LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, NO. 2076. April 5, 1884. 5 From Beginning, Volume XLVI. 4 Vol. OLXI. CONTENTS. FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE, THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER Part VIII., JAMES HOPE-SCOTT PH~BE REMINISCENCES OF JAMAICA Part III., GLIMPSES OF THE SOUDAN THE EXILE IN SIBERIA, . A VENDETTA THE FABRIC OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY, THE EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEM Contemporary Review, Blackwoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine,. Temple Bar,. All The Year Round, Fortnightly Review, A:neteenth Century, Blackwoods Magazine, 7Ymes BROKE Academy, .3 . 15 . 21 28 37 41 46 57 63 A TRANSLATION; MIRAGE, P0 B T R Y. .21 LOVE LIGHTS,. 2 IN A GONDOLA, 2 2 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted direc/ty ~o the PuNisher:, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,freeofj5ostage. Remittances should be made bybank 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 ]etters when requested ,to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, IS cents. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Ix. x. 2 A TRANSLATION, ETC. A TRANSLATION. FROM THE FRENCH OF LOUIS BOUILHET. M~ lamp bath burned out, drop by drop, alone; My fires last ember falls with dying sound: Without a friend, a dog, to hear me moan, I weep abandoned in the night profound. Behind meif I would but turn my head, Sure I should see itstands a phantom here; Dread guest who came when my lifes feast was spread, Spectre arrayed in rags of vanished cheer. My dream lies deadhow bring it back in truth For time escapes me, and the impostor pride Conducts to nothingness my days of youth, Even as a flock whereof he was the guide. Like to the flood of some unfruitful deep, Over my corpse aslumber in the tomb I feel een now the worlds oblivion creep, Which, yet alive, bath lapped me half in gloom. Oh! the cold night! Oh! the night dolorous! My hand upon my breast atremble bounds: Who knocks inside my hollow bosom thus? What are those ominous beats, those muffled sounds? Who art thou, art thou? Speak, thou tame- less thing, That strugglest pent within me unreproved? A voice cries, a voice faint with passioning, I am thy heart, and I have never loved! Academy. JOHN ADDINGYON SYMONDS. MIRAGE. HOT lies the sand beneath the weary feet, The skies are dazzling downward through the heat, No breath of wind to stir the heavy air, No fleck of cloud to break the cruel glare Of the fierce sunshine, as the reeling brain Strives to force on the failing strength in vain. Nay, for across the desert-stretch it lies, Gleaming and cool beneath the mocking skies, The sparkling lake almost the feverish gaze Can see its ripples through the silvery haze; Almost the straining ear can hear the plash, As its light wavelets on the pebbles dash. One desperate effort more, and then to lave, Parched lip and burning forehead in the wave; One desperate effort more, and at the brink In agony of thankfulness to sink, Where the great palm-trees by the waters stand, And their cool shadows rest upon the sand. Poor wretch! the treacherous vision lures him on, Till, faith, and hope, and strength, and courage gone, He falls and perishes, and leaves to life, This lesson arm ye for the l)reset~t strife, On no sweet future build a futile faith, Do for each hour thy best. So armed for Death. All The Year Round. LOVE LIGHTS. PRETTY dreamer, far away, Where the sheaves are golden, Listen to a tiny lay Puck hath late unfolden. Once a brier loved a rose, At her feet adoring; Sweet she glanced from high repose, Deaf to his imploring. Came a certain one, yclept Eros, heavens grafter, Stole a rose-twig, and adept Fashioned it with laughter; Fixed it soft with cunning whim On that hopeless brier, Till the season saw his stem Lordly grow, and higher. Then the maid-rose loved him true, Wedded to her glory: Sleep, Mellillas eyelids blue; I have told my story. B. C. IN A GONDOLA. DARK, it is dark! the stars have all gone out, There is no moon with watery smiles to flout The cold smile rippling round a colder mouth, That parches not my thirsty soul with drouth Like a red lip left in the rich South. Dark, it is dark! there is no light at all, Except with the long oar-blades rise and fall, Except the phosphor-flashes of the brine, And the quick light of eyes that gleam in mine, But wakes no fires, Guinevra, as did thine! Dark, it is dark! the darkness of black night, Darkness of skies, and all that should be bright, Darkness of waves, where the black shores A begin, darkness wrapping one fair child of sin, Darkness of all without, and all within. Temple Bar. H. C. P. FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. From The Contemporary Review. FREDERICK DENISON MAIJRLCE.* THEN said I, Ah, Lord God, they say of me, Doth he not speak parables? The people who said this meant that the prophet was unintelligible to them. His sayings were to them dark sayings. They perhaps could not at once have pointed out which particular savings they were unable to understand; but some obscurity there was, which made the prophets speech disagreeably perplexing to their minds. Yet he desired to be understood by those to whom he addressed himself. No genuine prophet has ever been the mechanical vehicle of enigmas which waited for fulfilment as their key. The Hebrew prophet was an impassioned preacher, pouring forth warnings and en- couragements to his own generation. There is a pathetic tone of disappoint- ment and distress in the complaint with which Ezekiel turns to his God: Ah, Lord God! they say of me, Doth he not speak parables? In some such words Mr. Maurice was accustomed to utter the feeling of deep distress with which he found himself regarded by most of those around him as difficult to understand. The discovery was a continual surprise to him. His place, also, was among the prophets. He had the strongest desire to be as plain and emphatic as possible. But, whilst he lived and was pouring out his eager ut- terances, to most of those who heard him his prophesyings were baffling and ob scure. They did not know exactly what to make of him. They could not help feeling that he was a most impressive person, but they soon perceived that he was neither one thing nor another neither Conservative nor Liberal, neither High nor Low nor yet Broad. It was not easy to see what he was driving at. And during the twelve years that have passed since his death, only the few who have been drawn to him by an inward sympathy have studied with any appreciative inter- est the volumes which he has left behind * Tile L of Frederick Denison Maurice, chie~dy told in ki.e own Let/ers. Edited by his Son, FRED- ERICK MAURICE. With Portraits. 2 vols. Macmil- lan & Co. 3 him. It is probable that his writings be- come less easy to understand as the cir- cumstances which called them forth, and of which they are full, pass out of mem- ory. The Life which has just appeared, and for which his son and biographer Col. Maurice has found abundant ma- terial in letters addressed to many corre- spondents, will have a profound interest for those who desire to obtain a closer knowledge of Mr. Maurice and to under- stand better what was peculiar and char- acteristic in him. And the general im- pression that will be left on the mind of an intelligent reader will be, that he must be looked at as a prophet, or be put aside as an incomprehensible fanatic. The critic may as well pass him by as hardly worth his notice, unless he will take the trouble to observe how a man, believing himself to be born with a l)ro- phetical mission, delivered his testimony in this nineteenth century. All accounts of him like that which the poet laureate has made popular in his charming Invi- tation, representing him as a practical philanthropist who was at the same time fearlessly true to his personal convictions, are so inadequate as to be misleading. He had an ardent wish to be practical, and he tried hard to be what he wished; but he had to struggle against noticeably u practical tendencies in his nature and in- clinations. When he was engaged in practical work, his mind was nearly sure to be occupied with the principle or idea which his work was illustrating. He had, indeed, a strong and conscious reverence for facts; but it was for facts as revealing an order, a method, a purpose. His in- tense desire to sow seed, of principles and ideas, which should bear fruit in institu- tions and other outward realities, was not without reward; and he was a founder as well as a prophet in relation to the co-op- erative movement and to the higher edu- cation of women and of working men. But his strong points were not those of the inventive philanthropist or the efficient organizer. His fellow-workers early came to regard him as one who brought them inspiration, and those who valued him most learned to look up to him and to ac 4 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. cept his testimony. His letters make it perfectly clear that he regarded his own position as a peculiar one. He had hardly reached manhood when he began to be- lieve that a special task of witness-bear- ing was laid Ul)O~ him. Allowance must at the same time be made for one distinct cause of obscurity in his writings, which may be rightly as- cribed to a peculiar modesty, but which is not unconnected with his prophetical iml)ulse and manner his habit of allud- ing to opinions and movements with which his readers or hearers could not be reasonably assumed to be familiar, as if the faintest hint was sufficient to bring them clearly to their minds. It was his instinct to think others better informed than himself; and then he never thought of himself as communicating information, but always as seeking to awaken some inquiry or conviction in those whom he addressed. The very rapid movement of his style carries the reader on with it, so that he hardly takes account of some al- lusion on which the full understanding of a sentence or a paragraph may depend; and when the subject of the allusion is recognized, the reader may still be uncom- fortably conscious of having been unable, for want of knowledge, to estimate duly the force of the comparison or the argu- ment involved in it. But this is not the chief reason why Mr. Maurice has gained the character of being unintelligible. His whole spiritual work, as consciously un- dertaken and performed, demanded more of patient and exceptional attention than most men have cared to give to it. His contemporaries have had some excuse for being perplexed by him.* If it should seem to any that a con- * The late Charles Buxton, whose nobly ingenuous mind could not fait to he impressed by Maurice a spir. ituai authority, told me once that he had recently men- tioned him to Lord Macaulay, asking if he had in any way become acquainted with him. Oh, that is the man, answered Macaulay in a tone of scornful impa- tience, that wants to apply a sponge to the national debt. Charles Buxton expressed a doubt whether this was so; but Lord Macaulay was quite confident that he was right. I was unable to guess what could be meant, so I asked Mr. Maurice hintacif if he could suggest any explanation. I think, said Mr. Mau- rice, with a patient smile, he must have confused me with Francis Newman, who has proposed some ques- tionable plan of paying off the debt. sciousness of a prophetical vocation must imply a good deal of self-confidence, Mr. Maurice is a convincing example that this need not be so. There was in him an extraordinary and almost overpowering humility. His habit of self-depreciation and self-reproach was somewhat trying to his hearers; his readiness to ascribe to himself shameful shortcomings, helpless ignorance and inaptitude, hundreds of blunders, might seem to have become a mannerism. But no one can read the Life without seeing how painfully sin- cere all this feeling ~vas. His mode of expression was habitually vehement: but self-depreciation was rooted in his heredi- tary constitution and deepened by his early history; and his fellowship with the Righteous Father, as it grew continually closer, made him only the more conscious of personal unworthiness. As is so generally the case with re- markable men, Maurice owed what was uncommon in him to his mother rather than to his father. She had a rare depth of nature, in comparison with which her husbands spiritual capacity was but ordi- nary. There is a mildly tragic element in the inner history of the grave Puritan family of which Frederick Maurice was a member. The father was a Unitarian minister and took pupils; the family had good connections and were in comfortable circumstances. Frederick was the only son; three daughters were born before him, and five after him. An ltereditary Puritanism formed the religious atmo- sphere of the family. The father was personally an intelligent Liberal of his time, held in esteem by those who knew him, and receiving the full tribute of dutiful affection from wife and children. But the mothers nature, essentially shy and reserved, was driven inwards by the absence of anything which could tempt it to expand. Her force was reproduced in many of her daughters; in some of them with a readiness of self-assertion which was foreign to her character. When Frederick was ten years old, the three elder sisters renounced Unitarianism; and in a letter written to her father, though he was then in the house, the youngest of them, sixteen years old, gives him this FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. emphatic notice: We do not think it consistent with the duty we owe to God to attend a Unitarian place of worship. The father replies in a few words, ex- pressing deep distress. There is an observation in one of Mr. Maurices dia- logues, which evidently describes his own mother: My mothers Calvinism came to me sweetened by her personal grace- fulness, by her deep charity and great humility. Ten months after the daugh- ters letter, the mother writes to her hus- band as follows : I am truly unhappy, my dearest friend, to see how much you suffer. I wish it were in my power to comfort you. . . . I can think of only one cause by which we can in any way have been led to the present circumstances a desire that our children should be serious It can be no shame to us that we were obliged to resort to authors of different opin- ions from ourselves, to give our children seri- ous impressions, to teach them the end for which existence was bestowed upon them. It is, however, a shame to Unitarians in general that they have so few books of this kind. From my own experience, I can say that I am driven to read books which continually intro- duce doctrines that I cannot discover in the Scriptures, because I find so few Unitarian publications that make an impression on the heart, influencing it by forcible motives to right conduct. You feel an anxiety that the youngest children should not be biassed to doctrines which have separated the elder ones in religious worship from us, though I must say we were never so united in duty . . . Ac- complishments and literature will neither en- able them to discharge their duties, nor sup- port their minds in the numerous trials they must have to endure. How anxious I am that now, whilst their minds are tender and easily impressed, they could have books that would give them right views of life, plain directions for duty, and the greatest supports in afflic- tion I should not like to be responsible for withholding principles from them, for fear of their imbibing doctrines different from my own. [fn this distinguishing between principles and doctrines we see one of her sons most con- stant testimonies anticipated ] But in this I cannot judge for you, for though I lament our childrens opinions on account of the sorrow you feel, I cannot bring my mind to regret them, whilst I see that they are influential in producing good fruits. In the course of another year Mrs. Mau S rice became alienated from the Unitarian treed. In September, i88i, writes Col. Maurice, she gave her husband a paper which, in consequence of her great distress at causing him trouble, seems to have taken her nearly a year in composing, to ask him how she could, with least pain to him, attend some other public worship than his. The husband, in reply, refers to the younger children: I will require their attendance on my ministrations and their assembling at my domestic altar till they can assign a satisfactory reason for their own separation. I have the painful, the afflicting, prospect, from all they see and hear, that they will follow the steps of those who may one day feel the anguish I now feel. The anticipation was fulfilled. All the members of the family, except the father, ceased to be Unitarians. The mother followed her daughters in adopt- ing Calvinistic views; but she could never quite satisfy herself that she was one of the elect. The young Frederick Maurice grew up at home, his fathers pupil, and did not formally renounce Unitarianism till after he had left Cambridge. A II accounts rep. resent him as having been from the first peculiarly sensitive, dutiful, and unselfish. His cousin, Dr. Goodeve, thus writes of him: We were brought up very much together. Sons of two dear sisters, almost in the same nursery, in the same school as boys, and con- tinually associated as young men till I went to India in 1830 (when Frederick Maurice was twenty-five), I had great opportunities of watching his early character and progress, and I rejoice to have an occasion of repeating now, what I often said then, that during that time never knew him to commit even an ordinary fault or apparently to entertain an imnoral idea. He was the gentlest, most docile and affectionate of creatures; but he was equally earnest in what he helieved to be right, and energetic in the pursuit of his views. It may be thought an extravagant assertion, a mere formal tribute to a deceasetl friend and coin- panion, but, after a long and intimate experi- ence of the world, I can say with all sincerity that he was the most saintlike individual T ever met Christ-like, if I dare to use the word. To such a boy, endowed with those 6 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. intellectual and spiritual powers which afterwards became manifest, the earnest differences of belief on vital questions which broke the family harmony must have been intensely painful, and the occa- sion of incessant anxious inquiry. Few indications remain of what were his inner thoughts during that interesting period of his life. Mr. Maurice himself says, in an autobiographical fragment, these years were to me years of moral confusion and contradiction; but he does not further lift the veil. It seems to be certain that till he was nearly twenty-five he kept his struggles and searchings and most inward convictions to himself. There is one ex- ception to this reticence, a tantalizing one. it had been assumed that he would be- come a minister like his father; but at the age of sixteen he expressed a desire to go to the bar, and this led to his leav- ing home for a time. During this absence he became intimately acquainted with a lady, a friend of the family, who was a disciple of Mr. Erskine, of Linlathen. Some correspondence took place between them, and her letters, but not his, appear to have been preserved. He spoke of himself with more than a youthful melan choly, as a being destined to a few short years of misery here, as an earnest of and preparation for the more state of wretchedness and woe, and applied to himself the phrase, The heart knoweth its own bitterness. His