congratulations on my secret mar- sation to notice. MERE CHATTER. x67 A long way out at sealong, that is, under the circumstances, a little boat car- rying far too much sail had suddenly cap- sized in a sudden gust of wind and had tumbled an old man, a woman, and a child into deep water. Mr. Brasthwaite heard this from twenty voices as he flew down to the waters edgeand his boots were kicked off, his coat flung off, and his waistcoat, before one could count as many seconds. Noth- ing not even a dog could have been quicker. Quick as he ~vas, however, Mr. Spryggyns was not very far behind him, though in the water the distance widened between them because of Mr. Bras- thwaites long, powerful stroke. The crowd was a useless one; mostly composed of women and children. At that part of the Parade there were no boats, and consequently no boatmen. The only s~vimmers that had been handy, as it were, had been Mr. Brasthwaite and Mr. Spryggyns. A boatman had gone into the water after them, but seeing that both the others were strong swimmers and far ahead already of him, he had come back. One or two men had torn along the beach to the boats, one or two for the life-belts. The useless ones, as usual, got in every ones way, and all talked at once: The boatman s swimming back.~ No, he has just sunk under the boat. Its a woman. No, its a child. God bless him! hell do it. Oh ! ma! ~vhat waves! Nonsense nothing to harm. Hullo ! XVhat is it ? Shes struggling shes being sucked under. Mind the rope! And never a single policeman about! I mean boat- man! There goes a boat now. Stead), steady ! Now then, lads, all together. Thats right, fill her half full of water to begin with. Why can things never be decently done in England? Do hold your row! Oh! this makes me feel so faint, Edwin. Then come home, dar- ling. Oh ! by Jove! wheres the child now? Where? where? There! Do keep your mouth shut, Cecilia, youll have the face-ache ! Shes lost! Oh, gracious heavenly powers! There goes a life-belt! What did he do that for? Gentlemen find it handy coming back. I dont see the old man! Oh! Mr. Boatman, I do feel so terrified. Do tell me theyre all safe. Hope so, mum. Oh! theyre all right enough. Johnny! Take your feet off that wet seaweed and your new boots on! How funny their heads look bobbing about. Hes got her! Oh, thank God! Thank God. Brave fellows! Theyre all right now! Hope so! You see the old man caught hold of the keel of the boat when they capsized used to it, perhaps! and so he grabbed hold of the first thing; but the woman and the child lost their heads and drifted. Theres a frightful current out there. Boat has picked up the old man. Boatll bring them all back now. Do shut your mouth, Cecilia! By George! what a jump it ~vas! Yes, takes it - quite out of a fellah Oh, these things are constantly occurring Do talk about what you understand. I tell you the bowsprit isnt a mast at all. I say it is. In the midst of life Miss Blundell had been nearer dgath than the idle talkers on the beach had perhaps imagined. She knew as much of swimming, as a means of preserving life in any sudden emer- gency, as is possible to be learned during a course of six or seven flounderings and splashings about a swimming-bath, in a convenient bathing-dress. But when she found herself in the miThty grasp of the sea, with a volume o~ water beneath, around, and swelling above her, she only remembered two things: one was to grasp hold of her sister; the other, not to strug- gle. The child unfortunately did struggle desperately in her terror. For once dar- ling Babs voice was powerless. A wave of relentless water came straight at them, slapping them full in the face, and when it had passed, Bab and her darling were wide apart. Then she lost heart and struggled struggled to reach her dar- ling not to save her, but to die with her. Then she went under water, and rose, with such frantic clinging to life that she would still try to save herself if not the child also, and she struck out feebly once more. But her strength was too small. Death came very near. She felt the shadow of his wings upon her, and there came into her head confused thoughts of those things ~vhich she had left undone, and those things which she ought not to have done. But thou, 0 Lord! And then she heard a voice along the surface of the water, Hold on! hold on! Dont struggle! How long indeed a time passed between the sound of that voice and the feel of the strong arm that grasped her and dragged her back to life again, she knew not. But she remembered her little dar i68 MERE CHATTER. ling, and she gasped, Baby go to she would never willingly speak to me baby. again. This explanation will account to Mr. Brasthwaite, however, knew that you for my great heat a little ~vhile ago Mr. Spryggyns had made as straight as when you Well, we began our he could for the child, and the boat too. acquaintance very violently, but I trust, One glance from any experienced eye Mr. Spryggyns, that we may be good could tell that the tall, strong swimmer, friends for many years to come your who had made for the lady, was well able conduct was so generous, so manly. to manage his business single-handed. I assure you, sir, I am very sorry to Shes safe, said he, spluttering; and have appeared so intrusive, and I very now that he had heard Miss Blundells much regretthater voice, and knew that life was in her, quite Certainly there is a mystery some- enjoying himself. Lean on my shoul- where, isnt there? Somebody must have der; dont be afraid. Let yourself go; begun talking some mischievous non- were all right now. sense of some sort. And you may be sure I shall thoroughly sift the matter. Good gracious! It was that Mrs. I shall remain at Seaweed until the whole Spryggyns. thing is cleared up. And that short, dark man is her hus. There was a considerable pause. band, and that the child ____ My dear sir, began Mr. Spryggyns No, no! The tall man is Spryggyns. presently, did you ever live for any The one that landed her. time at a small seaside town, such as One would think you were talking of a this? A nice, dull, healthy little spot salmon. Spryggyns is the one that saved with a sandy soil a church or a chapel the child. to every five houses, and a prayer-meeting I tell you it isnt. in the Town Hall to exorcise the Devil I say it is. whenever the great Dance or the little Meanwhile those who did not content Prance come down to give a very mild themselves with mere looking on and and adapted version of their entertain- talking, had conveyed the exhausted ments to the five or six wicked ones in woman and child to the hotel opposite. the place? At first there had been some hesitation. Well no! said Mr. Brasthwaite Hadnt the lady better be taken home at with a smile. once? But thereupon Mr. Brasthwaite Then I have. And my advice is, had roared out a few decided instructions dont attempt to sift anything at all! that admitted of no reply. He knew well Talk they must. Talk they will and what must be the resources of such a do! The more you sift the more theyll home as Miss Blundells present one, talk. and moreover, now that his hearts dar- If you think it worth while to divert ling, and her hearts darling, were safe in their attention from the young ladies, you his care and couldnt help themselves, he could send up to snug, secret London for did not feel at all disposed to let them go half a hundred white cats and let them from it. loose one night in the town. Or you could He and Mr. Spryggyns soon put them- advertise in the Seaweed Gazette that the selves into dry clothing and ~vere none great Poppleorum Jig has come, and will the ~vorse for their bath, and very much be on the pier on Tuesdays and Fridays. the better for a certain hearty shake of It takes very little to amuse them, really the hands that said a great deal. it does. Ill tell you frankly ho~v it is, said Mr. Brasthwaite smiled again. It Mr. Brasthwaite. It was her fathers appears though, to me, Mr. Spryggins, wish nearly as much as mine that I said he, that you ~vere not yourself al- should have a nearer and a dearer right ways so superior to idle talk as you seem than that of guardian to protect Miss to be now. Blundell and her sister; but she was Well, said Mr. Spryggyns wearily, not of the same way of thinking, and I I live here with some relations for remained only her very sincere and de- very nearly three months in the year; and voted friend. Since then I had the great you see I am completely demoralized. unhappiness to drop her little sister The two gentlemen laughed heartily that is more than two years ago - out of and were fast becoming good friends a swing, and it was at first feared that when a waiter came in to say that Miss she would be a cripple for life. In the Blundell desired to see Mr. Brasthwaite, intensity of her grief Miss Blundell swore if he would oblige her by going up-stairs. MERE CHATTER. 169 Miss Blundell wishes to see me, re- peated he, turning so white with emotion that Mr. Spryggyns walked away to the window in sheer pity. Youll excuse me for one moment, will you not? Oh, pray dont mind me, said Mr. Spryggyns. Mr. Brasthwaite, when he stood face to face with his darling Bab, for she was just as dear to him, and dearer than she was to baby had no words to say what was in his heart; and neither had Miss Blundell. But she gave him both her hands, and a look so glorious that none were necessary; and they stood silent awhile, hand in hand. They heard the ticking of the clock, the noise of the waves beating on the shingle in the dis- tance and babys sweet, regular little snore, for she lay fast asleep in bed. The silence gre~v intolerable, and Bab spoke, Mr. Brasthwaite, I ought to thank you for saving my life Why so? You had nothing to do with it. A man generally tries to save what he has most precious in the world from destruction; and though you will have nothing to say to me, Miss Dab that does not prevent my love for you being my most precious possession.~~ Mr. Brasthwaite, I said I would never speak to you again; didnt I ? You did, said he gently. And I have been so hard for two years, pretending to keep a vow; but when my mouth was full of water, I could gurgle out to you fast enough, couldnt I? You gurgled about baby. But I knew she was in safe hands. Miss Blundell drooped her head. She knew she must speak first of what lay at both their hearts. He had asked her three times before to be his wife; how could he divine now that she was willing to follow him to the other end of the globe? Perhaps it was he who was not now willing! There was another trying silence, during which Mr. Brasthwaite unclasped her hands. But she did not take them away; and presently she looked up with so sweet a face, so wistful an expression, and so lovely a blush, that he very suddenly, yet very gently, clasped her in his arms and kissed her. Are you coming dawn to Brasthwaite to me you and baby? said he quickly. What a fool I have been, havent I ~ I wont be so rude as to contradict you, my beauty Dab, are you serious? Think well! For Gods sake dont let yourself mistake a momentary emotion for any dearer, lasting feeling. So you wont take me on the chance? said she, smiling; but the smile was ten- der. Yes, I think I will, said he. Mr. Brasthwaite did not let loose any white cats on the town of Seaweed; nei- ther did he advertise the arrival of the great Poppleorum Jig in the Seaweed Gazette,- but he found an ardent friend in Mr. Spryggyns. Yes, he said, not once, but daily to some one or other. Yes, Im going down to see my friends, the Brasthwaites, directly. They come from Algiers. They went there for the little sister who is del- icate, you know. Charming child! Great friends always exchanging postage stamps and crests. Brasth~vaite Park splendid place; avenue three-quarters of a mile long. Richest man in Hillshire o~vns half the county. Her father? Her father was the rector of Brasthwaite. Wonderful geniusno good to his fam- ily, though; very affectionate, but self- absorbed ; died very poor. Gifted? Yes! The lady wouldnt have him at first. Fancy! wouldnt have Brasthwajte of Brasthwaite. Wouldnt speak for ever so long. Then found out in the midst of the ocean that they couldnt live without one another. Mouths full of water hearts full of love. Happiest pair on earth now! You remember that very elegant young woman that we peol)le used to call a Mrs. Spryggyns? Yes she wasnt, after all, they say. No! She has she married a very wealthy man a Mr. Brasenose 2 No no. Braddlestone, wasnt it? Ah! Braddlestone. Well, theyve gone to live abroad, because his aunt is in delicate health. Oh! is that it? I heard that her fa- ther didnt approve of the match he had a title in view for her. But there is many a titled husband tha~t couldnt lay a stone terrace nearly two miles long at her feet like this common man can. A stone terrace two miles long! So they say. You think it seems long? Well, they do say you should only believe half that ~ou see, and nothing that you hear! 170 PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LORD STRATFORD From Temple Bar. PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LORD STRATFORD AND THE CRIMEAN WAR. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE FRONTIER LANDS OF TIlE CHRISTIAN AND THE TURK, RAMBLES IN SYRIAN DESERTS, ETC. I. THE EMBASSY. A QUARTER of a century has passed since the stirring times of the Crimean War, when England awoke from her long sleep of peace, and so many reputations were made and marred. And in these five and twenty years how much has oc- curred to blur the memory of those times! India, Italy, Germany, America, France have all contributed to elbow aside the events and actors of the Cri- mean War from the recollection of living men, and the remembrance of them is fast fading into the twilight of history. There are still, however, among us some few who remember incidents and gossip, trivial indeed, it may be, many of them, and beneath the notice of the historian, but serving to give a glow of life to the memory of men whom another generation will look upon as the mere lay figures which go to make ~p history. As one of these few, one in whose mind that half. dead past is linked with the full life of the present by many vivid personal reminis- cences, I may be pardoned if I write down what I remember, setting down naught in malice. Unquestionably the most prominent figure in the East at the time was that of our great ambassador at Constantinople, Lord Stratford de Redcliffe. During the few years that preceded the Crimean War, no one could have enjoyed his con- fidence, as it was my good fortune to do more or less, without appreciating the greatness he displayed on all occasions ~vhen vital questions and interests were at stake. That he was possessed of the rare gift of political genius we have the authority of Lord Palmerston for assert- ing. No one knew him better, as their long connect ion began when they were employed for some time as joint private secretaries to George Canning; and he has said more than once that Lord Strat- ford may not have been endowed with the continuous glow of his cousins genius, but that he certainly had occasional hashes of it. I never was so strongly impressed with his power as on the occa- sion of the rupture between Russia and Turkey which resulted in the Crimean War. Prince Mentchikoff, the Russian ambassador, had been for some time secretly intriguing with the Porte when at last Reshid Pasha, the grand vizier, had his eyes opened and peremptorily re- jected the Russian proposals. Prince Mentchikoff, with the vague air of irrita- tion natural to one whose insincerity had been detected, announced his immediate departure from Constantinople, ~vith the entire Russian embassy, by order of the emperor Nicholas. Under Russian threats of breaking off diplomatic rela- tions, the Turks had kept the intrigue a profound secret, and Lord Stratford was quite taken by surprise when he heard of the rupture. He was at a ball in the house of one of the chief bankers of the place. At a late hour the first interpreter of the I3ritish embassy entered hurriedly and ~vhispered in his ear a message from the grand vizier giving the important news. The ambassador requested the commander of an English ma n-of-war, which had been placed at his disposal, to get up steam at once. He then ap- proached his hostess, with his fine strong face displaying an abundance of human kindness about the firm lips and deep-set eyes, while lie cordially conversed with heras if he had nothing on his mind more serious than the small talk of a ball-room. He wished her good-night and withdrew with perfect composure, making me a sign to follow him. On reaching his own room at the embassy, he sat down to write a very long despat~h to the Foreign Office, handing me over page after page to copy. The recollection of this de- spatch two years later raised in me an intense admiration for its masterly analy- sis of the situation and its almost pro- phetic foretelling of the consequences, dashed off, as it was, in a couple of hours, without preparation of any kind, in a style of forcible, clear, and eloquent diction. The events, as they afterwards occurred, completely justified all that was predicted in the despatch. It left Constantinople as soon as the steamer was ready, and our ministry adopted Lord Stratfords view without question. The die ~~as cast, and the Crimean \Var was the result. Great as Lord Stratford could show himself on such an emergency as this, his mind was one of those which never lose sight of detail, It was a brain of the nature of an elephants trunk, cal)able of uprooting an oak and picking up a pin. Even during the war, the Great Elchi, as lie was called, would not overlook the local shortcomings of the Turks. AND THE CRIMEAN WAR. 7 I was with him one day in his ten-oared caique on the Bosphorus, when we passed a large garden in which preparations were being made for building. Lord Stratford told me to land and inquire whose it was. I learned that the sultan was about to erect a new summer residence there. A mingled expression of gloom and lofty indignation clouded the ambassadors face when I told him this. He ordered the boatmen to row straight to the sul- tans palace. He was announced as seek- ing an immediate audience. Abdul Med- jid, supposing, as the chamberlain said, that some sudden catastrophe had over- taken his army on the Danube, received him as a friend coming to condole and advise. But there was no friendly re- sponse to the imperial greeting. On the contrary, a painful feeling of surprise was expressed by Lord Stratford at finding such a degree of untimely levity in his Majestys mind as that he should enter- tain for a moment the idea of building new palaces when his empire might be on the verge of its downfall. The sultan looked much embarrassed, and stammered out a confused request to know what the Elcizi Bey wished him to do. Tell him, said the ambassador, to dismiss at once all the workmen. His Majesty has eight palaces already, and would he spend his money, scarcely suffi- cient as it is to buy bread for his troops in the field, in building a ninth palace for the emperor of Russia to occupy? For no assistance can be expected from the allies of Turkey, if they see such sense- less extravagance. The sultan seemed struck dumb by Lord Stratfords vehemence, and only clapped his hands together to summon a chamberlain, whom he ordered to go and stop the works in the garden, for he had changed his mind about them. Lord Stratford then uttered a few plain words of paternal approval, and took leave, with all the appearance of having had his in- dignation disarmed by the schoolboy-like submission of the commander of the faith- ful. When, in his turn, the sultan asked the ambassador to change his mind on other subjects, a like result was not always at- tained. I remember a rather remarkable occasion when Lord Stratford refused to accede to the sultans request. Mehemet Ali Pasha was the husband of one of Abdul Medjids sisters, and was then minister of the navy. He had recently purchased a beautiful Greek slave, and he saw her one day at an open window in conversation with a Greek gardener, who was mowing the lawn behind his palace. The poor thing had been glad to find some one to speak to in her own mother tongue. The pasha approached the girl in silence, and stabbed her to the heart with a dagger. This reached Lord Strat- fords ears, and, when Mehemet Ali Pasha next called at the embassy, he was not received. The sultan sent an aide- de-camp to ask the ambassador why he had refused to see one of his iml)erial Majestys ministers, and his brother-in law. Tell the sultan, said Lord Stratford, that an English ambassador can never admit to his presence a cruel assassin. Another attempt was made, through the medium of the grand vizier, to appease the ambassadors anger ;but it was in vain, and Mehemet Ali Pasha was dis- missed from office. Several years before this, a conflict arose between the embassy and the Porte, about an Armenian Christian who had become a Mussulman, and soon after re- pented of his apostasy. He was received again in his former Church; but, by Mus- sulman law, the abjuring of Islamism was punishable with death, and many such sentences had been carried out. The man was condemned by the Sheikh ul Islam to be beheaded. The decision of the highest judicial authority could not be modified. The ambassador went to the sultan, who deplored his inability to sat. isfy him. He announced to the Porte that he could not remain at Constantino- ple ~vhile such a crime was being officially committed, and that, on the day before the execution, the British embassy would leave the country. There was no answer. He returned to the sultan to take leave, on the rupture of diplomatic relations between England and Turkey. Abdul Medjid actually groaned in despair, say- ing he could do nothing to prevent it. Your Majesty can easily prevent it, exclaimed Lord Stratford. You are caliph, and you can alter the Mussulman law by a decree as such. The sultan stared wildly around, and then with a trembling voice he said he would do so. He would do anything law- ful to avoid shedding blood. This was quite true, for Abdul Medjid had nothing of the bloodthirsty Turk in him. But he was weak and vacillating. He attempted to dictate a decree to his chamberlain in vague, equivocal terms, which could have no effect. Mr. Alison, the Oriental sec- retary of embassy, who was present, in- 172 PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LORD STRATFORD formed the ambassador of this in a whis- per. Write it yourself in Turkish, said Lord Stratford, and give it to the sultan to sign.7~ Mr. Alison wrote in Turkish, Mur/ad ka/il olmaz ( A convert cannot be put to death ). The sultan read the words, and affixed to them his seal as caliph of the Mussulman faith. The decree was sent to the Sheikh ul Islam, who liberated the prisoner; and no execution has ever since taken place fora change of religion. This Mr. Alison was one of the most remarkable of the able men who then formed Lord Stratfords staff. He after- wards became our envoy in Persia, and died at Teheran. He was a man of un- common abilities, but there was unfortu- nately in him a vein of eccentricity which made him many enemies and sometimes marred the effect of his brilliant po~vers. He was a great favorite with the Turks, whose language he knew perfectly, as well as Arabic and Greek. Reshid Pasha, when he was grand vizier, made quite a spoiled child of him, treating him with a degree of deference which he did not show to the ambassadors of other courts, and allowing him to cut jokes on the most serious subjects without resenting their occasional impropriety. I was once sent with him on business to that grand vizier, and during our visit the Hellenic minister entered. We rose to withdraw, but Reshid Pasha asked us to remain. The conversation turned on the state of Greece, and the minister, in reply to the inquiries of the Turk, gave glowing de- scriptions of its prosperity. After hear- ing him descant on the prbgress of agri- culture, commerce, and navigation, Reshid Pasha asked him in what state were man- ufactures. Lindus/rie, comment va-f-die? said he, being a thorough French scholar. A dmirabiemeni, answered the Greek. Owl, said the incorrigible Alison, who hated all Greeks, on pritend quily a mime un ordre de cizevalerie 6/abli en Gr?ce tour /industrie. This wicked allusion to Greek cheva- hers dindus/rie was too much for us all. The grand vizier fidgeted on his chair, trying in vain to preserve his gravity, and the Greek minister abruptly took leave in evident embarrassment. When he was well gone, a chorus of laughter ~vas led by Reshid Pasha and joined in by Mr. Alison and myself. That gre at Turkish statesman retired from his position not long afterwards, and ~vas succeeded by a fanatical old Turk of the name of Raouf Pasha. Mr. Alison, having to transact some official business at the Porte, was received very differently from what he had been accustomed to. So marked were the respect and cordial- ity entertained for him by the former grand vizier, that he would meet him at the top of the principal staircase, take him by the hand., and conduct him through the crowds in the antechambers to his own room. On this occasion there was nothing of the kind. A servant led him to the presence of the great man, to whom he was announced simply as a secretary of the English embassy. Raouf Pasha took no notice. Mr. Alison put his hands in his pockets and began whistlin gatune, while he looked at the pictures on the walls. The servant ran up to him, saying that the pasha on the sofa was the grand vizier. Impossible, exclaimed Mr. Alison in Turkish. That must be some flunkey. The grand vizier would receive me like a gentleman. Raouf Pasha stood up in apparent as- tonishment. Mr. Alison took a seat, and in his most patronizing manner invited the great man to sit down. He then ex- plained the case he had to lay before the Porte. After a long discussion of it, the grand vizier looked at his watch, said it was the hour of his prayer, and knelt down at the end of the sofa, as the Turks delight in doing in the presence of foreign- ers. The Mussulman prayer winds up with a damnatory clause against all infi- dels, and Raouf Pasha rolled it out in a stentorian voice, as if levelled at his vis- itor, who knew enough Arabic to under- stand that a deliber~ite insult was intended by the emphasis laid on the words. The grand vizier then returned to his seat, and resumed the official interview. When the affair under consideration ~vas settled, Mr. Alison in his turn looked at his watch, remarked that it was his prayer-time, and went to the other end of the sofa, where he went through a variety of gestures and genuflexions, ending with a vocifer- ous anathema against all Turks, Mussul- mans and other unbelievers in the holy Christian faith, declaimed in pure Arabic, as understood by all pious Mahometans. He then walked out of the room without taking the least notice of the astounded grand vizier. Lord Stratford was not a man with whom it was safe to take a liberty, but somehow he never seemed annoyed by any of Mr. Alisons jokes and sarcasms. AND THE CRIMEAN WAR. 73 Indeed they often had the effect of re- storing him to good humor when his rather violent temper was ruffled. Ex- plosions of anger were not unfrequent on the ambassadors part; but it was only in defence of what was just and right, of honor and humanity, that he ever broke out in one. He was once showering tor- rents of contemptuous abuse on the head of a military pasha, who was paying a ceremonious visit at the embassy- This pasha was now grown rich and plethoric, but had commanded an army corps in the first campaign between the Russians and the Turks, and lost a battle, during which he had hidden himself in a bush. Mr. Alison was translating for Lord Stratford, who walked up and down the room, stamp- ing with rage and flinging out insults with unbridled vehemence, his fury