LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, ) ~ ~, 1882. Vol. CLIV. Volume ~ IT 1QQ~ July ~ 5 From Beginning, CONTENTS. I. NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT II. THE LADIES LINDORES. Part IV., III. THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY, IV. AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY WRITTEN BY DEAN SWIFT V. ROBIN. By Mrs. Parr, author of Adam and Eve. Part X. VI. PEEL AND COBDEN By Prof. Goidwin Smith VII. THE CHARM OF GARIBALDI, VIII. GARIBALDI AND ITALY IX. ETON X. BARON FISCO AT HOME. By W. W. Story,. THE LOVE OF THE PAST, A DAY GIRL GRADUATES, Fortn:~htly Review, Blackwoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, Temple Bar,. Nineteenth Century, Spectator, Economist, Saturday Review, Blackwoods Magazine, P0 E T R Y. 2~ DE IMITATIONE, BARON FISCO AT HOME, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & GO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. iror EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will he punctually forwarded for a year,free~~fj~ostage. Rensittances 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 shoulcibe made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. ~iugle Numbers of TEE LIvING AG; 18 cents. .3 II 24 34 40 44 57 59 6z Ga 2 6a 2 THE LOVE OF THE LOVE OF THE PAST. As sailors watch from their prison For the long gray line of the coasts, I look to the past re-arisen, And joys come over in hosts Like the white sea-birds from their roosts. I love not th indelicate present, The futures unknown to our quest, To-day is the life of the peasent, But the past is a haven of rest The joy of the past is the best. - The rose of the past is better Than the rose we ravish to-day; Tis holier, purer, and fitter To place on the shrine where we pray For the secret thoughts we obey. There, are no deceptions nor changes, There, all is placid and still; No grief, nor fate that estranges, Nor hope that no life can fulfil, But ethereal shelter from ill. The coarser delights of the hour Tempt, and debauch and deprave; And we joy in a poisonous flower, Knowing that nothing can save Our flesh from the fate of the grave. But surely we leave them, returning, In grief to the well-loved nest, Filled with an infinite yearnii~g, Knowing the past to be rest That the things of the past are the best. Spectato?:. A DAY. SUNRISE fresh, and the daisies small Silver the lawn with their starlets fair; But the blossoms of noon shall be stately and tall, Tropical, luscious, of odors rare: Ahwell! Noon shall be gorgeous beyond compare. Noon, and the sky is a blinding glare: The flowers have fainted while we have strayed; We wandered too far to tend them there, And they drooped for lack of the dew and shade: Ah well! Evening shall right the mistake we made. Evening; tis chilly in meadow and glade, The last pale rose has died in the west; The happy hour is song delayed, Our wandering is but a long unrest: Ah well! We will home to the fireside: Home is best. THE PAST, ETC. Nothing but ashes grey? No blest Faint glimmer of light on roof or wall A weary search was this day-long quest, And on empty hands the shadows fall: Ah well, Let us creep to bed and forget it all. Athen~um. E. H. GIRL GRADUATES. A novel feature at the meeting of Convocation of London Univers~v, was the appearance, for the first time, of Female Graduates in Academical costume. Nature. GIRL Graduates! They realize Our Tennysons old fancies, And winning Academic prize, They scorn seductive dances. Here come the feminine M.D.s, Of physic fair concocters, Who write prescriptions with such ease, The violet-hooded doctors. And here are those who won success In fields supremely classic, Who read of Neobules dress, Of Horace and his Massic. Here female rhetoricians tell How useful many a trope is; And men will learn, perchance too well, If girls are all ~3oC~rc~. How strange to some folks it must seem, This modern Convocation; Aspasia rules the Academe, Once mans exclusive station; And those who bow beneath her yoke, The strongest men and sternest, May try to think that shes in joke, And find her quite in earnest! Punch. DE IMITATIONE. WHERE is the Church that once made brave the world With rainbow sails and flying dignities? What of the Fathers, fierce-browed captains, is Left for a solace now? With sails unfurled On safer seas the Church her commerce plies Of tidings glad from holy morning lands, Nor claims with bitter loss of brains and hand An easy north-west passage to the skies. How were they named, these captains? Who can tell The stories of their victories and wrecks Charm us no more. Thee only love we well Whose ship The Imitation, with its decks Of peace and love-pure sails and helm of grace, So gently voyaged to Gods own blessed place. Acadomy. NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. 3 From The Fortnightly Review. NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. IN antiquity and varied interest New- gate prison yields to no place of durance in the world. A gaol has stood on this same site for almost a thousand years. The first prison was nearly as old as the Tower of London, and much older than the Bastille. Hundreds of thousands of felons and trespassers have from first to last been incarcerated within; and to many it must have been an abode of sor- row, suffering, and unspeakable woe, a kind of terrestrial inferno, to enter which was to abandon every hope. Imprison- ment was often lightly and capriciously inflicted in days before our liberties were fully won, and innumerable victims of tyranny and oppression have been lodged in Newgate. Political troubles also sent their quota; the gaol was the halfway- house to the scaffold or the gallows for turbulent or short-sighted persons who espoused the losing side; it was the start- ing-place for that painful pilgrimage to the pillory or whipping-post which was too frequently the punishment for rashly ut- tered libels and philippics against consti- tuted power. Newgate, again, was on the highroad to Smithfield; in times of intol- erance and fierce religious dissensions numbers of devoted martyrs went thence to suffer for conscience sake at the stake. For centuries a large section of the per- manent population of Newgate, as of all gaols, consisted of offenders against com- mercial laws; fraudulent bankrupts were hanged, others more unfortunate than criminal were clapped into gaol to linger out their lives without the chance of earn- ing the funds by which alone freedom could be recovered. Debtors of all de- grees were equally condemned to languish for years in prison often for the most pal- try sumsinnocent persons also; gaol- deliveries were rare, and the boon of arraignment and fair trial was strangely and unjustly withheld, while even those acquitted in open court were often haled back to prison because they were unable to discharge the gaolers illegal fees. The condition of the prisoners was long most deplorable. They were but scantily sup- plied with the commonest necessaries of life. Light scarcely penetrated their dark and loathsome dungeons; no breath of fresh air sweetened the fetid atmosphere they breathed; that they enjoyed the lux- ury of water was due to the munificence of a pious ecclesiastic. As for their daily subsistence it was most precarious. Food, clothing, fuel were doled out in limited quantities by prosperous citizens as chari- table gifts, while some bequeathed small legacies to be expended in the same arti- cles of supply. These bare prison allow- ances were further eked out by the chance seizures in the markets; by bread for- feited as inferior or of light weight, and meat unfit to be publicly sold. All classes and categories of prisoners were herded indiscriminately together: men and wom- en, tried and untried, upright but mis- guided zealots with hardened habitual offenders. The only principle of classifi- cation was a prisoner~ s ability or other- wise to pay certain fees; money could purchase the squalid comfort of the mas- ters side, but no immunity from the bale- ful companionship of felons equally well furnished with funds and no less anxious to escape the awful horrors of the com- mon side of the gaol. The veight of the chains again, which innocent and guilty all alike wore, depended upon the price a prisoner could pay for easement of irons, and it was a common practice to overload a new comer with enormous fet- ters and so terrify him into lavish dis- bursements. The gaol at all times was so hideously overcrowded that plague and pestilence perpetually ravaged it, and the deadly infection often spread into the neighboring courts of law. The foregoing is an imperfect but by no means overcolored picture of Newgate as it existed for hundreds of years, from the twelfth century, indeed, to the nine- teenth. The description is supported by historical records somewhat meagre at first perhaps, but becoming more and more ample and better substantiated as the period grows less remote. We have but scant information as to the first gate- house gaol. Being part and parcel of the city fortifications, it was intended mainly for defence, and the prison accommoda- tion which the gate afforded with its 4 NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. dungeons beneath, and garrets above, must have been of the most limited de- scription. More pains were no doubt taken to keep the exterior strong and safe against attack, than to render the interior habitable, and we may conclude that the moneys willed by Whittington for the re- edification of Newgate were principally expended on the restoration and improve- ments of the prison. Whits palace, as rebuilt by Whittingtons executors, lasted for a couple of centuries, and was the principal gaol forthe metropolis. Reference is constantly made to it in the history of the times. It was the natural receptacle for rogues~ roysterers, and masterless men. Itis described as a hot. bed of vice, a nursery of crime. Drunk. enness, gaming, profligacy of the vilest sort, went forward in the prison without let or hindrance. Contemporary petitions, preserved in the State papers, penned by inmates of Newgate pining for liberty, call their prison house a foul and noisome den. The gaoler for the time being was certain to be a brutal partisan of the party in power, especially bitter to reli- gious or political opponents who fell into his hands. Such an one was Alexander Andrew, the keeper in Marys reign. So violent was his hatred of Protestants, Foxe tells us, that he would go to Bonner crying, Rid my prison, I am too much pestered with heretics. Overflowing with zeal, he brought all his powers of persuasion, fair words and promises of kind treatment, to induce his prisoners to recant. He had so little compassion that he forbade good old Master Rogers, tl~e proto-martyr of the Maryan persecutions, to share his meals with his starving fellow- prisoners. Alexander, on the other hand, was lenient enough to prisoners of the right way of thinking. In the narrative of Underhill, the Hot Gospelier, commit- ted to Newgate in 1553, Alexander An- drew and his wife, who shared his duties, are described as feasting and carousing in the great central hall of Newgate with prisoners who were clever enough to keep their religious views in the background, and ready to pay for their gaolers enter- tainment. Underhill gives us a curious glimpse of the inside of the prison. Hay- ing duly treated Andrew to liquor unlim- ited, he was constituted white son to the governor and governess of Newgate, and was given the best room in the prison, with all admissible indulgences. The best room was very draughty, unquiet, and full of evil savors, and Underhill, falling into an agu e, was moved into the gaolers own parlor, far from the noise of the prison. But his new chamber was near the kitchen, and the smell of meat was more than he could bear, whereupon Mistress Andrew put him away in her store-closet, amidst her best plate, crock- ery, and clothes. With occasional, but not always suffi- cient, repairs, but without structural al- terations, Whittingtons Newgate con- tinued to serve down to the seventeenth century. About 1629 it was in a state of utter ruin, and such extensive works vere undertaken to re-edify it that the security of the gaol was said to be endangered, and it was thought better to pardon most of the prisoners before they set them- selves free. Lupton, in his London Car- bonadoed, speaks of Newgate as new- fronted and new-faced in 1638. Its accommodation must have been sorely tried in the troublous years which fol- lowed. It seems to have been in the time of the Commonwealth when our churches were made into prisons, and demands for space had greatly multiplied, that Newgate was increased by the addi- tion of the buildings belonging to the Phcenix inn in Newgate Street. The great fire of 1666 gutted, if not completely destroyed, Newgate, and its reconstruc- tion became imperative. Some say Wren was the architect of the new prison, but the fact is not fully substantiated. Au- thentic and detailed information has, how- ever, been preserved concerning it; it is figured in a familiar woodcut which may be seen in every modern history of Lon- don, while a full description of the in- terior, both plan and appropriation, has been left by an anonymous writer, who was himself an inmate of the gaol. The prison was still subordinated to the gate, which was an ornate structure, with great architectural pretensions. Tuscan pilas- ters with statues in the intervening niches NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. decorated both fronts; the western had a figure of Liberty with Whittingtons cat at her feet; on the eastern were figures of Justice, Mercy, and Truth. But as a writer in the Gentlemans Magazine well put it about a century ago, The sump- tuousness of the outside but aggravated the misery of the wretches within. A fair conception of the horrors of the in- terior will best be obtained from a brief account of its various parts. Some effort ~vas made to classify, and the Ne~vgate of that day contained five principal divisions or sides: there was the masters side, for debtors and felons respectively; the com- mon side, for those same two classes of prisoners; and lastly the press yard, for prisoners of note. The master debtors side consisted of three wards or rooms which were furnished at high rates, with flock beds, tables, and chairs; in the mas- ter felons side were a couple of wards above and communicating with the gig- ger, an interviewing chamber where fel- ons, on payment, saw their friends, while below the gigger was an underground tap- room, or drinking-vault, to which the fel- ons on the masters side had access at all hours, and where they might drink as deep as they pleased. The right to oc- cupy the masters side was a luxury dearly purchased, but the accommodation ob- tained, albeit indifferent, was palatial to that provided for the impecunious on the common side. Penniless debtors were cast into the stone hall, close to which was the partners room, a species of punishment cell for the refractory; into Tangier, a larger room, but dark and stinking, and aptly named; or into a debtors hall, a third room upon the top story-, well provided with light but with unglazed windows, and having as its im- mediate neighbor Jack Ketchs kitchen, where that honest fellow, the hangman, boiled the quarters of those executed and dismembered~for high treason. The poor debtors were not denied the indulgence of liquor, if they could only pay for it. In one corner of the stone hall above men- tioned ~vas a tap-house, which felons on this side were secretly permitted to enter, to drink with the debtors, by which means such wretchedness abound- 5 ed, that the place has the exact aspect of hell itself. To the common felons this must have been their only enjoyment, for their condition was truly awful, and the side they occupied is fitly described as a most terrible, wicked, and dreadful place. There were five wards in it; the stone hold, an underground dungeon, dark and dismal, into which no daylight ever penetrated, and which was reserved for such as could not pay their entrance fees; alongside was the lower ward, also an underground den; above it was the middle ward, for felons who could just meet the simplest demands for fees. These were for males ; female felons were lodged in watermans hall, a very dark and stinking place, and having as near neighbors the press room, used for the infliction of ~eineforte et dure, the bilbows, another refractory cell, and the womens condemned cell, a dismal, cheerless dungeon. The female felons had another ward, at the top of the prison, a foul place lighted by one small window, where the women suffered themselves to live far worse than swine, and, to speak the truth, the Augean stable could bear no comparison to it, for they are almost poisoned by their own filth, and their con- versation is nothing but one continued course of swearing, cursing, and debauch- ery, insomuch that it passes all description and belief. The only inmates of the Newgate prison I am now describing comparatively well off, were tho~e admitted to the press yard; a division composed of large and spacious rooms on all the three floors of the prison, and deemed by a legal fiction to be part of the governors house. That functionary made these, his involuntary lodgers, pay just what he chose. His rates were proportionate to a prisoners means, and might be anything between twenty and a hundred pounds as a premium, with a high weekly rental, and exorbitant charges for extras besides. But the gen- tlemen of the press yard, whether State prisoner, aristocratic or opulent criminal, could buy what was denied to their poorer fellows upon the other side: abundant light and air, decent beds, clean and sufficient bedding, and the attendance of servants. 6 NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. Above all, they could exercise under the free air of heaven, in the long but narrow passage which bordered the gaol on the northward, and which was handsomely paved with Purbeck stone. No other prisoners could take the air: the masters debtors might stretch their legs in the hall ward the masters felons in the high hall, a long gallery just under the chapel in ~vhich stood the stone anvil on which the condemned mens chains were struck just before they entered the Tyburn cart. Enou ~ h has been said to show how des- perate was the case of the bulk of the in- mates of Newgate. The whole place except the press yard was so dark that candles, links or burners, were used all day long; the air was so inconceivably foul, that the ventilator on the top of the prison could exercise no appreciable ef- fect. That malignant disease, the gaol fever, was chronic, and deaths from it of frequent occurrence. Doctors could be got with difficulty to attend the sick in Newgate, and it was long before any reg- ular medical officer was appointed to the prison. Evil was in the ascendant through- out; wickedness and profligacy pros- pered; the weakest always ~vent to the ~vafl. Tyranny and oppression were widely l)ractised: not only were the gaol. ers extortionate, but their subordinates the inferior turnkex-s, even the bed-mak- ers, and the gate-keepers ~vife levied black mail on the pretence of affording relief, and with threats or actual ill-usage when payment ~~-as ~vithheld. Certain favored l)risoners wielded recognized au- thority over their fellows. Unwritten but accepted customs suffered the general body to exact garnish, or chummage, from new comers, fees for the privilege of approaching the fire, and generall yfor immunity from persecution, the sums thus raised being forthwith expended in strong drink. The cellarmen were selected prisoners who could sell candles at their ow-n prices, and got a percentage upon the liquors consumed, with other advantages. Other prisoners were em- p!oyed in the distribution of food; in the riveting and removing of shackles; even in the maintenance of discipline, and when so acting were armed with a flexible weal)on, to the great terror and smart of those who dispute their authority. Into these filthy dens, where misery stalked rampant and corruption festered, unhappy pnsoners brought their families, and the l)opulation was greatly increased by num- bers of innocent persons, women, and even childa-en, to be speedily demoralized and utterly lost. Lunatics raving mad ranged up and down the wards, a terror to all they encountered. Common women were freely admitted; mock marriages were of con- stant occurrence, and children were fre- quently born within the precincts of the gaol. There was but little restriction upon the entrance of visitors. When any great personage ~vas confined in New- gate, he held daily levees and received numbers of fashionable folk. Thus Count Konigsmark, when arrested for complicity in the murder of Mr. Thynne, lived no- bly in the keepers house (no doubt in the press yard), and was daily visited by persons of quality. When political pris- oners, Jacobite rebels, or others were in- carcerated, their sympathizers and sup- porters came to comfort them by sharing their potations. Even a notori- ous highwayman like Maclean, according to Horace Walpole, entertained great guests, and it was the mode for half the world to drive to Newgate and gaze on him in the condemned hold. In sharp contrast ~vith the privations and terrible discomforts of the poorer sort was the wild revelry of these aristocratic prisoners of the press yard. They had every luxury to be bought with money, freedom alone excepted, and that ~vas often to be compassed by bribing dishon- est officials to suffer them to escape. The Jacobites captured in the 15 fared sumptuously; they had fish at exorbitant prices, early peas at forty shillings a dish, venison pasties, hams, chickens, and other costly meats. Money was so plen- tiful among them that while change for a ~uinea was difficult to procure in the street, any quantity of silver could always be got in Newgate. Their leisure time was spent inplaying shuttlecock, or bask- ing in the smiles of female admirers, some of whom were ladies of the highest rank. They kept late hours, collecting in one anothers rooms to roar out seditious songs over endless bowls of punch. At times they exhibited much turbulence, and refused to be locked up in the separate chambers allotted to them. On Jacobite anniversaries they wore state dresses, drank the absent kings health, and com- poi-ted themselves defiantly. Nothing much was done to them; and all this leniency is the more remarkable because the l)ulk of those within the precincts of Ne~vgate were so disgracefully ill-used. One case may be quoted, that of the Rev. Lawrence Howell, a non-juring parson, ~vbo a few years later found himself in the gaol for publishing a so-called im NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. 7 proper work, and who was slowly mur- dered there by the intolerable horrors of the place. As a general rule the movement through Newgate was pretty rapid. The period of imprisonment for debtors might be often indefinitely prolonged, and there was the well-known case of Major Ber- nard and his companions, who were de- tained for forty years in Newgate without trial or the chance of it, on an alleged charge of being concerned in the assas- sination plot against William III. Some, too, languished awaiting trans fertothe West Indian or American plantations by the contractors to whom they were legally sold. But for the bulk of the criminal prisoners there was one speedy and ef- fectual system of removal, that of capital punishment. Executions were wholesale in those times. The code was sanguinary in the extreme. Male coiners were quar- tered as traitors, and females ~vere burnt. Larceny, forgery, bankruptcy, all these were punished by death, and the gallo~vs tree was always heavily laden. There ~vas every element of callous brutality in the manner of inflicting the extreme penalty of the law. From the time of sentence to the last dread mo- ment the convict was exhibited as a show, or held up to public contempt and execra- tion. Heartless creatures flocked to the gaol chapel to curiously examine the as- pect of condemned malefactors on the Sunday the gaol sermon ~vas preached. Those men who had but a short time to live mingled freely with their fellow-pris- oners, recklessly carousing, and often making a boast that they laughedtoscorn and rejected the well-meant ministrations of the ordinary. The actual ceremony was to the last degree cold-blooded and ~vanting in all the solemn attributes befit- ting the awful scene. The doomed was carried in an open cart to Tyburn or other ap~)ointed place; the halter already encircled his neck, his coffin was at his feet, by his side the chaplain or some de- voted amateur philanthropist and preacher like Silas Told, striving earnestly to im- prove the occasion. For the mob it was a high day and holiday; they lined the route taken by the ghastly procession, encouraging or flouting the convict ac- cording as he happened to be a popular hero or unknown to criminal fame. In the first case they cheered him to the echo, offered him bouquets of flowers, or pr~ssed him to drink deep from St. Giless Bowl in the latter they pelted him with filth and overwhelmed him with abuse. The most scandalous scenes occurred on the gallows. The hangman often quar- relled with his victim over the garments, which the former looked upon as a lawful perquisite, and which the latter was dis- posed to distribute among his friends; now and again the rope broke, or the drop was insufficient and Jack Ketch had to add his ~veight to the hanging body to assist strangulation. Occasionally there ~vas a personal conflict and the hangman was obliged to do his office by sheer force. The convicts were permitted to make dying speeches, and these orations were elaborated and discussed in New- gate ~veeks before the great day; while down in the yelling crowd beneath the gallo~vs spurious versions were hawked about and rapidly sold. It was a distinct gain to the decency and good order of the metropolis when Tyburn and other dis- tant points ceased to be the l)laces of execution, and hangings were exclusively carried out in front of Newgate, just over the debtors door. But some of the xvorst features of the old system survived. There was still the melodramatic sermon, in the chapel hung with black, before a large congregation collected simply to stare at the convicts squeezed into one pew, who in their turn stared with mixed feelings at the coffin on the table just be- fore their eyes. There ~vas still the same tumultuous gathering to view the last act in the tragedy, the same bloodthirsty mob swaying to and fro before the gates, the same blue-blooded sl)ectators, George Selwyn or my Lord Tom Noddy, who breakfasted in state with the gaoler, an4 so got a box seat or rented a ~vindow op~ posite at an exorbitant rate. The popu lace were like degenerate Romans in the amphitheatre waiting for the butchery to begin. They fought and struggled des- perately for front places: people fell and ~vere trampled to death, hoarse roars caine from thousands of brazen throats~ which swelled into a terrible chorus as the black figures of the performers. on the gallows stood out against the sky. Hats off Down in front these cries. echoed and re-echoed in increasing vol- ume, and all at once abruptly came to an endthe bolt ~vas drawn, the drop had fallen, and the miserable wretch had gone to his long home. The policy which had brought about the substitution of Newgate for Tyburn no doubt halted half-wax-, but it vas cn- lightened, and a considerable move to- wards the private executions of our own times. It was dictated by the more hu 8 NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. mane principles which were gradually making head in regard to criminals and crime. Many more years were to elapse, however, before the eloquence of Romilly was to bear fruit in the softening of our sanguinary penal code. But already John Howard had commenced his labors, and his revelations were letting in a flood of light upon the black recesses of prison life. It is to the credit of the authorities of the city of London that they had rec- ognized the necessity for rebuilding New- gate on a larger and more approved plan before the publication of Howards re- ports. The great philanthropist made his first journey of inspection towards the end of 1773; in the following year he laid the information he had obtained before the House of Commons, and in 1777 pub- lished the first edition of his celebrated State of Prisons. As early as 1755 the Common Council had condemned New- gate in no measured terms; declared it to be habitually overcrowded with victims of public justice, under the complicated distresses of poverty, nastiness, and dis- ease ; they had neither water, nor air, nor light in sufficient quantities; the buildings were old and ruinous, and in- capable of any improvement or tolerable repairs. It was plainly admitted that the gaol ought to be at once pulled down. But as usual the difficulty of providing funds cropped up, and the work, though urgent, was postponed for some years. The inadequacy of the prison was so ob- vious, however, that the matter was pres- ently brought before a committee of the House of Commons, and the necessity for rebuilding clearly proved. A committee of the Corporation next met in 1767 to consider ways and means, and they were fortified in their decision to rebuild by convincing evidence of the horrible con- dition of the existing prison. A letter ad- dressed to the committee by Sir Stephen jansen stigmatizes it as an abominable sink of beastliness and corruption. He spoke from full knowledge, having been sheriff ~vhen the prison was decimated by gaol fever. In the same year Parliamen- tary powers were obtained to raise money to rebuild the place, and the new Newgate was actually commenced in 1770, when Lord Mayor Beckford, father of Vathek Beckford, laid the first stone. Its archi- tect was George Dance, and the prison building, which still stands to speak for itself, has been counted one of his finest works. Howard, who gives this historic prison the first place in his list, must have visited it while the new buildings were in progress. The plan did not find favor with him, but he enter5 into no particu- lars, and limits his criticisms to remark- ing, that without more than ordinary care the prisoners in it will be in great danger of gaol fever. According to modern notions the plan was no doubt faulty in the extreme. Safe custody, a leading principle in all prison construc- tion, was compassed at the expense of most others. The prison faade is a marvel of massive strength and solidity, but until reappropriated in recent years its interior was a limited confined space, still darkened, and deprived of ventila- tion, by being parcelled out into courts, upon which looked the narrow windows of the various wards. The erection of the new and commodi- ous gaol, as it is described in an act of the period, proceeded rapidly, but three or four years after Howards visit it was still uncompleted. This act recites what had been done, referring to the valuable, extensive areas, which had been taken in in prosecution of this great prison, and provides additional funds. In 1780, how- ever, an unexpected catastrophe hap- pened, and the new buildings were set on fire by the Lord George Gordon rioters, and so much damaged that the most com- prehensive repairs were indispensable. These were executed in 1782. Many years were to elapse before any further alterations or improvements were made. It was soon evident that Dances New- gate, imposing and appropriate as were its outlines and fa~ade, by no means satisfied all needs. The progress of enlighten- ment was continuous, whjle complaints that would have been stifled or ignored previously were now occasionally heard. The wretched prisoners continued to be closely packed together. Transportation had now been adopted as a secondary punishment, and numbers who escaped the halter were congregated in Newgate waiting removal beyond the seas. The population of the prison had amounted to nearly six hundred at one time in 1785. According to a presentment made by th~ grand jury in 1813, in the debtors side, built for one hundred, no less than three hundred and forty were lodged; in the female felons ward there were one hun- dred and twenty in space intended for only sixty. These females were destitute and in rags, without bedding, many with - out shoes. In later years the figure rose still higher, and it is authoritatively stated that there were as many ight, nif~e, even twelve hundred souls immured with- NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. 9 in an area of about three-quarters of an acre in extent. We have the evidence of trustworthy persons that grievous abuses still continued unchecked. All prisoners were stiliheavily ironed until large bribes had been paid to obtain relief. All man- ner of unfair dealing was practised towards the prisoners. The daily allowances of food were unequally divided. Bread and beef were issued in the lump, and each individual had to scramble and fioht for his share. Prisoners had no bedding be- yond a couple of dirty rugs. Exorbitant gaol fees were still demanded on all sides; the governor eked out his income by what he could extort, and his subordinates took bribes wherever they could get them. It was customary to sell the place of wards- man, with its greater ease and power of oppression, to the highest bidder among the prisoners. Unlimited drinking was allowed within the walls; the prison tap, with the profits on sales of ale and spirits, was a part of the governors perquisites. All this time there was unrestrained in- tercommunication between the prisoners the most depraved were free to contam- inate and demoralize their more innocent fellows. Newgate was then, and long continued, a school and nursery for crime. It was established beyond doubt that burglaries and robberies were frequently planned in the gaol, while forged notes and false money were often fabricated ~vithin the walls and passed out into the town. The disclosure of these frightful evils led to a Parliamentary inquiry in 1814, and the worst facts were fully substan- tiated. The prison was not water-tight, rain came in through the roof; broken windows were left unglazed; it was gen- erally very dirty; the gaoler admitted that with its smoked ceilings and floors of oak, caulked with pitch, it never could look clean. The prisoners were not compelled to wash, and cleanliness was only en- forced by a general threat to shut out visitors. Sometimes a more than usually filthy person was stripped, put under the pump, and forced to go naked about the yard. The poor debtors were in terrible straits, herded together, and dependent upon casual charities for supplies. Birch, the well-known tavern-keeper, and others, sent in broken victuals, generally the stock meat which had helped to make the turtle soup for civic feasts. The chaplain took life very easy, and, beyond preaching to those who cared to attend chapel, min- istered but little b the. spiritual wants of hs charge, and his indifference was strongly condemned in the report of the Commons committee. The chapel con- gregation was generally disorderly; pris- oners yawned, and coughed, and talked enough to interrupt the service; women were in full view of the men, and many greetings, ~uch as How do you do, SaIl? often passed from pew to l)ew. No attempt ~vas made to keep condemned convicts, male or female, separate from other prisoners; they mixed freely with the rest, saw daily any number of visitors, and had unlimited drink. It ~vas a little before the publication of the committees report that that noble ~voman, Mrs. Fry, first visited Newgate. The awful state of the female prison, as she found it, is described in her memoirs. Nearly three hundred women, represent- ing all crimes and categories, were crowded together in two wards and two cells, where they saw their friends, kept their multitude of children, and had no other place for cooking, washing, eating, and sleeping. They slept on the floor; many were nearly naked; spirits and strong drink freely circulated; the most frightful oaths and imprecations were on every lip. Everything was filthy, and the smell intolerably disgusting. The officials were reluctant to go among these terrible unsexed creatures. Mrs. Fry was strongly advised to leave her watch behind her at the lodge, or it would be torn from her. What she saw when she entered baffled description. To use her own words, The filth, the closeness of the rooms, the ferocious manners and expressions of the women towards each other, and the abandoned wickedness which everything bespoke, baffle description. Three years elapsed between her first visit and her second~ In the interval, the report last quoted had borne some fruit. An act had been brought in for the abolition of gaolfees ,gaol committees had been ap- pointed to visit and check abuses, and something had been done to ameliorate the condition of the neglected female out- casts. The accommodation had been ex- tended; mats had been provided; gratings erected to separate the prisoners from those who came to visit. Yet the scene within was still dreadful. Some women were gambling, or fortune-telling, others begging at the bars for money with spoons attached to sticks, and fighting for the alms thus obtained. What Mrs. Fry quickly accomplished against such tre- mendous difficulties, is one of the bright- est facts in the whole history of philan- thropy. How she persevered in spite of 10 NEWGATE: A RETROSPECT. prediction of certain failure; how she won the co-operation of lukewarm offi- cials; how she provided the manual labor for which these poor idle hands vere eager, and presently transformed a filthy den of corruption into a clean, white- washed workroom, in which sat rows of women recently so desperate and de- graded, stitching and sewing orderly and silent: these extraordinary results with the most unpromising materials have been read and appreciated all over the world. There was no one, unfortunately, to un- dertake the same great work upon the male side, and this is plain from a letter addressed to the Common Council by the Hon. H. G. Bennet, who had been chair- man of a committee on the police of Lon- don. He had been a witness to the min- istrations of Mrs. Fry, and he is keenly anxious that the city should cease to treat its l)risonersin a manner ao-ainst which common sense and the most ordi- nary humanity revolt. The misman- agement of Newgate has been for years notorious, he says, yet there is no real reform. The occasional humanity of a sheriff may remedy an abuse, redress a wrong, cleanse a sewer, or ~vhitewash a wall, but the main evils of ~vant of food, air, clothing, bedding, classification, moral discipline remain as before. But appeals, however eloquent, were of small avail. Time passed, and there was a general im- petus towards prison reform; the question became cosmopolitan; close inquiry was made into the relative value of systems of punishment at home and abroad. Mill- bank Penitentiary was erected at a cost of half a million, to give full scope to the ex- periment of reformation. Public atten- tion was daily more and more called to prison management. Yet through it all Newgate remained almost unchanged. It was less crow-ded, perhaps, since relieved by the opening of the Giltspur Street Compter, and that was all that could be said. In 1836, when the newly appointed government inspectors made their first report, the internal arrangements of New- gate were quite as bad as ever. These inspectors were earnest men, who had made prisons a study. One was the Rev. Whitw-orth Russell, for many years chap- lain of Millbank; the other Mr. Crawford, who had written an admirable State paper upon the prisons of the United States, the result of long personal investigation. It is almost inconceivable that the old evils should have been suffered to flourish in view of the changes introduced else- where. There was still the old indiscrim mate association of tried and untried, old and young, pure and hopelessly depraved. Lunatics were still mixed up ~vith the rest. The state of the middle yard, where the worst Prisoners were herded together, was as terrible as in the darkest times. Mat- ters were somewhat better on the female side, although the efforts of the Ladies Committee, instituted by Mrs. Fry, had sensibly relaxed. Still, there ~vas now a resident matron and female officers, where previously the women had been under the sole control of the male turn. keys. Well might the inspectors close their report with an expression of poignant regret, not unmixed with indignation, at the frightful picture presented of the ex- isting state of Newgate. This report framed a strong indictment against the Corporation, who were mainly responsible. The charges were unan- swerable, the only remedy immediate and searching reform. As a matter of fact various abuses and irregularities were put an end to the following year, but the alter- ations, so said the inspectors in a later report, only introduced the outward sem- blance of order. The master evil, that of gaol association, and consequent con- tamination, remained in full activity. Year after year the inspectors repeated their condemnatory criticisms, but were unable to effect any radical change. For quite another decade, Newgate continued a byword with prison reformers. In 1850, Colonel, afterwards Sir Joshua Jebb, told the select committee on prison disci- l)line, that he considered New-gate, from its defective construction, one of the worst prisons in England. Captain Williams, a prison inspector, was of the same opinion, and called Newgate quite the worst prison in his district. The fact was, limitation of space rendered it quite impossible to reconstitute Newgat e and brincrit up to the standard of modern prison require- ments. Either great additions must be made to the site, an operation likely to be exceedingly costly, or a ne~v building must be erected elsewhere. These points had already been discussed repeatedly and at length by gaol committees and the Court of Aldermen, and a decision finally arrived at, to erect a new prison on the Tufnell Park Estate, in the north of London. And this, now known as Holloway Prison, w-as opened in 1852. Newgate, relieved of the unnatural de- mands upon its accommodation, was easily and rapidly reformed. It became now simply a place of detention for city pris THE LADIES LINDORES. II oners, an annexe of the Old Bailey, filled and emptied before and after the sessions. Considerable sums were expended in re- constructing the interior and providing the largest possible number of separate cells for the confinement of the limited number of prisoners ~vho now required to be accommodated. With the establish- ment of the prison, in harmony with the most approved and advanced ideas, this retrospective glance at the varied history of the old place of durance naturally ends. ARTHUR GRIFFITHS. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE LADIES LINDORES. CHAPTER VI. ALAS! it was not very long before everybody knew. The demeanor of Pat Torrance at the dinner, to which Lady Lin-dores had been so reluctant to ask him, gave much occasion for thought to the other guests who knew the man and his ways. These said to each other that Pat had put his foot in it at lastthat he had made his choice, and thrown his handkerchief at almost the only woman in the county, who was not sure to respond to it. Nothing could have been colder or more repellent than Lady Caroline was to this great matrimonial prize the idol whom they all bowed down to, though some with minds which rebelled against the rude and ungodlike divinity. Among these interested lookers-on were some who rejoiced to see that he was likely to be made fo see his place and submit to the humiliation of refusal; and some who, conscious that in their own families there were worshippers who would not have refused to bow down, were angry with poor Carry for setting up to be so much better than her neighbors. The most sagacious of these, however, re- served their judgment. There was some- thing in the demonstration with which the earl brought Pat forward and patted him on the backsomething, too, of pain in poor Lady Carrys mild eyes, which made these more profound observers pause. Tl~e Lindores were poor. There ~vere two daughters to provide for; and it was not a matter to be settled so easily, or which the parents would allow to turn entirely on a young girls fancy. And then she was not even pretty, and she had got into the twentiesnot a mere (~irl with all the world before her. The wise would not give any opinion on the subject. They shook their heads and re- fused to commit themselves. But this was exactly what Pat Torrance did. He was so satisfied that here at last he had got everything he wanted, that he dis- played his decision in Carrys favor from the first day. He made a spectacle of himself to the whole county, looking on with the keenest attention; and oh, how pleased society would have been in the district had he-been once for all made an example of, made a fool of, as they said, held up to public scorn and ridicule as a reje~ted suitor! As the wooing went on, the desire for such a consummation the anticipation of itgrew daily in intensity; and it was not very long doubt- ful. One of the usual great balls was given at Tinto, which was specially in honor of the new-comers, and took place as soon as they were out of their mourn- ing. It was evidently a crisis in the life of the master of the house, and to the greater part of the guests all the interest of a highly exciting drama was mingled with the milder impulses of amusement. Lady Caroline, everybody said, had never looked less well. She ~vas very pale; it was even said that freckles, caused by her sinful exposure of her face to all the ele- ments during the summer, diminished the sheen of her ordinarily white forehead her nose was longer than ever. But all this only increased, to her admirer, the charm of her presence. She was indepen- dent of beauty. Though she was very simply dressed too simply for a lady of rank yet the air with which she moved about these fine rooms was (Pat thought) such as no one else who had ever been there had possessed. She was superior to them, as she was superior to the lilies and the roses, the wreathed smiles and shin- ing eyes of the other girls. He followed her about with demonstrations of devo- tion which no one could mistake. He would have danced with nobody but her, in the most marked abandonment of all his duties as host, ~vould she have per- mitted him. Even when he danced with others his eyes followed her, and the only talk he vouchsafed to his partners was about Lady Car, as he called her, with offensive familiarity and a sort of intoxi- cation. As for poor Lady Caroline her- self, it was apparent to every one that she retreated continually into out-of-the-way cornershiding herself behind the old maids and dowagers, ~vho were never left out of such gatherings, and liked to come and look on and criticise the girls, and tell how things had been done in their 12 THE LADIES LINDORES. day. Several of these old ladies, dis- displeasure in the mind of Lady Lin- tressed to see a girl not dancing, had be- dores; but he was gone before she could trayed poor Carrys hiding-place by their say anything. What is the matter? kind efforts to get her a partner; and the she said, taking her daughters hand. result had been two or three times that Rouse yourself, Carry; everybody is she was thus delivered over into the very staring. What has happened? Oh, clutches of the wolf. nothing, nothino-! Oh, mamma, let us go Mr. Patrick, one of those kind ladies home, the poor girl cried. Her lips, her said, rising from her seat and taking hold very eyelids trembled. She looked as if of his arm as he prowled about, wonder- she were about to faint. Lady Lindores ing where Carry could have disappeared ~vas glad to see her husband approaching; to, do you no think its discreditable to but he too had a threatening and stern the county that a young leddynewly come look. She called him to her, and begged among us, and a person of rankand, him to ask for the carriage. Carry is what is better, a sweet young creature quite ill, she said. If you will stay should be left sitting down the whole with Edith, I can send it back for you night and get no dancing? but poor Car has looked like a ghost all It was on this occasion that Miss Bar- night.~ She has looked much more bara Erskine won the heart of the perse- like a foolas she is, said her father, cuted girl. She said to her in a strong between his set teeth; but at last he con- whisper which xvent through Carrys ear sented that she should be taken home, like a skewer (the simile is undignified, seeing the state of collapse in which she but suits the fact): My dear, theres was. He took her down-stairs, support- that eediot, Jean Sempill, drawing atten- ing her on his arm, which was necessary, tion to you. If you want to get out of the as she could scarcely walk; but when way, slip away behind me; theres a door they skirted the dance, in which the mas- there that leads into the corridor, and so ter of the house was performing, talking you can get back to your mother. Stay loudly and laughing with forced merri- by your motherthats your safest way. ment all the time, the earl, though he was Thus Carry vas delivered for the mo- a well-bred man, could not help giving his ment. But, alas! her mother could not daughters arm a sharp pressure, which protect her effectually. When Pat Tor- hurt her. I might have known you rance came boldly up with his dark face would behave like a fool, he said in a glowing, and his projecting eyes ready, as low undertone, which nobody but Carry a spectator remarked, to jump out of his could hear. Sl~e wavered for a moment, head, and said, This is our dance, what like a young tree in the wind, but clung to could any one do for her? Lady Lindores him and hurried past replying nothing. had become alarmed, not knowing what to Lady Lindores following, formed her own make of Carrys agitation; but even a conclusions though she did not hear what mother in these circumstances can do so her husband said. She took her child little. I am afraid she is tired, Mr. into her arms when they were safe in the Torrance, Lady Lindores said; but carriao-e, rolling along the dark roads in Carrys arm was already in his. She had the dimness of the summer night, and not presence of mind even to take the Carry cried and sobbed on her mothers advantage of such an excuse. breast. I understand that you have When he brought her back, however, refused him, Lady Lindores said. But to her mothers side, nobody could have what then? Why should you be so helped seeing that something had hap- wretched about it, Carry? It is a kind of pened. Poor Carry was as white as her vanity to be so sorry for the man. You dress : she seemed scarcely able to hold may be sure Mr. Torrance will get over herself upright, and sank down by her it, my love. mothers side as if she neither saw nor Then Carry managed to stammer forth heard anything that was going on round the real source of her terror. She was her. On the other hand, Pat Torrance not thinking of Mr. Torrance, but of was crimson, his eyes were rolling in his papa. What would he say to her? would head. He said almost roughly, You he ever for~ive her? And then it was were right, Lady Lindores. Lady Car is Lady Lindoress turn to be amazed. tired; but I make no doubt she will be My darling, you must compose your- herself again to-morrow. It was a curi- self, she said, this is greater nonsense ous speech to make, and there was a tone than the other. Papa! What can it mat- of threatening and anger in his somewhat ter to your father? He will never force elevated voice which roused the liveliest your inclinations; and how can this coarse THE LADIES LINDORES. 3 bumpkin interest such a man as he is? She became almost angry at the sight of Carrys tears. Allow me to know your father a little better than you do, she cried. Mr. Torrance! ~~-ho is Mr. Tor- rance? I cant believe that he would favor such a suitor for a moment. But sup- posing that he did so, supposing he thought, as people are apt to do, that money covers a multitude of sins your father is not a worldly-minded man, Car- ry, he is ambitious, but not for money, supposing just for the sake of argument Anyhow, my dear, that could only be if the man happened to please you in his own person. We might like the match better because the pretender was rich, nothing more. Can you really think that papa ~vould be a tyrant to you, that he would compel you to marry any one? Carry, my love, you have got an attack of the nerves; it is your good sense that has given way. Carry wept abundantly while her moth- er thus talked to her, and the agitation which she had so long shut up in her heart calmed do~vn. Every word Lady Lindores said was perfectly reasonable, and to have represented her kind father to herself as a domestic tyrant ~vas mon- strous, she felt; but yet she could not tell her mother all the trifling circum- stances, the tones, the looks which had forced that conviction upon her. But she was willing, very willing, to allow herself to be persuaded that it was all a mistake, and to accept the gentle reproof and ban- ter with which Lady Lindores soothed her excitement. To refuse a man is always disagreeable, she said philosoph- ically, especially as one must always feel one is to blame in letting him come the length of a proposal, and self-esteem whis- pers that he will find it hard to console himself. No, my Carry, no; dont dis- tress yourself too much. I dont want to be cynical; but men of Mr. Torrances type soon console themselves. Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love. It is not that, it is not that, Carry protested among her tears. But her mother would hear of nothing more alarming. It is a wrong to your father to think he would take up the cause of such a man, she said indignantly; and I should have been horribly disap- pointed in you, Carry, if you had thought of him for a moment. Carry was so soothed, so comforted, so almost happy in her trouble, that the inmost doors of her heart opened to her mother. Whatever he had been, oh, mother, do you think I could forget Edward? she said. His name had not been mentioned between them for months before. Edward, said Lady Lindores, shak- ing her head; and then she kissed the pleading, expectant face, which she could only feel, not see. He should have showed more energy, Carry. Had he been worthy of von, he would not have left this question unsettled till now. What could he do? cried Carry, roused out of her prostration; he could not invent business for himself. Again Lady Lindores shook her head; but by this time they had reached their own door, and in the fervor of her defence and championship of her lover, Carry got out of the carriage a very different creature from the l)rostrate and fainting girl who had been put into it at Tinto. She went with her mother to her room, feverish and anxious to l)lead the cause of Edward. Lady Lindores was a romantic woman, who believed in love, and had taught her children to do the same. But she was disappointed that her daughters lover had not been inspired by his love; that he had not found success, and secured his own cause beyond tle power of evil fortune. Arguing against this adverse opinion, and defending Edward on every question, Carry recovered her courage and her com- posure. She felt able to fight for him to her last gasp when she left her mother, shaking her head still, but always well disposed to every generous plea; for the moment she had forgotten all the nearer dangers which had seemed so terrible to her an hour before. Lady Lindores sat up in her dressing- gown till her husband and Edith came back. He was very gloomy, she excited and breathless, with a feverish sparkle in her eyes, which her mother noticed for the first time. She wondered if little Edith was in the secret toothat secret which she had herself scarcely thought of till to-night; and her husbands aspect filled her with strange anxieties. Was it possible that she, ~vho had known them so long, her husband for all the most im- portant time of his life, her child since her first breath, should have discoveries to make in them now? The thought was painful to her, and she tried to dismiss it from her mind. Carry is better, she said, with an attempt to treat the subject lightly. It was the glare of those rooms, I suppose. They are very hand. some, but there was too much heat and too much light. 4 THE LADIES LINDORES. I hope it is the last time we shall have any such scenes from Carry, said the earl. You ought to speak to her very seriously. She has been behaving like a fool. Dear Robert, said Lady Lindores, it is trying to a girl of any feeling to have a proposal made to her in a ball- room, and I dare say Mr. Torrance was rude and pressing. It is exactly what I should have expected of him. Since when, said the earl sternly, have you studied Mr. Torrance so closely as to divine what may be expected of him? Robert! I have not studied him at all, nor do I attempt to divine. Carrys agitation, her fright, her panic, if I may call it so Were simply ridiculous, ridiculous! cried Lord Lindores. I always thought her sentimental, but I never suspected her to be a fool. Carry is no fool, cried her mother indignantly; you know very well she has both spirit and sense, and more than sense. She is not a common girl. She ought not to be treated as one. And this man, this fox-hunter, this vulgar laird As he will probably be your son-in- law, you will do well to avoid epithets, Lord Lindores said. My son-in-la~v! said his wife, in a suppressed shriek. But Carry has re- fused him, she added, with relief. To.niaht being flurried, and not knowing her own mind; but she will know better tomorrow.~, Robert! for heavens sake, when she has been so distressed by this most hate- ful proposal, you surely will not suffer it to be repeated! Why should it be a hateful pro- posal? he said. Why? Lady Lindores did not know how to answer; if he did not see it, if it did not jump at his eyes, as she said to herself, what explanation would make it clearer? She tried to smile and approach him on another side. Dear Robert, she said tremulously to think of you taking the part of such a man! He must have some fine qualities, I am sure, or you never could have endured the outside of him, or his manners, or his talk. He is so unlike you, so unlike anything the girls have ever been taught to care for. If this was flattery, surely it may be for- given to the anxious mother. She was anxious too, as a wife, that her husband should not come down from the pedestal on which it had been her pride to keep him for so many years. That is all very well, he said impa- tiently; but I never set myself up as a model of what my children were to like. Yes; he has fine qualities, golden quali- ties. Do you know that he is the richest commoner in Scotland, Lady Lindores? I know, she said, with quick offence, the tears starting suddenly to her eyes, that my name is Mary, and that I hate this wretched title, which I shall never get used to, and never tolerate if my hus- band calls me by it. We are all, all, put asunder, all changed, and finding each other out since we came here. This little outburst was partly real, and partly a half-conscious art to find an out- let for her excitement. Her husband was more touched by it than if it had been more serious. The complaint was fantas- tic, yet it was one which love might be excused for making. My love, he said, of course I meant nothing unkind. There have been times when I called you Mrs. Lindores in jest, as I did just no~v. But, seriously, you must see what I am thinking of you must give me your sup. port. We are poor. If Rintoul is to take the position to which he is entitled after me You mean Robin? I tell you I hate those new names! she cried. This is foolish, Mary. If he is to enter upon life ~vhen his time comes weighted with a heavy provision for his sisters consider; there is poor Jane. She is quite young; she may outlive us all: and if I were to die, there would be two jointures besides Car and Edith. Let me be struck off the list, cried Lady Lindores. I will never be a bur- den on my son. R6bert, God forgive you; for a distant evil like this, would you bring that man into our family, and force an unwilling in arriage on your child? But no, no; I am doing you wrong; your thoughts have never gone so far. The earl made no reply. His face was like a thunder-cloud, lowering and heavy a darkness from which, at any mo- ment, fire and flame might burst forth. No, no, said the mother. I under- stand what you have thought. I did so once myself when you remember young Ashestiel caine in our way. I thought if they would but take to each other; if they ~vould only see what a nat- ural harmony they would make! Yes, yes, I remember, I was provoked beyond measure that they would not see it; and when he went away, I did not know how THE LADIES LINDORES. 