correspondent asks him, Where is your authority for regarding any individual of the human race as des/med to misery either here or hereafter? and appeals to the character of God, ~vhich, if he is love, must be tra- duced by such a representation. Col. Maurice observes, It is evidently the first time that this idea has ever been pre- sented to his mind. If this is so, it will follow that from this lady came the most important seed that was ever dropped into Frederick Maurices mind the seminal principle of what was most characteristic in his theology. But for some years there is no distinct sign of its having taken root. His utterances during his Cam- bridge life, and for a little time after, abundant and eager as they were, dealing with literature and philosophy and life, containing the germs of what he was afterwards accustomed to teach on such subjects, are yet, in marked distinction from his later utterances, expressly un- theological. The thought of God was in his mind, a clear and overmastering faith in God was forming itself there, and was really the root of his other beliefs, but he has not yet the freedom to name God. Writing to his father in February, 1829, he says: One reason ~vhy I have not enjoyed as much happiness as I might is that I have felt a painful inability to con- verse even \vith those who loved me best upon the workings of my mind. - . . My lips have been hermetically sealed to those ~vho had a right to expect frankness from me. He makes confession of this as a crime. But we may trace his reti- cence to causes which the Life sets plainly before us, his constitutional re- serve and self-distrust, his sensitive and reverential attachment to a Unitarian father and a Calvinist mother, and the steady growth of convictions which di- verged equally from Unitarianism and Calvinism. The letter in which he makes these reproaches against himself was writ- ten shortly after a visit to his home, in ~vhich, as Col. Maurice says, he for the first time spoke out at least part of his thoughts to his mother and his sister Emma. Till then, his father seems to have hardly been aware that his son also had found Unitarianism wanting. From that time his theology begins to appear in his letters, and to form more and more the staple of them. Whilst he was mus- ing on things unknown to those nearest to him, the fire kindled, and at the last he spake with his tongue. There is sufficient evidence that Mau- rice made a strong impression on the most intellectual of his contemporaries at Cambridge. Their high estimate of him must have been due to the loftiness of his character, his ardent utterance, and, above all, his penetrating insight. His extreme shyness must have created difficulties in intercourse; he had no academical dis- tinction, no variety or versatility of en- dowments. But those who were wishing to understand themselves and things around them, found in Maurice a grasp of ideas and principles, an intolerance of conventional fallacies, a defiance of the authority of the world, a power of discern- ing method and order, which constrained them to look up to him. As a measure of the admiration ~vhich it has been possible to entertain for Maurice as a thinker and seer, I will mention not without shrink- ing a little from the smile which the esti- mate will call forth from the ordinary critic what Archdeacon Hare once said to me. Referring expressly to the highest endowments, he declared his belief that no such mind as Maurices had been given to the world since Platos. But assuredly no one possessing great mental FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. 77 powers has ever laid them more delib- erately at the foot of the cross. Having learnt to see all things in God, the God revealed through Christ, he accepted it as his one vocation to bear witness of God. There was no sphere of thought or life which to him was exempt from the pres- ence and operation of God; there was none in which he was not himself inter- ested, and on which the acknowledgment of God did not seem to him to throw some light. He believed that God ~vas dealing with every man; and he would sometimes speak as if to name God, the Father, the Son, and the Spirit, might be enough to awaken a recognition of the divine presence in the heart of a hearer. His writings are mostly sermons; but in any writing of his what might be called a tendency to preach was nearly sure to be perceptible. If he was giving a history of events or of thought, he could not describe them without seeking to see and to show how some divine purpose was revealing itse If through the things he was relating. When he says paradoxi- cally in one of these letters that he found the Book of Isaiah much easier to under- stand thati Lord Mahons history, he means, no doubt, that Lord Mahon did not help him to see the meaning, below the surface, by which the occurrences which he reported were connected to- gether and made instructive. He himself was ardent in interpreting movements and institutions from the point of view of a divine education of mankind. He took for granted that every leading man, every social creation, had some wit- ness to bear. Of no other man could it be said that he lived more completely in the region of ideas; of no other, that he had a more genuine reverence for facts. He had a great scorn for abstractions; history of all kinds was the authority to which he paid homage. He always de- clined to consider the opinions of any philosopher apart from his life. Towards all institutions coming down from the past monarchy, aristocracy, the national Church, other religious bodies, he had what might seem a somewhat blind con- servatism ; but it was because he regarded them as commissioned to do some divine work, or set forth some aspect of the divine nature; and so far as the existing representatives of such institutions failed to execute their commission, he held that they were doomed to be set aside. His unvarying formula from the beginning of his speculations was, that all that was positive in any system was good, all that was negative was bad. The cautious reader of The Kingdom of Christ, of the History of Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, of the Cambridge lectures, will often feel that he is being hurried on too fast, that he is expected to know and see and discriminate, where lie is looking for information. But he may always take for granted that the author is looking for the living truth, the divine meaning, in every opinion or system or personal his- tory that he touches, and that he wishes his reader to apprehend this for himself. Mr. Maurice evidently describes his own aim as well as that of others, when in an early review of Hares Guesses at Truth, written when he was twenty-three, he speaks of those who make it their great object to set free their own minds and those of their fellow-men, to feel as deeply and think as earnestly as they can, and to teach others to do so; who would bring us to truth, not by tumbling us into a stage-coach, none of which travel that road, and which would certainly take us wrong, but by lending us a staff and a lantern, and setting us forward on our way for ourselves. Such persons, he justly says, are not the most popular sort of guides. One stumbling-block, for which the reader of Maurice should be prepared, is his continual denunciation of systems and opinions as distinguished from principles and methods It is hopeless to under- stand him without being able in some degree to apprehend this distinction. When it is apprehended, it will assuredly be felt to be a most real and vital one. Mr. Maurice hardly assumes that, at the best, we can do without systems and opinions. But he assumes, what every one ~vill admit, that truth and reality exist independently of all systems and opinions; and lie assumes further, that men in gen- eral are continually forgetful of this inde- pendence of truth. They are so from two impulses. The logical faculty, which, as Mr. Maurice held, has a very inferior power for the discovery of truth as com- pared with the spiritual nature and the experience of life, is busy and self-asser- tive, and delights in the creation of a sys- tem. And the system which a man has built up or chosen he is apt to value as his own, and to be ready to uphold and contend for. Truth needs to be sought humbly, and with deference to the deeper instincts and to the demonstrations of ex- perience. Mr. Maurice always claimed the methods of inductive philosophy as not only sound in their own sphere, but 8 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. as the right methods of moral and spiritual pIe. Looking to their substance, he was investigation. But truth, to him, was in the closest sympathy with the Articles identical with the nature and purposes as well as with the Creeds. He even de- and works of God; of God who was al- fended the signing of the Artides by ways teaching men and drawing them to youths as the condition of entrance at himself. He was instant, therefore, in Oxford, in a pamphlet of which Archdea- warning others and himself against sub- con Hare spoke as follows: stituting devotion to a system and opin- I know no work comparable to it in reach ions for the habit of searching after the and depth and power of philosophic thought living truth. Logical completeness he produced by any minister of our Church within regarded as a snare; logical difficulties the last hundred years; and though my opinion had very little effect upon him. The vital on the immediate topic was and still is different question was what view met the needs from the one therein maintained, I never read of the spirit and of human society, what a book which so compelled me to love and apprehensions got hold of the founda- revere its author. tions of life, in what faith men niight He defended also the Athanasian struggle into victory and light. In respect Creed, affirming with vehemence that no of his own opinions Mr. Maurice was by document warned him so solemnly not to no means tenacious. To those about think of men as likely to be punished for him he al~vays seemed, in practical mat- intellectual errors. He changed his opin- ters, singularly modest and humble. He ion, however, about the policy both of was sometimes rather alarmingly ready to imposing the Oxford subscription and of adopt suggestions made by any in whose requiring the Athanasian Creed to be judgment he had confidence. But it is read in churches. needless to say with what fearless devo- I have spoken of his being animated by tion and eagerness he maintained a truth the enthusiastic partiality of a convert. which appeared to him to be impugned. Certainly, the Church of England, as a It might strike some as a paradox that, branch of the Church catholic, never had whilst thus distrusting systems, Mr. Mau- a more passionately loyal adherent. This rice insisted so strongly upon the value statement may surprise some who have of creeds and articles. There may have heard of him as a somewhat freethinking been something of the enthusiasm of a clergyman. But those who read this convert in this insistence. But it seemed Life will see that the loyalty of a con- to him a sure fact of experience that the vert remained steadfast in him to the end Creeds of the Church catholic and the Ar. of his days. It was not till he was twen- tides of the Church of England served to ty-eight, in January, 1834, that he was deliver men from the tyranny of the ordained. When he left Cambridge, at systems and opinions of the day. He the age of twenty-one, he came to London revered the Creeds because they set forth with the intention of preparing for the the divine nature and divine acts as ob- bar, but for some three years he was jects of human faith. The Thirty-nine chiefly occupied wit 11 literary jpurnalism, Articles lie regarded with less reverence, making no profession of theological be- but with genuine respect, as setting forth, lief. At the end of that time he let it be in language which had issued from a time known that he had been inclining towards of earnest spiritual conflict, the special the ministry of the Church of England; position of the Church of England, for the and, urged apparently by no more definite guidance of its clergy. Of all things that reason than impulses of humility, he de- he thought enslaving, the dominion of termined to go through the undergraduate religious public opinion seemed to him course at Oxford. He went there in the most deadly. He was not the less 1829, and took his degree in 1831. It was likely to entertain this feeling, because the a time of peculiar interest, when the religious opinion of his day contradicted thoughts which presently found expres- some of his own most cherished convic- sion in the Oxford movement and in the tions. Against this opinion he took his Tracts for the Times were stirring in stand on the Creeds and Articles. In the minds of several persons whose in- these, as in all things, he looked to the fluence was already highly attractive in vital constitutive principle rather than the university. But there is no sign that to details of expression. Subordinate this movement produced any such im- phrases or statements he claimed the pression upon him as to disturb or modify right, or it appeared to him to be the ra- the progress of his own belief. He was tional course, to interpret somewhat freely becoming more and more convinced that in accordance with the dominant princi- he was called to bear witness to the per- FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. fect character of the one God. He writes to a sister in January, 1831 I think I am beginning to feel something of the intense pride and atheism of my own heart, of its hatred of truth, of its utter lovelessness and something I do hope that I have seen very dimly of the way in ~vhich Christ, by being the Light and Truth manifested, shines into the heart and puts light there, even while we feel that the light and truth is still all in Him, and that in ourselves there is nothing but thick darkness. . . - The thought that had been brought to me as if from heaven, the light of the sun is not in you, but out of you, and yet you can see everything by it if you will open your eyes, gave me more satisfaction than any other could. But his attachment to the historical Church of England was at the same time growin~ closer and more vital. Our na- tional Church was never separated in his mind from the Church catholic. His early work The Kingdom of Christ, is an exposition of the nature and charac- teristics of the Church as a universal spiritual society. But the nationality of the Church in England was almost as dear to him as the catholicity of the Church throughout the world. The na- tion was in his view as divine a creation as the Church. He could not think of either as without the other. The nation, be held, was properly Protestant; the Church was propeily catholic. In the Church of England he found a satisfying home; and nothing pleased him more than to justify and interpret all its institutes and all its services from the point of view of faith in the living God. There was a good deal in ~vhat he said about the Church and the sacred ministry and the sacraments that seemed to con- nect him with the High Church party; as did his almost scornful repudiation of Lib- eralism. For a short time after he was ordained he was regarded by the Oxford High Churchmen as a man who might give them valuable assistance; but Dr. Puseys Tract on Baptism shewed him what fundamental differences separated them and him. Mr. Strachey writes, in October, 1836: l heard him say that he bad read Puseys Tract with the greatest pain, and the conclusion he caine to after it was, that if it were true, he might as well leave off preaching, for he could have no message to declare to men from God. And about the same time Maurice com- plains that the High Churchmen were by preference regarding the doctrines of the Church as authoritative dogmas rather than as truths, and desiring to keep the world always in the condition of child- hood. I have seen a long letter written to him by Dr. Pisey, which sufficiently proves how unintelligible his position and lan~ua~e were to the Oxford leader. It is a kindly meant lecture, given de kant en bas, expressing much annoyance, and mixing correction, reproof, and encour- agement. The feeling, too prevalent in the High Church party, that the ~vord ~vas without the direct action of the living God except so far as special Church media or channels could be provided for such action, was enough to put them out of sympathy with Maurice. But he was not drawn to any other party. The spirit of party was always a godless one in his eyes; and he felt a strong conviction that it was his duty, more than that of other men, to stand entirely aloof from all the parties of the day. His letters show how sensitive he was as to the danger of forming another party, were it only a no- party party. If there was one thing upon which he was resolved, it was that he would make it impossible to use his name as a party one. Fhat he did not belong to either the High Church party or the Evangelical is easily understood; but it has been very common to reckon him as a leader in the Broad Church party. This description of him became known to Mr. Maurice, and it provoked him into vehement repudiations of Broad Church- ism. Liberalism was the hereditary creed which be had rejected ; he had tried it and found it superficial. He did not recognize in it any testimony to the living God ; on the contrary, it often seemed to assume that the time was come when :he living God might, or must, be dispensed~ with. The Oxford Broad Churchism, rep- resented in one generation by Archbishop Whately, in the succeeding by Professor J owett, was what he chiefly had in view when he refused to be called a Broad Churchman ; but it is certain that the more plausibly a party name might be applied to him, the more anxiously would he dis- claim it. He refers from time to time to the isolated position which he felt con- strained to take up; it had ~accompani- ments which ~vere painful to him, but he faced them deliberately; what he had to say to his contemporaries required that he should almost ostentatiously separate hi in- self from parties. His interest in politics was deep and ardent, and he took for the most part the Liberal side in the political agitations of his time; but he did not take his side under the dictation of Liber- alism. He was equally ready to justify 9 I0 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. Toryism and Liberalism by pointing out the sound positive principle at the heart of each; whilst the platform and par. tisanship of each were equally distasteful to him. There were two controversies into which Mr. Maurice threw his whole heart and soul, and by which all that was char- acteristic in his theology was displayed. His watchword in the one was eternal life ; in the other, revelation. In both he was not acting as the champion of one school against another, but was bearing a solitary testimony in opposition to what was supported by a nearly unanimous con- sensus of the religious opinion of the time. It is not easy for those who are breath- ing the freer air of the present day to realize how imperatively, before the con- troversy of Mr. Maurice with Dr. JeIf, at least a silent acquiescence in the doctrine of a hopeless future for all who died with- out having turned to God was demanded by the current orthodoxy. This hopeless future of never-ending torment was the basis and first doctrine of religion the pivot upon which all preaching turned. Hell was