reverber- ating among the consonants like distant thunder. He asked how such a coward and traitor to his country had dared to show his face at the British embassy. The Turk tried to calm his excitement by the usual deprecatory expressions, l9ianzm, Coozoom ( My soul, My lamb ). The ambassador stopped short, exclaiming, What does he mean with his coo- zoom He means, replied Mr. Alison with a comical twinkle of his eye, that your Excellency is his lamb. The ambassador burst out laughing, conscious that his heroics had not been altogether lamblike. On another occasion, at a large dinner party given by Lord Stratford to the offi- cers of the fleet on the anniversary of the battle of Trafalgar, he proposed the toast of the navy in a long and eloquent speech, concluding with Nelsons celebrated sig- nal: England expects that every man will do his duty. In pronouncing these words with great fervor and beaming eyes, he sat do~vn with his hands on one of the decanters before him, but apparently nev- er thinking of sending them round the table. Do you not think, my lord, said one of the attach~s, the late Lord Strangford, with a quietly suggestive look, that Lord Nelson may have alluded to the duty of every Englishman to pass the wine when he proposes a toast ? The ambassador descended gracefully from his stilts, and apologized with a smile for his absence of mind. One might go on multiplying instances of cordiality at the embassy bet~veen the chief and his staff, but these few will suf fice to show how the stern EZchi could unbend in the intimacy of his chosen cir- cle, which was formed, it is true, of per- sonal friends accustomed to his ~vays. With strangers Lord Stratford was not always so indulgent towards untimely jesting. It happened to me once to see him resent most decidedly the facetious- ness of a French ambassador, when they met on a somewhat solemn occasion. War had been declared against Russia, and the allied armies were preparing to embark. The question of their place of landing had been warmly discussed. The Porte, still clinging to the hope that the determined attitude of the Western pow- ers might suffice to bring about peace, and dreading that the fanaticism of the Turks might be aroused by the appear- ance, as allies, of infidel armies at their capital, strongly objected to the allied armies advancing so far. The French government, on the other hand, looking only to the military situation, insisted on the fleets entering the Black Sea, and on troops being landed in Bulgaria to pre- vent the Russian forces from marching on Constantinople if they should make good their passage of the Danube. Na- poleons ambassador was General Bara- guay dHilliers, a distinguished soldier and a good-natured man. He was full of humor. He used to pat Lord Stratford on the back and call him mon riezez which displeased the Great Elchi in the highest degree. After a long negotiation between the t~vo ambassadors and the grand vizier, it ~vas decided that the al- lied armies should be stationed at Gallip- oh on the Dardanehles, and a convention was drawn up to that effect. A meeting was appointed at the Porte for the pur- pose of signing it Lord Stratford took me with him, in order that I might take notes for his report to the Foreign Office. The grand vizier, much pleased at having carried his point, received the two ambas- sadors with great cordiality. Lord Strat- ford displayed his customary cold courte- sy. General Baraguay dHilhiers appeared much displeased. He had failed to con- vince the Porte that it would be desirable to begin the war in a spirited manner, and he made no effort to hide his chagrin. Reshicl Pasha was the first to sign the convention. Lord Stratford followed his example, the sole expression in his face being one of icy impassibility, while his l3rutus-like chin looked more determined than ever He gravely handed the pen to the French ambassador, who looked sulkily at him, then put down the pen with 74 PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LORD STRATFORD a leering smile stealino- over his rough With all his stern gravity and occasional countenance. Reshid Pasha begged him I outbursts of violent anger, however, Lord to put his name to the paper. He still Stratford was one of the kindliest of men. gazed in silence, first at one, then at the Indeed, he was of so notably humane a other, of his two colleagues. His smile disposition that his witty attach~, the late at last became a broad grin, and he said Lord Strangford, used to call him Old that he must be allowed to relate a little Humanity. Such a disposition could anecdote before signing. The grand have little in common with the emperor vizier replied that he would listen to the Nicholas, who was indeed his pet aver- anecdote with pleasure after the conven- sion. The dislike between these two men tion had been duly signed. Lord Strat- had been of lono- standino- IVI ford sat frowning darkly, and did not ago, the ~ any years British embassy at St. Peters. speak. The general shook his head with burg fell vacant, and Lord Stratford, then comic gravity, as he gazed at him. Mr. Stratford Canning, was appointed to No story, no signature, he said at the post. The emperor intimated to the last. British government that lie objected to The pasha consented to hear the story receive him, and requested that some one first. else might be sent. His wish was ac In the time of the Regent, began ceded to, and he thus made a bitter Monsieur Baraguay dHilliers, a beauti. enemy. I do not mean to suggest that ful young countess was dressing to go to Lord Stratford was a man who would a ball allow himself to be guided by any feeling Allow me, interrupted Lord Strat- of personal pique when treating affairs of ford, to express my unqualified disap- interest to his country. But unquestion- proval of this very unusual proceeding, ably the conduct of a man occupying so and to request my French colleague to important a position as that of British sign the convention, to ~vhich lie has al- ambassador at Constantinople may be ready given his formal adherence. influenced by an unconscious bias, to the Yes, yes, mon vieu x, replied the prejudice of the policy of another State. general; I will sign; but I must first There vere abundant facts in the career finish the story I was telling you and the of Nicholas which could not but justify grand vizier. and coiifirm any right-minded man s re Lord Stratford shruo-o-e d his shoulders, pugnance to him. and sat still. His first act on coming to the throne, XVell, continued the Frenchman, for instance, was one which could not fail the waiting-maid brought the rouge-pot to impress very painfully such a man as and puff Lord Stratford. In the punishment of The Elchi jumped up in a rage. the misguided youths who then attempted I beg of you, interposed Monsieur to overthrow the imperial power, the Baraguay dHiihiers, laugh ing, and putting emperor Nicholas took no extenuating his hands on his shoulders to make hiini circumstances into consideration. Exe- sit down, do not fear, mon vieur, I will cutions follow-ed rapidly after that tragic be quick. The countess told her maid episode. Some of those more lightly in- not to rouge her face, but her back. The volved in the insurrection were exiled for maid objected that her ladys back would life to Siberia. One of them, the young not be seen. Who knows, answered Prince Nariskin, an officer of the Guards, the countess, how far mens audacity was to proceed thither with other convicts may carry them? This is what we are in a well-escorted van. His mother de- doing, mts amii-; we are landing our termined to accompany him in her own armies at Gahlipohi to rouge the back of carriage, and she petitioned the emperor Constantinople. to allow her son to occupy a place in it Reshid Pasha rolled about in his chair beside her. He refused to see her, and in one of those paroxysms of merriment wrote with his own hand upon the peti- which the gravest Turks often affect. tion the words, On foot. Lord Strat- Lord Stratford placed the convention be- ford has told this story in my presence in fore the general in silence, and handed accents of horror and indignation which him the pen. The French ambassador rose altogether above the possibility of a signed; and the Elchi made a stiff bow, suspicion that they were dictated by any and stalked out of the room. personal resentment. He concluded by Exit Jupiter tonans! exclaimed Mon- saying that no one was ever more like sieur Baraguay dHihliers with a comical Achilles, face of mock solemnity. Impiger, iracundus, inexorabihis, acer. AND THE CRIMEAN WAR. 75 The animosity of the emperor against Lord Stratford was supposed to have orig- inated in the fact that in the year 1812, when the latter was a young attach~ of the embassy at Constantinople, he be- came cka;~ge daffaires during the am- bassadors absence on leave, and took a prominent part in the conclusion of peace between Turkey and Russia. The Treaty of Bucharest, in which that peace was stipulated, contains clauses which were far from palatable to Russia, and they were traced to the influence even then exercised over the Turks by the young diplomatist, so young that he afterwards returned to Cambridge to take his de- gree. The breach thus opened between the emperor and Lord Stratford was after- wards widened by the action of the latter on a memorable occasion. The revolu- tionary agitation pervading Europe after the Parisian outbreak of February, 1848, struck the emperor with alarm. He took the first opportunity which presented it- self of casting the weight of his sword into the scale. Austria was vainly en- deavoring to suppress the Hungarian in- surrection, and he saved the power of the Hapsburg dynasty by sending an army of Russians to assist the cause of Imperial- ism. The Hungarians were crushed, and many of their most distinguished men, including several Poles who had taken service with them, found an asylum as political refugees in Turkey. The emperors of Russia and Austria de- manded that those fugitive subjects of theirs should be given up to them, and the Turks would probably have betrayed their duty of hospitality under such cir- cumstances, if Lord Stratford had not in- terposed. The Porte, understanding how the Great Elchi felt about it, made a for- mal request for advice from him, less, perhaps, with the desire of following it, than ~vith the view of putting themselves in a position to throw upon him the re- sponsibility of any ill result which might possibly ensue from it. Reshid Pasha, with whom Lord Stratford was on very friendly terms, represented to him that resistance on the part of Turkey might involve her in a disastrous war if she had no allies, and that he would be glad to know how England would be likely to act in that contingency. The ambassa- dor tried to convince him that Turkey would not be left alone to suffer for an act of generosity towards the victims of a patriotic struggle for national freedom. The Ti~k would not be satisfied without something more positive than this assur- ance. Our government, on the other hand, would not consent to hamper its future diplomatic action by a distinct en- gagement. Lord Stratford rose to the emergency, and met the difficulty unaided by the foreign secretary. He went to the sultan, and pledged himself person- ally to see him safe through any dangers that might assail him in consequence of a refusal to give up the Hungarian and Polish refugees. Abdul Medjid accepted the pledge, and a definitive rejection of their demand was at once communicated to the emperors of Russia and Austria. Few secrets are ever kept at the Porte, and the Russian embassy soon ascer- tained from what quarter had emanated so unqualified a rebuff. Another griev- ance against Lord Stratford was recorded by the czar. Apart, however, from the friction aris- ing from such diplomatic conflicts, the fundamental divergence of the characters of these two men sufficed to account for their mutual hostility. The arbitrary and the equitable elements of their respective tones of thought were too clearly defined to admit of their ever meeting in mutual agreement on almost any point whatso- ever. In Lord Stratfords opinion, the czars alleged strength of will was in reality mere unreasoning obstinacy. He had, said Lord Stratford, adopted a nar- row code of policy, which took no account of existing facts, and he aggravated dip- lomatic perplexities by appealing to apoc- ryphal popular sentiment. He dealt only in the projection into concrete form of vague and erroneous ideas, without the least infusion of a bracing common sense. These pernicious habits of thought must have grown out of the want of familiarity ~vith a wider sphere of statesmanship, and they could hardly be attributable, as has been the influence of family antecedents and traditions. Nicholas could not have inherited any such tenden- cies from his predecessors. His brother, Alexander I., devoured by pious yearn- ings, sought exclusively to liberate op- pressed nationalities, and to relieve en- slaved Christians from an infidel yoke, without having the ambition to substitute his own rule for that of a dispossessed denomination. Their grandmother, Cath- erine II., with her sentimental proclivi- ties, wished merely to leave a northern empire to her eldest grandson, and a southern to her second. The founder of Russian power, Peter the Great, true to his noble aspirations at Saardarn and 176 INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. Wapping, thought only of creating a maritime trade, as the best means of rais- ing his country to prosperity. Their suc- cessor and descendant, Nicholas, imbued with the spirit of medi~eval conquerors and tyrants, was guided by an insatiable craving for absolute power and an un- scrupulous lust of territory. There were no hereditary or imitative features in his character, any more than in his policy. He possessed neither the conscientious unselfishness of his brother Alexander, nor the ~high-minded confidence in others of his grandmother Catherine; and he was entirely devoid of the persevering constancy of purpose which made his ancestor, Peter the Great, famous in the world as an organizer of an empire. This is a summary of the ambassadors opinion of the emperor, as gathered from many conversations I had with him on the sub- ject. He had carefully studied the char- acter and policy of Nicholas, and regarded him as the one great antagonist of his long political career. It is, however, a noteworthy fact that, while indulging in expressions of dislike towards the man, he~vould never descend to abuse of him otherwise than as the emperor. From The Nineteenth Century. INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. I. I HAVE frequently been much struck by the absence of information, even among professed naturalists and professed psy- chologists, concerning the intelligence of ants. The literature on the subject be- ihg scattered and diffused, it is not many persons who have either the leisure or the inclination to search it out for them- selves. Most of us, therefore, either rest in a general hazy belief that ants are won- derfully intelligent animals, without know- ing exactly in what ways and degrees the intelligent action of these animals is dis- played; or else, having read Sir John Lubbocks investigations, we come to the general conclusion that ants are not really such very intelligent animals after all, but, as was to have been expected from their small size and low position in the zoologi- cal scale, it only required some such me- thodical course of scientific investigation to show that previous ideas upon the subject were exaggerated, and that, when properly tested, ants are found to be rather stupid than otherwise. I have therefore thought it well to write a paper for this widely circulated review, in order to diffuse some precise information con- cerning the facts of this interesting branch of natural history. Not having any observations of my own to communicate, I have no special right to be heard on this subject; but as I have recently had occasion to read through the literature connected with it, I am able to render what I may call a filtered abstract of all the facts which have hitherto been observed by others. It is needful, how- ever, to add that the filter has been nec- essarily a close one; if I had a large volume instead of a short paper as my containing vessel, the filtrate would still require to be a strongly condensed sub- stance. Powers of Si ecia? Sense. Let us take first the sense of sight. Sir John Lub- bock made a number of experiments on the influence of light colored by passing through various tints of stained glass, with the following results. i. The ants which he observed greatly disliked the presence of light within their nests, hur- rying about in search of the darkest cor- ners when light was admitted. 2. Some colors were much more distasteful to them than others; for while under a slip of red glass there were on one occa- sion congregated eight hundred and ninety ants, under a green slip there were five hundred and forty-four, under a yellow four hundred and ninety-five, and under a violet only five. 3. The rays thus act on these ants in a graduated series, which corresponds with the order of their influ- ence on a photographic plate. Experi- ments were therefore made to test the effect of the rays on either side of the visible spectrum, but with negative re- sults. In considering these experiments, however, it is important to remember that other observers (especially Moggri dge in Europe and MCook in America) have de- scribed other species of ants (genus Al/a) as fond of light. It would be interesting for any one who has an opportunity to try whether ants of this genus do not show towards the rays of the spectrum a scale of preference the reverse of that which Sir John Lubbock describes. As regards hearing, Sir John found that sounds of various kinds do not produce any effect upon the insects, nor could he obtain any evidence of their emitting sounds, either audible or inaudible to human ears. It has long been known that the sense of smell in ants is highly developed, and it appears to be the sense on which, like INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. 77 dogs, they mainly rely. Huber proved that they track one anothers footsteps in findingtheir way tofood, etc.; for he ob- served, on drawing his finger across the trail so as to obliterate the scent, that the ants became confused and ran about in various directions, till they again came upon the trail on the other side of the in- terrupted space. By many ingeniously devised experiments Lubbock has amply confirmed Hubers statements, and con- cludes that in finding treasure they are guided in some cases by sight, while in others they track one another by scent, depending however more upon scent than upon sight. There can be little doubt that ants have a sense of taste, as they are so well able to distinguish sugary substances; and it is unquestionable that in their antenn~ they possess highly elaborated organs of touch. Sense of Direction. It is certain that ants, in common with many other animals, possess some unaccountable sense of di- rection, whereby they are able to find their way independently of landmark, etc. Sir John Lubbock tried a number of ex- periments in this connection, of which the follo~ving is perhaps the most conclusive. Between the nest and the food he placed a hat-box, in each of two opposite sides of which he bored a small hole, so that the ants, in passing from the nest to the food and back again, had to go in at one hole and out at the other. The box was fixed upon a pivot, where it could be easily rotated, and when the ants had well learned their way to the food through the box, the latter was turned half round as soon as an ant had entered it; but in every case the ant turned too, thus retain- ing her direction. Sir John then placed in the stead of a hat-box a disc of white paper. When an ant was on the disc making towards the food, he gently drew the paper to the other side of the food, so that the ant ~vas conveyed by the moving surface in the same direction as that in which she was going, but beyond the point to which she intended to go. Under these circum- stances the ant did not turn round, but ~vent on to the further edge of the disc, ~vhen she seemed a good deal surprised at findihg where she was. These results seem to indicate that the sense of direction is due to a process of registering all the changes of direction which may be made during the out-going journey, and that this po~ver of registra- tion has reference only to lateral move- LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1780 men ts; it has no reference to variations in the velocity of advance along the line in which the animal is progressing. Powers of communication. Huber, Forel, Kirby and Spence, Dujardin, Bur- meister, Franklin, and other observers have all expressed themselves as holding the opinion that ants are able to com- municate information to one another by some system of language or signs. The facts, however, on which the opinion of these earlier observers rested, have not been stated with that degree of caution and detail which the acceptance of their opinion would require. But the more recent observations of Bates, Belt, Mog- gridge, Hague, Lincecum, MCook, and Lubbock, leave no doubt upon the sub- ject. T~vo or three instances will be enough to select in order to prove the general fact. Hague, the geologist, kept upon his mantel-shelf a vase of flowers, and he noticed a file of small red ants on the wall above the shelf passing upwards and downwards between the latter and a small hole near the ceiling. The ants, whose object was to get at the flowers, were at first few; but they increased in number during several successive days, until an unbroken succession was formed all the way down the wall. To get rid of the ants, Hague then tried frequently brushing them off the wall upon the floor in great number; but the only result was that another train was formed to the flow- ers ascending from the floor. He there- fore took more severe measures, and struck the end of his finger lightly upon the descending train near the flower-vase, so killing some and disabling others. The effect of this was immediate and unexpected. As soon as those ants which were approaching arrived near to where their fellows lay dead and suffering, they turned and fled with all possible haste, and in half an hour the wall above the mantel-shelf was cleared of ants. The stream from below continued to ascend for an hour or two, the ants advancing hesitatingly just to the edge of the shelf, when, extending their antenn~ and stretching their necks, they seemed to peep cautiously over the edge until be- holding their suffering companions, when they too turned, expressing by their be- havior great excitement and terror. Both columns of ants thus entirely disap- peared. For several days there was a complete absence of ants: then a few be- gan to reappear; but instead of visiting the vase which had been the scene of the disaster, they avoided it altogether, 178 INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. and made for another vessel containing flowers at the other end of the shelf. Hague here repeated the same experi- ment ~vith exactly the same result. After this for several days no ants reappeared; and during the next three months it was only when fresh and particularly fragrant flowers ~vere put into the vases that a few of the more daring ants ventured to struggle tow ards them. Hague concludes his letter to Mr. Dar~vin, in which these observations are contained, by saying: To turn back these stragglers and keep them out of sight for a number of days, sometimes for a fortnight, it is sufficient to kill one or two ants on the trail. - . - The moment the spot is reached an ant turns abruptly and makes for home, and in a little while there is not an ant visible on the wall. Many other cases might be quoted to show that ants are able to communicate information to one another; but, to save space, I shall pass on to Sir John Lub- bocks direct experiments upon this sub- ject. Three similar and parallel tapes were stretched from an ants nest to three simi- lar glass vessels. In one of the latter Sir John placed several hundred larvx, in an- other only two or three larv~c, and the third he left empty. The object of the empty glass was to see ~vhether any ants might not run along the tapes without any spe- cial reference to the obtaining of larvze; and this was found not to be the case. Sir John then put an ant to each of the other two odasses; they each took a larva, carried it to the nest, returned for another, and so on. Each time a larva was taken out of the glass containing only two or three, Sir John replaced it ~vith another, so that the supply should not become ex- hausted. Lastly, every ant (except the two which had first been put to the larv~), before reaching home ~vith her burden, was caught and imprisoned till the obser- vation terminated. The result was that during forty-seven and one-half hours the ants which had ac- cess to the glass containing numerous larva~ brought two hundred and fifty-seven friends to their assistance; while during an interval of five and one-half hours long- er those which visited the glass with only two or three larv~ brought only eighty- two friends. This result appears very conclusive as proving some power of definite communication, not only as to where food is to be found, but also as to the road which leads to the largest store. Further experiments, however, proved that these ants are not able to describe the ~recise locality where treasure is to be found. For, having exposed larv~ as be- fore and placed an ant upon them, he watched every time that she came out of the nest with friends to assist her ; but in- stead of allowing her to pilot the ~vax, he took her up and carried her to the larv~, allowing her to return with a larva upon her own feet. Under these circumstances the friends, although evidently coming out with the intention of finding some treasure, were never able to find it, but wandered about in various directions for a while, and then returned to the nest. Thus, during two hours she brought out altogether in her successive journeys no less than one hundred and twenty ants, of which num- ber only five in their unguided wander- ings happened by chance to find the sought-for treasure. Memory. The general fact that when- ever an ant finds her way to a store of food or larvae she will return to it again and again in a more or less direct line from her nest, constitutes ample proof that the ant remembers her way to the store of food. It is of interest to note that the nature of this insect-memory appears to be identical with that of memory in gen- eral. Thus a new fact becomes impressed upon ant-memory by repetition, and the impression is liable to become effaced by lapse of time. Sir John Lubbock found it necessary to teach the insects, by a repetition of several lessons, their way to treasure, if that way were long or unusual. With regard to the duration of memory in ants, it does not appear that any direct experiments have been made; but the fol- lowing observation by Mr. Belt on its apparent duration in the leaf-cutting ant may be here stated. In June, 1859, he found his garden invaded by these ants, and on following up their paths he found their nest about a hundred yards distant. He poured down their burrows a pint of diluted carbolic acid. The marauding parties were at once drawn off from the garden to meet the danger at home, while in the burrows themselves the greatest confusion prevailed. Next day he found the ants busily engaged in bringing up the ant-food from the old burrows and carrying it to newly-formed ones a few yards distant. These, however, turned out to be intended only as temporary repositories; for in a few days both old and new burrows were entirely deserted, so that he supposed