5 to contain myself I was angry with my innocent Carry for not caring. I under- stand you, Robert. If by any chance her fancy had been taken by this young mil- lionaire; but, dear, how could it? You ~vould yourself have thought less of Carry had she liked such a man. Acknowledge: he is not much better than a boor with, perhaps, a boors virtues. She looked up when she had got so far, and stopped in sheer amazement at the sight of her husbands face. She had never seen any indication before of what she now found in it. Rage witl~ difficulty smothered; a determined intention to fol- low his own way; an uneasy shame turn- ing to bitterness and passion. His voice was quite hoarse with the effort to con- tain himself. I thought, he said, that at least you were not one of the silly women who speak of things they dont understand. But I was mistaken. You will rather encourage a foolish girl in a piece of unworthy romance, than show her her duty her duty! But neither you nor she, by, shall hold me up to ridicule! She shall take this husband I choose for her, or by Here he be- came aware how much he was committing himself. He stopped, gazed at her de- fiantly for a moment, then began to pace up and down the room in great confusion. The short and the long of it is, he said, that I cant suffer Carry, for a girlish prejudice, to throw away such a position. He might be the first man in the county, Lord Lindores said. He has twice as much as we have, and no title to keep up; no encumbrance of any kind. She might be a sort of princess. I cannot allow all this to be thrown a~vay for a mere fancy If she does not. like him, she must learn to like him. What would she have? He is not a petit maUre, certainly; but he is a man, every inch of him his family good, his health good, a magnificent house; what could any woman want more? She will have everything that heart can desire. Lady Lindores made no immediate re- ply. All this was so new to her a rev- elation of things unthought of. It took away her breath; it took away her cour- age. Is there any shock, any pang that life can give, equal to that of suddenly perceiving a touch of baseness, a failure of honor, a lower level of moral feeling, in those who are most dear to us? This is what shatters heaven and earth, and shakes the l)illars of existence to the be- holder. It filled this woman with a sud- den despair impossible to describe. She tried to speak, and her very voice failed her. What was the use of saying any- thing? If he thought thus, could anything that was said affect him? Despair made her incapable of effort. She was like Hamlet, paralyzed. At the end she man- aged to falter forth a word of protestation. There are some, she said faintly, who are content with so much less, Robert and yet how much more! you and I among the rest. A woman always answers with a per- sonal example, he said. And Lady Lindores was dumb. She did not know what to say to the new man who stood beside her, in the familiar as- pect of her husband, expressng senti- ments which never before had come from the lips of Robert Lindores. He had been self-indulgent in the old days per- haps a little selfish accepting sacrifices which it was notright for him to accept. But there had been a hundred excuses for him; and she and the girls had always been so ready, so eager, to make those sacrifices. It had been the pleasure of their lives to make his as smooth, as ~graceful, as pleasant as possible. There was no question of anything of this kind now. He who had been dependent on their ministrations for half the comfort of his life, was now quite independent of them, the master of everybodys fate, judging for them, deciding for them, crushing their private wishes. Lady Lin- dores was confused beyond measure by this discovery. She put her hand to her head unconsciously, as if it must be that which was ~vrong. A vague hope that things might not look so terrible in the morning came into her mind. It was very late, and they were all tired and worn with the agitation of the evening. I think I am not in a condition to un- derstand to-night, she said drearily. It will be better, perhaps, to put off till to- morrow. It is a pity you sat up, he said coldly; and thus the strange conference ended. It was already morning, the blue light stealing in through the closed shut- ters. Things, as well as faces, look ghastly in this unaccustomed light. Lady Lindores drew the curtains closer to shut it out, and lay down with her head aching, turning her face to the wall. There are circumstances in which the light of heaven is terrible; and darkness, darkness, ob- livion of itself, the only things the soul cares for. But though you can shut out the light, you cannot shut out thought. There was not much rest that night in i6 THE LADIES LINDORES. Lindores. The earl himself had a con- sciousness of the strange discove ryof him which his wife had made; and though he was defiant and determined to subdue all opposition, yet he was hurt and angry all the same that his Mary should think less well of him. He seemed to himself of late to have done a great deal for her and her children. No idea of the eleva- tion she had now reached had been in her mind when they married. There were three brothers then between him and the title, besides the children of the elder. And now that things had so come about, as that Mary was actually Countess of Lindores, he could not but feel that he had done a great deal for her. Yet she ~vas not grateful. She looked at him with those scrutinizing, alarmed eyes. She turned away from him with painful ~von- der; with there was no doubt of it disapproval. And yet all he wanted was the advancement of the familythe real good of his daughter. Who could doubt what his motive was? or that it was for Carrys good to have a noble establish- ment, a fortune that a princess might envy? Could there be any comparison between that and the marriage with a poor barrister, upon ~vhich, in her first folly, she had set her heart? It was unreason- able beyond measure, ungrateful, that his quite legitimate determination, judging for the real advantage of his daughter, should be thus looked upon by Lady Lin- dores. But it would be vain to attempt to de- scribe the struggle that followed: that domestic tragedy would have to be told at length if told at all, and it included various tragedies; not only the subjuga- tion of poor Carry, the profanation of her life, and cruel rending of her heart, but such a gradual enlightening and clearing away of all the lovely prejudices and pre- possessions of affection from the eyes of Lady Lindores, as was almost as cruel. The end of it was, that one of these poor women, broken in heart and spirit, forced into a marriage she hated, and feeling herself outraged and degraded, began her life in bitterness and misery with a pre- tence of splendor and success and good fortune which made the real state of af- fairs still more deplorable; and the other, feeling all the beauty of her life gone from her, her eyes disenchanted, a pitiless cold daylight revealing every angle once hid by the glamor of love and tender fancy, began a sort of second existence alone. If Torrance had been determined before to have Lady Caroline for his wife, he was far more determined after she had l)ut his pride to the humiliation of a re- fusal, and roused all the savage in him.~ From the night of the ball until the mo- ment of the wedding, he never slackened in his pursuit of the shrinking, unhappy girl, who, on her side, had betrayed her weakness to her sister on the first men- tion of the hateful suitor. Edith was disenchanted too, as well as her mother. She comprehended none of them. I ~vould not do it, she said simply, when the struggle was at its bitterest; why do you do it? Rintoul, for his part, when he appeared upon the scene, re- peated Ediths positivism in a different way. I think my father is quite right, he said. What could Carry look for? She is not pretty; she is twenty-four. You ought to take these things into con- sideration, mother. She has lost her chance of any of the prizes; and when you have here the very thing, a man roll. ing in moneyand not a tradesman either, which many girls have to put up with it is such a chance as not one in a thousand ever gets. I think Car ought to be very grateful to papa. Lady Lin- dores listened with a gasp Robin too! But she did not call him Robin for a long time after that day. He was Rintoul to her as to the rest of the world, his fathers heir, very clearly alive to the advantage of having, when his time came, no pro- vision for his sister hanging like a mill- stone round his neck. His sympathy and approval were delightful to his father. Women are such queer cattle, you never know how to take them, the experienced young man said. A man is not in a crack regiment for nothing. He had more knowledge of the world than his father had. I should have thought my mother would have been delighted to settle Carry so near home. Thus it was a very strange divided house upon the eve of this marriage. To add to the confusion, there was great squabbling over the settlements, which Pat Torrance, eager though he was to secure the bride, whom his pride and self- will, as well as what he believed to be his love, had determined to have at all costs, was by no means so liberal about as the earl thought necessary. He fought this out step by step, even venturing to hint, like the brute he was, that It was no beauty or belle whom he was marrying, and cutting down the requirements of her side in the most business-like way. Lady Lindores had been entirely silenced, and looked after the indispensable matters THE LADIES LINDORES. of her daughters trousseau without a trace of the usual cheerful bustle attend- ing wedding preparations; ~vhile Carry seemed to live in a dream, sometimes rousing .up to make an appeal to her fa- thers pity, but mostly in a sort of passive state, too heart-broken to be excited about anything. Edith, young and curious, moved about in the midst of it all in the activity of her independence, as yet touched by none of these things. She was a sort of rebellion impersonated, scarcely comprehending the submission of the others. While Carry wept she stood looking on, her face flushed, her eves brilliant. I would not do it, she said. These words were constantly on her lips. How could you help doing it? poor Carry cried, turning upon her in the ex- tremity of her despair. Oh, have a lit- tle pity upon me, Edie! What can I do? I would sooner die. If there is anything you can think ofanything! But it is all past hope now. Papa will not even listen to me. Rintoul tells me I am a fool. He but here Carrys voice was broken with a shudder. She could not speak of her bridegroom but with a con- traction of her heart. I dont know what I should do, but I should not do this, said Edith, survey- ing her sister from the height of untried resolution. Nobody can force you to say yes instead of no; nobody can make you do a thing you are determined not to do. Why do you do it? you cant want not to do it at the very bottom of your heart. Carry gave her a look of anguish which brought the girl to her knees in compunc- tion and remorse. Oh, forgiveme,Car! but why, why do you do it? she cried. Lady Lindores had come softly in to give her child her ~ood.night kiss. It was within a few days of the wedding. She stood: and looked at the group with tears in her eyesone girl lying back white, worn, and helpless in her chair; the other, at her feet, glowing with courage and life. Speak to her, mamma, cried Edith, as long as there is any hope. What can I say? said the mother; everything has gone too far now. It would be a public scandal. I have said all that I could. Do not make my poor child more unhappy. Carry, my darling, you will do your duty whatever happens; and everything becomes easier when it is duty But how is it duty? said rebellious LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXIX 1978 7 Edith. I would not do it ! she cried, stamping her foot on the floor. Edith, Edith ! do not torture your sis- ter. It is easy to say such things, but how are you to do them? God knows, I would not mind what I did if it was only me. I ~vould fly away with her some- where escape from them all. But what would happen? Our family would be rent asunder. Your father and 1 Lady Lindoress voice quivered a little who have been always so united, would part forever. Our family quarrels would be discussed in public. You, Edith what would become of you? Your pros- pects would all be ruined. Carry herself would be torn to pieces by the gossips. They would say there must be some rea- son. God knows, I would not hesitate at any sacrifice. Mamma, do not say anything more; it is all over. I know there is nothing to be done, said Carry faintly. As for Edith, she could not keep still; her whole frame was tingling. She clenched her small fists) and dashed them into the air. I would not do it! I would just re- fuse, refuse! I would not do it ! Why should you do it? she cried. But between these two there was no talking. The younger sister flew to her own room, impelled by her sense of the intolerable, unable to keep still. She met her brother by the way, and clutched him by the arm, and drew him with her within her own door. I would not do it, if I were Carry, she said, breathless. You. might drag me to church, if you liked, hut ~ven there I would not consent. Why,. why does she do it? Edith cried. Because, said Rintoul the expe- rienced, she is not such a fool as she looks. She knows that after the first is over, with plenty of money and all that, she will get on first-rate, you little goose... Girls like something to make a fuss about. Oh, it is a great deal you know about girls ! cried Edith, giving him a shake in the violence of her emotion. But he only laughed, disen ~aoino- himself. Well see what youll do when it comes to your turn, he said, and he went off along the passage whistling. It did not matter to him that his sisterwas breaking her heart. But why, why, oh why does. she do it? Edith dozed and woke again half-a-dozen times in the night, crying this out into the silence. To refuse, surely one could do that. Papa might scold, there might be scenes and unhappiness, but nothing could be so unhappy as this. x8 THE LADIES LINDORES. She was incapable of understanding how there could be any difficulty in the case. The marriage took place, however, in spite of these convulsions, and several years had elapsed since that event. It was an old affair when John Erskine, newly arrived, and full of curiosity and in- terest, had that encounter with Lady Lin- dores and her daughter at his own gate, where something of the outline of this story was communicated to himthe facts of it at least. The ladies did not linger upon Carrys marriage in their nar- rative. He was told of it briefly as an event long over, and to which everybody had got accustomed. And so it was. The most miserable of events settle down into the routine of life when a few years have elapsed. Carry herself long ago had ac- cepted her fate, trying to persuade herself that an unhappy marriage ~vas nothing out of the common, and taking such comfort as ~vas possible in poetry and intellectual musings. Her husband, who neither knew nor cared for anything above his own rude external world, yet felt her po- etry to enhance the delicacy of her bein~, and to raise Lady Car more and more to that height of superiority which was what he had sought in her, ~vas all the better satisfied with his bargain, though all the more separated from any possible point of junction with her. The neighborhood ~vas very well aware of all the circum- stances; and though Lady Lindores en- tered into no explanations, yet there was a sigh, and a tone in her voice, as she spoke of her daughter, which suggested sorrow. But to tell the truth, young John Erskine, suddenly finding such friends at his very door, suddenly readmitted into the old intimacy, and finding the dull country life to which he had been looking forward flash into sunshine and pleasure, inade few inquiries into this darker chap- ter of the family history; and in reality cared for nothing much but to convince himself that the Lindores family were really his next neighbors; that they were quite willing to receive him on the old footing; and that, demurely walking along the same road on the other side of her mother, saying little but touching the en- tire atmosphere with a sense of her pres- ence, was Edith Lindores. Perhaps, had he actually been by her side, the sensa- tion being more definite would have been less entrancing. But her mother was be- tween them, animated and pleased by the meeting, ready to tell him all that had happened, and to hear his account of him- self, with friendly interest; while beyond her ample figure and draperies, the line of a grey dress, the occasional flutter of a ribbon, the putting forth of a small foot, made the young man aware of the other creature wrapped in soft silence and maid- enly reserve, whom he could image to himself all the more completely that he saw no more of her. He scarcely heard her voice as they walked along thus near yet sel)arated; but a great many things that Lady Lindores said were confused by the sound upon the road of her daugh- ters step by the appearance of that bit of ribbon, with which the sunny wind did not hesitate to play, floating out in ad- vance of her, catching the young man s eye. Thus all at once, on the very first day after his return, another new exist- ence began for John Erskine on the road between Dalrulzian and Lindores. CHAPTER VII. THERE are few things in human affairs more curious than the structure of what is called society, wherever it is met with, whether in the most primitive of its de- velopments or on the higher levels. The perpetual recurrence of a circle within which the sayings and doings of certain individuals are more important than any- thing else in earth or heaven, and where the conversation persistently rolls back, whatever may be its starting-point, to what this or that little knot of peol)le are doing, to the eccentricities of one and the banalities of another, to some favorite individual scene of tragedy or comedy which forms the centre of the moral land- scape is always apparent to the ob- server, whether his observations are made in Kamtchatka or in London, among washerwomen or princesses. But under no circumstances is this so evident as to a new-coiner in a region where all the people know each other. The novelty and freshness of his impressions perhaps make him congratulate himself for a mo- ment that now at last he has got into a society fresh and original, with features of its own; hut half-a-dozen meetings are e nou uh to prove to him that he has only got into another round, a circle as little extended, as much shut up in its own ring, as all the rest. This was what John Erskine found, with a little amusement and a little disgust, almost as soon as he got settled in his unknown home. Any addition to their society was interesting to the country folks, especially in May, when there is not much doing when those who can indulge themselves in tne pleasures of the season have gone to Lon THE LADIES LINDORES. don, and those who cannot are bound to bring forth their philosophy and prove that they enjoy the country in the early summer, even though there is nothing to do. But a y-oung man unencumbered and alone, with all his life before him, and all his connections to form, is perhaps of all others the most interesting human crea- ture who can come into a new sphere. All the world is curious about him, both those whose lives he may influence, and those to whom he can contribute nothing but the interest, perhaps of a new drama, perhaps only of a ne~v face. He who will enact his own story publicly before the eyes of his neighbors, fallin~ in love, ~voo- ing, marrying, or, still better, carrying on these processes with interruptions of non- success and threatenings of postpone- ment, what a godsend he is! and perhaps scarcely less he who brin ~s in darker elements into the placid tenor of the gen- eral history, and ruins himself for our instruction, while we all look on with bated breath. To the country-side in general, John Erskine, while as yet un- known, was a new hero. He was the beginning of a romance with all the more fascination in it that the most interested spectator for a long time could form but little idea how it was to turn. As soon as he ~vas known to be at home, his neigh. bors came down upon him from all quar- ters with friendly greetings, invitations, offers of kindness on all sides. The first to appear was Sir James Montgomery, a sunburnt and cheerful old soldier, whose small estate of Chiefswood marched on one side with Dalrulzian, and who was disposed to be very friendly. He came in beaming with smiles over all his brown, jovial countenance, and holding out a large, cordial hand. Well, young man, so this is you at last. Youre heartily welcome home. Ive been long away myself, and youve never been here, but were old neighbors for all that, and I take it upon me to call myself an old friend. You are very kind, John said, suffer- ing his hand to be engulfed in that kind, warm, capacious grasp. The old soldier held him at arms length for a moment, looking at him with friendly eyes. I remember your grandfather well, he said; not so much of your father, for he came to mans estate, and died, poor lad, when I was away; but I see some features of the old man in you, my young friend, and Im glad to see them. Youll seioom meet with a better man than your grandfather. He was very kind to me as 9 a young lad at the time I got my commis- sion. They were ill able to afford my outfit at home, and Im much mistaken if old Dalrulzian did not lend a helping hand; so mind you, my lad, if young Dalrulzian should ever want one a day in harvest, as the proverb goes You are very kind, sir, said John Erskine again: he was touched, but half amused as well. It seemed so unlikely that he should require the old generals helping hand. And then they talked of the country, and of their l)revious lives and diverse experiences. Sir James was one of those primitive men, much more usual a generation ago than now, whose knowledge of life, which to his own think- ing was profound and extensive, left out the greater part of what in our days is known as life at all. He knew Scotland and India, and nothing more. He was great in expedients for dealing ~vith the natives on one hand, and full of a hundred stories of village humor, fun, and pawki- ness on the other. To hear him laugh over one of these anecdotes till the tears stood in his clear, warm blue eyes, which were untouched by any dimness of time, was worth all the witticisms ever printed; and to see him bend his fine old brows over the characteristics of his old subjects in India, and the ameliorations of charac- ter produced by British rule, firmness, and justice, was better than philosophy. But with that which young John Erskine knew as life he had no acquaintance. Save his own country and the distant East, the globe was wrapped in dimness to him. He had passed through London often, and had even transacted business at the Horse Guards, though an Indian officer in those days had little to do with that centre of military authority; but he had a minaled awe and horror of town, and thought of the Continent as of a region of temptation where the devil was far more apl)arent than in other places, and sought whom he might devour with much more openness and less hindrance than at home. And when our young man, who flattered himself a little on his knowl- edge of society and the world, as he un- derstood the phrase, unfolded himself before the innocent patriarch, their amaze- ment at each other was mutual. Old Sir James contemplated John in his knowl- edge with something of the same amused respect which John on his side felt for him in bis ignorance. To each there was in the other a mixture of a boy and a sage, which made them each to each half absurd and half wonderful. An old fel 20 THE LADIES LINDORES. low, who must have seen so much to have seen so little and a mere bit of a lad, Sir James said to himself, who knew nothing about India or anything serious, yet had seen a vast deal, and had very just no- tions, and spoke like a man of the world when you came to talk to him It was thus the senior who did most justice to the junior, as is usually the case. I am afraid, Sir James said, that youll find our country-side but dull after all youve seen. Were l)leasedl with our- selves, as most io-nora nt l)eople we are: think were good enough company on the whole, but music, or the play, or art, or that kind of thing, youll find us wanting in. Im fraid they find us very wanting at Lindores; but as for a kind welcome whenever you like and however you like, and a good Scots dinner, and sometimes a dance, if that will content you in the way of company I should be hard to please if that would not content me. said John. I hope you will give me the chance. That we will that we will, said Sir James heartily ; and then he added, x~e have no young people about us Lady Montgomery and me. Our two children are as far from children now as their fa- ther and mother. They are both in India, and their families grown up and gone out to them. So we have nothing young of our own about the house; but dont go too fast, were not without attraction. In a week, I think, were expecting a visitor that will make the place bright Miss Barrington Nora Barrington; youll have heard of her by this time. Shes a great favorite in the country. We are all keen to have her and to keep her. Im not afraid that a young man will find us dull when weve Nora in the house. Here John, who hadbecome suspicious of the name of this girl whom everybody insisted on recommending to him, eagerly protested that he should want no foreign attraction to the house in which the kind old general was. Foreign No, shes not foreign, said Sir James ; far from that. A bon- nie Englis h girl, ~vhich, after a bonnie scotch lassie, is by far the best thing going. We must stand up for our own first, said the old soldier laughing; but nothing foreign nothing foreign : if you want that, you will have to go to Lin- dores. John felt he could scarcely tell why slWhtly irritated by these references to Lindores. He said, somewhat elaborately, They are the only people I really know in the county. I met theiri long ago on the Continent. Ah ay; thats just what I say for anything foreign, youll have to go to the Castle, said Sir James, a little doubt- fully. But, he added, after a moments pause, I hope youll take to us and your own country, and need no foreign aid of ornament, eh? You must forgive me. Im an old fellow, and old-fashioned. In my time it used to be thought that your French and Italians were ~vell, no bet- ter than they should be. Germans, they tell me, are a more solid race; but I know little difference I know little difference. Youll say thats my ignorance, said this man of prejudice, beaming upon his com- panion with a smile in ~vhich there was a little deprecation, but a great deal of sim- l)le confidence. It was impossible not to condone the errors of a censor so inno- cent. If you knew them, you would not only see a great deal of difference, but I think you would like them a great deal better than you suppose, John said. Very likely very likely, cried Sir James. It occurred to him suddenly that if his young friend had indeed, poor lad, been brought up among those foreign cattle, an unfavorable opinion of them might hurt his feelings; and this was the last thing the old man would have done even to a foreigner in person, much less to a son of the soil temporarily seduced by the wiles of strangers. And then he repeated his formula about being an old fellow and old-fashioned. And youll mind to expect nothing but broad Scotch at Chiefswood, he cried, laughing and waving his hand as he rode away, after the hearty invitation with which every visitor ended. Youll get the other at Lindores. And the door had scarcely closed upon this new acquaintance when the earl made his appearance, with the smile of an old friend, quite willing to acknowledge old relationships, but not too familiar or en- thusiastic in his claim. He ~vas no longer the languid gentleman he had been in the old wandering days, but had the fresh color and active step of a man who lived much out of doors. The scene is very different, he said, with kindness but dignity. We are all changed more or less; but the sentiments are the same. He said this with something of the air of a prince graciously renewing acquaint- ance with a friend of his exile. I hope we shall see you often at the Castle. \Ve are your nearest neighbors and when THE LADIES LINDORES. 21 you have been as long here as we have, you will have learned to shudder at the words. But it is a relief to think it is you who ~viil now fill that r~/e. Could a benevolent nobleman say more? And it was only after a good deal of friendly talk that Lord Lindores began to speak of the county business, and the advantage it would be to him to have support in his attempts to put thino3 on a better foot- ing. Nothing can be more arri6re, he said. We are behind in everything; and the prejudices 1 have to struggle with are inconceivable. I shall have you now, I hope, on my side: we are, I believe, of the same politics. I scarcelyknow what my politics are, said John. Some one told me the other day that the Erskines are always on the right side; and, if you will not be dis- gusted, I am obliged to confess that I dont know what was meant. I know what it would be at Milton Magna. I im- agine dimly just the opposite here. The earl smiled benignly on the young inquirer. The Erskines have al~vays been Liberal, he said. I know there is no counting upon you young men. You generally go too far on one side or the other: if you are not Tories, you are Rad- icals. IVIy Liberalism, bien entendu, does not go that lengthno Radicalism, no revolutionary sentiments. In short, at present my politics mean county hospi- tals and drainage more than anything else. Then he paused, and added some- what abruptly, 1 dont know if you ever thought of Parliamentas a career for yourself? At this Johns pulses gave a sudden jump, and the blood rushed to his cheeks. Had he thought of it? He could scarcely tell. As~ something he might come to, when he had learned the claims of life upon him, and the circumstances of the country, which as yet he barely knew as an object to look forward to, something that might ennoble his future and afford him the finest occupation that a man can have, a share in thegovernment of his country yes; no doubt he had thought of it, at a time when he thought more highly of Dalrulzian and of his own pre- tensions. But the demand was very sud- den, and he had all the modesty of youth. Parliament he faltered forth. I dont know that I have thought of it. I fear I know too little of politics I have too little experience And here he paused, expecting nothing less than that he should be kindly urged to think better of it, and persuaded that it was his duty to serve his generation so. Ah, said the earl, you give me just the assurance I wanted. I need not hes- itate to tell you, in that case, that my great desire is to push Rintoul for the county. If you had thought of it your. self, it would have been a different mat- ter; but otherwise everything points to him, his position, our circumstances as the natural leaders, and the excellent chance he would have with all parties better than any one else, I believe. You could be of the utmost use to us, Erskine, if it does not interfere with any plans of your own Now John had no plans; but this sud- den check, after the sudden su~gestion which roused all his ambition, was too much like a dash of cold water in his face to be pleasant to him. I3ut he had time to collect himself ~vhile Lord Lindores was speaking, and to call up a sort of smile of assent,.thougl~ it gave him a twinge of ludicrous pain. It was poetic justice. He had faltered and said no, in order to be encouraged and made to say yes, and his vanity and false modesty, he thought, had got their reward. And all this for Rintoul! He remembered Rin- toul well enough when he was not Rintoul at all, but Robin Lindores a poo little lieutenant in a marching regiment. And now he was in the Guards, and the heir of an earldom. The change of position was so great, that it took away Johns breath. In the days of their former ac- quaintance, there could not have been the smallest doubt ~vhich was the more im- portant personage young Lindores, who had nothing at all, or John Erskine, with a good estate which everybody accepted as much better than it was. But now he had gone down, and the other up. All this went through his mind ruefully, yet not without a sense of amusement in his own discomfiture. He had not much con- fidence in his own abilities or enlighten- ment, but it was not much to brag of that he had more of both than young Lindores. However, he had nothing to do in this sudden concatenation but to listen respect- fully yet ruefully as the earl went on, who seemed to have grasped him, present and future, in his hands. It is a wonderful comfort to be able to calculate upon you, he said. My con-i n-law for of course you have heard of Carrys marriage would have a great deal of influence if he chose to exert it; but he has his own notions his own no- tions. You will understand, when you 22 THE LADIES LINDORES. make his acquaintance, that though a sterling character, he has not had all the advantages that might have been wished, of acqu~iintance with men and knowledge of the world. But you, my dear Erskine, you kno~v something of life. By the by, he said, as he rose to go away, Lady Lindores charged me to engage you to come to us to-morrow. We are going away to town, but not for more than a month. The ladies insist that they must see you before they go. We all look for- ward to seeing a great deal of you, the earl added, with that manner which was always so fascinating. Between you and me, our dear neighbors are a set of prejudice.d old rustics, he said, with a confidential smile, as he went out; but it will be strange if you and I together can- not make them hear reason. Could any- thing be more flatterin~ to a young man? And it was the father of Edith who grasped his hand thus warmlywho as- sociated him with himself in a conjunc- tion so flattering. John forgot the little wrench of theoretical disappointment the ludicrous ease with which he had been made to give place to Rintoul. After all, something must be sacrificed, he allowed, to the heir of an important family and the brother of Edith Lindores I But this was not his last visitor on this eventful afternoon. The earl had scarcely disappeared when Rolls once more threw open the door of the library, in which John usually sat, and announced with much solemnity Mr. Torrance of Tinto. The man whom the earl, though vouching for him as a sterling character, had al- lowed to be wanting in knowledoe of the world, came striding in with that air of taking up all the space in the room and finding it too small for him, which wealth and a vulgar mind are so apt to give. That John should dislike him instin& tively from the moment he set eyes upon him, was nothing remarkable; for was not he the owner of the most obnoxious house in the neighborhood? the man to whom Carry Lindores had been sacri- ficed ? John Erskine felt, as he rose to meet the ne~v-comer, a sense of the shab- biness and smallness of his own house, such as, even in the first evening of dis- enchantment, had scarcely affected him so strongly before. When his visitor cast round him that bold glance of his big, projecting, light-blue eyes, John saw through them the insignificance of the place altogether, and the humility of his own position, with a mortification which be could scarcely subdue. Torrance was tall and strongan immense frame of a man, ~vith very black hair and dark com- plexion, and something insufferably inso- lent, audacious, cynical, in those large, light eyes, ~fleur de /~/e. His insolence of nature was sufficiently evident; but what John did not see was the underlying sense of inferiority which his new visitor could not shake off, and which made him doubly and angrily arrogant, as it were, in his own defence. It galled him to recog- nize better manners and breeding than his own breeding and manners which perhaps he had found out, as John did the inferiority of his surroundings, through anothers eyes. But Torrances greeting was made with great show of civility, lie had heard much of John as a friend of the family at Lindores, he said. Not but what I should have called, anyhow, he explained, though Tinto really belongs to the other side of the county, and Dalrulzian is rather out of the ~vay for me ; but still civility is civility, and in the country were a kind of neigh- bors. I hope you like it, now you are here ? Pretty well, was all that John said. Its a nice little place. Of course you knew what it wasnot one of the great country places ; but it stands well, and it looks fine at a distance. Few places of its size look better when youre a good bit away. This tried the young mans patience, but he did his best to smile. It is well enough, he said ; I expected no better. It is not imposing like Tinto. Wherever one goes, it seems to me impossible to get out of sight of your big house. Yes, its an eyesore to half the coun- ty; Im well aware of that, said Tor- rance, with complacency. Theres far more of it than is any good to me. Lady Car I hear you knew Lady Car before we were married, he said, fixing John almost threateningly with those light eyes fills it now and then; and when I was a bachelor, Ive seen it pretty full in Sep- tember; but in a general way its too big, and a great trouble to keep up. I hope Lady Caroline is quite well ? John said, with formal gravity. She is well enough. She is never what you call quite well. Women get into a way of ailing, I think, just as men get into a way of drinking. You were sur- prised to hear she was married, I sup- pose? he asked abruptly, with again the same threatening, offensive look, which made Johns blood boil. I was surprised as one is surprised THE LADIES LINDORES. 23 by changes that have taken place years before one hears of them; otherwise it is no surprise to hear that a young lady has married. Of course, John added, with serious malice, 1 had not the advantage of knowing you. Torrance stared at him for a moment, as if doubtful whether to take offence or not. Then he uttered, opening capacious jaws, a fierce laugh. I am very easy to get on with, for those that know me, he said, if thats what you mean. Were a model couple, Lady Car and I everybody will tell you that. And I dont object to old friends, as some men do. Let them come, I al- ways say. If the difference is not in favor of the present, its a pity thats all I say.~, To this John, not knowing what an- swer to make, replied only with a little bow of forced politeness, and nothing more. I suppose they were in a very different position when you used to know them? said Torrance; in a poor way enough ready to make friends with whoever turned up? It would be very bad policy on my part to say so, said John, seeing that I was one of the nobodies to whom Lady Lindores, when she was Mrs. Lindores, was extremely kindas it seems to me she always is. Ah, kind! thats all very well: you werent nobodyyou were very eligible in those days, said Torrance, with a laugh, for which John would have liked to knock him down; but there were various hindrances to this laudable wish. First, that it was Johns o~vn house, and civility forbade any aggression; and second, that Tinto was much bigger and stronger than the person whom, perhaps, he did not in- tend to insult indeed there was no ap- pearance that he meant to insult him at all. He was only a coarse and vulgar- minded man, speaking after his kind. The fact is, if you dont mind my saying so, Im not very fond of my main- ma-in-law, said Torrance. Few men are, so far as I know: they put your wife up to all sorts of things. For my part, I think theres a sort of conspiracy among women, and mothers hand it down to their daughters. A man should always part his wife from her belongings when he can. Shes a great deal better ~vhen she has nothing but him to look to. She sees then whats her interestto please him and never mind the rest. Dont you think Im complaining Lady Cars an excep tion. You never catch her forgetting that shes Lady Caroline Torrance and has her place to fill. Doesnt she do it, too! Shes the sort of woman, in one way, thats frightened at a flyand on the other, the queen wouldnt daunt her; thats the sort of woman I like. Shes what you call a grand damm and no mistake. Perhaps she was too young for that when you knew her; and had noth- ing then to stand on her dignity about. Here John, able to endure no longer, rose hastily, and threw open a window. The weather gets warm, he said, though it is so early, and vegetation is not so far behind in Scotland as we sup- pose. Behind! I should like to know in what were behind! cried his guest; and then his dark countenance reddened, and he burst into another laugh. Perhaps you think Im desperately Scotch, he said; but thats a mistake. Im as little prejudiced as anybody can be. I was at Oxford myself. Im not one of your local men. The earl would like me to take his way and follow his lead, as if I were a country bumpkin, you know. Thats his opinion of every man that has stuck to his own country and not wandered abroad; and now he finds I have my own way of thinking, he doesnt half like it. We can think for ourselves down in the country just as well as the rest of you. After he had given vent to these sentiments, how- ever, Torrance go~ up with a half-abashed laugh. If you come over to Tinto, Lady Car and I will be glad to see you. Well show you some things you cant see every day though we are in an out-of-the-way corner, youre thinking, he said. I have already heard of the treasures of Tinto, said John, glad that there was something civil to say. Pat Torrance nodded his head with much self-satisfaction. Yes, weve got a thing or two, he said. Im not a connoisseur myself. I know theyve cost a fortune thats about all Im qualified to judge of. But Lady Car knows all about them. You would think it was she and not I they belonged to by nature. But come and judge for yourself. Im not a man to be suspicious of old friends. And here he laughed once more, with obvious offensive meaning; but it took J olin some time to make out what that meaning could be. His visitor had been for some time gone, fortunately for all parties, before it burst upon him. He divined then, that it was he who was sup- posed to have been poor Carrys lover, 24 THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH and that her husbands object was the dia- bolical one of increasing her misery by the sight of the man whom she had loved and forsaken. Why had she forsaken Beaufort for this rude barnyard hero? Was it for the sake of his great house, which happily was not visible from DaIrul- zian, but which dominated half the county with gingerbread battlements, and the flag that floated presumptuous as if the house ~vere a princes? Had Carry pre- ferred mere wealth, weighed by such a master, to the congenial spirit of her former lover? It fretted the young man even to think of such a possibility. And the visitors had fretted him each in some special point. They neutralized the breadth of the external landscape with their narrow individuality and busy bus- tling little schemes. He xvent out to breathe an air more wholesome, to find refuge from that close pressure of things personal, and circumscribed local scenery, in the genial quietness and freshness of the air outstde. How busy they all were in their own way, how intent upon their own plans, how full of suspicion and criti- cism of each other! Outside all ~vas quiet the evening wind breathing low, the birds in full chorus. John refreshed him- self with a long walk, shaking off his dis- coura,~ emen t and partial disgust. Peggy Burnet was at her door, eager to open the gate for him as he passed. She had just tied a blue handkerchief about the pot containing her mans tea, which her eldest child was about to carry. As he sauntered up the avenue, this child, a girl about ten, tied up so far as her shoul- ders were concerned in a small red-tartan shawl, but with uncovered head and bare legs and feet, overtook him, skimming along the road with her bundle. She ad- mitted, holding down her head shyly, that she was little Peggy, and was carrying her father his tea. Hes up in the fir wood on the top of the hill. Hell no be back as long as its light. But that is a long walk for you, said John. Its no twa miles, and Im fond, fond to get into the woods, said Peggy. She said wudds, and there was a curious sing-song in the speech to Johns unac- customed ears. When she went on she did not curtsey to him as a well-condi- tioned English child would have done, but gave him a merry nod of her flaxen head, which was rough with curls, and sped away noiseless and swift, the red shawl over her shoulders, which was care- fully knotted ro3ind her waist and made a bunch of her small person, showing far off, through the early greenness of the brush-wood. When she had n-one on a little, she ben-an to sing like a bird, her sweet young voice rising on the air as if it had wings. It was an endless song that Peggy sang, like that of Words- worths reaper Whateer the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending. It went winding along, a viewless voice, beyond the house, alonn- the slopes, away into the paleness of the hilltop, where the tall pine-trunks stood up like columns against the light. It was like the fresh scent of those same pines like the aro- matic peat-smoke in the air a something native to the place, which put the troubles and the passions he had stumbled an-ainst out of the mind of the young laird. He was reconciled somehow to Scotland and to nature by little Peggys love for the wudds, and the clear ringing melody of her endless song. From Macmillans Magazine. THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY. PROBABLY few readers realize to how large an extent the events of history have been influenced by the geological struc- ture of the ground whereon they have been enacted. I propose to illustrate this influence from some of the more salient features in the early human occupation of the British Islands, and in the subsequent historical progress of the Enn-lish people. No better proof of the reality of the rela- tion in question could be given than the familiar contrast between the heart of En- gland and the heart of Scotland. The one area is a region of low plains, inhab- ited by an English-speaking race, richly agricultural in one part, teeming with a busy mining population in another, dotted with large cities; the air often foul from the smoke of thousands of chimneys and resonant with the clanking of innumerable manufactories, and the screams of loco- motives flying hither and thither over a network of railways. The other re~ion is one of rugged mountains and narrow glens tenanted by a Celtic race, which, keeping to its old Gaelic tongue and primitive habits, has never built towns, hardly even villages a region partly de- voted to pasture, and still haunted by the game and wild animals of primeval times, HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY. 25 b utw ith no industrial centres, no manu- factures of any kind, and only a feeble agriculture struggling for existence along the bottoms of the valleys. Now, why should two parts of the same small coun- try differ so ~videly from each other? To give a complete answer to the question ~vould of course involve a detailed exami- nation of the history of each area. But we should find that fundamentally the dif- ferences have arisen from the originally utterly distinct geolo~ical structure of the two regions. This diversity of structure initiated the divergences in human char- acteristics even in far pre-historic times, and continues, even in spite of the blend- ing influences of modern civilization, to maintain them down to the present day. Let us first briefly consider what was the probable condition of Britain at the time when the earliest human beings ap- peared in the country. At that ancient epoch there can be no doubt that the British Islands still formed part of the mainland of continental Europe. There is reason to believe that the general level of these islands may have been then con- siderably higher than it has been since. From the shape of the bottom of the At- lantic immediately to the west of our area, as revealed by the abundant soundings and dredgings of recent years, it is evi- dent that if the British Islands were now raised even one thousand feet or more above their present level, they would not thereby gain more than a belt of lowland somewhere about two hundred miles broad on their western border. They stand, in fact, nearly upon the edge of the great European plateau which, about two hundred and thirty miles to the west of them, plunges rapidly down into the abysses of the Atlantic. It is perfectly certain, therefore, that though our area was formerly prolonged westwards be- yond its present limits, there has never been any important mass of land to the west of us in recent geological times, or within what we call the human period probably never at ahy geological epoch at all. Every successive wave of migration, whether of plant or of animal, must have come from the other or eastern side. But though our country could never have stretched much beyond its present west- ~vard limits, it once undoubtedly spread eastward over the site of what is now the North Sea. Even at the present day, an elevation of less than six hundred feet would convert the whole of that sea into dry land from the north of Shetland to the headlands of Brittany. At the time when these wide plains united Britain to the mainland, the Thames was no doubt a tributary of the Rhine, which, in its course northward, may have received other affluents from the east of Britain before it poured its waters into the Atlan- tic somewhere between the hei_ hts of Shetland and the mountainous coasts of southern Norway. There is evidence of remarkable oscil- lations of climate at the epoch of the ad- vent of man into this part of Europe. A time of intense cold, known as the ice age or glacial period, was drawing to a close. Its glaciers, frozen rivers and lakes, and floating icebergs, had converted most of Britain, and the whole of north- ern Europe, into a waste of ice and snow, such as north Greenland still is ; but the height of the cold was past, and there now came intervals of milder seasons, when the wintry mantle was withdrawn north- wards, so as to allow the vegetation and the roaming animals of more temperate latitudes to spread westwards into Britain. From time to time a renewal of the cold once more sent down the glaciers into the valleys, or even into the sea, froze the rivers over in winter, and allowed the Arctic flora and fauna again to migrate southwards into tracts from which the temperate plants and animals were forced by the increasing cold to retreat. At last, however, the Arctic conditions of climate ceased to reappear, and the Arctic vege- tation, with its accompanying reindeer, musk-sheep, lemming, Arctic fox, glutton, and other northern animals, retreated from our low grounds. Of these ancient, chilly periods, ho~vever, the Arctic plants still found on our mountain-tops remain as living witnesses, for they are doubtless descendants of the northern vegetation which overspread Britain wben still part of the Continent, and before the arrival of our piesent temperate flora and fauna. Previous to the final retreat of the ice, the alternating warmer intervals brought into Britain many wild animals from milder regions to the south. Horses, stags, Irish elks, roe deer, wild oxen, and bisons roamed over the plains; wild boars, three kinds of rhinoceros, two kinds of elephant, brown bears and grizzly bears, haunted the forests. The rivers were tenanted by the hippopotamus, beaver, otter, water-rat; while among the car- nivora were wolves, foxes, wild cats, hy~enas, and lions. Many of these ani- inals must have moved in herds across the plains, over which the North Sea now rolls. Their bones have been dredged 26 THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH up in hundreds by the fishermen from the surface of the Dogger-Bank. Such were the denizens of southern England when man made his first appear. ance there. It seems not unlikely that he came some time before the close of the long ice age. He may have been tempo- rarily driven out of the country by the returning cold periods, but would find his way back as the climate ameliorated. Much ingenuity has been expended in tracing a succession of civilization in this primeval human population of Britain. Among the records of its presence there have been supposed to be traces of an earlier race of hunters of a low order, furnished with the rudest possible stone implements and a later people, ~vho, out of the bones of the animals they cap- tured, supplied themselves with deftly- made, and even artistically decorated weapons. All that seems safely deduci- ble from the evidence, however, may be summed up in saying that the palc~olit/iic men, or men of the older stone period, who hunted over the plains, and fished in the rivers, and lived in the caves of this country, have left behind them imple- ments, rude indeed, but no doubt quite suitable for their purpose; and likewise other weapons and tools of a more fin- ished kind, which bear a close relation- ship to the implements still in use among the modern Eskimos. It has been sug- gested that the Eskimos are their direct descendants, driven into the inhospitable north by the pressure of more warlike races. The rude hunter and dweller in caves passed away before the advent of the farmer and herdsman of the neoll/Iiic or later stone period. We know much more of him than of his predecessors. He was short of stature, with an oblong head, and probably a dark skin and dark, curly hair. His implements of stone ~vere often artis- tically fashioned and polished. Though still a huuter and fisher, he knew also how to farm. He had flocks and herds of do- mestic animals; he was acquainted with the arts of spinning, could make a rude kind of pottery, and excavate holes and subterranean galleries in the chalk for the extraction of flints for his weapons and tools. That he had some notion of a future state may be inferred from arrow- heads, pottery, and implements of various kinds which are found in his graves, evi- dently placed there for the use of the departed. He has been regarded as prob- ably of a non-Aryan race, of which per- haps the modern Basques are lineal descendants, isolated among the fast. nesses of the Pyrenees by the advance of younger tribes. Traces of his former presence in Britain have been conjectured to be recognizable in the small, dark XVelshmen, and the short, swarthy Irish- men of the west of Ireland XVhen the earliest neolithic men ap- peared in this region, Britain may still have been united to the Continent. But the connection was eventually broken. It is obvious that no event in the geological history of Britain can have had a more po~verful influence on its human history than the sel)aration of the country as a group of islands cut off by a considerable channel from direct communication with the mainland of Europe. Let us consider for a moment how the disconnection was probably brought about. There can be no doubt that at the time when Britain became an island, the gen- eral contour of the country was on the whole what it is still. The same groups of mountains rose above the same plains and valleys, which were traversed by the same winding rivers. We know that in the glacial and later periods considerable oscillations of level took place; for, on the one hand, beds of sea-shell are found at heights of twelve or thirteen hundred feet above the present sea-level; and on the other hand, ancient forest-covered soils are now seen belo~v tide-mark. It was doubtless mainly subsidence that produced the isolation of Britain. The whole area slowly sank, until the lower tracts were submerged, the last low ridge connecting the land with France was overflowed, and Britain became a group of islands. But unquestionably the iso- lation was helped by the ceaseless wear and tear of the superficial agencies which are still busy at the same task. The slow but sure washing of descending rain, the erosion of watercourses, and the gnawing of sea-waves al told in the long degrada- tion. And thus, foundering from want of support below, and eaten away by attacks above, the low lands gradually dimin- ished, and disappeared beneath the sea. Now, in this process of sel)aration, Ireland unfortunately became detached from Britain. We have had ample occa- sion in recent years to observe how much this geological change has affected our domestic history. That the isolation of Ireland took place before Britain had been separated from the Continent, may be inferred from a comparison of the dis- tribution of living plants and animals. Of course, the interval which had then HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY. 27 elapsed since the submergences and ice- sheets of the glacial period must have been of prodigious duration, if measured by ordinary human standards. Yet it was too short to enable the plants and animals of central Europe completely to possess themselves of the British area. Generation after generation they were moving westward, but long before they could all reach the north-western sea- board, Ireland had become an island, so that their further march in that direction was arrested, and before the subsequent advancing bands had come as far as Brit- ain, it too had been separated by a sea channel which finally barred their prog- ress. Comparing the total land mam- mals of the ~vest of Europe, we find that while Germany has ninetyspecies, Britain has forty, and Ireland only twenty-two. The reptiles and amphibia of Germany number twenty-t~vo, those of Britain thir- teen, and those of Ireland four. Again, even among the winged tribes, where the capacity for dispersal is so much greater, Britain possesses twelve species of bats, while Ireland has no more than seven, and one hundred and thirty land-birds to one hundred and ten in Ireland. The same discrepancy is traceable in the flora, for while the total number of species of flowering plants and ferns found in Brit- ain amounts to fourteen hundred and twenty-five, those of Ireland number nine hundred and seventy about two4hirds of the British flora. Such facts as these are not explicable by any difference of climate rendering Ireland less fit for the reception of more varied vegetation and animal life; for the climate of Ireland is really more equable and genial than that of the regions lying to the eastof it. They receive a natural and consistent interpretation on the assumption of the gradual separation of the British Islands during a continuous north-westward mi- gratio n of the present flora and fauna from central Europe. The last neck of land which united Britain to the mainland was probably that through which the Strait of Dover now runs. Apart from the general subsidence of the whole North Sea area, which is at- tested by submerged forests on both sides, it is not difficult to perceive how oTeatly the widening of the channel has been aided by waves and tidal currents. The cliffs of Kent on the one side and of the Boulonnais on the other, ceaselessly battered by the sea, and sapped by the trickle of percolating springs, are crum- bling before our very eyes. The scour of the strong tides which pour alternately up and down the strait must have helped also to deepen the Channel. And yet, in spite of the subsidence and this constant erosion, the depression remains so shal- low that its deepest parts are less than one hundred and eighty feet below the surface. As has often been remarked, if St. Pauls Cathedral could be shifted from the heart of London to the middle of the Straits of Dover, more than half of it would rise above water. At what relative time in the human oc- cupation of the region this channel was finally opened cannot be determined. At first the strait was doubtless much nar- rower than it has since become, so that it would not oppose the same obstacle to free intercourse which it now does, and neolithic man may have readily traversed it in his light coracle of skins. Be this as it may, there can be no doubt that the old Basque or Iberian stock had for many ages inhabited Britain before the succeed- ing wave of human migration advanced to overflow and efface it. The next invaders the first advance-guard of the great Aryan family were Celts, whose de- scendants still form a considerable part of the population of the British Isles. The Celt differed in many respects from the small, swarthy Iberian whom he sup- planted. He was tall, round-headed, and fair-skinned, ~vith red or brown hair. Endowed with greater bodily strength and pugnacity, he drove before him the older and smaller race of short, oblong- headed men, gradually extirpating them, or leaving here and there, in less attrac- tive portions of the country, small island- like remnants of them which insensibly mingled with their conquerors, though, as I have already remarked, traces of these remnants are perhaps partially recogniza- ble in the characteristic Iberian-like linea- ments of some districts of the country even at the present day. The Celts, as we now find them in Britain, belong to two distinct divisions of the race, the Irish or Gaelic, and the Welsh or Cymric. Some difference of opinion has arisen as to which of these branches appeared in the country first. It seems to me that if the question is discussed on the evidence of geological analogy, the unquestionable priority should be assigned to the Gaels. There can be no doubt that the Celts came from the east. They had already overspread Gaul and Belgium before they invaded Britain. The tribe which is found on the most northerly and westerly tracts must 23 THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH have crossed on its way the regions lying to the east, while on the other hand, the race occupying the eastern tracts