the name of hopeless evil; heaven of secure bliss. Die converted, and you will go to heaven; die uncon- verted, and you will go to hell; and you - may die this moment. This was called the Gospel a word which means good news. The doctrine that all were to be made happy in the world to come was associated, to Mr. Maurices mind, with a heterodox liberalism which had become repugnant to him; after he became a Churchman he had an almost passionate prejudice in favor of catholic orthodoxy. It was not by any tradition or opinion of a school that he was led to rebel against that version of the Gospel. It was the perfect character of God, of which, as he would have said, he had been allowed to have glimpses, that moved him. It had become impossible for him to acquiesce in any account of Gods dealings with men, which represented them as essen- tially unequal, unjust, unloving. God is light, and in him is no darkness at all, could not be an unmeaning proposition to him. It was not that he did not know the mystery of sin or feel the weight of guilt;to few men that have ever lived has sin been more awful. He knew that God could not compel any man to repent against his will; he could foresee no point of time at which a man must necessarily cease to be impenitent. He had no weak shrinkings from severe punishment. But the notion that the Father of all finally cut off from himself and from any possibility of repentance every man, woman, and child who in the few years .of this life did not turn to him, became intolerable to him. To admit it was to do dishonor to God. But that was not all: not only was the doctrine intolerable of itselfit dragged down all theology into a low materialism. Eternal life was commonly used in the received theology for never-ending bliss; but Mr. Maurice found that in St. John eternal life meant the knowledge of the only God and of Jesus Christ whom he sent into the world. It was clear that in the Gospel theology eternity was trans- figured; instead of denoting infinite time, it sigm fled that property of the divine nature by which it was above and inde- pendent of time. Eternal life was the highest object of mans aspiration, the highest gift of God; but this was kno~vl- edge of God, fellowship with God, a par- taking of the very life of God. All that was noble and elevating in religion seemed thrust aside and lost, when men were told that the one question for every man was how he could escape endless torment and obtain endless happiness. In his Theo- logical Essays, Mr. Maurice repudiated definitely and with emphasis this mate- rialistic doctrine. He was at the time a professor of Kings College, and the prin- cipal of the college, Dr. JeIf, felt called upon to impeach the lancruace of the essays as heterodox and dangerous. The result of his action was that Mr. Maurice was requested by the council to resign the two professorships which he was hold- ing. I remember that on the day on which the chairs were declared vacant he was engaged to give a reading from Shake- speare in the schoolroom of a district in Whitechapel to which I had recently been appointed. He kept~ his engagement and brought me the news. He spoke no ~vord of anger or of blame; he was not de- pressed by his dismissal; it was evident that in his restrained and subdued man- ner he rather gloried in it. He would have welcomed more persecution than fell to his lot, if it had come to him without his provoking it, and if it had served to draw attention to his testimony. He was glad that men should hear that a professor had been dismissed from Kings College because he declared that Gods love was about his creatures in the future state as well as in this world. Certainly the prin- cipal and the council could not have done a worse thing for the creed they supposed to be orthodox than to give occasion for FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. II this to be said. But Mr. Maurice was glad also that this dismissal was not an official act compromising the Church of England. He was never under any official condemnation. None of the bishops un- der whom he served even threatened any episcopal action against him. Bishop Tait forbade him to resign St. Peters, Vere Street, when he wished to do so; the present Bishop of London pressed upon him the appointment of Whitehall preacher. As years advanced, indeed, he found himself treated with a general respect, often deepened into reverence, which caused him some misgivings. In the other controversy he took the aggressive part. Mr. Mansel, afterwards dean of St. Pauls, delivered a course of Bampton Lectures at Oxford, in which he maintained, for the confounding of Un- believers, that the nature of God is neces- sarily unknowable to man, and that any reasonings about that nature are futile; but that we have in the Bible a regulative revelation given to us ~vhich we must accept for our guidance, and which it will be the worse for us if we do not follow. Mr. Mansel was so able, his knowledge so large and clear, and his argument seemed so to put philosophical infidels into a corner, that the lectures were re- ceived by the religious ~vorld in general with delight and applause. Here, it was thought, were the weapons of the enemy turned against himself. Apologetic divin- ity, at the best, was distasteful to Mr. Maurice; he thought it injurious to Chris- tianity that it should be continually argu- ing for its right to exist. But such an a~)ology as Mr. Mansels seemed to him the most utterly destructive assault upon Christianity that he could conceive. It made the whole Bible a delusion and im- posture; it turned the Gospel into a law more dead and more deadening than any that St. Paul had in view. lt was a blow in the face to his own special testimony; it defended any amount of apparent injus- tice in Gods dealings with men, any views concerning God which were morally intolerable, on the ground that mans spiritual faculties could take no account of the ways of God; it reduced mens higher aspirations to the most mechani- cal calculation of personal advantage. No wonder that Mr. Maurices mind took fire, and blazed in indignant protest and defiance and invective against such teach- ing. His first attack on the Bampton Lectures, \Vhat is Revelation? was not, as his friends have always admitted, a specimen of calm and cool controversial writing. But it put the question on the true issue. According to Mr. Maurice s faith, the eternal God, however incom- prehensible, has been and is genuinely revealing himself to the spiritual appre- hension of his human creatures. The Bible is not a law, delivered as an infalli- ble document for the government of men s lives, but a series of records describing successive stages of Gods self-revelation. The Bible is a unique volume, because there was a special character attaching to the revelation of the divine nature in Jew- ish history and in the person of Jesus Christ. But the revelation did not cease when the last book of the New Testa- ment was written. It is going on now; and the supremely worthy occupation for the mind of man is to be ever learning more of what God is communicating con- cerning himself. It is the glory of the spiritual intuitions of the humblest of mankind that they are inspirations of the divine nature. Man is bound to know himself as limited and dependent; but he has no right to disclaim community of view and purpose and will with the eternal God himself. No believer in its infallibility has ever surpassed Mr. Maurice in genuiue rever- ence for the Bible. He was accustomed, honestly and effectively, to claim its sup- port for all the doctrines that were dear- est to him. He could show, as regards this question of revelation, that every book of the Bible assumed that God was revealing himself to the human spirit, and not merely laying down laws for human life. It cannot be denied that the im- peachments of its accuracy made by his- torical and scientific criticism were un- welcome to him, and caused him pain. Bishop Colensos discoveries about the Pentateuch, in particular, were for several reasons the occasion of deep and pro- longed unhappiness, which clouded many months of his life. All that he wrot& un- cler the stress of the Colenso trouble, like his part in the Mansel controversy, bears signs of emotion. What he had to say about the Bible and its relation to modern criticism in its two branches of history and physical science is summed up in his eloquent Letters on the Claims of the Bible and of Science. He believed that the things of man human relations and endowments and experience were the media and the sphere of revelation; that non-human facts were by comparison in- significant. He gaveI think it may be said a full unquestioning faith to all that ~vas in the moral sense strictly human 12 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. The new inquiries respecting the antiquity of Man make some people tremble lest the story of Adam in Paradise should be shaken. My own anticipations from those inquiries are altogether hopeful. I know not in what they may issue. But while I have a strong convic- tion that, whatever way the facts go, they will make that simple story more simple and more intelligible to us, and will strip it of a thou- sand wilful additions, I have a still stronger conviction that we shall never really regard the Second Adam as Him by whom all things were created, and by whom all things consistas the true Man, the actual image of the invisible Godtill the first Adam occupies quite a different place in our divinity from that which he has occupied for several centuries. and divine in the sacred records. lie was That such a view leaves men without a almost indifferent about the accuracy of definite opinion on a multitude of points any but the human facts, those which had of interest, without a conclusive answer to do with human hopes and struggles, in to a number of questions that may reason- the Old Testament as in other books, ably be asked, was no argument against To make much of arithmetical or local it. One who held, as Mr. Maurice did, details caused him an impatience which i that the living God was actually teaching he could not repress. He would always mankind, could easily suppose that God go himself, and make others go if by any trained men through much uncertainty to means he could, to the heart of the matter. the knowledge which he thought good for The actual course of history was to him them. On the most disturbing of all real and sacred. A recognized order and the recent discoveries of science, Mr. method in the history handed down by any Maurice writes thus : records was a kind of verification of that history apart from adequately demonstra- tive evidence. It is obvious to object to such a view, that it makes a man s own notions of what is probable and orderly the ground of historical truth. Mr. Mati- rice never had to learn from critics what could be said against his views; but he was in the habit of thrusting aside many objections. If what he said was true, he trusted to its truth to support it; and he never shrank from speaking vehemently, even paradoxically. A very great exaggeration in numbers about the expedition of Xerxes if it can be proved may make me doubt the information, or even the veracity, of Herodotus. It will not make me doubt the truth of a battle of Sala- mis, and a battle of Plat~~. It will not make me doubt the grand truth that a set of tiny European republics discomfited the great mon- archy of Asia. These events are taken out of the region of letters. They do not depend any longer on the credibility of records. They have established themselves in the very exist- ence of humanity. You cannot displace them without destroying that, or remaking it anew, according to some theory and fashion of your own. How far is a judgment like this true and safe? That is one of the pregnant questions which Mr. Maurice constrains those who will listen to him to ask. I will only here put by the side of these sentence~ of his one or two from M. Re- nan ( Les Evangiles, p. v.) : Les esprits qui naiment que Ia certitude mat~rielle ne doivent pas se plaire en de pareilles recherches. Rarement, pour ces p& nodes recul~es, on arrive ~ pouvoir dire avec precision comment les choses se sont pass~es Aristote avait raison de dire: 11 ny a de science que du g~n~ral. Lhistoire elle- m~me, I histoire proprement dite, lhistoire se passant en plein jour et fond~e sur des docu- ments, ~chappe-t-elle ~ cette n6cessit~? Non certes, nous ne savons exactement le d~tail de rien; cc qui importe, ce sont les lignes g~n& rales, les grand faits r~sultants et que reste- raient vrais quand m~me tous les details Se- raient erron~s. Although Mr. Maurices chief task was to prophesy, in the pulpit and out of it, lie had, as I have intimated, some of the honor of a founder, through his con nec- tion with several creations to which he supplied the chief insl)iration. I refer especially to the co-ol)erative movement in England, to Queens College, and to the Working Mens College. In the beginning of the co-operative movement Mr. Maurice, to some extent, followed the lead of his devoted friend and sometimes trying adviser, Mr. J. M. Ludlow. But he was inevitably recog- nized as the leader and controller of the movement. The days of Christian So- cialism vere the days of most hope and activity in his life. He found himself the honored chief of a band of ardent )-oung men, including, besides Mr. Ludlow, Charles Kingsley and Thomas Hughes. With them working-men of high aspira- tions were associated; and they all felt the animation of an enthusiastic social effort, which was making a visible im- pression on the working class and on society in general. Mr. Maurices views, then denounced as revolutionary and subversive, are moderate enough now. There was nothing of State-Socialism in the movement. It was limited to the establish ment of voluntary co-operative FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. 3 associations, and to the preaching of union and fellow-work, rather than competition, as the foundation of the true social sys- tem. To the perplexity of some of those who worked with him, but in accordance with his characteristic faith, Mr. Maurice insisted that they were not trying to re- organize society, but only to discern the bases on which the actual society of which they were members was built. He would not admit that anything which held men together could be other than divine. Per- sonal greed of money was no part of the social system ; it was that which was in- festing and destroying it. The State, he affirmed, was an appointed witness and security for justice and personal rights; the Church was essentially communistic. He did not desire that the State should become socialistic; he desired that the Church should sincerely and practically bear witness that all men were brothers, and that pro~ress was to come through mutual aid and fellow-work. Christian Socialism was a voice through which much of his most earnest faith found utterance. So far as the co-operative movement failed to proclaim the living God and to affirm the divine constitution of human society, Mr. Maurice had no special delight or hope in it. He had always been greatly interested in education ; he wrote about it when he was a youth at Cambridge. He after- wards warmly advocated the claim of the Church to be, rather than the State, the educator of the people. He held that it was impossible for human beings to be properly educated unless they were taught concerning God, and without the influ- ences of love and hope. He never aban- doned these convictions; but as to the organization by which education should or could be given, he waited with charac- teristic humility on the teaching of expe- rience. When it was suggested to him that an institution should be established, by the action of professors of Kings Col- lege, to qualify governesses for their work, and at the same time to offer sound teach- ing to other ladies, he welcomed the su& gestion and threw himself heartily into the scheme. Of this movement, also, he nat- urally became the chairman ; and Queens College looks to him with reverence as its virtual founder. Here, again, he waged war against the mercenary spirit. Eager competition for prizes was hateful and distressing to him. The pursuit of knowl- edge was degraded and corrupted by being adopted for the sake of what was to be got by it It was one of his dearest hopes that Queens College would be a witness to women of the upper and -middle classes in behalf of the noblest ideals of educa- tion. His aspirations were not less high with regard to the Working Mens College. That institution grew out of the co-opera- tive movement. Whenever Mr. Maurice sl)oke about it, or addressed the members of it, he dwelt upon the duty and privilege and advantages of true human fellowship between the more educated and the less educated, upon the value of knowledge for its own sake, and upon its use as qualifying men to realize their places and to fulfil their functions in the social body. He never concealed his own conviction that the knowledge of God lay at the foundation of, and gave unity to, all other knowledge. The question how this con- viction of his could be wrought into the action of the college was the occasion of some difficulties, perplexing both to him and to those who worked with him. Queens College had been associated from the first with the Church of England; but it was not so with the Working Men s College. In establishing it, Mr. Maurice welcomed the aid of some who did not accept the creed of the Church. It ~vas determined that no acceptance of any creed should be required of either teach- ers or students. But Mr. Maurice had a yearning desire, and a too sanguine hope, that the acknowledgment of God should in some way through personal influence hold a prominent place in the system of the college. It cannot be denied that he exl)erienced a certain disappointment of this deeply cherished hope. But he took care that there should be no doubt as to his own conviction on this point, and the reverence 1)aid to his name and spirit by all who were associated with him has at least secured that a Bible-class should take the first place in the list of classes of the college. It was not only in the pulpit, as I have said, that Mr. Maurice was a preacher; and it was not in the exercise of his posi~ tion as a clergyman that he became most widely known. But, from the time of his ordination to the end of his life, he was pouring the treasures of his heart and mind into weekly sermons which seemed to many of his hearers to have more of the divine breath in them, to come with more power and light to the inward spirit, than any which they heard from other lips. No clergyman ever discharged his appointed duties with more anxious fidelity. For some thirty-three years, 4 FREDERICK DENISON MAURICE. from 1836 to 1869, he was preaching in London; first-at Guys Hospital, then at Lincolns Inn Chapel, and then at St. Peters, Vere Street. Towards the end of this time some of his friends believed that it would be an acceptable thing to liberal-minded men throughout the coun. try if the government were to recognize his services by appointing him to a dean- ery or canonry. A friend who regarded him with reverence and affection, Mr. William Cowper, now Lord Mount Tem- ple, had had the opportunity of recom- mending him to the crown for the incum- bency of St. Peters. But whether he would even have accepted higher prefer- ment is doubtful. The ideal which he had cherished was one which might al- most have seemed to be mocked by pre- ferment. He expressed