all the ants to have died. Subsequently, however, he found that they had migrated to a new site, about two hundred yards from the old one, INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. and there established themselves in a new nest. Twelve months later the ants again invaded his garden, and again he treated them to a strong dose of carbolic acid. The ants, as on the previous occa- sion, were at once withdrawn from his garden, and two days afterwards he found all the survivors at work on one track that led directly to the old nest of the year before, where they were busily em- ployed in making new excavations. . - It was a wholesale and entire migration. Mr. Belt adds: I do not doubt that some of the leading minds in this formi- carium recollected the nest of the year before, and directed the migration to it. Of course it is possible that the leaders of the migration may have simply stumbled on the old burrows by accident, and, find- ing them already prepared as a nest, forth- with proceeded to transfer the food and larva~ but as the old and the new bur- rows were separated from one another by so considerable a distance, this supposi- tion does not seem probable, and the only other one open is that the ants remem- bered their former home for a period of twelve months. This supposition is ren- dered the more probable from a some- what analogous case recorded by Karl Vogt in his Lectures on Useful and Harmless Animals. For several succes- sive 3-ears ants from a certain nest used to go through certain inhabited streets to a chemists shop six hundred metres dis- tant, in order to obtain access to a vessel filled with syrup. As it cannot be sup- posed that this vessel was found in suc- cessive working seasons by as many suc- cessive accidents, it can only be con- cluded that the ants remembered the syrup store from season to season. Recogniiion - I shall now pass on to consider a class of highly remarkable facts. It has been known since the ob- servations of Huber that all the ants of the same community recognize one an- other as friends, while an ant introduced from another nest, even though it be an ant of the same species, is known at once to be a foreigner, and is usually mal- treated or put to death. Huber found that when he removed an ant from a nest arA kept it away from its companions for a period of four months, it was still rec- ognized as a friend, and caressed by its previous fellow-citizens after the manner in which ants show friendship, viz., by stroking antenna~. Sir John Lubbock, after repeating and fully confirming these observations, extended them as follows. He first tried prolonging the period of 79 separation beyond four months, and found that it might be made more than three times as long without the ants forgetting their absent friend. Thinking that this fact could only be explained, either by all the ants knowing each others personal appearance, or by their all having a dis- tinctive smell peculiar to each nest, or by their all having a sign, like a password, differing in differing nests, Sir John tried separating some ants from a nest while still in the condition of larva~, and, when they emerged as perfect insects, transfer- rino- them back to the nest from which they had been taken as larv~. Of course in this case the ants in the nest could never have seen those which had been removed, for a larval ant is as unlike the mature insect as a caterpillar is unlike a butterfly; neither can it be supposed that the larvae. thus kept away from the nest, should retain, when hatched out as per- fect insects, any smell belono-ing to their parent nest; nor, lastly, is it reasonable to imagine that the animals, while still in the condition of larval grubs, can have been taught any gesture or sign used as a password by the matured animals. Yet, although all these possible hypotheses seem to be thus fully excluded by the conditions of the experiment, the result showed unequivocally that the ants all recognized their transformed larv~ as native-born members of their community. Next, therefore, Sir John Lubbock tried dividing a nest into two parts before the queen ants had become pregnant. Seven months after the division the queens laid their eggs, and five months later these eggs had developed into perfect insects. He then transferred some of these young ants from the division of the nest in which they had been born to the division in which they had never been, even in the state of the egg. Yet these ants also were received as friends, in marked con- trast to the reception accorded to ants from any other nest. It therefore seems to be blood relationship that ants are able, in some way that is as yet wholly inex- plicable, to recognize. It ought, however, to be remembered in this connection that in an experiment made by Forel on slave- making ants, it was proved that they al- most instantaneously recognized their own slaves from other slaves of the same species and this after their slaves had been kept away from the nest for a period of four months. Under this heading I may also allude to the unquestionable evidence concern- ing enormous multitudes, or, as we might i8o INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. say, a whole nation of ants all recogniz- difficulty were actually in sight, it by no ing one another as belonging to the same means followed that their companions nationality. No doubt the principle would assist them. On imprisoning some (whatever it may be) on which the power friends in one bottle, the mouth of which of recognition depends, is the same here was covered with muslin, and some stran- as it is in the case of a single nest; but gers of the same species (F. fusca) in in the cases which I am about to quote another bottle similarly protected, and the operation of this principle is indefi- placing both bottles in the nest, the ants nitely and incalculably extended. The which were at liberty took no notice of cases to which I allude are those in which the bottle containing their imprisoned new ants nests spring up as offshoots friends. The strangers in the other bot- from the older ones, so that a nation of tle, on the other hand, excited them con- towns, as it were , gradually spreads to an siderably. For days they crowded round immense circumference round an original this bottle, endeavoring to gnaw through centre. Forel describes such a nation of the muslin by ~vhich its mouth was closed. F. exsecfa which comprised more than This on the seventh day they succeeded two hundred nests, and covered a space in doing, when they killed the imprisoned of nearly two hundred square metres. In- strangers. The friends throughout ~vere dividual ants must here have been num- quite neglected. so that this experiment, bered by the million, and yet they all as Sir John observes, seems to show that knew each other as friends even those in these curious insects hatred is a taken from furthermost nestswhile stronger passion than affection. This they would admit no foreigners within exl)erlmflent always gave the same result their territory, in the case of this species; but when A still more remarkable case is record- tried with Formica rufescenr, the ants ed by MCook of what he calls an ant took no notice of either bottle, and town. The one he has described occurs showed no signs either of affection or in the Alleghany Mountains of North hatred; so that, as Sir John again oh- America, and consists of sixteen or sev- serves, one is almost tempted to sur- enteen hundred nests, which rise in cones mise that the spirit of these ants is broken to a height of from two to five feet. The by slavery i.e., by the habit of keeping ground below is riddled in every direc- slaves. tion with subterranean passages of com- But there is no lack of evidence to munication. The inhabitants are all on show, ~er contra, that the tenderer emo- the most friendly terms, so that if any tions have a place in ant-psychology. one nest is injured it is repaired by help Even the hard-hearted species which Sir from the other nests. Here, also, foreign John Lubbock observed grew sympathetic ants of the same species were not toler- towards sick or injured friends. Thus ated; so that we should have an analo. he observed that a specimen of F.fusca, gous case if all the inhabitants of Europe ~vhich was congenitally destitute of an~ should be directly known to one another tenn~e, and which had been attacked by as friends, while an American or an Aus- an ant of another species, excited the tralian, on setting foot upon European sympathy of a friend on being placed ground, should be immediately set upon near her own nest. This friend exam- as an enemy. med the poor sufferer carefully, then Emotions. The pugnacity, valor, and picked her up tenderly, and carried her rapacity of ants are too well and gen er- away into the nest. It would have been ally known to require the narration of difficult for any one who witnessed this special instances of theim display. With scene to have denied to this ant the pos- regard to the tenclerer emotions, however, session of humane feelings. Again, there is among observers a difference of Moggrid ge has seen one ant carry another opinion. Sir John Lubbock found that sick and apparently dead ant down the the species of ants on which he experi- twig which formed their path to the sur- mented are apparently deficient in feel- face of the ~vater, and, after dipping it in ings both of affection and of sympathy. for a minute, carry it laboriously up again, He tried burying some specimens of La- and lay it in the sun to dry and recover. sins ni~cr beneath an ant-road; but none But some species of ants seem habitu- of the ants traversing the road made any ally to show affection and sympathy even attempt to release their imprisoned com- towards healthy companions in distress. panions. He repeated the same experi- Thus Belt ~vrites of the Eciton liumata, ment with the same result on various that one day ~vatching a small column other species. Even when the friends in of these ants, I placed a little stone on INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. i8i one of them to secure it. The next that approached, as soon as it discovered its situation, ran backwards in an agitated manner, and soon communicated the in- telligence to the others. They rushed to the rescue, and by their concerted action effected the release of their companion. Similarly ants of this species which Belt buried were always dug out by their friends. To quote one such instance, the ant which first found the buried one tried to pull her out, but could not. It imme- diately set off at a great rate, and I thought it had deserted her comrade, but it had only gone for assistance; for in a short time about a dozen ants came hurrying up, evidently fully informed of the circumstances of the case, for they made directly for their imprisoned com- rade and set him free. I do not see how this could be ipstinctive. It was sympathetic help, such as men only among the higher mammalia show. The excitement and ardor with ~vhich they carried on their unflagging exertions for the rescue of their comrade could not have been greater if they had been human beings. Forel and MCook have also observed displays of sympathy and affection by other species. Nursing. This may appropriately be considered in connection with the emo- tions, as it seems to imply something akin to maternal affection. The eggs will not develop into larv~e unless nursed, and the nursing is effected by licking the surface of the eggs, which under the influence of this process increase in size, or grow. In about a fortnight during which time the workers carry the eggs from higher to lo~ver levels of the nest, and vice versa, according to the circumstances of heat, moisture, etc. the larvx are hatched out, and require no less careful nursing than the eggs. The workers feed them by placing mouths together the larv~ stretching out their heads to receive the nourishment after the manner of young birds. When fully grown the larv~ spin cocoons, and are then pup~e, or the ants eggs of the pheasant-rearers. These require no food, but still need incessant attention with reference to warmth, moist- ure, and cleanliness. When the time arrives for their emergence as perfect insects, the workers assist them to get out of their larval cases by biting through the walls of the latter. XVhen it emerges the newly-born ant is enclosed in a thin membrane like a shirt, which has to be pulled off. When we see, says Biich- ner, how neatly and gently this is done, and how the young creature is then washed, brushed, and fed, we are invol untarily reminded of the nursing of hu- man babies. The young ants are then educated. They are led about the nest and taught their various domestic duties. Later on they learn to distinguish be- tween friends and foes; and ~vhen an ants nest is attacked by foreign ants the young ones never join in the fight, but confine themselves to removing the I)up~. That the kno~vledge of hereditary ene- mies is not wholly instinctive is proved by the experiment of Forel, who put young uneducated ants of three different species into a glass case with pup~ of six other species all the nine species being naturally hostile to one another. Yet the young ants did not quarrel, but worked together to tend the pup~. vVhen the latter hatched out, an artificial colony was formed of a number of natu- rally hostile species, all living together like the happy families of the show- men. Keeling Aphides. It is well and gen- erally known that various species of ants keep aphides, as men keep milk-cows, to supply a nutritious secretion. Huber first observed this fact, and noticed that the ants collected the eggs of the aphides, and treated them with as much apparent care as they treated their own. When these eggs hatch out, the aphides are ustially kept and fed by the ants. Some- times the stems and branches on which they live are encased by the ants in clay walls, in which doors are left large enough to admit the ants, but too small to allow the aphides to escape. The latter are therefore imprisoned in regular stables. The sweet secretion is yielded to the ants by a process of milking, which consists in the ants stroking the aphides with their antenn ~. Sir John Lubbock has made an interest- ing addition to our knowledge respecting the habit in question, as practised by a certain species of ant (Lasius flazues), which departs in a somewhat remarkable manner from the habit as practised by other species. He says: When my eggs hatched I naturally thought that the aphides belonged to one of the species usually found on the roots of plants in the nests of Lasius flavies. To my surprise, however, the young creatures made the best of their ~vay out of the nest, and, indeed, were sometimes brought out of the nest by the ants themselves. Sub- sequent observation showed that these aphides, born from eggs hatched in the ants nest, left the nest, or were taken from it, as soon as they Were hatched, in 182 INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. order to live upon a kind of daisy which victorious, the slave-makers carry off the grew around the nest. Sir John then pupte of the vanquished nest in order to made out the whole case to be as follows: hatch them out as slaves. When these pup~ hatch out, the young slaves begin Here are aphides, not living in the ants their life of work, and seem to regard nests, but outside, on the leaf-stalks of plants. their masters home as their own; for The eggs are laid early in October on the food-plant of the insect. They are of no direct they never attempt to escape, and they use to the ants, yet they are not left where they fight in defence of the nest should it be are laid, where they would be exposed to the attacked. The work that devolves upon severity of the ~veather and to innumerable the slaves differs according to the species dangers, but are brought into their nests by which has enslaved them. In the nests the ants, and tended by them with the utmost of I~ sangz~inea the comparatively few care through the long winter months until the captives are kept exclusively as house- following March, when the young ones are hold slaves, all the outdoor ~vork of forag- brought out and again placed on the young ino slave-capturing, etc., being performed shoots of the daisy. This seems to me a most by the masters; and ~vhen for any reason remarkable case of prudence. Our ants may a nest has to mio-rate not perhaps lay up food for the winter, but . - , the masters carry they do more, for they keel) during six months their slaves in their Jaws. On the other the eggs which will enable them to procure hand, F. rufescens assigns a much larger food during the follo~ving winter, share of work to the slaves, which they capture in much larger numbers to take As a supplement to this interesting ob- it. In this species the masters do no servation, I may here append the follo~v- work whatsoever, unless the capturing of ing, which is due to Herr Nottebohm, slaves be regarded as such. Therefore who communicated it to Professor Biich- the whole community is entirely depen. ner. This gentleman had a weeping ash dent upon its slaves; the masters are not which was covered by millions of aphides. able to make their own nests, to feed their To save the tree he one day in March own larv~e, or even to feed themselves; cleaned and washed every branch and they die of starvation in the midst of fa- spray before the buds had burst, so re- vorite food if a slave should not be pres- moving all the aphides. There was no ent to hand it in proper form. In order sign of the latter till the beginning of to confirm this observation (originally due June, when he was surprised one fine to Huber) Lesp~s placed a piece of moist- sunny morning to see a number of ants cued sugar near a nest of these slave. running quickly up and down the trunk of makers. It was soon found by one of the the tree, each carrying up a single aphis slaves, which gorged itself and returned. to deposit it on the leaves, when it hur- Other slaves then came out and did like- ned back to fetch another. After some wise. Some of the masters next came ~veeks the evil was as great as ever. . . . out, and by pulling the legs of the feeding I had destroyed one colony, but the ants slaves reminded them that they were neg. replanted it by bringing new colonists lecting their duty. The slaves then im- from distant trees and setting them on mediately began to serve their masters to the young leaves. the sugar. Had they not done so, there Aphides are not the only insects which is no doubt they would have been pun- are utilized by ants as cows. Gall insects ished, for the masters bite the slaves when and cocci are kept in just the same way; displeased with them. Forel and Darwin but MCook observed that where aphides have also confirmed these observations and cocci are kept by the same ants, they of Huber. Indeed, the structure of the are kept in separate chambers, or stalls. mouth in F. rufescens is such as to render Caterpillars of the genus Lycana have self-feeding difficult, if not physically also been observed to be kept by ants for impossible. Its long and narrow jaws, the sake of a sweet secretion which they admirably adapted to pierce the head of supply. an enemy, do not admit of being used for S/avery.The habit or instinct of feeding unless liquid food is poured into keeping slaves obtains at least among them from the mouth of a slave. three species of ant. It was first observed Ants do not appear to be the only ani- by P. Huber in Formica rufescens, which mals of which ants make slaves; for enslaves the species F. fusca, the mem- there is at least one case in which these bers of which are appropriately colored ~vonderful insects enslave insects of an- black. The slave-making ants attack a other species, which may therefore be nest of F. fusca in a body; there is a said to stand to them in the relation of great fight with much slaughter, and, if beasts of burden. The case to which I INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. 183 allude stands upon the authority of Au- dubon, who says that he has seen certain leaf-bugs used as slaves by ants in the forests of Brazil. When these ants want to bring home the leaves which they have bitten off the trees, they do it by means of a column of these bugs, which go in pairs, kept in order on either side by accompanying ants. They compel strag- glers to re-enter the ranks, and laggards to keep up by biting them. After the work is done the bugs are shut up within the colony and scantily fed. Wars. On the wars of ants a great deal might be said, as the facts of inter- est in this connection are very numerous; but for the sake of brevity I shall confine myself to giving only a somewhat meagre account. One great cause of war is the plundering of ants nests by the slave- making species. Observers all agree that in the case of the so-called Amazon slave-making ant, this plundering is ef- fected by a united march of the whole army composing a nest, directed against some particular nest of the species which they enslave. According to Lesp~s and Forel, single scouts or small companies are first sent out from the nest to explore in various directions for a suitable nest tt attack. These scouts after~vards serve as guides to the marauding excursion. When the scouts have been successful in discerning a suitable nest to plunder, and have completed their strategical investi- gations of the locality to their satisfaction the latter process being often a labori- ous one, as it has special reference to the entrances of the nest, which are purposely made difficult to find by their architects they return to their own fortress. Fo- rel has seen them then walk about on the surface of this underground fortress for a long time, as if in consultation, fter which some of them entered and again came out leading the host of warriors; these streamed from all the gateways, and ran about tapping each other with their heads and antenna. They then formed into a. column, composed of be- tween one and two thousand individuals, and set out in orderly march to pillage the nest ~vhich had been examined by the scouts. According to Lesp~s, the column is about five metres long and fifty centi- metres wide, marches at the rate of a me- tre per minute, and, on account of the distance which may have to be traversed, the march sometimes lasts for more than an hour. When they arrive at their des- tination a fierce battle begins, which, after raging for a time with much slaughter on both sides, generally, though not invaria- bly, ends in the robbers gaining an entry. A barricade conflict then takes place be- low ground, and, if the attack proves suc- cessful, the slave-making ants again stream out of the plundered nest, each ant carrying a stolen pupa. The Ama- zons cannot climb, and this fact being known to the other ants, ~vhen they find that victory is on the side of the enemy, they devote themselves to saving what treasure they can by carrying their pup~ up the grasses and bushes surrounding the nest. When the marauders have ob- tained all the booty that they can, they set off on their home~vard march, each carrying a pupa. They do not always follow the shortest road, but return ex- actly on the track by which they came, no doubt being guided entirely by the scent left on the ground from their previ- ous march. When they arrive home they commit the pup~ to the care of the slaves. Forel found that a particular colony of slave-makers watched by him sent out forty-four marauding expeditions in thirty days, of which number twenty-eight were completely successful, nine partially so, and the remainder failures. The average booty obtained by a successful expedition was one thousand pup~, so that during a single summer the total number of pup~ captured by this colony might be put down at forty thousand. Forel further tried the following exper- iment. He kept nests of two species of slave-making ants in two separate sacks, and when he saw that an expedition of a third species (Amazons) had found a slave- nest to plunder, and were fairly on their march towards it, he turned out one of his sacks upon the nest. A fight at once began between the slave-ants and san- guine ants which he had turned loose upon them. Then the vanguard of the Amazons came up; but when they saw that the sanguines were already on the field they drew back and awaited the ap- proach of the main army. In close order this whole army then precipitated itself upon the already struggling host of san- guine ants. The latter, however, repulsed the attack, and the Amazons retired to reform. This done they made a second assault, which appearing as if it ~vould end successfully, Forel, to complicate matters, poured upon the field his second sack containing the third species of slave- makers. All three species then fought together, till at last victory declared itself on the side of the Amazons. After over- coming their enemies they paused for 184 INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. a breathing-space, before beginning the recover their property. In one case the work of plunder. They then ravished predatory var lasted for forty-six days, the nest of the slave-ants, which, how- during which time it became evident that ever, fought desperately, so that it seemed the attackino nest was the stronger, for as thouuh they courted death. They even streams of follo~ved the Amazons right up to their at the ants laden with seeds arrived safely upper nest, while close observation oxvn nest, harassing them all the way. showed that very few seeds were successfully On arriving at the nest of the Amazons carried on the reverse journey into the lower the slaves of the latter came out and as. or plundered nest. Thus, when I fixed my sisted their masters to fight. These slaves attention on one of these robbed ants surrepti- were of t~vo species one being the same tiously making its exit with the seed from the as that which was being plundered, ~o thieves nest, and having overcome the opposi- that these slaves ~vere fiohtino for tl masters aoai nst tie ~, eir tions and dangers met with on its way, reach- a own kind. Alto- ing, after a journey which took six minutes to gether, therefore, in that days warfare accomplish, the entrance to its own home, I saw that it was violently deprived of its burden there were six different species of ants by a guard of ants stationed there apparently for engaged, three in alliance, and the rest in the purl)ose, one of whom instantly started off mutual antagonism. and carried the seed all the way babk again to The military tactics employed by the the tipper nest. - . - After the 4th of March I sanguine ants above mentioned are dif- never saw any acts of hostility between these ferent from those employed by the Ama- nests, though the robbed nest was not aban- zons. They do not seek to carry the for- cloned. In another case of the same kind, tress of the slave-ants by storm, but lay a however, where the struggle lasted thirty-two regular siege, forming a complete circle days, the robbed nest was at length completely round the nest, and facing it with jaws abandoned. held fiercely open and antenni~ thrown Lastly, MCook records the history of back. Being individually large and an interesting engagement ~vhich he wit- strong, they are able thus to confine the nessed between two nests of Tetrauw- whole nest of slave-ants. A special guard rium cas~itum in the streets of Philadel- is set upon the entrances of the nest, and phia, and which lasted for nearly three this allows all slave-ants not carrying weeks. Although all the combatants be- pup~ to pass, while it stops all the slave- longed to the same species, friends were ants which carry pup~. The siege lasts always distinguished from foes, however till most of the slave-ants have thus been great the confusion of the fight. This allo~ved to pass out, while all the pup~ fact is al~vays observable in the case of are left behind. The forces then