should be of later origin. We ought to judge of the spread of the human population as we do of that of the flora and fauna. Had England been already occupied by the Welsh, Cymric, or British hranch, it is inconceivable that the Irish or Gaelic branch could have marched through the territory so occupied, and have estab- lished itself in Scotland and Ireland. The Gaels were, no doubt, the first to arrive. Finding the country inhabited by the little neolithic folk they dispossessed them, and spread by degrees over the whole of the islands. At a later time the Cymry arose. We are not here concerned with the question whether these originated by a gradual bifurcation in the develop- rnent of the Celtic race after its settlement within Britain, or came as a later Celtic wave of migration from the Continent. It is enough to notice that they are found at the beginning of the historical period to be in possession of England, Wales, and the south of Scotland up to the estuary of the Clyde. It is improbable that the Gaels, who must once have occupied the same attractive region, ~vould have ~vill- ingly quitted it for the more inhospitable moors of Scotland and the distant bogs and fenlands of Ireland. It is much more likely that they were driven forcibly out of it. Possibly the traditions they carried with them of the greater fertility of England may have instigated the numerous inroads which from early Ro- man times downwards they made to re- cover the lands of their forefathers. Crossing from Ireland they repossessed themselves of the ~vest of Wales, and sweeping down from the Scottish High- lands they repeatedly burst across the Roman wall, carrying pillage and rapine far into the province ~vhere their Cymric cousins had begun to learn some of the arts and the effeminacy of Roman civiliza- tion. Looking at the territory occupied by the Cymry at the time of their greatest extension, we can see how their course northward was influenced by geological structure. As they advanced along the plains which lay on the west side of the great Pennine chain of the centre and north of England, they encountered the range of fells which connects the mountain group of Cumberland and Westmoreland with the uplands of Yorkshire and Dur- ham. This would probably be for some time a barrier to their progress. But after crossing it by some of the deep val- leys by which it is trenched, they would find themselves in the wide l)lains of the Eden and the Solway. Still pushing their way northward, and driving the Gaels before them, they would naturally follow the valley of the Nith, leaving on the left hand the wild mountainous region of Gal- loway, or country of the Gael, to which the conquered tribe retired, and on the right the high moorlands about the head of Clydesdale and Tweeddale. Emerb ing at last upon the lowlands of Ayrshire and lower Clydesdale they would spread over them until their further march was ar- rested by the great line of the Highland mountains. Into these fastnesses, stoutly defended by the Pictish Gaels, they seem never to have penetrated. But they built, as their northern outpost, the city and castle of Alcluyd, where the picturesque rock of Dumbarton, or fort of the Brit- ons, towers above the Clyde. At one time, therefore, the Cymry ex- tended from the mouth of the Clyde to the south of England. One language Welsh and its dialects appears to have been spoken throughout that territory. Hence the battles of King Arthur which, from the evidence of the ancient Welsh poems, appear to have been fought, not in the south-west of England as is usually supposed, but in the middle of Scotland, against the fierce Gwyddyl Ffichti or Picts of the north and the heathen swarming from beyond the sea were sung all the way down into Wales and Devon, and across the Channel among the vales of Brittany, whence, be- coming with every generation more mys- tical and marvellous, they grew into favor- ite themes of the romantic poetry of Eu- rope. The Roman occupation affected chiefly the lowlands of England and Scotland, where the more recent geolo~ ical forma- tions extend in broad plains or plateaux. Numerous towns were built there, between which splendid roads extended across the country. The British inhabitants of these lowlands were not extirpated, but contin- ued to live on the lands which they had tilled of old, more or less affected by the Roman civilization, with which, for some four centuries or more, they were brought in contact. But the regions occupied by the more ancient rocks, rising into rugged, forest-covered mountains, offered an effective barrier to the march of the Ro- man legions, and afforded a shelter within which the natives could preserve their an cient manners and language with but little HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY. 29 change. The Romans occupied the broad central lowland region of Scotland, which is formed by the old red sandstone and carboniferous strata, extending up to the base of the Highlands. But though they inflicted severe defeats upon the wild bar- barians who issued from the dark glens, and though they seem to have been led by Severus round by the Aberdeenshire low grounds to the shores of the Moray Firth, and to have returned through the heart of the Highlands, they were never able per- manently to bring any part of the moun- tainous area of crystalline rocks under their rule. The same geological influences which guided the progress of the Roman armies may be traced in the subsequent Teutonic invasions of Angles, Saxons, Jutes, and Norwegians. Arriving from the east and north-east, these hordes found level low- lands open to their attack. Where no impenetrable thicket, forest, fenland, or mountainous barrier impeded their ad- vance, they rapidly pushed inland, utterly extirpating the British population, and driving its remn ants steadily westward. By the end of the sixth century the Brit- ons had disappeared from the eastern half of the island south of the Firth of Forth. Their frontier, everywhere obstinately defended, was very unequal in its capabil- ities of defence. In the north, where they had been driven across bare moors and bleak uplands, they found these inhos- pitable tracts for a time a barrier to the further advance of the enemy; but where they stood face to face with their foe in the plains they could not permanently resist his advance. This difference in physical contour and geological structure led to the final disruption of the Cymric tract of country by the two most memora- ble battles in the early history of En- gland. Between the Britons of south Wales and those of Devon and Cornwall lay the rich vale of the Severn. Across this plain there once spread, in ancient geo- logical times, a thick sheet of Jurassic strata of which the bold escarpment of the Cotswold Hills forms a remnant. The valley has been in the course of ages hol- lowed out of these rocks, the depth of which is only partly represented by the height of the Cotswold plateau. The Ro- mans had found their way into this fertile plain, and, attracted by the hot springs which still rise there, had built the vener- able city of Bath and other towns. One hundred and seven years after the Ro- mans quitted Britain, the West Saxons, who had gradually pushed their way west- ward up the valley of the Thames, found themselves on the edge of the Cotswold plateau, looking down upon the rich and long settled plains of the Severn. De- scending from these heights they fought in 577 the decisive battle of I)eorham, which had the effect of oivino- them pos- session of the Severn valley, and thus of isolating the Britons of Devon and Corn- wall from the rest of their kinsmen. Driven thus into the south-west corner of England upon ancient J)evonian and gran- ite rocks, poorer in soil, but rich in wealth of tin and copper, these Britons main- tained their individuality for many centu- ries. Though they have now gradually been fused into the surrounding English- speaking people, it was only about the middle of last century that they ceased to use their ancient Celtic tonrue. Still more important was the advance of the Angles on the north side of \Vales. The older pal~ozoic rocks of the princi- pality form a mass of high grounds which, flanked with a belt of coal-bearing strata, descend into the plains of Cheshire. Younger formations of soft red triassic marl and sandstone stretch northward, to the base of the carboniferous and Silurian hills of north Lancashire. This strip of level and fertile ground, bounded on the eastern side by high desert moors and im- l)enetrable forests, connected the Britons of Wales with those of the Cumbrian uplands, and, for nearly two hundred years after the Romans had left Britain, was subject to no foreign invasion, save perhaps occasional piratical descents from the Irish coasts. But at last, in the year 607, the Angles, who had overspread the whole regions from the Firth of Forth to the south of Suffolk, crossed the fastness of the Pennine chain and burst upon the inhabitants of the plains of the Dee. A great battle was fought at Chester in which the Britons were routed. The An- gles obtained permanent possession of these lowlands, and thus the Welsh were effectually cut off from the Britons of Cumbria and Strathclyde. The latter have gradually mingled with their Teu- tonic neighbors, though the names of many a hill and river bear witness to their former sway. The Welsh, on the other hand, driven into their hilly and mountain- ous tracts of ancient pal~ozoic rocks, have maintained their separate language and customs down to the present day. Turning now to the conflict between the Celtic and Teutonic races in Scotland, we notice in how marked a manner it was 30 THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH directed by the geological structure of the country. The level secondary forma- tions which underlie the plains, and form so notable a feature in the scenery .of En- gland, are almost wholly absent from Scotland. The pal~ozoic rocks of the latter kingdom have been so cruml)led and broken, so invaded by intrusions of igne- ous matter from below, and over two- thirds of the country rendered so crystal- line and massive, that they stand up for the most part as high tablelands, deeply trenched by narrow valleys. Only along the central counties, bet~veen the base of the Highlands on the one side and the southern uplands on the other, where younger pal~ozoic formations occur, are there any considerable tracts of lowland and even these are everywhere interrupted by protrusions of igneous rock, forming minor groups of hills, or isolated crags, like th6se that form so characteristic a feature in the landscapes around Edin- burgh. In old times dense forests and impenetrable morasses covered much of the land. A country fashioned and clothed in this manner is much more suit- able for defence than for attack. The hirh mountainous interior of the north, composed of the more ancient crystalline rocks, which had sheltered the Caledo- nian tribes from the well-ordered advance of the Roman legions, now equally pro- tected them from the sudden swoop of Saxon and Scandinavian sea - pirates. Neither Roman aor Teuton ever made any lasting conquest of that territory. It has remained in the hands of its Celtic conquerors till the present time. But the case has been otherwise with the tracts where the younger pal~ozoic deposits spread out from the base of the Highland mountains. These strata have not partaken of the violent corrugations and marked crystallization to which the older rocks have been subjected. On the contrary, they extend in gentle undula- tions forming level plains, and strips of lowland between the foot of the more an- cient hills and the margin of the sea. It was on these platforms of undisturbed strata that invaders could most success- fully establish themselves. So dominant has been this geological influence, that the line of boundary between the crystal- line rocks and the old red sandstone, from the north of Caithness to the coast of Kincardineshire, was almost precisely that of the frontier established between the old Celtic natives and the later hordes of Danes and Northmen. To this day, in spite of the inevitable commingling of the races, it still serves to define the re- spective areas of the Gaelic-speaking and English-speaking populations. On the old red sandstone we hear only English, often ~vith a northern accent, and even with not a few northern words that seem to remind us of the Norse blood which flows in the veins of these hardy fisher- folk and farmers. We meet with groups of villages and towns; the houses, though often poor and dirty, are for the most part solidly built of hewn stone and mortar, with well-made roofs of thatch, slate, or flagstone. The fuel in ordinary use is coal, brought by sea from the south. But no sooner do we penetrate within the area of the crystalline rocks than all appears changed. Gaelic is now the vernacular tongue. There are few or no villages. The houses are built of boulders gath- ered from the soil and held together with mere clay or earth, and are covered with frail roofs of ferns, straw, or heather, kept down by stone-weighted ropes of the same materials. Fireplaces and chimneys are not always present, and the pungent blue smoke from fires of peat or turf finds its way out by door and window, or beneath the begrimed rafters. The geological contrast of structure and scenery which allo~ved the Teutonic invaders to drive the older Celtic people from the coast- line, but prevented them from advancing inland, has sufficed during all the subse- quent centuries to keep the two races apart. On the north-western coasts of the isl- and there are none of the fringes of more recent formations which have had so marked an influence on the east side. From the north of Sutherland to the head- lands of Argyle the more ancient rocks of the country rise steep and rugged out of the sea, projecting in long, bare prom- ontories, forever washed by the restless surge of the Atlantic. Here and there the coast-line sinks into a sheltered bay, or is interrupted by some long, winding inlet that admits the ebb and flow of the ocean tides far into the heart of the moun- tains. Only in such depressions could a seafaring people find safe harbors and fix their settlements. When the Norsemen sailed round the north-west of Scotland they found there the counterpart of the country they had left behind the same type of bare, rocky, island-fringed coast- line sweeping up into bleak mountains, winding into long sea-lochs or fjords be- neath the shadow of sombre pine forests, and westward the familiar sweep of the same wide, blue ocean. So striking even HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY. 3 now is this resemblance, that the Scot who for the first time sails along the west- ern seaboard of Norway, can hardly real- ize that he is not skirting the coast-line of Inverness, Ross, or Sutherland. Such a form of coast forbade easy communica- tion by land between valley and valley. Detached settlements arose in the more sheltered bays, where glens, opening in- land, afforded ground for tillage and pas- ture. But the intercourse between them would be almost ~vholly by boat, for there could be no continuous line of farms, vil- lages, and roads, like those for which the old red sandstone selvages offered such facilities on the eastern coast. Hence, though the Norsemen possessed them- selves of every available bay and inlet, driving the Celts into the more barren in- terior, the natural contours made it im- possible that their hold of the ground should be so firm as that of their kinsmen in the east. When that hold began to relax, the Gaelic natives of the glens caine down once more to the sea, and all obvi- ous trace of the Norse occupation event- ually disappeared, save in the names given by the sea-rovers to the islands, promon- tories, and inlets the ays, nishes or nesses, and fords or fjords which, having been adopted by the Celtic natives, show that there must have been some communication and probable inter- marriage between the races. Among the outer islands the effects of the Norweoian occupation were naturally more enduring, though even there the Celtic race has long recovered its ground. Only in the Orkney and Shetland group have the vi- kings left upon the physical frame and language of the people the strong impress of their former presence. To this day a Shetlander speaks of going to Scotland, meanin~ the mainland, much as a Low- land Scot might talk of visiting England, or an English man of crossing to Ireland. But besides governing in no small de- gree the distribution of races in Britain, the geological structure of the country has probably not been without its influ- ence upon the temperament of the peo- ple. Let us take the case of the Celts, originally one great race, with no doubt the same average type of mental and moral disposition, as they unquestionably possessed the same general build of body and cast of features. Probably nowhere within our region have they remained un- mixed with a foreign element, and this, together with the varying political condi- tions under which they haye lived, must have distinctly affected their character. But after every allowance has been made for these several influences, it seems to me that there are residual differences which cannot be explained except by the effects of environment. The Celt of Ire- land and of the Scottish Highlands was originally the same being; he crossed freely from country to country; his lan- guage, manners and customs, arts, reli- gion, were the same on both sides of the channel, yet no two natives of the Brit- ish Islands are now marked by more characteristic differences. The I rish man seems to have chanbed less than the Highlander; he has retained the light- hearted gaiety, wit, impulsiveness, and excitability, together with that want of dog~ ed resolution and that indifference to the stern necessities of duty-, which we regard as pre-eminently typical of the Celtic temperament. The Highlander, on the other hand, cannot be called either merry or witty; he is rather of a self-re- strained, reserved, unexpansive, and even perhaps somewhat sullen, disposition. His music partakes of the melancholy cadence of the winds that sigh through his lonely glens; his religion, too, one of the strongest and noblest features of his character, retains still much of the gloomy tone of a bygone time. Yet he is courte- ous, dutiful, determinedly perseverin.,, unflinching as a foe, unwearied as a friend, fitted alike to follow with soldier-like obe- dience, and to lead with courage, skill, and energya man who has done much in every climate to sustain and expand the reputation of the British Empire. Now what has led to so decided a con- trast? I cannot help thinking that one fundamental cause is to be traced to the great difference between the geological structure and consequent scenery of ire- land and of the Highlands. By far the greater part of Ireland is occupied by the carboniferous limestone, which, in gently undulating sheets, spreads out as a vast plain. Round the margin of this plain the older formations rise as a broken ring of high ground, while here and there from the surface of the plain itself they to~ver into isolated hills or hilly groups; but there is no extensive area of moun- tains. The soil is generally sufficiently fertile, the climate soft, and the limestone plains are carpeted with that rich verdant pasture which has suggested the name of the Emerald Isle. In such a region, so long as the people are left free from for- eign interference, there can be but little to mar the gay, careless, childlike tem- perament of the Celtic nature. If the 32 THE GEOLOGICAL INFLUENCES WHICH country yields no vast wealth, it yet can furnish, with but little labor, all the nec- essaries of life. The Irishman is nat- urally attached to his holding. His fathers for generations past have cul- tivated the same little plots. He sees no reason why he should try to be better than they, and he resents, as an injury never to be forgiven, the attempt to re- move him to where he may elsewhere im- prove his fortunes. The Highlander, on the other hand, has no such broad, fertile plains around him. Placed in a glen, sel)arated from his neighbors in the next glens by high ranges of rugged hills, he finds a soil scant and stony, a climate ~vet, cold, and uncertain. He has to fight with the elements a never-ending battle, wherein he is often the loser. The dark mountains that frown above him gather around their summits the cloudy screen which keeps the sun from ripening his miserable patch of corn, or rots it with perpetual rains after it has been painfully cut. He stands among the mountains face to face with nature in her wilder moods. Storm and tempest, mist-wreath and whirlwind, the roar of waterfalls, the rush of swollen streams, the crash of loosened landslips, though he may seem hardly to notice them, do not pass with- out bringing, unconsciously perhaps, to his imagination, their ministry of terror. Hence the playful mirthfulness and light- hearted ease of the Celtic temperament have in his case been curdled into a stub- bornness, which may be stolid obstinacy or undaunted perseverance, accordin~ to the circumstances which develop it. Like his own granite hills he has grown hard and enduring, not without a tinge of mel- ancholy, suggestive of the sadness that lingers among his wind-swept glens, and that han~s about the slopes of birk round the quiet waters of his lonely lakes. The difference between Irishman and Scot thus somewhat resembles, though on a minor scale, that between the Cdt of low- land France and the Celt of the Swiss Alps, and the cause of the difference is doubtless traceable in great measure to a similar kind of contrast in their respective surroundings. If now we turn to the influences which have been at work in the distribution of the population of the country and the de- velopment of the national industries, we find them in large degree of a ~eolociical kind. In the first place, the feral ground, or territory left in a state of nature and given up to game, lies mostly upon rocks which, protruding almost everywhere to the sur- face and only scantily and sparsely cov- ered with a poor soil, are naturally in- capable of cultivation. The crystalline formations of the Scottish Highlands may be taken as an example of this kind of territory. The grouse-moors and deer- forests of that region exist there, not merely because the proprietors of the land have so willed it, but because over hundreds of square miles the ground it- self could be turned to no better use, for it can neither be tilled nor pastured. Much patriotic nonsense has been writ- ten about the enormity of retaining so much land as game preserves. But in this, as in so many other matters, man must be content to be the servant of na- ture. He cannot plant crops where she has appointed that they shall never grow; nor can he pasture flocks of sheep where she has decreed that only the fox, the wild cat, and the eagle shall find a home. In the second place, the true pasture- lands, that is, the tracts which are too high or sterile for cultivation, but which are not too rocky to refuse to yield, when their heathy covering is burnt off, a sweet, grassy herbage, excellent for sheep and cattle, lie mainly on elevated areas of non-crystalline pal~ozoic rocks. The long range of pastoral uplands in the south of Scotland, and the fells of Cumberland, Northumberland, and Yorkshire, are good examples. These lonely wilds might be grouped into districts each marked off by certain distinctive types of geological structure, and consequently of scenery. And it migl~t, for aught I kno~v, be pos- sible to show that these distinctions have not been without their influence upon the generations of shepherds who have spent their solitary lives among them; that in character, legends, superstitions, song, the peasants of Lammermuir might be distinguished from those of Liddesdale, and both from those of Cumberland and Yorkshire the distinction, subtle per- haps and hardly definable, pointing more or less clearly to the differences in their respective surroundings. In the third place, the sites of towns and villages may often be traced to a guiding geological influence. Going back to feudal times we at once observe to what a large extent the positions of the castles of the nobles were determined by the form of the ground, and notably by the prominence of some crag which, rising well above the rest of the country, com- manded a wid~ view and was capable of defence. Across the Lowlands of Scot- HAVE AFFECTED BRITISH HISTORY. 33 land such crags are abundantly scattered, they can obtain most employment and They consist for the most part of hard best pay; and these districts are necessa- projections of igneous rock, from which rily those ~vhere coal and iron can be ob- the softer sandstones and shales, that tamed, without which no branch of our once surrounded and covered them, have manufacturing industry could exist. been worn away. Many of them are In the fourth place, the style of archi. crowned with medi~val fortresses, some tecture in different districts is largely of which stand out among the most fa- dependent upon the character of their mous spots in the history of the country. geology. The mere presence or absence Dumbarton, Stirling, Blackness, Edin- of building-stone creates at once a funda- burgh, Tantallon, Dunbar, the Bass, are mental distinction. Hence the contrast familiar names in the stormy annals of between the brick~vork of England, ~vhere Scotland. A strong castle naturally gath- building-stone is less common, and the ered around its walls the peasantry of the stonework of Scotland, where stone neighborhood, for protection against the abounds. But even as we move from common foe, and thus by degrees the orig- one part of a stone-using region to an- inal collection of wooden booths or stone other, marked varieties of style may be huts grew into a village or ~ven into a observed, according to local aeoloo-ical populous town. The Scottish metropolis development. The massive yellow lime- undoubtedly owes its existence in this stone blocks of Bath or Portland, the way to the bold crag of basalt on which thin blue flags and slates of the Lake its ancient castle stands. district, the thick courses of deep-red In more recent times the development freestone in Dumfriesshire, the bands of of the mining industries of the country fine, easily-dressed white sandstone at has powerfully affected both the growth Edinburgh, the flints of Kent and Sussex, and decay of towns. Comparing in this have all produced certain differences of respect the maps of to-day ~vith those of style and treatment. To a ~eological eye one hundred and fifty or two hundred passing rapidly through a territory, the years ago, we cannot but be struck with character of its buildings is often sugges. the remarkable changes that have taken tive of its geology. place in the interval. Some places which In the fifth and last place, the dominant were then of but minor importance have influence of the geology of a country now advanced to the first rank, while oth- upon its human progress is nowhere more ers that were among the chief towns of marvellously exhibited than in the growth the realm have either hardly advanced at of British commerce. The internal trade all or have positively declined. If now of this country may be spoken of as its ~ve turn to a reoloo-i cal map, we find that ~ unceas ~., a life-blood, nik~tnr molt- along in almost all cases the growth has taken net~vork of railway-s. This vast organism place within or near to some important possesses not one but many hearts, from mineral field, while the decadence occurs each of which a vigorous circulation pro- in tracts where there are no workable ceeds. Each of these hearts or nerve- minerals. Look, for example, at the pro- centres is located on or near a mineral digious increase of such towns as Glas- region, whence its nourishment comes., gow, Liverpool, Manchester, New-castle, The history of the development of our Birmingham, and Middlesborough. Each system of railways, our steam machinery, of these owes its advance in population our manufactures, is unintelligible except. and wealth to its position in the midst of, when taken together with the openin~ up or close to, fields of coal and iron. Con- of our resources in coal and iron. trast, on the other hand, the sleepy quiet, The growth of the foreign commerce unprogressive content, and even some- of the country enforces the same lesson. times unmistakable decay, of not a few Even, however, before the day-s of steam county towns in our agricultural districts, navigation, her geological structure gave Closely connected with this subject is England a distinct advantage over her the remarkable transference of population neighbors on the Continent. Owing to ~vhich for the last generation or two has the denudation that has hollowed out the been in such rapid progress among us. surface of the country-, and the subsidence The large manutacturing towns are in- that has depressed the shoreward tracts~ creasing at the expense of the rural dis- beneath the sea, the coast-line of Britain tricts. The genci-al distribution of the abounds in admirable natural harbors, popuiation is changing, and the change is which on the opposite side of the Chan- obviousiy underlaid by a geological cause. nel and North Sea are hardly to be found. People are draw-n to the districts where There can be no question that in the in- LIViNG AGE. VOL. XXXIX. 1979 34 AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF DEAN SWIFT. fancy of navigation this gave a superior- ity for which hardly anything else could compensate. We boast that it is our in- sular position and our English blood that have made us sailors. Let us remember that in spite of their less favorable posi- tion, our neighbors on the opposite shores of the Continent have become excellent sailors too, and that if ~ve have been en- abled to lead the van in international commerce it has been largely due to the abundant, safe, and commodious inlets in our coast-line which have sheltered our marine. Of the foreign trade of the country it is not needful to speak. Its rapid growth during the present century is distinctly traceable to the introduction of steam navigation, and therefore directly to the development of those mineral resources which form so marked an element in the fortunate geological construction of the British Islands. ARCHIBALD GEIKIE. From The Gentlemans Magazine. AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY WRITTEN BY DEAN SWIFT. EVERY one interested in the literature of the last century is aware that when Mr. John Forster died he was engaged in writing an elaborate biography of Swift; that of this work he lived only to complete the first volume, but that, though he had made no progress with the second and third volumes, he had collected materials for them. Those materials formed part of his magnificent bequest to the South Kensington Museum, where they are now deposited. Few readers appear to be aware of their existence, still fewer have any conception of their great value. Alnong these documents is a small note. book which belonged to Swift; and with the contents of that note-book we propose to present our readers. It appears to have been guarded by Mr. Forster with jealous vigilance, for not a line of it has as yet seen the light, nor is even an allu- sion to it to be found in any work relating to Swift. It had escaped the notice of every editor and every biographer, though among those editors was Sir XValter Scott, and among those biographers was Monck Mason. Mr. Forster had evidently re- served it as a grateful surprise for his readers, merely observing in his preface that be was in possession of an unpub. lished journal in Swifts handwriting, singular in its character, and of extraordi- nary interest. Of the verses he says nothing at all. A mere glance at these documents will suffice to show their value their value as pieces intrinsically curi- ous, and as pieces peculiarly illustrative of the deans character and habits. Of their authenticity there can be no ques- tion. Those who are familiar with Swifts writings would indeed require no further guarantee than that afforded by internal evidence alone. But the ink, the paper, the handwriting and the handwriting of Swift can never be mistaken form in themselves conclusive testimony. It would be interesting to know the history of this remarkable little volume. Mr. Forster obtained it from Dr. Todd, senior fello~v of Dublin University, but how it got into Dr. Todds hands we have now no means of knowing. It originally belonged to Worral, one of Swifts most intimate friends, for on the first page is an inscription: This book was all wrote by Dean Swift, and was Mr. Worrals. On the same page in Swifts handwriting is another inscription : This book I stole from the Right Honble. George Dodington Esqr. one of the Lords of the Treasury. But the scribblings are all my own. On the opposite page are some memoranda in the deans hand: In Fleet Street about a clerk of St. Patricks Cathedral. Spectacles for seventy years old. Godfrey in Southampton Street. 1-lungary waters, and palsy drops, and the like. On the third page are some verses, extremely difficult to decipher, and cancelled. They are ap- parently the rough sketch of a poem. We give them exactly as they stand : Shall I repine Because my shabby threadbare waistcoat, to... Full five years - . - or out at elbows So see the Cassock of a poor divine Worn out at elbows why should he repine If neither brass nor marble can withstand The mortal force of Times destructive hand If mountains sink to vales, if City And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry When my old Cassock says a Welch divine Is out at elbows why should I repine? Then commences the really valuable part of the manuscript the posverfol and characteristic poem to which we shall presently recur, and the diary, to which it may ne well to prefix a few words by way of introduction. It was written, it will be seen, at 1-lolyhead, and it is dated Sep- tember 22, 1727. Swift had at this time arrived at the summit of his literary and AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF DEAN SWIFT. political greatness. Three years before, the Drapier Letters had in Ireland given him power more than regal. The publi- cation of Gullivers Travels in the autumn of 1726 had established his pre- eminence in letters. But neither fame nor power had been able to irradiate with even a passing gleam the deep gloom which was settling on his life. Rage and misery, the result partly of ill-health, partly of domestic misfortune, but arising mainly from his continually brooding over the degradation of his adopted country, were gnawing at his heart. A cruel dis- ease tortured his body. Esther Johnson was on her death-bed, and he had hurried from London in the hope of seeing her before she quitted him forever. In his correspondence at this period in his letters, that is to say, to Sheridan and Worralhis distress and agony find pas- sionate utterance. Of this there are no traces in the diary, for it vas his habit to find in these soliloquies, as well as in the trivialities recorded in them, that refuge from distressing thoughts which ordinary men find in light and idle conversation. All this, he writes in the middle of the diary, is to divert thinking; and these words are the key not only to this journal, but to the more famous Journal to Stella. The whole journal is, like the famous Journal to Stella, curiously illustrative of almost all Swifts peculiarities of temper and intellect. His sensitive pride, not un- mingled with vanity, his reserve and hauteur struggling with his craving for human society, his grave drollery, the restless activity of his mind, his never- failing humor, his acute sensibility, his listless but keenly observant interest in all that was passing round him, his sharp, swift insight, his querulous impatience with everything which militated against his physical comfort, his frugality pushed even to parsimony, his detestation of the Irish, his sarcastic intolerance of dulness and mediocrity all find illustration here. 35 me in the street and said that was my horse, she knew me. There I dined and sent for Ned Holland a squire famous for being mentioned in Mr. Lyndsavs verses to l)ay Morice, I there again saw Ho(;ks tomb who was the 41st child of hismother, and had himself 27 children he dyed about 1638. There is a lode here that one of his posterity new furbished up the in. scription, I had read in A. lIt Williams Life that he was buryed in an obscure church in North Wales. I enquired and heard that it was at (sic) Church within a mile of Bangor, whither I wasgoing. I went to the Church, the guide grumbling. I saw the Tomb with his Statue kneeling (in marble). It began thus [1-lospes lege et relege quod in hoc ohscuro sacello non exllectares. Hic jacet omnium Pr~sulum celeberrimus]. I came to Bangor and crossed the Ferry a mile from it where there is an Inn which, if it be well kept, will llreak Bangor. There I lay, it ~vas 22 miles from 1-lolyhead. I was on horseback at 4 in the morning resolving to be at Church at Holy- head but we then lost Owen Tudors tomb at Penmany. We l)assed the place (being a little out of the way) by the Guides knavery who had no mind to stay. I was now so weary with riding that I was forced to stop at Langueveny, 7 miles from the Ferry, and rest two hours. Then I went on very weary, but in a few miles more Watts t horse lost his two fore-shoes. So the Horse was forced to limp after us. The Guide was less concerned than I. In a few miles inure my 1-lorse lost a fore-shoe, and could not go on the rocky ways. I walked above two miles to spare him. It was Sunday and no Smith to be got. At last there was a Smith in the way: we left the Guide to shoe the horses and walked to a hedge Inn 3 miles from Holyhead. There I stayed an hour with no ale to be drunk. A boat offered, and I went by sea and sayled in it to Ilolyhead. The Guide came about the same time. I dined with an old Innkeeper, Mrs. \Velch, about 3 on a Loyne of mutton very good, but the worst ale in the world, and no xvine, for the day before I came here a vast number went to Ireland after having drunk out all the wine. There was stale beer and I t ryed a (illegible) deceit of Oyster shells which I got powdered on purpose; but it ~vas goodl for nothing. I walked on the rocks in the eveiling and then went to bed and dreamt I had got 20 fails from The Diary. nay Ilorse. Friday at ii in the morning I left Chester. Monday Sef /. 25. The captain talks of sail- ing at 12. The talk goes off, the wind is fair It was Sept. 22 1727. but be says it is too fierce. I believe he wants I batedi at a blind ale-house 7 miles from more Company. I had a raw chicken for din- Chester. I thence rode to Ridland * in all 22 ncr and Brandy with water for my drink. I miles. I lay there, bred (sic) bed, nacat and walked morning and afternoon among the tolerable wille. I left Ridland a quarter after rocks. This evening Watts tells me tllat my 4 morn on Saturday. Slept on Penmailmaur, land-lady whispered him that the Grafton examinedi about my sign verses the Inn is to packet boat just come in had brought her tS be on tother side, therefore the verses to be bottles of Irish Claret. I secured Omle and changed. I baited at Conway, the guide going supped on part of a neats tongue which a to another Inn, the maid of the old Inn saw * Rhuddlan. * See Rackets Life of Arebbishop Williams, p. 230. f Swifts servautman, see inf,-a. AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF DEAN SWIFT. friend at London had given Watt to put up for me, and drank a pint of the wine, which was bad enough. Not a soul is yet come to Holyhead except a young fellow who smiles when he meets me and would fain be my com- panion, hutit has not come to that yet. I writ abundance of verses this day; and several use- ful hints, th~ I say it. I went to bed at ten and dreamt abundance of nonsense. Ti esday 261/i. I am forced to wear a shirt 3 days for fear of being lowsy. I was sparing of them all the ~vay. It was a mercy there were 6 clean when I left London; otherwise 1vVatt (whose blunders would bear an history) would have got them all in the great Box of goods which went by the Carrier to Chester. He brought but one crevat, and the reason he gave was because the rest were foul and he thought he should not get foul linen into the Portmanteau. For he never dreamt it might be washed on the way. My shirts are all foul now, and by his reasoning I fear he will leave them at Holyhead when we go. I got a small Lon of mutton but so tough I could not chew it, and drank my second pint of wine. I walked this morning a good way among the rocks, and to a hole in one of them from whence at certain periods the water spurted up several feet high. It rained all night and hath rained since dinner. lint now the sun shines and I will take my afternoon walk. It was fiercer and wilder weather than yesterday, yet the Captain now dreams of sailing. To say the truth Michacimas is the worst season in the year. Is this strange stuff? Why what would you have me do? I have writ verses and put down hints till I am weary. I see no creature. I cannot read by candlelight. Sleep- ing will make me sick. I reckon myself fixed here and have a mind like Marshall Tallard to take a house and garden. I wish you a Merry Christmas and expect to see you by Candle- mas. I have walked this morning again about 3 miles on the rocks, my giddiness, God he thanked is almost gone and my hearing con- tinues. I am now retired to my chamber to scribble or sit humdrum. The night is fair and they pretend to have some hopes of going to.morrow. Sept. zfith. Thoughts upon being confined at Holyhead. If this were to be my settle- ment during life I could caress myself a while by forming new conveniencies to be easy, and should not be frightened either by the solitude or the meaness of lodging, eating or drinking. I shall say nothing upon the suspense I am in about my dearest friend* because that is a case extraordinary, and therefore by way of comfort. I will speak as if it were not in my thoughts and only as a passenger who is in a scurvy, unprovided comfortless place without one companion and who therefore wants to be at home where he hath all conveniences proper for a Gentleman of quality. I cannot read at night, and I have no hooks to read in the day. J have no subject in my head at present to * Esther Johnson. write upon. I dare not send my linen to be washed for fear of being called away at half an hours warning, and then I must leave them behind which is a serious point; in the mean time I am in danger of being lowsy which is a ticklish Point. I live at great expense without one comfortable bit or sup. I am afraid of joyning with passengers for fear of getting ac- quaintance with Irish. The days are short and I have five hours at night to spend by my. self before I go to bed, I should be glad to converse with Farmers or shopkeepers, but none-of them speak English. A Dog is better company than the Vicar, for I remember him of old. Wh~t can I do but write everything that comes into my head. Watt is a booby of that species which I dare not suffer to he familiar with me, for he would ramp on my shoulders in half an hour. But the worst part is my half-hourly longing, and hopes and vain ex- pectations of a wind, so that I live in suspense which is the worst circumstance of human na- ture. I am a little wrung (?) from two scurvy disorders and if I should relapse there is not a Welsh house-cur that would not have more care taken of him, than I, and whose loss would not be more lamented. I confine myself to my narrow chamber in all unwalkable hours. The Master of the pacquet boat, one Jones, hath not treated me with the least ciVility, although W~ tt gave him n~y name. In short I come from being used like an Emperor to be used worse than a Dog at Holyhead. Yet my hat is worn to pieces by answering the civilities of the poor inhabitants as they pass by. The women might be safe enough who all wear hats yet never pull them off, and if the dirty streets did not foul their petticoats by court. seying so low.* Look you; he not impatient for I only wait till my watch makes Ia and then I will give you ease and myself sleep, if I can. O~ my conscience you may know a Welsh dog as well as a Welsh man or woman, by its peevish passionate way t)f barking. This paper shall serve to answer ail your questions about my journey, and I will have it printed to satisfy the Kingdom. For-san ci kiev oZirn is a damned lye t for I shall always fret at the re- membrance of this iml)risOnment. Pray pity your Watt for he is called dunce puppy and Lyar 500 times an hour, and yet he means not ill for he means nothing. Oh for a dozen bot. tIes of deanery wine and a slice of bread and butter. The wine you sent usyesterday is a little upon the sour. I wish you had chosen a better. I am going to bed at ten oclock be- cause I am weary of being up. Wednesday. Last night I dreamt the Lord Bolingbroke and Mr. Pope were at my Cathedral. Ld. in the gallery and that my Ld. was to preach. I could not find my surplice, the Church ser- vants were out of the way: the I)oor was shut. I sent to my Ld. to come into my stall for more * Tlsus the sentence runs in the manuscript; its meaning is certainly ohscure. tHe alludes of course to the famous words in the speech of ~neas: Forsams em hnc oliom maenioisse juvabit. lEn. 1. 203. 36 AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF DEAN SWIFT. conveniency to get into the pulpit: the stall was all broken, they said. Collegians had done it. I squeezed among the rabble; saw my Ld. in the Pulpit. I thought his prayer was good, but I forget it. In his Sermon I did not like his quoting Mr. Wycherley by name, and his play. This is all and so I waked. To-day we were certainly to sayl: the morn- ing was calm. Watt and I walked up the mountain Marucia, properly called Holyhead or Sacrum Promontorium by Ptolomy,* 2 miles from this town. I took breath 59 times. I looked from the top to see the Wicklow hills, but the day was too hazy, which I felt to my sorrow; for returning we were overtaken by a furious shower, I got into a Welsh cabin almost as bad as an Irish one. There were only an old Welsh woman sifting flour who understood no English, and a boy who fell a roaring for fear of me. Watt (otherwise called unfortunate Jack) ran home for my coat but stayed so lon~ that I came home in worse rain without him, and he was so lucky to miss me, but took care to convey the key of my room where a fire was ready for me. So I cooled my heels in the Parlour, till he came but called for a glass of Brandy. I have been cooking myself dry, and am now in my night gown. And this moment comes a Letter to me from one Whelden who tells me he hears I am a lover of the mathematics, that he has found out the Longitude, shown his discourse to Mr. Dobbs of yr Colledge and sent letters to all the mathematicians in London 3 months ago but received no answer; and desires I would read his discourse. I sent back his Letter with my answer under it, too long to tell you, only I said I had too much of the Longitude already by a Projectors whom I encouraged; one of which was a cheat and the other cut his own throat: and for himself I thought he had a mind to deceive others or was deceived himself. And so I wait for dinner. I shall dine like a King all alone as I have done these six days. As it happened if I had gone strait from Chester to Park-gate 8 miles I should have been in Dublin on Sunday last. Now Michaelmas approaches, the worst time in the year for the sea, and this rain has made these parts unwalkable so that I must either write or doze. t Bite ; when we were in the wild cabin I order Watt to take a cloth and wipe my wet gown and Cassock: it happened to be a meal-bag and as my gown dryed it was all daubed with flour ~vell-cemented with the rain. What do I but see the gown and Cassock well dryed in my room, and while Watt was at din- ner I was an hour rubbing the meal out of them, and did it exactly. lie is just come up and I have gravely bid him take them down to rub them, and I wait whether he will find out what I have been doing. The Rogue is come up in six minutes, and says there were but few * Ptol. Geog., lib. ii., cap. ii. t A term of frequent occurrence in the Journal to Stella; the modern equivalent would be a quiz.~~ 37 specks (tho he saw a thousand at first) but neither wondered at it, nor seemed to suspect me who labored like a horse to rub them out. The 3 packet boats are now all on their side, and the weather grown worse, and so much rain that there is an end of my walking. I wish you would send me word how I shall dis- pose of my time. I am as insignificant a per- son here as parson Brooke is in Dublin, by my conscience I believe C~sar would be the same without his army at his back; Well ; the longer I stay here the more you will murmur for want of packets. Whoever would wish to live long should live here, for a day is longer than a week, and if the weather be fine, as long as a fortnight. Yet here I could live with two or three friends in a warm house, and good wine much better than bein~ a slave in Ireland. But my misery is that I am in the very worst part of Wales under the very worst circumstances, afraid of a relapse, in utmost solitude, impatient for the condition of our friend, not a soul to converse with, hindered from exercise by rain, caged up in a room not half so large as one of the Deanery closets, my Room smokes into the bargain, but the weather is too cold and naoist to be without a fire. There is or should be a proverb here, when Mrs. Welchs chimney smokes, Tis a sign shell keepher folks. But when of smoke the room is clear. It is a sign we shant stay here. All this is to divert thinking. Tell me, am not I a comfortable wag? The Yatcht is to leave for Lord Carteret on the a4th of Octo- ber. I fancy he and I shall come over togeth- er. I have opened my door to let in the wind that it may drive out the smoke. I asked the wind why [he] is so cross, he assures me tis not his fault, but his cursed Master ~oluss. Here is a young Jackanapes in the Inn ~vaiting for a wind who would fain be my companion, and if I stay here much longer I am afraid all my pride and grandeur will truckle to comply with him, especially if I finish these leaves that remain, but I will write close and do as the Devil did at mass, pull the paper with my teeth to make it hold out. Thursday. Tis allowed that we learn pa. tience by suffering. I have now not spirit enough left me to fret. I was so cunning these three last days that whenever I began to rage and storm at the weather I took special care to turn my face towards Ireland, in hope by my breath to push the wind forward. But now I give up. However when upon asking how is the wind the people answer, Full in the teeth I cannot help wishing a T were in theirs. Well, it is now three in the afternoon. I have dined, and revisited the master, the wind and tide serve, and I am just taking boat to go [to] the ship. So adieu till I see you at the Deanery. Friday Michaelmas Day. You will now know something of what it is to be at sea. We had not been half an hour in the ship till a fierce wind rose directly against us, we tryed a good while, hut the storm still continued: so we turned back and it was 8 at night dark 38 AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF DEAN SWIFT. and rainy before the ship got back, and at an- upon this occasion who never named above 6 chor. The other passengers went back in a authors of remarkable worthlessness; let the boat to Holyhead; but to prevent accidents Fame of the rest be upon Mr. Pope and his and broken shins I lay all night on board, and children. Mr. Gay, although more sparingly, came back this morning at 8. Am now in my bath gone upon the same mistake. chamber where I must stay and get a fresh stock of patience. You all know well enouwh This brings us to the verses. A short where I am, for I wrote thrice after your Let- copy of verses ~vhich are not found in this ters that desired my coming over. The last pocket-book, but which were apparently was from Coventry, 19th instant, but I brought written at this time, have been printed in it with me to Chester and saw it put into the Scotts edition of Swift (first edit., vol. xiv., Post on Thursday 21st, and the next day fol- l~- 359). How they got into print or lowed it myself, hut the packet boat wasgone whence they were l)roduced we know not. before I could get here, because I could not But they would seem to show that Swift ride 70 miles a day. must have written more during these uncomfortable days than has been pre- served in the note-book before us. The printed verses are far inferior to the verses here for the first time given to the ~vorld. Indeed, the follo~ving verses seem to us to rank among the best of Swifts minor pieces. They are in his most successful vein. Though they had not, as the manuscript shows, received his finishing touches, they have all the point, all the dry peculiar humor all that con- densed energy of expression which are the characteristics of the 1)oetry in which he excelled. The Irish policy of Carteret, and the method by which that policy was carried out, are very happily described. Swifts hatred and contempt for the coun- try of which he had been the saviour, but which he never beheld without loathing, found here, as in many passages of his published ~vorks, eloquent expression. \Ve should add that the manuscril)t is sometimes very difficult to decipher; and though ~ve have had the assistance of a gentle in an who has had great experience in such work, we have been obliged to in three cases leave blank spaces. So ends the journal, and such were the circumstances under which Swift left En- gland, never again to revisit it. In an- other page of the same pocket-book are written the following paragraphs, which appear to be the fragment of a notice pos- sibly intended to be prefixed to an edi- tion of the Miscellanies, two volumes of which had a few months before been pub- lished by Pope. These volumes had drawn, both upon Swift himself and on his friends Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot the attacks of innumerable scribblers, whom Pope was now preparing to gibbet in The Dunciad. The piece is not dated, but it was in all probability written at Holyhead, at the same time as the diary. It is probably referred to in the entry for Septeniber 25, where he says, I writ abundance of verses this day, and several useful hints. Sept. 25th 1727. So here I sit at Holy head With muddy ale and mouldy bread * . . - both by wind and tide I see the ship at anchor ride All Christian vittals (sic) stink of fish Im where my enemies would wish Convict of (?) lies is every sign The Fairt had not one droo of wine. The Captain swears the seas too rough ; He has not passengers enough; And thus the Dean is forcd to stay Till others come to help the pay In Dublin theyd be glad to see A pacquetthough it brings in me. They cannot say the winds are cross Your Politicians at a loss * The letters seem to be Im tamed. But the verse was evidently left unfinished by Swift, for on the margin he has placed a mark, thus V, evidently meaning to return to it. I The hostess, Mrs. Welch. I do hereby give notice to Posterity that having been the author of several writings, both in verse and prose which have passed with good success, it hath drawn upon me the censure of innumerable ttemptors and imita- tors and creatures, many of whose names I know, hot shall in this be wiser than Virgil and Horace by not delivering their names down to future ages and at the same time dis- al)point the tribe of writers, whose chief end next to that of getting bread, was an ambition of having their names upon record, by answer- ing or retorting their scurrilities, and armed silly have made use of my resentment to let the future world know that there were such persons now in being. I do therefore charge my successor in fame by virtue of being an antient 200 years hence to follow the same method. Dennis, Biackmore, Bentley and several others will reap great advantage by those who have not observed my rule. And heaven forgive Mr. Pope who bath so griev- ously transgressed it, by transmitting so nm any names of forgotten omemory full at length to be known by Readers in succeeding times, who I)erlaPs may be seduced to Duck lane and Grub Street, and there find some of the very treatises he mentions in his Satyres. I heart- ily applaud my own innocency and prudence AN UNPUBLISHED DIARY OF DEAN SWIFT. For want of matter swears and frets Are (sic) forced to read the old gazettes. I never was in haste before To reach that slavish, hateful shore Before I always found the wind To me was most maliciouskind But now the danger of a friend On whom my fears and hopes depend Absent from whom all clymes are curst With whom Im happy in the worst, With rage impatient makes me wait A passage to the land I hate Else rather on this bleaky shore Where loudest winds incessant roar, Where neither herb nor tree will thrive, Where nature hardly seems alive Id go in Freedom to my grave Than rule yon Isle and be a slave. (Here a blank space is left in the manuscript.) Remove me from this land of slaves, Where all are fools and all are knaves Where every knave and fool is bought, Yet hardlysells himself for nought Where Whig and Tory fiercely fight Whos in the wrong, who in the right. And where their country lies at stake They only fight for fightings sake. While English Sharpers take the pay And then stand by to see fair play. Meanwhile the whig is always winner And for his courage getsa Dinner. His Excellency* too perhaps Spits in his mouth and stroakes his chaps. The humble whelp gives every vote To put the question strains his throat, His Excellencys condescension Will serve instead of place or pension, When to the window hes trepanned When my Lord shakes him by the hand. Or in the presence of beholders His arms upon the boobys shoulders. You quickly see the gudgeon bite He tells his brother fools at night How well the Governors inclind, So just, so gentle, and so kind. He heard I kept a pack of hounds And longed to hunt upon my grounds He said our Lodges were so fair The land had nothing to compare But that indeed which pleasd me most He called my Doll a perfect toast. He whisperd public things at last Askd me how our Election past Some augmentation, Sir, you know Would make at least a handsome show. Now kings a coml)liinent expect I shall not offer to direct. There are some prating folks in town, But, Sir, ~ve must support the Crown Our Letters say a Jesuit boasts Of some I on our coasts. The King is ready when you will To pass another Pqry (sic) bill And for dissenters he intends To use them as his truest friends 39 Yes and the Church establishd too * Since a grave Protestant like you I think they justly ought to share In all employments we can spare Next for encouragement of spinning A duty might be laid on linen, An act for laying down the plough England will send you corn enough. Another act that absentees For licencies shall pay no fees If Englands friendship you would keep, Feed nothing in your lands but sheep. But make an act secure and full To bring up all who smuggle wool, And then he kindly gives us hints That all our wives should go in Chintz. To-morrow I shall tell you more, For Im to dine with him at four This was the speech, and heres the jest His arguments convinct the rest. Away he runs with zealous hotness Exceeding all the heels of Totness To move that all the nation round Should pay a guinea, in the pound. Yet should this blockhead beg a place Either from Excellence or grace Tis pre-engaged, and in his room Townshends cast Page or Walpoles groom. It would be possible to institute a curi- ously close l)arallel between Swift and Skelton; but in none of his extant poems is Swift more essentially Skeltonian than in the following, which is exactly in the vein and sometimes in the very measure of Why come ye not to Court? It would be interesting to know if Swift was acquainted with the writings of that inter. esting and original poet. On Lord Carterets arms, given as the custom is at every inn where the Lord Lieutenant dines or lycs with all the bills in a long Parlia. ment. Tis forty to one When Carterets gone These praises we blot out, The truth will be got out, And then well be smart on His Lordship or Wharton Or Shrewsburys Duke With many rebuke, Or Bolton the wise With his Spanish dyes, Or Grafton the deep Either drunk or asleep. Then Tilly and Aymes Will then lodge their claims, If somebodys grace Should come in their place. And thus it goes round, We praise and confound They come to no good Nor would if they could * Lord Carteret. * This couplet is cancelled in the original. 