his own feeling on the matter in a letter to the Bishop of Argyll (June, I8~o): I am sure you meant the letter in the Pall Mall most kindly. But may I be permitted to say that the only part of it which gave me real pleasure was the announcement that there is a vow registered in heaven aga:inst my pro- motion? If, as I trust, that is so, I accept it as an answer to prayers which I offered from my inmost heart last autumn, when my friends talked to me about canonries and such things, that I might not be led into temptation by re- ceiving offers which I felt that I ought to refuse. Supposing I could be of any service to the Church, it ought to be much more by enduring something for her an honor of which I am not worthy than by receiving oliveyards and vineyards from her. The Prime Minister, who represents the lay as well as the clerical feeling of the country, would, I think, be utterly wrong if he promoted me. For there is n~t a journal, from the S furday Re- view to the Record, which does not speak of me as misty or mystical; and there is no charge so odious to every class of Englishmen as that. What party in the Church, high, low, or broad, would not disdain me as its representative? He vas to receive, however, in his later years an appointment which he accepted with grateful pleasure, and which cave him congenial and happy employment for the rest of his life. He was greatly sur- prised when it was suggested to him, in the autumn of m866, that the official elec- tors might not be unwilling to choose him for the professorship of moral philosophy at Cambridge. Having been persuaded to offer himself as a candidate, he was elected almost by acclamation. Colonel Maurice dwells with reasonable satisfac tion on the tribute thus paid to his fa. thers intellectual standing. On going to Carnbrid~e, Mr. Maurice was welcomed with a respect and sympathy for which he was not at all l)repared, and which made all his relations with the university gra- cious and happy. He was always glad to speak with praise of what he saw at Cam- bridge. His professorship afforded him an opportunity which he much valued, of giving a more definite and complete ex- pression to the thoughts about morality of which his mind had been always full. The published courses of lectures on the conscience and on social morality are the ripe fruits of a method which put forth its early leaves in the old Cambridge under- graduate days. If it is pleasant to those who loved and honored Mr. Maurice to look back to these concluding years of happy labor, they must feel a more solemn joy in the records which his son has been able to give us of the last days. In the closing scenes of his life there was nothing un- worthy of the faith and hope and love by which its noble efforts had been sus- tained. He died as he had lived. And such a man assuredly has not lived in vain. Some definite results, in the form of visible and permanent institutions, Mr. Maurice has bequeathed to the nation which he loved and served. Who shall say what lie has left behind him, in the diffused effect of the principles and ideas to which lie bore witness ? He has, at all events, succeeded in one object of his efforts. No one can say that he has created a party to be added to the existing parties which ~vage war with one another in the Church of England. This is not to be wondered at, if I have been right in claiming a place for him among the prophets. it is not in the order of things that a man sent into the world with a prophetical mission should end as the maker of a l)arty. What he leaves behind him is his testimony, wrought into the life of his contemporaries, and pre- served in his writings for the instruction of those who follow him. And such a feeling towards himself as Mr. Maurice inspired in those who really knew him, one of reverence so profound, so unal- loyed, and so tender, is too rare and too heavenly an influence to be counted of no importance in the social movement of our time. J. LLEWELYN DAVIES. From Blackwoods Magazine. THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. CHAPTER XXl. ABSENCE. Love reckons hours for months, and days for years, And every little absence is an age.~~ DRYDEN. I am ten times nodone, while hope, and fear, And grief, and rage, and love rise up at once, And wish variety of pain distract me. AnnlsoN. LIFE in a country town is not sur- Charged with variety or incide nt, and can scarcely be called even soberly amusing, unless one has a special taste for shop. ping, dawdlincr dropping in and out of neighbors houses, and picking up chit- chat at one tea-table to be retailed at an- other. It must be said for Clinkton that it boasted some advantages over other places of the kind, in the possession of a cathe- dral and of a river; and the cathedral had produced for the Tufnells Herbert Mildmay, while the river had been the resource of Jem Challoner. He was now, however, debarred from even that, since the season was unpropitious, while the cathedral did as little for him in its way. He refused to enter it, and was wondered at, hinted at, had his reasons demanded, and his remissness held up to view. Did he object to week-day services? If so, he must not say so before Emily, but did he? He let them think he did; he let them think almost anything they chose of him, so long as no one suspected a deeper and tenderer objection. Had he not but the other day sat by Matildas side in the old church at Seaborough, and had they not listened together to the grave, quaint music, and afterwards knelt side by side, knelt and prayed,and he was not a man God forgive him who often prayed,but he had felt something like this, if that svoman there, that pure, good, beautiful woman, to whom his soul cleaved, if she might only be his, his to help him to a better life, his to lead him onward and upward, he wouldand he had made a vow in his heart, and fancied for the moment it must have been heard and accepted in heaven? To go next with Mary Tufnell? With Mary on the one hand, and Emily or Bertha on the other? He could not do it. So Emily, poor thing, had to go alone, since Bertha gave out distinctly that as it was plain she had to be gooseberry to somebody, she must say she preferred it should be to Jein and Mary; for though J em was not a lively bird by any means, 5 still he had the pull of Herbert in one way he was not forever running round to walk on Marys side, and opening doors for Mary, and buying presents for Mary, asking Mary if she were tired, and all the rest of it. Herbert made a regular dolly of Emily: Bertha never had the umbrella held over her, though it might be that she ~vore her best hat and Emily her every- day one; she had no nice boxes of good- ies slipped into her muff; and she might be on the trudge from morning till night wherever Emily chose to go, without once being asked what she would like or dis- like doing. But Jem, Bertha averred, was a good old chap, and drew no such distinctions. Indeed, whatever the party was, it was the same to Challoner. He walked and talked indiscriminately, he never bought anything for anybody, and he carried Berthas largest parcel in addition to Ma- rys smallest, without any apparent con- sciousness as to which was which. In consequence he was a dear; and as he made no parley over whatever he was asked to do, never had an engagement, never souaht out an excuse as he sub- mitted to be dragged from house to house with never a remonstrance, and to be kept waiting at shop or rink with never a mur- mur he was presently the best of dears. And I do say the way that poor Jein is put upon I shouldnt stand if I was he, cried his stanch protectress Mrs. Tufnell. It is Jein here and Jem there with all of you, till I declare I am quite ashamed. If it was only Mary now, there would be sense in that. But Bertha har- ries him here, and Emily harries him there Harries! What to goodness do you mean, mamma? You know what I mean well enough. Theres no such ~vord. You know ~vhat I mean well enough; what does the word matter? I says its a sin and a shame to keep that poor dear standing about in all the cold doorways in this weather, while you girls are amusing yourselves inside He wont come inside; it is his own fault; he will stop in the doorways. Thats nonsense: thats just him all over; he thinks hell be in the way. There he was 10-day Oh, I saw you all I sawyou, though none of you saw me and there he was half an hour at Smiths door if he was a minute. I went by when you three walked up, and saw you you, Bertha, and Mary go in, and Jem turn back and lean against the wall outside; THE BABY S GRANDMOTHER. i6 THE BABY S GRANDMOTHER. and when I came back and I had been away a good half hour, for I could not have got to the Greens and back in less he was there still. Now, if it had only been for five minutes or so, shop windows are well enough for a little while, but I was saying shop windows are diverting enough in their ~vay, Mr. Jem, as Challo- ner entered, but I doubt the girls give you too much of them. I like to flatten my nose now and again myself, but I never get a chance nowadays; theres so much to be done, and papa likes to keep the horses going. Thats the ~vorst of horses: I am sure I dont care to drive, drive, drive every day of my life; Id as soon stop indoors to look after things sometimes. But papa says the horses and James are best out; and the girls are none of them for the carriageits not amusing for young people; they cant see their friends, leastways stop and chat and look about them, as they can when they are on their feet; so I have just got into the way of it, and James comes round every day at two oclock regularly. Jem had better drive with you, main- ma, if you think it would be more to his taste than being with us, suggested J ems Aa,zcee, with ready pertness. No doubt your society would divert him much more than ours. We dont want him if he dont want us, added her sister. And as to our keeping him at the shop doors, it was about his own errand we were in at Smiths; he will not take any sort of trouble about it himself ____ About what? His Turks dress; his dress for the ball. He is going as a Turk. We have settled it for him ; we think he will make a lovely Turk. Do be quiet, Jem; Im not saying its you that is lovely. And the ball is coming on, and yet he has never given the order ! But you have given it? No, indeed. I only went in to see Smith on the sly. Jem never knew what I was about until this moment, looking at him to see the effect; and Smith says he could manage it perfectly, if Jem would only go and speak himself. Well, he must go then go at once, cried her mother, won over to the enemy directly. Dear me, Mr. Jem! what have you been about? Lord! you may be thrown out altogether! Why, now, do look about you, and dont leave it to the last, as you men always do. I met Willie Dobb just now, and for all he was the one to set the ball agoing, he makes believe now that he is too great a gentleman to know anything about it. Says I to him, Well, Mr. Willie, and what are you to be? Oh, Mrs. Tufnell, says he, as grand as you please, I havent made up my mind yet, he says. I shall just leave it to my tailor, says he. Leave it to his tailor! a likely story! By-and-by it leaks out that he has got it all as pat as nine- pence. I may have something of this kind, he says but I am sure I forget what kind; and though he is so fine and so fashionable, Ill be bound Willie Dobb has thought little else but what he can do to set himself off since ever the ball was first talked about. I wish Jem would, said Mary. He only laughs, and says if the worst comes to the worst, he can wear a mask. ( He wears that already, said Chal. loner, under his breath.) Oh, dont you fear, dont you fear, responded the easy mother; Jem is just tantalizing you for a bit of mischief. He and Willie Dobb are a couple. The end will be that the two of them will turn out the smartest there. I met Walter Moss today, what do you think he is going as? said Bertha. You will never guess. Richard C~ur- de-Lion, in a complete suit of chain-armor. He says he ordered it the very day he got his invitation. Think of Walter Moss as Richard Ca~ur-de.Lion! Think of the cost of it! said her mother. Well, I am not one to grudge moneyand to be sure the Mosses are rolling, as one may say; but that chain. armorand he would never think of hav- ing it on hire. XVelI, well, nodding her head. And what is Charlotte to be, B.ertha? A haymaker, with a rake and a basket. And wont she look like one? With her red face Come, come, no ill-nature; we are all in the same boat, said Mrs. Tufnell com- fortably; and a red face is what every haymaker gets with working in the sun. Charlotte is very sensible not to be above the character. I was afraid of what Char- lotte might do, to own the truth. Mary Queen of Scots, or such like. Miss Beadel is to be Mary Queen of Scots, you know. Charlotte could not run in couples with l\~iss Beadel. Miss Beadel, Mary Queen of Scots! cried her mother, upsetting in her amaze- ment her tea into her saucer, and by a violent lunge just saving farther mis- chance. My word! Bertha, you are hoaxing. Aint you, then? Well, I THE BABY ~S GRANDMOTHER. 7 wouldnt have believed it. Ridiculous creature.; and at her age too! As yellow as a guinea, and as lean as a fiddle- string.! Set her up with a velvet dress and pearls! It is her old velvet that is to be made to do, said Bertha, giggling. And she says that is why she has chosen the character. She is going to cut down the neck H umph! from her mother. And put in hanging sleeves of mus- lin Ay, they are cheap enough. And work in the pearls herself old Roman pearls that she has lying by. And she has got a wire frame to stand up at the back, and it is to be covered with muslin and pearls to match ; like the photograph, you know. She has the photograph in front of her to work by, and she is really doing it very well. And what about the head? The head is the touch. She is never going to make up the cap herself? Indeed she is then. And I have promised to look in and tell her how it does when it is finished, said Bertha, with all the family good-nature. She is not going to have a stitch put into any- thing by anybody but herself; and she reckons the whole thing will only cost her fifteen shillings , gloves and all. And me paying more than that in guineas ! But however, said Mrs. Tuf- nell, recovering however, I am not Martha Beadel; and as I have a husband who stints me for nothing, for I will say that for papa, he has been handsome to us all this time, well, Ill not disgrace him. Tis all very well for Martha Beadel to cut and chop her old gowns and try to make them pass for new ones; but it would be a pretty thing if I were to play that trick. Dont you tell papa, girls, whatever you do, in alarm; do you hear that, Mary? Dont you let out to papa about Miss Beadel getting nothing new for the ball: we should never hear the last of it. Papa is quite as full of his own ap- pearance as other people, said Mary. Everybody is but Jem, with a glance of resentment. Every one takes an in- terest in it; and the Dobbs are so beset with requests for invitations, from people wanting to bring other people, that Mrs. Dobb says it is of no use their rooms cannot go on stretching for ever; and though they are going to turn every stick of furniture out of the place, and use all the down-stairs rooms, they cannot take LiVING AGE. VOL. XLVI, 2342 in another soul. There is a Miss Juliet Appleby An involuntary movement from Chal- loner. Oh, you know her, Jem? I have have !net her; yes. I know a Miss Appleby at least; it may not be the same. Was her name Juliet? Juliet? He looked as though trying to recollect, and blushed for himself as he did so. Well, was she a friend of the Wind- lasses those people your sister knows ? The people my sister knows. Real- ly, said Challoner, affecting to laugh, really that is rather a wide surface to work upon. I know the Windlasses a little myself; but I did not kno~v they were acquainted with Miss Appleby, nor that she was here with them, which was true enough. This ~vas his first intimation as to where Juliet was, since, although he had come across her once or twice after the lecture,. he had not been obliged to speak. He did not think she had seen him. Once indeed they had almost touched each other beneath an archway, and as by a chance he had been alone, he had almost made himself known for the purpose of discovering how much or how iittle she had learned about him. But the stake was too high ; he had hung back, and let her walk along in front of himonly a few feet in front of him for a quarter of a mile, leaving it to chance whether they should fall foul of each other or not. Chance had elected that they should not, that time. Then, again, he had seen her step out of a brougham and enter a shopthe next shop to one in whose doorway he was waiting as usual and he had thought Juliet could hardly have avoided seeing and recognizing him on that occa- sion; but she had: she had passed inside, and ere she had emerged again he had vanished. The third glimpse had been merely of the top of her bonnet. But he had remembered the bonnet as having been one which Matilda had noticed and had not admired. Teddy had defended poor Juliets tawdry taste; but Teddys defence was never good for much, and Challoner had joined in the laugh: now the sight of the sprightly plume in the streets of Clinkton sent a throb to his heart. He had ahnost grown callous as to the proximity of Juliet herself; that she had not her stopping-place anywhere close at iS THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. hand had soon been obvious, and he could have heard with satisfaction that she was with the old-fashioned out-of-the- way Windlasses, had it not been for this insufferable fancy ball. Well, she wants an invitation now, said Mary. The Dobbs and the Wind. ]asses do not visit. Mrs. Dobb says she does not know why she is sure, but they never have left cards on each other, and so, of course, she had never thought of asking them. But this Miss Appleby is dying to be there on Friday. So she has got the Greens to ask for her, and she is to come with their party. Provided Mrs. Dobb will have her, I suppose.