close in battles between nests of the same species, upon the entrances and completely rifle and MCook thinks that the distinction the nest of its pup~-e a few companies, appears to be effected in some way by however, being told off to pursue any contact of antenn~. slave-ants which may possibly have suc- Kce~iug Fe/s. Many species of ants ceeded here and there in escaping with a display the curious habit of harboring in pupa. their nests sundry kinds of other insects, Wars are not confined to species of which, so far as observation extends, are ants having slave-making habits. The of no benefit to the ants, and which have agricultural ants likewise at times have therefore been regarded by observers as fierce contests with one another. The mere domestic pets. These pets are, for importance ot seeds to these insects, and the most part, species which occur no- the consequent value which they set upon where else except in ants nests, and each them, induce the animals, when supplies species of pet is peculiar to certain spe- are scarce, to l)lunder one anothers nests, cies of ant. Beetles and crickets seem to prolonged ~varfare being the result. Thus be the more favorite kinds of insects, and Moggridge says: By far the most say- these live on the best terms with their age and prolonged contests ~vhich I have hosts, playing round the nests in fine witnessed were those in which the coin- ~veather, and retiring into them in stormy batants belonged to two different colonies weather, ~vhile allowing the ants to carry of the same species. - . - The most sin- them from place to place during migra- gular contests are those ~vhich are ~vagecl tions. It is evident, therefore, that ants for seeds by A. barbara, when one colony not only tolerate these insects, but foster plunders the stores of an adjacent nest I them; and as it seems absurd to credit belonging to the same species; the the ants with any mere fancy or caprice, weaker nest making prolonged, though, such as that of k5eping pets, it is perhaps for the most part, inefficient attempts to satest to suppose that these insects, like INTELLIGENCE OF ANTS. i85 the aphides, are of some use to their mas- ters, although we are not yet in a position to surmise what this use can be. Sleep and Cle~znli;zess. It is probable that all ants enjoy periods of true slumber alternating with those of activity; but actual observations on this subject have only been made in the case of two or three species. MCook says that the harvest- ing ants of Texas sleep so soundly that they may be pretty severely stroked with a feather without being aroused; but they are immediately awakened by a sharp tap. On awakening they often stretch their limbs in a manner precisely resembling that of warm-blooded animals, and even yawn the latter action beiug very like that of the human animal; the mandibles are thrown open with the peculiar muscu- lar strain ~vhich is familiar to all readers the tongue is also sometimes thrust out. The ordinary duration of sleep in this species is about three hours. Invariably on awakening, and often at other times, the ants perform, like many other insects, elaborate processes of washing and brushing. But, unlike other insects, ants assist one another in the per- formance of their toilet. The author just quoted describes the whole process in the genus A/ta. The cleanser begins with washing the face of her companion, and then passes on to the thorax, legs~ ~nd abdomen. The attitude of the cleansed all this while is one of intense satisfaction, quite resembling that of a family dog when one is scratching the back of his neck. The insect stretches out her limbs, and, as her friend takes them successively into hand, yields them limp and supple to her manil)ulation; she rolls gently over on her side, even quite over on her back, and with all her limbs relaxed presents a per- fect picture of muscular surrender and ease. The pleasure which the creatures take in being thus combed and sponged is really en- joyable to the observer. I have seen an ant kneel down before another and thrust forward the head drooping quite under the face, and lie there motionless, thus expressing, as plainly as sign-language could, her desire to be cleansed. I at once understood the gesture, and so did the supplicated ant, for she at once went to work. Bates also has described similar facts with regard to ants of another genus the ecitons. Play and Leisure. The life of ants is not all work, or, at least, is not so in all species. Huber describes regular gym- nastic sports as practised by the species p ratensis. They raise themselves on their hind legs to wrestle and throw pre tended antagonists with their fore legs, run after each other, and seem to play at hide and seek. When one is victorious in a display of strength, it often seizes all the others in the ring, and tumbles theni about like ninepins. Forel has amply confirmed these observations of Huber, and says that the chasing, struggling, and rolling together upon the ground, pulling each other in and out of the entrances, etc., irresistibly reminded him of romp- ing boys at play. I understand, he says, that the matter must seem wonder- ful to those ~~ho have not witnessed it, particularly when we remember that sex- ual attraction can here play no part. MCook and Bates also give similar ac- counts of the habits of play and leisure among species of the Western hemi- sphere. Funerals. The habit of carrying their dead out and away from their nests is very general, if not universal, among ants; and being no doubt due to sanitary re- quirements, has probably been developed as a beneficial instinct by natural selec- tion. MCook says of the agricultural ants All species whose manners I have closely observed are quite alike in their mode of caring for their own dead, and for the dry car- cases of aliens. The former they appear to treat with some degree of reverence, at least to the extent of giving them a sort of sepul- ture without feeding upon them. The latter, after having exhausted the juices of the body, they usually deposit together in some spot re- moved from the nest. Experiments made on ants kept in con- finement showed that the desire to remove dead companions was one of the strongest that they exhibited. So great was the desire to get rid of the dead outside the nest, that the bearers would climb up the smooth surface of the glass to the very tol) of the jar, laboriously carrying with them a dead ant. This was severe work, which was rarely undertaken except under the influence of this funereal enthusiasm. Falls ~vere freqoent, but patiently the little under- taker ~voold follow the impulse of her in- stinct and try and try again. Finally the fact of a necessity seemed to dawn upon the ants (the jar being closed at the top so that they could not get out), and a portion of the surface opl)osite from the entrance to the galleries, and close up against the glass, was used as a burial-ground and sort of kitchen-midden, where all the refuse of the nest was deposited. This author also records in his recently published work an interesting piece of information to which he was led by Mrs. Treat. i86 THE ARABS OF THE DESERT. A visit was paid to a large colony of these and bearing, and, as the best observers slave-makers (F. sanguinea), which is estab- say, in habit of thought, is his collateral lished on the grounds adjoining her residence kinsman, ninety generations removed, a at Vineland, New Jersey. I noticed that a sheikh of Syria or Nejd? What induces number of carcases of one of the slave species, the Arab to seclude himself in a dreary Formica fusca, were deposited together quite near the gates of the nest. They were l)rob- peninsula, in poverty such as no Euro- ably chiefly the dry bodies of ants brought in pean conceives, and there live the life of from recent raids. It was noticed that the a remote antiquity, a life without object, dead ants were all of one species, and there- or hope, or fear, a life so persistent that a fore Mrs. Treat informed me that the red thousand years hence, if Europe does not slave-makers never deposited their dead with conquer him, the Arab will be as to-day? those of their black servitors, but always laid It is not his race, for the Jew is as purely them by themselves, not in groups, but sepa- Arab as himself, sprung from the same rately, and were careful to take them a consid- ancestor as himself, and, like himself, has erable distance from the rest. One can hardly resist pointing here another likeness between never mixed his blood. And yet the Jew the customs of these social h~menoptera and has changed. The least receptive of man- those of human beings, certain of whom carry kind has become the most receptive, so their distinctions of race, condition, or religious recel)tive, that he is more German, more caste even to the gates of the cemetery, in French, more Italian, than Italian, Ger- which the poor body moulders into its mother man, or Frenchman; the most isolated dust! seeks cities by choice, preferring Brighton GEORGE J. ROMANES. infinitely to the desert; the purely agri- cultural people have grown into money- changers, and the most religious even of Asiatics have become, with magnificent From The Spectator. individual exceptions, utterly earthy. THE ARABS OF THE DESERT. The Arab who wanders has changed alto- GLANCING through a new volume of gether, while the Arab who remains is as poems ~vhich the author rather absurdly he ~vas in the days of Jethro, even his calls The Love Sonnets of Proteus, we new creed for Mahommedanism is tar- came upon this very fine and suggestive verne before the Arab being rather an address to the Bedouins expression of himself than an influence modifying his mind. Christianity changed Children of Shem! Firstborn of Noahs race, the Norseman, but the Arab was Mahom- But still forever children; at the door medan before Mahommed. Of Eden found, unconscious of disgrace, What has made the latter so unchange- And loitering on while all are gone before; able? It is not any defect of intellect, or Too proud to dig; too careless to be poor; ~vant of force of character. All who have Taking the gifts of God in thanklessness, studied the Arabs in their tents or their Not rendering aught, nor supplicating more, Nor arguing with him when he hides his face, secluded cities attribute to them the old Yours is the rain and sunshine, and the way qualities, the instinct for poetry and Of an old wisdom by our world forgot, romance, and, so to speak, literature; a The courage of a day which knew not death, command of their magnificent tongue, \Vell may we sons of Japhet in dismay such as no uncultivated European has of Pause in our vain mad fight for life and breath, his own language; a separate energy; a Beholding ou. I bow and reason not. special capacity for comprehending argu- The many-charactered poet bears one ment, and even for managing affairs. As character among others, we believe, which soldier, the Arab is first in Asia, though, specially entitles him to judge of Arabs, from his excessive individuality, he is and certainly in this sonnet he has touched beaten in the aggregate by an inferior with a ringing spear the central peculiar- people like the Turks, mud bricks, ity of the Bedouin position. There is no as he himself says, beino better for puzzle in the ~vorld, either to the ethnolo- building than diamonds. The Arab who gist or the psychologist, quite equal to ~vanders forth as soldier, as statesman, as the Arab, whether he dwells in a tent, trader, or, curiously enough, as sailor, half-nomad, half-robber, or abides in a almost invariably succeeds; and if the city of Nejd or south Arabia, the oldest, English quitted India, it is a question most tranquil, and proudest of republi- whether a Sikh, a Mahratta, or an Arab cans. XVhy is he, of all men in the world, would rebuild the throne of the Great the one who changes so little, that the Mogul. It is not energy that is wanting person who, of all mankind, most resem- to him. His forefathers conquered the bles Sheikh Abraham in ways and habits world, and, unarmored, defeated even the THE ARABS OF THE DESERT. z87 armored barbarians who lived only for battle, founded three empires at least, and did not retreat after centuries of contest before the Crusaders, the picked warrior emio~rants of a dozen Christian lands. All the men of iron of Europe failed to tear Jerusalem from the Arab. To this day, the Arab intriguer rises most swiftly at Constantinople, the Arab trader pene- trates furthest into Africa, the Arab mis- sionary in Bengal, in central Asia, in the furthest recesses of central and western Africa, makes~the most numerous and the most faithful converts. The enervated Hindoo of Dacca, the dissolute pagan of the Gold Coast, becomes, when under the Arab spell, the dangerous Ferazee or the warlike Houssa. No one who knows the Arab doubts his enterprise, and yet he lives on in the Syrian desert, or in his vast, secluded peninsula Arabia is as large as India, or Europe west of the Vistula unchanged, seeking no advance, complaining of no suffering, living his life, such as it is, straight on, and accept- ing death as a destiny, neither to be sought nor feared. As it was, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, that is his conception of human life. Time is nothing to the Arab; progress has no attraction for his mind; ~vealth, though when abroad he seeks it zealously, has no charm to tempt him thither. Pov- erty is nothing to him, for the man who is contented with his skin can never be l)oor. Buckle might say it was his geographical position, but that did not prevent him from conquering half the Roman ~vorld. It is his creed. In what does his creed differ from that of the Jew, except in cer- tain precepts which should send the Arab forth to conquer, not seclude him in the islands of the desert? It is his l)overty? About all other men we say, and say truly, that poverty is a stimulus to advance, that clans of brave men able to fight will not remain poor. It is his individualism? That is but pushing the question a step backwards, for ~vhat is it which makes the Arab, who abroad founded Bagdad and Granada, and who at home constructs petty States as truly republican as Un, unable to found a kingdom, or a society which shall advance men to the civil- ized Oriental level? What gives the Arab alone, even among Asiatics, that perfection of mental content which asks nothing even from God, and is so full, as Proteus says, of the courage of aday which knew not death? We suppose the secret must lie, like the secret of the Irish peasants home- sickness, in some charm which the life he leads, with its exemption from wants, and from changes, and from uncertain- ties, has for him; but that is certainly a strange lesson for the breathless race of Japhet. The most qualified of the races of Asia, having conquered a ~vorld and its wealth, and built cities and devised creeds, and composed a literature, shrinks back contentedly to live a changeless life of dreary poverty, in the one section of the world which to the European is utterly repellant. The Arabs do not believe one word of all that Mr. Bright gives to the world as solidly sensible advice, and they are content, and among their rivals noble. They despise industry, put wealth by as meaningless, keep the tradition of the past as a possession, and without decay as without progress, live on forever, as they were in ages of which history tells us nothing. What explanation of them has the Comtist, with his dream of per- fected humanity, to offer? or where is his proof that the Parisian, with all his mod- ern vigor and activity of brain, and mas- tery over all the secrets of nature ~vhich conduce to comfort or to the diffusion of intelligence, will survive the Arab, who was before the Pharaohs in all essentials what he is now? Durability, at all events, is not lacking to the race which, of all others, is furthest from the modern ideal. May it not just be l)OSSible that the races which halt and wait, as calmly indifferent to the strife outside as if their habitats were planets, may conserve energy more than the races which advance, and in ad- vancing must expend force of some kind? That it is force perpetually rene~ved by the expenditure, may be true; but also t may not, for the Greek has not repro- duced Phidias, or Eschylus, or Archi- medes, nor do we find in Scandinavia the energy which once threatened and repeopled so much of the world. Sup- pose Shem lasts arid not Japhet, that Mecca survives Manchester, that when Europe is a continent of ruins, the Arab shall still dw-ell in the desert, too proud to dig, too careless to be poor, not ren- dering aught or supplicating more, but living on like the Pyramids, whose foun- dations he saw laid. It seems impossible to Mr. G. 0. A. Head, with his bottled electric force, carried about in a valise, but the Arab stood at the gates of On and saw the magicians and their feats, and stood below the walls of Constantino- ple and saw the Byzantine pour out his liquid fire, and despised both Egypt and Rome, and went back to the herbiess x88 THE SMALL SQUIRES OF A CENTURY SINCE. land; and he lives on still, not advanced, not degenerate, the ablest though the most useless of his kind. Birmingham is great, but it has not yet discovered every truth about the destiny of man; and there are fractions of humankind whose govern- ing impulses western Europe as little comprehends as it foresees the future. Imagine a clan which prefers sand to mould, poverty to labor, solitary reflection to the busy hubbub of the mart, which will not earn enough to clothe itself, never invented so much as a lucifer-match, and would consider newspaper-reading a dis- graceful waste of time. Is it not horrible, that such a race should be? more horrible, that it should survive all others? most horrible of all, that it should produce, among other trifles, the Psalms and the Gospels, the Koran and the epic of Antar? From The Spectator. THE SMALL SQUIRES OF A CENTURY SINCE. EVERYWHERE in rural England we are tod there used to exist families possessed of small freeholds, sometimes not exceed- ing two or three hundred acres, who ~vere accounted, and in most respects actually were, gentlefolks. They lived on in their old houses for generations, without Visible decline, enjoying the respect of all around them, marrying their daughters to neigh- boring squires, sending their sons into the professions, especially the Church and the army, keeping up something of dig- nity in their social lives, and sometimes developing sons who became known to mankind. Richard Clive, Lord Clives father, ~vas, we imagine, a man of that sort. They were not yeomen, these men, but gentry, proud of pedigree, exact upon heraldry, jealous of consequence, and most punctilious in fulfilling all require- ments of position, as they understood them. They never seemed unhappy, they seldom went about afoot, they lived fairly well as to meat and drink, and they hunted, and they haliooed, and they blew their horns also, like any of Caldecotts mirth-inspiring heroes. Yet they had but minute properties, occasionally not exceeding two hundred acres of farm-land, with a worthless bit of moor, or marsh, or chase, thin grass, keeping a sheep per ten acres besides. And how on earth did they manage to live so? What is the precise nature of the change which has come over English society and meth ods of living which has made that kind of existence seem so impossible, that half the younger men who read this paper, or the article in the Times, will deny that it was common. Either the statement is false, they think, or everything was much cheaper, or such a family so supplied must have had resources which it concealed, and which it would be matter of curiosity to discover. Of the truth of the statement there can be no doubt at all. Not only is the liter- ature of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries full of descriptions of such peo- pIe, but the older men among us, if they knew as lads much of any country-side, can remember instances of such houses so supported, and greatly respected, though beginning to exhibit clear signs of final decay, and to be pitied as failing families. Their houses wer~ beginning to look neglected, they themselves to be bit- ter about money and the times, and their dependents to relate legends, mostly false, of former state and glory, when towd Madam used to walk about in the cool of the evening, and the house was properly kep up. They are gone now, almost entirely, though a few may linger on in corners of the North Riding and of Devon; but they survived into this cen- tury, when, indeed, for a few years the extraordinary price of corn momentarily gave them spirits; and they were a most ~vorthy class, whose disappearance, even in these days of land bills, is worth a mo- ments thought. Of their existence there is no doubt; nor is the explanation to be sought in the comparative cheapness of things, or in the presence of unsuspected resources. A few things were much cheaper, meat being the most serious item; and after meat, education; and after education, the keep of horses; but many things were much dearer, and these squires bought so little, that they were little benefited, except as to their dinners and their stables, by a low range of prices. Nor were their hidden resources, though they usually existed, at all consid- erable. Such squires habitually tried to marry and did marry girls with small por- tions, sums in cash varying from 1,500 to 3,000, which were invested at rather high interest, often seven per cent-; and they received small legacies from female relatives jealous for the family, which, again, were ~vell put out; and they obtained contributions from sons and cousins who prospered in the colonies and India and the City, in a ~vay which we THE SMALL SQUIRES OF A CENTURY SINCE. 189 suspect is very unusual now. Clive was not a solitary instance of this kind, though his wealth was so unusual; and the rela tive in the City, even if he were, as Pope says meek, and much a liar, was proud of the squire, who held his head so high and spoke out so audaciously, and he did him, especially as to investments, many a good turn. The secret did not, however, consist in the possession of resources apart from the estate, any more than it did in the low price for which madam could purchase the weeks supply of meat. The explanation consists, we believe, substantially in this: that apart from his horseflesh, which so greatly helped his dignity, and which is now quite beyond reach, the life of the poor English squire who was accepted as a gentleman could, were social conditions the same, be lived suc~essfully and happily even now. When judged by the proper standard, he was not so very poor. His manor-house paid no rent, and served as the farmhouse as well; he farmed himself, and knew his business as well as any rival; he had a ready market for his corn and his beasts among the millers and the butchers around, who had no London dealers to traffic with, and though they sold cheap, gave the squire comparatively a better ~vholesale price than the producer gets now-it is not the beast, but the meat, which is so dear and his two hundred acres produced him, in meal or malt, a rent, say, of iSs., and a farmers profit of 125. an acre, or 30s. in all. That is, the little squire had 300 a year, and a good house, which needed, or at any rate got, very little repairthere was literally no plumbers bill very little new furniture, and no doing up, except once in a life- time, when the bride came home. That bride brought usually from 105 to 140 a year say, in capital, i,soo to 2,000 and the squire had 2,000 more laid aside old family savings yielding seven per cent., bringing his total incoi~e, with no deductions, and no allowance for the brother or uncle who lived with him and paid something, to 545 or 590 a year. That seems very little, because men compare the ancient petty squire with the modern squire of 2,500 a xear, but it is not so little, if we compare him with his true analogue, the rector in a rather remote district, with a good rectory house, and sso left after paying for his curate, and his subscriptions, and official gifts in charity. The rector ~vith that clear income, a wife who can manage, and the means of putting out his sons which the squire possessed, because the suf- frage being so limited his vote was impor- tant, and the county member had patron- age would live as a gentleman even now, dine with anybody he liked, send out his sons into the world, marry his daugh- ters fairly well, and carry his head a little high besides. He must not, indeed, go to London above once in ten years, or omit to save his best clothes, or drink wine habitually, or buy many books, or indulge in any costly taste ~vhatever; but then, the poorer squire did none of these things. Respect came to him, as on professional grounds it now comes to the fairly beneficed clergyman, without any special reference to his means. He ~vas obliged, in deed, by opinion to pay his way, and to be ready now and again with a bit of his hoard for his daughters dow- er, and to acquire a certain quantity of valuables 200 will purchase a good many spoons and ladles and punch-bowls and to keep up a certain amount of rough hospitality; but if he did these things, his incoi-ne was not his neighbors great consideration. He rode. He be- longed to the gentry. He had a pedigree. He had lived in one house till it became traditional that he should live there, and stories older than his people were carried in the alehouse conversation to his credit. Men of undoubted wealth and position treated him as an equal, and even if they had names and influence in London, were very slow to offend a class which they knew, if irritated, could and would dis- pose of the county seat. The sense of durability and political power, together with the respect of his neighbors, then indicated by many external signs, such as precedence in entering and leaving church, and the use of squire and madam instead of Mr. and Mrs., gave him independence and boldness, and made his pride in heraldic distinctions and claims of family anything but ridicu- lous. The little squire possessed, in fact, as the beneficed rector alone in England perhaps still does, that kind of respect, that equality with all but the very first that position as it is now called which is, after all, the result for which money is so much valued, and which to men without means, unless they have some special intellectual distinction or some unusual claim of family, is now so rarely given. There was no particular need to save, for the eldest son would enjoy the same estate, and the member would give some chance or other to the 190 A SQUIRES NOTE-BOOK IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. others; and as little need to spend, for and is the pleasant and cheap home of spending produced no increase of posi- the Englishman from every part of the tion, and exceedingly little of comfort. earth; but, meanwhile, the man who was What could a Somersetshire squire, with the special product of that life has wan- a family legend of three hundred years, dered out of it forever. Travellers say no carriage, because there were no roads, you meet him still in Holstein and Meck- no tailor, except the man who, once in lenburg, and in that North Holland which twenty years, supplied a blue coat, as he nobody sees; but he has gone from En- now supplies a dress uniform to an offi- gland, and all the agricultural shows in cer, and no upholsterer, want to buy? the world will not bring him back. He lived pleasantly from week to week, as a rector ~vith such an income and such moderate wishes, and an hereditary free- hold in his living, would, we contend, live now, and he lasted in the land, because there was nothing to tempt him out of it. What was there better for him than the old, plentiful house, half manor, half farm, and his light daily work, and his weekly meeting with the neighbors, and the re- spect