40 ROBIN. To injure the nation Is recommendation And why should they save her By lGsing their favour? Poor Kingdom thou wouldst be that Gov- ernors debtor Who kindly would leave thee no worse nor no better. We have spared no pains to make our transcript of this curious little volume accurate, but we are not sure that we have in all cases succeeded, for, though the handwriting in the manuscript is, as a rule, clear, the paper is sometimes blurred, and the ink thin and evanescent. J. CHURTON COLLINS. ROBIN. From Temple Bar. BY MRS. PARR, AUTHOR OF ADAM AND EVE. CHAPTER XXIII. IN company with Mr. Blunt, Robin had been taken all over the garden, and what he was pleased to call the pleasure- grounds, but beyond that he did not care to go. Tb ere was nothing to see down there, he said, referring to the thicket below, which stood a dark spot between the two sloping stretches of breen. The place had been let go wild, run over with blackberry bushes and brambles, that tore the very clothes off your back if you tried to get through them; besides, that was the place the squire chose to say belonged to him, so let him have it, he added. Dont you go near it, Robin. And Robin had said no; but now on this morning, when spring seemed born, and all that had lain dormant and still through the long winter had leaped into life again, Robins desire led her t6 seek where nature reigned supreme. The birds were there, singing in those trees mid which their nests ~vere built, and quick as the thought came pictured the delight of stealthily creeping up and peep- ing in to see the little feathered fledge- lings as they lay. There belo~v, under the shelter of those stretched-out boughs mostly hawthorns and giant shrubs, grown thick and tall because no hand had curbed their lavish spread what wealth of flowers sprang up before her eyes: primroses, bluebells, wood sorrel, violets! Already with steps whose fleet impatience while within range of watching eyes she vainly strove to curb, Robin was flying across the lawn, and as she went she sungfor the chill of sorrows hand seemed, for the first time, to thoroughly let go its hold and her heart, released, rejoiced with all around, and joined in the glad p~an which welcomed back life again. Oh! unison of youth and spring! Winter is past, sorrow is forgotten summer is near, happiness is at hand. Down through the grass, but partly dried of dew which here and there sparkled like heaps of jewels caught by a beam of lightRobin ran, marking her path by this tree, or by that, gainst which she clung, and panting paused for breath; then knitting herself close, quick as a fawn she made a leap across the half-choked brook, and laughed aloud to find herself safe on the other side. And now the thicket must be got into, the barriers forced that guard its outer edge: bram- bles, whose long trails have caught the wandering shrubs and bowed their aspir. ing heads to nail them to the ground furze, dried and withered under the weight of some strong sloe, that, pushing it aside, has broken down the line, to stand thrust out to view. Here is a little gal) by which, with many a ~vriggle, one migh tget ones body through. Beyond, while stooping to make search for entry of some kind, Robin has had peeps of moss-grown mounds and heaps of autumn leaves, from out of whose brow-n crispness pale prim- rose heads are peeping, and, like the child that she is, her tonoue goes babblino- to them. You think I cannot get at you, she says; but I am comino- Yo me soon. u will see Her head has poked itself well through, her hat she has flung across the furze, and, but that a bramble catches her by the skirt, she would have been inside ere now. You naughty, wicked thorns to try and keep me back. Her nimble fingers quick to set her free fling the trails aside with all her force of strength, and scrambling up, she goes on her way to where an ancient holly stands, embraced from the neighboring bank by suckers of the roses there. Now, you must go aside! Robin, impatient, brooked no more delay. With both her hands she freed the opening wide, and then there was a pause a cry, and she was caught within the arms of Jack, whose heart, set beating by sounds, of what he knew not, had drawn him close, and brought them face to face. 0 Time! hold back thy sands; 0 Love! spread quick thy wings. ROBIN. Jack! Robin! Still holding hands, the two had drawn apart, and there stood gazing bewildered, each putting questions without waiting a reply. The look which Jack cast upon the gown she wore seemed to give Robin the key. Weve lost him, Jack, she cried, hes hone hes dead. Dead ! Ali, I knew how sorry you would be. Jack had turned deathly l)ale. Sometimes I wondered when you knew whether youd try and find me out. He could not speak, a horrible tremor had seized him within. I didnt write because She stopped; the tears, blinding her eyes, fell down like rain. What was the use? If you had come, what could you do? No one could bring him back to meand there was Christopher to manage all the rest. My God! To get her handkerchief Robin had let go Jacks hand, and down it fell nerveless at his sine. My God! he repeated. He saw it all; a flash had brought the thing, as it was, before him with all its chain of evidence complete. The uncle written to who turned all he touched to money was this Blunt; the son who had married the young girl, Christopher; the father who had died on the wedding.day was Veriker; and she who but a minute since seemed locked up in his hearts safe keeping, waiting for him there, he now stood looking atanothers wife. He staggered back a~ if a blow had struck him. Robin stretched out her hands, but before they touched him he had pushed them aside, and down over his face the gathering cloud settled, his mouth tight. ened, his brow lowered. Are you married ? ~ he said harshly. Robins face flushed, for in the tone a reproach seemed flung. Yes, she said. I am married to Christopher Blunt. Jacks nostrils quivered. Was it con- tempt that made him look at her like that? What else was there for me to do ? she added. They told me that ease, comforts, having all he needed, might save him. How were these to be got? We were penniless there was not a soul to turn to I was friendless and alone. 4 If ever guardian angel fought for man, Jacks nox~r did battle nobly. Tell her your love, the tempter cried; say why you left say you were going to seek her. Leave her in peace, whispered the better voice; knowing her love was yours, stain not her innocence b oivincr it life again. y ~ Did your father wish you to get mar- ried? how did you see this man? He came to Venice to see us to seek us out, was good and kind to him beyond anything my words could tell you. And is he kind to you? Oh what an effort to get out the words, the clutch that caught his throat at the bare thought of her being happy! Yes, very kind; there is nothing he would not do to try and make me happy. He nodded his head. Are you happy? he asked after a pause, and the words were jerked out, strained and husky. Robins eyes avoided him. I think yes I was growing to be, she said faintly. Wzs growingwzs growing! that fiend voice would drive him mad, fevering his blood with fifty wild temptations. Did you know that I had written to your father that I was coming here ? She shook her head; her eyes were turned away. I dont know now why you are here. Didnt you come to to seek after me? Then your father never showed you the letter that I sent, telling him that my uncle was ill (she was looking, listening now). He was Mr. Chandos, the late squire, who died. My name is Chandos now. I am the squire here. You Jack? You! What, will you live herelive here near me? Is it pos- sible ? Oh ! Words were not given to tell the trans. port of such joy. Christopher, her past troubles, her present surroundings, all vanished, swallowed up in the delight that she and Jack would be together again; together to talk of bygone days, to go over things they had done, places they had seen. Jack, standing there, was the embodiment of all that past which of late had been growing daily more dear to Robin. The anguish he had caused her, the tears she had shed for him, were forgot. ten. Already the grass was beginning to show green on the grave of that memory, 42 ROBIN. and it was to the old master teacher she gave welcome, with the thought that the same friendship which had existed then would continue now. Jack laughed, and it was a hard, bitter laugh he gave. You seem to forget that you have a husband now. Im not so sure how he and I should agree. Oh! no one could fall out with Chris- topher. Couldnt they? I have managed al- ready to pick a very respectable quarrel with his father. Robins face turned scarlet. Until that moment it seemed to her she had never thoroughly realized how vulgar Mr. Blunt was. Christopher is not at all like him, she said falteringly. Isnt he? Jack answered drily. And there was a pause Jack still battling, Robin hesitating. It had come to her that she ought to speak of Christo- pher, to say something that would assure Jack of his goodness. It was disloyal, ungrateful, in her to permit any one least of all, Jack to suppose that Chris- topher resembled his father; besides which, there ~vas something in Jacks tone each time he referred to her marriage, that jarred upon Robin, that stirred her with the sense that she ought to say some- thing in defence of the husband who had been so generously good to her. I dont know how it was, she fal- tered, not knowing how to begin, but neither of us, he nor I, ever spoke of you to Christopher. I dont think he ever heard your name.~~ So much the better. He need not hear it now. How not hear it now? Robins eves were fixed on him in sur- prise. I mean that he need not hear it from you. I am leaving here to-morrow leaving here for a very long time he might forego her love, but he must see that he could still make her suffer perhaps never to return. Never to return, she echoed. The light went out of her eyes, her face grew blank, her mouth quivered as she spoke. Doesnt it strike you, he said harsh- ly, that its best I should go? She did not answer him. Oh women ! women! he cried in thought. What fools men are to suffer for them! It tortured him to believe that Robin could calmly contemplate the renewal of that mere friendly intercourse which once had existed between them, If he could but make sure that she had not forgotten, had not entirely overcome the love ~vhich he knew he had once held entirely his own, he could leave her more contented. What good would there be in my re- maining here? he said. You would be as far off from me as though the ocean rolled between us. Was that true? Robins heart was quickened by a crowd of new emotions regret, reproach, compunction all rose up, battling within her. You have a husband now, Jack add. ecl; one who you tell me is good, kind, fond of you. No doubt you care for him in return? Between each sentence he made a pause. Did he hope she would contradict him? Robin did not say a word. But why need I ask the question? Jack was growing desperate. If you had not cared for him had not thought he could make you happier than any one else could you would not have married him. I was not so very far off but a let. ter would have reached me. A letter about what? she said. How could you have helped us? In those days you were no better off than we were. Thats true! I forgot that money al~vays wins the day. Robins face was aflame. You dare to say that to me! she said. Jack, you have grown cowardly. No, I have only grown desperate, he said. And what wonder, when I see you sacrificed to a man who made you the price of his seeming generosity. Oh, you may shake your head in denial; but if not, why did he insist on marrying you, knowing that you had no love for him. He did not insist. No, Jack, it was I who insisted when I knew that he wished it, and that we both must live dependent on him. I would have it so. I would marry him. Your father deceived me, Jack ex- claimed passionately. He wrote me a letter saying you were to leave Venice; that you were going in search of some l)lace where you might live quietly. What did he mean by that? At that very time this man must have been with you. I dont know, she said. He never told me that he had written to you. Nor that I had written to him? Oh, I see it all no~v. Jacks anger was mastering him. ROBIN. 43 I was being cheated, fooled, made a dupe of! This fellow ~vas the very son- in-law he wanted the one I advised him to look out after. Not knowing what had passed between the two, the words cut Robin to the quick. He took your advice then, you see, and I have to thank him for it, she add- ed proudly. I have a husband good and kind ,generou sto me beyond anything I can say, and gathering up her strength for a final effort, she said, looking at him fixedly, I would not change Christopher for any other man living. Did that pale, stern face belong to Rob- in? could those eyes that Jack had seen melting with love, flash forth such fire? A fresh agony writhed his heart, this new variety but added to her beauty. He felt himself growing sick, giddy, his self-con- trol was abandoning him, in another in- stant he would have to fling himself at her feet, implore her pity, entreat her not to forsake him. He had no more strength left than to wrestle with the horrible dread of giving way to his madness. Bending his head as if in acknowledg- ment of what she had said, he managed to force out, I think it would be better that I no longer detained you. Robin, oblivious of everything but the effort needed for her own control, made a gesture of assent. They were standing each as it were looking at the other, yet the eyes of 1)0th were averted. I can but offer you my somewhat tardy congratulations and wishes for a ,continuance of your present happiness and prosperity. I am not likely to see you again, therefore we shall be spared the awkwardness of future meetin o~ He paused, Good-bye, Robin. Good-bye, Jack. How long had he stood waiting for those words to comean instant, minute, hour? He could not tell, only he knew that as she spoke she raised her eyes, and up there leaped in him a giant whose name until halfway through the wood Jack did not stay to ask. The crackling boughs and leaves, and rustle of the branches as he went madly on his way, proclaimed his flight to her he left behind. Whether in love or anger, Jack was gone, and Robin stood alone. CHAPTER XXIV. WITH just enough consciousness left to remember that on the road into which from out of the thicket he would presently emerge he might possibly meet persons walking, Jack endeavored to collect himself a little, to get his face into more every-day order, and pull him- self together again. This done, he walked on, his thoughts still so completely in mastery of his other senses that his usually quick ear did not catch sound of a horses hoofs, suddenly put into motion, galloping quickly away. Close to the hedge which on one side skirts the mound where three roads meet, only a short time before Georgy Temple might have been seen, standing raised in her stirrup, gazing intently at two figures who, while taking a survey of the thicket, had caught her eyes and arrested her attention. To the casual passer-by the enclosure below was merely indicated by the clumped - together tops of irregularly- grown trees ; but Georgy, familiar with every landmark round, knew of a dwarfed, particular thorn, through the cleft stems of which you could get sight of the one really clear spot that the tangle beneath boasted of. In olden days had she not often scram- bled up that hedge in hopes of spotting Jack below? The smile that played around her mouth was brought there by the recollection of a certain whistle she used to give, attained by great pains and much practice, and gloried in, because, try as he did, stretching his mouth, with both his fingers in, as big as a clowns, Jack could produce no sound. Georgy laughed outright; what a hoyden she had been, more of a boy than Jack himself! Dear old Jack! she was very glad to have him back again, and then she gave a little shrug, for the conversa- tion they had had came back to her mind, and feeling certain that he meant by going away to bring back a wife, she sighed to think he couldnt live contented without more of womankind but there, were queer beings all of us. Evidently now her thoughts were centred on herself. I remember I had quite decided that as soon as I gre~v up I would marry Jack; and it never entered into my arrange. ments to suppose that lie would say no. While making these reflections she had pulled up before the particular spot. Was the opening still visible? Where the leaves grew thick they hid it out of view. From where she sat she thought that she ought to be able to see, and she raised 44 PEEL AND COBDEN. herself, seemed filled with sudden sur- prise, bettered her position, and then re- mained transfixed. Surely it was Jack ? of that there could be no mistake; but the other? was it yes, certainly it was, that movement ended the doubt it was the bride, the new Mrs. Blunt. What were they doing there? standing, evidently talking to each other so earnestly. Before Georgy had time to imagine any answer to her questions, Jack suddenly wheeled round he was gone; and Georgy, not wishing then to meet him, touched up her horse and turned his head towards an opposite road, halfway down which she branched off by a lane that would bring her out close to the Manor gates. She had rightly calculated; a little ahead she saw Jack wiking, and quicken- ing her pace she seemed to accidentally overtake him. Well, she said, have you man aged your business satisfactorily? For the instant, had a kingdom de- pended on it, Jack could not remember what, when he parted with her, he had said he was going to do. Oh, yes, he answered confusedly, that is, Ive changed my plans. It would never do for him to dine that eveningas he had been asked toat the rectory. He couldnt be himself, and talk of indifferent things to a lot of peo- ple. Like many men of the ~vorld whose feelings are but seldom roused, whenever they were, his s~voirf~ire seemed com- pletely to desert him. Im very glad to have met you, Georgy, he began, because, if you dont mind, it will save me a walk up to your mother. Would you tell her from me that 1 shall not be able to dine with you this evening? I find I must start from here at once by the 6.40 train; it wont do for me to stay until to-morrow. Tell her I am awfully sorr)-, will you? but that I am really forced to go. For once Georgy, generally so ready, could find nothing ci ~ro~os to answer. Certainly I will, she said curtly ; then after a moments pause, Are you going round to the lodge? Ill walk Jacob alongside you. Do, said Jack, inwardly wishing that she and Jacob were at Jericho. What has made you so suddenly change your mind? she said, as soon as they were goin ~ on together. Where have you been since I left you? Been! oh, to heaps of places. and there are ever so many more where I ought to go, and then meeting her look of inquiry he continued, And as to changing my mind, 1 dont know that my mind is changed; only I must go, and when youre resolved what is the use of delaying? Georgy laughed. Positively, she said, one might be- lieve you were tearing yourself away, that you had some motive for going. Motive! what do you mean by mo- tive? What possible motive could there be, except the one that it pleases me? I dont understand you. No! and she smiled at him mean- ingly, perhaps we dont understand each other. What on earth was the girl driving at! Surely no nonsense of any kind about him could have entered her head. My dear, he said gravely, a great many people often jump at very wrong conclusions concerning each other. She made a movement as if surprised at such an assertion. Yes, and yourself, he went on, amono~ the number. Only this morning at the cross-fields, when we were parting, you began throwing out hints about my going away; asking if it wasnt because I thought of marrying. Well, once for all I may tell you that nothing is fur- ther from my mind; but you know I was always very fond of travelling. I should be cramped to death to settle down here. I like a life of freedom, and freedom and marriage dont agree; besides which, have you forgotten that the squires of Wadpole have mostly died old bachelors? Georgy assumed an attitude of utter despair. Bending towards Jack she held out her hand to him. Farewell, Jack, she said, mocking emotion. Good-bye; to drown my dis- appointment I must set off at once in search of the deepest water. From The Nineteenth Century. PEEL AND COBDEN. IN Mr. Morleys Life of Cobden, which will surely rank among the best and most memorable of political biographies, the figures of Peel and Cobden are brought together, first in antagonism, then in a reconciliation which revealed their real relations to each other. To each figure, and to the two conjoined, something of special interest attaches at the present moment. PEEL AND COBDEN. Cobden T had the happiness of knowing well, and I can bear witness to the truth of Mr. Morleys portrait of him. A man more transparently honest, more sinwle- 5 minded, more truthful, more entirely de- void of selfish ambition and of selfishness of every kind, more absolutely devoted to the service of his country and of human- ity, never, I should think, appeared in public life. The persuasiveness of his eloquence was simply the result of his character. His kindness of heart, his charity, his candor, had remained unim- paired by all his battles. Wrong and oppression he hated with all his soul; but he had no enmities, any more than he had rivalries. His nature was entirely sweet and sound. He was no bagman, though his enemies called him so, and he freely called himself so in jest. He had not received a good education at school, but he had educated and not only educated, but cultivated his intellect in gratifying his boundless love of knowledge. He had explored and studied Europe, economical, social, and political, with a curious eye and acompre- hensive mind. He was acute and exact in observing the connection of the differ- ent influences which form national char- acter with each other, and was a true social philosopher, though without a for- mal system. His insight into political character and tendency was very keen. In 1849 he foresaw the Tory Suffrage Bill of 1867. May I predict that, if we should succee& to the extent above named, there would not be wanting shrewd members of the Tory aristocracy who would be found advocating universal suffrage to take their chance in an appeal to the ignorance and vice of the country against the opinions of the teetotallers, Nonconformists, and rational Radicals, who would constitute nine-tenths of our phalanx of forty-shilling freeholders. Nor was he without literary or even with- out classical interests, notwithstanding his rather economical sayings about the scanty waters of the llyssus7 and the ter- ritorial insignificance of the scenes of Greek history. He would talk, and talk ~vell, about Greek oratory and the Greek drama, which he had explored as well as he could through translations. He was apparently a little disappointed by the ab- sence of passionate rhetoric in Demos- thenes. Mr. Morley justly praises Cob- dens style, which he might have done, perhaps, without disparaging the classical models. Cobdens style is excellent for its purpose, which is that of the pamphlet- 45 eer; the styles of Bacon, Hooker, Milton, Swift, Addison, Hume, Burke, are also excellent for their several purl)oses. The lesson which an intelligent reader learns from the classics is, I submit, l)recisely that which Mr. Morley seems to think they do not teach attention to things, not to words. A really classic writer is as free from all ornamental encumbrance as a Greek statue.* Cobdens favorite poet was Cowper, who touched him mor- ally. For poetry of the deeper and more philosophic kind he probably did not much care. But he had an eye and a heart for nature. Mr. Morley has not got quite correctly the reply to a friend who had asked whether it was worth while to take a long journey for the purpose of seeino- Niagara. T lie words were, There are two sublimities in natureone of rest, the other of motion the sublimity- of rest is a distant view of the Alps ; the sublim- ity of motion is Niagara. On the whole it may pretty safely be said, that among all those who affected to scorn Cobdens vulgarity and narrowness, there would not have been found so rich or so compre- hensive a mind. In a striking passage quoted by Mr. Morley, Cobden says emphatically that the basis of his own character was reli- gious, that his sympathies were with reli- gious men, and that it was his rever- ence that sustained him through the labors and struggles of his public life. I have no doubt that lie speaks the truth. He was not in the least sectarian he was a devout believer in phrenology, die crude precursor of scientific rationalisni; but he certainly was religious, and always felt that in bravely doing his duty, in uphold- ing righteousness, in laboring for the good of his kind, he was in the hand of God. This man was not an un-Englishman, but, on the contrary, the truest and hearti- est of patriots. National swagger he hated as well as national injustice; but the pages of his life show that lie was as proud as any swaggerer of the high quali- ties and the great achievements of his countrymen, while he had a large-minded and generous appreciation of the special excellences and advaiitages of other na * I should also venture to demur to Mr. Morleys apparently low estimate of Englands scholarship. Germany has, perhaps, more men eminent for recondite erudition, though she has never produced such an Athenian as Porson; but England has prohahly a far greater numher of scholars who thoroughly understand and enloy the classics. It may seem a paradox, hut I fancy that one reason why we have had comparatively so few editors and commentators is that we have had so many readers. 46 PEEL AND COBDEN. tions. England, as represented by him, was a gentleman, and not a bully. He desired for his country the leadership of international morality, and he believed that her real interest ~vas bound up with the interest of humanity; but he did not disregard her interest: on the contrary, he always looked to it first, and never without distinct reference to it proposed any plan of cosmopolitan improvement. If he advocated and encouraged a friend to advocate colonial elnancil)ation, it was not because either of them wished to de- prive their country of anything that could bring her wealth or strength, but because both of them were convinced that these distant dependencies brought neither wealth nor strength~ but, on the contrary, loss of money and ~veakness; that, ib a military point of view, they entailed a for- feiture of the advantages of an insular position; and that the only bond which could permanently and usefully unite En- gland to free colonies was the bond of the heart. He certainly looked forward to the ultimate junction of Canada with the United States, and the union of the whole English-speaking race on the American continent; but he expected this to take place with the consent of the mother country, and believed that it would be greatly to her advanta~ ing, as his friend e. In question- questioned, the expedi- ency of retaining Gibraltar, he was actu- ated by no inxlifference to English honor, or wish that England should make Quix- otic sacrifices, but by the conviction that since the introduction of steam and other changes the naval and military iml)ortance of the rock had been greatly diminished while, as it often had thrown, so it would be sure again to throw, insulted Spain into the ranks of our enemies. I have no doubt that while he fully appreciated the genius for war and government which Englishmen had shown in the conquest and administration of India, he would gladly have resigned that glittering appa- nage had it been possible to retire with- out leaving anarchy behind; but here again he would have been actuated not by the craven motives which jingoism imputed to him, but by a profound con- viction that on the whole the Indian em- pire was materially a bane to us, and that there was great danger of its becoming a moral and political bane also. Some strong men agree with him on that point. His opinions on the subject of imperial- ism might have been confirmed, as those of his friend are, by seeing England, with all these distant objects of far-reaching ambition on her hands, unable to cope with a rebellion of Land Lea~uers at home, and beginning to doubt whether she will be able to maintain her union with Ire- land. These volumes show that Cobden had no sympathy with Repeal. His policy for Ireland was the abolition of the feudal land law, which fosters great estates and, in the case of Ireland. absenteeism. The feudal law ought indeed to have been abolished, by the abrogation of primogen- iture and entail, before entering on a course of more violent and equivocal leg- islation. But Cobden had not fathomed the Irish abyss. He did not see that if Ireland were given to the Irish, and all of them were collected in their native land, not a third of them could live. Cobden, I repeat, was not an un-En- glishman. Nor was he a Quaker. He disliked all armaments which were capa- ble of being used for purposes of acrores. sion, and he had a belief, ~vell founded, at all events, as the army ~vas then consti- tuted, that militarism was the great pillar of aristocracy; but be emphatically de- clared that he was ready to incur any expense that might be necessary for the purpose of maintaining the supremacy of F n gland on the sea. He meant what he said, too, when he told the I-louse of Commons that, though opposed to a war which he deemed unjust, he would in a just war serve in the hospital if he could not serve in the field. He certainly erred in pronouncing against the volunteer movement, in ~vhich he saw another rein- forcement of aristocracy, but failed to see a great antidote to panic. Nor can it be truly said that he never laid himself open to misconstruction. Mr. Kingl ake says that Cobden and his great associate had no chance of getting a hearing when they strove to keep the peace with Russia, be- cause, as they had declared against war in general, it was impossible that they should command attention when they spoke against any particular war. Mr. Morley replies with truth that Cobden had not declared against war in general. But he had attended peace conferences, the object of which was to denounce all war. A demonstration for or abainst a definite measure or course of policy, such as the repeal of the Corn Laws or the sup- port of the Ottoman dominion, is often useful; but a demonstration in favor of a general principle always seems to com- mit, and usually does in fact commit, those who take part in it to an indiscrim- inate application. Cobdens authority on PEEL AND COBDEN. 47 questions of peace and war was undoubt- cdlv weakened in this way. Hardly any mind can escape the bias of its history; Cobdens had no doubt contracted a bias, and a serious one, from the free-trade struggle. Absolutely free from any sordid sentiment, from any dis- position to believe that man lives by bread alone, from any conscious prefer- ence of material over moral and political considerations, he yet was inclined to overrate the beneficent power of com- mercial influences, and consequently the value of commercial objects. This was seen at the beginning of the war between the free and slave States in America, when, though his heart ~vas as thoroughly on the side of political and industrial free- dom as that of any human being could be, he was for a time prevented from rais- ing his voice for the right, if not held in a wavering state of mind, by his strong feeling in favor of the Southerners as free- traders, though lie could hardly have helped knowing that with them, as with the Turks, free trade was not an enlight- ened principle, but the barbarous neces- sity of a community incal)able of manu- facturing anything for itself,as appears more clearly than ever now that, slavery being abolished, manufactures have been introduced into the South, and have brought protectionist tendencies with them. The samething was seen again in the case of the French Treaty. Mr. Mor- ley is mistaken in thinkino- that anybody objected to negotiating ~vith the French government on account of its character and origin: we were all ready to do busi- ness with Nero though certainly, if there was a hand which Liberals might be excused for not wishing to take even in the course of business, it ~vas that of Louis Napoleon. The objection which some of us felt was to abetting the em- peror in an arbitrary use of his treaty- making power for the purpose of overrid- ing on a question of domestic policy the well-known sentiments of his legislature and his people. We thus, for a commer- cial object, became accomplices in abso- lutist encroachment. There could be no mistake about the matter. The emperor assured Cobden that the legislative body was irreconcilably hostile to every manner of free trade, and Cobden himself says that it would be impossible to assemble five hundred persons in France by any process of selection, and not find nine- tenths of them at least in favor of the restrictive system. An apprehension, which events have too well justified, was felt that free trade itself would be tainted in the mind of the French people by asso- ciation with the violence done by a high- handed stretch of power to national opin- ion. It must be admitted also that, as in the case of the arbitrary monarchy of Prussia, on ~vhich he bestows praises rather unwelcome to the Liberal ear, so in the case of the French empire, Cob- dens l)olitical toleration of all forms of government which were or seemed to be economically beneficent carried him some- what too far. Nor could I at the time, nor can I now, share the con tempt with which he treated all suspicion of the French emperors designs, and every sug- gestion that necessity might at last impel the conspirators of the coup ddtat to an attack on England, from which, if so com- pelled, they would no more have shrunk than they shrank from the l)erfidies and massacres by which they raised them- selves to power. Alarm always takes forms more or less irrational and ridicu- lous; but all Cobdens expressions of scorn for English panic wouid hava been nearly as applicable to the nervousness of Austria and Germany, upon each of which the French bandit sprang without notice, and without any cause of war ex- cept his personal necessities and those of his dynasty. That free trade and peace are closely connected in fact as well as in the motto of the Cobden Club is very certain, but the relation is not simply that of cause and effect; it is reciprocal, and free trade depends fully as much on peace as peace does upon free trade: if there are large armaments there must be import duties to maintain them, and it is vain to suppose that the policy of the En- glish tariff will be allowed to regulate the tariffs of other countries, or that there can be any absolute rule for them all. Nor is it by any means true in all cases, l)erhaps it is not true even in the majority of cases, that the passions of nations are controlled by their commercial interests. If they were, no matter what the fiscal system mi6ht be, there could hardly ever be a war. That the good effects even of commer- cial prosperity were neither unlimited nor unmixed, Cobden himself had reason to observe. Writing about the rejection of Mr. Bright at Manchester, he ascribes this display of snobbishness and ingrat- itude to the great prosperity which Lan- cashire enjoys mainly through the efforts of Mr. Bright; and predicts that those vices and the political apostasy connected with them will go on in the north of En- 43 PEEL AND COBDEN. gland so long as the exports continue to increase at the same rate. In another letter he says the great prosperity of the country made Tories of us all ; and ac- cuses the middle class, which it was hoped could be independent, of havino sunk into the most abject servility from the same cause. 1 have never known a man ufac- turing representative put into a cocked hat and breeches and ruffles, ~vith a sword by his side, to make a speech for the gov- ernment, without having his head turned by the feathers and frippery: generally they give way toa paroxysm of snobbery, and go down on their bellies and throw dust on their heads, and fling dirt at the prominent men of their own order. Aristocracy here conspired with the vast growth of wealth which followed the re- peal of the Corn Laws; but it cannot be said that the vast growth of wealth had a purely elevating influence in itself. An- other fact might be cited in support of the same moral, though Cobden was himself unconscious of its import. The letter of the French emperor declaring for free trade appeared upon a Sunday, and on the Tuesday following, as Mr. Morley following, we presume, the account given by Cobden tells us, at the great niarket at Manchester, which used to draw men from all parts of that thriving district, the French emperor was everywhere hailed as the best man in Europe. He who had not only destroyed the liberties which he was set to guard, but had literally revelled in perjury and rioted in innocent blood, who was not only the greatest enemy of freedom, but the greatest felon in Europe, and who a few years before had been de- nounced by the universal voice of British morality, had in a moment, to the bribed understandings and consciences of all these respectable and religious traders, become the best man in Europe because he had promised to add something to their gains! It is due, however, to Cobden alvays to mark that lie was a free-trader in- deed; his heart ~vas with those who pro- posed absolutely to abolish all iniport duties, and supply their place, so far as was necessary, by direct taxation. His de- sire and his hope were to make one com- mercial community of the whol.e human race. Thoroughly embracing the princi- ple, lie was entitled to reckon on the full effects of its application. In this he dif- fered essentially from those who, calling themselves free-traders, are in fact noth- ing of the kind, but merely advocates of a particular tariff, very wisely framed no doubt with reference to British industries and interests, but not necessarily suited to those of all the countries in the world. In one respect, perhaps, Cobden may be hereafter a more important figure in political history than his biographer thinks. If the transition from hereditary to elective government should ever be completed, and En gland should become a commonwealth, he may be hailed as one of the fathers of republicanism. All Radicals are republicans in grain ; some of them are in private avowedly republi- cans ; but as a body they have deemed it wise to put off the great question to an indefinite future, to stand aloof from the republican party in Europe, and for the practical purposes of public life to take offices and titles tinder the monarchy and aristocracy. Cobden never took office or title. Nor did lie ever cross the threshold of a court. Though he negotiated with the French emperor, he declined an invi- tation to Compi~gne. True, it was Pal- merstons hand that proffered him office, and it is possible that his decision might have been different had the proffer coTne from the hand of Gladstone. But, as a matter of fact, he remained Richard Cob. den and an illustrious servant of the people ; and his motives, though not dis- tinctly professed, were such that republi- cans may fairly claim him as their own. Peel I did not know; but I have lived much with those who knew him well. I have also had access to information of a documentary kind which helps to explain some of the doubtful l)assages of his long and vexed career. When he fell from power I was still at college, and, in com - mon with most of the young Liberals of the day, I looked up with ardent sympathy to the great statesman who, tryino to rise above party and govern in the interest of the nation, was struck down by the blind resentment of a selfish factio& and by the dagger of the political bravo. It is to be hoped that the publication of his papers will not be much longer delayed, for his memory daily suffers wrong. Mr. Mor- ley, for instance, speaks of the days pre- ceding Cannings premiership as a sea- son of odious iiitrigue; aiid he is only saying what is generally believed. Yet it will probably prove that injustice has been done to Wellington, Peel ,andth~ rest of those against whom the imputa- tion is levelled. The Liverpool Cabinet ~vas made up of two sections to one of which belono-ed Wellington and Peel, to the other Canning. These sections dif- fered from each other not only about PEEL AND COBDEN. 49 Catholic Emancipation, which had been the statement ~vas made from Bentinck~ made an open question in the Cabinet, personal experience and memory, and but about foreign policy and in their gen- was the tradition of the circle in which he eral tendencies. The prime minister was lived and the conviction of his heart. their only bond of union, and on his How came it to pass, then, that a man of departure they inevitably fell asunder. Bentincks temper, and devoted as he Falling asunder is not a very amicable was to the memory of Canning, whose operation, nor is it easy to state with private secretary he had been, and with perfect frankness your general want of whom he was connected by marriage, not sympathy with the political character and only remained for so many years a steady principles of a man with whom you have follower of Peel, but when Disraeli began just been acting, however natural, in the to attack Peel ascribed the attacks, as eyes of all the world, that want of sympa- Disraeli says he did, to personal motives? may be. That there was also a rivalry Is it not more likely that this, among between Peel and Canning need not be other things which Bentinck said and did, questioned; under the party system and was really the infusion of a friend? between heads of opposing sections such Mr. Morley also is somewhat in error, thinos must be; but rivalry is not con- as I venture to think, in saying that, with spiracy or cabal. The letters of resigna- the accession of the Duke of Wellington tion sent by the seceders seem to me to power in 1827, all the worst impulses perfectly spontaneous and independent, of the privileged classes acquired new Ii tk~te sa~ y~A-\~g XWe \~\g~, X co er~ce an~ Xn~eus~y. TXe ~u~ke was suspect it was on the part of Canning, never averse, and Peel was always most who was a man of eager, not to say, in- favorable, to measures of administrative ordinate, ambition, as he showed in his reform. Even in 1827 exclusionists and~ conduct to Acldington and afterwards to jobbers saw that it was not their game Percival. The conversion of the Anti- that was being played, and this became J acobin to Liberalism seems glorious still more clear to them in 1834, when a now; but it was natural that it should not foreign statesman said of Peel that he had seem so glorious to the Tories then. proved himself the most liberal of Con.- There is no reason for supposing that servatives, the most conservative of Lib. Peel instigated the attacks which Dawson erals, and the most capable man of all in and other Tories made on Canning, and both parties; while bigoted Tories not which after all ~vere no more than the only withheld praise, but broke out into counterpart of those which Canning him- denunciation, and accused the minister of self had made upon Addington and others preparing the final ruin of the Church.~ who had come in his way. To say that A European Conservative Wellington was Peel killed Canning is preposterous. in the highest degree; he had monarchical Canning had been in very bad health views of English government, and was before he became premier, and his febrile strongly opposed to organic change: a temperament succumbed to the cares and bigot or a corruptionist he never was. vexations of a difficult and equivocal posi- Canning, it must be remembered, was to tion. If any bolt xvent to his heart, it the last an opponent of Parliamentary was that of Grey. Cannings son as- reform. suredly did not regard Peel as his fathers Peel has been called the greatest mem- murderer. In Stapletons first work on ber of Parliament who ever lived. A Canning, published in 1839, the charge sneer perhaps lurks in the compliment; against Peel of behaving dishonorably to but, apart from the sneer the compliment Canning does not appear. It appears in belongs rather to Pym or to one of the the work published in 1859. Between Pitts. It may more truly be said of Peel those dates it had been brought forward that he was about the best public servant~ in the House of Commons among other whom Englat~d ever had. No other mm- rabid personalities by Lord George Ben. ister ever was so thoroughly conversant tinck in a specific form, and in that form with all the interests and master of all the it had been met and repelled by Peel, business of the State. This it vas that The author of the Life of Lord George lent such weight to his speeches, and gave Bentinckis compelled to admit that the him his immense power over the Hous.e charge cannot be sustained, while he art- of Commons. Lord Russell said that,, of fully labors to leave the impression that all the speakers whom he had ever heard, it is true. With a somewhat suspicious anxiety he fixes the responsibility of it on * See Mr. Spencer Walpoles History of England, the memory of his friend, protesting that vol. iii., p. 302. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXIX, 1980 50 PEEL AND COBDEN. the most eloquent was Plunket, the most charming was Canning, the weightiest was Peel. That, so far as tho evil system of party for the establishment of vhich he was not responsible would let him, Peel was a true patriot, and served his country to the utmost of his power and with all his heart, never sparing himself, hut giving the most conscientious attention to all the details of the public business, must be the conviction of every one who really knows his history. His great qualities were rather those of an administrator than those of a legislator, and were liable to be rated lower than they deserved under the party system, which counts only legisla- tive triumphs. In legislation he was not an originator, at least upon the greatest questions; but, as one who gave practical effect to the conclusions of the time, his record on the statute book is immense. When once he put his hand to the work he was bold, and never stopped at half-meas- ures. His bills were framed with the greatest care, so as to pass with the least possible amendment. For his memora- ble budgets, his financial experiments, the creation of the fiscal system under which England has prospered, he had the assistance of first-rate coadjutors, official and non-official; yet the measures may fairly be said to have been his own. Irre- spectively of the party ties by which in his very boyhood he had been tightly and almost inextricably bound, he was by na- ture a Conservative ready for any prac- tical reform, but averse from organic change. Such is apt to be the tempera- ment of great administrators, who are sat- isfied with their tools as they are; and it is a better temperament, at all events, than that of politicians who seek power through great convulsions and use it for small jobs. The weak points of Peels career are his conversions on Catholic Emancipation and the Corn Laws, of which nobody denies either the sincerity or the necessity, but which involved an appearance of infidelity to party; while the desperate awkwardness of the position in which, during the process of conver- sion, a leader is placed, between the im- possibility of keeping silence as a private man whose mind was wavering wou Id do, and the danger of prematurely avowing conclusions which may shake the State, has furnished malice with materials for imputations of deceitfulness of which un- sparing use has been niade. To these imputations Peel was too nervously sus- ceptible; but we have tried effrontery, and can tell which has the best effect on pub- lic character. That the intellect of the man who was chiefly responsible for the welfare of the people should not upon such a question as the Corn Laws have been allowed to act freely for the public good, and that the country should have been compelled to deprive itself of the services of its great administrator because there had been a change in national opinion upon an economical question, have always seemed to me heavy counts in the indict- ment against the party system, and that constitutional rule which requires that, whenever a new light breaks upon the mind of the legislative body, the execu- tive government shall be overturned. Factious things must, in the course of nature, be done by every leader of opposi- tion; but no leader of opposition ever did fewer of them than Peel. He never weakened or degraded government. He played no jockey tricks. 1-le never de- scended to the tactics familiar to those who supplanted him, of coalescing with the extreme section of the other party for the purpose of upsetting the ministry. He would have spurned such a sugges- tion as the utter betrayal of all the ob- jects for which his party existed, as the depth at once of folly and dishonor. Never did he give his followers the signal to turn round and vote against the second reading of a bill when they had voted in favor of the first reading, because it ap- peared that advantage might be taken of a division in the ranks of the government. Never did he on a great question belie his recorded convictions and trifle with the p6litical life of the nation for the purpose of dishino his rivals. He avoided rather than sought faction fights; held back his followers as much as he could from premature attacks; never attempted to filch office, but waited till his time was fully come, and, instead of climbing over the wall, he could enter by the great gate. In time of public peril he knew that party feeling and personal ambition must be restrained. The country has bitter reason to wish that he was the leader of the op- position now. - A man of genius Peel cannot be called. He was not imaginative or creative; even in appreciation his mind, open as it was, moved slowly. It moved slowly in all things; and, like J3urleigh, he used his pen a good deal in the process of deliber- ation. Nor did he always see the limits of a principle; if he had, perhaps he would have perceived more clearly and maintained more firmly that the principle of free competition, however sound as ap PEEL AND COBDEN. plied to commerce in general, was hardly sound when applied to national works like railways. Still, in the construction of the Conservative party, and in placing it exactly on the right basis after the rev- olution of 1832, his practical sagacity did the work of genius. He was greatly helped in this by his commercial origin and his affinity to the middle class. The same influences were always drawing him towards alliance with such a man as Cob- den, wide as the gulf between them might appear. In one respect he stands almost by himself. It would be difficult at least to name any leader who had left the country such a bequest of statesmen. In drawing young men to him he had to get over the difficulties of his extreme shyness, and of a manner at first icy, though Lord Aber- deen said of him that when he did open himself he ~vas the most confiding of man- kind. He had also to get over a certain formality of judgment and want of sympa- thy with anything eccentric or sentimen- tal, natural to him, no doubt, but confirmed by the habits of a life spent in business of State, with little time for reading, intel- lectual intercourse, or speculation of any kind. From the personal jealousy which sometimes narrows the choice of asso- ciates he was free, as he showed by the eagerness ~vith which he welcomed to his side Stanley, in whose unquiet ambition and aristocratic arrogance his sagacity could hardly fail to see the probable source of trouble to himself. The shade of Peel may proudly ask what those who charged him with want of sympathy with genius have left to eclipse his staff. In one instance he has been accusedand will, no doubt, be accused again of a fatal oversight. But the accusers must re~iember that the Disraeli of 1841 was not the Lord Beaconsfield of a later time. The Disraeli of 1841 had announced him- self under the name of Vivian Grey as an unscrupulous adventurer, bent on gratify- ing his ambition, not by the qualities which Peel valued in a public servant, but by skill in intrigue; he had verified that announcement by seeking election to Parliament first as a Radical, and imme- diately afterwards as a Tory; and he had been denounced for so doing by public men whose confidence and whose names he had, as they thought, abused. He had signified the intention which, in the case of Lord Derby, he, with incomparable skill and knowledge of character, carried into effect, of using his political leader as a Marquis of Carabas. He bad presented 5 himself to the House of Commons in rai- ment which, though symbolical by its gorgeousness of a dazzling policy, was not likely to fascinate an unimaginative man of sense. He had approached his leader, both in public and in private, with fulsome flattery; and fulsome flattery, however successful it might be in other quarters, was not likely to succeed with Peel. Nor was anything to be gained by disparaging the Duke of Wellington, in whom Peel did not see a rival, and whom, though little guided by his counsels, he always treated with the tenderest respect. After all, there is a tradition that Peel always tolerant, though not appreciative, of the vagaries of talent, and ever anxious to enlist it for the party wished to give Disraeli place, but was prevented by the opposition of Lord Stanley. Whan his papers are published it will be found, I suspect, that he afterwards treated Dis- raeli with a magnanimity which may be thought by some to have been rather be- coming in him than clearly consistent with the public good. To do right in the question between Cobden and Peel while they were in colli- sion, we must remember that Cobden was leading an agitation in the interest of a particular class. The class was large, and its interest on this occasion coincided with that of the community, otherwise it could not have had Cobden and Bright for spokesmen ; but still it was a class. With Cobden and Bright the repeal of the Corn Law was part of a general policy of free trade, and free trade itself was but a part of a still more general policy of peace and good-will among nations, econ- omy, and government in the interest of the people. But the object of most of the manufacturers who were members of the League was simply the repeal of a noxious impost, which specially pressed on their own industry. They were not universal philanthropists; they were hardly even free-traders in the full sense of the term. Their subscriptions to the League Fund were what Cobden himself called them, investments, which they expected to be repaid to them, and which were in fact repaid to them a hundredfold. Had the same men been landowners, they would probably have been protectionists. To the general policy of Bright and Cobden their attachment was very equivocal, as the sequel showed, and as Cobden him- self has told us I am of opinion that we have not the same elements in Lancashire for a Democratic Re- form movement as we had for Free Trade. PEEL AND COBDEN. 52 To me the most discouraging fact in our politi- cal state is the condition of the Lancashire boroughs, where, with the exception of Man- chester, nearly all the municipalities are in the hands of the stupidest Tories in England, and where we can hardly see our way for an equal half-share of Liberal representation. We have the labor of Hercules in hand to abate the power of the aristocracy, and their allies the snobs of the towns. You hint at the possibility of Manchester taking me in case of poor Potters death. I dont think the offer will ever be made, but I am quite sure that there is no demonstration of the kind that could induce me (apart from my determination not at present to stand for any place) to put myself in the hands of the people who, without more cause then than now, struck down men whose politics are identically my own. To confess my honest belief, I re- gard the Manchester constituency, now that their gross pocket question is settled, as a very. unsound, and to us a very unsafe hody. The manufacturers of Yorkshire and Lan- cashire look upon India and China as a field of enterprise, which can only be kept open to them by force; and, indeed, they are willing apparently to be at all the cost of holding open the door of the whole of Asia for the rest of the world to trade on the same terms as them- selves. How few of those who fought for the repeal of the Corn Law really understand the full meaning of Free Trade principles! Men may be named, besides Cobden and Bright, who did thoroughly under- stand the meaning of the principle, and its connection with principles larger still; but with the rank and file of the move- ment free trade meant nothing but an alteration of the tariff in their own favor. Peel, on the other hand, was the ruler of the whole nation, and was bound to consider not one class or interest alone, but all. He was also bound to consider political as well as economical conse- quences. The aristocracy personally he loved little, and had little cause to love: it accepted his services without ever for- ~ettino that he was by origin a cotton- b ~ spinner; and that he stood aloof from it in heart was shown by his testamen- tary injunction to his son. But he be- lieved it to be an essential part of the constitution, and he saw plainly that its basis was territorial, or, in plain English, that its influence depended on its rents. it was very well for the League to say that the landowners would not suffer by repeal; the League cared little whether the landowners suffered or not: and the truth is that though the reductjon of rents was suspended for a time by the enor- mous extension of the English market for agricultural produce which followed the growth of manufactures, it has evidently come at last, and seems likely to bring its political consequences with it. The pre- diction of evil to the landed interest which events appeared to have belied, has been apparently fulfilled after all; for some tune past at least, the extent of En- glish land under the plough has been rapidly decreasing. There was some force also in the military argument against dependence on the foreigner for food; it seemed that the island fortress would lose its impregnability; and Peel could not accept, and would have been entirely misled if he had accepted, as infallibly true the Leaguers assurance that free trade would be follo~ved by universal peace. Economical fallacies, which expe- rience has now taught us to deride, then fettered strong minds ; nor would a states- man, when he began to meditate the great change, have felt that he had any great force of independent opinion on his side. The sudden conversion of the Whigs was, as Mr. Morley truly says, nothing more than the device of a foundering fac- tion. So long as they had a secure tenure of power, and were able to control legis- lation, they declared that to meddle with the Corn Law would be madness. They even, after the failure of their attempt to set fire to the house which they were leaving, showed rather faint attachment to their new opinions, and their chiefs declined to vote for Mr. Villierss annual motion in 1844. Peel had, however, avowed in the most distinct terms that unless the Corn Law was shown to be good for the whole people, it could not stand; and his freedom in dealing with it had already driven extreme protection- ists, such as the Duke of Buckiogham, from his side. The general tendency of his financial policy was also distinctly in the direction of free trade. For a man in his position, and under the party sys- tem, the process of change, as has been already said, was desperately difficult, and the utmost allowance ought to be made for anything ambiguous in his utterances or in his conduct. He was the object not only of cruel misconstruction, but of calumnious invention on the part of ene- mies who certainly could not like him to be accused of lacking imagination. It was most circumstantially stated and widely believed, that when he found him- self no longer able to defend the Corn Law he had contrived to shirk a debate, and to put forward his young lieutenant, Sidney Herbert, to defend the Corn Law in his place. He ~vas of all men the least PEEL AND COBDEN. capable of such an act of treachery to a friend. Mr. Morley gives what is prob- ably the grain of truth in the story, if there is any grain of truth in it at all. He says that after a powerful speech from Cobden, Peel was overheard to say to Sidney Herbert, You must answer that, for I cannot. Whatever construction may be put upon the incident, it clearly involves nothing dishonorable on the part of Peel. When a class in possession of power, as the landlord class was in the Parlia- ment of those days, refuses justice to the community, agitation is the only remedy, and it is better than civil war. But it entails some of the moral evils of civil war. What says Cobden himself? You must not judge me by what I say at. these tumultuous public meetings. I con- stantly regret the necessity of violating good taste and kind feeling in my public harangues. I say advisedly necessity; for I defy anybody to keep the ear of the public for seven years upon any one question without striving to amuse as well as instruct. People do not attend public meetings to be taught, but to be excited, flattered, and pleased. If they are simply lectured, they may sit out the lesson for once, but they will not come again; and as I have required them again and again I have been obliged to amuse them, not by standing on my head or eating fire, but by kindred feats of jugglery, such as appeals to their self-esteem, their combativeness, or their humor. You know how easily in touching their feelings one degenerates into flattery, vindictiveness, or grossness. It would be a relief to him, he says, to know that he should never again have to attend a public meeting. If this was true of Cobden, how much more must it have been true of common agitators I The pas- sions of those whose interest was threat- ened were of course inflamed to fury by the wordy cannonade, and the difficulty of Peels task in bringing them round was increased tenfold. After all, as Cobden admits, the agitation ~vould have failed had it not been for the Irish famine. It was perhaps inevitable that the lead- ers of the League should be unjust to Peel, as well as wanting in that consid- eration for his position which wisdom bade them show if they wished to win him to their side. Unjust, however, they were. They refused to recognize what he had done and was doing for the grad- ual promotion of the general policy of free trade; they treated with contempt his great budget of 1842, though as a step in economical progress it was second in 53 importance only to the repeal of the Corn Law itself; and they persisted in fixin~ on him, who least of all men in power deserved it, the entire responsibility and odium of maintaining a system which was paralyzing trade and spreading distress among the people. Hence arose a per- sonal quarrel between him and Cobden, of which it would be painful to speak if it had not been closed by a noble recon- ciliation. On the fifth night of a fierce debate in the House of Commons, when party passions ~vere at fever heat, Cob- den made a very bitter attack on Peel, accusing him of folly or ignorance as a financier, treating his fiscal legislation with the most cutting contempt, and point- ing to him, with eml)hatic and passionate reiteration, as individually responsibles for the lamentable and dangerous state of the country. The recent murder of Peels secretary and friend, Mr. Drummond, by a bullet, which was supposed to have been intended for Peel himself, was in every- bodys mind; and when Peel in his reply pounced angrily on the expression inch- vidually responsible, protectionist hatred of the great Leaguer burst forth in a fierce shout of denunciation, and a tor- nado followed in which Peels anger mounted still higher, all moral bearings were lost, and all attempts at explanation became fruitless. Peel afterwards posi- ti vely disclaimed the atrocious meaning which had been fixed, in the fury of the moment, on his ~vords; and he surely might be pardoned, especially when heated by debate, for fiercely resenting an at- tempt to hold him up individually to a people exasperated by suffering as the author of their misery. Cobden himself avows that he meant to frighten Peel; he had made up his mind that when Peel bolted or betrayed the protectionists the game would be up it was this conviction, he says, which induced me after some deliberation to throw the re- sponsibility upon Peel; and he is not only alarmed at it, but indiscreet enough to let everybody know that he is so. Surely this goes far to justify anything that Peel really said. Mr. Morley quotes, as the best judg- ment that can be passed on the affair, a letter written immediately after it by Cob- den, in which Peel is accused of hypo- critically feigning emotion, and said to have incurred ridicule as a coward. A/i / voustcUez le Soyons amis, cried some- body from the pit, when Augustus in Cinn a was recounting t he vices and crimes of the man whose hand he was 54 PEEL AND COBDEN. about to take. For the charge of simu- lating emotion Mr. Morley is of course able to cite the authority of Disraeli. Yet nobody who knows Peels history can doubt that, like other members of his fam- ily, lie had a hot temper, though it was usually under strict control. It is impos- sible to suppose that lie was actino- the part of the choleric gentleman in the tempestuous scene which occurred when Parliament was dissolved upon the rejec- tion of the Reform Bill. As little was he open to the imputation of cowardice: lie was sensitive to pain; all men of fine organization are; and there are traces in his correspondence of his having been rather nervous, or of soniebody having been nervous for him, about plots: but I believe I am right in saying that, besides his affair with OConnell, whom he des- perately strove to drag into the field, he on three other occasions displayed his anachronistic propensity to fight duels. I know that it was with the utmost diffi- culty that, by an appeal to his feeling for the queen, he was dissuaded from send- in~ a challenge to Lord George Bentinck, who had touched his honor on a point on which it was particularly sensitive, by tra- ducing the integrity of his relations with his friends. It may be surmised that his equivocal position in the society of those days as a cotton~spinner among aristo- crats, made him rather more peppery in resenting insult than lie would otherwise have been. What is certain is that, if readiness to look on the muzzle of a pis- tol is a proof of courage, Peel cannot have been a coward. All soon came right between him and Cobden. The two soldiers of the same cause, under opposite standards and in hostile unifornis, recognized each other and clasped hands. Cobden wrote Peel, whose defeat by the coalition of Wliigs and protectionists on the Coercion Bill was then impending, a confidential letter promising him hearty support, conjuring him to dissolve Parliament, and assuring him if he would of an inimense victory. He desired Peel to burn the letter. Peel kept it, and, as Mr. Morley says, a ques- tion may be raised by those who occupy themselves about minor morals. But Peel in his answer says, I need not give you the assurance that I shall regard your let- ter as a communication more purely con- fidential than if it had been written to me by sonie person united to me by the closest bonds of private friendship. That is to say, I have not burned the letter, but I will keep it a dead secret ii and in this Cobden tacitly acquiesced. Peel must have known very well that the letter would be eminently honorable to the memory of both of them, and especially to that of the writer, who thus buried in a moment all past enmities, forgot all selfish rival- ries, and threw himself into the arms of the statesman who had brought in the repeal of the Corn Law. Had Peel taken Cobdens advice and dissolved, no doubt Cobdens prediction ~vould have been fulfilled. There would have been a total rout of the protection- ists, and among others, the member for Shrewsbury would have lost his seat. But Peel could not, without a scandalous disregard of old ties, have appealed to the country against his own party. Nor could lie have vaulted at once from the leadership of the Conservatives to the leadership of the Liberals, which was what Cobden in effect proposed. It is, in short, difficult to see how he could have done anything but what he did. Those who, like the author of the Life of Lord George Bentinck, accuse him of astute- ness, and of manceuvring for the reten- tion of his place, are met by the fact that, on finding his Cabinet divided, lie re- signed, and that Lord John Russell was prevented from forming a government only by an objection among his own friends to the appointment of Palmerston as foreign minister, which no astuteness in Peel could have foreseen, much less have contrived.