~~ Oh, Mrs. Dobb makes an exception in her favor, of course, said Mary, laugh. ing. Mrs. Dobb will go on making ex- ceptions for a good while yet, you may be sure. And she is as proud as possible of being so run upon; she would not turn away a sweep, let alone Miss Juliet Ap- pleby! Harry Swilly is going as a Chinaman, began Bertha. It was endless. Cold and raw as the day was, Challoner went out of doors again; he really could not stand more at one time. CHAPTER XXII. CHALLONER PLAYS HIS PART. If, when she appears i the room, Thou dost not quake, art not struck dumb, And in striving this to cover, Dust not speak thy words twice over, Know this. Thou lovat amiss, And to love true, Thou must begin again, and love ~ SIR JOHN SUCKLING. NOTHING was now heard but of the fancy ball from morning till night. Ev- erybody professed curiosity and anxiety as regarded the dresses and characters chosen by their friends, and everybody had a very real and unaffected interest in, and desire to make known, their own. What are you to wear? What are you to be ? was the inevitable first ques- tion, followed by a careless Very pretty. Very nice. That will just suit you. Lam going as entering into the minutest details. No age nor sex was exempt from the infection; no one was too old or too young, or too ~vise or too fine (ex- cepting Willie Dobb, and even Mrs. Tuf- nell saw through him), to care how they went, and how they looked. Heads of families sober, grey-headed men, who would have to pay the bill afterwards might indeed put out their lips and raise their eyebrows, but they went and got measured all the same, and did not above half like being told that the fly-away coat- tails and tight breeches in the corner were for the young gentlemen, and that some- thing more suitable would be forthcoming for them ; whilst their portly spouses whispered merrily behind fans, spread their fingers to show the breadth of the lace on their trains, and threw up their eves in describing the height of the plumes that were to nod upon their pow- dered curls. It appeared that there were to be two Harry the Eighths, three ill-fated Marys of Scotland, a Joan of Arc, a Cleopatra, a William Penn, several Puritans, and at least half-a-dozen .vivandi~res. And what do you think those barrack gim- cracks are going to do? cried Tufnell, in disgust indescribable. Going in their uniform! In their uniform! The uni- form of the 150th, if you please. And Mrs. Dobb may lay her account to it that every one of the hundred and fifty of them will be there, now that it is not to cost them so much as a clean shirt. It is a clever get-out, isnt it, Challoner? Poor devils! they havent a brass farthing among ~ Mary Tufnell had in duty bound con- sulted her Jem on the all-important sub- ject. He had been in luck: he had chanced to remember a dress that had struck his fancy on a similar occasion, and by describing it,a plain black gown, with white cap, apron, and collar, and red cross on the left arm the costume of a hospital nurse, in short, he had been saved further discussion; for What do you think she did? cried her delighted mother, afterwards; she just went and ordered it straight away, and surprised him with it on in the drawing-room! im bound to say its neat; but tis scarce dressy enough, to my taste. If one is to be dressed up, you know but, however, if it pleases Jem. And was it not nice of Mary? And Jem has hit off her pretty back and waist for certain. Herbert, now, could not think of anything but a Dolly Varden for poor Emily. I call that com- mon. And papa standing treat for the girls, and ready to pay anything, as it will be the last time for two of them any way. They should have been allowed to get something better than Dolly Vardens out of papa.~~ But though the accidental mention of an effective costume did something for Challoners reputation, and just saved him from being said to take no interest in the THE BABY S GRANDMOTHER. event of the day and though this sug- gestion was, we may add, assiduously circulated in the circle as an apology for Marys plainness, and also out of justice to papa, added Mrs. Tufnellstill he might have been in disgrace again soon enough, had it not been for what he had just heard regarding Juliet Appleby. XVithin twenty-four hours after learning her intentions, he had given strict and lavish orders about his own dress. It was to be made at once, and made in the best style, and all past remissness was con- doned on the spot. But lest our readers should be under any misapprehension on the subject, we may just inform them aside, that this sudden awakening meant precisely the reverse of what appeared, that as long as Challoner saw no escape from the dreadful revel nothing for it but to be led there a captive at the wheels of his fair the doleful vision so oppressed him, that he was perforce numb and nerve- less beforehand; but that no sooner did he resolve not to go to the ball no sooner did he gather himself together to revolt and flee than he went gaily to the tailors. Do not be too hard upon him: he was almost beside himself. A note had come for him in the morn- ing from Lord Overton Lord Overton, who scarcely ever asked his sister for a stamp. He had himself written to Chal- loner, and the missive had arrived at breakfastti me. There had been but a few words : DEAR CHALLONER, The frost has come at last, and we are keeping the home ponds for you. Come to-morrow, if you can. If not, next day. Yours truly. OVERTON. Come to-morrow, if you can. If you can ? ay, for there was the rub. To-morrow was the day on which he got the invitation; and though he had told the writer that such an invitation would bring him at any time, on however short a notice, he had paused until he had heard about Miss Appleby; then he had ordered his suit. vVith Overtons note in his pocket he had walked to the shop, done his own errand, and then accom- panied the ladies on theirs. He had never been more gentle, more compliant. They had ventured to consult him about the rouge for their cheeks, and the juice wherewith to stain his own skin; and he had responded to every summons, and started up to execute every desire in a 9 way that quite wrung Mrs. Tufnells soft withers, who now frankly allowed that she had never done that poor dear justice before no, that she had not; for, much as she had always thought of Marys Jem, she had just felt, felt a little lately as if he vere coming it Willie Dobb over them, and had thought he might have tried to look a little more as if he cared about what pleased them all so much, and, to be sure, everybody knew that Willie Dobb did care, in spite of his fal-la airs; but the worst of Mr. Jem was, she really had been afraid he did not, and that was the honest truth. But, dear, now she felt quite reproved; and indeed she had owned as much to papa, who had said what do you think he had said? Why, that he only thought the more of Jem for not beino carried awayby tomfoolery. Had he been one of those jackanapes of offi- cers, says papa for you know papa never could stand the officers, had he been one of them, says papa, you would have seen another story. Papa is quite mad with them forgoing in their red coats, poor things; but what else have they got to go in, say I? It is all very well for papa, who has only to put his hand in his pocket, but we cant all be like him; and, for my part, I think none the worse of the young men for saving a penny. However, Jem pleases papa best, and that is as it should be, you know. I suppose you have heard what they are going to do with me, said papa him- self, presently. It has come in just now, the finery, and there are no fewer than three boxes. Three boxes! The half of my dressing-room is taken up with them, and a whipper-snapper of a tailor is com- ing to-night to see that I am all right. Pon my word, I shall feel monstrous queer, I expect. What do you say, eh? How about the Turk? Will you be at home in your filigree? Will you be able to dance? I am not a dancing man. No, I dont suppose I shall be dancing to-morrow night, replied Challoner, looking down with something like a smile on his face, as he made an inward interpretation of the phrase. You leave it to the boys and girls? Quite right too. Much room will they get to flounce about in, however, if what young Dobb tells me is true; over a hun- clred people, and their rooms are very little larger than our own. They have a goodish-sized hall that will help them. If we go in time to see the rest arrive, that will be the best of the fun, to my 20 THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. fancy. I told Dobb we should be there early; we are old friends of the Dobbs, you know (how often had he been told it !) their very oldest friends, I may say. Dobb and I have known each other these thirty years, and there has never been a word between us. You cant say that of all old neighbors. I fancy my girls knew of this ball before anybody else did; the girls and boys have all grown up together, and how we have had no match between em, with a laugh, I dont understand. Saw too much of each other, perhaps. People will say mydaugh- ters set their caps higher. You, Mr. Chal- loner, and Herbert Mildmay, are above the Clinkton folks: yes, you are I dont mind owning it. Im no truckler; but when a man behaves like a gentleman as you have done to me and mine, sir an honest, downright, straightforward gen. tleman, damn it, Im not above saying your birth is higher than mine. You did not come after my girls money, you came after her for herself; so has Herbert come after Emily for herself: I believe in you both, from my soul. You shall see that I do by-and-by by.and-by, rustling with both hands in his pockets. And as for the Dobbs, why, they are all very well in their way, very well as neighbors, very ~vell as friends; but bet~veen ourselves, wrinkling up his nose bet~veen our- selves, Jem Challoner, I am just as well pleased to have it stop there. To be sure, theres Bertha, suddenly \Vhat about Bertha? said Mrs Tuf- nell, entering. Only talking over the ball, my dear, rejoined he placidly. Arranging how we are to go; are you? Oh, we have thought of that, and Bertha has promised to be dressed and off in time to let the carriage come back again for the other two and Mr. Jem; it is so short a way, the carriage can go back and forward, and it will come for us, for you and me, last. But we must be in good time, cried Tufnell, mind you. I have promised that we shall be in good time; for I have set my heartahemthe Dobbs are particularly anxious that we should be the first arrivals, and take up our position among themselves, and see it all. Dobb told me so himself. You see papa is quite full of it, nodded his spouse to Challoner. Oh, pooh! I? I full of it? Non- sense! I I only care, as it amuses you. I am glad to do the civil thing by the Dobbs, my old friends the Dobbs, as I was telling Jem here just no~v. I am always glad to see them, they are always glad to see me; but as for their fancy ball, it is neither here nor there. If they choose to give a ball, very well; I have nothing to say; let em give it. Dobb knows what the length of his purse is; and if lie likes to give his young people a hop, and invites us to join, I, for one, see no harm in it; and though I am an old man, and my dancing days are over Oh now, now, ~ve shall see what that means; oh tiow, now, dont believe him, Mr. Jem, cried his wife delightedly. Dont be too sure; I should not be the least bit in the world surprised if papa was asked to open the ball with Mrs. Dobb. There! That is what I have thought all along; and you may say what you please, it is in my mind that that is how it is to be. Papa and Mrs. Dobb! I am sure I only hope that Mr. Dobb will not want me to stand up with him; for really with that great gown what ~vitli the length of it, and the weight of it I am sure I could never turn a figure. Oh come, old lady, you would curtsey with the best of em, rejoined her hus- band gallantly. Upon my word I had never thought of it, but I should not wonder in the least if Dobb has this in his head. Either you or one of the girls Ay, one of the girls would be far better, and so I shall tell him. It would be a compliment to the Windlasses if he were to take out Miss Juliet Appleby. And why should they have the com- pliment? demanded her husband, some- what tartly. The Windlasses have never done anything to merit a compli- ment from any one of us, so far as I know. It seems to me they hold them- selves above us plain folk; and if thats the case, I should show them and their Miss Juliet Appleby that we can do with- out them. Did you not say that they are not ~even coming themselves, but are sending this London miss with other peo- ple? Is she a London miss, Jem? inquired his daughter Mary, who had entered a few minutes previously. You know her, eh, Jem? added the father, who had not heard this before; you know her? oh! And you know the Windlasses, too, of course? Of course, I forgot. But youll take no offence; I dare say they are excellent people. I never heard a word against em; but so- cially, you know, socially, they are not my style. You see it differently, of course; JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. 21 you are of their set; and no doubt they make themselves agreeable enough to you, however high and mighty they may be to us. When Mary is your wife, she will stand by the county folks too, I dare swear, pinching her ear; but you see, I am a plain man, and if people will take me as I am, I am neighborly; but if they are too fine for anything but a nod, and a How are you? as if I was their grocer or their baker, and talk of nothing but the weal/icr when they come to the bank, and wont visit me in my own house, nor know my wife and daughters, why, I dont like it, and 1 dont pretend to like it. And as for this London miss But is she a London miss, Jem? said Mary again. What she should trouble her head about our ball for, I cannot imagine, proceeded Mr. Tufnell, without a pause. Cant she get balls enough in London without running after them down here, asking for invitations, and taking up other girls partners? I suppose you will have to ask her to Challoner as she is a lady you know; you will have to ask her once, but I should not put myself out of my way to do it twice. Let her take her chance; let her fare as the other girls do; why should we trouble ourselves about a stranger who has nothing to do with any of us? The Windlasses not even coming with her, and Jem here the only friend she has Jem laughed; he could not help it. Eh? said the banker, amazed. My acquaintance with Miss Appleby, sir, is so slight that it is not worth men- tioning. I met her in the autumn at a house where I was pheasant-shooting. She is not likely to to To remember you? To care to remember me. She has cut me dead twice in the street. From Macmillans Magazine. JAMES HOPE~SCOTT.* WHILST I was reading, with more an- ger I confess than becomes my age, some ill-natured comments on my collected poems, by one of those infallible para- graph-mongers who dispose of your lifes work in a single insolent sentence, the memoir of James Hope-Scott was sent to me. At the very touch and sight of the book my mood changed at once it was as if by the wavingofan enchanters wand a magic mirror before me had been filled with all the shapes of the past, of which past he once formed so prominent a part. I looked back through my whole life, with its hopes and disappointments, its suc- cesses and failures, its joys and sorrows; and my momentary wrath was soon fol- lowed by a profound self-contempt that I had suffered myself to be moved, for however short a time, by the idle utter- ances of those anonymous I6WTaL. Not that the retrospect, as far as Hope is con- cerned, was without its own share of pain. I felt with renewed bitterness of regret how a wall of separation had gradually grown up between us, and how our once intimate friendship, though never extin- suished as I hope and believe, had gradually drifted into abeyance. In the mean time, having read the book, what awakens in me gratitude towards Mr. Ornsby is the admirable manner in which he has illustrated Hope-Scotts distin- guishing characteristic I mean his unquenchable, and if I may say so with- out irreverence, his Christ-like, benefi- cence. I am not prepared, however, to concede to Mr. Ornsby that the Roman Church is to be credited with the birth and development of this beautiful quality, inasmuch as it was displayed in at least equal vigor before he joined that com- munion. Indeed, 1 can give an instance of how it was exercised on my own behalf whilst he was yet a fellow of Merton. Of course as we were still intimate, though even then less closely united than we had been, it does not amount to much, still many a sincere friend might have done less, with perfect self-satisfaction on his part, and complete acquiescence on mine. My father, whose health had been long declining, was seized with fatal symptoms at the end of November, 1839. Hope, who was warned of this at Merton, came over about nine oclock to the common room at All Souls, where I then ~vas, with a post-chaise he had already procured. He broke the sad news to me with the utmost tenderness; and then, during the inclement winter night that followed, in- sisted on accompan)ing me to town and soothing me, to the best of his power, during the dreary journey. On reading the book before me I feel now, even more than I did then, that this was a necessity of his nature, and that he would have done for other men under the same cir- cumstances what he did for me, not so * Memoirs of ~omes Hote-Scolt, of A bbo/sford. By Robed Urusby, MA. London: John Murray. much from motives of friendship, as be- 22 JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. cause the warmth of his benevolence always led him to give up his time, his sympathy, and his money, to any one in distress. This I must acknowledge is the one feature of the book in which I take a real interest, Bishop Gobat and the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill being not much to my taste; and as for the Apos- tolical Succession, I must frankly own, though I know it will be considered a pes- tilent heresy, that to me the successors of the apostles are those who inherit most nearly their gifts, graces, and powers, and not a set of men, good, bad, and indiffer- ent, who come after the other under a sort of celestial deed of entail. This no- tion, in my judgment, belongs to a very technical, if not to a somewhat unspirit- ual, creed. However, let us leave these general reflections and begin at the be- ainning. b ~ must start by correcting an unimpor- tant mistake of Mr. Ornsbys. He says: In 1824 James was removed to the Rev. Edward Polehamptons preparatory school for Eton, at Greenford Rectory; among his companions there were Lord Selkirk and the present Sir Francis Doyle. In 1824 I was already at Eton, and so far from having been at Mr. Polehamptons with Hope, I never heard him mention the reverend gentlemans name. My first acquaintance with Hope was in 1825, when he came to the house of Mrs. Holt, our dame. He was about two years younger than I was. I gave him my ad- vice for what it was worth, about his verses, private business, and the like. He was wonderfully handsome and agree- able-looking, with ye ryc harming manners. XVe associated with each other, however, mostly in the house, I naturally taking my exercise and amusements with boys nearer my own part of the school, who were friends already made. For some reason or other, perhaps from indolence an indolence which Mr. Ornsby attrib- utes to the effects of a severe typhus fever that attacked him when in Italy he was not particularly keen about school distinctions of any sort. I was driven to literature and verse-making because I was as blind as a bat, and somewhat lame from an early accident; but there was no ap- parent reason why he should not have fig- ured conspicuously in the playing-fields, ur iowed in the boats. But to the best of my ~ecoliection, he didnt oo any great things in that line; nor, on the other hand, did he show much zeal for Greek and Latin; nor again, what I always regretted, ~vo uld he join the debating so- ciety either at Eton or Oxford. This explains why his acquaintance with Mr. Gladstone at that time was so compara- tively slight. Mr. Ornsby says he was given to punning, and I recollect the pun- ning reason he gave for refusing to join our discussions at Oxford. He said the place was only fitted for desb~tes; how- ever, as the first speech that he made was almost as great a success as Erskines, practice beforehand would not probably have been of much use. Mr. Coleridge, his tutor, in a letter (pp. 13, 14), complains of his insufficient scholarship. If this is true he probably lost some at Eton, be- cause, as he got a double remove into the fifth form shortly after he came there, Mr. Polehampton must have sent him up very tvell prepared. The fact is that, thou~h Eton was a good school of its kind, it was not one of the orthodox kind its merits, as I have said elsewhere, were quite differ- ent from those of Shrewsbury and Win- chester. A boy who learnt quickly by heart, and acquired the power of putting the Virgil and Ovid which he had learnt by heart into tolerable verses, was not obliged to do anything else. This sub- jected us to great disadvantages at the university; we had no more chance against the Shrewsbury boys of winning the university scholarship than a half- trained horse has of carrying off the Derby; and it took us our whole three years to acquire a sufficiently accurate knowledge of Greek to go into the schools with any hope of success. This, perhaps, was one of the reasons why Hope would not attempt honors. Mr. Ornsby quotes some Latin verses of his from a copy which was sent up for good at Eton. I am rather amused at one of the expres- sions, because it is borrowed from a line which I recollect showing him some fifty- seven years ago, and certainly have never thought of since. In an old Eton prize poem (there were no prize poems in our time, mores the pity), was to be found a very graceful passage about the Thames Rodit arundineas facili sinuamine ripas, etc. Hope, in the verses cited by Mr. Orns- by, borrows the words facili sinuamine, making a very harmonious cadence; but I own to a doubt whether sinuamen be- longs to the Augustan era, and to that we were as closely confined in general as a pet squirrel is to his cage. As, how- ever, Keats and Coleridge passed it over fifty-seven years ago, this is not of much importance now. Either I catch, or I imagine that 1 catch, a faint sigh of regret JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. 