of all around him, that he should wander out into the unknown? Let the younger sons do that, and let him devote himself to keep all things as they were. The poor squire cannot live so now, be- cause with small means he does not ob- tain the respect, and the world is careless of pedigree, and the member is indepen- dent of him, and can give his sons no provision, and the education which prevails with Civil Service Commission- ers is most costly, and all around, thick as flies, are rivals who have money, and can get so much out of it in comfort, and freedom, and locomotion, and even intel- ligence, that he feels that if he stayed on, he should be like a vegetable among liv- ing things. He makes, therefore, no ef- fort to resume his old position, his squire- dom, but settles on the outskirts of a town, and boasts of his family, or lives abroad in Italy or rural France. Or hap- piest of all, he betakes himself to a col- ony, and there repeats on a broader scale the old home life. Returned colonists tell us that, except the pushing vulgarian of distinct mental force, nobody does better in New Zealand or Victoria than the impoverished gentleman, if he is only young enough to accept new seasons, new ways, new grasses, and new drinks, and will root himself in the old ~vav to one place. It is not, however, mere ~vant of means which deters the poor squire from trying to live as squire, but a changed world, which, if he tried the old course, would hold him hardly a gentleman, and which has abandoned the old, simple, restful, narrow life, for a more feverish and more vivid one. The old life will come back, some day, maybe, when En- gland has been fairly beaten in the race, From The Saturday Review. A SQUIRES NOTE-BOOK IN THE SEVEN- TEENTH CENTURY. To those who like to know how proper- ties grew, devolved, and were managed by our ancestors, nothing is more attractive than the discovery of some ancient record, in the family chest or lumber-room, which, by an incredible piece of good fortune, has survived the inroads of housemaids and rats. One of these antique treasures has just fallen into our hands, and for practical men it is quite worth a barrel of flint and stone instruments adapted to the use of beings something between Bush- men and Yahoos. This said record con- sists of about ninety pages of stiff paper loosely stitched together by thongs of leather and covered with a thicker mate- rial now embrowned by age and dust. It is not exactly a diary, for chronological order is defied. Neither is it a mere book of accounts, made up of pounds and shil- lings and little else that can appeal to hu- man sympathies. The owner appears to have used it for the purpose of entering all the details of the receipts and expendi- ture of his not inconsiderable estates, and he was further in the habit of recording in it, just as they happened, the events which diversified his life in country and in town. XVe should state that in the reign of Eliza- beth there was a certain prothonotary of the court of common pleas, who acquired an estate in Lincolnshire that had be- longed to the monastery of the Blessed Mary of York. This property had been sold by Henry VIII. to a family, in whose possession it remained for forty-five years, after which, eventually, it passed to Rich- ard Brownlow the aforesaid prothonotary. He had t~vo sons, William and John, created baronets by Charles I. in I641. Ihe ~vriter of our memoir, Sir John Brownlow, was born in 1594, married Alice Pultuney of Misterton, in Leicester- shire, in 1621, and died sine ~roie in 1679. His estates then went to his grandnephew, A SQUIRE S NOTE-BOOK IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 191 also Sir John Browniow. He possessed a house at Isleworth, twelve miles from London; a mansion in Drury Lane and estates in Lincoinshire, near Grantham, rather more than a hundred miles from London. Three different stewards, Car- diff, Batchelor, and Richard Fullalow, ap- pear to have collected and accounted for rents, and occasionally other large sums passed through the hands of one John Smith. If the rents for those times were considerable, so, on the other hand, were the outgoings. Out of 3~933 more than 850 were disbursed; out of 566 noth- ing remained but one guinea: and out of 444 only I I~ 13S. id. But to some of those balance sheets are appended care- ful notes which show that divers other items had still to be accounted for or re- covered. Poles of wood or Maypoles had been sold for several pounds; one hun- dred wethers fetched more than a pound apiece; oats and barley brought in more than 30; one Mr. Greenberrie was to pay 70 at May Day; wood, old and new, realized a good price; and there are con- stant entries showing that Sir John was quite alive to the necessity of being just to himself as well as generous to others. The prices of skilled and unskilled labor and of articles and stock are noteworthy. The doctors fee for attendance on my ~vyfe was los.; when Cardiff fell ill, Batchelor felled an acre for him, and might, we should think, have stubbed Thornaby Waste. In one bag of oo 9s. 2d. were wanting; but Cardiff, we are happy to state, made good the deficiency. Jack Sayle was a long time paying his debt. Smeton might be permitted to have the grass mowed off the bowling- green, for so we interpret the kerbe au /eu de boule. A beast that died of the gargol about September 6, sold for nearly 3; a pair of gloves cost 35. 6d., and a ribbon is. 6d. Kerbie cow pas- ture was to be disposed of at Lady Day, and the thorns were to be grubbed up. Timothy Dove had a second presenta- tion to two parts of the rectory at Rip- pengale. In a lease of eleven years the tenant had permission to plough for eight years, but not for the last three. 205. a year was the honorarium attached to the duty of reading prayers twice every week to the poor at the almshouses; and various contributions, including one from Sir John himself, made up the school- masters stipend of 17 a year. We re- mark that while Sir John Wray, Richard Nelthorpe, gent., Sir P. Tirwhit, H. Lud- dington, and others contributed sums to the above end, of from 125. to 2 lOS., Corpus Christi Colleoe only gave Is. 3d. to the above village dominie. The fol- lowing entries afford some clue to the value of landed property. 5,500 repre- sented eighteen years purchase ; i~~ooo was given for 976 per annum, but in all probability the outgoings were considera- ble, seeing that in another account of Sir Johns own estate, 1,724 were disbursed out of 2,376 received. If any doubt could ever have arisen as to the politics of the author, it would at once be solved by the loan made to the king two years after the Restoration. Charles wanted 500 within fourteen days, and it was raised and paid by the writer in one- seventh of that time. Indeed, there was always a large store of coin placed in bags and deposited in the family chests at Isleworth or in Lincolnshire. Coin of the Protectors time to the amount of two or three hundred pounds had been left in the iron chest, and there seems to have been no attempt at turning a penny or getting any interest except in one or two ways. The gold and silver lay idle in bags, and was only drawn on for the necessities of nephews, for marriage por- tions, for loans, on mortgages, and for the purchase of more land. Macaulay, vol. iv., p. 319, writing of 1692, says that to man) busy men, after the years ex- penses of housekeeping had been de- frayed out of the years income, a surplus remained; and that a la~vyer or merchant who had saved thousands was often em- barrassed about investing them. The father of Pope the poet carried to a re- treat in the country, the historian goes on to say, a strong box containing nearly twenty thousand pounds. This is ex- actly ~vhat Sir John repeatedly did in the memoir before us, and once he expressly tells us that at the time of the great fire of London he removed sixty-six bags of coin to his residence at Isleworth for safety. In his dealings with his nearest relatives Sir John kept a strict account, in which we do not perceive any traces of penuriousness or unkindness. Every now and then he gave his best diamond ring and his great jewels to his wife. Then he took them back and then he gave them up again. To his nephew Sherard he made repeated loans, some- times as much as 5oo at a time. To a young lady, his great-niece, he gave a marriage portion of 3,000. He put the children of twelve poor folks to school at a cost of half a crown a quarter for each child. He allowed R. Johnson to keep a 192 A SQUIRE S NOTE-BOOK IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. horse in his woods; he founded alms- houses; he made l)resents to high and lo~v; on one occasion his liberality took the form of silver candlesticks and snuffers; on another he gave tankards; and then, again, he paid the rent of a house for his Cosen Smith for life. Antiquarians may regret to learn that men had made oatmeal at Grantham where Bacon dwelt; but the house, believed to be a horse-mill, had disappeared at the time of this memoir and a stable had also gone with it. The following items of legal ex- penses are shown in a trial in the Court of Common Pleas, the result of which is not very clear. The cause of action was a claim for tith of hay and come grow- ing in a certain parish, and it was brought under the statute of Edward VI. One- and-twenty jurors appeared and received five pounds each, besides their dinners. Serjeant Maynard no doubt the same ~vho told XVilliam III. that, if it had not been for his Majesty, he would have sur- vived the la~v as well as the lawyers had for his fee at the trial 6 ginni es, and at other tymes, three ginnies. But Serjeants Baldwin, Turner, and Browne also had their 3 and 4ginnzes, and other fees, at odd times; and there ~vere fees in court of 4 tos., the charges of wit- nesses, and the bill of Mr. Grange who solicited, which amounted to eight pounds all but sixpence. There is, too, a memo which we interpret to mean that, of the twenty-one jurymen, the nine who were not wanted and were not sworn need not have had as much as the twelve good and true men who sat on the trial; 3 apiece might have served the former. In this sentiment the reader will no doubt concur. We find that to prevent lethargis or apoplexy, there was nothing like some sneezing-powder, made of dried betony, tobacco, and a little musk. This, with blisters on the neck, a warming-pan held to the head, and oil of amber to the nostrils and temples, was the prescription of one worthy Doctor Waldron in his letter of July 14, i666. Failing this there was another l)rescription too long to quote. To feed bees properly you are to get roasted apples, bean flower, and bay salt, or else sop toasts of bread in strong ale and l)ut them into the hive. For the biting of any venomous creature, hold a hot iron to the place affected or a coal of fire; and a piece of briony root worn about one will cure and prevent the cramp, while mares milk drank by women every morning in March and April will tend to conception. There are other curious en- tries, but our space is running short, and when ~ve have noted that one line com- memorates the death of Nicholas the cooke, and the very next that of the Duchess of Dudlie, we come to the last entry of all, ~vhich has a tinge of sadness and yet fittingly closes a record over which Thackeray would have moralized. It is as follows, spelling and all: My deer ~vyfe dyed at Isleworth on tuesday the 27th of June 1675, between one and twoe at noone: exceeding suddenlie (no cause for it appearing), being 68 years of age as was apprehended or very near it. The corps being very well embalmed in a very good cofin was removed, late in the evening, about to oclock, toward Lon- don and broght to my house in Drurie Lane on the 30th of June following, and on the 5th of Julie after, ~vas carried towards l3elton and there was buried on the 7th of Julie, where I also intend to lye. A note adds that the age was proba- bly seventy-two. The ~vriter survived his partner, and died without issue some four years afterwards. A solid monument with the effigies of this excellent couple attests their virtues, and we may be per- mitted to doubt whether any brief diaries or loose memoranda kept in this age of bustle, excitement, and perhaps shams, will, if revealed in the year 2081, excel this record in interest and solid worth. CHARLES EDWARD STUART, COUNT DAL- BANIE, ob., at sea, Dec. 24, i88o. The will of Charles Edward Stuart, Count dAlbanie, was proved on the i6th ult. by Lord Lovat, as the attorney of the Countess Sobieska de Platt, the daughter and residuary legatee, the per- sonal estate being sworn under a nominal sum. The testator bequeaths to the Marquis of Bute the Highland Claidh-mor (Andrea Ferrara) worn by his (testators) grandfather, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, at the battles of Fal kirk, Preston-Pans, and Culloden, a pair of steel pistols inlaid with silver, and the dirk worn by his said grandfather at the hail given at Holyrood on the eve of the battle of Preston- Pans, and ~vhich he opened with the Countess of Wemyss; and to Lord Lovat the large two- handled sword made by Cosmo Ferrara, firstly belonging to the Italian General Patrici Co- lonna, and afterwards to his said grandfather, and two pistols formerly belonging to Rob Roy, 1715. Illustrated Loudon News.

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The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1936 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. July 23, 1881 0150 1936
The Living age ... / Volume 150, Issue 1936 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 1936. July 23, 1881. 5 From Begimung, Volume XXXV. Vol. CL. CONTENT S. Blackwoods Magazine, I. A TALK ABOUT ODES II. How SHE TOLD A LIE. By the author of John Halifax, Gentleman, III. RICHELIEU. By Walter Herries Pollock, IV. HINDU HOUSEHOLDS V. M~ POOR LITTLE KITE. Translated from the French of VI. AMONG THE DICTIONARIES VII. CONSOLATIONS POET R V. I94ITHE WYE, AN OLD SONG, MISCELLANY, Sunday Magazine, Temple Bar, Fortnigktly Review, Adrien Robert, (ornh ill Magazine, Frasers Magazine, 194 256 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,freeofs5ostage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, aS cents. 195 209 214 227 232 239 248 94 AN OLD SONG. God hath chosen the weak things of the world. IT was an old and once familiar strain, A distant echo from the years gone by; And now we heard its melody again Beneath a foreign sky. A company of strangers, met to part, Spending an evening in the same hotel, And soft as dew upon each weary heart The sweet notes fell. She was a fair and gentle maid who sang, Who summers seventeen had scarcely told, And deftly from her practised hand and tongue The music rolled. We hushed our busy talk to hear her sing, The earnest student laid his book aside, While memory bore us on her noiseless wing Oer ocean wide. To that far distant land beyond the sea, Which we had left on foreign shores to roam, The music bore us on its pinions free Back to our home; Back to the land which we had left behind, The land of love, and hope, and faith, and prayer, And showed the faithful hearts and faces kind That loved us there. And one there was who heard that soothing song, Whose heart ~vas heavy with its weight of care, Embittered by a sense of cruel wrong No friend might share. Silently, proudly, had he borne his pain, Crushed from his wounded heart each soft. ening thought; But the sweet tones of that forgotten strain New feelings brought. Strange longings rose once more to see the place Which in his boyhood he had held so dear, To see once more his aged fathers face, His voice to hear; To meet again his gentle sisters smile (Twas she who used to sing this self-same song). Would not her love his thoughts from sorrow ~vile, And soothe his wrong? How would their faithful hearts rejoice to greet Their prodigals return from distant shore, And bind his heart by many a welcome sweet To roam no more! Thus he resolved that, when the morning came, He would arise and homeward wend his way, And, heedless of the harsh worlds praise or blame, No more would stray. Little the singer guessed the power that lay Beneath the accents of her simple song; Its soothing words should haunt him day by day, And make him strong. The lengthening twilight stole into the room And wral)ped us in its mantle cold and grey; But from the listeners heart the de~per gloom Had passed away. The song was ended, and the singer rose, And lights were brought, and books and work resumed; His spirit tasted long-denied repose By hope illumd; And when the morning dawned he honseward turned, Back to his fathers house beyond the sea, The dear old homestead where his spirit yearned Once more to be. 0 happy maid! Go singing thus through life, Bidding the lost return, the weak be strong; Thine is a gift with heavenly comfort rife, The gift of song. Sunday Magazine. LYDIA HOPE. THE WYE. (NEAR MONMOUTH.) A LAND of hills and woods and yew-crowned rocks, All scarred and furrowed by primeval flood; With naany a bastion, grim and bare, which mocks The anger of the storm-gods fiercest mood. Above, ~he oak stands as it lon~ has stood Through winters tempests; and, adown, the green, The rich dark green of ivy that has wooed The time-worn limestone, trails; and all be- tween The rifts and sheltered nooks, the ferns chaste form is seen. Below, the slow, broad-curving river; here, The willows lie reflected in the stream, Placid and deep; and there, the noisy weir, Where tiny ~vavelets in the sunlight gleam. Hard by, a loiterer, lying in a dreasn Upon the bank: far off, a bare hillside; And farther, boundless forest growths which seem Most solemn and most calm, as far and wide They stretch majestic arms, in all their sum- mer pride. GEORGE WOOSUNG WADE. Chambers Journal. AN OLD SONG, ETC. From Blackwoods Magazine. A TALK ABOUT ODES.* Geqfl~-ey. So we three have met again! Basil. Yes; and not in thunder, light- fling, or in rain, but on an April morn- ing, when spring looks like herself. We can gaze upwards and feast our eyes on Dantes dolce color del oriental zaffiro; or downwards to mark on our beloved lake his tremolar della marina. Look how its waters quiver with tremulous light as the sunbeam smites them; and break forth into that many-twinkling smile which ~schylus saluted long be- fore! Geof. Will you accept this little wood, through which our upward path goes, as a representative of the glade to ~vhich Sordello guided Virgil and Dante? If so, our young friend here shall disfigure or present the person of the last-named for I know that he has been reading very hard for his degree, and so conversing more with the dead than the living. Henry. I have emerged from that under-world with slow, faint steps and much exceeding pain. Do not remind me of my sufferings ; for the hour is fast approaching when I must plunge in again. Geof. Your look is not such as to be- speak compassion. You have not been down to the lower circles. Your stay has been chiefly, I trust, in those open and luminous spaces where Dante walked among the great Greeks and Romans, the wide plains of philosophy stretched out beneath the empurpled ether of poetry. Bas. (from I/ic wood). Come in and admire, instead of talking nonsense out- side. This is of a surety that mountain glade where Dante saw the holy kings and princes resting: the white cherry- blossom floats overhead, underneath the black-thorn spreads out the white coral of its little branches; the violet and the l)rimrose peep forth from the bright green moss; here and there the celandine paves the floor with gold, and the wood anem- one opens its starry petals to their widest, and gems every spot in the grove. Geof. Not a bad Northern version, is it, 95 of the many hues which variegated the Florentines green herbage? But it is yet early afternoon, and he visited his glen at nightfall: our trees are yet leaf- less; his waved fresh and tender green over the angels who descended at the sound of the Te lucis ante. Bas. We, too, have a winged choir, and a better one than we deserve, to listen to. Hear how the thrushes and the blackbirds are paying us for the pains with which we fed them through the winter! And if the larch plumelets are all the greenery that we can boast of, still Gentle western blasts, with downy wings Hatching the tender springs, To the unborn buds with vital whispers say, Ye living buds, why do ye stay? The passionate buds break through the bark their way. One can almost hear them at it. I-len. English verse sounds l)leasant to my ears after hard searchings into the meaning of difficult Greek choruses. Which of our poets are you quoting? Bas. Cowley: I think, but I am not sure, that those lines are in his Ode on Life. Geof. That is the ode which perhaps gave Blake his fine idea of The Gate of Death, which his old man, bowed down with years, creeps through, to emerge vigorous and youthful on the farther side. I mean the words, When we by a foolish figure say, Behold an old man dead !then they Speak properly, and cry, Behold a man-child born Hen. Who are they? Geof. The angels: those same who bear Fausts new-born soul, and find it a sore burden even for their loving arms. Bas. Cowley expresses the same idea in another good simile, We seek to close and plaster up by art The cracks and breaches of the extended shell; And, in their narrow cell, Would rudely force to dwell The noble, vigorous bird already winged to part. * See A Talk about Sonnets, LiviNo Aoa, No. Hen. Is Cowley a favorite poet of i592, Sept. iS, z88o. yours? A TALK ABOUT ODES. 196 A TALK ABOUT ODES. Bczs. At one time of my life he was; and though his odes do not, any one of them, live in my memory as a whole, yet many lines of his still linger there. Some novels, and some poetry, of the present day, make me exclaim with him, Tis just The author blush there where the reader must, and long for a critic, with words suffi- ciently scathing, to compel him to the unwonted exercise. Cowleys ~vords, too, rise to my lips at the sight of ambitious pieces of word-painting, where the writer has left nothing without an ornament, Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; Rather than all things wit let none be there. And Cowleys echo of Aristophanes rises to my lips when I listen to such a concert of the birds as saluted us a fe~v minutes ago in the wood which we are just leav- ing, Now blessings on ye all, ye heroic race! Who keep your primitive powers and rights so well, Though men and angels fell. Of all material lives the highest place To you is justly given, And ways and walks the nearest heaven. some dignified cause; whether it swell, like the Greek choric song, in praise of god or hero, as a complicated chant, with part answering to part, now soft and flute- like, now with a thunderous roll of many voices, then at last leaving the ear satis- fied with a grand final strain; or whether, like the odes in which, as ~ve know, Hor- ace imitated the lost Greek lyrists, it is content throughout with one style of mu- sic, stanza responding to stanza without any variation. The essential thing, as it seems to me, is that the theme of an ode should be an elevated one, that its expres- sion should be vehement and rapturous, that its singer, tl~ough still capable of self-control, should be lifted above his ordinary self by a strong poetic enthusi- asm. As an example of what I mean, take Schillers short dithyramb. You know it, Basil, in Coleridges version, where it bears its first title, The Visit of the Gods. It consists of three strophes, all moulded alike; both the measure and the words bespeak the wildest excite- ment; and although its museis exotic, yet a true Greek for the moment, you see in Schiller, while he sings it, the rose- chapleted poet rising, goblet in hand, from the festive couch in Athens. So, then, l)rovided the thoughts that breathe and words that burn are given to us ~vhether it be with the marshalled order of Pindars odes in point of struc- ture, or with the irregular movements of his modern imitators; whether they rush forth with Pindars startling vehemence and abrupt transitions of thought, or move on~vard more slowly, and more easily ap- prehended, with the stately majesty of Horace in his Triumphal Ode, or of Milton in his Ode on the Nativity, we have in either case an ode: though perfect success in the more complicated and difficult variety being the hardest achievement, ought, I suppose, to win the highest praise. Now for your second question, Henry, provided you let my first answer pass un- opposed. Hen. You distinguished the ode-singer from the ode-writer. What English au- thor had you chiefly in your mind as a Hen. I see that Cowley did not ~vholly neglect alliteration. Geof. What English poet, with any true fire of genius, could? It and rhyme are his two compensations for the loss of the exact quantities of classic verse; and he does not know his business if lie does not make the most of them. Alliteration is the older and the more exclusively En- gush resource of the two. From the bard who sang Athelstans victory at Brunan- burh, to the poet who sang Nelsons at the Baltic, we find it rise spontaneously to the lips of him who sings before he writes, which, I take it, is the distinc- tion of the genuine ode-singer from the writer of fine but uninteresting composi- tions so styled. Hen. May I ask you two questions about that? First, What is an ode? I mean, when we speak of one, are we to think of Pindar, or of Horace? Geof. Of either, or both. At least to me that is an ode which is the outpour- ing of feeling passionately excited by type of this last? A TALK ABOUT ODES. Geof Poets like Collins, with his Mu- sic, heavenly maid, his nymph Cheer- fulness, and her companions, brown Exercise and Sport. Shadowy person- ages like these may be written about in the study, and read of in the drawing- room; but they cannot rouse a mans spirit till it pours forth floods of song, and sweeps every hearer along rejoicing in its mighty torrent. Bas. Little rills, that trickle clear and tinkling down the hillside, like the one we are just crossing, have their uses. The moss grows green by them, the primrose tuft draws life from them, the song-bird sips them and goes his way happy. A poet who could write an ode like that of Collins to Evening, must not be spoken of with contempt. There is poetic power, too, in his Ode to Liberty; though imperial Rome and mediawal Venice are not fortunate examples of freedom, to which honor he somewhat recklessly ex- alts them. Hen. I thought, Geoffrey, that perhaps you were going to give us Gray for your instance. One of my tutors used to speak of him as a languid conventionalist. Bas. Unjust. Geof. Severe; but with some, though slender, foundation in fact. Gray calls his two greatest odes Pindaric. So they are in their abruptness and bold transitions; but Pindar sang of victories which stirred a Greeks heart to its depths, sang of them when they were fresh, ere the horses had ceased panting after the chariot-race, the sweat dried off the victors brow, sang while above him fiQated the awe-inspiring forms of the gods and heroes from whom the con- queror he lauded boasted his descent. How could Gray feel in like manner im- passioned by an abstract subject like The Progress of Poesy? How could he altogether escape the reproach implied by the word conventional? His fairest similes, his noblest thoughts, are, through most of his ode, echoes, more or less con- scious, of the great classic 1)oets; only (for I utterly reject the accusation of languid ) the strength and sweetness with which they are expressed are his own. However, when he comes, at the 197 close of his ode, to celebrate the peaceful triumphs of song on English ground, a poet singing of poets never sung of in like strains before, he is at once orig- inal and powerful. You may say that he over-praises Dryden that he describes only one side of Shakespeare; but how faultlessly beautiful is his expression! And when he comes to Milton, what can be grander than his conception of the poet, struck blind, like Saul, by the vision of the exceeding glory? Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the abyss to spy: He passed the flaming bounds of place and time; The living throne, the sapphire blaze Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Is there anything languid here? or anything conventional? Hen. Just one thing perhaps, the wings of Ecstasy. As ecstasy simply means being carried out of ones self, the impersonation sounds strange. But I always thought that a splendid passage. Geof. Milton has been fortunate in his admiring poet of our own century, as well as of the last. Not that I mean to put Tennysons Alcaics on a level with that sublime strophe of Grays. Bas. I should think not, indeed. As if there could be such a thing as real Al- caics in English! Geof. No; but lines like that which tells how the plains of heaven Ring to the roar of an angel onset, and those which speak of all that bowery loneliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, live in ones mind for years; and that is no bad test of their excellence. Hen. That ode to Milton of Tenny- sons is at any rate a short one. Mr. Swinburne has recently devoted fifty strophes, each nearly a page long, to cele- brating the sublime perfections of Walter Savage Landor. Bas. Dont talk to me about Swinburne. Let us return to Gray. I am inclined to think there is more of the vivida vis, 198 A TALK ABOUT ODES. the genuine poetic ardor in his Bard Hen. I hope you are not going to sug. than in his Progress of I~oesy; entirely gest that the suicide at the close had as I agree with all that you, Geoffrey, better have been omitted. It was always have said in praise of it. The subject, to my special delight when I repeated the begin with, is better suited to an ode, poem to my mother. according to your account of one, which I Geof. Those t~vo closing lines and the approve of. Gray, not having much to explanation at the beginning are alien to sing about in his own proper person the genuine nature of an ode. Strictly only reflections on the vicissitudes of life, speaking, the bard should have been his such as those with which the sight of own interpreter throughout. Still, we Eton College inspired him (a solemn and could ill bear the loss of Grays introduc- touching lay, but hardly an ode according tion that description of the bard when to our definition)did wisely in trans- porting himself into the person of the ancient bard of XVales. There ~vas the fall of an old polity to bewail; the cry for vengeance of tuneful brethrens innocent blood to send up with ringing notes to the skies; the divine justice, slow but sure, to mark, tracking the descendants of the guilty in response to it. Here Gray is indeed Pindaric, as he marshals the long procession of our kings and queens; not with the toilsome and slow precision of a historian, but each, shrouded in dark- ness as to the rest of their career, re- vealed, as by a sudden lightning-flash, at the moment when they are wanted for the accomplishment of the sentence l)assed by the poet-prophet on their guilty line. If you want an example of how alliteration can reinforce lines strong enough in themselves, look at the five first of this poem Ruin scize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by conquests crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberks twisted mail, etc. If you wish to know how to intersperse trochaics with your iambics so as to bring out solemn and pathetic effects, look at the first and last of these five, and at lines like Cold is Cadwallos tongue, and many more. How grandly pathetic, too, is the description of Edward III.s closing days, so well contrasted ~vith the careless jollity of his successors first years Geof The last strophe of the ode strikes me as rather artificial. The dying bard, consoled by the vision of his great successors, Spenser and Shakespeare, flourishing under a queen of British de- scent, hearing Miltons voice and those of other English poets from the yet re- moter distance, is almost too gentle a termination. One is inclined to ex- claim, Too softly falls the lay in fear and wrath bcgun. Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air, and the words which tell us how he With a masters hand and prophets fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. But an ode should only have one speaker the poet himself, or the person whom he represents. Hen. Pindar makes Medea speak at length in one of his odes, if I remember right. Geof. Yes; he quotes her prophecy, being himself throughout the speaker. That is different. Still I do not think the digression an improvement. Hen. Drydens Ode for St. Cecilias Day, Alexanders Feast, I mean mixes up narration and song as Grays Bard does. Las. What say you to that great ex- ample, Geoffrey? for that ode consists of Drydens report of what Timotheus sang to Alexander (given in two instances in his own words), and of the diverse affec- tions produced in the conqueror by his varied strain. He tells us, if I recollect right, how, at the appeal to the kings pride, by the announcement of his divine parentage, Alexander Assumes the god; Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres; how, having drunk deep draughts at the skilful musicians praise of Bacchus, the king (as his meanest soldier might) Fought all his battles oer again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slcw the slain; how Timotheus drew tears from him by his sad picture of Darius great and good Fallcn from his high estate; how he led him for a moment to prefer love to war, when War, he sung, is toil and trouble, Honor but an empty bubble, A TALK ABOUT ODES. 99 Never ending, still beginning Fighting still, and still destroying: If the world be worth thy winning, Think, 0 think it worth enjoying; and how, finally, he led him to fire Per- sepolis by his weird chant, in which the Furies shrieked for vengeance, pointing to the ghosts of the unburied Greek sol- diers. Is not that one of the best of English odes? Geof. Yes. Bas. Does it not amply justify Gray? Geof Nothing can justify a poet but success; precedent is for senates and law-courts, not for the higher assembly of the Muses. If Drydens and Grays poetic fervor is equal in the two compo- sitions, enabling each to fuse his hetero- geneous materials into a perfect whole if each has sung throughout, and not had to drop into a stumbling kind of sing-song reading in places,then both are Justi- fied. I am sure of this in Drydens case. Hen. Does not the pure, holy Cecilia of Raphaels great picture come in rather oddly at the end of that very pagan poem? Bas. We cannot deny that. While unrivalled as depicting the power of music in earthly things, Drydens venal muse could not get far in delineating its higher uses. He is more religious in his other song for St. Cecilias Day, which ends with the chorus : As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sang the great Creators praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky. Geof. Who told him that the living would die at the last day? I have read, We shall not all sleep, but ~ve shall all be changed. Bas. Ah! we must look to the great poet of Drydens century, to Milton, for exact theology in verse. How noble is his song on A Solemn Music! Dry. den is presumptuous enough to speak of notes sung on earth, that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above, and to assure us that when Cecilia chanted to her organ, An angel heard, and straight appeared, Mistaking earth for heaven; whereas Milton moremodestly bids music transport our minds on high by imaging to us the purer strains above; and tells the Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, to present our high-raised phantasy That undisturbed song of pure concent, Aye sung before the sapphire-colored throne To Him who sits thereon, With saintly shout and solemn jubilee; Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow; And the cherubic host in thousand quires Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, With those just spirits that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy psalms Singing everlastingly. Geof How glorious, also, are the stan- zas in his great Ode on the Nativity, on the song of the sons of God at the begin- ning of the new creation ! Such music (as tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy chan- nel keep. Bas. Go on: give us Miltons invoca- tion to the music of the spheres, ~vhich is to bring back the age of gold, with rain- bow-orbed truth and justice, to the sons of men. Geof I will not. The bill at this point becomes exceeding steep, even as the Hill Difficulty whereof Bunyan wrote. It is praiseworthy beyond measure, when climbin~ the ascents of virtue, to keep the hindmost foot ever the lower, as Virgil bade Dante when going up the hill of Purgator): but you two are obeying the precept literally, and with portentous speed too; and if a middle-aged man like myself is to keep up with two such heed- less young persons (for you, Basil, are younger than any of us), I must save my breath. Besides, that grand ode should be taken as a whole. Bus. How different is Miltons use, towards its end, of the heathen deities, to their conventional appearances in the poetry of the last century! To him they are real, evil spirits deluding mankind into paying them homage by their lying wonders, and driven reluctantly back to their dark abodes by the powerful beams of the Sun of Righteousness. How grandly he shows us the Delphic oracle put to silence by the advent of the Word! 200 A TALK ABOUT ODES. The oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words de- ceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathH spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. Geof That is indeed an instance of well-applied classical knowledge. How often it is misapplied now! There is something truly majestic there in the march of Miltons ~vords contrasting beautifully, in their dignified sternness, with the tenderer and more pathetic lines which follow, and lament the beauty, linked to so many delusions, which per- ished with them for a while. Do ~ou think the hillside we are scaling, and the small cascade which has just come into sight, heard anything on that day of sor- row of which Milton speaks, when The lonely mountains oer, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg~d with poplar pale, The parting genius is with sighing sent; With flower-enwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thick- ets mourn? Bas. The naiad might well be sorry to leave that cool bath. Look how abso- lutely clear the water is! You can count every pebble. There is the industrious little ~vaterfall above it, as hard at work as ever, enlarging the recess below for the fair tenant who will never come back to it. She seems, however, to have carried the flowers away with her in her long silky coils of hair. There are none to be seen now. Geof Come back six weeks hence and you will find turquoises set in gold wait- ing to adorn her the forget-me-not and the marsh-marigold; and very likely, on this swampy slope down to the stream, a fair carpet for her feet of globe-flowers, mingling their paler yellow with the rich lilac of the mealy primrose. Before then, that heckberry-bush will have thrown out its graceful white pendants, and the mountain-ash, which dips its branches in the foam of the fall, will have promised us stores of red coral in autumn by pretty bunches of white blossom. Then, too, the green bracken will be waving its graceful fronds over those cold grey rocks, and this fellside grass, now brown as winter, will refresh the eye with green. Ba:. And what a vivid green it is! That pious priest whom I heard preach- ing on the creation in Milan Cathedral when I was last in Italy, and who dilated so much on Gods goodness in making the earth, not black to sadden, or red to aifright, but green to delight, the eye, would burst into double raptures of thank- fulness if he could visit our lakes in sum- mer. Hen. (returnin~frotn an excursion to a rock under the faU). I have been think- ing what a pity it is that Milton was not a Royalist. What an ode he might have ~vritten on the death of Charles I.! Geof. Perhaps. But the greatest occa- sions do not always draw forth the best poetry. As it is, the best lines which celebrate the kings fate were written by a political foe. It is Andre~v Marvell who says of Charles, He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axes edge did try, Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down as upon a bed. Bas. Cowley speaks in a higher strain, though, of tl)e monarch to whom alone was given The double royalty of earth and heaven, Who crowned the kingly with the martyrs crown. Hen. Speaking of a poets generosity to a fallen foe, do you think much of the often-quoted example of Horaces civility to poor Cleopatra? A beautiful woman, and one who died in so tragic a manner, might well b~ forgiven, after death had made her harmless. Ba:. You mean the three stanzas in the Triumphal Ode. Can you say them to us, Geoffrey, in Martins version, which I remember thinking such a particularly good one? Geof. Do they not run thus? For hers no spirit was to perish me~~nly: A woman, yet not womanishly weak, She ran her galley to no sheltering creek, Nor quailed before the storm, but n~et it queenly. So to her lonely palace-halls she came, With eye serene their desolation viewed: Then with firm hand the angry aspick wooed To dart its deadliest venom through her frame. So with a prideful smile she sank; for she Had robbed Romes galleys of their richest prize: A TALK ABOUT ODES. 201 Queen to the last, and in no humbled guise To swell the triumphs haughty pageantry. Bas. That is pretty well, considering that the wily Egyptian lady had outwitted Horaces master, Augustus, and deprived him and the expectant Roman crowd of a pleasant holiday sight. Hen. But that is not the whole of the ode. Earlier on, Horace speaks very ill of Cleopatra indeed. Bas. He could not speak worse of her than she deserved. I declare that Martin has improved on Horace in that third stanza: that prideful smile of his is very good, and so is his queen to the last. Hen. Has he been equally successful with Catullus? Bas. I am ashamed to say that I have not read his version. I should like, though, some day, to see what he has made of that melancholy Epithalamium of his, and that pretty, but most discour- aging, comparison of the rose, so prized in the bud, so despised when she has done setting her petals wide open. Geof. Heathen poets might well write sadly about marriage. They did not know what we Christians know about it. Now, contrast Catullus with a really Christian poetSpenser, for example. Hen. Spenser unites a good many happy couples in the course of that long but most delightful Fadry Queen of his. bas. I am glad you delight in it, my dear boy! (A man to all others, you will let me call you so a little longer, I know.) It is good, as well as pleasant, to dwell among his types of Christian knighthood. But Geoffrey was thinking of Spensers great bridal ode, made for his own wed- ding an ode which has always seemed to me a very great achievement, because its rapturous joy, sustained at highest pitch throughout, without one under-note of sorrow, never pails on the ear. I-Zen. Yes, that is wonderful. It is so much easier, in song as in real life, to weep with those that ~veep than to rejoice with those who rejoice. Geof Poor Spenser! What sorrows followed that joyful song of his! But at any rate, he was happy when he wrote it, and that is something. He was happy listening to the birds on his wedding mornin~ Hark, how the cheerful birds do chaunt their layes, And carol of love~s praise. The merry lark her matins sings aloft, The thrush replies, the mavis descant plays, The ouzel shrills, the ruddock warbles soft; So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, To this days merriment. AhI my dear love, why do ye sleep thus long, When meeter were that ye should now awake, T await the coming of your joyous make, And hearken to the birds love-learned song The dewy leaves among? For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, That all the woods them answer and their echo ring. He was happy when he called on the hours to dress his lady for the bridal, and bade the graces Help to adorn my beautifullest bride. That superlative, which would have shocked Lindley Murray, gives one a no- tion of the exuberance of his delight, which the minstrels and the shouting crowd can hardly proclaim loudly enough for him. And when the bride comes forth ready-decked from her chamber like the moon, as he tells us, in her gentle dignitywith what rapture he surveys her! Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. So well it her beseems, that ye would ween Some angel she had been: Her long loose yellow locks like golden wire, Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween, Do like a golden mantle her attire; And being crown~d with a garland green, Seem like some maiden queen. And with what naif pride he calls on the merchants daughters to say if they had ever seen so fair a creature in their town before! Bas. He gives them a very minute cat- alogue of her charms, if I remember right. Geof Yes; but he quickly goes on tc~ say: But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, The inward beauty of her lively spright, Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree, Much more then would ye wonder at that sight. There dwells sweet love and constant chastity, Unspotted faith, and comely womanhood, Regard of honor, and mild modesty; There virtue reigns as queen in royal throne, And giveth laws alone. Had ye once seen these her celestial treasures, And unreveal~d pleasures, Then would ye wonder and her praises sing, That all the woods should answer and your echo ring. Then comes the happiest moment of all. The Doet cries, 202 A TALK ABOUT ODES. Open the temple-gates unto my love, Open them wide that she may enter in and sees her come in before th Al- mightys view, passing the garlanded pillars with trembling steps and humble reverence, while the organ sounds and the choristers sing, and all is bliss untold. Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks, And blesses her with his two happy hands, Ho~v the red roses flush up in her cheeks And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain, Like crimson dyed in grain. The angels themselves forget their office for a moment to gaze on this noble work of God, this new Eve. But her sweet eyes remain fastened on the ground as her lover cries, Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, The pledge of all our band? Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, That all the woods may answer and your echo ring! Las. Thank you, Geoffrey. How fresh, how genuine it all is! What memories it stirs in an old mans mind! We who have loved and lost can still hear it with pleasure as we recollect the hopes, yet to be fulfilled, which the priests spousal benediction held for us. You who, as far as I know, have never loved, and who have certainly never lost Geof. (aside). How can he know that? Bas. Will, I hope, make haste to woo and win a bride like Spenser s. Geof Can I find one among the girls of the period? Hen. Then you never knew one in whom this enchanting ideal ~vas realized? Geof Once, it may be, long, long ago; and if so, shortlived Ostendent terris hanc tantum fata, neque ultra Esse sinent. Bas. Does not part of Schillers Song of the Bell treat of marriage? Not be- ing a good German scholar, I know it best by Retzscbs illustrati6ns. Geof Oh yes. His bells ring merrily on the day which is to change his roman- tic young pair of lovers into the sober, plodding housefather and housewife, and he sighs as he reflects that lifes fairest day Ends, alas! our lifes sweet May. Hen. XVhat a beautiful Sono-it is! I-low well the changeful verse reflects the changes and chances of human life which it celebrates! I think, Geoffrey, you have translated it. I should like to hear your version of the funeral bell. Geof That is one of the more hopeful parts of the undertaking. The rapid movements of the fire-bell, and one other passage of the Lied, are very hard to reproduce in English. But I have not satisfied myself even ~vith the slow, meas- ured paces of the lines you ask for. Here they are, however, as bad and as good as other peoples, I suppose To holy earths dark bosom bringing, We trust the work our hands have made: The sower there his seed has laid, And hopes twill bless his sight, upspringing Abundant as the Lord shall aid. But seeds, more precious far, entombing, We hide with tears on earths dark breast, And hope, for fairer morrow blooming, To see them break their coffined rest. From the church-tower Sounds the Bell, Sad and slow, Its funeral knell, Solemnly its mournful tolls attending One whose wanderings now on earth have ending. Hen. Oh, I like that veision very much ! What a lyric genius Schiller had! You do not rate him very highly as a dramatist, I supl)ose? Geof The portions of his dramas most deeply impressed on my memory are certainly the lyric l)ortions. Speak- ing of foreign odes reminds me that there is a question I want to put to our great Italian scholar. Which is the finest Ital- ian canzone? Bas. Do you know Leopardi? Some of his odes I admire greatly; they have an antique severity of style. Dantes (to begin earlier) are hard to understand, and mystic. I fear I have not devoted enough time and attention to them to pronounce fitly on their merits. But Petrarchs are to me enchanting, and I ~vonder that they are so often overlooked in his wilderness of sonnets. There is a fine one of his to glory. One still finer is that in which he addresses Rienzi, and conjures him by the shades of the Scipios, by the yet dearer memory of the buried apostles, to restore liberty to Rome. He tells him that on him are fixed the hopes of those ancient walls ~vhich the world, as it remembers the great past, cannot but survey with love and fearof the monuments of those mighty dead whose fame will last as long as the world itself, and who cry from the under-world, with hopes fired by his exaltation, Our Rome shall yet be beautiful once more. Some of the love- odes are worthy of high praise also. More than any of those addressed to the A TALK ABOUT ODES. 203 livino- Laura, I admire the canzone in which her happy spirit appears, holding palm and laurel branches to console her mourning lover. Geof Ab! I remember that canzone well. I have long delighted in it. Bas. But perhaps most beautiful of all is that ode, the sentiments of which we, who hold ~vith Nic~a as against Trent, are bound to disapprove. I mean Pe- trarchs last canzone, addressed to the blessed Virgin. It is one of the richest, s~veetest, most pathetic, and most musical of poems. No doubt it owes something to the magnificent invocation of her in the Paradiso, which our own Chaucer copied; but the harmony and the pathos are Petrarchs own. I would repeat some of it to you; but Henry, who has out- stripped me in German, has not yet, I think, learned Italian. Hen. Translate it for me in some lei- sure moment. Bas. I make no rash promises, young man. And now, for a while, a truce to this talk of harmonies addressed to the ear. Let us gaze on the grand harmonies addressed by the everlasting artist to the eve. We have rounded the topmost crag, and the tarn lies before us. Gef. (after a pause). Little gem! or large, I should say, to be all made of one pure unbroken sapphire, as she looks to day: there she sleeps, calm and peaceful, forgetting the winters cold, and the ice that bound her hard and fast a while ago. Hen. There is a snowdrift to remind her of the past, high up under that pro- jecting rock. Bas. And hers is a grave beauty, even to-day, when all things are smiling. Her blue can never ~vear the bright celestial hue of the larger lake belo~v, which she helps to feed. Her grim mountain guar- dians forbid that; for they al~vays over- shadow her, and cast the reflection of their dark-purple rocks across her clear waters. Hen. I thought the uproarious merri- ment of her stream lower down told of severe restraint in earlier days. That brawling cascade below was very like a youth who had too suddenly become his own master. Geof I note with approval your sudden change of gender. You were too courte- ous to imagine such a thing as a young damsel breaking loose into strange esca- pades, on her emancipation from the rigid rule of a stern governess. Bas. Sit down a moment here, where the sun makes the bank warm. Look at those rocks in their still majesty, cutting sharp into the deep-blue sky. We do not often see them so. Geof No. The whole thing is out of character, and has deranged my stock of epithets. You northerners are popularly supposed to d~vell amidst ceaseless mists and rains. Bas. We can do pretty well in that line, it must be owned, upon occasion. In the later summer, the season in which Cock- ney tourists do chiefly abound among us, it is pitiful to see how the mountain nymphs squirt at them, bedrench, bedrag- gle and in all ~vays torment them. But this is our dry season; and when it hap- pens, as now, to be a hot season also for a week or ten days, you see ho~v charming these self-same fickle mountain nymphs can be! Geof I am not sure that I am quite charmed with them. In the first place, they have reflected sunbeams upon me during my toil ~vith a more than midsum- mer heat. Hen. Who was it who exclaimed, Sun, how I hate thy beams! Geof I retract: I love them espe- cially now that we have finished climbing the hill. Then secondly, which is more serious, they have disordered my ideas of your scenery. I meant to call it Ossianic, vague, val)orous, misty, full of tremulous lights vanishing into glooms; and band behold! everythino- is as clear and defined as though I ~vere in Italy, more so prob- ably at this early season. Bas. I thought you knew us well enough to know that we are everything by turns and nothing long. I3e reas- sured; before the week is out you may be comforted by some hail-showers. Virgil says of his hapless queen, wearied of life, T~det cmli convexa tucri; but we have never many days given us in which to weary of the blue vault. Wherefore, to gaze up into it as 1 am doing now, is to me unspeakably pleas- ant. Does it not seem clearer, purer, deeper, than it looked from below? and does it not roof over these high rocks, and mirror itself in this azure pavement, till it makes this solitary tarn into an ex- quisitely adorned chapel of that great cathedral of nature which is all around us? You ~vere right not to answer for even as I spoke, the anthem began, and with what a delightful solo voice I I can just descry the singer. Hen. Let us apostrophize him with Shelley : 204 A TALK ABOUT ODES. Higher still, and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. Geof Ah! that Skylark of Shelleys is something like an ode. The man sings in emulation of the bird, ascending from one beautiful fancy to another, till at last (again like the lark) he drops suddenly out of the cloudless blue, and comes down to earth again, with the altered note: We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of sad- dest thought. Bas Shelley is no great favorite of mine. He generally seems to me, revers- ing a ~vise maxim, to take care of the sounds and let the sense take care of itself. Geof Oh, but the Skylark is very good sense; besides possessing a liquid sweetness truly delightful to the ear. Lien. There is not only sense, but very accurate meteorology, in The Cloud. Bas. I will except these two; and, if you press me hard, perhaps half-a-dozen more. But at his best, Shelley aims at gratifying the ear more than the mind. He does not, like Wordsworth, enrich it with noble thoughts to be to it an ever- lasting gain. Look now at Wordsworths ode (the finest our century has produced) on the Intimations of Immortality. Its theory