* It has been plausibly urged, and the writer of this paper used to think, that Peel ought to have held a meeting of his party: if lie was prevented from taking that course in any degree by want of frankness and moral courage, or even by a punctilious tenacity of his own authority as minister, to that extent he did wrong; but it ~vas certain that there would be a disagreenient at the nieeting, probable that there would be a scene of great violence. What Stanley, Disraeli, and their section wanted above all things was to produce a split; and the conse- quence would have been that the quarrel in the House would only have been made more desperate and scandalous. The result, however, was inevitable, nor was it otherwise than ~velcome to Peel, who was careworn, exhausted, ill in body, and deeply wounded by the quarrel with old friends. He fell from office, but not from * The author of the Life of Lord George lIen- tinck calls this an intrigue. Everybody was an in- triguer but he. The objector was about the most inflexibly upright and thorou~bly straightforward of public men power: he remained the leading man in England; and had not his life been acci- dentally cut short, the voice of the nation would almost certainly have recalled him to the helm. On that point the author of Latter-Day Pamphlets was quite right. Peels failure to make his party turn round with him in 1846 has been con- trasted with the success of the Tory lead- ers in 1867. But Mr. Morley aptly replies that the second was a case of political principle, while the first was a case of pocket. Besides this, in 1867 expedients were used which were quite unknown to Peel; the Tories were not so much per- suaded as decoyed: a minister put up to say that the House of Commons would never grant household suffrage, and the pitfall in which that revolutionary ineas- ure lurked was carefully covered with personal payment of rates. What is still more important, between 1846 and 1867 the party had undergone a most effective process of education. Still, there is a moral to be drawn. The one man in whom the nation trusted, and had reason to trust, was driven from power because he had carried a measure which was urgently needed to give the people bread, and which was soon to be ratified by universal approbation, even those who had most rancorously assailed its author at the time acquiescing as soon as acquiescence became necessary to them as a passport to place. The coali- tion against the Coercion Bill, by which this was brought about, consisted of three elements: Conservatives who had them- selves supported the Coercion Bill in its earlier stage; Whigs to whom coercion was familiar, and who, as soon as they had tripped up Peel, resorted to it again; and Radicals who were then, as they are now, unused to government, hardly con- scious of its necessities, unready to avow republicanism, but ready to make unlim- ited concessions to all who demanded them, and let Irish insurgents or any one who would tear to pieces the heritage of the commonwealth. The one great gainer by the transaction was a man whose mo- tives were purely personal, as he used afterwards very frankly to avow; who, on a question affecting not a mere political theory, but the subsistence of the people who were starving round him, was taking a course contrary to his often recorded convictions, and traducing with laborious virulence the character and career of a statesman whom he knew to be doing right, on whom a little time before he had been lavishing his adulation, and to whom 55 he had been a suitor for place. The pro- gressive domination of such characters is the inherent tendency of the party system. In spite of their conflicts Peel and Cobden were really united in their politi- cal lives, and it may be said that in death they were not divided. Neither of them was buried in Westminster Abbey. Peel lies among his family and neighbors, Cob- den lies in a country churchyard. A man who has ~vorked for fame will like to rest in a pantheon; a man who has worked for duty and for the approbation of the po~ver of duty will perhaps prefer to rest by the side of honest labor, and among those whom he has loved. Free trade still stands pretty much where it stood on the morrow of the rec- onciliation of Cobden ~vith Peel. Their visions Cobdens visions at least have not been fulfilled. The reason has been already given. England, while she preaches free trade, and thinks all the world demented because it will not listen to her preaching, is herself not a free- trade nation. She raises twenty millions by import duties which, though admirably well adjusted to her special circumstances, are not the less interferences with free- dom of trade. Every nation has its tariff, every nation ~vill continue to have its tariff so long as money for establishments and armaments is required: and for tariffs, as was said before, there is no absolute rule; each country must be allowed to frame its own. Cobden assumed that the world was a single community; he could not bring the human race to that far-off goal of philanthropy, though he did something to help it on its way. It seems at the present moment as if the same thing might be said with too much truth about the Irish question. It was upon a Coercion Bill that the Peel government fell, Cobden voting against the bill, though apparently more because this was the regular line of his political section than in obedience to any strong opinion.of his own. His biographers hos- tility to such measures is more decided. The Ministry, he says, resorted for the eighteenth time since the Union to the stale device of a Coercion Bill, that stereotyped avowal and always made, strange to say, without shame or contri- tion of the secular neglect and incom- petency of the English government of Ireland. Sir Robert Peel was not in- competent, nor had he neglected the Irish question; on the contrary, he had stud- ied it for thirty years with all the advan- tages which a successive tenure of the PEEL AND COBDEN. PEEL AND COBDEN~ Irish secretaryship, the home secretary- of imperial policy, it would he better at ~hip, and the premiership could afford, once to spare ourselves a tedious and hu- and with an anxiety proportioned to his miliating haggle which can end only in consciousness that, as he said, Ireland one way, for the last demand of Irish was the difficulty of his administration. demagogism must and will be the dissolu- \Ve must therefore be permitted to be- tion of the Union. Mr. Morley has per- lieve that the temporary reinforcement of haps hardly taken in the fact that among public justice in Ireland during outbreaks the Irish on both sides of the Atlantic of murderous anarchy caused by agitation political incendiarism is a trade. or distress, and when the ordinary law To talk of English government and has become evidently insufficient, though misgovernment of Ireland is misleading it may not be the highest pinnacle of in fact, though indispensable to the the- statesmanship, is not the lowest depth of ory that Ireland has no faults of her own ignorance, carelessness, or folly. That a theory not easily accepted by those force, while necessarily used to restrain who on the other side of the Atlantic disorder, is no remedy for an economical have seen the Irish Lnanimously support- malady, ~s a truth as certain and as fruit- ing slavery, and forming, under the vile ful as that the strait ~vaistcoat necessarily leaders whom they invariably choose, the used to control madness in its paroxysms regular rank and file of American corrup- is no remedy for a disease of the lungs. tion. When England ~von elective gov- Mr. Morleys own policy for Ireland is eminent for herself, that is in 1832, she tiot stated in these volumes, but we may won it for Ireland also. Ireland has a divine that he would like to govern Ire- much larger number of representatives in land through leaders of Irish opinion, the House of Commons than Scotland, So should we all if it were possible: un- and for a long time she held the balance fortunately it is even less possible now between the parties., But Mr. Morley than it was when Peels Coercion Bill was has to record Cobdens verdict on the brought in. OConnell was not strong on character and conduct of Irishmen at the side of truth or honor; nor was he Westminster. The most discouraging the offspring of a high political civiliza- thing to an English member of Parlia- tion. Cobden says of him, that though ment ~vho wishes to do well to Ireland is they were on friendly terms he never the quality of the men sent to represent shook hands with him or faced his smile it in the House of Commons; hardly a without a feeling of insecurity; and that man of business among them; and not as for trusting him on any public question three who are prepared cordially to co- where his vanity or his passions might operate together for any one common interpose, he should as soon have thought object. Would it mend matters, asks of an alliance ~vith an Ashantee chief. Cobden, if such men were sitting in Still OConnell was a real power; through Dublin instead of London? For the the priesthood, which was devoted to him, Galway contract Irish members were only he commanded all Ireland, the division too ready to co-operate; to that job for which now exists between the priest party more than one session all worthier objects and the Fenians or Nationalists not hay- were sacrificed, and for the sake of it all ing commenced in his time; if he made natural and honorable connections were terms he was able to keep them; he had disregarded. Let it be shown that in one comparatively little need of further agita- instance, during its long tenure of power, tion to sustain his popularity, nor did any the Liberal party has refused to entertain competitor threaten his demagogic throne. any reasonable proposal for the benefit of His successors are men who are at the Ireland supported by the body of Irish most leaders of a section with another members. Unless this can be done, we section against them; not one of them are entitled to say that Ireland through has or ever has had a tithe either of his the representatives of her choice has mis- ability or of his power; every one of them governed England fully as much as En- subsists solely by agitation, and can, there- gland has misgoverned Ireland, to say fore, never afford to bring it to a close; if nothing of the entirely evil and ever- he did, a more dynamitic rival would im- increasing influence of the Irish vote over mediately pluck him down. Govern- the city constituencies on this side of St. ment can only degrade itself by these Georges Channel. alliances; degradation was about the only There is a sense, indeed, in which Ire- fruit of alliance even with OConnell. In land may he said to be misgoverned by truth, if compliance with the demands of England, but in which England also mis- Irish demagogism is to be the principle governs herself. Were it not so, a power THE CHARM OF GARIBALDI. 57 which has coped with the world in arms would not be showing mistrust of itself, and almost quailing before the menaces of the Irish Land League and its American confederates. Two difficulties at this crisis are pressing on the nation. One is an economical difficulty peculiar to Ire- land, and consisting mainly in the mul- tiplication of an unprosperous peasantry on an unproductive country under the in- fluence of a Church which does not teach prudence, and in its own interest discour- ages emie, ration. The other is a political difficulty, extending to the affairs of the whole kingdom, and felt especially in mo- ments of national peril, or where, as in dealing ~vith the Irish question, forecast and a steady course of systematic and resolute action are required. It consists in the ~veakness of a supreme government vested in a body far too large for united council, and distracted in itself by faction, established and consecrated under the name of party. The inability of the House of Commons, as at present elected and organized, to govern the country, has been pressed upon the attention of the nation by these calamitous and humiliat- ing:events not less forcibly than by any- thing immediately connected with the Irish question. Even this hideous strug- gle of civilization with murderous anarchy may in the end bring more good than evil to the nation if the proper moral be drawn. GOLDWIN SMITH. From The Spectator. THE CHARM OF GARIBALDI. GARIBALDI had been dead politically for years before he left this world to find in the next, let us hope, that St. Peter did once existand the interest of his career is now mainly historical. It may be condensed into the question,Why did this man, with no claim of birth, no education, and no great power of thought, so enchant the European democracy that he was, for a quarter of a century, a per- ceptible force in Europe, that he was deeply reverenced by millions who had never seen him, and that, thouoh he had no wealth, he was the single private man in Europe, in an age when private war is extinct, at whose bidding an army would spring up from the ground? If, in i88o, he had landed in Illyria, as he half threat- ened, he would have had ten thousand followers, and have instantly, by his mere name, have attracted twenty thousand more. The explanation is said to be his career; but- not only was his best army raised before men knew that he was a great guerilla chief, but his career, though marked by one almost miraculous success, was by no means a successful one. He was beaten in Rome, beaten at Mentana, beaten, or at least utterly unsuccessful, in France. He failed entirely as legislator, his dictatorship in Naples produced no civil fruit, and we can remember no great measure in Italy in which he ever took any very prominent part. His seclusion in Caprera in fact, though voluntary, was the result of a sound instinct. That Ital- ians should love him for his action in Italy, for his defence of Rome, for his marvellous overthrow of the Bourbon dy- nasty, a feat which stands alone in his- tory, for his still more marvellous surren- der for the sake of Italy alone of the kingdom he had won, is intelligible enough; but why did other peoples love him? Patriotism does not necessarily endear the l)atriot to strangers, nor does all mankind always honor the deliverer of part of it. German love for Hofer was limited, nor did Europe worship William the Silent. It was not any thought that Garibaldi gave out. He must have had practical ability in large measure, but his memorable sayings have been fe~v, and his letters must seem, even to Southerners, mere words, while to Northerners they have in them a kind of feminine screami- ness which is to them detestable. En- glishmen who think him one of the grand- est figures in history cannot read a line of his with pleasure. Even Mazzini thought his marvellous colleague a kind of in- spired idiot, while to Englishmen, among whom perhaps he had as many believers as among Italians, he seemed like a grand child. The English were certainly not attracted by his religious creed, which was simply that priests are liars, or by his political creed, which, in spite of the high political sense he showed in Italy, was, so far as could be ascertained, too nearly summed up in the frightful motto l)ainted on the banners of the Legion with which he advanced to the assistance of the French, Patatras, Patatras, Patatras Nor do we think that his grand faculty of command, his sway over all who served immediately under his banner, quite ex- plains it. The gloomy Wallenstein had that in almost equal measure, and excited no general enthusiasm; and Mahommed, who had that even in larger measure, who was believed in by men among whom he ate and lived under circumstances of ter 58 THE CHARM OF GARIBALDI. rible hardship, was hated by all but his devotees. Cromwell, who had also this ascendancy, was unknown outside his island; and the enthusiasm for Napoleon, who also had it, was outside France and Poland limited to individuals. That Gar- ibaldi ~vas followed often by trained sol- diers belonging to various nationalities, that he ~vas never disobeyed, that it never occurred to any one ~vhom he led to think of him as less than dictator, is full evi- dence to the innate royalty in him; but it does not explain his nearly world-wide charm. And lastly, we do not see that the very usual explanation, that the democ- racy loved him because he was the sol- dier of democracy, will bear careful ex- amination. Garibaldi was scarcely a consistent democrat. He believed in republics, l)rovided the house of Savoy was not present; when it was, he ac- cepted kings. Hundreds of his own fol- lowers sighed over his royalism in Italy, and though republicans followed him to the last, it is more than probable that any other man who had done the things he did would have been written out of the lists of the faithful republicans of Eu- rope. That his feeling for the house of Savoy was most beneficial to Italy may be absolutely true certainly we shall not dispute it but it was not consistent ~vith the scheme of thought which the Conti- nent recognizes as democratic. Wherein, then, lay the charm? We think it lay in the two words unselfish- ness and heroism, which, when found together under circumstances in which both can be fully perceived, exert over the masses of mankind a sort of super- natural charm, till they are content to believe, without either s6eing or knowing. To the multitude, in all European coun- tries, Garibaldi was a figure nearly resem- bling that which Joan of Arc must have presented to the peasantry of northern France,a being so heroic as to be al- most more than mortal, incapable of fear, incapable of mistake, incapable of final defeat, yet seeking nothing, asking noth- ing, desiring nothing, utterly self-devoted to them. They knew, or believed, that Garibaldi cared only for them, and what he thought their ~vrongs; and that once in motion he would go forward steadily, moved, as Joan of Arc was moved when she obeyed her voices, by some inter- nal impulse, apart from a reasoning proc- ess, until he was victorious or slain. Charles the Sevenths courtiers might doubt the maid, or question her gifts, or attribute to her mixed motives; but no French peasant, even in his own heart, doubted her sincerity or her gift, or thought that she could betray France, or doubted that her impelling force, so far as it was not strictly supernatural, was other than self-devotion for his sake. It was so also with Garibaldi. Nobody felt dis- trust of him, or rivalry towards him, or suspicion about him. Friend or enemy, detractor or worshipper, no European doubted that Garibaldi desired the good of mankind, to the utter forgetfulness of self, and would, if once in motion, go for- ward to secure it, uninfluenced by any bribe, undeterred by any danger, unfet- tered by any fear. When he handed over southern Italy to Victor Emanuel, without conditions, there were men among his own friends who felt an electric shock of rage; but the most irritated among them never suspected that Garibaldi had been influenced by any motive, except his own idea of what was best for Italy, strength- ened, perhaps, by the inborn feeling of a Nizzard for the house of Savoy. That quality of disinterestedness excites in men reverence to all who possess it, and it has repeatedly been a main constituent in the power of statesmen,.and when seen in a great hero, a man who has done mar- vellous things in a marvellous way, who has, so to speak, walked up to the lion and rent him with his hands alone, who has personal dignity in its highest form, and a face the ablest French caricaturist could make only heroic, it develops rev- erence to passion. We will not think so ill of human nature as to think men re- gard disinterestedness as in itself so ~von- derful as to testify to something super- natural in the man who displays it; that is only a cynical view. Rather it is self- devotion which they regard as at once so marvellous and so beautiful, and the dis- interestedness as its perfect, because vis- ible and comprehensible test. They found it in its supreme degree in Garibaldi, and found it, too, in a man who was not a saint, but a born warrior, a man who de- lighted in adventure, and who, in battle, had that serenity which cannot belong even to the bravest when he commands, unless he feels that for him the guidance of battle is natural and wonted work. They worshipped it in him, and followed him with an ungrudging fidelity which the ablest statesmen have often failed to evoke, and which was not evoked by the man whose nature in many respects most closely resembled Garibaldis, the se- renely heroic Genoese who gave us a new world. Columbus had all the heroic vir GARIBALDI AND ITALY. 59 tues; but if he did not seek money, he sought power, power as of a born king. It seems a strange and even absurd thing to say, but we have never been able to resist an impression that circumstances, and, perhaps, the age, spoiled Garibaldis career. His character would have fitted him best for the part of a new religious leader. With a little more knowledge and a faith, that royal nature of his would have made of converts devotees, and he ~vould have founded a sect which might have made Italy Christian, or have changed the whole character of the peasantry of France. The feeling he excited in his followers was precisely that evoked by great religious teachers, and like that, appeared to be independent of any alter- ation from events. Mentana no more broke his influence than Ohod broke the influence of Mahommed, and he was as fully believed to be a democrat after he had crowned Victor Emanuel, as Mr. Wesley was believed to be a Churchman after he began ordaining his own preach- ers. We can imagine Garibaldi controll- ing a vast religious organization almost without orders, raying out devoted mis- sionaries to the ends of the earth, and infusing new fervor into them in strange, half-unintelligible epistles, which, after all, resemble nothing so much, in their half-poetic, half-angry screaminess, as some of Mahommeds Suras. That he would have been greater in that capacity we cannot say, perhaps it is enough to have enfranchised eleven millions. But he certainly would have been more intel- ligible to posterity, which will be sorely puzzled to account for a man apparently without a mind, in ~vhom three nations at least believed, who took a kingdom as a passenger in a railway train, and with all Italy at his feet lived an unmeditative anchoret on a little island in the Mediter- ranean. From The Economist. GARIBALDI AND ITALY. ALL Liberal Europe laments the death of General Garibaldi; but it may be questioned whether many Englishmen, even while honoring his memory, pre- cisely understand the character of the service which he rendered to Italy and the world. He twice prevented Italy from being divided into two halves. It may be taken as certain that in i86o neither Vic- tor Emanuel nor Count Cavour contem plated the immediate annexation of the kingdom of the two Sicilies. They thought the Piedmontese had annexed more terri- tory than they could manage; they dreaded the action of the Neapolitans in a united Parliament; and they feared that if Na- ples were attacked, either Austria or France might strike a serious blow in defence of the menaced State. It was resolved, therefore, to ~vait. The govern- ment of Turin offered Francis the Sec- ond peace, with an understanding that peace should last his lifetime, if only he would adhere in general policy to north- ern Italy, and the revolutionary party were informed that the time ~vas not pro- pitious. The sincerity of this attitude has been doubted, but there seems no reason to disbelieve that it was honest, and that the rulers of north Italy really contemplated an arrangement under which south Italy would have become a base for both Austrian and French intrigues against them. Francis the Second could not have maintained himself without ex- ternal help, whlle he could have given to any great power he favored the dominion of the Mediterranean. His policy, there- fore would have been to become the hum- ble friend either of the Hapsburgs or the Bonapartes; and as he would have been aided by the pope, the whole force of north Italy would have been exhausted in the effort to prevent attack from the south. The fleet must have been greatly increased, the army must have been kept on a permanent war footing, and Italy must have been crushed with taxation, without gaining a real place among the powers of Europe. it was under these circumstances that General Garibaldi, aware of his own hold over the population, and of the utter rot- tenness of the Neapolitan kingdom, re- solved to strike a great blow. He is said to have been Cavours agent, and no doubt he had Cavours permission to un- dertake an enterprise in which success might be valuable while failure could com- promise no one, but the audacity of the ~conception was his own. With one thou- sand men, collected from all the nations of the world, he landed at Marsala, in Sicily, defeated the royal troops, and crossing back into Naples, attacked the monarchy in its capital. The enterprise was almost a mad one, for King Francis, besides the royal army, had eight thou- sand good Swiss, who could, and would, have destroyed Garibaldis little force. The general, however, had understood his enemies exactly. Though he did not re 6o GARIBALDI AND ITALY. Ceive either then or ever much active aid from the Neapolitans, they were favor- able to his cause; the kings forces were honeycombed with treachery, and on his advance all active opposition faded away. The Swiss received no orders, owing probably to some intimation from Cavour that he would endure no intervention of foreigners; the Neapolitan soldiers did not act; the court fled to Gaeta; and within three weeks Garibaldi was dicta- tor of Naples, and the unity of Italy, of which even Cavour despaired for the mo- ment, had become possible. A situation of permanent danger had been prevented by an act of supreme audacity, such as only a man confident alike in his cause and in his skill would have ventured to attempt. With the conquest of Naples, however, the danger was not over. So absolute was Garibaldi, so entirely were the people devoted to him, that it was open to him to declare Naples a republic, and to re- sist its amalgamation with north Italy. The Neapolitans, who had much local feeling remaining, would have supported him, the inhabitants of the provinces re- cently annexed to Piedmont would have marched on him with reluctance, and it is very doubtful whether if Victor Emanuel had employed force either Austria or France would not have interposed a veto. At all events, terms might have been made, and the republican fanatics round Garibaldi implored him to make the at- tempt. Garibaldi himself must have hes- itated. Though without ambition himself, he enjoyed the exercise of power, he was devoted to folly to his friends, and he had issued some important decrees, notably one about the land tenure, which it was certain that the northern Italian govern- ment, with its traditional regard for prop- erty, would not support. There was for some weeks every danger that the risks attendant on two governments in the peninsula would continue, and would be greatly exasperated as regarded domestic affairs, though not perhaps as regarded foreign influence, by the fact that one of them was republican. The Liberal party in north Italy, though willing to accept the house of Savoy, was not devoted to any dynasty, was deeply infected with republican leaven, and was disposed to believe that a policy of modified feder- alism, afterwards called the reo-ional policy, would be more in accordance with the genius of Italy than an adminis- trative unity. The self-denial of Gari- baldi, however, ended the complication. He unreservedly surrendered his con- quest to the king, and from that moment, though the Italians still had to wait for Rome, Italy was made. The advantage to Italy of this surrender was enormous. Not only was the chance of civil war averted, but her supply of men for the army was quite doubled, while her control of a population of twenty-eight millions enabled her to deal with rival nations as a first-class power, the defeat of ~vhich would involve a grand disturbance throu~hout the Mediterranean. The taxation of Italy, no doubt, was not lightened, ~vhile, owing to the low state of civilization in Naples, her civil difficulties were greatly in- creased; but then the object for which the taxes were borne and the civil diffi- culties encountered was, in the imagina- tion of the people, adequate. They were to live in Europe as Italians, and not as north Italians, as without either Rome or Naples they ~vould quite accurately have been described. An adequate object is often worth more to mankind than ade- quate means, and the Italians, with a historic country to defend, have built up a strong army, have borne exceedingly high taxation, and have collected a fleet sufficient to make them a serious power within the Mediterranean. Whether the power will be wisely exer- cised is as yet undetermined. Italy has even now scarcely gained full indepen- dence in foreign policy, and in her search for a firm alliance has tended to become a more or less highly considered depen- dant of Austro-German diplomacy. The effect of this has been that she has em- barrassed France without securing much good either for herself or for the world. She was nearly powerless during the Berlin negotiations, she did not help Europe in the debate with Turkey about the cessions to Greece, and she rather provoked than resisted the imprudent French aggression upon Tunis, which must for years to come directly decrease French strength, and by embroiling her with the sultan must limit her efficacy in the settlement of the Eastern question. In Egypt, too, she has been a marplot rather than a pacificator, and has fomented trouble out of jealousy of the ascendancy of Great Britain and France. It is quite possible, however, that this attitude is temporary. Nations are guided in the long run by their interests, and the per- manent interests of Italy must lead her in the end either to a close alliance with Austria, which would help to protect that power against both Germany and Russia, ETON. 6 and greatly facIlitate the inevitable liqui- dation of Turkey in Europe, or to an alliance with the western po~vers of the Mediterranean France and Spain. With anything approaching to a cordial understanding between Italy, Spain, and France, the fate of the immense region on the southern side of the Mediterranean would be very speedily settled, and that in a way which would render either re- sistance or insurrection nearly impossible. This would be a gain to civilization, even if Africa, with its huge extent and great population, were not to be entered from the north far more easily than from the south, or from the valley of the Nile. If the southern shore of the Mediter- ranean, with its vast capabilities, is ever thoroughly made useful to Europe, the success of the effort will be due in great measure to the conquest of Naples for Italy by the audacity and insight of the hero who has this week passed away with a final and rather foolish defiance to ihe Roman Catholic Church. North Italy might have been a quiet, though over- burdened, State without Garibaldi; but the Italy we know could not have been made. From The Saturday Review. ETON. MR. MATTHEW ARNOLD has, in the ATinetee;z//i Cen/ury, given a picture of a simple and manly nature which had been formed at Eton, and was so fresh from Eton that, when disease in the Cape cam- paign ended a happy and promising life, the young officer had scarcely ceased to be a schoolboy. . . - Eton is a school of character as well as a school of learning. The world would, perhaps, be inclined to say that it was more conspicuous as a school of character than of learning. But to say this is to be somewhat unjust to Eton. There must be in the nature of things many Eton boys who do not learn much at Eton. But the mass of Eton boys learn as much of what English public schools are supposed to teach as the mass of boys at any other school. In a very large number of boys there will be many who do hot work and a few who do, and the few who work at Eton are taught to work in a very neat and brilliant manner. Year after year and generation after gen- eration Eton turns out a little band of sound and finished scholars. No school, again, has been more successful than Eton perhaps no school has been so successful as Eton in giving an open- ing to those boys who wish for work out of the ordinary classical path. The mod- ern side, as it is generally called, is at Eton peculiarly successful. Incredible as it may seem, French and German are really taught at Eton; and there is fos- tered in the school a literary taste which has dwelt there, with fluctuations cer- tainly, but with nothing like a visible eclipse, for the better part of a century. But it is no doubt as a school of charac- ter, a school of manners in the larger sense of the term, that it is best known to itself and to the world that hears of it. It is as a specimen of the character formed or finished at Eton that Mr. Matthew Ar- nold dwells on the life of the lad who forms the subject of his notice and hi~ comments. So skilful an artist is sure to handle every theme so as to mitigate to the utmost everything that could awaken the repugnance of his readers; but few readers can avoid a passing pang at find- ing the sacred veil of secrecy torn away from the artless communications of a lad to his mother. It is perhaps better for the ~vorld that the precincts of sorrowing homes should remain inviolate and that the best of Eton boys should not be put into a lay tract. But Mr. Arnold is quite justified in assuming that every reader must feel much admiration, and somethino- of love, for this noble-minded, natural, and right-thinking boy. What, perhaps, adds to the interest of his short history is that he was not in any way very remarkable beyond other Eton boys. He was merely a handsome blossom of the standard Eton rose. It may even be said that he was very like all the good undistinguished boys who are produced at all public schools. But those who know public schools, and are interested in them, have long recognized that each public school offers a type of its own. Amid general resemblances there are slight differences, and the Eton boy is not so absolutely like the whole flock of public schoolboys that a shepherd of very moderate cunning can- not recognize him among them. The distinguishing marks of a typical Eton boy are happiness and naturalness. The boy has expanded in the sunshine of an easy, delightful life, and a thousand influ- ences have conspired to teach him the last great secret of art in manners as in everything else, which is to have no art at all. Mr. Arnolds comments are of the pe- culiar kind with which he has so repeat~ 62 BARON FISCO AT HOME. edly charmed, puzzled, or enlightened his readers. As in the pictures of a cele- brated painter there is al~vays sure to be somewhere a white horse ~vith a man on it in a red coat, so in Mr. Arnolds dis- quisition there is sure to be somewhere the familiar group of Barbarians, Philis- tines, and Puritans. The excellences of his young Eton hero are to him the ex- cellences partly of a Barbarian and partly of a Puritan. These excellences belong to types that he has long settled must soon fade away, and he is oppressed by the sad thought that this beautiful Eton flow-er is the flower of a tree to the root of which the axe has been laid. That everything earthly will certainly change, and, in a sense, perish, may be accepted as one of those general truths which no one denies and fe~v remember. But there is perhaps more continuity in history than accords altogether with Mr. Arnolds theories. This late flo~ver of the tree of Eton seems to be very like other flowers that bloomed centuries ago, and have continued to bloom in every century since. The characters in Shakespeares English historical plays are in substance uncom- monly like Eton boys. There is no ap- parent reason ~vhy a hundred years hence the Eton boy of that day may not think himself the true successor of the Eton boy of this day. Public schools, no doubt, help to form the national charac- ter, but the national character also forms public schools. It is difficult to see why there should be any break in this process of action and reaction. Far from being a decaying type, the Eton type seems to have that vitality which is shown by its being a permeating influence. Public schools are now very numerous; some have been invented, some have been re- stored to eminence; but all are getting more and more to exhibit, with character- istic differences, a ~,eneral type, which is more or less the Eton type. Enbland is being every day transformed, but it is being transformed by causes which op- erate as much from above as from below. If in England there are to be noticed a gro~ving desire for political equality and a growing desire for an equality in the means of enjoyment, these democratic passions are in daily life largely tempered and softened by the increasing desire to approach to that type of character in the young, and therefore sooner or later in the old, which has bloomed, and blooms now, and will bloom again and again in the average honorable, kindly-natured Eton boy. From Blackwooda Magazine. BARON FISCO AT HOME. HA, my old friend! so, youve come back again! Sit down, sit down ! tis years since we have met. I-low goes the world with you? You shake your head Not well? Indeed! Im sorry. So your plan Did not succeed. You see twas as I feared. You would not heed me, thought my counsel bad; Would go your own way; had your notions high Of honesty and honor, and all that, Straightforwardness, uprightness, these at last Would, must succeed; what think you of it now? Was it not as I told you? Honesty Is simply the worst policy on earth As for the other world, the future world, If any such there be, it may be best; But for this world, made as it is, tis worst A mean low proverb, and whats more, a lie. Virtues its own reward, exactly so Its own reward, whatever that may be, But not the worlds success. No, no, my friend l You look surprised to find me titled, rich, Housed in a palace, playing the great man It must be laughable to you who know How we began in life. So let us laugh Laugh inextinguishable laughter, just As the old augurs did upon the sly When no one saw them. Faith, this serious load Of dignity is sometimes hard to bear! And pleasant tis to meet a friend with whom One may throw off ones livery of l)retence, Relax, laugh, lie no more, be natural. So now, a truce to lying and pretence, I do so suffocate beneath my mask, I am so sick of my falsetto voice, Almost Id like to cry out to the world I am a scoundrel, though a prosperous one Only it would not do; and then so long To Christian jargon I have schooled my tongue And virtuous slang, that it comes hard at last Even to myself to own the very ifuth, And wholly cease to be a hypocrite Nay, sometimes I impose upon myself, And almost think I am what I pretend. You bring the old times back, how vividly! We started from the self-same path in life, You one way, I the other. Both of us When we were young and poor, ay, very poor, Hawked through the streets our little stock of wares Spread on a tray, and swinging from our necks, Pens, pencils, trinkets, brooches, all mere sham; Mine were, at least, what yours were, you know best; And so, mere boys, we bore along the streets BARON FISCO AT HOME. 63 Our tawdry store, and cried: Wholl buy? XVholl buy? Well, passers bought of me more than of you Simply because I lied with glib, false tongue, Vaunted my goods as real, in a word, Cheated; of course I cheated, if I could. Whats any trade but cheating? All the world Strove to cheat me, and I strove to cheat them. And thus at first we earned enough to live . Badly, of course, but still we lived and saved; Went to bed hungry many a night to dream Of coming fortune, that was slow to come. So daily turning over our small gains, We by degrees laid by a pretty sum, Paltry enough indeed, but still enough At least to start upon to place our feet Upon the ladders lowest rung of trade; And then we parted, what long years ago! I-low many is it? Forty at the least. And now we meet again. Ah well, my friend! You have not prospered; you are poor, I see, Still poor hungry perhaps. Stop! let me ring, A glass of good old wine will do you good. Wine? You shall breakfast with me we will talk Over old times. Perhaps tis not too late Even now to put you on the prosperous road. Well see well see! John, set the table here Set it for two my friend will lunch with me; And bring two bottles of that old red seal Out of the right bin, A i upper shelf. And your champagne? You like it sweet or dry? Dry? I agree with you. The best dry, John You know my brand; and quick too, dont delay. Ab, you are looking at my pictures! Well, What say you of them? Thats Meissonier A drinking-bout. Fine, I am told I know It stood me in a hundred thousand francs, And cheap at that. Theres a Fortuny there. Bright, isnt it? And that? Oh, thats a nymph! Byfaith, Ive quite forgot who painted it! Nude yes, I think so very nude, but then Thats all the vogue now. Living, is it not? Live, palpitating flesh ! To balance it Theres a Madonna pale and pure enough, Painted by whats his name? Enough of these Youll come and look at them another time. Now for our breakfast, lunch, or what you will. You need not wait, John! Come, sit down, my friend! Well, yes! I have succeeded as you say; You find me richay, and I mean to be Much richer. Tis the first step costs. To gain The first ten thousand costs pains, toil, care, skill, Great self-denial; after that it grows Easier and easier, and at last your pile Breeds almost of itself left quite alone. But then I never let it quite alone. How did I make the first ten thousand? Well, Simply by following out my principles Not yours. Oh no! Your principles were fine, High, noble, anything you will, but then Purely unpractical. I took the world Just as I found it; strove not to amend Its many faults, but profit by them all, Made large professions, crouched and crept and crawled, Put in my pocket all my pride, picked up Out of the dirtiest gutter, so to speak, The dirtiest penny, not too proud for that, Bore all reviling patiently, bent low To kiss the hand that struck me; what I felt Within me I concealed, never gave voice To bitterness in empty words. Ah no! Not such a fool; bided my time talked soft Was simply sad to be misunderstood Meant to do right but was deceived by knaves Who took advantage of my ignorance. Ah me! ah me! ah, what a wicked world! And then your splendid counters, too, I used, Had always in my mouth those sounding words, Truth, honor, justice, duty, honesty. Reproved false dealing, speaking; went to church, Prayed loudly, openly declared myself A miserable sinner; dropped my mite Into the poor-box in the face of all; Let all my good deeds shine out before men, And wore a face of pure simplicity. A cloak, you say! Well, yes! I wore a cloak. One must not go quite naked in this world. We must use phrases only they are fools Who think them more than phrases. Every. where Men use them in the pulpit, in the mart. But who does more than use them as a cloak, If there be any such, they are rank fools. Dishonest ~vas I? Fie! Beyond the verge Of lawand that, as I suppose, is ri~ht I never put my foot, or not both feet; One foot within the law I always kept. Of course I used the law, and studied it, Availed myselt of all its shifts and turns, And in its limits planted, flung my nets Beyond, to haul my hooked fish safely in. With even little means one may do much Through knowledge of the law and pains and skill. My little businQss at the first I did, Only from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth, Never with writings, contracts, signatures That is on my part, never put my name To obligations. Promises in words, Of course, I gave; but promises are air One may forget, deny, misapprehend. Shaved notes? Of course. Lent money? Yes, of course. Upon usurious interest? Stop, my friend! 64 BARON FISCO AT HOME. What is usurious interest? If I own A little sum, and some poor man has need Of just that sum, I should of course be glad To give it him, not lend it; but indeed I am too poor, have other duties too, I dare not run even temporary risk. But for your note, say, for a hundred francs, You must at once have money. Ah, good sir, I have but fifty; and your simple note, What is it worth? Out of pure friendliness I offer this; but pray dont take me up This is a friends act, who can call it wrong? There have been times, I will confess to you, That I have sheered too closely to the law, And made mistakes but they were mere mis- takes. I once forgot some money that was placed For my safe keeping in my hands, forgot Most absolutely and, in fact, forgot To make a memorandum. Being thus, I naturally used it for my own. But somehow it was proved that I was wrong, And I repaid itcertainlyat once, When it was proved; but the censorious world Would not admit this was a mere mistake. Ah me! what evil minds and thoughts there are! There have been several mistakes like this; But who among us does not make mistakes? There were some notes that once passed through my hands With altered numbers, in one case, indeed, With awkward signatures, mere careless- ness. I should have been more careful, I admit, And even now I scarce forgive myself. Well, this is all, I think: you see, my friend, How I have prospered. Spite of my mistakes I have niy palace here, who used to climb To the fifth story of my garret mean; I have rich meats and wines (this wine, I think, You will acknowledge good), French cook, and all That luxury asks, who once was well content With my stale crust, and once a week, at most, A scrap of meat, not always sure of that. Around my neck I carried once my tray, And now my brougham and horses carry me Nor finer horses ~vill you see in town. My playhouse was the street once, now I own My opera-box, and sitting there at night I take some pride that I am gazed at there And pointed out as one to be observed, The Baron Fisco that is he. Ah, well! Little we thought, we two poor ragged boys, Of anything like this; but now I am Wealthy, respected, and ennobled too, Have been a deputy, and should be still But for an unexplained mistake, that now Is scarce worth mentioning since it is past. To me obsequious many a hat is raised Despite it all; and on my breast I wear Stars, crosses, ribbons, when I go to court, And smiling, I shake hands with some like you Having such principles as yours, I mean Upon whose breast I see no simplest cross To hide the well.worn coat with its white seams. It pays, you see it pays, say what we will. Success, my friend, covers all kinds of sins. Never be found out, thats my rule of life. Truth, honor, honesty, are excellent To talk abotit, but as strict rules of life Are, let us say, most serious obstacles. Youve found them such, I thinkso have not I. Little by little small things grow to great. One must be patient never force ones card, But wait the time to play. Riches are power, And having won them, if we bide our time, We can buy anything we will. All things Are purchasable if we only knew Just how and when to buy them. That needs skill. Honors and titles? Ab, well well a loan Is sometimes needed, privately, you know, For persons high in power and influence; And then, of course, one lends it as a friend, With no advantage asked or dreamed. Ah no! Glad of the honor to be borrowed from, Only too proud to be of the least use, Even as a carpet to be trod upon, Such generosity brings its reward. And then, again, with riches at command, Things take a different aspect, better name. What looks like swindling with a petty sum, Is on a grand and speculative scale Honest enough, so it be large enough. The difference twixt a million and a franc, Makes such a difference in so many ways. Come, fill your glass againwe are old friends; You see I nought conceal, speak openly. We began life together. I am rich, You poor. You see my principles were best. If you object to the word principles, Ill say my practices. Well not discuss The wordthats nothing. Now I say to you, Join me, Im getting old and tired too; Be my first clerk, first confidential man Ill pay you well; and having gone thus far, Made enough money, if indeed one has Ever enough, quite, I can now afford To let you have your way, since I can trust Your honesty, and that, I must confess, Is of all things the rarest on the earth. I have been seeking for an honest man, God knows how long! I find him here at last. You smile as if to say, So at the last, Even honesty succeeds. Well, yes, sometimes. Not of itself, though, save by happy chance, When it can lend itself to abler hands. We all like honesty in those we use That is, as far as what concerns ourselves. W. W. STORY.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No, 1986. July 15, 1882. From Be~inning, Volume XXXIX. 4 Vol. CLIV. CONTENTS THE LIGHTS OF MAGA, . THE LADIES LINDORES Part V., Mx SPIDER ROBIN. By Mrs. Parr, author of Adam and Eve. Part XL. A FRENCH ASSIZE, AN ATTEMPT TO REACH MERY; OR, SIX WEEKS IN SERRUKHS Temple Bar, ORIENTAL PATRIOTISM POETRY AND PESSIMISM A TRANSLATION FROM HEINE, Two PORTRAITS, DAYBREAK IN PARIS, Blackwoods Magazine, Blackwoods Magazine, Gentlemans Magazine, Temple Bar, Cornhill Magazine, Spectator, Spectator, Academy, P0 H T R Y. 66 A TRANSLATION FROM HEINE, 66 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO, BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. ~?or EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free ofztostcege. Remiftances 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 so the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of Tuu LIVING AGE, x8 cents. I. II. II. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. 67 . 86 99 104 108 117 . 123 . 125 127 127 66 TWO PORTRAITS, ETC. TWO PORTRAITS. I BAR the door on friends to-night, And sit me here alone, apart, By mine own hearth-fire, red and warm, While round the house an angry storm Blows, wild with wind and rain; I sit me down alone to fight A silent battle with my heart, While yet the strife is not in vain. Two pictures in my hand I take, It is with these I have to do; The face of one is passing fair, The other sweet beyond compare, And both have tender eyes; One pair as placid as a lake That mirrors heavens own tender blne, And one as dark as midnight skies. I turn me first unto the face That holds my manhood in its thrall; The reddest rose cannot eclipse The perfect crimson of those lips, That seem with smiles to stir; The soft black tresses interlace Upon her forehead white, and all That lovely is unites in her. My soul goes down before that smile, Before the magic of those eyes; Hot pulses set my cheeks aflame If but a stranger speak her name; The clasping of her hand The hand I held in mine erewhile Hath power to bid emotions rise That put me past mine own command. Yet looking on that face to-night, By this red hearth-fire here apart, My soul becomes a prey to doubt, My natures l)etter part speaks out With solemn warning voice. Yield not thyself to false delight, That rose hath thorns to wound thine heart, Pass on, and make a nobler choice. The red lips wear a mocking smile, Alas! I fear me, holy prayer Hath never passec~ those portals through, Since pleasure dried the childish dew They wore in far-off years; The melting eyes with lure and wile Peep out from clusters of her hair, But never soften into tears. The hand that lightly holds the rose With such a free imperious grace, Hath it been ever raised to lift The poor from out the mire, to gift The wretched with relief? Alas! I know, and she too knows, She is not worthy of my race, And yet I love her to my grief. She is not meet to stand beside My mother, in mine ancient home, She is not pure enough to rear An heir unto my fathers heir, And yet my weak heart clings About her, rocked on passions tide, Like some lost boat on oceans foam, Far out of sight of better things. I turn me to the other face My mothers framed in silver hair; Oh, lady! tender, brave, and true, With smiling in those eyes of blue, Upon whose life benign Fell never shadow of disgrace, I may have given thee cause for care, But not for shame, dear mother mine! No, not for shame, not yet, not yet; Oh, mother! in the bygone years, When by thy side my book I spelt, When at thy knee I trusting knelt, And spake the holy name; I might be doomed to bring regret, To strike the bitter fount of tears, I was not meant to bring thee shame. Nay! let me rather to the grave Go childless, when my day is done, And let the home of my old race Become a strangers dwelling-place, Before I weakly share The life my noble mother gave, With one unworthy of her son, Though beautiful beyond compare. I am but bound as Samson was, With seven green withes of passions growth, The secret of my strength I kept, Though myDelilah prayed and wept, And I can break apart Her bonds, like swaths of summer grass; And be she tender, be she wroth, Take from her hold my captive heart. Two pictures lie within my gaze, I turn me from the fairer face, The choice is made, my mother dear, Thou hast no shame from me to fear, I break the charmers spell; I turn my feet from dangerous ways, From luring eyes, from fatal grace, And bid false love a long farewell! All the Year Round. DAYBREAK IN PARIS. THE rosy gleam of newly-kindled day Just tips yon gilded dome, and Paris wakes Before the lingering stars depart, or breaks The full-orbed morning, debonair and gay: The country wains, with loads of fragrant hay, Creep slowly in, and Norman Surefoot makes His bell-clad head-gear jingle, as he takes A. sly bite, half in earnest, half in play. Thus, while late sleepers dream, the busy toil To feed the idle, and the blue-smocked clown Is happier far than they who glove their hands. His sweet-breathed hay to him is better spoil Than ill-got gold, his team worth all the town, And his fair France the bravest of all lands. Temple Bar. RoSsLYN. THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. 