23 coming from Mr. Ornsby, when he recalls those Eton and early Oxford days, and does not find in them a stronger religious element. I should rather have expected this regret from a Baptist than a Roman Catholic. Hope, of course, might have been one of those early pietists enriching a tract (I do not mean one of Dr. New- mans tracts, quite the reverse), and dying young in the odor of sanctity. To me, I confess an Eton boy who looks upon the devil as his special adversary, instead of that awful left-handed Harrow bowler, and whose meditations are how to save his soul from the assaults of sin, instead of his wicket from the impulse of a leg shooter, is no object of admiration. More- over, if Hope had been all that ultra- Calvinists desire, instead of a brilliant, handsome lad, full of spirit and promise, beloved by all about him, and showing signs of real talent to those who rightly knew what he was, Mr. Ornsby should reflect that all tractarians of that kind die in their teens, and die Protestants so that the fishermans net would have failed to secure one of its most valuable captives. At Oxford our friendship was even closer than at Eton, as we lived to- gether both in doors and out. Our princi- pal relaxation was riding on Oxford hacks, whose absolute duty it was always to gal- lop, so that they had almost forgotten the arts of trotting and walking. We read a good deal together in our rooms, princi- pally Plato, and used to discuss him after- wards according to our lights. This still interests me as connected with almost the last flashing up of our half-extinguished friendship. A poem of mine, The Vision of Er, the Pamphylian, founded upon a legend in the Republic of Plato, was privately printed before I gave it to the world. I sent it to him this was after his conversionwith a letter to this ef- fect: Mv DEAR HOPE, Circumstances have caused us to drift asunder, but I do not see that there is anything in that to prevent me from forwarding to you these verses, in mem- ory of the books we read and the thoughts we interchanged whilst friends at Christ Church. I received in return an affectionate reply, accompanied by an invitation to Abbotsford. This invitation I was unfor- tunately obliged to decline, so that I never saw him in his own house after he became a Roman Catholic. Yet, as I have said before, I hope the old feelings still lived with him as with me. Indeed I was as- sured as much as this by Manning (since cardinal). Manning, whom I had known fairly well at Oxford, once called upon me, if I recollect rightly, three times in one week, and on the last occasion asked me to take a walk with him in the park at some future time, to which I gladly con- sented; but when the day came his zeal for it had somehow evaporated, and the proposed expedition never came off. Dur- ing one of our conversations I expressed my deep regret that Hope and I had be- come estranged, adding that as I was sure the estrangement was altogether a reli- gious, and not a personal, one, I had never felt ~he smallest resentment. Manning confidently asserted in return that Hope still cherished for me the strongest regard, and went on to say that his position towards Gladstone was exactly the same as mine towards Hope; then putting on his wonderfully insinuating manner, which would have conquered me at once if I had been a woman and not a man, he contin- ued thus Oh, how I wish we could get up a religious Grillons, dont you? Of course I did, and 1 told him so, fancying nevertheless that his endeavor to impress me that he was likely to aim at establish- ing such an institution was a compliment addressed to my heart rather than to my understanding. On considering the mat- ter afterwards I have no doubt that the feeling which dictated this somewhat anomalous wish was perfectly sincere; still, if grace before and after meat be an act of devotion in which all at table join, it would have been not a little difficult to manage even this slender rite at the Bar- mecide feasts of his imaginary club. And now to return to Oxford and to my friend Hope. We rode and we walked; we read and talked and dined together; we confided to each other our hopes and longings, and never, I suppose, were two men on more confidential terms than he and I, until the rift in the lute began to show itself. The gloom that fell upon him after his first year at Christ Church, and turned him from the most brilliant youth of his day into something like a hermit, made no difference as far as I was concerned, although it grieved me much. I can read now between the lines of my letter (pp. 72, 73) what it was I feared; still, if there was any danger of this, which I do not assert, it was entirely averted by his giving up the idea of taking orders, and entering upon a career of great and continuous activity. When I made my recommendation that, if he went into the Church, he should occupy himself with some important ecclesiastical or philo 24 JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. sophical work, I had in my mind the legend about Bishop Butler, who devoted himself, as we are told, to deep and ear- nest thinking day after day because he doubted otherwise whether h~ could keep himself of perfectly sound mind. In time Hope passed off to Merton, and I to All Souls, but we still saw a good deal of each other. Our undergraduate days having ended, Hope became a fellow of Merton in 1833. Owing to circumstances now unimportant I was not elected to All Souls until 1835, and hardly ever went to Oxford in the mean time; hence, though we still con- tinued friends, our opportunities for inter- course were no longer the same. I am unable, therefore, to state with any pre- cision when that sense of religion, ~vhich brought into light the deeper and grander aspects of Hopes character, began to act upon him. It certainly was not in opera- tion during his tour on the Continent with Leader in the summer and autumn of 1832. It does not seem necessary to dwell at any length upon the years that immediately followed. After various strug- gles and vacillations he ~vas called to the bar, and began at Merton and elsewhere to lead a life that may fairly be called an admirable one. Not only did he grow more religious, but an overwhelming sense of duty con- stantly urged him to work hard for some high purpose. The sense of what he owed to the founder of Merton induced him to undertake the proposed reform of that college~ I am not aware that this effort was of any great practical impor- tance, except that it led him to study with care the history of other religious founda- tions also, and to master the law of the Church. These studies equipped him with the utmost completeness for his great speech in favor of the cathedral chapters when the Ecclesiastical Duties and Rev- enues Bill came before the Lords in 1840. Whilst this speech was being delivered, Lord Brougham exclaimed, That young mans fortune is made! And so it was. How, when the money came in, he gave thousands of pounds away in charity, how he labored to promote emigration among the wretched classes of London, how he helped to establish the college of Glen Almond all these things may be read of in Mr. Ornsbys work, but I confess that to me they are less interesting than the exquisite tenderness which he showed to individual sufferers, as ~vhen Miss Hope, his cousin, in a letter to Lady Henry Kerr writes thus: I cannot re~ member details about Jamess extreme care to both his father and mother; only the impression is as if an angel had been in those sick-rooms. Whilst we had this sad influenza in the house, it was still more severe in the village, and I found that James was giving his unwearied at- tention there also; James thought of every one, and only a hint from the doctor sent him to any cottage. Again ,in 1841, he made acquaintance with a certain Mr. Watson in Italy, who was dying of con- sumption. Hope insisted on taking charge of him, and they were proceeding to Malta when on April 15th Mr. Watson died sud- denly at Naples. Once more, we are told that when an old servant of the family was seriously ill with an ulcerated leg, Hope carefully attended to him, dressed his wounds himself, and after he had re- covered took care to make him comfort- able for life. Finally, when his earliest tutor Mills, of Magdalen, was going to Madeira in a hopeless condition, Hope offered at once to accompany him there, and soothe his dying hours in that some- what melancholy island. All these things recall to me our night journey in 1839, and add new warmth to that old friend- ship, which I, at least, never let go. The fresh element which gave color to his life during his passage through the high Anglican doctrines was the brotherly friendship which arose between him and Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Gladstone in a letter to Miss Hope-Scott says: At Oxford we were contemporaries, but acquaintances only, scarcely friends, and yet I have to record our partnership on two occasions in a proceeding which in Oxford was at that time singular enough. At the hazard of severe notice, and perhap~ punishment, we went together to the Baptist chapel of the place, once to hear Dr. Chalmers, an- other time to hear Mr. Rowland Hill. I suppose Mr. Gladstone is sure of his facts; he took uze, then an intimate friend, to Rowland Hill, and he took me also to Chalmers, and it is a curious coincidence that he should have done the same thing for Hope, of whom he knew very little, on two other occasions. He was perhaps in Hopes company when startled by Row- land Hills famous peroration (I think he told me some time after our enterprise that he was present ~vhen it was delivered) On Sunday next the Rev. Mr. Jones will preach, on the Sunday after the Rev. Mr. Robinson, but as for me, this place is so hot, and you are all so inattentive, that I dont know when I shall preach again ~ Anyhow it was not t 1836 that their real JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. friendship began, to continue without abatement till Hope became a Roman Catholic. For ten years or so they were associated in promoting worthy objects, and in trying to elevate our Erastianized establishment to that position which, as a true branch of the catholic Church, they conceived she was bound to occupy. How these hopes and aspirations grad- ually failed the book will tell those who care to know, but Glen Almond College, in Perthshire, still remains as a memorial of their joint labors. In the mean time Hope was drifting gradually to Rome, and the following passage. in a letter dated J~4I, Ah, S., there may be abuses and scandals at Rome, but there are higher regions and wider views in the governing part, would have shown to anybody who considered the matter ~vhat the end would probably be. Still some may think that his conversion might ndver have taken place but for Cardinal Newman. That great mans ardent zeal and extraordinary genius drew all those within his sphere, like a magnet, to attach themselves to him and his doctrines. Nay, before he himself became a Romanist, his mesmeric influence, as it ~vere, acted not only upon the Tractarians, but even in some degree upon outsiders like myself. Whenever I was at Oxford I used regularly to go and listen to his sermon at St. Marys in the afternoon, and have never heard such a preacher since. I do not know whether it is a mere fancy of mine, or whether those who know him better will accept and endorse my belief, that one element of his wonderful power developed itself after this fashion. He always began as if he had determined to set forth his idea of the truth in the plainest aiid simplest lan- guage language, as men say, intelligible to the meanest understanding; but his burning zeal and his fine poetical imag- ination were not thus to be controlled. As I hung upon his words I thought I could trace behind his will, and pressing against it, a rush of thoughts and images which he ever struggled to keep back; but in the end they were generally too strong for him, and poured themselves out in a torrent of eloquence all the more impetuous for having been so long re- pressed. The effect of these outbursts was irre- sistible, and carried his hearers beyond themselves at once. Even when his ef- forts at self-restraint were more successful than usual, that very effort gave a life and color to his style which riveted the atten- tion of all within reach of his voice. It 25 does not seem to me of much importance to dwell upon the gradual steps by which Hopes change of religion was brought about. The appointment of Bishop Gobat to the Anglo-Prussian see at Jerusalem, the Gorham controversy, and Lord John Russells Ecclesiastical Titles Bill, shook his confidence in the Church of England, and he became a Romanist before Easter in t8~i. His conversion was the cause of much sorrow among his friends and relations, and though, even before that time, their friendship was not quite the friendship of old, as might have been ex- pected, it particularly affected Mr. Glad- stone. I quote one or two passages from his letter to Miss Hope-Scott. Regard- ing (forgive me) the adoption of the Ro- man religion by members of the Church of England as nearly the greatest calamity that could befall Christian faith in this country, I rapidly became alarmed when these changes began . . - On June i8, 1851, he wrote to me the beautiful letter No. 95. It was the epitaph of our friend- shiD, which continued to live, but only, or almost only, as it lives between those who inhabit different worlds. Of the three events which shook Hopes faith in the Church of England, the first, viz., the Anglo-Prussian bishopric, ~vas the only one about which Hope ever said a word to me. He was, I know from him- self, extremely angry at certain unnamed differences between the English and Ger- man documents, purporting to be identi- cal, which were issued for the regulation of the see. He accused some l)erson or persons of intentionally deceiving both nations, and strongly opposed the measure on that ground, though the Erastian char- acter of the arrangement would have been quite sufficient to secure his hostility at any rate. I believe the experiment ended in a complete failure. The only other time I ever heard it alluded to was when a friend of mine came back from Jerusalem, and informed me that he had attended divine service once, but as the bishop would persist in saying Let us bray, he had declined to enroll himself in such a congregation. In taking leave of Hope as a Protestant, I think this is no unfit place to quote some remarks of Lord Blachford, which seem to me absolutely perfect in their skilful and delicate analysis of his character: Of course he [Mr. Hope-Scott] had many noble characteristics in common with oth- ers. But what was unequalled, or at least unsurpassed, in him was his power of charming and persuading everybody he 26 JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. came across. Over and above the wit, temper, and courtesy, the advantages of personal appearance, voice, and graceful manner, which go to make up pleasant. ness, there was a kind of grave, playful tenderness which he could infuse into his manner, neither too much nor too little, but according to persons and circum- stances, which was peculiarly irresistible. And beyond this he had not only a pleas- ure in pleasing, but a pleasure in serving. He was always ready to take up people, to see them through difficulties, to use his in- terest or exert his mind, and give up his time for them. I remember particularly in Rome (where there is plenty to do and to see) how he devoted himself to a young friend then in a consumption; making it a point to spend part of every day with him, and finally accompanying him to Malta,* where he died. Though he had a fine taste as to paint- ing, and a cultivated pleasure in music and architecture, he was not, I think, much affected by the external magnifi- cence of the Roman Church, but rather the contrary. The finished solemnities of the Sistine Chapel would have affected him less than a rude midnight mass of Carthusians. But what did affect him was the coherent system and organization of Rome the exactness of law and doc- trine, the completeness of theory, the careful adjustment of details, and the steady adherence to what was laid down. With these it made him uneasy and dis- satisfied to compare the loose rule of thumb procedure which is characteristic of everything English. This at least was my impression while we were drifting apart. In the mean time we may go back a little and speak of his professional suc- cess. The gifts and qualities which se- cured it to him are admirably described by Mr. G. S. Venables, Q.C., who has, I think I may say, unequalled opportuni- ties for arriving at a correct judgment. This letter will be found at page ioo in the second volume. These triumphs were gained in the Drang und Sturm period of railway development. It would have been fortunate for him and for us if he had lighted on a quieter time. His talents would have been just as much recognized, he would have secured a sufficient income, and might still have been among us to delight and improve the present genera- tion. We cannot read without great pain how day after day, on returning home, he * This is a mistake, he died at Naples. See infra. tumbled into a stupor rather than into a sleep, was often unable to appear at din- ner, and earned for himself, as the physi- cians told him, the heart of an over- worked brain, which was the beginning of the end. In 1847, however, by his marriage with lVIiss Lockhart, he secured to himself the happiest years of his life. He became, as every one knows, through her, shortly afterwards, the representative of her illustrious grandfather, Sir Walter Scott. It was in 1853 that she inherited the possession of Abbotsford, which he made his usual residence in after years. In referring to this marriage, I may say that his High Church friends mourned over it as a departure from the high ideal which they thought he had proposed to himself, and that Mr. Ornsby, by not speaking of this effeminate superstition with the contempt that it deserves, seems, negatively at least, to countenance their protest. That Hope should have sacri- ficed his wife and his childrenthe choicest earthly gifts that God can bestow upon any man and have lived, when not immersed in briefs, as a sort of re- cluse or mystic, though in the world, is shocking to any man of common sense who knows what he was. This ascetic element, not traceable in the character of our Saviour himself, whether it crops up in the T.P.s of Methodism, howling against Shakespeare and secular amuse- ments, or in the monks and hermits of the Roman Church, shutting themselves out from human interests, and allowing the better and higher parts of their na- ture to be absorbed into mere personal selfishness about their state in the next world, has always seemed to me one of the mischievous excrescences on Chris- tianity. It is partly derived from older sources, I supposesome of the grim- mer Hebrew prophets perhaps, and the Jewish sect known as Contemplative Es- senes. It culminated, I fancy, when the early Fathers gave utterance to that awful doubt (was it ever more than a doubt?), whether sin after baptism were remissi- ble. The adherents and semi-adherents of Christ, who left paganism to welcome the dawn of the new faith, seem to have divided themselves into two classes. Those among them whose organizations were more timid, sensitive, and scrupu- lous, devoted themselves with trembling anxiety to religion and religion alone. The best of these more earnest disciples, and wisest, perhaps, were the salt of the earth, but too many of them became slaves rather than servants of God a God, JAMES HOPE-SCOTT. 