of the souls l)rC-existence may be a mistake, but it is an elevatincr belief even should it be ill-grounded ; sand it rests, at all events, on a truth of first-rate importance to manhis spirits divine origin and noble destiny. Wordsworths memories of his own childhood, when earth was unfamiliar and heaven seemed very near, confirmed him in this faith. He thankfully remembered those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, FaIlings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised; which bore witness to him that all in him was not of the earth earthy; and looked back with reverent regret to the time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. Standing on a spiritual elevation a little higher than our present physical one (you know you can see the sea from that hill above us, Geoffrey), he felt that in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Such thoughts as these elevate as ~vell as please the mind. Nature is different to Wordsworths eye than to Shelleys; be- cause there is to him, behind her appear- ances, a nobler life of which she is the exponent. Accordingly his moon lives, while Shelleys only shines ; and yet ~vhile possessing more than the other, he laments a loss. You remember, It is not now as it has been of yore; Turn wheresoeer I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more I The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, whereer I go, That there bath passed away a glory from the earth. Or, again, that magnificent stanza, Our birth is hut a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our lifes star, Ilath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Natures priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. A TALK ABOUT ODES. 205 Geof It is a grand idea, as you say. Plato, from whom Wordsworth learned it, was indeed a poet. And how suitable the imagery which clothes it, all taken in the stanza you have last quoted from the high- est and purest things man can see, the light of heaven, the morning star, the clouds which mantle round the rising or setting sun! By the way, have you seen Mr. Myerss little book on Wordsworth? I think it is as creditable a piece of criti- cism as I have read for long. Bas. I will read it on your recommen- dation. Hen. I have been thinking of Geof- freys first ~vords about odes ; and it strikes me that, from Horace downwards, they show a tendency to address them- selves to a more and more limited audi- ence. First they are a nations expres- sion of reverence for the gods, sung by a trained chorus, and, in due time, expanded into the tragedy of Hellas; then they celebrate victories at games which reunite a whole widely scattered race; then after- wards they come down to the service of kings and courts; then at last they b~ come the expression of an individuals feelings in solitude. You cannot, for ex- ample, imagine Wordsworth chanting the ode you have been very properly admir. ing to any large assemblage of people; though you may think you see him declaim it on a hillside, like our friend here, to one or two chosen listeners. Its subject is personal and philosophical. Bas. You know that he composed odes on a subject which interested all England the peace which Waterloo won for us. They were full of patriotism and piety; but somehow the divine afflatus was want- ing to them, and I could not repeat you a line of either of them. Geof. Modern poets do not seem to have their feelings so well at command as the ancients. Sometimes the unpictur- esque adjuncts of a great event deter them ; which same event, when it has passed into history, and gathered round it the softening haze supplied by distance, will have its fame sounded forth by the singers of another generation. Some- times a smaller occurrence rouses into a blaze that poetic fervor which, in the pres- ence of a greater one, unaccountably smoulders into ashes, or else is blown clean out. Sir John Moores death at Corunna is celebrated in lines, humble, if you will, compared with the majesty of the ode, but which, I think, will always be remembered. Nelsons at Trafalgar waits yet for a fitting poetic commemora tion. In spite of all the efforts of the Scotts and the Southeys, our great duke received no tribute of verse, whether ode or other~vise, which will go down to pos- terity, till Tennyson (in the nursery when Waterloo was fought) bade his grateful country In the vast cathedral leave him; God accept him, Christ receive him. Bas. I rather doubt that odes surviv- ing to any remote generation. Hen. But you have forgotten the fine stanzas on Waterloo in Childe Harold. Geof. Wellington is not named in them. It might have been a crushing defeat for anything Byron says about it, or about him. Brunswicks fated chieftains is the only warrior he condescends to com- memorate. Then even Napoleon, whose career ~vas so peculiarly fascinating to the imagination, Who threw for empire, and his stakes were thrones, his tables earth, his dice were human bones, whose successes and reverses were alike on such a ~ antic scale, inspired no very fine ode. Byrons is scarcely generous to a fallen foe, although it is just. France, enlightened by ~vriters like Lanfrey and Madame de R~musat, will not now dis- sent from the judgment, With might unquestioned power to save Thine only gift hath been the grave To those that worshipped thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambitions less than littleness. But pity should not be scornful, as By- rons is ~vhen he speaks of The triumph and the vanity, The rapture of the strife The earthquake voice of Victory, To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seemed made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife All quelled! Dark spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory! The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others fate A Suppliant for his own! Bas. Manzonis Cinque Magglo, is a much finer ode than Byrons. But both the English and the Italian poet must have felt that, great as were the talents of Napoleon, his character was a little one, and that the nation which he deceived so long was worthier of pity than he. Geof Coleridge had a grander subject 206 A TALK ABOUT ODES. in his France, that fine wail over the a freedom to obey their Makers laws, fall of a nation which had seemed the that which man seeks is too often the lib. chosen standard-bearer of the human erty to break them, on which abuse of race; for after all, France betrayed her- freedom punishment surely follows. But self before Napoleon betrayed her. It is it is an invocation, beautiful as are the remarkable, too, as a prediction; for as- words of the Greek heroine, who, like suredly it is not merely with a masters Coleridge, in all her protests against hu. hand, but with a prophets fire, that he man tyranny, remained faithful to the strikes the deep sorrows of his lyre, eternal laws. when he sings, at the ol)ening of 1797, in his indignation at the French conquest of Ye clouds that far above me float and pause, Switzerland, ho~v the men who have dared Whose pathless march no mortal may con- trol! Ye ocean-waves, that wheresoer ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye woods, that listen to the night-birds sing- ing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope re- clined, Save when your own imperious branches, swi ogi ng, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way oer flowering weeds I wound, Inspired beyond the guess of folly By each rude shape, and wild unconquerable sound! 0 ye loud waves! and 0 ye forests high! And 0 ye clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising sun, thou blue rejoicing sky! Yea, everything that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoeer ye be, With what deep worshili I have still adored The spirit of divinest Liberty. To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn are themselves destined by a just retribu- tion to wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain. No doubt his hopes of France had been unreasonable; but his entertaining them ~vas a generous error, and their disap- pointment was most cruel. Bas. He owns, though, if you remem- ber, that, almost from the first, with those hopes grave fears were blended. How finely he expresses them both Hen. Thank you, oh, so much! That is beautiful! Now, is it Coleridges grief, do you think, at having misunderstood these sublime teachings of nature, which breathes in his later Ode to Dejection? where he speaks of himself as gazing with a blank eye on those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That giveaway their motion to the stars; Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair; I see, not feel, how beautiful they are; and exclaims mournfully, We receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live; Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud! And would we ought behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ab ! from the soul itself must issue forth, A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the earth. I want to know whether that beautifully expressed thought is a just one? or is it And what, I said, though Blasphemys loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove A dance more wild than eer was maniac s dream! Ye storms that round the dawning east assem- bled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light; And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; When France, her front deep-scarred and gory, Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warriors tramp, While, timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore, Then I reproached my fears that ~vould not flee. Geof. Is not that a fine image of the stormy sunrise? And is not that picture of Gallia Victrix majestic? Hen. What a shame, though, to call the loyalty of La Vend~e domestic trea- son! bas. Shall I say you the opening of the ode? It contains the secret of the poets disappointment. He had studied free- dom, not amidst men, but among the clouds and waves. Now their liberty is A TALK ABOUT ODES. 207 merely the fancy of a depressed imagina- tion? Geof. Coleridge seems here to state one side of the truth; but, as Berkeley does, over-strongly. The mind that per- ceives, receives those impressions from the object perceived, and those only, which it is at that time capable of receiv- ing. Nature, therefore, speaks of free- dom to the aspiring spirit, while to the willing slave her voice is dumb; and moves mans heart most powerfully when she coincides with his joy and sorrow; when she shines on the bridal, and drops tears over our dead. Those poets who, like Tennyson, for example, delight to exhibit her in such harmony with our moods, are said to use the pathetic fal- lacy; for, as we all know, nature can sing when we sorrow, and mourn when our hearts feel glad. Bas. I should be inclined, with Words- worth, and Coleridge himself when fittest to pronounce, to say that ~ve receive far more than we give. Whose moods of sadness have not been charmed away by natures joy nay, even when it is a joy that ~ve cannot share? When, for in- stance, the carols of the birds, and the bright sunshine outside, only make the darkness and silence of the death-chain- ber the more awful, do they not bear wit- ness to us of the presence of one greater than ourselves, who leads through night into day? It is in proportion as we learn to discern him that the celestial light, of which even Wordsworth had to mourn the fading away with youth, comes back to clothe his ~vorks; even as the lost star came back to the gaze of the Eastern sages, when they left Jerusalem for Beth- lehem. There is a third ode by Coleridge which you have neither of you mentioned that to The Departing Year. Do not you, Geoffrey, perceive in it much of that lyri- cal exaltation, that force and fury, which you set out by bespeaking as chief char- acteristics of the odes? Geof. Yes; but it is unequal in its parts, not such a sustained exhibition of po~ver as France. Hen. My complaint of it would be like the Scotchmans of the instructive read- ing which he found in Johnsons Diction- ary, that it is rather disconnected. I could not have found my way through it without the help of its preface. Btzs. Does not that make it the more Pindaric? But, to speak seriously, you are both right; still it has some fine pas- sages the earth - spirits accusation of England, the wicked empress stunned by deaths twice mortal mace, and the poets own state after seeing the dread vision. Geof How sad was the premature old age which so early closed all that brilliant promise, and allowed Coleridge but a fitful use of what he calls his birth-gift, his shaping spirit of imagination,! Ku- blai Khan remains a fragment; Chris- tabelis left half told, to be completed, in a spirit of cheerful ignorance, ~ro1z pudor / by Martin Tupper; and Trafalgar and Waterloo were not sung by perhaps the greatest poetic genius then in En- gland. Hen. I should like to know when so much might have been done which was not done by that brilliant constellation of poets then the honor of our country ~vhich you t~vo consider to be the best ode which our great war with Napoleon succeeded in inspiring any one of them with. Bas. I do not know whether Geoffrey will agree with me; but I should say The Battle of the Baltic. Campbells Ho- henlinden, and Mariners of England each first-rate of its sort are rather on a low-er line, and scarcely rise to the dignity of the ode ; but, in my judgment, his Battle of the Baltic, though not pretending to the varied harmonies which odes modelled after the great antique pat- terns afford us, has a majesty of its own which entitles it to the rank of an ode. Its stanzas are, indeed, of unequal merit but they all, except the last, avoid false ornament, and, dealing sparingly in meta- phor, forcibly present to us the poetic aspects of a sea-fight, its power to wrap the heavens in darkness its thunders outbello~ving the artillery of the skies its lightnings more harmful than those of the clouds, and in language awful from its very simplicity. As is, or rather was, Turners picture of the fighting T6m6- raire in painting, such is this ode in l)oet- ryan irresistible appeal to those strong fighting instincts vhich every man is born with ; ~vhich we, like our Viking ances- tors, behold in the sea the most fitting field for; and ~vhich, properly directed, are an inestimable possession. The sor- row, the indescribable pathos, of Turners picture arises from the fact that the gal- lant ship is to fight~no mo re. Campbells poem makes us rejoice over our hearts of oak as if they were living things, and could themselves enjoy their triumph. Everything now around us (except the month of the year, which happens to be 208 A TALK ABOUT ODES. the same) is as different from the scene of which Campbell writes as possible. Our downward path has once more brought the lake into view sleeping peace- fully below us, its farther shore illumined by the sun, now low in the sky. The tinkle of a sheep-bell is the loudest sound we hear, as it plays an accompaniment to the murmur of the brook. But as I say the words, It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence decp as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time, I seem to see the northern billows, and the ships confronting each other in line of battle, and the descendants of the old sea adventurers met once more, forgetful of their common descent, for mortal com- bat. How does it go on? Hearts of oak ! our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom; Then ceaseand all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or in conflagration pale Light the gloom. Then comes the surrender, and how Denmark blessed our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day: While the sun looked smiling bright Oer a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. And then how well the ode concludes ~vith a lament over the gallant men who died in the hour of victory, and whose resting-place recalls the memory of that best-beloved of Danes to an English man, Hamlet ! Now joy, Old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities blaze, While the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, ELsinore Hen. Will you not say us the last stanza? Bas. I think it better omitted. I am not very fond of its condoling mer- maid. Geof. How pleasantly the English re- spect for a brave adversary comes out in that poem! The Danes cheer as we do, heartily and undauntedly; only with weaker sound as their numbers diminish. Hen. (to Basil). You were right: one does seem to see it all, the preter- natural darkness only lighted by the burning ships, and the sad sights on which the sun slowly looks forth once more. Now, will you kindly explain to me why you, a learned and peaceful per- son, can take pleasure in visions of car- nate like those you have been calling up be~ore us? and why Geoffrey, a man of letters, and I, who am not even member of a rifle-corps, both alike partook of what, I fear, 1 must call the unhallowed excitement? Geof Let me at least show that there is nothing strange or unwonted in the phenomenon, by the example of one whom I have only lately learned to love, the laureates brother, the late Charles Tennyson Turner. Bas. Ab! I am anxious to read his sonnets. Hen. Remembering a certain conver- sation last summer, I cannot but think you will consider them as highly irregular, in fact, unfit to be called sonnets at all; and I am surprised at Geoffreys admiring them, for, if I remember right, he contended the more strenuously of the two for correctness of form. Bas. Are they more un-Petrarchan than Shakespeares? Geof No; and they justify themselves often, which is the main point, by their own beauty. His first little volume was, if I am any judge, by far the best, though nearly all his sonnets are worth reading; and one of those early sonnets, written ~vhile at college, by one of the gentlest and most amiable of men, may supply some answer to Henrys question. lt is called Martial Ardor in Age. That I can repeat it to you will show how much it has impressed me. It runs thus: Oh! if ye marvel that mine eye doth glow, Now every pulse of fervid youth is lost, Ye never heard the kingly trumpets blow, Nor felt the fleldward stirring of a host; Nor how the bayonet assures the hand That it can never fail, while Death doth stand, Amid the thunders of the reckless drum I And the loud scorn of fifes, ashamed and dumb! HOW SHE TOLD A LIE. Nor, when the noble revel dies away, I-low proud they lie upon the stain~d mould, A presence too majestic to gainsay, Of lordly martial bearing mute and cold, Which Honor knows o th instant! such as lay On Morat late, or Marathon of old! Hen. It seems odd to speak of the battle of Morat as a recent occurrence. It was fought in the fifteenth century, was it not? Is there no newer battle that could take its place? Geof The- alliteration must be pre- served, and the fight must be one fought for a countrys liberty and independence; so that limits the choice. I should be inclined for some alteration like, On Morats sod, or Marathons of old! Hen. Then, too, does not the first line need explaining? We are not told what the eye glows at. Should not at war be added in the second line, omitting fervid Geof Possibly: the following lines, ho~vever, abundantly suggest it. Bas. I am rather ashamed of you both ~~ith your minute criticisms. Have you not a word of admiration for that fine poetic representation of the undoubted fact that even the constitutionally timid cease to fear when once engaged in a hand-to-hand combat? The hand as- sured by the bayonet, deaths ashamed silence amid the martial music, Honor owning the bravely fallen, are aN splendid. What soldier seasoned in a hundred fights could describe the enthusiasm of conflict more justly than this quiet student has done? But to answer your question, Henry. It is not the bloodshed and slaughter, but the endurance, the courage, the power to overcome, which delight the mind in warlike poetry. Most of all, it is the evidence of an assured belief in mans immortality supplied by the fact that wise and good men in all ages have thought that there were causes in defence of which mans earthly life should be cheer- fully laid down, that refreshes and uplifts the spirit. You, in the calling that a~vaits you, we in those we are pursuing, have each of us to fight though our enemies may not be so easy to see, or so quickly to be overcome, as those our brother soldier goes to meet. You remember the words of that generous prince, Fortin- bras, over the dead Hamlet, decreeing him those military honors which he never had the opportunity to earn : Let four captains Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage, LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXV. 1782 209 For he was likely, had he been put on, To have proved most royally; and, for his passage, The soldiers music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. May you two be able to have some such thoughts as those about your old friend; when the bells, which will soon be sum- moning us from that grey church-tower in the dale to the Easter Tuesday evening service, toll slowly in his honor, and lie 15 carried, off his last battle-field, to take a long rest in its shelter! From The Sunday Magazine. HOW SHE TOLD A LIE. ST THE AUTHOR OF JOHN HALIFAX, GEN- TLEMAN. THE three travellers kind Cousin Eva, and her young charges, Cherry and Ruth were standing on the staircase of the curious old H6tel de Bourgth~roude, by the Place de Ia Pucelle, Rouen. That narrow, gloomy little square looked still narro~ver and gloomier in the drizzle of the dull November day: and the ugly pump in the middle of it, ~vith a still ug- lier statue on the top, marking the place where Jeanne dArc was burnt, had been a sore disappointment to the children. They had come, enthusiastic little pil- grims, to see the spot where their favorite heroine died; and Cousin Eva could hardly get them to believe that it was the spotthat the common-looking market- place, where a few ordinary modern mar- ket people were passing and re-passing, had actually been the scene of that cruel deed that from the very identical win- dows of those very identical houses, bru- tal eyes had watched the maid as she stood, the flames curling round her, clasp- ing the rude cross which some charitable soul pushed towards her hand. Do you remember, Cousin Eva said, how, at the last moment; she retracted all the false confession of heresy and witchcraft which torture had wrung from her, and exclaimed, Yes, my voices were of God? and how, when she saw the flames approaching her,sh e shut her eyes, called out once Jesus ! dropped her head upon her breast, and that was all; till they raked up a handful of charred bones out of the embers, and threw them into the Seine? The children looked grave. At last they did realize the whole. I wonder what sort of a day it was, 210 110W SHE TOLD A LIE. whispered Cherry: dull and gloomy, like to-day, or with a bright, blue, sunshiny sky? Perhaps she looked up at it before the fire touched her. And perhaps he stood herejust where we standthe English soldier who cried out, We have burnt a saint! And so she was, said Ruth, with a quiver passing over the eager little face; a real saint. But, Cousin Eva, added Cherry, why did she ever own to being a witch? and how could she say her voices were not true when she believed they were true? One way or other she must have told a lie. Miss Cherry was of an argumentative, rather than a sentimental turn. She thought a good deal herself, and liked to make other people think too, so as to ena- ble her to get to the bottom of things. She could never overlook the slightest break in a chain of practical reasoning; and if she had a contempt in this world, it was for a weak person, or a person who told a lie. This flaw, even in her favorite Maid of Orleans, otherwise so strong and brave, was too much for Cherry to pass over. Do you not think, said Cousin Eva, that it would be possible, under stress of circumstances, to tell a lieto confess to something one had never done? Bish- op Cranmer, for instance have you for- gotten how he signed a recantation, and then thrust into the flames that unworthy right hand? And Galileo, when forced by the Inquisition to declare the earth stood still, muttered afterwards, E ~ur si mzeove. Yes, yes, continued she, one never knows what one may be driven to do till the time comes. The force of torture is very strong. Once upon a time, I remember, I told a lie. You told a lie! echoed Cherry, loo~- ing with amazement into the bright ,sw eet, honest face rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed her little cousins themselves had not more innocent eyes than Evas as clear and round as a babys. But nobody ever tortured you ? asked tender-hearted Ruth, clinging to the kindly hand, which, indeed, she never went far away from, in these alarmino- for parts. eign No, my little girl; the thumbscrews, the rack, and the maiden belong, luckily, to that room in the Tower where we saw them once; and we are in the nineteenth and not the fifteenth century. Still even nowadays a good deal of moral torture can be brought to bear uoon one occa sionally, especially when one is only a child, as I was then. And I was tried sharplyenough to make me remember it even now, and feel quite sure that if I had been Jeanne dArc I should very likely have done exactly as she did! Also I learnt, what I have tried to put in prac- tice ever since, that nothing makes people liars like disbelieving them. Ruth gave a little tender pressure to the hand she held, while Cherry said proudly, You never disbelieve us, and you never need to! But tell us, Cousin Eva, about the lie you told. Was it de- ny; ng something you had done, or ownino~ to something you were quite innocent like poor Jeanne dArc? Do tell! You know how we like a story. What, here, in this pelt of rain? an- swered Cousin Eva, as she proceeded to investigate from under her umbrella the curious has-reliefs of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, which still remain in the court of the H6tel du Bourgth& oude. No, children; you must wait a more desirable opportunity. Which, however, was not long in com- ing. The day brightened grew into one of those exquisite days which French people call /dtd de St. Martin and truly I know nothing like it, except what it most resembles, a sweet, peaceful, con- tented old age. So Cousin Eva decided to take the children to a place which she herself had once seen and never forgotten, the little church on a hilltop, called No- tre-Dame de Bon Secours. Is that the same which Alice sings about in the opera of Robert le Diable? and Cherry struck up, in her clear young voice Quand je quittais ma Normandie. Rouen is in Normandy, so of course it was the same Daigne prot~ger nos amours, Notre-Dame de Bon Secours. Please dont sing quite so loud, or the hotel people will hear you, said timid Ruth, and was quite relieved when they started off. I need not relate how ex- tremely the children enjoyed the stiff climb up the hill, and admired the lovely building, all ablaze with brilliant but har- monious coloring, and the little side-chap- els, filled ~vith innumerable votive inscrip- tions : A Marie, Graces ~t l\Iaric, Elle a exauc6 mes vceux, etc. Curious, simple, almost childish, it all ~vas, yet touching to those who feel, as Cousin Eva did, that to believe earnestly in any- thing is better than believing in nothing. HOW SHE TOLD A LIE. 211 Afterwards they all sat and rested in one of the prettiest resting-places I know for those that live and move, or for them that sleep the graveyard on the hill- top, close behind the church of Notre- Dame de Bon Secours. From this high point they could see the whole country for miles and miles, the Seine winding through it in picturesque curves. Rouen, with its bridges and streets, distinct as in a map, lay at their right hand, and, rising out of the mass of houses, etherealized