67 From Blackwoods Magazine. THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. I THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. i. Wilson Lockhart Hogg. IT is now sixty-five years since the birth of Maga, and it occurs to us that there might be interest in a series of arti- cles on the writers ~vhose reputations are associated with her fortunes. If the magazine owe them all, they owed much to the magazine, for it gave them the freest scope for the exercise of po~vers which were stimulated in a brilliant and genial fellowship. It has always been the boast of the conductors of Maga, that their contributors have formed a literary family working in pleasant harmony with their chief as with each other, and culti- ~ating social as well as literary relations. So it has come about that we have cher- ished the-old traditions, paying affection- ate reverence to the memories of the men who set their successors a bright exam- ple. It may be that in undertaking this series of sketches we shall not unreason- ably be suspected of partiality. And pre- possessions at least, are so natural, that we do not care to disavow them. But the more we have learned to love and honor, in a long and intimate acq~aint- ance, the less temptation shall we feel to be uncandid. The first writers in the magazine had no doubt their faults, liter- ary and otherwise, as none knew better than themselves; nor shall we treat them so disrespectfully as to try to gloss these over. For we know that they can afford to be shown as they were; nor will they lose anything by frank and honest criti- cism. If not, we cannot help it. We propose to group, with such method as the circumstance will permit, the lights that have shed their lustre on our pages. But while reviewino them chiefly in their relations to the magazine, it would be impossible to do justice to the versatility of their gifts, without glancing, in our notices, at their general Writings. We have no idea of making our sketches biographical; yet occasionally biographi. cal facts must be essential to their illus- tration. We shall make incidental allu sions to habits and tastes, in attempting to give life and color to our impressions; and we may add that, in the private cor- respondence in our possession, we have access to exceptional sources of infor- mation. The heroes of the Noctes were the fathers of the magazine. Young fathers they were, with the exuberant spirits of youth as well as its strength and fresh- ness, when the vigorous offspring of their brains sprang suddenly into existence. But it was more than two years after the appearance of the first number that Wil- sons lively imagination originated the fa- mous individuality of Christopher North; that grave, potent, and omniscient senior, affecting to prop his infirmities on the formidable crutch, and swathing his mus- cular limbs in the bandages of the gou ty valetudinarian. The first glimpse we have of Christopher, by the way, is in one of those fictitious advertisements of mythical works, which used to figure on the outer sheet of the periodical. There was an announcement of the forthcoming Autobiography of Christopher North, Esq., Editor of Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine, in 3 vols. 8vo, with numerous engravings of men and things. After glancing at the autobiographers manifold experiences, beginning with dramatic ad- ventures in Paris during the French Rev- olution, and embracing extensive travels in Europe, the advertisement goes on to observe, that the age at which he has arrived is such as to convince him of the folly of either hoping or fearing much for himself. It is pointed out by Mr. Shel- ton Mackenzie, the acute editor of the American edition of the Noctes Ambro- sian~e, that Christopher, according to a subsequent assertion of his, had been born in 1751, which would make him sev- enty-one at the commencement of the Noctes, and eighty-four at their con- clusion. That assumption of advanced age and a ripe maturity of judgment was quite in harmony with the spirit of mys- tification with which the magazine was conceived and conducted. Its character- istics were the force, the fire, and the freshness of youth; its faults were those of irrepressible and impulsive genius. 68 THE LIGHTS OF MAGA, Lockhart, who was Christophers most indefatigable and efficient coadjutor, states its case and makes its apology in that singularly clever production of his, Pe- ters Letters to his Kinsfolk. After setting forth the reasons which had en- couraged Mr. Blackwood and his literary allies to launch their new venture rea- sons which were mainly based on their antacionism to the politics and principles of criticism of the Edinburgit Review, he goes on : But the persons who are supposed to have taken the lead in directing the new forces, wanted many of those qualities which were most necessary to insure success to their en- deavors; and they possessed others, which, thou,,h in themselves admirably qualified for enabling them to conduct their projects suc- cessfully, tended, in the manner in which they made use of them, to throw many unnecessary obstacles in their way. In short, they were very young, or very inexperienced men, who, although passionately fond of literature, and even well skilled in many of its finest branch- es, were by no means accurately acquainted with the structure and practice of literature, as it exists at this day in Britain. They saw well enough in what respects the literature of the day had been allowed to fall into a condi- tion unworthy of the old spirit of English lit- erature, but they do not seem to have seen with equal perspicacity in how many points the literary practice of our time has been im- proved, beyond that of the ages preceding. With their minds full of love and veneration for the great serious authors of all nations and ages, and especially so for all the master spir- its of their own time, they appear to have entertained, also, a most singular warmth of sympathy for all the extravagances, caprices, and madnesses of frolic humor, that were ever in any age embodied in the vehicle of fine language, or made use of as the instruments of powerful intellect. . . . They admired rath- er too indiscriminately, and whatever they ad- mired they never thought it could be improper or unsafe for them to imitate. They ap- proached the lists of literary warfare with the spirit at bottom of true knights; but they had come from the woods and the cloisters, and not from the cities and haunts of active men, and they had armed themselves, in addition to their weapons of the right temper, with many other weapons of offence which, although sanctioned in former times by the practice of the heroes in whose repositories they had found them rusting, had now become utterly exploded, and were regarded, and justly re- garded, as entirely unjustifiable and disgrace- ful by all who surveyed, with modern eyes, the arena of their modern exertions. That last metaphor seems to us exceed- ingly happy. The young knights, or rather knight-errants, charged with their visors down, and as their range of vision was necessarily circumscribed, they ran their tilts blindly and recklessly. Their blood grew heated, moreover, in the ex- citement and joy of the mIMe, and they struck out more wildly as the struggle grew more hot. Strokes were dealt here and there, which were speedily regretted and repented. But those sins, which one of the culprits has so candidly confessed, are the most certain proofs of their po~v- ers. The magazine, in spite of them, made itself a position from the first, and steadily advanced in infitience and author- ity; the fact being, that it was carried through by its originality and brilliancy. The editor was a shrewd man of the world, and an excellent judge of literature, who soon succeeded in getting his wild team in hand; while young contributors, with a wide range of reading and a variety of rather unusual accomplishments, began quickly to tone down and ripen in experi- ence. We may measure the advance by estimating the distance between Chris- topher in the Tent, which came out in 1819, and those remarkable Noctes, the first of which appeared only three years later. The consecutive sets of pa- pers are conceived in similar style; and in the former, of course, were the germs of the Noctes. Yet what a difference between the two in thought and tone, in learning and in delicate intellectual fancy! Under canvas with Christopher in Braemar, the boisterous and farcical predominate; there is plenty of fun and frolic in pages enlivened with songs and snatches of poetry, that are sometimes sweet and often witty. But the party seem to think they must become bores, if they break away from their horseplay: any serious talk is introduced almost apologetically, and indeed it strikes us as strangely incongruous; the literary criti- cisms, even on eminent contemporaries, too frequently degenerate into rough per- sonalities, as Christopher himself has to own very often; and should a disputant threaten to become tedious or discursive, he is summarily cut short with a challenge to drink. XVhile, as for the Noctes Ambrosian~, after Wilson had almost monopolized the authorship, they are what we shall attempt to show at the con- clusion of our article. It was a fortunate chance for them- selves, for Maga, and, we may add, for periodical literature, which brought Wil- son and John Gibson Lockhart into inti- niate relations with each other, and with Mr. Blackwood. It gave them precisely the field they needed for the exercise and development of their remarkable powers; while the strong good sense and sound literary judgment of the firm-willed and self-reliant publisher, after sundry sharp lessons in the shape of law proceedings, which lie had the wisdom to lay to heart, served to repress the indiscretions of his less responsible young allies. Wilson and Lockhart ~ar nobile fratrurn seem to have been born to shine in con- junction. With many brilliant qualities in common, each could often supply what the other wanted. They were nearly of an age, and had very similar tastes. The start in life of both had been what the world, especially in those days, would have pronounced a failure. Being young Scotchmen of brilliant parts, overflowing with intellectual ambition and energy, both were originally intended for the bar. They might have fairly hoped, after due probation amon~ the idlers in the Outer House, to gain the favors of the solicitors and the ears of the Fifteen; to be ad- vanced to snug slieri~ships by their party, and to rest, in the fulness of time, from more active labors on the serene dignity of the bench. There seemed no reason why either should not have figured more conspicuously in the high political office of lord advocate, and made his mark in association with Cabinets in the adminis- tration of Scottish affairs. Either, as the event subsequently showed, could have thrown himself heart and soul into poli- tics: there could be no question as to their capacity for mastering legal princi 69 pIes or drawing pleadings; and Wilson, as shrewd a judge of character as Lock- hart, might, like Lockhart, have become a cosniopolitan man of the world. But their tastes or intellectual defects shaped theniselves differently; and we at least can only rejoice at what has been unmixed am to the world of letters. Wilson, with all his marvellous activity, had neither liking nor patience for legal drudgery; while Lockhart found from the first that lie could hardly hope to succeed as a speaker. Even had success in the pro- fession of the law been of vital conse- quence to Wilsoji, his fervid poetical teiiiperament and brilliant imaginative faculties might nevertheless have broken away from the control of his calmer rea- son. As it happened, lie found himself absolutely his own master, and free to follow his predestined bent. He had in- herited a handsome fortune, and was rela- tively a rich man. Had he ever weighed the future deliberately which we doubt lie might have looked forward with confidence to triumphs in the courts. He had not only the tongue of a fluent speaker, as he showed in his declamation at the Burns Festival and elsewhere; but those rarer and more commanding gifts of persuasion, with which he might have rivalled the forensic oratory of a Clerk, a Cranstoun, or a Jeffrey. But he was a strange mixture of activity and indolence. Insensibly abandoning himself to his in- clinations, he glided into the vocation that gradually engrossed him; and from trifling with the pen, like so many of the briefless, became a literary man by pro- fession, and the chief pillar of Maga. Lockhart was differently situated. He has been described, and very recently, by eminent literary authorities, who should have been better informed, as a man of the people;~ and it has been even said that lie was indebted to the assistance of friends for his education at the university. No assertions could be more unfounded or ridiculous. Assuredly there is nothing opprobrious in being a man of the people ~vho has made himself. But Lockhart, as it happened, although the son of a min- ister and born in a manse, was a cadet of one of the most ancient families in the THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. 70 THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. south of Scotlandof a family whose the foundations. Time after time he martial exploits are historical. His fa- failed in his attempts at m~iking anything ther, who had taken Presbyterian orders, like a reasonably effective speech. like not a few Scottish gentlemen of the The duller victims of his wit had their time, was possessed of a comfortable in- revenge when the lively young master of dependence of his own, and had, more- satire and caricature, rising to some for- over, married a co-heiress. Assuredly mal motion, stammered and hesitated; the wealthy clergyman had no need to and possibly grave dignitaries on the send round the hat that his son might bench, who knew that they had been ridi- be helped to Oxford; and the story car- culed by his pencil, chuckled inwardly ries absurdity on the face of it. But over his discomfiture. Lockhart, who naturally John Gibson Lockhart, as a was as proud as he was nervously self. younger son, had merely such a modest conscious, had too oood cause for discour- competence as might serve to start him agement to care to persevere. But while in life. His literary tastes were as pro- he renounced his hopes of rising by the nounced as those of his future friend; but law, his was not a nature to accept failure he had the world before him, and his way with complacency, still less to resign itself to make in it. With the consciousness of to inactivity. So, like Wilson, he made a his fine talents, he had no lack of ambi- pursuit of what might otherwise have tion, and he naturally coveted fortune and amused his leisure. And if a life of let- position. Could lie once make his mark ters was less lucrative, and if, for a time at the bar, he might count upon friends at least, it placed him less en dvidence, it to help him forward. And lie had the ~vas not without its immediate compensa- qualities that might have Inade a great tions. He had a genius for writing, and lawyer, as assuredly he was exceptionally consequently he enjoyed it. With a re- ,,ifted in a way that niust have formed an markable capacity for sustained labor, like effective advocate and a dangerous de- Wilson, he dashed off his best work, al- bater. He bad a logical mind, acute rea- most without sensible effort, from a brain s& ning powers, extraordinarily quick per- teeming with ideas. Like Wilson, for a ceptions of flaws and fallacies, a talent for young man who lived anything but the life subtle analysis of principles and soph is- of an anchorite, he had accumulated very tries, a ready wit, and a tenacious mem- miscellaneous stores of knowledge. He ory. Above all, lie was imbued with the had travelled, and going out of the beaten instinct of sarcasm, which must have sup- English track, had formed an unusual ac- piied him with a whole arsenal of ~veapons quaintance with foreign literature; while, in the shape of irony, ridicule, and blight- with a naturally pugnacious turn of intel- ing invective. Had he been blessed with lect, he knew that he only needed practice Wilsons self-forgetfulness when standing and experience to become an accom- up for a set speech, he might have been plislied master of literary fence. What as formidable in the Parliament Hotise as he desired was an opening for the exercise caustic old John Clerk of Eldin, whom he of his powers, with the assurance of ad- has painted in Peters Letters with dressing himself to appreciative readers; equal verve and pungency. We may haz- and that opening was offered him at the ard the prediction that, sooner or later, lie turning-point of his career. would have found his way to London all With Wilson and Lockhart we have the same, altliou,,h not as editor of the classed James Hogg. Indeed the Ettrick Quarterly. Success would have stimu- Shepherd was emphatically the hero of lated him to higher flights. He would the Noctes. It was his rare individu- have wearied of the local Edinbugh so- ahity which inspired the fancies that cre- ciety with the provincial tone which he ated an idealized and glorified shepherd- has satirized in the Letters ; lie would poet, embodying the best of the wit, have left the Parliament House to enter eloquence, and pathos in that most origi- at the Inns of Court; would have worked nal series of articles. The finest pas- for a seat in Parliament, allied himself to sages Wilson ever penned, his happiest the influential Tory coteries lie could have thoughts, his most profound philosophy, helped alike as writer and debater; and his most glowing rhapsodies on the sub- seen hits talents brilliantly rewarded in jects that charmed him everywhere, and the prospect of services to come. Ainas- in Scotland in especial, were all placed char-hike, we have run up a castle in the appropriately in the mouth of the Shep- air for him, which we dare to say lie may herd. While, at the samiie time, it must many times have dreamed for himself, be admitted that the writers of the But if it were so, the fabric crumbled at Noctes took good care to adjust the THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. balance of nature, by making their shep- herd-friend figure as a buffoon. But after all, it was from the life that they painted him; and his vanity was quick to forget the wounds that were being constantly inflicted on it. With his genius, with the warmth of his heart, and his many engag- ing qualities, Hogg was the most feather- er-brained and conceited of mortals. As he naively observes in the opening sen- tence of an autobiography which is the frankest of all frank self-revelations: I like to write about myself; in fact there are few things which I like better. We may imagine, then, how gratifying it was to him to be kept monthly before the public in a magazine that was generally read and discussed. A man far less cov- etous of fame and notoriety might well have felt flattered at being made the natu- ral mouthpiece of the most brilliant ut- terances in the circle of the wits who gathered round the immortal Christopher. For, although his brother wags might au- daciously attribute erudition to a man who had only had some months of school- ing in his boyhood; though they might gravely propose to the countryman from the Braes of Yarrow to write and review fashionable books; though they might tempt him with the promise of Parliamen- tary triumphs, and assure him that he might have a distinguished political ca- reer; yet, on the other hand, his natural talents were known to be so considerable, that the Shepherd of the Noctes seemed scarcely a caricature. There was no saying of what the peasant might not be capable, who had not only written Queen Hynde and Kilmeny, but run a weekly paper of his own, to which he was the chief if not the sole contributor. It ~vas not with Hogg as with Dr. Scott, the unlucky Odontist a dentist whom Lockhart in a mirthful hour selected as the mouthpiece of some of his own most sparkling, contributions, till the victim at last was broubht to be- lieve that he was in reality a distinguished literary genius. Doubtless Hogg, could he have had his way, would gladly have picked and chosen among the articles attributed to him. From time to time he was annoyed, ,, furious at the liberties which, as we must admit, were most unjustiflably taken with him. We can fully sympathize with his bitter com- plaints that sentiments had often been put into his mouth of which he ~vas heartily ashamed, while all his expostulations had been persistently disregarded; and in- deed, after he had made formal announce- 7 ment that nothing without his name subscribed was to be regarded as genu- ine, Lockhart did not hesitate to sign as well as to write for him. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that his normal state of mind was one of complacency at the conspicuous part he was made to play; and the proof of it is, that although he never actually wrote for the Noctes, he repeatedly furnished hints, songs, and stories, knowing well the use to which they were to be turned; while he contin- ued a habitual contributor to Maga. It was highly characteristic of Hogg that he claimed to have originated the magazine. And unquestionably he had the idea in common with other men, as with Mr. Blackwood, who finally decided to carry it out. The supercilious despot- ism of Constable (the czar ), the autoc- racy and the financial success of the Edinbiergl4 had made the starting of an opposition periodical inevitable sooner or later. But Hoggs scheme, so far as it was not simply in embryo, was based, as we might expect of the man, on the no- tion of his editorship a suggestion which must have appeared ludicrous to everybody but himself. Assuredly Black- wood, who was a shrewd man of business, would never have pitted against Jeffrey and Constable the individual who had just brought his own Spy to grief; nor intrusted the direction of his literary and political articles to the self-educated shep- herd, who was simple as a child and touchy as a savage. Ho gg might please himself with boasting of his claims to the paternity; and we know that he often grumbled at the in ratitude which had: intrt~sted his imaginary offspring to other guidance. But he was more than content to take his place among the contributors: he had the satisfaction of knowing that his articles were highly valued in spite of the rough and hasty workmanship; while the remuneration was invariably welcome,. as he was always struggling with difficul- ties. His correspondence with his pub- lisher is a striking confirmation of the resemblance of his portrait as painted in the Noctes. It shows that strange blending of the shepherd and the literary man which Wilson has developed with so much humor and effect; and all the writ- ers childlike simplicity, with his bright perceptions and constitutional irritability. We shall have more to say of the Shep- herd presently when we come to notice his writings. But we must add in the mean time, in justice to him as to his friends, that they all loved him if they 72 THE LIGHTS OF MAGA laughed at him and with him, and that they rendered him many important ser- vices. We see, from unpublished letters, that Lockhart was invariably anxious to befriend him; while Wilson, after show- ing him uniform kindness in the course of their long and cordial connection, made a journey to Ettrick in bleak November to lay the body of the shepherd-poet in the mouls, remaining bareheaded in sad meditations by the grave when the rest of the mourners had left the kirkyard. But to come back to Wilson himself. To estimate him as a writer, we must know him as a man; for his works, with all their amazing versatility, are the freshest and most unreserved expression of a sin- gularly vigorous and many-sided nature. in their generally genial tone, as in their occasional outbursts of strong personal feelings, in their eloquent expression, in their broad philosophy and graceful schol- arship, in the fun and pathos blending and alternating, in their frank abandon- ment for the moment to the inspirations of the predominating thought, in their shrewd analysis of character, in their graphic portraiture of life, and, above all, in their vividly realistic pictures of nature, they are the very Wilson himself the student, the Bohemian, the bookworm, the sportsman, the professor, the kindli- est, merriest, and most entertaining of jovial companions. In the Noctesin especial, he confounded all these qualities. And he transfused the whole with the fire of his genius, kindling at intervals into Berserker-like outbreaks of inspiration. The beauties are scattered broadcast, and we shall find it no easy matter to do them justice by casual references or short se- lections. The chief fascination of his writings, which abode by them to the last, sprang from the perennial freshness of the recollections by which they are im- pregnated. His boyish remembrances had engraved themselves indelibly. As- sociations awakened the chords that vi- brated to the memory, and straiThtway some picture was vividly conjured up in Hi bland snowstorm or smiling lake scen- ery. Nor was it merely the material im- pressions that his recollections instinc- tively revived. It seems to us as if his trains of ideas were continually carrying him back to his youthful manner of think- ful, whether in art or nature. lie had strong opinions and convictions, and he expressed them with the masculine decis- ion which was the very essence of his character. But never did critic, where he saw reason to praise, bestow his com- mendation with more generous discri mm- ation. He had not a shade of jealousy in his composition; and nothing was more con genial to him, or gave him more heart- felt pleasure, than the discovery and en- couragement of rising talent. It was then, above all, that old Christopher be- came young again, as he was reminded of his own literary beginnings. And yet, as the mentor of ardent youth, he was to the full as judicious as lie was capable and kindly. The intelligent aspirant must have been quick to recognize that it ~vas his strongest points, or those which gave most hopeful promise, which had been singled out for commendation; while even more valuable than the praise were the painstaking criticisms which directed at- tention to the faults or the shortcomings. As for Wilsons own blemishes, they are conspicuous enough, especially to critics of the present generation; Thd we need feel the less inclination to blink them, that they do him little discrediL The most obvious of them were closely akin to his beauties perhaps we may say inseparable from his beauties; and so it was that to the last lie never alto- gether got rid of some, while very possi- bly others actually grew upon him. Like most fine writers in his favorite style, when at his best he ~vrote almost from inspiration. We can fancy that, as his pen flew over the paper, his thoughts were often outstripping it by a sentence or two; and his daughter records exploits in his interesting biography which almost ap- proach those mythical feats of which Christopher brags in his Noctes. To that inspiration we owe the dash and the fire which turn even dull subjects into bright reading. But that inspiration was not to be curbed at a nionients notice by the severe taste and the transcendent re- finement which are the attributes of gen- tlemen who weigh each word and polish each carefully considered period. \Vil- son, besides, was.outspoken to a fault; and being as truthful as lie was earnest, with his impetuous nature he was not un ing, although these were governed by the frequently personal. And sincerity and chastened sobriety of a judgment that had honesty are such admirable qualities in a been steadily maturing. And to the last critic, that we may condone some of the his sympathies were as broad and gener- defects which are their almost necessary ous as his feelings were easily moved by consequences. The age, too, as we have the bright, the melancholy, or the beauti- already remarked, was an age of person- THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. alities; when one set of writers made war on another, singling out some antagonistic school for attacks, until at last they came to confound men with their opinions, and even fiercely assailed the private charac- ters which may have been in great meas- ure the creations of their prejudiced fancies. We do not mean to apologize we are merely explaining. So it came about, that Christopher and his colleagues, like their literary opponents, frequently in the heat of warfare indulged in epi- thets, assertions, or insinuations, which subsequently they saw reason to regret or retract. That they were occasionally coarse, we are compelled to admit; al- though on that score, with our more deli- cate or more conventional susceptibilities, it is difficult to judge them fairly. The plainness of language of the En~lish classics of the last century was still in favor with popular writers; and if a reac- tion against it had begun to set in, that reaction had chiefly originated with men inclined to go to the opposite extreme of squeamishness, with men whom the masculine Wilson was inclined, for other reasons, to hold in supreme contempt. But Wilson, it will be said, is sometimes offensive in his conception and elabora- tion of scenes, as well as in chance words and incidental phrases. Granted. And yet not unfrequently the genius of the man is never more evident than in that; and had we had the brain and the fancy to conceive some of those scenes, we should hardly have had the self-control not to shape our ideas in the images that so forcibly reflect them, although, foresee- ing the storm they might provoke, we bowed beforehand to its justice. We might have softened, perhaps, and so emasculated and spoiled; but Wilson, whether for better or worse, seldom seems to have balked his fancy. We have spe- cially in our mind at this moment the memorable meeting of the Red Tarn Club. It may be remembered that there he is describing, in very different styles, the death of an unfortunate Quaker, who had gone astray in the solitudes of Hel- vellyn. He asks us himself which of his versions we like the bestwhether the funny or the affecting one; and though, as matter of taste, we prefer the latter, we confess we have been more impressed by the former. We are at once fas- cinated, shocked, and repelled by the ex- ceedingly grim humor of the hungry and thirsty old ravens who form the Red Tarn Club, flocking to the Ordinary, by the spectacle of the demons in 73 glossy black feather coats and black breeches, whetting their beaks and chuckling over the prospects of the feast. It is more than a spectacle or a satire. It is a slight, but most suggestive, analysis of the very decided individualities of the members of that society of feathered gourmands from the president downwards. Yet the effect is greatly marred to us by the consciousness that the study is an outrage on art as a mockery of mortality; while tainting the fresh air of the Cum- berland hills with the revolting details of the dissecting-room or the dead-house, seems almost sacrilegious in a poet who worshipped nature so reverentially. But Christopher, like Salvator Rosa, and Blake, and Wiertz, and all fantastically powerful artists, was fond of contrasting the terrible with the beautiful. He loved to blend the romantic with the sombre; and occasionally, as in the meeting of the ravens, his inspirations carried him too far. And, by way of set-off, we may re- call another picture from the Noctes, at least as striking, where he has just reined up his fancy in time. It is a pic- ture of a king of the vultures, attributed to the Shepherd, and contains, in a few crisp sentences, the material for a mag- nificent epic. Birds o prey. Thats a grand subject for him. Save us! what he would mak o the King o the Vultures ! Of course he would breed him on Imaus. His flight is far, and he fears not famine. He has a hideous head of his own fiend-like eyes nostrils that woo the murky air and beak fit to dig into brain and heart. Dont forget Prometheus and his liver. Then dream of being sick in a desert place, and of seeing the Vulture-King alight within ten yards of you folding up his wings very coml)osedly and then coming with his horrid bald scalp close to your ear, and begin- ning to pick rather gently at your face, as if afraid to find you alive. You groan; and he hobbles away, with an angry shriek, to watch you die. You see him whetting his beak upon a stone, and gaping wide with hunger and thirst. Horror pierces both your eyelashes, before the bird begins to 5COO~ ; and you have already all the talons of both his iron feet in your throat. Your hearts blood freezes; but notwithstanding that, by-and-by he will suck it up. That is poetry in prose if you like poetry, wild, vivid, and dramatic, when even in the il*ense agony that protracts minutes into hours, act is crowded upon act and scene on scene. And if Wilson had been in the habit of measuring the divine afflatus mechanically, like the strokes of a forcing-pump, we might have THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. 74 There it was, on a little river-island, that once, whether sleeping or waking we know not, we saw celebrated a Fairys Funeral. First we heard small pipes playing, as if no bigger than hollow rushes that whisper to the night- winds ; and morepiteous than aught that trills from earthly instrument, was the scarce audi- ble dirge! It seemed to float over the stream, every foam-bell emitting a plaintive note, till the airy anthem came floating over my couch, and then alighted without ceasing among the heather. The pattering of little feet was heard, as if living creatures were arranging themselves in order, and then there was noth- ing but a more ordered hymn. The harmony was like the melting of musical dewdrops; and sung, without words, of sorrow and death. - . hundreds of creatures, no taller than the crest of the lapwing, and all hanging down their veiled heads, stood in a circle on a green plat among the rocks; and in the midst was a bier, framed, as it seemed, of flowers unknown to the highland hills and on the bier a Fairy, lying with uncovered face, pale as the lily, and motionless as the snow hey sang alter- nate measures, not louder than the twittering of the awakened wood-lark before it goes up the dewy air, but dolorous and full of the des- olation of death. The flower-bier stirred; for the spot on which it lay sank slowly down, and in a few moments the green sward was smooth as ever the very dews glittering above the buried Fairy. A cloud passed over the moon, and, with a choral lament, the fu- neral troop sailed duskily away, heard afar off, so still was the midnight solitude of the glen. been spared the ravens of Helvellyn, but Between sleeping and waking of a sum- ~ve should have lost the vulture of Imaus. mer day, when resting from his toils on But to return to that freshness which some mossy bank, and looking up to the we have asserted as his perennial charm, cloud-flecked skies, through the sylvan and to the circumstances that created and trellis-work of the foliage, the fan cyof the perpetuated it. He had a magnificent poet would be far away, dreaming the constitution; for long he enjoyed almost dreams and seeing the visions that must perfect health; he had been brought up come unbidden if they come at all. Per- in the country, and he returned to his haps he has nothing more beautiful than rural loves whenever he could find or the Faiiys Funeral, which he saw in make an opportunity. From the first, his the spirit on the banks of the Orchy, active brain had never been overworked; when moonlight was silvering the summit and it was characteristic of his very ra- of Ben Cruachan. tional education, that when he was to quit the manse in which he had passed those happy years which did so much towards moulding his mind and his future, he asked and obtained permission to spend some months in taking leave of his early haunts and habits. A waste of time many people might have called it, but happily those who had the care of him knew bet- ter. So all through life, his holidays were an important point of education with him; and often his best work must have been shaped out when he was almost uncon- scious of mental effort. Nothing of his that is destined to live smells either of the lamp or the study. His mind may have been unconscious of effort, yet it was working indefatigably as his muscles, and passing treasures into the charge of his memory. When the stal~vart gentle- man.tramphe has drawn himself to the life in Christopher at the Lakes, with the leonine look, the flowing yellow mane, and the broad shirt-collar thrown widely open, was striding over wild passes among the Highland mountains, or follow- ing, rod in hand, the windings of some rushing stream in the pastoral valleys of the Border, his keen observation was noting the changing effects which give their color and perpetual variety to his endless panoramas of nature. He came to know nature as well as he loved her; and so we measure the distance that di- vides him from her conventional admir- But even Highland scenes and Border ers, who either write in the recollections glens must be peopled with other folk of cursory impressions, or have picked up than fairies, if the reminiscences are to their superficial knowledge at second have their appropriate completeness and hand. So the subjects that his eye cm- animation; and Christopher, treading in braced as it followed the circlin,,s of the the footsteps of Scott, shows us that the ea~le over the heights of Ben Cruachan, inhabitants of such a country as Scotland or as he rode homewards to Tibby Shiels may be truthfully made as picturesque as twixt sunlight and moonrise across the its romantic scenery. He knew as well silvery waters of St. Marts Loch, are as Hogg we may add, as Lockhart transferred for us to his pages in pen and that the characteristic romance of an ink, with marvellous truth, beauty, and earnest but impressionable nation like the originality. Scotch is to be sought chiefly in the cot- Nor was it only the eye of sense that tages of the lower orders; that there are was busy in those happy holiday times. oem s in the every-day annals of the poor, THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. and passions at work under commonplace exteriors; that the most tender feelings and the deepest sympathies may he hidden away in unsuspected nooks and corners. And if he was not born in a shealing like Hogg, he loved to frequent the cottages and farmhouses: many of the most touch- ing passages in his Essays, as in his Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, are the fruits of the hearty and kindly nature which charmed the timid and the cautious into involuntary confidence, caus- ing intellectual and social differences to be forgotten. Peasants and children took to the large-hearted man who talked to them so familiarly, so pleasantly, and so sympathetically; who showed no conde- scension, because he seemed conscious of no superiority; and who cheered them in their cares and their troubles by his man- ner as much as his words. They took to him as dogs and children take to the friends they know by instinct. And Wil- son repaid their confidences by reproduc- ing the morals of their humble lives with all the power of his cultivated genius, and the simplicity of one of themselves. The Cottars Saturday Night has its coun- terpart in many a prose idyl he carelessly threw off from his memory. Yet, though he loves to expatiate by preference on the more beautiful aspects of humble Scottish life, no one can say that he has consciously flattered his coun- try people. No one knew better that pastoral innocence, except in childhood, is a dream of the poets and a myth of the golden age: and as he has taken sorrow more often than happiness for his themes, so he has not shrunk from depicting rural vice and crime. Nay, not unfrequently, there as elsewhere, he has brought out in almost objectionable detail what perhaps he had better have been content to indi- cate. But if he excels in the pathetic or the dramatic, he revels in the humorous. See him hold the mirror up to nature, where nature had turned out oddities and eccentricities! Hear him on the good- humored Bohemians of society, on the men who had strayed from the respect- able beaten paths, or on those who, al- though coldly regarded by the strait-laced, were really the enemies of nobody but themselves. Like James V. of facetious memory, the accomplished scholar courted adventures, and was always finding him- self, much to his satisfaction, in the strangest company. We can understand that in his love of the unsophisticated, and his contempt for what was conven- tional, he had something of a fellow.feel. 75 ing for tramps, tinkers, cairds, gipsies, poachers, for the love of the sport, et Id genus ornue. Not unfrequently a passing roadside acquaintance, when the hours flew by with jest, song, and story, had been prefaced by a fair stand-up fight; for the wanderer was as ready of fist as of tono-ue. Even after he had attained the dignity of the professorship, he had to own to a couple of his future students that he had just been the hero of a single combat at Hawick Fair. Of course he had figured as champion of the weak; but even then the announcement must have scandalized the staid young Scotchnien had he not previously excited their admi- ration by a display of his extraordinary mental powers. And reading between the lines in the Noctes or the Rec- reations, we come upon many a similar, though tacit, confession, as we acknowl- edge the graphic realism of some Smollett- like scene described with inimitable spirit and drollery. The reminiscences date back to boy- hood, and even to childhood, as when Christopher in his Sporting Jacket, retracing the anglers progress, conjures up the new-breeched urchin, standing on the low bridge of the little bit burnie. . - - A tug a tug! With face ten times flushed and pale by turns ere you could count ten, he at last has strength, in the agitation of his fear and joy, to pull away at the monster and there he lies in his beauty among the gowans and the greensward, for he has whapped him right over his head and far away, a fish a quar- ter of an ounce in weight, and, at the very least, two inches long! And next we have the excited child rush- ing over the house, carrying his prize on a plate, and showing the monster to every- body. We know from the biography by his daughter that it is precisely as little Master Jack XVilson would have behaved, even had we not felt we were being fa- vored with a personal sketch in that most veracious touch of his refusing to wash his hands before dinner in the pride of the scales adhering to his thumb-nails. As Dickens drew the most lifelike scenes in David Copperfield from his own hardships as a little outcast in London, so Wilson enlivens his miscellaneous writ- ings by perpetual autobiographical remi- niscences ~assirn. Nor has he anything much finer in the way of description than that of the parish of the Mearns near Paisley, where he spent his happiest years in charge of the minister. We find it in the opening of his May-day. 76 THE LIGHTS OF MACA. Art thou beautiful, as of old, 0 wild, moor- land, sylvan, and pastoral Parish! the Paradise in which our spirit dwelt beneath the glorious dawning of lifecan it be, beloved world of boyhood, that thou art indeed beautiful as of old? Though round and round thy boundaries in half an hour could fly the flapping dove though the martins, wheeling to and fro that ivied and wall-flowered room of a Castle, cen- tral in its own domain, seem in their most dis- tant flight to glance their crescent wings over a vale rejoicing apart in another kirk-spire, yet how rich in streams, and rivulets, and rills, each with its own peculiar murmur art Thou with thy bold bleak exposure, sloping upwards in ever lustrous undulations to the portals of the East! How endless the interchange of woods and meadows, glens, dells, and broomy nooks, without number, among the banks and braes! And then of human dwellingshow rises the smoke, ever and anon, into the sky, all neighboring on each other, so that the cock-crow is heard from homestead to home- stead; while as you wander onwards, each roof still rises unexpectedlyand as solitary, as if it had been far remote. Fairest of Scotlands thousand parishes neither Highland nor Lowland, but undulatinglet us again use the descriptive word; like the sea in sunset after a day of stormsyes, Heavens blessing be upon thee! Thou art indeed beautiful as of old! It maybethelicenseof the poetryof the affections to apostrophize the Mearns as the fairest of Scotch parishes. XVhether it be still beautiful as ever, as we have never seen it we cannot say. And, to tell the truth, we have no wish to see it, fear- ing disenchantment, like Wordsworth when he wrote his Yarrow unvisited. To us it has always been the enchanted ground of the Recreations, and notably of Christopher in his Sporting Jacket and if he has idealized it into the impres- sions of distinct reality, it says the more for his genius. We associate young Wil- son with its manse, its moorlands, and its yillage street, as we associate Gilbert White with the Forest of Woolmer and the Hano-er of Selborne. Half Highland, half Lowland, ~ve knew it as a very para- dise for the ornithologist or the bird-nest- ing boy; with birds of each ordinary Scottish species from falcon, buzzard, and hen-harriers hunting over the moors and mosses among their muir-fowl and their snipe, to the mavises and the merles in the manse garden, and the sparrows that swarmed up everywhere in clouds when a stone was flung into thatch or ivy. It was there that poor wee Kit was lost on that memorable mornin6 when he had started at skreigh of da~~nto draw a night-line from the Black Loch ; when a mist overtook him on the moor on his homeward way, with an eel as long as himself hanQng over his shoulder, and held him prisoner for many hours within its shifting walls, frail indeed, and oppos- ing no resistance to the hand, yet impene- trable to the feet of fear as the stone duno-eons thraldom. How we sympa- thize with the shivering urchin, as, when he sat down to cry, the small brown moorland bird, dry as a fossil, hopped out of his heather-hole and cheerfully cheeped comfort! And how characteristic is the small castaways delight when, forgetting his sad plight in excitement over the wonder, he sees three tiny peaseweep shuffle past himnestlings which have just emerged from the shell It was from that parish of the Mearns that the well-grown lad started on the an- glers and shooters progress. Eve nthose who have little sympathy with field-sports, must surely confess that we should have lost much had Christopher been no sportsman. Never is his pen more elo- quent, or his imagination more fervent, than when he is casting a fly in the rocky pools, or striding, Manton in hand, over the moors. How animated and animating are his descriptions of the hooked mon- ster of the stream, or the stealthy crawl on the red deer; of the brattle along the brae, when the lang dogs were laid upon the witch in the maukins fur that had her seat under the peat-dike of the cotters kail-yard! For, as a sportsman, Christopher was most catholic in his tastes too much so, indeed, according to more humanitarian modern notions; for loving to look upon a fair battle whether between man and man or beast and beast, he delighted in a main of cocks as much as Lord Derby or his Grace of Norfolk, or many another peer or statesman of the times. For ourself, we have formed per- sonal friendships with many cats, and nowadays we should as soon hound a bull- dog on a baby, as look on while a cat was being worried by the terriers. Yet if we dared, we should like to quote that thrill- ing and dramatic interlude, awakening recollections of thoughtless rather than cruel boyhood, where Glowrer and Tear- er, after a furious hunt, bring the she- devil incarnate, all ablaze and abristle, to bay at the hedge-root. Other days, other times of life, and other ways of thinking; and we do not quote it. Rather let us take Christopher in somewhat gentler mood, though still bent on murder; when he has caught sight of time solitary heron, solemnly, )-et swiftly, swallowing an eel. THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. Be propitious, 0 ye Fates! and never nevershall he again fold his wings on the edge of his gaping nest, on the trees that over- top the only tower left of the old castle. An- other eel, and we too can crawl silent as the sinuous serpent. Flash! Bang! over he goes deadno, not dead,but how unlike that unavailing flapping, as head-over-heels he goes spinning over the tarn, to the serene unsettling of himself from sod or stone, when, his hun- ger sated, and his craw filled with fish for his far-off brood, he used to lift his blue bulk into the air, and with long depending legs, at first floated away like a wearied thing, but soon, as his wings felt the current of air homewards flowing, urged swifter and swifter his easy courselaggard and lazy no moreleaving leagues behind him, ere you had shifted your motion in watching his cloudlike career, soon invisible among the woods! It is poetry as usual, and sound natural history as ~ve1l; and frames a picture, moreover, of earth, air, and water, of which the fate of the heron was merely the suggestion, as his life and death were the moving incidents. Christopher, we believe, was a very fair shot, and fond of shooting in a moderate way. We doubt not that in his time he had knocked over most Scottish game, from the shy red deer to the shier whaup. And being merely moderately fond of shooting, his shootincr sketches are often exquisite. For he followed the sport in contemplative mood; and so he dresses its episodes in the language of unstudied eloquence, and his shooting articles abound in spirited digressions that land us quite as often as not in the realms of art, criticism, or philosophy. But fishing was a passion with him, and so when he gets upon that subject, he confines himself more strictly to the absorbing pursuit. Never, of course, does he show himself more ani- mated; but even when idealizing he con- centrates his energy on spirited descrip- tions of the actual sport. But the salmon has grown sulky, and must be made to spring to the plunging-stone. There, suddenly, instinct with new pas- sion, she shoots out of the foam like a bar of silver bullion. - . - Give her the butt give her the butt or she is gone forever with the thunder into ten fathoms deep ! and so on. Admirable the descriptions are; but necessarily a little of them goes a long way; and Christopher, who knew that, is chary of them, considering his enthusiasm as an angler. But his thor- ough-going style of fishing being emi- nently characteristic of his ardent yet earnest nature, we may recall what the Shepherd has to say of it in the Noctes. 77 His daughter assures us that the descrip- tion is exact. Oh! but you should have seen him in Loch Owe, or the Spey. In he used to gang, out, out, and ever sae far out frae the pint o a promontory, sinkin aye furder and furder doun, first to the waistband o his breeks, then up to the middle button o his waistcoat, then to the verra breast, then to the oxters, then to the neck, and then to the very chin o him, sae that you wunnered how he could fling the flee, till last o a he would plump richt out o sight, till the Highlander on Ben Cruachan thocht him drooned; but he wasna born to be drooned no he, indeed sae he taks to the 500mm; and strikes awa lvi ae arm, like yoursel, sir for the tither had hand o the rod and, could ye believt, though its as true as Scrip- tur, fishing a the time, that no a moment o the cloudy day micht be lost. From the sportsman we pass naturally to the ornithologist; and in Wilson, as in all worshippers of nature, the one taste and the other were indissolubly blended. An exceedingly delightful series of essays are those entitled, Christopher in his Aviary. If he knew less of birds scien- tifically than his brother the eminent nat- uralist, we venture to say that he had lived far more in the intimacy of those which make the delight of wild parishes like the Mearns. In his Aviary in rambling fashion he passes all in review, now rising to sublimity of style among the rugged precipices where the eagles have made their eyries from time immemorial now celebrating the songsters of the fields and woodlands in strains almost as sweet as their own. Now he leads us away to the solitudes of the moor, to ligten to the whistle of the curlew and the cry of the lapwing; now he invites us to sedgy swamp and lonely tarn, the haunts of the coot and the water~hen; and to the mosses, where the wild duck and teal are rearing their broods of flappers; and anon we stroll out with him in the still- ness of the gloaming, when the night owl on downy wing is gliding ghost-like from rick-yard to hedgerow, hunting for the mice and small birds that are to pacify a set of hissing and snappish and shape- less powder-puffs in the loophole of a barn. For each and all, from the golden eagles of Glenfalloch the storm- wheelers and the cloud-cleavers, down to the tiny wren, he has some word of grate- ful praise and admiration; and be it ob- served that, translating the eulogies into language of his own, he has something quaintly original to say about each. But he reserves his simplest and most affec 78 THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. tionate tenderness for the birds, which, if they are not exceptionally, are especially Scotch; for those that have chiefly in- spired the peasant muse, as unconsciously to him they have charmed away the cares of many a cottager; for the blackbird and the thrush, the lark and the grey ii ntie. Higher and higher than ever rose the tower of Belus, uplifted by ecstasy, soars the Lark, the lyrical poet of the sky. Listen, listen and the more remote the bird the louder seems his hymn in heaven. He seems, in such alti- tude, to have left the earth forever, and to have forgotten his lowly nest. The primroses and the daisies, and all the sweet hill-flowers, must be unremembered in that lofty region of light. But just as the Lark is lost he and his song together as if his orisons had been accepted both are seen and heard fondly wavering earthwards, and in a little while he is walking with his graceful crest contented along the furrows of the brairded corn, or on the clover lea that in mans memory has not felt the ploughshare; or after a pause, in which he seems dallying with a homesick pas- sion, drooping down like one dead, beside his mate in her shallow nest. What a variety of articles for al- though similar they are never monotonous Wilson has written specially on scen- ery! Of the Continent he knew nothing: for England, always excepting the semi- Scottish Lake country to which he clung through life with undivided affection, he cared little. But with his quick appre- ciation, with his rare receptiveness to each impression of the sublime and beau- tiful in their ever-changing forms, he had lived and dreamed in the Highlands and among the Lakes, till, as he says himself in playful exaggeration, he had come to know each nook of them only too well. In Streams and Cottages; in a series of monologues on the moors, the lakes, the seasons; in many a bright passage in the Noctes as well, he has expatiated on his favorite themes. But divorcing passages from their con- texts would generally do him such injus- tice, as if we ~vere to tear a strip, by way of specimen, out of a landscape by Claude or Turner. And yet some slight selec- tions we must make, were it only that our notice of him may be fairly comprehen- sive. Shall we take him when he hesi- tates as to awarding the palm of beauty among his four favorite lakes Awe and Lomond, Windermere and Killarney? Hardly; for there we should have to make extracts extending over many pages of Maga, beginning with the characteris- tic and rapturous apostrophe to Loch Awe, mountain-crowned, cliff-guarded, isle - zoned, grave-girdled, wide - winding and far-stretching, with thy many bayed banks and braes of brush-wood, fern, broom, and heather, rejoicing in their huts and shielings. Rather let us single out a more compact fragment, most beauti- fully suggestive, ~vhen out with his setters on the moors on the 12th, he is doubting towards what airt he shall turn his face. Over yonder cliffs shall we ascend, and de- scend into Glen Creran, where the stony re- gions that the ptarmigan loves melt away into miles of the grousey heather, which, ere we near the salmon-haunted Loch so beautiful, loses itself in woods that mellow all the heights of Glen Ure and Fasnacloigh with sylvan shades, wherein the cushat coos, and the roe glides through the secret covert? Or shall we away up by Kinloch-Etive, and Melnatorran, and Mealgayre, into th& Solitude of Streams, that from all their lofty sources down to the far-distant Loch have never yet brooked, nor will they ever brook, the bondage of bridges, save of some huge stone flung across some chasm, or trunk of a tree none but trunks of trees there, and all dead for centuries that had sunk down where it grew, and spanned the flood that eddies round it with a louder music? Wild region! yet not barren; for there are cattle on a thousand hills, that, wild as the very red-deer, toss their heads as they snuff the feet of rarest stranger, and form round him in a half-alarmed and half-threatening crescent. There flocks of goats outliers from Dalness may be seen as if following one another on the very air, along the lichen- stained cliffs that frown down unfathomed abyssesand there is frequent heard the whirring of the gorcocks wing, and his gob- ble gathering together his brood, scattered by the lightning that in its season volleys through the silence, else far deeper than that of death; for the silence of deaththat is, of a churchyard filled with tombs is nothing to the austerity of the noiselessness that prevails under the shadow of Unimore and:Attcho- rachan, with their cliffs on which the storms have engraven strange hieroglyphical inscrip- tions, etc. Or going southwards with him across the Border, hear him expatiating upon the lakes as distinguished from the lochs Every Lake bath its promontories, that, every step you walk, every stroke you row, un- dergo miraculous metamorphoses, accordant to the change that comes oer the spirit of your dream, as your imagination glances again over the transfigured mountains. Each Lake bath its Bays of Bliss, where might ride at her moorings, made of the stalks of water- lilies, the Fairy Bark of a spiritual life. Each Lake bath its hanging terraces of immortal green, that along her shores run glimmering far down beneath the superficial sunshine, THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. when the Poet in his becalmed canoe among the lustre could fondly swear by all that is most beautiful on earth, in air, and in water, that these Three are One, blended as they are by the interfusing spirit of heavenly peace. Each Lake hath its enchantments, too, belong- ing to this our mortal, our human world,the dwelling-places, beautiful to see, of virtuous poverty, in contentment exceeding rich whose low roufs are reached by roses sponta- neously springing frum the same soil that yields to strenuous labor the sustenance of a simple life. Each Lake hath its Halls, as well as its huts,solemn now, and almost melan- choly, among the changes that for centuries have been imperceptibly stealing upon the abodes of prosperous men but merry of yore, at all seasons of the year, as groves in spring. He delighted in wanderings through the wilds of the Highlands; but it was in that enchanted land of the Lakes that he loved to live: and the poet, pedestrian, and student could hardly have found a home that suited his tastes more happily than Elleray. His writings abound in fond allusions to the rambling, mossy- roofed cottage De Quincey has photo- graphed for us, and which was subse- quently replaced on similar architectural lines by a more pretentious but scarcely less picturesque residence. Wilson adored fine timber as devoutly as any worshipper of dryads and hamadryads; but it was the sycamore, the tree of the lakes, to which his affections turned most fondly, and, above all, to the mighty sycamore that cast its broad shadows over Elleray. Never in this well-wooded world, not even in the days of the Druids, could there have been such another tree. It would ~be easier to suppose two Shake- speares. - . - Oh sx,reetest and shadiest of all sycamores, we love thee beyond all other trees It may appear somewhat paradoxical, but from the passionate admirer of nature to the critic, the transition seems to be as easy and natural as from the keen sports- man to the naturalist. For passionate as his admiration was, it was tempered by judgment and regulated by philosophical principles; and if his landscape-painting is as remarkable for vigor as for versatil- ity, it is because quickness of perception was an instinct with him, and because he intuitively analyzed his emotions and their sources. He was a born critic if ever man was; and it is by his criticisms, in the broadest meaning of the word, that he will be best remembered. He read and interpreted the changing expressions on the face of nature with an intuitive and sympathetic discrimination all his own. 79 But as nature comes very near to perfec- tion in her several styles, his criticisms run on an ascending scale of admiration from chastened praise to rapturous eulogy. With the works of his fellow-men it was different. Never blinded, although he might be dazzled, by the blaze of their genius, he sa~v the blemishes in a Shake- speare though he almost failed to find any in a Homer. With more ordinary mortals he became the discriminating judge, al- ways, we are sure, desirous of being dis- passionate, yet not unfrequently swayed by his prejudices or convictions. For ex- ample, in common with Lockhart and the rest of the Blackwood brotherhood, he detested what they had dubbed contumeli- ously the Cockney school. He often dealt hard measure to such able writers as Hunt and Hazlitt, though, when he was impressed by some clever piece of work, he would pay it a handsome tribute. Nay, where he fancied he detected the cloven foot of the Cockney, he would occa- sionally indite a stinging article on some man whom he really loved and respected. We have before us now a letter in which Lockhart complains bitterly to Blackwood of the professors treatment of Sir Hum- phry Davys Salmonia. The fact be- ing that in expatiating on the salmon and eagles of Loch Maree, the philosopher did write exceedingly like a Cockney, to say nothing of such smaller sins, as the absurd modicum of claret he served out to three hearty sportsmen who were taking their pleasure in the Highlands in all weathers. But if Wilson could be severe, he was warmly appreciative as well, as may be seen by a reference to his writings generally. And, as we have said, no literary veteran was ever more judi- ciously encouraging to young aspirants of talent with the faults of their inexperi- ence. XVe have read sundry charming private letters written under such circum- stances. Before proceeding frankly to indicate the blemishes, he invariably gives generous admiration to the beauties. As the critical consulting adviser of the ed- itor he was admirable in that respect; and we may refer in especial to a letter in which he rejects a poetical effusion of his friend Dr. Moir, which is quoted in his daughter Mrs. Gordons Memoir. Af- ter many ~vell-deserved compliments, he assigns his reasons categorically; and whether answerable or not, they are, at all events, so cogent as amply to justify the writers decision to the intelligence of even a mortified contributor. By the way, there is an incidental passage in the 8o THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. letter which is interesting, as showing the writers modest appreciation of his own merits as a poet. He says, You have not, it is true, written any one great work, and perhaps, like myself, you never will. Not the least pointed of Wilsons critical judgments are to be found scattered inci- dentally through the dialooues in the Noctes. But it is undoubtedly in his finished articles on the poets that he shines in his fullest lustre. We agree with him that he never himself wrote a great poem. We think, as we shall have an opportunity of arguing later, that in the actual practice of the poetical art, he fell far short of the highest standard. Never- theless he was undoubtedly a great poet in imaginati ye l)ower, in the sensibilities, and in the emotions. He shows it in his sympathetic strength of his analysis in the quick reception and harmonious ex- pansion of some beautiful ideain his fervent elucidation of suggestive passages where he interprets the inner mind of the poet; as in the readiness with which he strips the commonplace of a rhapsodical disguise, and the originality with which he disputes received opinions. Let us take an extract from the article on Tennyson, in which he expresses admirably the true principles and influences of the loftiest poetry: It is not at all necessary that we should un- derstand fine poetry to feel and enjoy it, any more than fine music. That is to say, some sorts of fine poetry the shadowy and the spiritual where something glides before us ghost-like, now in glimmer and now in gloom, and then away into some still place of trees and tombs. Yet the poet who composes it must weigh the force of every feeling word in a balance true to a hair, forever vibrating, and obedient to the touch of rlown or dew- drop. Think not that such process interrupts inspiration; it sustains and feeds it: for it be- comes a habit of the heart and the soul in all their musings and meditations; and thus is the language of poetry, though human, heavenly speech. In reading it, we see new revelations on each rehearsal all of them true, though haply different; and what we at first thought a hymn, we may at last feel to be an elegy a breathing, not about the quick, but the dead. We should remember that striking pas- sage in reading his article upon Coleridge, which, in its delicate display of the sensi- tive critical faculty, we are disposed to place even before the article on Burns, although the author of The Cottars Sat- urday Night appealed so strongly to the Scottish sympathies of Wilson. Ere we read Wilson we had admired Christa- bel; yet we hardly loved where we failed to understand. But Wilson seems to penetrate the mysticism of the author, to dream his dreams and to realize his fan- cies: he suggests u nsuspected difficulties only to explain them; and if his interpre- tations should have missed the meaning of the other poet, at all events they rec- ommend themselves forcibly to our imag- ination. The language of the criticism is as fervent as it is finished. The admira- tion is unstinted, though thoroughly well reasoned; and the metaphors with which he illustrates the beauty of the poem, although fantastic, are not extravagant. Christabel resembles no other poem, except inasmuch as it is a poem. Here was a new species of poetry, and the specimen was felt to be perfect. It was as if some bright con- summate flower had been added to the families of the fielddiscovered growing by itself with its own peculiar balm and its own pecul- iar bloom, mournful as moonlight delicate as the dawn yet strong as day, and in its silken folds, by its own beauty, preserved un- withered in all weathers. What is its meaning? It is a mystery, which even Coleridge himself could not have explained; for who can explain a mood of superstition? And yet there is an impression of intense realism, which awakens the true emotions of love and fear for the unsuspecting virgin imperilled by her charity. What the dread and what the danger you know not, but that they are not from the common things of this world. The strain on the highly wrought feelings becomes more tense, as Wilson points out, ~vith the casual touches ~vhich seem insignificant in themselves, how the stranger, gliding in the moonlight from the ~vood, is guided to the chamber of her innocent guide. The broken ac- cents of Geraldine are ambiguous: the stumble on the threshold; the moaning of the mastiff; the flicker of the flame from the dying embers in the hall; the sinking under the sacred emblem of the silver lamp that is fastened to an angels feet, those and other signs that become more ominous in conjunction, all sink down our hearts for the sake of the sin- less Christabel, all seem to prepare us for some coming shock a horror hinted, yet not revealed. So with the analysis of the Ancient Mariner, in which Wilson again defends the daring treatment of the supernatural in the high- est order of imaginative poetry. It is all a question of the genius of the poet; the verse must either be immortal, or a mis- erable failure. For the contrast between a failure and a triumph, let us refer our THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. readers to Wilsons remarks on Tuppers foolhardy attempt to finish Coleridges in- comparable fragment. A ~ropos to the fantastic structure of the Ancient Man- ner,it is explained that the poets dream thrown into poetry, although it be made up of the wild and wonderful, may be nevertheless as consistent with itself as the grandest effort of speculative thought. The ordinary rules of evidence are set aside ; no limits are assigned to the l)os- sibilities of nature; and yet the concep- tions may be not unnatural. Unnat- ural Nothing is unnatural that stirs our heartstrings her voice it is (natures voice), if from some depth within us steals a response. Wilson shows, with rare vigor of intelligence, how Coleridge has condensed in comparatively few words the very essence of torment; how he wrought out his true Tragedy of Re- morse and also of Repentance. But Remorse and Repentance, what are they to Doom? They neither change nor avertand seeing themselves both baf- fled, again begin to ban and curse, till there is a conversion; and out of perfect contrition arise, even in natures extrem- est misery, resignation and peace. If we are right in our estimate of XVil- sons judgments of poetry, we need hardly ~vaste words on his brilliant essay on Burns. We must be content to single out a couple of passages; one of ~vhich gives the key to the poets peculiar strength, as the other to the fascination he has exercised over his countrymen. In the first, Wilson argues that our great- est poets have always gone to the people for their most effective or most moving pictures. Scott, and Shakespeare, and Wordsworth have descended from aerial heights into the humblest dwellings. But Burns was born, bred, lived, and died in that condition of this mortal life to which they paid but visits; his heart lay wholly there; and that heart, filled as it was with all the best human feelings, and sometimes with thoughts divine, had no fear about entering into places which timid moralists might have thought forbidden and unhallowed ground, but which he, wiser far, knew to he inhabited by creatures of con- science, bound there often in thick darkness by the inscrutable decrees of God. As for the infinite charm of his poetry for the poor, Wilson seems also to have found the secret of that. Burns lamented their sorrows, as he touched their sores with a tender hand; but in idealizing the bright side of their existence, he lightened their hours of care and toil with the merry LiVING AGE. VOL. XXXIX. 