27 moreover, not our Father which art in heaven, but one who was the offspring of their own misguided imaginations. There is a book called the Vit~e Pa- trumin which you may read the stories of some such men, and very sad reading it is. Promising youths, whose atter years might have been valuable to them- selves and to mankind, refused, under what they thought divine influences, to touch the hand of a mother, or look a sis- ter in the face, and then fled away to the desert, in order that by feeding on roots, living like beasts, shirking all public du- ties, and quenching all human affections, they might secure, as they thought, the safety of their individual souls. No meaner specimens of the human race, so far as I am capable of judging. are to be found in the records of history, On the other hand, the ordinary Chris- tians and eaters of beef among whom we may include the greatest of the Fathers, St. Augustine jogged on very comfort- ably as catechumens, refusing to be bap- tized till old age had clawed them in his clutch, or, at any rate, till the common pleasures and amusements of life had lost much of their savor. It is from the other class, however, that the taint of asceti- cism the idea that the God of love is a jealous God, and grudges earthly happi- ness to his creatures has been passed on to so many good people in the present generation; and it is in their spirit that Mr. Ornsby just hesitates dislike to Hopes entering the marriage state. Surely if men like Hope, and the women who correspond to such men, could be persuaded that celibacy was, if not a duty, at least a high privilege to be sought and cherished as the blessing and crown of life, the centuries to come would announce themselves to the universe in a very mel- ancholy fashion. I might also mention that Hope married when the pressure of his business was extreme, four years be- fore his conversion, so that if when he came home utterly exhausted he had found no tender hand to minister to him, no loving conversation to relieve the ten- sion of his brain, he might have died be- fore i8~i, afid the fisherman again have missed his prize. This marriage with Charlotte Lockhart, whether ideally Chris- tian or not, increased the happiness of Hopes life, and probably lengthened it. And though I cannot help smiling when I think how that gallant old Presbyterian, Sir Walter Scott, had he been suddenly called back, would have stared and ~rum- bled to find himself surrounded, in his I beloved Protestant castle, by a swarm of black gowns and tonsured heads, still, a better suecessor to him than Hope could hardly have been found, and the humor- ous way in which he explained to Scotts surviving henchman, who, when the boy was christened, did not like his reintro- ducing the ominous name of Michael into the family, how Michael had been an archangel before he was a wizard, must have reminded him of his old master. Yet happily as this marriage began and continued, its end was a sad one. Mrs. Hope-Scott died on the 26th of October, i8~8, and was speedily followed to the grave by her two younger children, Mar- garet Anne, a baby, and the boy above mentioned, Walter Michael, just a year and a half old, whom all Scotland and all England had joyfully accepted as the rep- resentative and heir of the great, and, alas! the unreturning Sir Walter. Some beautiful and touching verses composed by Hope about Christmas time, i8~8, make us feel how terribly these blows had fallen on the bereaved husband and father. He abandoned his professional duties for a year, and then returned to them as his best resource with renewed energy. Iii relation to this marriage I am very grate- ful to Mr. Ornsby for having inserted a letter from Mr. Lockhart to his son-in- law on his conversion, dated April the 8th, 1851. It is valuable as being a com- plete refutation of certain ill-natured ru- mors which floated about London in the spring of that year, as to the means re- sortecLto for forcing Mrs. Hope-Scott into the Romish Church. This letter of Mr. Lockhart, coupled with the fact that to his dying day he remained on the most affec- tionate terms with Hope, sufficiently prove how absurd and calumnious such reports must have been. Before his first wifes death. Hope had purchased an estate, since called Dorlin, in one of the remotest partsot the west Highlands. The popu- lation, belonging to the Clan-Ranald Mac- donalds, is almost wholly Roman Catho- lic. I happened to be in the neighbor- hood about two years ago, and made the acquaintance of the Rev. Charles Mac- donald, of Mingarry, a man universally beloved and revered by all who know him, and whom, I trust, I may call my friend. From him, who had been intimately ac- quainted with Hope, I heard all that he had done to make his tenants happier, better, and more comfortable. In January, i86o, Hope was married a second time, to Lady Victoria Howard, and life again looked brighter before him; but after PHcEBE. some years his own health began to fail decidedly, and when, after giving birth to a son, Lady Victoria died on the 20th of December, 1870, this time he never recov- ered the shock; his disease, as he himself expressed it, made a stride, and during the time that remained to him, he lingered on rather than lived. In the two years that followed Lady Victorias death he resided chiefly at Abbotsford, and devoted part of his leisure in the first year to pre- paring an abridgment to Lockharts Life of Scott. But his illness still kept gain- ing ground. In the month of October, 1872, he was removed to London with the greatest difficulty, and after struggling through the winter, died on the 29th of April, 1873. I was deeply gratified on receiving, through Cardinal Manning, an affectionate message from Hope when on his death-bed. So passed away one of the most remarkable and most charming men of my time. In conclusion, I can congratulate Mr. Ornsby on having suc- cessfully portrayed a very noble and lov- able character, but still the impression made upon me when I close the volume is one of deep sadness. In spite of Cath- olic emancipation, in spite even of the abolition of the Irish Church, it is clear that the gulf between our Roman fellow- countrymen and ourselves is wider and deeper than ever. Nay, when I see how a man, naturally so wise and moderate as Hope, flings back the last of his great relief measures into Mr. Gladstones face, and assures him that he will have done nothing until he has replaced the Roman Church in Ireland just where it ~vas be- fore the Reformation, I cannot but think that this utterance of his was, and is, ominous of evil. FRANCIS H. DOYLE. From Temple Bar. PHcEBE. POOR Phcebe! Whether of retrospect or forward-looking, small solace could come to her on this Ne~v Years Eve; nor was the present in any ~vise so cheerful as to withhold her thoughts from wandering and wondering, from grieving over what was past, or facing with something like the helpless dread of a timid, hunted crea- ture the abyss into which the relentless hours were compelling her. There was a handful of glow in the grate, but no more coal; in the cupboard there was one piece of bread for to-morrows breakfast, but nowhere, as far as she could see, the price of a new loaf when that was done. Bad enough this, even when one is a grown man, whose noisy appetite is in itself a proof of energies eager for their task; bad indeed when one is a girl of not quite sixteen, weak from a long course of in- sufficient food, sadly shy under the best of circumstances, afraid of the world, afraid of oneself, with not a soul to turn to for comfort or aid. No ~vonder she sat so long, staring with her pretty eyes into the patch of red coal, which was as little able to overcome the damp and cold of the leaky garret as she herself to struggle with the dark, dread, unknown powers ( social forces, we name them with com- placence), which beset her on all sides. She didnt cry; even PhcEbe would have felt the humorous inefficacy of such a re- source; weeks ago, when her troubles just began, she had cried her fill. But her eyes grew very, very wide, and her fore- head wrinkled itself out of all knowledge. And every now and then, when her thoughts had strayed into such labyrinths that she forgot for a few moments her bodily distresses, a shivering fit brought her back to herself. The window rattled loose in its frame; through the chink be- neath the door, and up through the knot- holes in the boarding, swept stinging cur- rents of wind. Her feet were already numb, and she had to hold her hands in her bosom to warm them. Other life, even liveliness, there was in the room ; but its presence suggested new sadness to her desponding mood. On the mantelpiece before her, placed there for the sake of possible warmth, was a little - wooden cage, containing a very brown canary. This was her sisters bird. That sister had been a mother to Ph~be, the only mother Phebe remembered; fa- ther too, for the matter of that, since the real fathers relation to his children had for years been merely that of an irregular pensioner, irregular in the times and the mode of his applications, but only too regular in the use he made of their bounty. The day came, indeed, when his importu- nities were no longer to be suffered; then the two had escaped him by flight, and made a new home for themselves, where at least they could enjoy the advantage of what they earned, and hope to live un- molested. But in the first summer of their freedom a sickness fell upon that brave, toiling sister, and the days of her guardianship were numbered. She died, and was kindly buried by the parish. Ph~be knew the place of her grave, but PH~EBE. 29 it was also the grave of as many other paupers as could be squeezed into the trench, and there was more pain than solace in going there to weep. The little brown canary remained, however; bought in a gay moment of the past spring, kept still and zealously tended by the poor child, who was all but its equal in inno- cence and fearfulness. Chirrup, they had agreed to call it, and Chirrup still had his sumcing measure of seed, even when his mistresss daily bread was anything but sufficient in quality or quantity. And to-night, as if in very defiance of care and cold, the little fello~v hopped ceaselessly from one to the other of his two perches, sharpened his beak as if to get an appe- tite, and, despite the hour, frequently jus- tified his name with right good will. Ph~bes sister had been a flower-maker, and Ph~be herself, having gone through her period of apprenticeship to the same handicraft, had now attained the position of improver. When things went well, she could earn perhaps eight shillings a week; in time she might hope to become a hand, and then, if lucky, might re- ceive as much as fifteen. Nay, as years went on, it was ~vithin the grasp of possi- bility that she should even become a fore- woman, in which case she was sure of some five-and-twenty shillings a week, and, unless her health broke down, might very well keep out of the workhouse to a tolerably advanced age. She might marry, of course, and, as a very gentle and sweet- faced girl, had perhaps a fair chance of doing so; but that was something quite beyond the sphere of her hopes as yet. At present all she thought of was the opportunity of earning her weekly eight shillings by honest work, and living on it, well, as~ the others did; she knew no other signification of the word living. Unfortunately, the proverb about the will and the way did not seem to apply to her case. It was no fault of her own that she had lost her work some weeks ago. The season had been a bad one; the powers and principalities who rule in such mat- ters had decreed that it should be fashion- able to wear feathers, and for flowers there was proportionately little demand. Hence trouble in the work-rooms here in Hoxton, where most of tbe flower-makers live. The employer for whom she worked was a good-hearted man; he held out as lone as he could, and when the girls came with pinched and eager faces begging him to find them something to do, he had even produced work for which there was really no demand, and, in mercantile phrase, had gone to the city and slaughtered it just for the girls sake. But at length he had to shake his head at every appeal, and, with an irony which he no doubt felt but did not mean, bid them take courage till the new season began, when perhaps things would be better. Well, Plwebe was still alive. It would be hard to give an account, though, of how she had kept body and soul together in the mean time. When in work, she had paid three shillings a week for her room; subsequently she had managed to find this one, for which she only had to pay half-a-crown. And a nice room it was. It was a garret at the far end of a court; ~vhich court you reached by pass- ing under a foul archway out of a filthy by-street. Needless to say that the floor had no covering, or that the wall was bare plaster, or that the rickety windows lacked blinds and curtain, would, rather, have lacked the latter, had not Phcebe pinned across the lower half a l)OO~ little shawl which might better have been on her own shoulders. There ~vas a bed, mercy, how cold when you crept into it, and how thin the covering when you woke shiver- ing in the night! There was a chair, a table, a basin on the floor in a corner, also actually a cupboard, made in a recess, wherein should have hung Plwebes sec- ond dress, but that was represented at l)resent by a little yellovv car~l in her pocket. Well, it was a home, after all, and hitherto the rent for it had been paid regularly. A little needlework, a little cleaning of doorsteps, some running of errands, minding of children now and then, helping people in the court to wash and prepare their vegetables for sale in the streets, heaven knows how the sum was made up every week; yet hitherto it had been. But to-night Mrs. Dabbs had waited in vain for Ph~bes wonted ap- pearance down in the kitchen, and at length had come up to the garret herself, in quest of her dues. Alas! they were not forthcoming. Mrs. Dabbs was not a hard woman; what woman could have met that pale, patient, childish face, and insisted harshly till it was dewed with tears? It was the first instance of remiss- ness, so Mrs. Dabbs said she wouldnt press, and then sat down and talked in quite a friendly way, principally of Mr. (~uy. You couldnt have spent many minutes in this room without wanting to know who Mr. Quy was. Whether the gentle- man so called was impressed with the strangeness of his name to such a degree 30 PHEBE. that it haunted him and compelled him to length yield to the instinct of activity, and write it in very legible character whenever Phebe, when her eyes had halfuncon. writing materials and a plain surface were sciously watched the utter extinction of at hand, or whether his pride in its ab- the last glow in the grate, rose with a normality brought about the same conse- little sigh and looked round the room. quences, cannot now he determined; the A pair of stockings which urgently de- fact remains that this brief and singular manded the attention of the needle lay appellation stared at you from every part upon the bed, but the hands were too cold of the plaster round the room, and was for sewing. She was lonely and mis- even written in places on the floor; nay, erable; it occurred to her that she might verily upon the ceiling, where a complete go out for half an hour before bedtime, circle of Quys in charcoal marked the but, as lonely and miserable people will, spot whence an ambitious lodger might she shrank from the change which might perchance have desired to see a chan- have proved a relief. Besides, it was not delier depend. Who Mr. Quy was, Ph~be her habit to run about the streets at night; knew already well enough; on her first her sister had taught her a distaste for arrival, Mrs. Dabbs had lost no time in that; and another objection ~vas that she relating to her all that was known of his would have to pass the pork-butchers just history. He had been the tenant of the by the entrance to the court, whence at garret immediately before Phcebe, his this hour steamed forth odors of hot tenancy having stretched over a space of pease-pudding, faggots, saveloys, and well-nigh three years. He was an old other dainties; the trial would have been gentleman, Mrs. Dabbs said, who had too bitter. She looked round the bare known once what it was to ride in his room, and, inevitably, she thought of Mr. carriage, and, presumably through loss of Quy. Poor old Mr. Quy! No doubt he this luxury at the time of life when he had sat in this room through many a hun. most needed it, had grown queer-like in gry hour, thinking of the pork-butchers is ead. He was always very poor, round the corner: but then he had the shockingly poor, yet, as Mrs. Dabbs re- resource of writing his name on the wall. corded with appreciative emphasis, had After all, though, she was better off than always managed to pay his rent, even if Mr. Quy; was there not a friend in Chir- he went without food to do it. He went rup, who seemed to wish to comfort her, out every day, and stayed out all day lono~ and r gettin his livin promiscuous; ,,, emind her that she was not quite clearer alone? She turned and put her little details than this on the subject of Mr. finger through the bars of the cage to be Quys pursuits were not to be obtained, at pecked at. And, by-the-by, Chirru ps all events not from Mrs. Dabbs, and cageevidentlywanted cleaningout; Phce- probably she told all she knew. His end bes troubles had made her remiss in that was tragical. His non-appearance one duty for two or three days. That would night had caused a good deal of excite- be something to occupy her for a little. ment in the court, where the passing of So she opened the door, and Chirrup, his rusty and decrepit figure at certain after pausing