by the yellow sunset light, were the two spires of the Cathedral and the Church of St. Ouen. Can you see the market-place, Cousin Eva? If so, poor Jeanne dArc, when she was brought out to die, must have seen this hill, with the church on the top of it; that is, supposing there was a church. There might have been, though not this one, which is modern, you see. I wonder, continued Cherry, who was always wondering, if she looked up at it, and thought it hard that Notre- Dame de Bon Secours should not have succored her. Perhaps because, to es- cape from the heretic English, she had told a lie. And that reminds me, added Ruth, who was not given to ethical questions, that while we sit and rest, we might hear from Cousin Eva about the lie she told. Yes, yes. Please say, Cousin Eva, was it a big or a little one? Why did you tell it? And was it ever found out? I dont quite see the difference be- tween big and little, my child. A lie is a lie, though sometimes there are extenuat- ing circumstances in the reason for tell- ing it. And once told, the question whether or not it is ever found out, does not matter. My lie never was found out, but it grieved me all the same. Will it grieve you to tell about it? I should not like that, said Ruth softly. No, dear; because I have long since forgiven myself. I was such a small child, much younger than either of you, and, ~un- like you, I had no parents, only an aunt and uncle and a lot of rough cousins, who domineered over me and made me afraid. That was the cause. The sure way to make a child untruthful is to make it afraid. I remember, as if it were 3-ester. day, the shudder of terror that came over me when my eldest cousin clutched me by the shoulder saying, Did you do that? And what had you done? asked Cherry. Nothing, but Will thought I had. We were all digging in our gardens, and he had just found his favorite jessamine plant lying uprooted on the ground. It had been my favorite too, but Will took it from my garden and planted it in his own, where I watched it anxiously, for I was afraid it would die. You did it on purpose, Will per- sisted; or if not out of revenge, out of pure silliness. Girls are always so silly. Didnt you propose yesterday to dig it up just to see if it had crot a root? Which was quite true. I was a very silly little girl, but I meant no harm. I wouldnt for the ~vorld have harmed either Will or his jessamine. I told him so, but he refused to believe me. So did they all. They stood round me, and declared I must have done it. Nobody else had been in the garden, except.indeed a dog, who was in the habit of burying his bones there. But they never thought of him as the sinner, it was only of me. And when I denied doing the thing, they were only the more angry. You know you are telling a lie. And where do little girls go to that tell lies? cried Will, who sometimes told them him- self; but then he was a boy, and it was a rule in that family, a terribly mistaken one, that the boys might do anything, and the girls must always give in to the boys. So when Will looked fiercely at me, re- peating, You know you did it, I almost felt as if I really had done it. Unable to find another word, I begantocry. Look here, you children he called all the rest children Eva has gone and pulled up my jessamine, out of spite, or mischief, or pure silliness I dont know which, and I dont care. Id forgive her, if she would only confess, but she wont. She keeps on telling lie after lie, and we wont stand children that tell lies. If we punish her, shell ho~vl, so I propose that until she confesses we all send her to Coventry. Its a very nice town, but I dont ~vant to go there, said I, at which I re- member they all burst out laughing, and I cried only the more. I had no idea what sending to Cov- entry meant, unless it was like sending to Siberia, which I had lately been read- ingof, orto the quicksilver mines, where condemned convicts were taken, and where nobody ever lived more than two years. Perhaps there were quicksilver mines at Coventry? A cold shudder of fear ran through me, but I was utterly powerless. I could but die. 212 HOW SHE TOLD A LIE. Soon I discovered what my punish- ment was; and, though not death, it was hard enough. Fancy, children, being treated clay after day, and all day long, just as if you were a chair or a table never taken the least notice of, never an- swered if you spoke, never spoken to on any account; never played with, petted, or scolded. Completely and absolutely ignored. This was being sent to Cov- entry, and it was as cruel a punishment as could have been inflicted upon any little girl, especially a sensitive little girl who liked her playfellows, rough as they were, and was very fond of one of them, who was never rough, but always kind and good. This was a little boy who lived next door. His parents, like mine, were out in India; nor had he any brothers or sis- ters. He was just my age, and younger than any of my cousins. So we were the best of friends Tommy and I. His surname I have forgotten, but I know we always called him Tommy, and that I loved~ him dearly. The bitterest pang of all this bitter time was that even Tommy went over to the enemy. At first he had been very sorry for me had tried, all through that holiday Saturday when my punishment began, to persuade me to confess, and escape it; and when he failedfor how could I confess to what I had never done? to an action so mean that I would have been ashamed even to have thought of doing? then Tommy also sent me to Coventry. On the Sunday, all us children we didnt mind grammar much in those days walked to church together across the fields; and Tommy always walked with me, chattering the whole way. Now we walked in total silence, for Wills eye was upon him, and even Tommy was afraid. Whatever I said, he never an- swered a single word. Then I felt as if all the world were against meas if it was no use trying to be good, or telling the truth, since even the truth was regarded as a lie. In short, in my small childish way, I suffered much as poor Jeanne dArc must have suffered when she was shut up in her prison at Rouen, called a witch, a deceiver for- saken of all, and yet promised pardon if she would only confess and own she was a wicked woman, which she knew she was not. I was quite innocent, but after three days of being supposed guilty I ceased to care ~vhether I were guilty or no. I seemed not to care for anything. Since they supposed I was capable of such a mean thing as pulling up a harmless jes- samine-root out of spite, what did it mat- ter whether they thought I had told a lie or not? Indeed, if I did tell one, it would be much easier than telling the truth: and every day my sticking it out, and per- sistino in the truth, became more diffi- cult. This state of things continued till Wednesday, which ~vas our half-holiday, when my cousins usually ~vent a long ~valk or played cricket, and I was sent in to spend the afternoon with Tommy. They were the delight of my life, those long quiet Wednesdays, when Tommy and I went mooning about, dug in our garden, watched our tadpoleswe had a hand- basin full of them, which ~ve kept in the arbor till they developed into myriads of frogs and went hopping about every- where. But even tadpoles could not charm me now, and I dreaded, rather than longed for, my half-holiday. School had been difficult enouoh, for Tommy and I had the same daily govern- ess; but if, when we played together, he was never to speak to me, what should I do? Besides, his grandmother would be sure to find it out; and she was a prim and rather strict old lady, to whom a child who had been sent to Coventry for telling a lie ~vould be a perfect abhor- rence. What could I do? XVould it not be better to hide away somewhere, so as to escape going in to Tommys house at all? Indeed, I almost think some vague thought of running away and hiding my- self forever crossed my mind, when I heard Will catling me. He and two of the others were stand- ing at the front door a terrible council of three; like that which used to sentence to death the victims in the Prigioni, which we saw last month at Venice. I felt not unlike a condemned prisonerone who had been shut up so long that death came almost as a reliefwhich it must often have been to those poor souls. The three big boys stood over me like judges over a criminal and Tommy stood beside them looking very sad. Little girl, said XViII, in quite a judi- cial tone, we think you have been pun- ished enough to make you thoroughly ashamed of yourself. We wish you to go and play with Tommy as usual; but Tommy could not possibly have you un- less you were out of Coventry. We will give you one chance more. Confess that you pulled up the jessamine, and well for- give you, and tell nobody about you; and HOW SHE TOLD A LIE. you shall go and have tea with Tommy just as if nothing had happened. Think you have only to say one word. And if I dont say it? Then, answered \Vill, with a solemn and awful expression, I shall be obliged immediately to tell everybody everything. That terrible threat all the more formidable because of its vagueness quite overcame me. To be set down as a liar or to become one; to be punished as I knew my aunt would punish me on her sons mere statement, for a wrong thing I had never done, or to do a wrong thing, and, escaping punishment, go back to my old happy life with my dear Tommy, who stood, the tears in his eyes, waiting my decision! It was a hard straittoo hard for one so young. And Will stood glaring at me, with his remorseless eyes. Well, now say, once for all, did you pull up my jessamine? It was too much. Sullenly, slowly, I made up my mind to the inevitable, and answered, Since you will have it so yes. But the instant I had said it, I fell into such a fit of sobbingalmost hysterical screaming that my cousins were all frightened and ran away. Tommy stayed, however. He got me into the quiet arbor as fast as he could. I felt his arms round my neck, and his comforting was very tender, very sweet. But I was long before I stopped crying, and still longer before anything like cheer- fulness came into my poor little heart. We played together all the afternoon very affectionately, but in a rather melan- choly sort of way, as if we had something on our minds to which we never made the smallest reference. Tommy was a timid boy, and XViII had cowed him into unkind- ness: but he loved me I knew he loved me. Only, as is often the case, if his love had had a little more courage it would have been all the better for me perhaps for him too. XVe spent a peaceful, but rather dull afternoon, and then were summoned in- doors to tea. Now, tea at Tommys house was a serious thing. Tommys grandmother always sat at the table, and looked at us through her spectacles, and talked to us in a formal and dignified manner, asking if we had been good children, had learnt our lessons well, had played together with- out quarrelling, etc., etc. She was a kind old lady, but she always made us feel that she was an old lady, years upon years older than we, and quite unable to understand us 213 at all. Consequently, we never did more than ans~ver her questions and hold our tongues. As for telling her anything our troubles especially we vould as soon have thought of confiding in the queen, or the emperor of all the Russias. I never opened my lips all tea-time, and at last she noticed it. Also that my eyes vere rather red. This little girl looks as if she had been crying. I hope you have not made her cry, Tommy, my dear? Tommy was ~lent. But I eagerly declared that Tommy had not made me cry. Tommy was never unkind to me. I am glad to hear it, Evangeline (she always gave me my full name); and I hope you too are a good child, who is never in mischief, and above all never tells lies. If I were not quite sure of that, I could not allow Tommy to play with you.~ She looked us full in the face as if she saw through and through us which she did not, being very short-sighted yet I felt myself tremble in every limb. As for Tommy, he just glanced at me and glanced away again, turning crimson to the very roots of his hair, but he said nothing. What would have happened next, I cannot tell: ~ve waited in terror, holding one anothers hands under the table-cloth. But mercifully at that very instant the old lady was fetched to speak with some one, and ~ve two children had to finish our tea alone. It almost choked us me, at any rate. But as soon as ever it was over, and Tommy and I found ourselves safe out in the garden, I flung my arms round his neck and told him all. And Tommy believed me. No matter whether the others did or not, Tommy be. lieved me at last! Tommy sympathized with me, comforted me, thought I was not so very wicked even though I had told a lie, but not the one I was accused of tell- ing. Tommy wept with me over all I had suffered, and promised that, though per- haps it was better to let the matter rest now, if such a thing were to happen again, he would not be afraid of Will or of any- body, but would stand up for me like a man. And did he do it? asked Cherry, with slight in credulity in her tone. He never had the opportunity. A week after this he was suddenly sent for to join his parents abroad, and I never saw my friend Tommy any more. But did you never hear of him? Is 214 RICHELIEU. he alive still? He must be a very old gentleman by this time. Very. No doubt a father possibly even a grandfather, replied Cousin Eva, smiling. Cherry blushed. I didnt mean that, since he was barely as old as you, and you are certainly not a grandmother. But I want to hear more of Tommy. Is he married ? I really cannot say. The last time I heard of him was ten years ago, when he was living somewhere abroad I rather think at Shanghai. He was not married then. I wish, whispered Ruth solemnly, I wish he would come back to England and marry you. Cousin Eva laughed. There might be two opinions on that question, you know. But oh! my children, when you are married, and have children of your own, remember my story. If ever a poor little thing looks up in your face saying, I didnt do that, believe it! If it sobs out, Im not naughty, dont call it naughty! Give it the benefit of the doubt. Have patience, take time; and whatever you do, dont make it afraid. Cowards are always liars. Of the two evils it is less harmful to believe a person ~vho tells a lie, than to doubt another who is speaking the truth. 1 think so too, said Cherry sagely. Remember poor Jeanne dArc. And poor Cousin Eva, added Ruth, kissing the ~vell-beloved hand. And so, in the fading twilight, the three rose up together, and ~vent down the hill from Notre-Dame de Bon Se- cours. From Temple Bar. RICHELIET]. BY WALTER HERRIES POLLOcK. AT the beginning of Alfred de Vignys stirriug and brilliant romance, Cinq- Mars, the old Marshal Bassompierre is represented as giving his views upon the new state of things that he finds arisen in France. Some one asks his opinion upon some action of Cardinal Richelieu, and he replies How can I understand anything of the new rule under which France lives? Old brothers. in-arms of the late king cannot talk the lan- guage of the new courtnor can the new court comprehend ours. What am I saying? There is no such thing as talking in this wretched country for every one is afraid to speak before the cardinal. That puffed.up vassal looks on us as old family portraits every now and then from one of these portraits he takes away a head, but, happily, the motto remains. Yes, we are all of us in the way the minutes that we have left to live are jeal. ously counted, and the hourglass is shaken to hasten them. A little later on, Bassompierre gives a sketch of what the time of his youth was like. The class to which he belonged ~vere loyal subjects of the king, but felt that each of them was by right of birth absolute ruler of his own lands. The great families which it was the cardinals object to destroy, held their place at court by the weight of their own dignityand their position was explained in the say- mo- Prince ne daigne, Rohan 0 je suis. The king himself wrote to one of the nobles, Largent nest pas chose com- mune entre gentilshommes comme vous et moi. Here one of the company inter- rupts Bassompierre by observing that this macrnificent independence had led to civil wars and to such revolts as Mont- morencis. These revolts and wars, sir [answers the marshal], had no effect on the constitution of the State, and could no more upset the throne than a duel could. Not one of the great party chiefs but would have laid his victory at the kings feet in the event of success, knowing well that all his fellows would abandon an enemy of the legitimate sovereign. It was against a faction, not against sovereign au- thority, that arms were taken up. What have you accomplished in destroying us? You have l)roken the supports of the throne, and you have nothing to put in their place. I have no doubt that the cardinal-duke will carry out his design in full. The great nobles will leave and lose their estates, and losing them will lose their power. Already the court has l)ecome a hall of office-seekerslater on it will be a mere antechamber filled with the kings fol- lowers and dependents. In the beginning great names will exact low offices, but there will be a terrible reaction, and the low offices will degrade the great names. The nobles will exist only by virtue of the charges committed to them, and if the l)eople, on whom they will have lost their influence, choose to rise in re- volt - Here the marshal is again interrupted in the midst of a prophecy most effectively l)ut into his mouth. Whether any man of those times was really far-sighted enough to discern the probable future effect of Richelieus policy may well be doubted. It may perhaps safely be taken for granted that Richelieu himself had no suspicion that he was laying the way for RICHELIEU. 215 the overthrow of the monarchy. His efforts for the glory and aggrandisement of France, which of course included his own, might be compared to the work of a builder, who should add story after story to a house, without looking well to its foundations, until the fabric became top- heavy and needed only a few blows from a pickaxe to overthrow it. The character of Cardinal Richelieu has been viewed and represented in al- most every possible light. He has been described as an ardent patriot, as a mean and selfish schemer, as a man of austere life, as a reckless libertine, as a tyrant of overpowering will and energy, and as the mere instrument of a crafty Capuchin monk. As yet no one has denied that he possessed a certain amount of talent, but ~ve live in an age of historical surprises, and we shall perhaps learn some day that the great cardinal was little better than an idiot. Before looking at some of the chief facts in Richelieus reign over France one might almost say over Europeit may be worth while to see what kind of life it was that flourished in France when he made himself practically its king. In most peoples imagination a certain halo of romance naturally attaches itself to a past time in which there was much splendor and magnificence, and we are perhaps too apt to forget that if in such a time there was an almost fabulous bril- liancy which people in these days no longer aim at, there were also a squalor and degradation ~vhich it is difficult to realize. Novelists and poets have shown us the dazzling side of the time in which Richelieu was the central figure of France, and they have shown us also something of the miserable intriguing which con- stantly agitated the court; but with a sense of artistic fitness, they have not brought to light the degradation and bru- tality which existed in the highest places. Cinq-Mars, the chivalrous hero of De Vignys charming novel, seems very much the reverse of chivalrous as he appears in Tallemant des R~auxs pages; and in the same pages the romantic story of Buck- inghams devotion to the queen of France, some leading incidents of which the great Dumas has put into his novel the Three Musketeers, becomes singularly vulgar and unpleasant. Nor is ones idea of the great cardinal himself exalted by learning that he was in the habit of beating his captain of the guards when displeased with him, although it seems to be true that the king had the same weakness. In the words and actions of the people of that time, from the highest to the lowest, there was a grossness which happily is now almost inconceivable. Of the bru- tality of the period a striking instance is found in the history of the death of Con- cmi, Marshal DAncre, who was assassi- nated on the bridge of the Louvre, in the days when Richelieu was nothing greater than Bishop of Lu~on and a secretary of state. Five gentlemen who, or some of whom let us hope, believed that they had the kings authority for what they did, fell upon the marshal, then in the zenith of power and honor, as he crossed the bridge. Their names were Duhallier, Perray, Guichaumont, Morsains, and Le Buisson. Five pistol-shots were fired at Marshal DAncre, three of which hit him one between the eyes, one in the throat, and one below the ear. A sixth person, Sarroque, who had previously of- fered to kill the marshal unaided, stabbed him in the side, and a seventh struck him twice on the neck with a sword. Others gave him needless blows after he was dead. Vitri, brother of Duhallier, cried Vive le rol! triumphantly, as soon as he saw that Marshal DAncre was dead. Sarroque carried the marshals sword to the king, who made him a present of it, and Duhallier in his latter days boasted of having shot the marshal, and said that he had never felt any scruple or remorse for having done so. In the reign of the next king, Louis XIV., a portrait of Vitri was made, and beneath it were written these words: He was for a long time captain of the guard to the late king, Louis XIII., who found him useful in suppressing a threatened civil ~var, by set- ting him on to attack Marshal DAncre. - . - This incomparable stroke of justice on the part of that great prince, will al- ~vays testify that he was divinely inspired for the health of his State and the repose of his subjects. It was a queer kind of repose that one of his subjects got by means of three pistol-balls and several stabs; but fortunately for the memory of Louis XIII., it does not seem by any means certain that he had commanded the death of Marshal DAncre, while it is tolerably certain that the event caused him some misery throughout his life. What marks the hideous savagery which went hand in hand with the barbarous magnificence of the age, is the sequel of this abominable murder. Archers were sent to search the marshals house, where they found his widow. They found and took away various jewels which she had 216 RICHELIEU. concealed, and left her so destitute that she had to borro~v what she could from her son, who had been made a prisoner elsewhere, before she could go out into the streets. This wretched son was hor- ribly ill-treated by his guard. The queen presently sent for him, gave him.sweet- meats, and asked him to dance to her. In the evening the marshals great offices and small possessions down to a velvet cloak were divided among the nobles who had compassed or accomplished his death. What was Richelieus blame in this business is a matter which polemical his- torians might, if they liked, discuss for- ever. All that seems surely known con- cerning him ~vith regard to this detestable business is that he received information of the intended assassination the night before it took place that when he got the news he said to his dean: There is no hurry, I will sleep upon this matter, and that he slept upon it so effectually, that the next day the Marshal DAncre, the founder of Richelieus fortune, was, as we have seen, most foully murdered. Brienne relates that the news was brought to him at eleven oclock at night, and that the information was so precise and par- ticular that he ought at once to have ac- cepted it as a revelation from one of the conspirators, and at once to have acted upon it. But it does not appear that there was any really valid reason for his accepting the information as being true. Brienne, however, thinks that the cardi- nal was to blame, and details a conversa- tion which he had on the subject with his father the elder Brienne. Having asked him [he writes] what he thought of the Bishop of Lu~ons conduct on this occasion, he replied that the thing spoke for itself and needed no commentary. Is it a fact, sir, I said, that Cardinal Richelieu was nut sorry to be quit of the Marshal DAn- crc? Can you doubt it? he replied ~the cardinal knew well enough what was going to happen. De Luynes (De Luynes was the kings favorite at the time of Concinis death) De Luynes, ~vho made himself con- stable of France before he had fleshed his sword on anything more formidable than stags and wild boars, gave no disquietude to Riche- lieu; but as long as Concini lived Richelien would never have been prime minister, and the marshal, you may be sure, would never have given him the cardinals hat. To gain his ends he was obliged to allow the death of his pro- tector, whose hour had indeed come, and although according to the rules of friendship and of Christianity the cardinals action was hardly justifiable, yet in compliance with the maxims of Macchiavelli and of political wisdom, I think it was well designed, though I cannot say that I approve of it. M. Barri~re, the accoml)lished editor of Briennes memoirs, has on the conversa- tion just related the following note : Without accepting lightly Brienne s conjec- tures on a subject of so much interest, one may see that there are things which appear to make these conjectures plausible. One must remark in the first place that the elder Brienne, one of the ministers who were immediately re- called by Louis XIII. after the death of Con- cmi, ~vas perhaps better informed than any one else as to the intrigues of the day, and that he was even supposed to be the author of the official account of the marshals death. These two arguments are not perhaps of the highest value. It might even be supposed that a minister recalled imme- diately after such an assassination and presumably employed to write a history of it, would be willing to give as much blame to Richelieu, and as little to the king as possible. However, in the sec- ond place, says M. Barri~re, one must note what Marshal DEstr6es says, in his memoirs, of the beginning of Richelieus career: He had not long been a secretary of state before he was regarded as a man of uncommon talent, amid of extraordinary merit a circum- stance vhich soon raised jealous feelings in Marshal DAncre. Richelieu was not slow to perceive this, and has said in his memoirs that from that time he could no longer count on the good ~~-ill of Marshal DAncre. But, continues M. Barri~re, what is worthy of great consideration is the message sent by Richelieu to De Luynes three days before the assassination of Concini. This message was given by Richelieus brother-in-law to the kings favorite, for the ear of the king, and was to the effect that Richelieu was his Majestys most devoted servant. Whether it is of the importance that the editor of Brienne attaches to it may perhaps be doubted. On the one hand it may be suggested that, taken together with Richelieus pas- siveness as to Concinis murder, it goes to prove that, as the elder Brienne says, Richelieu, being a politic gentleman, was not sorry to get his benefactor out of the way; on the other hand, it may be said that the two matters had no connec- tion, that Richelieus profession of fidel- ity to the king had no absolutely special object, and that he was not to be blamed for taking no immediate action on receipt of intelligence which might or might not RICHELIEU. 217 be true. So far as I can see, there is no irrefragable evidence to be brought for- ward for either view, and if we are to accept the darker suggestion, we must remember that life ~vas held cheaper in those days than it was in the wild days of the