1982 spirit of the old ballad poetry. For La- bor is often inclined to mirthful mood, nor is Care always his black compan- ion. And we fancy we hear Wilson speaking of his friend the Ettrick Shep- herd, as well as of the Shepherds great master and model, when he writes From the first hour, and indeed long before it, that he composed his rudest verse, often had he sung aloud old songs that are the tnusic of the heart; and some day or other to be able himself to breathe such strains, had been his dearest, his highest ambition. His genius and his moral frame were thus imbued into his spirit of our old traditionary ballad poetry; and as soon as all his manifold passions were ripe, and his whole glorious being in full ma- turity, the voice of song was on all occasions of tenderest and deepest human interest, the voice of his daily, his nightly speech. lie wooed each maiden in song that will, as long as our Doric dialect is breathed by love in beautys ears, be murmured close to the cheek of Innocence trembling in the arms of Passion. If the articles on Coleridge and Burns are exceptionally admirable, those on Ten- nyson and Macaulay show his generous appreciation of rising genius ; though the laureate resented his strictures in lines that have been thought worth reprinting in later editions, if they do little credit to the writer in any way. As to the warm praise of the Lays of Ancient Rome, we should scarcely care to recall the fact that Macaulay was one of the most for- midable champions of the Whigs, were it not that Wilson has been most unreason- ably reproached with injustice to political opponents, and notoriously to the contrib- utors to the Edinbur~/z. But it is in the series of essays on Homer and his Translators, which almost occupy an entire volume of his works, that Wilson displays all the resources of his critical strength, as they awaken all the emotions of his poetical sympathies. With the careful comparison of the merits of the best of the translators with the scrupu- lous wei ~ hing of epithets, and the search- ing estimate of the paraphrases with the elucidation of the spirit of the bard, and the analysis of the oribinal Greek text, the capabilities of the judge were submitted to a severer test than those of the authors he summons before them. It. seems rash in the extreme to court such an ordeal; but we think candor will con- fess that he comes out of it triumphantly. 1here is a touch of affectation in one of the openin~ sentences, ~vhere he says, We are no great Greek scholars, but we can force our way vi et armis through the 82 THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. Iliad. His scholarship was not only sound, but fastidiously preceptive, as he proceeds straight~vay to prove. The pre- liminary remark on the theory of a plu- rality of Homers, is to the point, and conclusive. Nature is not so prodigal of her great poets. . . . XVho ever heard of two Miltons of two Shakespeares? That there should have been even one of each is a mystery, when we look at what are called men. His conceptions of Homer and the Homeric characters are singularly interesting; while, by exciting us to the exercise of our own reflective faculties, they raise us to an attitude of intelligent enjoyment, as they remind us of the manners of the Homeric age. Ho- mer flourished in the days of a magnifi- cent barbarism, ~vhen kings feasted like gluttons, and the godlike son of Thetis could exult savagely over the corpse of the fallen champion of Troy. Then, was Homer savage or civilized? Both. So was Achilles. Conceived by a god- dess, and begotten by a hero, that half- celestial child sat at the knees of a for- midable Gamaliel Chiron the Centaur. Grown up to perfect stature, his was the Beauty of the Passions Apollos self in his loveliness, not a more majestic min- ister of death. It has often occurred to readers of the Iliad, to ask if the mighty Achilles was not really a coward. What credit to him, if he, knowing him- self invulnerable, achieves feats impossi- ble to mortal men, and revels safely in slaughter? But it is impossible that the sublime Homer should have made a hero of a truculent coward; and Wilson recon- ciles apparent inconsistencies, and forci- bly disposing of the difficulty, glorifies the chivalry of Achilles. From whom would he have fled? Not from Mars and Bellona. One qualm of fear would have destroyed that transcendent ideal of un- conquerable will. But he was invulnerable. Would that in our boyhood we had never been confounded by that lie! He was, of all the heroes that fought before Troy, the sole Doomd Man, yet never knew he fear within the perpetual shadows of death. And the idea that must have inspired Homers creation, is confirmed by the address of the dying Hector to his slayer: There is no savage spirit of revenge in the prophecy that expires on his lips ; it is almost a passionless prediction of death to one who feared not death an enun- ciation of the will of Heaven about to be executed by a god. . . . And what moral sublimity in the answer of the dreadless angel! Die Thou the first! when Jove and Heaven ordain I follow thee, he said, and strippd the slain. So, too, ~ve have intelligible exl)lana- tions of the apparent ~veaknesses of the noble Hector; and ample justice is done to the overbearing king of i~enin the grand reconciliation scene with his once sullen enemy. Especially fine and equally characteristic are the glosses on these immortal episodes, in which the Trojan hero consoles the weeping Andromache; where the deputation of the Grecian league is welcomed in the tent of Achil- les; and where the bands of the wolf-like Myrmidons are mustering for the fight, when Patroclus is to be sent to the shades, while ~vearing the arms of Achil- les. Once again we call attention to the comparisons of the translations; and a careful study of these is invaluable as an exercise in practical criticism. Whether Wilson confirm you in your personal opinions, or differ from them, his sug- gested reasons are sure to carry weight, if they do not bring absolute conviction. We must resist the temptation to linger over his Homer; but after all, were we to devote a score of pages to it, we could only amplify what we have indicated as its beauties. And so we pass on to the Noctes Ambrosian~, in which he has at once created a central character with a wonderful individuality, and dis- played the best of his versatile powers as an inimitable essayist. Settinggenius,tal- ent, cleverness which you will aside, what strikes us as the most conspicuous feature in the Noctesis the seduction of the intellectual conviviality. Their locale was most appropriately laid in the dining-room of one of Christophers man- sions, or in the blue parlor at Ambroses in moments of unrestrained social enjoy- ment. Supposed to be written or reported at midnight, there is not the faintest odor of the lamp about them. As little does the facility of the free-and-easy style leave any impression of negligence or superficiality. Wilson threw off his best articles in sustained bursts of inspired effort, from a free fancy with a running pen. His daughter in her Memoir, as Gillies in his Recollectious of a Vet- eran, enlightens us as to the professors method of writing. His literary feats were even more remarkable than those of his collaboratezu-, Lockhart. Gillies says: Mr. Wilson had a rapidity of executive power, such as I have never seen equalled before or since. - . - But as he would do nothing but when he liked, and bow he THE HEROES OF THE NOCTES. 83 liked, his productions, whether serious or comic, might all be regarded as mere feux desprit and matters of amusement. Mrs. Gordon goes into greater detail. Her father often delayed indispensable work till each second became of conse- quence. When regularly in for an arti- cle for Blackwood his whole strength was put forth, and it may be said he struck into life what he had to do at a blow. He despatched breakfast, shut himself up in his study, ~vith express orders that nobody was to disturb him, and he never stirred from his ~vriting-table until perhaps the greater part of a Noctes was written. Later in life the intervals of indolence became longer, and we have Lockhart in many private notes complaining to Black- woo~l that the professor had withdrawn to Elleray, and would show no sign of ani- mation. And such a method of work was only possible to a man of powerful physique, so long as his health was unim- paired, with vast stores of miscellaneous reading, and a in emory equally tenacious and reliable. Dumas prides himself, in the preface to one of his books, on dash- ing them off in similar fashion. He at- tributes the facility of his composition to the accuracy of knowledge which dis- penses him from stopping to ransack authorities. He demonstrates his exact- ness in the next two pages by three ~ross historical blunders. But Wilson never trusted to his brilliancy to carry off care- less lapsus of the kind; he may possibly have turned a difficulty on occasion, but, we seldom or never catch him tripping. Nor can there be a question that for arti- cles in the manner of the Noctes that is the only eftecti ye style of composition, although it may be within the powers of very few. The sequence of thouaht flows forward unbroken; the happy repartee of animated dialogue is sustained; the bright flashes of the fancy are never dimmed in the dull oblivion that naturally creeps upon the writer as he diverts his thoughts to the drudgery of reference. We have spoken of Wilson creating a central indi- viduality, and there, of course, we allude to his Shepherd. But his own fancy por- trait as Christopher North was in material respects far more imaginative; and in nothing so much as in Kits manner of working. Kit of the Noctes carries his Rabelaisian habits of conviviality into the sanctum, where he dashes off his lucubrations. He loved to scandalize the Cockneys he disliked; and so he talks of port and decanters of Madeira; of light dinners, served in sundry courses; and of caulkers of Glenlivet, by which he bright- ened his periods with a frequent turning up of the little finger. In reality he was as abstemious as an anchorite when he went into harness for one of his literary spurts: Whatever he had to write, even though a day or two were to keep him close at work, he never interrupted his pen, saving to take his nights rest, and a late dinner served to him in his study. The hour for that meat was, on these occasions, nine oclock; his dinner then consisted invariably of a boiled fowl, potatoes, and a glass of water ; he allowed himself no wine. After dinner he resumed his pen till midnight. And so the pages of manuscript were piled at his elbow, to be transferred, when they became top-heavy, to the carl)et; and so the Noctes, almost without excep- tion, were sptin, as quickly, as lightly, and as strong as the wossamer web of the witch in Thalaba. It was a happy idea, if not an original one, that gathered a group of familiar friends around the well-spread supper- table. The intellectual powers brighten towards the small hours, and genius is never in greater force than when reposing itself in forms of desultory exertion after the labors of a well-spent day. Nor can we underrate the mental exhilaration that comes of the reasonable enjoyment of the \vine-cup. In an age when serious after- dinner drinking had hardly gone out, the imaginary brethren of the Noctes were neither sots nor topers. They were strong men who carried their liquor dis- creetly; and they took the precaution of layin~ a most substantial foundation. They have been taxed with gluttony, and we are bound to admit that there is a superabundance of heavy eating in the articles. But as the Shepherd observed, in rebutting that charge, they were men of good nay, of great appetites. And it must be admitted that there was a sense of fitness in attributing to them excep- tional digestive powers, since vigorous bodies imply vigorous minds. But those heavy suppers were as much a dream as the preliminary feast of the facetious Barmecide. We know that they neither generated dulness nor niThtmares The sparkles of wit caine the faster and the brighter for rel)eated application to the round and the how-towdies; nor did pathos ever decline into maudlin senti- irmentality, though the jug Inade revolu- tions as regular as the moon round the Calton Hill. There is a sense of fitness in that, because the healthy interlocutors 84 THE LIGHTS OF MAGA. combined the constitution of countrymen with the intelligence of students of thought and genius. Long days on the banks of the river, on the moors, or on the hills, had led to profitable interludes of earnest self-communion, besides bracing them for the literary efforts by which they hoped to live in the future. And so they brought the freshness breathed from the Pee- blesshire hills and the braes of Dalnacar- doch to disquisitions philosophical and political, and to rambles among the book- sellers of the Row. The scheme invited the treatment of an infinity of subjects, and permitted the abruptest and most ~)iquant transitions. North has been expatiating somewhat s~riously upon sermons, and, apparently from sheer force of associations with rec- ollections of old ladies with their nosegays of odoriferous herbs, his hearers begin to feel somnolent; or the English opium- eater has been moralizing on speculative metaphysics, and the monologue grows monotonous. What more natural, than that, when the orator cuts the thread of his discourse with a drink, one of the party should spring on the opportunity and open cry on another topic? The hint suffices, all chime in, and there is no jealousy. From communing with Bacon or Dugald Stewart, from dissecting the demonology of the great magician, or dis- cussing the droning pedlar of Words- worth -and The Excursion is but a sermon in poetical form we go wading waist-deep with the Shepherd in the pools of Innerleithen, or stand watching a burst of the greyhounds on the slopes that look down upon Aitrive Lake. In the compass of one night of literally fast living we are carried round the whole circle of arts, science, l)olitics, field-sports, the journal- ism of to-day and the literature of all the ageS. it has been said that the Noctes are too provincial, and that, no doubt, is a blemish, as is their frequently diverging at length into matters of ephemeral inter- est. So far as that goes, we must remem- ber that they were written month lay month, and be very grateful to take them as we find them. For surely any editor would have been ill advised who allowed himself free license of hacking and man- gling. But we distirrctly deny that they are too local, which is a very different thing from being provincial. They are local inasmuch as they are essentially national; and Christopher never shows his sublimity or his sensibility so abso- lutely as when he is most entirely Scot- tish. So it came about that by the most felicitous of his many happy thoughts he glorified the shepherd of Ettrick as their central luminary. The Shepherd of the Noctes is so far true to his origindl, that Hoggs checkered career was reahy a romance; while some of his actual achievements were so marvellous that nothing he might say or do could much surprise us. The creature of his impul- ses, and entirely self-taught, he had done far more than compose his beautiful lyrics for he had written, as we have said, a weekly paper, and the venture for a time had fairly succeeded. It is true that we are startled by Norths prol)osal made, by the vay, somewhere about midnight that he should review the fashionable novels. I read nane, he had remarked on another occasion. But generally in practice, as in speech, he is kept within the limits of the conceivable. He does not profess to have mastered the classics as he naively observes, when North is speaking of Turgot and Galileo, he knows nothing about Turkey or Galilee, or such- like outlandish countries. But in his own Scotland of the Borders he is thoroughly at home, as he ranges the realms of imag. ination, a chartered libertine. There is nothing that can touch the sympathies of a roughly cultivated genius which is un- dreamed of in his poetical philosophy. For the Shepherd is always the poet, and the alchemist transmuting the baser met- als into silver and gold; and if he is sometimes coarse, he is never vulgar. We can give no better idea of the elo- quence of the Noctes than by noting some of the flowers and the diamonds that drop from his mouth; while his casual self-revelations are as true to the life as any of the confessions in his frank autobiography. As to these last, we come on a characteristic specimen on the very threshold of Professor Ferriers edition. Whence, asks North, are all your poetic visions, James ? Shepherd. Genius, Genius, my dear sir. 0 happy days that I have lain on the green hillside, with my plaid around me, best mantle of inspiration, my faithful Hector sit- ting like a very Christian by my side, glowring far aff into the glens after the sheep, or aiblins lifting up his ee to the gled hovering close arreath the marbled roof of clouds, bonny St. Marys Loch lying like a smile below, and a softened sun, scarcely warmer than the moon hersel, adorning without dazzling the day, over the heavens and the earth, a beuk o auld ballants, as yellow ~s the cowslips, in my hand or my bosom, and maybe, sir, my ink-horn dangling at a buttonhole, a bit stump o pen, nae bigger than an auld wifes pipe, in my THE HEROES OF TLLE NOCTES. mouth and a piece o paper, torn out o the hinder end of a volume, crunkling on my knee; un such a couch, Mr. North, hath your Shep- herd seen visions and dreamed dreams; but his een were never steeked; and I continued aye to see and to hear a outward things, although scarcely conscious at the time o their real na- ture, so bright, wavering, and unsure-like was the haill livin world, frae my lair on the knowe beside the clear spring, to the distant weather- gleam. The Shepherd wrote poetry and tales, as we know he saw visions and he dreamed dreams; but we do not believe he ever made sketches in the flesh, what- ever he may have done in the spirit. Here, however, we have a brilliant coin- panion study in which the imaginative resembles although it contrasts the act- ual: Im just as original in paintin as in poetry, and follow nae master I Im partial to close scenes a bit neuk, wi a big mossy stane, aiblins a birk tree, a burnie maist dried up, a but ae deep pool into which slides a thread o water doun a rock a shepherd readin, nae ither leevin thing for the flock are ayont the knowes and up amang the green hills. Ive dune a moorgin you sawt you would doubt the earth being roun, theres sic an ex- tent o flat and then, though theres nae mountain-taps, you feel youre on table-land. I contrive that by means o the duds. You never beheld stronger bent some o the stalks thick as your arm and places wi nae- thing but stanes. - . . Time evening, or rather late on in the afternoon, when Nature shows a solemn maist an awfu stillness and solitude, as I hae aften thocht, is deeper than at midnight. And we may remark in passing on the cleverness with which the Shepherds talk is managed. It abounds in most expres- sive Scotticisms, and no language is richer in epithets tersely expressive ; but it is the Doric and classical Scotch, with little of local vulgarity. Listen to the Shepherd with his effusive patriotism, vindicatin the grandeur of one of his Highland tliun- derstorms against the terrors of a tropi- cal tornado. We are transported into the thickest of the war of the elements, and yet the vivid picture comes as a stimulat- ing relief to the horrors of the strained suspense and the silent gloom which had heralded it. Hear it spanginhap, step, and loup frae Cruachan to Ben Nevis! The red-deer you micht think them a deadand that their antlers were rotten bronches sae stane- like do they couch atween the claps without ae rustle in the heather. Black is the sky as pitch but every here and there, shootin up through the purple gloom, for whan the lichtnin darts out its fiery serpents it is purple, lo I bricht pillars and pinnacles illuminated in the growlin darkness, and then gone in a moment in all their glory, as the day-nicht descends denser doun upon the heart o the glens, and you only hear the mountain-tap; for wha can see the thousand-year-auld cairn up-by yonder, when a the haill heaven is ae coal-cloud takin fire every noo and thcn as if it were a furnace ?and then indeed by that flash may you see the cairn like a giants ghost. Up goes the sable veil for an eddy has been churnin the red river into spray, and noo is a whirlwindand at that updriving see ye not a hundred snaw-white torrents tum- bling frae the tarns, and every cliff rejoicin in its new-born cataract? . . - Yet the cloud- army comes on in the dead-march and this is the muffled drum. Na that flash gaed through my head, and I fear Im stricken blind I Rattle rattle rattle as if great granite stanes were shot out o the sky doun an invisible aim-roof, and plungin sullenly intil the sea. The eagles daurna scream but that demon the raven, croaks croaks croaks, is it out u the earth, or out o the air, cave, or cloud? My being is cowed in the intense solitude. Yet the Shepherd, when he falls into the mood, can transport himself to the countries of the tornadoes. Witness the piece of humorous fooling in the last of the Noctes, ~vhen he avows a vague belief in the mettaseekozies, and re- counts his sensations and experiences as a lion in a previous state of existence. Power of description and pathos are inter- mingled with his quaint drollery; and there might be worse material for a fan- tastical epic of the brute-world, in the in- imitable mannerof Reinicke Fuchs. But we are always attracted back irresistibly to Scotlandto some of those touching l)ictures of humble Scottish life, which Wilson has less successfully expanded in his fictions. Take the recollections of the l)oets childhood, with the tranquil scenes of simple family life in many a lowly cot- tage in a primitive neighborhood. Methinks I see my father and my mother, my brothers and sisters I We are a sittin thegitherthe grown upthe little and the less the peat fire Wi an ash-root int, is bright and vaporless as a new-risin star that ye come suddenly in sicht o, and think it so near that ye cuuld maist grup it wi your out- stretched haun. XVhat voices are these I hear? the well-known, beloved tones of lips that have langsyne been in the clay! There is the bed on which I used to sleep beside my par- ents, when I was cad Wee Jamie, and on the edge o which mony a time, when I was a growin callan, hae I sat with the lassies in in- nocent daffin, a skirl noo and then half wauk. 86 THE LADIES LINDORES. enin the auld man asleep, or pretendin to be sae, by the ingle-neuk. I see before me the coverlet patched with a million pawterns, chance being the kaleedoscope, and the har- mony of the colors perfect as that o a bank o flowers. As for mirrors, there was but ae single lookin-glass in a the house, geyan sair cracket, and the ising rubbed aff, sae that ye had a comical face and queer, when you shaved; and on the Sunday mornin, when the family were buskin themsels for the kirk, it gaed glinting ike a sunbeam frae ane till anither, but aye rested langest afore the face o bonnie Tibby Laidlaw. . . . Puir Tibby! Mony a time hae I tied my neckcloth extendin the knot intil twa white rosebuds, in her een! stannin sae close, in order that I might see my image, that the ruffles o my Sabbath-sark just touched her breast-knot, and my breath amaist lifted up the love-lock that the light-hearted cretur used to let hang, as if through carelessness, on ae rosy cheek, just aboon and about the rim o her wee, white, thin lug, that kent, I trow, a the tunes ever sung in Scotland. But oh! that lug listened to what it shouldna hae listened till and awa frae the Forest fled its Flower wi an outlandish French prisoner on his parole at Selkirk, but set free by the short peace. He disappeared from her ae night in London, and she became a thing of shame, sin, and sorrow. We might multiply pictures of this kind almost at x~ill pictures drawn and ap- propriately colored with equal delicacy and tenderness, where the scenes and surroundings of the peasants life are faithfully reflected from lifelong observa- tion. North, who was a Tory to the backbone, like all genuine Conservatives, had a hearty affection for the unsophisti- cated lower orders: he drew no ideal sketches of blameless existences, but he represented the Scottish peasants as he found them, with their sins and their troubles; doing full justice to their hon- est independence, and to their fostering of the virtues and affections under the difficulties peculiar to the poor. There is a very delightful description, by the way, in the fourth of the Noctes, on the la- borers rest and recreation at the midday hour and meal. Of course, it runs like the rest into poetry, and it touches, as is natural, upon Scottish song; for Scottish son is inseparably interwoven with the joys and the sorrows of the peasant. So we scarcely change the subject when we ask our readers to listen once again to the Shepherd as he holds eloquently forth upon Scottish poetry. He is answerino- North, who has remarked that Scottish music is monotonous So is Scottish Poetry, sir. It has nae great range; but human natur never wearies o its am prime elementary feelings. A man may sit a haill nicht by his ingle, wi his wife and bairns, without either thinkin or feelin muckle and yet hes perfectly happy till bed-time, and says his prayers wi fervent gratitude to the Giver o a mercies. Its only whan hes be- ginnin to tire o the hummin o the wheel, or o his wife flytin at the weans, or o the weans upsettin the stools, or ruggin ane anithers hair, that his fancy takes a very poetical flight into the regions o the Imagination. Sae langs the heart sleeps amang its affections, it dwells upon few images; but these images may be infinitely varied; and, when expressed in words, the variety will be felt. Sae that, after a, its scarcely correct to ca Scottish Poetry monotonous, or Scottish Music either, ony mair than you would ca a kintra level, in bonnie gentle ups and downs, or a sky dull, though the clouds were neither mony or mul- tiform ; a depends upon the spirit. Twa-three notes may mak a maist beautifu tune; twa. three woody knowes a bonny landscape. Sensibility feels a this ; G~nius creates it and in Poetry it dwells, like the charm in the Amulet. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE LADIES LINDORES. CHAPTER VIII. IN the midst of all the attentions paid him by his neighbors and the visitors who followed each other day by day, there was one duty which John Erskine had to fulfil, and which made a break in the tide of cir- cumstances which seemed to be drifting him towards the family of Lindores, and engaging him more and more to follow their fortunes. When a life is as yet un- decided and capable of turning in a new direction, it is common enough, in fact as well as in allegory, that a second path should be visible, branching off from the first, into which the unconscious feet of the ~vayfarer might still turn, were the dangers of the more attractive way di- vined. There is always one unobtrusive turning which leads to the safetrack; but how is the traveller to know that, whose soul is all unconscious of special impor- tance in the immediate step it takes? John Erskine conteml)lated his rapproche- ment to the Lindores with the greatest complacency and calm. That it could contain any dan~ers, he neither knew nor would have believed: he wanted nothing better than to be identified with them, to take up their cause and be known as their partisan. Nevertheless Providence si- lently, without giving him any warning, opened up the other path to him, and THE LADIES LINDORES. 87 allowed him in ignorance to choose. If everything, and to whom life continues he had known, probably it would not have full of excitement and variety to the end. made the least difference. Young heroes She walked as briskly as though she had have never in any known history obeyed been twenty years younger, l)erhal)s more the dictates of any monitor, either audible so; for care does not press upon seventy or inaudible, who warned them against as upon fifty, and the only burden upon one connection and in favor of another. her ample shoulders was thatof years. Nevertheless he had his chance, as shall She had a soft white Indian shawl wrapped be seen. The mornino~ after his first din, round her, and a hood with very soft blue ner at the Castle, which had been the ribbons tied over her cap. She liked a reopening of a delightful world to him, he pretty ribbon as well as ever, and was decided that he had put off too long his always well dressed. From the garden, visit to his only relative, and set off which sloped downwards towards the through the soft May sunshine, for it was river, there was an extensive view a beautiful weather, to pay his respects to prospect of fields and scattered farm- his old aunt at Dunearn. houses spreading into blue distance into The house of Miss Barbara Erskihe at the outline of the hills, towards the north; Dunearn opened direct from the street. at the right hand the tower of Dunearn It was one of the same class of homely Church, which was not more handsome Scotch houses to which Dalrulzian itself than church towers generally are in Scot- belonged; but whereas I)alrulzian, being land; and to the left, towards the setting a mansion-house, had two gables, Miss sun, a glimpse of Tinto arrogantly seated Barbaras Lodging, as she liked it to be on its plateau. Miss Barbara, as she called, had but one, stepping out into the said, could not bide the sight of Tinto broad pathway, not paved, but composed House. She had planted it out as well as of sand and gravel, which ran along one she could; but her trees were perverse, side of the South Street. This gable was and would separate their branches or die broad enough to give considerable size to away at the top, as if on purpose to reveal the drawing-room which filled the upper the upstart. On this particular mornino story, and which had windows every way, of early May, Miss Barbara was not commanding the street and all that went alone: she had a young lady by her side, on in it, which was not much. The house of whose name and presence at this par- was entered by an outside stair, which ticular moment the country was full. gave admission to the first floor, on which There was not a house in the neighbor- all the rooms of the family were, the hood of any pretensions which she was floor below being devoted to the uses of the not engaged to visit; and there was servants, with the single exception of the scarcely a family, if truth must be told, dining-parlor, which was situated near the which was not involved more or less in an kitchen for the convenience of the house- innocent conspiracy on her behalf, of hold. Behind there was a large fragrant ~vhich John Erskine, all unconscious, was old-fashioned garden full of sweet-smell- the object. His old aunt, as was befitting, in g flowers, interspersed with fruit-trees, had the first chance. and going off into vecfetables at the lower You need not ask me any more ques- end. Notwithstanding that it was so far tions, Miss Barbara was saying, for I north, there were few things that would think you know just as much about the not grow in this garden, and it was a wil- family, and all the families in the country- derness of roses in their season. Except side, as anybody. You have a fine curi- one or two of the pale China kindthe osity, Nora; and take my word for it, monthly rose, as Miss Barbara called it, thats a grand gift, though never properly which is so faithful and blows almost all appreciated in this world. It gives you a the year round there were no roses in great deal of interest in your youth, and May; but there was a wealth of spring it keeps you from wearying in your old flowers filling all the borders, and the air age though thats a far prospect for was faintly sweet as the old lady walked you.~~ about in the morning sunshine enjoying My mother says I am a gossip born, the freshness and stir of budding life, said Nora, with her pretty smile. She was a portly old lady herself, fresh Never you trouble your head about and fair, with a bright complexion, not- thattake you always an interest in your withstanding seventy years of wear and fellow-creatures. Better that than the tear, and lively hazel eyes full of vivacity folk in a novelle. Not but what I like a and inquisitiveness. She was one of the good novelle myself as well as most things fortunate people who take an interest in in this life, its just extending your field. 88 THE LADIES LINDORES. Its like going into a new neighborhood. The box is come from the library this morninct said Miss Barbara in a paren- thesis. Oh yes, I opened it to have a peep. There is Middlemarch and one of Mr. Trollopes, and several names I dont know. No Middlemarch for me, said Miss Barbara, with a wave of her hand. I am too old for that. That means Ive read it, my dear, the way an experi- enced reader like me can read a thing in the air, in the newspapers, in the way everybody talks. No, thats not like go. ing into a new neighborhood that is getting to the secrets of the machinery, and seeing how everything, come the time, will run down, some to ill and harm, but all to downfall, commonplace, and prosi- ness. I have but little pleasure in that. And its pleasure I want at my time of life. Im too old to be instructed. If I have not learnt my lesson by this time, the more shame to me, my dear. But, Miss Barbara, you dont want only to be amused. Oh no: to have your heart touched, sometimes wrung even to be so sorry, so anxious that you would like to interfere to follow on and on to the last moment through all their troubles, still hoping that things will take a uood turn. And what is that but amusement? said the old lady. I am not fond of shedding tears; but even that is a luxury in its waywhen all the time you are sure that it will hurt nobody, and come all right at the end. Lydgate does not turn out all right at the end, said Nora, nor Rosamond either; they go down and down till you would be glad of some dreadful place at last that they might fall into it and be made an end of. I suppose it is true to nature, said the girl, with a solemnity comino~ over her innocent face, that if you dont get better you should go on getting worse and worse - but it is dread. ful. It is like what one hears of the place below. Ay, ay, were not fond nowadays of the place below; but Im afraid there must be some truth in it. That woman has found out the secret, you see. Miss Barbara meant no disrespect to the great novelist when she called her that wom- an. There was even a certain gratifica- tion in the use of the term, as who should say, Your men, that brag so much of themselves, never found this out which was a favorite sentiment with the old lady. Thats just where shes grand, Miss Barbara continued. Theres that young lad in the Italian bookTeeto what dye call him? To see him get meaner and meaner, and falser and falser, is an awful picture, Nora. Its just terri- ble. Its more than I can stand at my age. I want diversion. Do ye think I have not seen enough of that in my life? People are not bad like that in life, said Nora; they have such small sins, they tell fibs not big lies that mean anything, but small, miserable little fibs and they are ill-tempered, and sometimes cheat a little. That is all. Nothing that is terrible or tragical Here the girl stopped short with a little gasp, as if realizing something she had not thought of before. XVhat is it, my dear? said Miss Bar- bara. Oh only Tinto showing through the trees: is that tragedy? No, no. I)ont you see what I mean? dont you see the difference? He is only a rough, ill-tem- pered, tyrannical man. He does not real- ly mean to hurt or be cruel: and poor Lady Car, dear Lady Car, is always so wretched; perhaps she aggravates him a little. She will not take pleasure in any- thing. It is all miserable, but it is all so little, Miss Barbara; not tragedynot like Lear or Hamlet rather a sort of scolding, peevish comedy. You might make fun of it all, though it is so dread- ful; and that is how life seems to me very different from poetry, said Nora, shaking her head. Wait, said Miss Barbara, patting her on the shoulder, till the play is played out and you are farther off. The Lord preserve us! I hope Im not a prophet of evil; but maybe if you had known poor Lear fighting about the number of his knights with that hard-faced woman Regan, for instance (who had a kind of reason, youll mind, on her side: for I make no doubt they were very unruly that daft old man would never keep them in order), you would have thought it but a poor kind of a squabble. Who is this coming in upon us, Nora? I see Janet at the glass door looking out. It is a gentleman, Miss Barbara. He is standing talking. I think he means to come out here. It will be the minister, said the old lady calmly. He had far better sit down in the warm room, and send us word, for hes a delicate creature no constitution in him aye cold and couohs and THE LADIES LINDORES. 89 Indeed it is not Mr. Sterling~ He is quite young andand good-looking, I \I)ink He v~ont listen to Janet. He is coming here. Miss Barbara, shall I run away? Why should you run away? If its business, ~vell go in; if its pleasure Ah! Ive seen your face before, sir, or one like it, but I cannot put a name to it. You have n.aybe brought me a letter? Preserve us all! will it be John Erskine come home to Dalrulzian? Yes, Aunt Barbara, it is John Ers- kine, said the young man. He had his hat in one hand, and the sun shone pleas- antly on his chestnut locks and healthful countenance. He did not perhaps look like a hero of romance, but he looked like a clean and virtuous young Englishman. He took the hand which Miss Barbara held out to him, eagerly, and, with a little embarrassment, not knowing what else to do, bent over it and kissed it a saluta- tion which took the old lady by surprise, and, being so unusual, brought a delicate color to her old cheek. Ah, my man! and so youre John Erskine? I would have known you any- where, at the second glance if not at the first. Youre like your father, poor fel- low. He was always a great favorite with me. And so youve come back to your am at last? Well, Im very glad to see you, John. Its natural to have a young Erskine in the country-side. Youll not know yet how you like it after all this long absence. And how is your mother, poor body? She would think my pity out of place, I dont doubt; but Im always sorry for a young woman, sore hadden down with a sma family, as we say here in the north. I dont think she is at all sorry for her- self, said John, with a laugh, but it must be allowed there is a lot of them. There are always heaps of children, you know, in a parsons house. And that is true; its a wonderful dispensation, said Miss Barbara piously, to keep us down and keep us humble- minded in our position in life. But Im real glad to see you, and you must tell me where youve come from, and all youve been doing. Well take a turn round the garden and see my flowers, and then well take you in and give you your luncheon. Youll be ready for your luncheon after your ~valk ; or did you ride? This is Miss Nora Barrington, that knows Dalrulzian better than you do, John. Tell Janet, my dear, well be ready in an hour, and she must do her best for Mr. John. While this greeting went on, Nora had been standing very demurely with her hands crossed looking on. She was a girl full of romance and imagination, as a girl ought to be, and John Erskine had long been something of a hero to her. Nora wasin that condition of spring-time and anticipation when every new encounter looks as if it might produce untold conse- quences in the future, still so vague, so sweet, so unknown. She stood with her eyes full of subdued light, full of soft ex- citement, and observation, and fun; for where all was so airy and uncertain, there was room for fun too, it being always pos- sible that the event, which miaht be seri- ous or even tragic, might at the same time be o.~ly a pleasantry in life. Nora seemed to herself to be a spectator of what was perhaps happening to herself. Might this be hereafter a scene in her existence, like the first meeting between say An- tony and Cleopatra, say Romeo and Juliet? Several pictures occurred to her of such scenes. At one time there were quite a number of them in all the picture- galleries. First meeting of Edward IV. with Elizabeth Woodville: where all un- conscious, the fair widow kneels, the gal- lant monarch sees in his suppliant his future queen. All this was fun to Nora, but very romantic earnest all the same. The time might come when this stranger would say to her, Do you remember that May morning in old Aunt Barbaras garden? and she might reply, How little we imagined then! Thus Nora, with a shy delight, forestalled in the se- cret recesses of her soul the happiness that might never come, and yet made fun of her own thoughts all in the same breath. Johns bow to her was not half so graceful or captivating as his saluta- tion to Miss Barbara, but that was noth- ing; and she went away with a pleasant sense of excitement to instruct Janet about the luncheon and the new-coiner. Miss Barbaras household was much moved by the arrival. Janet, who was the housekeeper, lingered in the little hall into which the garden door opened, looking out with a curiosity which she did not think it necessary to disguise; and Agnes, Miss Barbaras own woman, stood at the staircase window half-way up. When Nora came in, those two per- sonages were conversing freely on the event. Hes awfu like the Erskines; just the cut of them about the shouthers, and that lang neck Do you ca that a lang neck? nae 90 THE LADIES LINDORES. langer than is very becoming. I like the head carried high. He has his fathers walk, said Agnes pensively; manys the time Ive watched him alang the street. He was the best-looking of all the Erskines; if he hadna marriet a bit hand- less creature H andless or no handless, said Janet, matters little in that condition o life. Eh, but it mattered muckle to him. He might have been a living man this day if there had been a little mair sense in her head. She might have made him change his wet feet and all his dreeping things when he came in from the hillside. It was the planting of yon trees that cost bonnie Johnny Erskine his life. The mistress was aye of that opinion. Eh, to think when ye have a man, that ye shotfidna be able to take care of him! said Agnes, with a sort of admiring won- der. She had never attained that dignity herself. Janet, who was a widow, gave a glance upward at the pensive old maiden of minoled condescension and contempt. And if ye had a man, ye would be muckle made up wi him, she said. Its grand to be an auld maid, for thatthat ye aye keep your faith in the men. This anell be for a wife, too, like a the rest. I could gie him a word in his ear It ~vill be something for our young misses to think about. A fine young lad, and a bonnie house. Hell have a our siller, besides his am, and that will be a rrand addition If he behaves himsel ! said Janet. The mistress is a real sensible woman. Youll no see her throw away her siller upon a prodigal, if he were an Erskine ten times over.~~ And wha said he was a prodigal? cried Agnes, turning round from the land- ing upon her fellow.servant, who was at once her natural opponent and bosom friend. Nora was of opinion by this time that she had listened long enough. Miss Barbara says that her nephew will stay to luncheon, Janet. You are to do your best for him. It is Mr. Erskine, from DaVilzian, Nora said, with most unnecessary explanation. Janet turned round upon her quietly, yet with superior dignity. ily this time-of day, Miss Nora, said Janet, I think I ken an Erskine when I see him; and al-so, when a visitor enters this door at twelve oclock at noon, that Janet, what Miss Barbara said. Perhaps it was to get rid of me to send me indoors out of the way. Naething more likely, said the house. keeper. She canna be fashed with strangers when her am are at her hand. Woman ! cried Agnes, from the landing, how dare you say sae of my mistress? Youll never mind, Miss Nora. Come up here, my bonnie young leddy, and youll have a grand sight of him among the trees. A), glower at him, said Janet, as she went away. You wouldna be so muckle taen up with them if ye kent as much about men as me. Na, youll pay no attention, said Ag- nes anxiously; its no real malice just she thinks she has mair experience. And so she has mair experience the only marriet woman in the house. Theres your mamma, with a bonnie family, takes nothing upon her, no more than if she was a single person; but Janet has it a her am way. Stand you here, Miss Nora, at this corner, and youll have a grand sight of him. Hes behind the big bourtree- bush; but in a moment in a mo- ment I dont want to see Mr. Erskine, said Nora laughing. I have seen him; most likely I shall see him at lunch. He is just like other people, like dozens of gentlemen Eh, but when you think that you never ken what may happen that you may be the man, for all we ken ! When Agnes thus put into words the idea which had (she would not deny it to herself)glanced throu~h Noras own mind, she was so hypocritical as to laugh, as at a great piece of absurditybut at the same time so honest as to blush. I believe you are always thinking of that sort of thing, she said. Awfuoften, Miss Nora, said Agnes, unabashed especially when theres young folk about; and after a, is there onything thats sae important.? Theres me and the mistress, weve stood aloof from a that; but I canna think its been for oor happiness. Her it was her am doing; but meits a very strange thing to say: Ive kent many that were far from my superiors as far as a person can judge that have had twa-three offers; but me, I never had it in my power. Youll think it a very strange thing, Miss hell stay to his lunch, and that I maun Nora? do my best. I know, said Nora; and you so It is not my fault, cried the girl, half pretty. It is quite extraordinary. This amused, half apologetic. I tell you only, was the reply that Agnes expecte& to her THE LADIES LINDORES. favorite confession. She was pretty still at fifty, slim and straight, with delicate features, and that ivory complexion ~vhich we associate with refinement and good blood; and the old waiting-woman knew how to faire valoir her fine person and features. She was dressed delicately in a black gown, with a white kerchief of spotless netlike a lady, everybody said. She shook her head with a smile of mel- ancholy consciousness. Its no looks that does it, she said; its \Vell, I canna tell. Its when you ken how to humor them and flatter them. But bless me, theres Janet, a woman that never flattered man nor wom- an either! I canna understand it, its beyond me. But you mustna follow the mistress, Miss Nora. Shes a happy woman enough, and a bonnie woman for her age, coming up there under her am trees, just look at her. But if that young lad had been her son, instead of just a distant cousin Oh, but boys give a great deal of trouble, said Nora seriously. Dear Miss Barbara, I like her best as she is. But you manna follow her example, my bonnie leddy, you manna follow her example. Take a pattern by your am mammaw. I ca her a happy woman, young yet, and a good man, and a bonnie posie of bairns. Eli! I ca her a happy woman. And takes no-thing upon her! said Agnes, nothing upon her. Youll come up the stair, Miss Nora, and look at yoursel in the glass. Oh no, thcres no- thing wrang with your bonnie hair. I like it just so, a wee blown about in the mornin air. Untidy! bless me, no the least untidy! but just give a look in the glass, and if you think another color would be more becoming, I have plenty ribbons. Some folk thinks yellows very artistic; but the mistress canna bide yel- low. Shes owre fair for it, and so are you. XVhy should I change my ribbon? It is quite tidy, said Nora, almost with in- dignation, standing before Miss Barbaras long cheval-glass. Agnes came and stood behind her, arranging her little collar and the draperies of her dress with caressing hands. And to tell the truth, Nora her- self could not shut out from her mind an agreeable consciousness that she ~vas looking rather nice; for me, she added, in her own mind. The morning breeze had ruffled an incipient curl out of the hair which she had brushed, demure and smooth, over her forehead in the morning. It was a thing that nobody suspected 9 when she was fresh from her toilet, but the wind always found out that small eccentricity, and Nora was not angry with the wind. Her ribbon was blue, and suited her far better than the most artistic yellow. All was fresh and fair about her, like the spring morning. Na;Iwouldna change a thing, Agnes said, looking at her anxiously in the glass, where they made the prettiest picture, the handsome old maid looking like a lady-in-waiting, her fine head appearing over the girls shoulder, a lady-in-waiting anxiously surveying her princess, about to meet for the first time with King Charming, who has come to marry her. This was the real meaning of the group. Nora did not change her ribbon or her own appearance in any way, but she gave a glance to the table set out for luncheon, and renewed the flowers on it, watching all the while the other group which passed and repassed the large, round window of the dining-room, their voices audible as they talked. Miss Barbara had taken Johns arm, which was a proof that he had found the way to her favor; and she was evidently asking him a hundred ques- tions. Snatches of their talk about his travels, about his plans, something which she could not make out about the Lin- dores, caught the ear of Nora. They saw her seated near the window, so there could be no reason why she should stop her ears. And Nora thought him very nice that all-useful adjective. She could scarcely help letting her imagina- tion stray to the familiar place which she had known all her lifeher dear Dal- rulzian, which she had lamented so open- ly, which now she felt it ~vould no longer be decorous to lament. He looked very like it, she thought. She could see him in imagination standing in the kindly open door, on the walk, looking the very mas- ter the place wanted. Papa had been too old for it. It wanted a young man, a young Well she laughed and col- ored involuntarily of course a young wife too. In all likelihood that was all settled, the young wife ready, so that there was no reason to feel any embar- rassment about it. And so lie knew the Lindores! She would ask Edith all about him. There was no doubt he was a very interesting figure in the country-side, something for the misses to think about, as Agnes said, though it was somewhat humiliating to think that that dreadful man at Tin to had roused a similar ex- citement. But the oftener John Erskine passed the window, the more he pleased 92 THE LADIES LINDORES. Nora Barrington. He was very nice,~~ she was sure. Flow kind and careful he was of Miss Barbara! How frank and open his countenance! his voice and his laugh so natural and cheerful! Up to this time, though Noras imagination had not been utterly untouched, she was still free of any serious inclination, almost if not entirely fancy-free. It could not be denied that when the new Rintoul became known in the country-side, he, too, had been the object of many prognostications. And he had been, she felt, very nice to Nora. Thouo-h he had pretensions far above hers, and was nct in the least likely to ally himself to a family without fortune, his advances had been such as a girl can- not easily overlook. He was the first who had paid Nora attention, and awakened her to a consciousness of power. And she had been flattered and pleased, being very young. But Nora now felt herself at that junction of the two roads, which, as has been said, is inevitable in the ex- perience of every young soul. She was standing in suspense, saying to herself, with a partial sense of treachery and guilt, that Mr. Erskine was still more nice than Lord Rintoul. John Erskine of Dalrulzian; there was something delight- ful in the very name. All this, it is true, was entirely visionary, without solid foun- dation of any kind; for they had ex- changed nothing but two shy bows, not a word as yet and whether lie would be as nice when he talked, Nora did not know. Her decision afterwards, made with some mortification, was, that he was not nearly so nice when he talked. He showed no wish to talk to her at all, which was an experience quite out of Noras way. She sat and listened, for the most part, at this simple banquet, growing angry in spite of herself, and altogether changing her opin- ion about Lord Rintoul. If she had been a little girl out of the nursery, John Ers. kine could scarcely have taken less notice of her. Miss Barbara and he continued their talk as if Nora had no existence at all. I always thought it a great pity that you were brought up so far from home, the old lady said. You know nothing about your own place, or the ways of the country-side. It will take you a long time to make that up. But the neighbors are all very kind, and Lindores, no doubt, will be a great resource, now theres a young family in it. Fortunately for you, John, youre not grand enough nor rich enough to come into my lords plans. Has my lord plans? For county hos- pitals and lunatic asylums. So he told me; and he wants my help. To hear even so much as that astonished me. When I knew him he was an elegant hypochondriac, doing nothing at all He does plenty now, and cares much, for the world and the things of the world, said Miss Barbara. I think I have divined his meaning; but we will wait and see. You need not sit and make those faces at me, Nora. I know well enough they are not to blame. A woman should know how to stand up for her own child better than that; but she was just struck helpless with surprise, I saynoth- ing different. Speak of man~uvring mothers! man~uvring fathers are a great deal worse. I cannot away with a man that will sacrifice his own flesh and blood. Fiegh! I would not do it for a kingdom. And the son, youll see, will do the same. Hold you your tongue, Nora. I know better the son will do the very same. He will be sold to some grocers daugh. ter for her hogsheads. Perhaps theyre wanted; two jointures to ~ay is hard upon any estate, and a title will always bring in money ~vhen its put up for sale in a judi- cious way. But you must have your wits about you now, if you have any dealings with your elegant hypochondriac, John, my man. Youre too smalltoo small for him; but if you had fifty thousand a year, you would soon soon be helpless in his hands Oh, Miss Barbara, cried Nora, you are unjust to Lord Lindores. Remember how kind he has been to us, and we have not fifty thousand, nor fifty hundred a year. Youre not a young man, said Miss Barbara; but, John, take you care of dangling about Lindores. I am not nam- ing any names; but there may be heart. aches gotten there nothing more for a man of yovr small means. Oh ay! per- haps I ought to hold my tongue before Nora; but she will be well advised if she takes care too; and besides, she knows all about it as well as I do myself. I hope, said John courteously, for he saw that Noras composure was dis- turbed by these last warnings, a ndhe~vas glad of a chance to change the subject, I hope I may be so fortunate as to see Colonel Barrington before he leaves the country. He has done so well by DaIrul- zian, I should like to thank him for his care. This made Nora more red than before. She could not get over that foolish idea THE LADIES LINDORES. 93 that Dalrulzian was far more to her than to this stranger, who could not care for it as she did. She felt that his thanks were an offence. Papa has gone, Mr. Ers- kine, she said, with unusual stateliness. I am left behind to pay some visits. Everybody here has been so good to us. That means we are all fond of her bit bright face, said Miss Barbara; but well say no more on that subject, Nora. Human natures selfish in grain. The like of me will take no trouble for lad or lass that is not sweet to see, and a coin- fort to the heart. I never heard such a pretty apology for selfishness before, said John. And Miss Barbara took his compliment in good part. But he and Nora made no further approach to each other. Those praises of her made him draw back visibly, she thought, and embarrassed herself beyond bearing. To be praised before an unsym- pathetic, silently protesting audience can anything be more humiliating? Nora was conscious of something like dislike of John Erskine before he went away. And yet his state of feeling was natural enough. He believed that the young lady, so dangerously suitable for him, the very wife he wanted, was being thrust upon him on every side, and the thought revolted him. No doubt, he thought, if she were conscious of it, it must be re- volting to her too; and in such a case the highest politeness was to be all but rude to her, to show at once and conclusively that schemes of the kind were hopeless. This sentiment was strengthened in the present case by the irritation caused by Miss Barbaras warning about Lindores, and the heartache which was all that a man of his means was likely to get there. He laughed at it, yet it made him angry. He who had been always used to feel himself a person of importance he for whom, even now, the whole country was taking the trouble to scheme to have himself suddenly classified with other small deer as quite beneath the considera- tion of the Lindores family, too small for my lords plans It was scarcely possible to imagine anything more irritating. After all, a Scotch lord was no such grand af- fair; and John could not be ignorant that, five years ago, neither father nor mother would have repulsed him. Now! but the doubt, the risk, did not induce the young man to be xvise to put Lady Edith out of his imagination, and turn his thoughts to the other, just as pretty, if that were all, who was manifestly within his reach. \Vhat a pit)- that young people are so slow to see reason in such matters, that they will never take the wiser way! Thus John had his opportunity offered to him to escape from a world of troubles and embarrassments before he had committed himself to that dangerous path and dis- tinctly refused, and turned his back upon it, not knowingas indeed at the real turning-point of our fortunes we none of us know. But as he set out on his homeward walk, his eves caught that great house of Tinto, which from Dunearn was the cen- tral object in the landscape an immense house, seated on a high l)latform of rock, dominating the river and the whole coun- try, with scarcely wood enough about it to afford any shadow; an ostentatious pile of building, with that spot of auda- cious red against the grey sky the flag always flying (set him up! Miss Barbara said) when the master was at home, which was, so to speak, the straw which broke the camels back, the supreme piece of vanity which the county could not toler- ate. Pat Torrance to mount a flag upon his house to mark his presence ! What more could Sacred Majesty itself do? John Erskine felt as if some malicious spirit had thrown a stone at him out of the clouds as his eye was caught by that flaunting speck of red. He felt all the local intolerance of the man, ~vithout a claim but his money to crow thus over his neighbors. And then he thought of Car- ry Lindores and her poetry and enthusi- asm. That was how the earl disposed of his daughters. A thrill ran through Johns frame, but it was a thrill of defi- ance. He raised his stick unawares and waved it, as if at the big bully who thus scorned him from afar. CHAPTER IX. LADY CAROLINE TORRANCE was in her morning-room ~vith her children when her husband came to tell her of his visit to Dalrulzian. He had kept it for twenty- four hours, in order to have an opportu- nity of telling it at his leisure, and making it as disagreeable to her as possible; for indeed he was fully convinced in his own mind that John had been the man about whom his broken-hearted bride had made a confession to him. The confession had not disarmed or moved him to generosity; not that his delicacy was wounded by the thought of his wifes engagement to some one else before she saw him no such fantastical reason moved him; but that he was furious at the thought that this un- seen personage still remained agreeable 94 THE LADIES LINDORES. to her, and that in secret she could retire upon the recollection of some one whom she had once preferred, or perhaps did now prefer, to himself. This was insup- portable to him. He did not care very much for filling her heart himself; but he meant that she should belong to him ut- terly, and not at all, even in i~nagination or by a passing thought, to anybody else. Lady Cars morning-room was the last of a gorgeous but faded sUite of rooms open- ing off the drawing-room, from which it was separated by heavy velvet curtains. Everything was heavy and grand even in this sanctuary, where it was supposed the lady of the house was to find her refuge when no longer on duty, so to speak no longer bound to sit in state and receive her visitors. It was furnished like the rest, with gilded chairs, a table of Floren- tine mosaic, and curtains of ruby velvet looped and puckered into what the uphol- sterer of the late Mrs. Torrances time thought the most elegant and sumptuous fashion. The gilding was a little tar- nished, the velvet faded; but still it was too fine for anything less than a royal habitation. It is supposed that prin- cesses, being used to it, like to knock their elbo -s against ormolu ornaments, and to put down their thimbles and scissors (if they ever use such vulgar implements) upon marble; but poor Lady Car did not. She was chilly by nature, and she never had got over her horror of these addi- tional chillinesses. The Florentine mar- ble made her shiver. It was far too fine to have a cover over it, which she had ventured once to suggest, to her hus- bands horror. What! cover it up as if it were plain mahogany a thino that ~vas worth no one could tell how much So she gave it up, and shivered all the more. It was a chilly day of May, which the fresh foliage outside, and a deceitful sun not strong enough to neutralize the east wind, made only a little less genial, and Lady Car sat very close to the fire, in a chair~ s little gilt as could be found, and with a little table beside her covered with a warm and heavy cover, as if to make up for the naked coldness of the rest. The room had three large windows, looking, from the I)latform upon which the house stood, over the wide country a great landscape full of greening fields and foli- age, and an infinite blue and white sky, the blue somewhat pale but very clear, the clouds mounting in Alpine peaks into the far distance and lying along the horizon in long lines. The windows, it need not be said, were plate-glass, so that an im pression of being out of doors and ex- posed to the full keenness of the breeze was conveyed to the mind. How often had poor Lady Car sat and shivered look- ing over that wistful sweep of distance in her loneliness, and knowing that no one could ever come out of it who would bring joy to her or content! She had never been beautiful, the reader is aware. She was plair now, in the absence of all that sunshine and happiness which beautifies and brightens homely faces. And yet her face was not a homely face. The master of Tinto had got what he wanted a woman whose appearance could never be overlooked, or whom any one could un- dervalue. Her air was full of natural distinction though she had no beauty. Her slight, pliant figure, like a long sap- ling bending before every breeze, had a grace of gentle yielding which did not look like weakness; and her smile, if per- haps a little timid, was winning and gra- cious. But her nose and her upper lip were both too long, and the pretty waver- ing color she had possessed in her youth was gone altogether. Ill-natured people called her sallow and indeed, though it is not a pretty word, it was not, at this stage of her existence, far from the truth. 1-ler two children were playing beside her on the carpet. Poor lady! here was perhaps the worst circumstance in her hard lot. As if it were not enough to be compelled to take Pat Torrance for her husband, it had been her melancholy fate to bring other Torrances, all his in temper and feature, into the world. This is an aggravation of which nobody would have thought. In imagination we are all glad to find a refuge for an unhappy wife in her children, whom instinctively we allot to her as the natural compensation creatures like herself and belonging to her, although the part in them of the ob- noxious father cannot be ignored. But here the obnoxious father was all in all; even the baby of two years old on the rug at her feet, the little girl who by all laws oucrht to have been like her mother, showed in her little dark countenance as small relationship to Lady Caroline as to any stranger. They were their fathers children: they had. his black hair, a pe- culiarity which sometimes is extremely piquant and attractive in childhood ,giving an idea of unusual development; but, on the other hand, sometimes is not. Lit- tle Tom and Edie were of those to whom it is not attractive, for they had heavy fat cheeks, and the s~tme light, large, project- ing eyes which were so marked a feature THE LADIES LINDORES. in their fathers face. Poor Lady Car thought they fixed their eyes upon her with a cynical gaze when she tried to sing to them to tell them baby-stories. She tried her best, but that was perhaps too fine for these children of a coarser race. They scrambled down from her lap, and liked better to roll upon the floor, or break with noisy delight the toys which were showered upon them, leaving the poor young mother to gaze and wonder, and feel as much rebuffed as if these two in- fants of two and three had been twenty years older. They screamed with delight when their father tossed them up in his arms, but they escaped from their moth- ers knee when she would have coaxed them to quiet. Poor Lady Car! they ~vere a wonder and perplexity to her. She was half afraid of them though they were her own. Torrance had come in from the woods, which he had been inspecting with his forester, and perhaps something had crossed him in this inspection, for he was a tyrant by nature, and could not tolerate a contrary opinion; whereas the officials, so to speak, of a great estate in Scotland, are much given to opinions, and by no means to be persuaded to relinquish them. The forester had objected to something the master suggested, and the agent had taken the foresters part. The master of Tinto came in fuming. To give in was a thing intolerable to him, and to give in to his own servant! But here was another servant whom he need not fear bullying, who could not throw up her situation and put him to inconvenience, who was forced to put up with as much indignity as he chose to put upon her. This thought gave his mind a welcome relief he strode along through all the gilded rooms with a footstep which meant mischief. Lady Caroline heard it afar off, and recognized the sound. What could it be now? Her mind ran hurriedly over the recent occur- rences of the day, to think what possible offence she could have given him. Noth. ing or at least she could think of noth- ing. It did not require a very solid rea- son for the transference to her shoulders of the rage which he did not think it ex- pedient to bestow upon some one else. He came in kicking out of the way the toys with which the children were playing. These monkeys, he said, would ruin a Jew if they grow up the way you are breeding them, my lady. That cost a pound or two yesterday, and now its all in bits. If your family could stand such extravagance, mine cant. Tom, my lad, 95 if you break your fine toys like this, Ill break your head. But its not the chil- drens fault, he added, its the way theyre bred. It is very wrong of Tommy, said poor Lady Car, but you laughed and clapped your hands yesterday when I f,ound fault. I wont have the boys spirit broken thats another thing. Breedings an affair of day by day; but it cant be ex- pected that you should take such trouble, with your head full of other things. What other things? cried Lady Car. Oh, Pat, have a little pity! What else have I to think of? I may not under- stand the children, but they are my only thought. Here he gave a mocking, triumphant laugh. No, I dare say you dont under. stand them. Theyre of my side of the house, he said. It was a pleasure to him, but not an unalloyed pleasure, for he would have liked to secure in his daughter at least some reflection of her mothers high-bred air, which had always been her attraction in his eyes. As for other things, he added, theres plenty for instance, I have just been visiting your old friend. My old friend? Lady Caroline looked at him ~vith wondering eyes. Oh, that is the way, is it? pretend you dont understand ! 1 went expressly for your sake. You see what a husband I am: not half appreciated ready to please his wife in every sort of way. I dont think much of your taste, though under size, said Torrance, with a laugh, decidedly under size. Lady Car looked at him with a moment- ary elevation of her slender, droopin~ throat. The action ~vas one that had a certain pride in it, and this was what her husband specially admired in her. But she did not understand him, nor was there any secret in her gentle soul to be found out by innuendoes. She shook her head gently, and drooped it again with her ha- bitual bend. I do not know what you mean. It must be some mistake, she said. it is no mistake, Lady Car. Thats not my way to make mistakes. It suits you not to know-. That makes me all the more certain. Oh, Im not afraid of you. Were not in Italy or any of these places. And youre a great deal too proud to go wrong: y-oure too cold, you have not got it in you. Lady Caroline raised her head again, but this time in sheer surprise. Pat, 96 THE LADIES LINDORES. she said, faltering, all I know is, that would force me into the society of one you mean to insult me. I know nothing oh, P at, surely you are doing yourself but that. What is it? Do not insult me wrong! You could not be so cruel as before the children. that I Pshaw! how should the children un- He laughed again, striding across the derstand? fireplace, ever encroaching more upon her Not what you mean; but neither do I corner. His face had grown red with understand that. The children know as wrath. He was not without feeling, such well as I do that you mean to hurt me. as it was, and this ~vhich he supposed his What is it ? ~vhat have I done? ~vifes acknowledgment that his cruel de- By Jove! he said, looking at her, to vice could indeed wound her, gave himself see you there with your white face, one a start of self-reproach and alarm, though would think you never had done anything there was pleasure in the power he felt but good all your life. You look as if he had acquired of causing pain. butter ~vould not melt in your mouth. Ali, Ive caught you, have I? Ive Not the sort of woman to look down upon caught you at last! he cried, with a tone her husband and count him a savage, and of triumph. keel) thinking of a nice, smooth, soft- You could not do it! cried Lady spoken You would never tell me Caroline, her pale face flushed. No! his name, and I ~vas a fool, and didnt do not say you made such a cruel plan insist ul)on; but now he has come back no, no ! to entrap the poor woman who to be your ladyships neighbor, and see is your wife alas! who never did you you every day. harm to rend her heart in two, and She did not answer immediately. She make her life more miserable. No, no! looked at him ~vith a curious light steal- do not tell me you have this cunning as ing into her soft grey eyes, raising her well as all the rest; do not tell me head again. Then she said slowly, I You would not do it, you could not do it. think you must mean Mr. Erskine of Dal- There is no such cruelty in man. rulzian. if so, you have made a great Its a satisfaction, he cried, his face mistake. I think he is younger than burning and glowing, to think I have I am. He was not much more than a boy you in my grip, Lady Car. when I knew him. He never was any- She breathed quick and hard, pushed thingbut an acquaintance. back in her corner, gazing up at him with Its likely youll get me to believe a look from which a stronger tremor had that, cried Torrance scornfully. He taken all the timidity. It was some time jumped up from his seat, and came and before she could speak. Do not think, stood in front of the fire, with his back she said, that I am afraid of you. I am to it, brushing against her dress, so close only horrified to think but I might have to her that she had to draw back out of known. Mr. Erskine, by whom you think his way. An acquaintance! There are you can make me more unhappy, is noth- different meanings to that word. Ive ing to menothing, nothing at all, noth- been to see him on your account, my lady. ing at all! He is not the gentleman I Ive asked him to come here. Oh, Im not thought it right to tell you about no, afraid of you, as I tell you. Youre too no! a very different person. I do not cold and too proud to go wrong. You want to see him, because I should not shall see him as much as you like I like old friends to know; but Mr. Ers- have every confidence in you see him, kine is nothing to me nothing! and talk to him, and tell him what you Whether he would have been convinced think of your husband. It will be a nice by the vehemence with which she said sentimental amusement for you; and as this alone, cannot be known for at that for me, Ill always be by to look on. moment the carefully festooned velvet He lauThed as he spoke, angrily, fierce- curtains were disturbed in the regulated ly, and glared down upon her from under folds which nobody at Tinto had ever his eyelids with a mixture of fury and ventured to alter, and Edith suddenly satisfaction. She pushed her chair back appeared with an anxious and pale coun- a little ~vith a shiver, drawing away her tenance. She had heard the raised voices dress, upon which he had placed his foot. as she approached, and her sisters noth- If it was as you suppose, she said, ing to me, nothing! had been quite dis trembling, what misery you would be tinct to her as she came in. She could planning for me! It makes me cold in- not imagine what it was that could have deed to think of such cruelty. What! excited poor Carry so much, and Edith you would put me in such a strait! You had a nervous dislike of any scene. She THE LADIES LINDORES. 97 could not draw back, having with difficulty sent away the servant who was conducting her punctiliously to her sisters presence, and she felt herself compelled to face the quarrel, which was evidently a serious one. Edith ~vas fastidious and sensitive, with all the horror of a girl ~vho had never seen anything like domestic contention or the jars of family life. Lord Lindores and his wife had not always agreed since his recent elevationindeed they had disagreed bitterly and painfully on the most serious questions; but such a thing as a quarrel had been unknown in their household. To Edith it seemed such an offence against good taste and all the courtesies of life, as nothing could excuse petty and miserable, as well as unhappy and wrong. She was annoyed as well as indignant to be drawn into it thus against her will. Carry had hitherto concealed with all her might from her young sister the state of conflict in which she lived. Her unhappiness she did not hide; but she had managed to keep silent in Ediths presence, so that the girl had never been an actual witness of the ~vranglings of the ill-matched pair. But poor Lady Car for once was moved out of her usual precau- tions. She was too much excited even to remember them. She appealed to her sis- ter at once, hailing her appearance with eagerness, and without pausing to think. Edith, she cried, you have come in time. Tell Mr. Torrance that Mr. Ers- kine, who has just come home, was not a special friend of mine. You can speak, for you know. Mr. Torrance says he thinks here Lady Car came to her- self, perceiving the disturbed looks of her sister, and remembering her own past reserve. She paused, and forced herself into a miserable smile. It is not worth while entering into the story, she said; it does notmatter much. It is only a mistake, a a difference of opinion. You can tell Mr. Torrance I dont want any information, said Torrance sulkily. He, too, felt embar- rassed by the sudden introduction of Edith into the discussion. He moved away from the fire with a rude attempt at civility. Edith, in her youthful absolutism, and want of toleration or even understand- ing of himself, overawed him a little. She was not, he thought, nearly so aristocratic in appearance as his wife; but he was slightly afraid of her, and had never been at his ease in her presence. What was the opinion of this little chit to him? He asked himself the question often, but it did not divest him of that vague percep- I LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXIX. 1983 tion of his own appearance in her eyes, which is the most mortifying of all reflec- tions. No caricature made of us can be so disconcerting. Just so Haman must have seen himself, a wretched pretender, through the eyes of that poor Jew in the gate. Torrance saw himself an exag. gerated boor, a loud-speaking, underbred clown, in the clear regard, a little con- temptuous, never for a moment overawed by him, of Edith Lindores. He had per- haps believed his wifes denial in respect to John Erskine while they were alone, but he believed her entirely when she called Edith to witness. He was subdued at once he drew away from before the fire with sulky politeness, and l)uslled for- forward a chair. Its a cold day, he said. The quarrel died in a moment a natural death. He hung about the room for a few minutes, while Edith, to lessen the embarrassment of the situation, occu- pied herself with the children. As for Lady Car, she had been too much dis- turbed to return at once to the pensive calm which was her usual aspect. She leaned back in her chair, pushed up into the corner as she had been by her hus- bands approach, and with her thinhands clasped together. Her breath still came fast, her poor breast heaved with the stormshe said nothing to aid in the gradual restoration of quiet. The spell being once broken, perhaps she was not sorry of the opportunity of securing Ediths sympathy. There is a consolation in disclosing such pangs, especially ~vhen the creator of them is unbeloved. To tell the cruelties to which she ~vas subject, to pour out her wrongs, seemed the only relief which poor Carry could look for. ward to. It had not been her will to betray it to her sister; but now that the betrayal had taken place, it was almost a pleasure to her to anticipate the unburden- ing of her heart. All that she desired for the moment was that he would go away, that she might be free to speak. The words seemed bursting from her lips even while he was still there. Perhaps Tor- rance himself had a percel)tion of this; but then he did not believe that his wife had not a hundred times made her com- plaint to Edith before. And thus there ensued a pause which was not a pleasant one. Neither the husband nor the wife spoke, and Ediths agitated discourses with the children were the only sounds audible. They were not prattling, happy children, capable of making a diversion in such circumstances; and Edith was not so fond of the nephew and niece, THE LADIES LINDORES. 98 who so distinctly belonged to their fa- flier, as she ought to have been. The situation was relieved by a summons to Torrance to see some one below. He went away reluctantly, jealously, darting a threatening look at his wife as he looked back. Edith was as much alarmed for what was coming as Torrance was. She redoubled her attentions to the children, hoping to avert the disclosure which she, too, saw was so near. It is their time to go back to the nursery, said Carry, with a voice full of passion, ringing the bell; and the chil- dren were scarcely out of hearing when the storm burst forth I have borne a great deal, oh, a great deal more, far more, than you can everknow; but think, think! what he intended for me. To invite John Erskine here, thinking lie was some one else; to bring us into each others company day after day; to tempt me to the old conversations, the old walks. Dont contradict me he said so: that I might feel my misery, and drink my cup to the last dregs. Carry, Carry! you must be mistakin him; he could not wish that; it would be an insultit would be impossible. That is why it pleases him, cried the poor wife; lie likes to watch and make sure that I suffer. If I did not suffer, it would do him no good. He says I am too proud and too cold to go wrong, Edith! That is how he speaks to your sister; and lie wishes to show me to show me, as if I did not knowwhat I have and what I have lost! Carry, you must not. Oh, dont let us even think of what is past now! It is easy for ~-ou to say so. I have tyiedoh, how I have tried !never to think of the past even no~v, even to- day. Think, only think! Because he supposed that, he went expressly to see John Erskine, to ask him to come here, planning to torture me,no matter to him, because he was sure I was too proud to go wrong. He wanted to watch the iiieetingto see how we would look at each other, what we would say, how we would behave ourselves at such a mo- ment. Can you believe it, Edith? Was there ever anything in a book, in the the- atre, so cruel, so terrible? Do you sup- pose one can help, after that, thinking of the past, thinking of the future too ? for suppose it had been Edward Oh no, no! I dont want to name his name; but suppose it had been he. Another time it may be he. He may come to visit John Erskine. We may meet in the world; and then I know I know what is before me. This manoh, I cannot call him by any name! this man, whom I belong to, who can do what he pleases with my life I know now what his pleas- ure will he, to torture me, Edie ! for no purpose but just to see rue sufferin a new way. He has seen me suffer al- ready oh, how much ! and he is b/ag! he wants something more piquant, a newer torture, a finer invention to get more satisfaction out of me. And you tell me I must not think of the past Carry, Carry! cried Edith, trem- bling; what can I say? You ought not to bear it. Come home; come back to us. Dont stay with him, if this is how you feel about him, another day. Carry shook her head. There is no going back, she said; alas! I know that now, if never before. To go back is impossible my father would not allow it; my mother would not approve it. I dare not myself. No, no, that cannot be. However dreadful the path may be, all rocks or thorns, and however your feet may be torn and bleedingforward, for- ward one must go. There is no escape. I have learned that. There was a difference of about six years between them not a very great period; and yet what a difference it made! Edith had in her youthful mind the certainty that there was a remedy for every evil, and that what was wrong should not be permitted to exist. Carry knew no remedy at all for her own condi- tion, or, indeed, in the reflection of her own despair, for any other. Nothing was to be done that she knew of; nothing could do any good. To go back was im- possible. She sat leaning back in her chair, clasping her white, thin hands, looking into the vacant air, knowing of no aid, but only a little comfort in the mere act of telling her miseries nothing more; while Edith sat by her, trembling, glowing, impatient, eager for something to be done. Does mamma know? the girl asked, after a pause. Carry did not move from her position of quiet despair. Do you think, she said, it is possible that mamma, who has seen so much, should not know? To this Edith could make no reply, knowing how often the subject had been discussed between her mother and her- self, with the certainty that Carry ~vas unhappy, though without any special ex- planation to each other of the manner of her unhappiness. MY SPIDER. 99 But if my father were to speak to him, such profusion that I was led to call him Carry? My father ought to do it; it was Esau. he who made you it was he who ..- The bottle most likely did not impart a No one can say anything; no one can generous warmth, and probably the ~arish do anything. I am sorry I told you, li~ht of day was not pleasant to this deni- Edie; but how could I help it? And it zen of the rafters and remote corners, yet does me a little good to speak. I must he settled himself in his new habitation complain, or I should die. with a calmness which commanded my Oh, my poor Car, my poor Car! admiration. No fear entered his breast Edith cried, throwing herself upon her he was not daunted by captivity. He did knees beside her sister. Die she said, not wildly seek an outlet, like most of the within herself; would it not be better things we call insects. He seemed to be far betterto die? It was living that of the school of the ascetic Brahmins, seemed to her impossible. But this was and apparently regarded fate as invin- another of the sad l)ieces of knowledge cible. which Carry had acquired: that you can- Even if I keep you in captivity, I not die when you please, as the young said, I will provide you with a mansion, and untried are apt to supposethat and you shall have an amplicity of food; mortal anguish does not always kill. It After a little search a wide-necked jar was was Edith who was agitated and excited, obtained, and 1 set to work to catch flies. seeking~a~erly for a remedy any rem- The jar was glass, and its mouth was coy- edy even that heroic and tragical one; ered with muslin; but in case Arachnida hut Carry did not feel that even in that cared not for light and ventilation, I pro- there was any refuge for her now. vided him with a piece of paper rolled This was by no means John Erskines conewise, and in this inner chamber he fault. He was as innocent of it, as un- could seek retirement. conscious of it, as any man could be; but On being placed in his new abode, my Edith, an impatient girl, felt a sort of friend betrayed no curiosity. He merely visionary rage against him, in which there settled him~elf on the piece of paper, as was a certain attraction too. It seemed it had a more genial feel than the trans- to her as if she must go and tell him of parent floor. Perhaps he watched me, this sad family secret, though he had so but I could not tell that from his expres- little to do with it. For was not he in- sion. His face was typical of indiffer- volved, and his coming the occasion of it? ence. If she could but have accused him, con- I now began to make havoc among a fided in him, it would have given her mind colony of flies who had apparently spent a certain relief, though she could not ~vell their lives in Obtainince from the ~vindow- tell why. panes some occult flavor which is not perceptible to our coarser palates. I made three captives, vho were passed beneath the muslin door of the jar with a little sleight of hand. The appearance of these flies was my next subject of obser- vation. They each had an individuality which I did not till then know that flies possessed. Their deportment, their fig- ures, their very moral tone, had a distinct stamp; yet there was an harmonious something which united characters so different. The first had a fluffy appear- ance; his body looked sodden, and he behaved in a fat and sensual manner. He took the grossest pleasure in warmin his ventral surface on the side of the jar to- wards the sun. He sipped the sweets of life to excess, arid had lost that activity a fly ought to possess. Alas! his career rendered him unfit to battle in the strug- gI e for existence. He became the spiders first meal. The second fly had but one wing. He was lean and ill-nurtured, yet he had withal From The Gentlemans Magazine. MY SPIDER. A SPIDER, sitting placidly on a hat-peg, awakened in me a vague enthusiasm for flatural history; so I captured him, and put him in a bottle. He was lean and gaunt, and had an ominous countenance. The small row of eyes on the vertex of his head looked murder and rapine, and the formidable jaws which he moved slowly, as if he were sucking his teeth nieant death to those who were his infe- riors in strength. He seemed to have been lately in distressed circumstances, for the light came through his very car- cass, and his legs were almost as weakly as the gossamer he wove. The strongest part of him seemed to be the stiff hairs that covered him. They stood out inde- pendently, and covered his body with MY SPIDER. 100 a chirpy and pleasing manner. He had ment. The fly was still, except for a neither the pompous bearing of opulence quivering motion of one of its legs. It nor the boisterous ways of rude health. was the tremor of death. He was a sweet4empered and amiable fly, For ten minutes at least the spider did and among the local musc~ undoubtedly not move a limb. The palpi forgot to occupied the same position that Tiny Tim wave, and he abandoned himself to the did in his family. I should have let him full and gross enjoyment of his meal. I go, only I feared that, if I did so, I should for~ot the flys agonies. This poor, also release the third fly, whom my soul starved creature, safe from the persecu- loathed. Now, let me tell you why that tion of the housemaid, was revelling in fly was objectionable. He was the only the juices of a luscious fly. The gloom fly left on the window-panes, and he of his life was dissipated by a bright spot. walked over them with the arrogance of a Starvation even had a charm when fol- landlord. I sought to catch him, but lowed by such a meal. each attempt was more futile than the At last he fixed the fly against the last. He dodged, he flew away from the paper with one foot, and loosened his window, he calmly floated about the room, grip, and after giving a sigh of satisfac- and I followed him, flapping with my tion, proceeded to decapitate his prey. pbcket-handkerchief till 1 visibly per. He then held the carcass in such a man- spired. He was as cunning as the fox of ner that I thought he was going to blow Ballybogue, who, you remember, used to into it, but he did not. The pangs of take in the newspaper to see where the hunger were assuaged, and ~vi th an Epi- meets were to be. My temper overcame curean manner worthy of Brillat.Savarin me, and I swore I would have that fly. he sought for some dainty morsel in the After a hunt, which brought out all chest. my worst characteristics, I caught him, Half an hour after, he still lovingly held and deposited him in my vivarium, rejoic- his prize, although he ate no longer. The ing to myself that his death-agonies would child-rhyme was floating in his memory be some compensation for my pains. As Oh, what fun! soon as he got into the jar, Mr. Fly dis- Nice plum bun! covered that his poor little brother in ad- How I wish had place where his ~vin~ versity a raw It never was done! had been torn off, and he would follow him from place to place to put his sucker I went to bed, and on the morrow another on to the sore. It was not the kindliness corpse, that of Tim, lay on the floor of of the dogs of Lazarus which led him to the bottle. 1-us expression was placid as lick the wound. He saw that Tim did in life, and there was that beast of a fly, not like it, and as he was a nasty, bullying whom I described before, sucking at the cad, he persisted in his obnoxious per- old wound. formances. I left him disgusted. He Days went on, and Esaus digestion was a beast! seemed a laborious process. I watched In the course of an hour or so I re- with eagerness to see whether he would turned. The sensual fly was in the arms lay his hands on his companion by force of the spider. The hunter, with his or fraud. The spider lay immovable, the quarry in his clutch, was on the piece of fly was idly busy in security. paper, and I could see him well. Four Now, the utter disregard of decency black bead-like eyes, situated on the very paraded by that fly would have sent a cold summit of his head, gleamed at me with shiver down the spine of any proper- ferocity. His mandibles were stretched minded person. He hustled the corpses to their utmost. The hooked extremity of his brethren who were dead. He was of one was driven into the flys eye, the constantly trying to extract from their other was fixed somewhere about its bodies what juices the spider had left. throat. Between these a pair of jaws He turned them on their stomachs. He were working with a synchronous and turned them on their backs. He had no scissors-like movement, and his upper and regard whatever for the deceased. lower lip (for such they were, I afterwards I sat in my armchair and pondered learned) worked, as it were, between over the levity of that wretch till the din- whiles. As the jaws approached each ner-bell rang, and I went sorrowfully to other, the lips parted. His palps, or leg- my evening meal. How much superior like antennae, waved slowly as the tail of am I to that fly! If a steak from one of an angry cat; and his very spinnerets, six my fellow-creatures were laid before me, in number, stood out turgid with excite- I should reject it with abhorrence, MY SPIDER. I0I thought I, even if it were garnished with the savory onion or the mushroom ay, even if it were relished with oyster- sauce and the tenderest asparagus. It is only the worst grades of life which can feed upon their kind. We had chickens for dinner. The liver wing was excellent, and the en-dedans of the back afforded pleasant picking. I begged the maid to preserve the bones for a broken-lea adopted. aged dog whom I had My plate was brought on to the lawn, and on it were the remains of the fowls; and the dog was carried out with all care to enjoy his meal on the grass. Poor old thing! His tail wagged with a steady flap, his eves glistened softly, his neck ~vas outstretched, and his nose was agi- tated with a delicate twitching till he was placed beside his repast. Then he fell to, and with admirable judgment selected the most meaty morsels to commence with. It was lucky that he had finished two pinions, for the Philistines were upon him. A pea-hen close by beard the crunching. She listened. Curiosity seized her, and she looked at the eater, first with one eye, then with the other. (That was mere coquetry, as it gave her an opportunity of showing off the graceful movements of her neck.) She approached a few steps with stagy dignity; she saw there was food, and the bird of Juno, for- getting her state, ran with an ungainly and slop-slap step towards the plate. The bird was large and powerful, and the dog was small and an invalid. He therefore secured the best advantages that the circumstances afforded, and sneaked off on three legs with a drum- stick. Gristle? quoth the pea-hen; ex- cellent! Tendon? better still. Gaup, gaup. A small bone? twill do me no harm. Down it went. A little pick- ing ? peck, peck. Thou cannibal ! thought I, those are the remains of thy companions of the farmyard. That fly is not so unnatural, after all. I will let it go. My resolution ~vas short-lived. Two hours ago there were but a spider and a fly and a piece of paper in the glass jar. Now my friend the spider was evidently getting hungry, and he was exerting him- self. Two strong cords were drawn from the paper to the bottom of the jar, and Esau meant business. His spinnerets were turgid, his aspect was determined, and steadily and slowly he commenced to make a web. Now and then the fly took a walk and broke through a strand or two. They stuck to his legs, and annoyed him. With a little difficulty the films were got rid of, but consternation began to seize the flys mind, and he resolved to move from the scene of operations. He took up his quarters on the muslin which cov- ered the neck of the jar. Next morning, the flys head hung like a Bulgarian atrocity in the web, his body lay at the mouth of the spiders den. During the night, Esau had made a cavern of cobweb. It is the duty of the historian to adhere to the truth, even if it casts a slur on his favorite theories, and blasts his reputa- tion as an observer. Esau was not a male: he was a lady. One day, while feeding the beast, I noticed that the den in the corner had been extended into a passage with two openings, and in the passage wall was a spot thicker and more opaque than the rest of the building. This I surmised was a deposit of eggs, and I afterwards found that I was right. Still, I had named the animal; and, on the principle of the parson who insisted on christening the little girl John, I ad- hered to the original appellation. Hith- erto the spider had discovered none of the attributes proverbial to her sex, and I did not feel justified in naming her Lucy or Maria. There were warm days that year, when the air smelt of clover, and flies came out plentifully, and Esau was fed on all avail- able insects that had wings. The house- fly was her staple food, although she regarded small moths as delicacies, and thought midges and small gnats were toothsome articles of diet; but her soul loathed bluebottles. They were to her what caviare and ab~inthe are to the un- educated. If a bluebottle was put into her net, she bound it down with many strands of cobweb, and killed it, and be- fore the animal had ceased to quiver? cast it from her web with evident repugnance. Beetles she did not care for, as they broke her web; but money-spinners she tolerated. Daddy-long-legs fell an easy prey to her, although she did not relish them. That I know, because she never took their carcasses to her cave. By way of a treat, I once offered her a small earthworm. It wriggled and writl~ed, lengthened itself and shortened itself, assumed the shape of a cork-screw, and tied itself up into knots. Esau sought refuge in her house, and stuck her head out to watch these strange man~uvres. 102 MY SPIDER. At first, she was as still as possible; then creatures slept for two days and tw~ there was an oscillatory movement of the nights. They regarded each other with palpi. She generally did that when she profound suspicion. I put flies into the b ~ her Then she They by was oettin~ up pluck. jar. would not be allured food. made a rapid rush to within an inch of If one moved the twentieth part of art the worm, and reconnoitred again. She inch, the other altered its attitude to a ~vas not satisfied, and retired a second similar degree. If Esau wished to get time to think the matter out. The worm, out of her apartment, Uriah occupied a in the mean time, either got tired of strug- different strategical position. It was a gling, or else philosophically arrived at period of brain-tension, watchfulness, and the conclusion that he could make himself terror. as comfortable in a cobweb as in any On -the third morning I found Uriah other place. The period of rest was had fallen a victim. His thorax was sep. fatal. Esau darted on her prey and stuck arated from his abdomen, his legs were her mandibles into him. Vainly did the disarticulated and scattered, and Esau worm try to charm the enemy by tickling sat on her perch, placid and contented, her with the end of his tail. Esau held the mistress of the situation. on like a vice. The ~vorm tried to encir- Spiders of both sexes and of every cle her body with furtive gyrations. Esau shade of opinion successively shared the had no inclination to play at Laocoon, and captivity of Esau, and they all shared the eluded the strategy of his prey. That fate of Uriah. The blood of Mr. Heep worm gave in. had whetted the appetite of the Amazon, I began to get tired of my pet. She and she increased in valor and ferocity. was getting fat; and the fatter she gre~v, She gauged the strength of her opponent the more ferocious she became. I sought with infallible precision. Now she would another spider, and found one smaller use all the arts of strategy; now she than the one I possessed. To my mind would trust to the prestige of victorious it was of the same species, but from its arms. Her jar became a very charnel. size I ima,.~ined it ~vas a male. I will be house of the remains of her kind. A the historian of the loves of spiders, I battle occasionally took place, but supe- said. Their domestic happiness shall nor strength and agility made Esau vic~ be a moral to mankind. Two spiders to- tress. As a rule, however, the new in- gether will give me an opportunity of truder said Kismet the moment it was making fresh observations. seized, and resigned itself to fate. I was not disappointed, but mf re- I have yet to relate the most interesting searches gave a result that I had not an- part of my narrative. Pardon me whis- ticipated. pering, reader; but Esau has yet to be. When I put my finger near the new come a mother. The queen of the pickle- spider he gathered his legs together, and jar, who directed the destinies of her assumed an abject attitude; perhaps it subjects and I must say she directed ~vas a simulation of death. Anyway, the them in pretty much the same direction position gave me the idea of meanness was herself to become the slave of a and knavery; so I called him IJriah Heep, numerous progeny. It has been an enigma because he was so umble. to me who the sire of that progeny could Esau, I said, with befitting solem- have been. nity, wilt thou take Uriah to be thy wed- No scandal against Queen Elizabeth, ded husband? I dropped him into the I hope? jar. The lady was sitting in her web; Reader, I assure you, my duties are but she bolted into her chamber the mo- those of a grave historian. I am no car- ment she felt the impulse of the fresh rier of tattle. arrival. It has been an enigma to me (allow me Ah, thought I, she is parading her to resume the subject) who the sire of coyness. that progeny could have been. Perhaps Uriah did not seem at his ease, and, it ~vas some spider of ancient lineage, leaving the cobweb, he took up a position who did valiant battle in his ancestral between the paper and the wall of the jar. cobwebs against predatory wasps. Per- Esau protruded what ought to have been haps he had won Esaus young affections, her nose had she belonged to a higher and become master of her charms. Per. species from the doorway of her sanc- haps it was some errant knight, who had tum. There was evident uneasiness on vowed the extermination of the whole both sides. race of parasites which infest the spiders Now, I do not believe that these two body. Perhaps it was some wealthy spi. MY SPIDER. der, who owned vast demesnes of netting, which extended over many a rafter, and offered hunting-ground for many a re- tainer. Perhaps her spouse was remark- able for his personal beauty, and had carried off her heart by his comeliness. I know that no spider base-born could have been the father of her offspring. Her behavior to Uriah Heep forbids so gross a surmisal. Then, how was it that she was alone on the hat-peg? The aristocrat might have spurned her from his home from the prospect of a more advantageous alliance. The enthusiast might have doubted her intensity, and so deserted her. Dives might have been jealous, and have pro- cured an act of separation; Adonis prob- ably spirited away by some light of love. Her history is open to conjecture alone. The fact remains, that she laid eggs, and they were hatched. If my memory be not deceived, the small spiders appeared a fortnight or three weeks after I first noticed the eggs. When first born, they were small, yellow)--white, and indefinite, like cheese-mites just what one would imagine spider babydom to be. They moved at a pace almost im- perceptible from its slowness, and their gait was weak and vacillating. As well as I could make out with the naked eye, they were constantly tumbling on their sides for the first few days. They seemed to meet with obstacles which are not ap- parent to our gross vision. I thought the sun would be grateful to them, and their jar was placed on the window-sill. Either the warmth suited them, or baby spiders gain strength rap- idly; for before three days were over, Esaus offspring became marvels of agil- ity. When they were at one end of the piece of paper, urgent business called them to the opposite extremity of the cone, and they ran as fast as their small legs could carry them. If they were on the floor of their home, urgent reasons induced them to promenade the ceiling. Occasionally one little chap would take a long journey around the floor of the jar, while another would start off on a com- mission of inquiry, and investigate the construction of the cobweb with the mi- nutest care. A third would mount its mothers back, and crawl over her out of sheer curiosity. No pair of them ever seemed to do the same thing at the same 103 time. I never saw them feed; but dur- ing the next week or two they increased in size and strength. Es au contemplated them with pleasure; her character was softened. Dozens of flies were put into the jar, but few were killed. Some be- came entangled and died in the toils, but the majority occupied the top of the jar, and especially affected the muslin door- way, which ~vas moistened for their delec- tation with sugar and water. The time for my summer holidays ar- rived, and I started for the south, leaving Esau to look after the house. The friendship I had struck up with spiders certainly increased the pleasure of my trip. I found my friends in numbers everywhere I went. They were on the shady side of dock-leaves. They floated in t~e air and settled on my hat, and were carried off by the next breath of breeze. I found their webs in profusion betwen the branches of a monkey-tree in the gar- den; and in the cornfields myriads of these small. creatures trapped flies that were almost microscopic. On the sandy slopes of the seashore, cobwebs were among the gorse-bushes. The diadem spiders in the rose-trees vied with each other in the regularity of their nets, and every barn was rich in arachnean archi- tecture. I had heard of water-spiders, and I hunted for them assiduously in every pool and stream in the neighborhood, but with no success. I found no water-spi- ders, but I became the possessor of many inhabitants of the ponds. Three weeks passed too quickly, and I had to return to my work and to Esau. Alas! what a lamentable sight met my eyes! Esau was dead, and her children were certainly fatter than when I left. I could arrive at but one conclusion. The dauntless adventuress who had gloried in murder and fratricide had become the victim of misplaced love. Those little wretches whom she had brought into the world, and cared for and nurtured, had turned upon her and slain her and sucked her life-blood. Ali, poor mother, thy ante- cedents might not have been good! Possibly thou mightest have dined off thy husband or thy paramour certainly thou hast waged unnatural though valiant war against thy kind; still, that was no reason why thou shouldst have been sacrificed by thy offspring in the bloom of thy maturity. W. H T. WINTER. 104 ROBIN. From Temple Bar. ROBIN. BY MRS. PARR, AUTHOR OF ADAM AND EVE. CHAPTER XXV. WHEN Mr. Blunt and Christopher re- turned late that evening, it was to hear from the servants that Mrs. Blunt had not felt well, she had gone out into the grounds during the morning, but since her return she had kept her room. Best send for Heywood at once, said Mr. Blunt fussily. Christopher begged him to wait until he had been up and seen Robin, and a few minutes later, he reappeared to say that she felt better now she had been lying down. She complained of head- ache, but would try and eat some dinner. Why, youre looking as white as a ghost, was Mr. Blunts salutation, cheeri- ly spoken, as if the sight of her pale face gave him immense satisfaction. You havent been over-fatiguing your- self now while weve been away, have you? cos thatll never do. Robin hastened to disown the supposi- tion. I only walked a very little way, she said; I didnt go out of the gates at all, so it couldnt be that. Im very glad you didnt; you might have chanced on that Chandos, perhaps, swaggering about. Jacks manner of ignoring them, and avoiding, as Mr. Blunt thought, an intro- duction to Christopher, had rankled with- in him all day. Hes no gentleman that, I say, or when he met us he wouldnt have acted as he did. Very likely he felt it a little awkward, put in Christopher, and the carriage passed so quickly by that there was really no need for his speaking. How dye mean no need? Miss Georgy could speak, why couldnt he? You havent done nothing to offend him. Mr. Blunt, not in the best of humors, was glad of something to let off steam about. He had been in a state of ferment all day, for under the plea of other busi- ness, Christopher had made this the op- portunity of asking his father what, now he was married, he thought of doing for him. He considered he ought to have a separate income, and at best a poor diplomatist at once discovered his mo- tive by saying he wished it on account of Robin, so that in case anything happened to him she would have an independence settled upon her. Independence! what, you mean some- thing independent of me? asked the wary father. Exactly so, said the simple son. Upon which Mr. Blunt desired that he might be informed of the exact require- ments demanded of him, advising that the sum should be talked over with Robin, and reserving to himself until then to give his answer. All day long the proposition haunted him. Up to this time Christopher had never dropped a hint of needing such an arrangement. In his own case he had been contented with what his father gave him and the interest about 200 a year of some house property which a distant relation of his mothers had left to him. Could Robin have put him up to make this demand? Seeing it was to be settled on herself, Mr. Blunt thought it not un- likely. Several times leading up to the question, he had beaten the bush to try and get the truth from Christopher, but his son evidently did not understand him, and feeling it would be unwise to ask the direct question, Mr. Blunt had been com- pelled to swallow his curiosity. To a man so dispositioned this acted irritably on his temper, and he was in a mood to find fault when the sight of Robins evi- dent indisposition turned his thoughts to another channel; but though for her sake he might spare those present, there was no occasion to hold his tongue about the squire, and he continued to rake up the dispute about the thicket, what he had not said to him, and what he should like to say to him, until Christopher, noting Robins face grow paler and that she sat quite silent, said in hopes of silencing him, Oh, well, never mind now, it wont matter in the least what you think of him or he thinks of you. I saw Cameron in at Tophams, and he told me that Mr. Chandos went off by the 6.40 train, he saw him down at the station, he was going to try and get the night train from London. I dont know what night train nor vhere he was going, but to some place abroad at a long distance, and how long he may stay or when he will return seemed quite uncertain. Mr Blunt said something to express his satisfaction, but what, Christopher did not heed. The alteration in Robins face had attracted his attention. What is the matter, Robin? He got up and went towards her. ROBIN. 105 Youre not feeling well; what is it, tell me? Seized with a mad desire to push him away, Robin had to make an effort of control. I dont know, and she gave a ghastly smile. I felt so much better when I came down. I think its the smell of the dinner must have upset me. Thats it, said Mr. Blunt confiden- tially; it often does so, my dear, its turned you sick I dare say. Yes, said Robin, catching at any ex- cuse for going away. I shall have to go back to my own roqm again, only, Christopher, dont you come. Her voice sounded quite sharply. Jennings is up-stairs, she will attend to me. A little hurt, Christopher lacked the assurance to follow her, he fancied she spoke as if she did not wish him to come. He went as far as the foot of the stairs, watched that she ran quickly up, and then returned to the dinner-table. I hope there is nothing the matter with her, he said anxiously. And I hope there is, said his father pointedly. So theres the difference be- tween me and you, and then he emptied his glass as if drinking a health, smacked his lips, and had it filled again. Well go to-morrow and get Heywood to drop in as hes passing here, just to make a call: he neednt say nothing. Oh no, therell be no occasion for that. Christopher spoke hastily, he was frightened to death of what Robin might feel. Its not likely to be anything but a headache, which I dare say will pass off by the morning; if it should not Ill ask her what she would like me to do. The presence of the servants restrained Mr. Blunt from indulging in the outburst to which he would have liked to treat his son. Leaning back in his chair he swelled out his portly person and made a continu- ous chirrup with his lips, as was his wont when imploring a sympathetic providence to grant him patience. All his thoughts, his hopes, his wishes were centred now in the desire that he should speedily see children born to Christopher, heirs who would relieve him of that terrible anxiety he always suffered whenever anything ailed his son. The prospect of a fine sturdy boy to dandle on his knee softened his heart, and he spent the evening in building castles, arranging his affairs, and drink- ing a great deal more hot grog than was good for him. Robin during this time was going through all those torments we endure when our doubts and fears are turned to certainties. Until those casual words dropped by Christopher about Jacks ~- parture, the poor heart had not known how desperately it had clung to the hope of his remaining. Even while she had continued to say to herself, He will go, we shall not meet again ,the certainty that he would remain contradicted her. Now he was gone gone for years perhaps forever. Oh, she had so count- ed on his presence, together they could bring back those dear departed days, to- gether live them over again. With Jack she could open her heart freely, speak of her father, ask counsel about Christo- pher,