for a few moments with invariable hours had become a feature of inquisitive eye on the threshold of his the daily order of things. Inquiries were dwelling, fluttered out in the wonted man- very shortly made in all likely quarters, ner, and perched on the brass knob at the and it was discovered that Mr. Quy, only foot of the bedstead. Scared thence by an hour after he left home that morning, the girls movements, he flew boldly on to had been run over by a van, and killed on the top of the cupboard, and there re- the spot. In his pocket was found the mained. sum of three farthings, and, as he pos. The little house being swept and gar- sessed neither means nor connections, he nished, Phcebe summoned back its occu- too was kindly buried by the parish. His pant. But Chirrup was npt disposed to grave was unmarked; but the piety of come. Foolish bird, had he positively Mrs. Dabbs, who would not suffer the gone to sleep up there? To fetch him signatures on the plaster to be obliterated down, Phcebe made a little spring at the indeed she had an objection to cleaning top of the cupboard, which was much of any kindleft his name for the musing taller than herself. Alas! instead of fly- of posterity. Perchance it pointed no ing down, Chirrup, with unprecedented particular moral, but it at all events, on perversity, actually scuffled back into the the lips of Mrs. Dabbs, adorned many a recess, and was lost to sight. Striking tale. against the wood was of no avail; calling The deepest fit of brooding will at proved equally useless; there was noth PHG~BE. 3 ing for it but to climb on a chair and ex- plore, for the first time, the flat top of the cupboard. Phebe took up her lamp in one hand, and speedily discovered the fugitive, in the remotest corner, amusing himself apparently with a game of hide- and-seek. Dirty, dirty Chirrup! Why, youll be all over black dust! Gome here, naughty bird. Why, whatever Phcebes voice failed her. What were those things that glistened so in the lamp- light, in spite of the layer of dust upon them? Money! Yes, money; not a doubt of it, and laid here in a most extraordinary way. Half- crowns, shillings, sixpences nothing less than sixpence arranged in conical heaps, and in such order as to spell out a word, and that word no other than Quv! What! Poor old Mr. Quy after all a mi- ser, hoarding up silver coins like this, here on the top of the cupboard? And to think they had lain here ever since his death, and that no one had ever had occa- sion to look before this on the top of the cupboard! How good of Mrs. Dabbs to have such an objection to housecleaning! Phcebe came down from the chair, and stood, the lamp still in her hand, looking straight before her, seeing nothing. How long she might have stood thus it would be hard to say, had not Master Chirrup all at once grown tired of his game which really was too one-sided and come flying down to the mantelpiece, whence he hopped to his cage, and went at once to crack a seed or two out of the fresh supply. in an instant Phcebe was up on the chair again, and this time she did more than gaze. Partly it was awe of the sum of money, but quite as much a very natural feeling that she was somehow in- terfering with the repose of the dead, which prevented her at first from rudely disturbing the inscription, and would only allow her to remove a sixpence from the top of one of the little heaps. She looked at it; she bit it; she then descended and rang it on the mantelpiece. A real six- pence, indubitably. Her first thought had been to run down at once to Mrs. Dabbs and apprise her of the discovery; the ring of the sixpence dispersed this idea, and awoke in her breast the keen sense of possession. Why tell Mrs. Dabbs? Mrs. Dabbs was in no way re- lated to the dead old man; nor was any one else, so far as was known. In qual- ity of landlady, Mrs. Dabbs could cer - tainly support no claim to the treasure- trove; at least so it appeared to Phcebe. In fact, was it not clearly a case for the application of the motto, Findins is keepins as poor Phcebe would have delivered it? Nay, no longer poor Phcebe. A third mounting of the chair, and, behold, the initial letter of Mr. Quys name had half disappeared; in a very few moments not a trace of the embossed inscription re- mained, but there on the table lay a crowd of coins, impossible to guess at the sum they represented. After gazing at them for an instant, Phcebe, seized with a sud- den frioht ran to the door, opened it, and listened. Not a sound in the house. Then she made herself secure with a sharp turn of the key and returned to gaze. Sixpence and sixpence is a shillin, and alf-a-crownd makes three an six, and a shillins four an six, and another alf- crownd Impossible to reckon like this; she was confused already. Chirrup, Chirrup! she cried, aban- doning the task and dancing round the table. Were rich, birdie; were rich, were rich ! Then, as if with a sudden flash, there came upon her the thought of her sister, who lay this New Years Eve in the snow- palled cemetery, in an unmarked grave, and an anguish of regret put the climax to her agitation; she burst into weeping. She was a good-hearted girl. Oh, could but the dear dead sister come back to share this fortune; had it but been sent some months ago, when the poor dying girl needed comforts,and had to need them! Good things always come too late in this world. But really the coins must be counted, and Phebe at length set to work in ear- nest. She made separate cylinders of sixpences, shillings, and half-crowns; that seemed, as Dogberry put it, the eftest way. There, at last forty-six half-crowns; fifty-three shillings; t~venty- seven sixpences. Yes, but what did that come to? Here indeed was a mathemat- ical problem which for a long time refused to be solved. Never in her life had Phc~be reckoned silver up to a single pound; surely there were here many pounds. She grew hot with vexed impa- tience; she must know how much it all made! Arrange them in heaps of ten shillings each; then, would not every two such make one pound? With trembling fingers she put her calculation into prac- tice. One, two, three, nine whole 32 PHEBE. pounds, and one shilling, and one loose little sixpence. Phcebe kissed the six pence. This time she could not dance round the table; impossible even to trust Chir- rup with such a secret as this. Why, she had forgotten to close Chirrups door; what was she thinking of? She rose to do it, but before she reached the mantel- piece, quite forgot her purpose, and stood once more gazing at nothing. Slowly, slowly, the fact acquired reality in her mind that she was in possession of nine pounds, one shilling and sixpence. Dont think that she speculated as to how Mr. Quy became possessed of the sum; Ph~bes little brain had enough ado to grasp the certainty of her having inherited such a fortune. Yes, a fortune; who that she ever knew had been able to boast of such wealth as this? Her father, she had been told, in the bygone days, before he took to drink, earned sometimes two pounds a week; that in itself made a man of substance. But nine pounds, and all at once, and ready converted into small change! Ph~bes head smote the stars. Her brooding recommenced, but this time there were no wrinkles on her fore. head, no need to hold her hands in her bosom, she was as warm as if there had been a big fire in the grate. What should she do with it ? that was the subject of her thoughts. Probably there were some weeks yet to be provided for before she would have work again; but what was that out of nine pounds! It left a margin of limitless possibilities; it brought within her grasp the undreamt opportunity of forming and gratifying desires. The girls and women of Pht~bes class know noth. ing of social discontent; starve them, and they scarcely think it hard, so much is it in the order of events; give them just enough to keep together body and soul, and it will not occur to them to be other than quite satisfied. Doubtless they peer at times into that far stretch of golden haze which shrouds the Elysium of the wealthy; they like to read of that coun- try, and dimly to conceive its glories by much toil of the imagination. But they know too well that for them there is no road thither to ever be unsettled by the contrast between such dreams and the reality of their own waking life. And Ph~be imagined even less of luxuries than other girls of her kind. Very seldom had she been out of Hoxton; even the streets of the West End were strange to her. Her daily work had kept her in dingy little rooms up out-of-the-way streets; the flowers she helped to make she had scarcely seen in their mounted condition ; far less did she know their ap- pearance on the heads and dresses of those who had money to purchase such adornments. You cannot conceive how hard it was for her to even form precise ideas of what she would like. To her excited fancy the whole world lay at her feet; and the coolest of us would find it embarrassing to have to pick and choose under such circumstances. Clothing, of course; warm winter clothing. Not of bright colors; no, for she had never been able even to put on the semblance of mourning for her sis~er, and that duty should regulate her choice of hues. She would be newly attired from head to foot; that at last was clear to her. Little by little she recalled a certain shape of hat she had observed in certain windows; a particular jacket, also, had unawares stuck in her memory. Then, a dinner, oh, a really good dinner, some- thing vaguely savory to begin with, and something rather more definitely sweet afterwards. A day of shopping and of gazing at shops; a day of feasting! What a pity that poor Chirrups appreciation in the matter of food was so limited; it was hard that he couldnt eat even a mince- pie. Was there no one for whom she could buy a New Years present? Yes, there was Lotty Simpson, whose cough was always so bad; the only girl with whom she had had anything like a friend- ship, and who, unfortunately, had gone into service when the bad times began, so that their intercourse had come to an end. She would buy something, and take it to Lottys mother, who would send it on. Surely here was employment for a day? One other thought, however, shaped itself slowly and timorously: the theatre. At the Britannia, hard by, there was a pantomime; the walls around were glori- ous with advertisements of its unimagina- ble magnificence. Dare she .go to the theatre?would her sister have liked it? Impossible to decide; she must wait and see when the next night came. Whatever could the time be? The streets were so still. There, the church- clock was chiming; now it would strike. One! Frightened at the lateness of the hour, Phcebe undressed herself in a few seconds, and sprang into bed. The surging sheen of dream-waves sub- sided in the moments of waking, but, un- like the manner of dreams, left behind a real, bright windrow. On starting to con- sciousness, Ph~bes eyes sought the silver PHcEBE. 33 heap on the table, and she bathed her hands in the coins before putting them into the icy water. Only the fear of being heard prevented her from making the money ring a peal to the new year. Whilst dressing, she was glad to see that it promised to be a clear, frosty morning; rain or snow would have been vexatious ~vhen one wanted to walk about so much. She must have slept long: the world was alive, and seemed to call to her to come and enjoy herself. She was too excited to have any great appetite for breakfast; the bit of bread in the cupboard would do well enough for the present, and she ate it as she did up her hair, drinking with it a little water out of a teacup. It would be good to be hungry at dinner-time. In a very few minutes she was ready to go out, but then came the question of where she should leave the money. She would have liked to carry it all with her, but that was impossible. For a moment she thought of replacing it on the top of the cupboard; it had lain safe there so long. But she could not venture it. There was only one place; her box, on which was placed the wash-hand basin, had a lock, and contained all the things she valued, chiefly poor memorials of her sister; she might safely leave the money there. How much should she take with her? This point was ultimately decided by the capac- ity of her shabby little purse; it admitted rather more than a pound, in large and small coins, and truly had never looked so plethoric. This was enough to begin with; if she succeeded in laying out such a sum by dinner-time, she could return in the afternoon for more. In the afternoon, too, she might pay her rent; Mrs. Dabbs would doubtless wonder at that, and still more at the glorious appearance which Phcebe promised herself she would short- ly present; but she might wonder on. Perhaps, on the whole, it might be pru- dent to move to another lodging; she would think about it. So she carefully locked her box, and walked out of the court, and away into the high-street of Hoxton. Then she began to look into shop-windows. But growing familiarity with her wealthy estate was making her bold. Within walking dis- tance was the City, whither all the flowers went from the work-room, that crowded, roaring place, where the shops were far grander than here in Hoxton, and whither no doubt everybody repaired who had money to spend, and wanted The best. To this privileged class she now belonged. Phebe forgot for the time her poor ap. LiVING AGE. VOL. XLVI. 2343 pearance; she could only think of the fat purse which, for safety, she held tightly in her hand, and the feel of which made her warm through and through. So with many delays, she got into Shoreditch, and thence, by haphazard, as far as Cheap. side. Here she found so much to look at that there was no getting on at all. A jewellers shop h~d her as by a charm. If she only knew the price of this and that! There was a locket she would dearly like to have; she would put in it some of her sisters hair, of which she had a tress in the box at home. How much, she ~von- dered, did those ladies watches cost? They were so very tiny, the price could not be much. Ha, there was the price written above one of them; and it took away her breath. But this was gold; there were silver things. Now one of those bracelets; how ~vould Lotty Simp- son like one of those for her present? But this would never do. It was half past eleven, and, besides, she was posi- tively getting hungry. Then, after all, jewellery was not what she wanted. Over the way she caught sight of a window full of gloves and shining, ma ny-colored silk things; that was more to her purpose. Those gloves were beautiful, the lined ones, and only three and sixpence a pair. This ~vas well within her means, but when it came to ent~~ring the shop, then the sense of her shabbiness possessed her. She peeped at the door, but just then a lady came out, and Ph~be walked quickly on, abashed. And so it was everywhere. A large confectioners reminded her once more of her appetite. Heavens, what an array of delicious things! She was hun- gry, keenly hungry, but it was beyond all possibility to think of walking up to such a counter as that, and addressing that superb young lady who stood behind it. Passing on, she was sorely tempted t~ buy of a man who was selling buns and tarts in a basket; but she felt that it would be a degradation. Presently she was in St. Pauls Churchyard, and the sight of mantles and furs, and bonnets and ribbons, once more absorbed her at- tention. But again the prices marked here and there frightened her, and she kne~v she would not have dared to enter, in any case. Ph~be began to feel that she had made a mistake; her mind re- curred to those humbler shops in Hoxton, where she would feel much less timid. The hat and the jacket which she had thought of on the previous night came back to her. Had she not better make her way to the streets which were familiar? 34 PHcEBE. So long had she gazed and wondered and wished, that the morning was all but spent. At length she tore herself away, and began to retrace her steps. But she was tired, and so terribly hungry. In a little she again passed the man with the basket, and this time she bought a bun of him, and ate it as she walked quickly along. It only made her hungrier. A certain vision had been o-atherincr inten- sity before her minds eye,a vision of that little shop in the street, at home, where the big cold plum-pudding stood in the window, or had done so yesterday, and where you could get meat and vegetables for sevenpence. She fancied she could smell the very steam that at this hour made the windows dim and curled out of the doorway. Back, back to Hoxton! And why should she walk all the way, as if she were poor? Here by the Bank was a bus which would take her almost home. She entered it, and was very glad to rest her weary limbs. So Phcebe went and had her dinner at the dirty little eating-house; a very thin red slice of roast beef, swimming in red- dish water, two frost-bitten potatoes, a patch of stringy turnip-tops, and, to finish, a suety cut of cold plum-pudding. It did not satisfy her, and, comparing it with the feast she had anticipated, she felt hu- miliated, half angry with herself. Never mind, she would have a good tea- some mince-pies and currant-cake, she knew where. But all at once she had become anxious on the score of her money at home; she must run and see if it was safe in the box. Reaching her room, she was glad to find everything as she had left it, and being still very tired, she sat down on her bed, to rest and think. What a pity that Lotty Simpson was not at home still; Phebe could have trusted Lotty with the great secret, and her friends advice would have been so valuable. XVhat should she buy Lotty? Suppose she went and asked Mrs. Simp- sons advice as to that? It would not be necessary to explain anything; indeed Phcebe did not feel that Mrs. Simpson was exactly the person to confide in; but at all events the latter could suggest what her daughter was in need of. Ph~be de- cided to do this, and, this time keeping her purse in her pocket, she started for Mrs. Simpsons abode. It was in a court very much like her own, but, instead of a garret, Mrs. Simpson occupied a cellar- kitchen; a card in her window told you that washing and mangling were done there. The front door stood open, as usual in these parts, and Phcebe ~vent straight down the cellar-steps. Standing in the dark at the bottom, she knocked, and was summoned to enter At first it vasim- possible to see anything except a large fire in the grate; the cellar was full of steam. This came from a quantity of freshly washed clothes, which hung on lines from ~~all to ~vall, drying. But Phcebe knew the room. There was a bed at one side, and a few other articles of furniture necessary for use in the daytime; also a mangle. Here lived Mrs. Simpson and her youngest girl; Lotty had shared their accommodation before she went into service. Whos that? cried the womans shrill voice. Oh, its you, is it, Phcebe? Shut the door quick; the other lodg- ers doesnt like the steam to get up- stairs. Hows Lotty, Mrs. Simpson? Ph~be. asked, as she bobbed under the wet clothes. Shell never have no more the matter with her, my child, was the reply, in a voice which was sad, but yet confirmed in resignation. Ph~be stood looking at her as if she did not understand. She come ome on Tuesday, right down bad; the missis said it was no use keepin of her, as she couldnt do her work. I got her some stuff from the dis- pensary, but it didnt do her no good. Night before last she all at wunst begun coughin, and before I could even get to her, she was gone. An its best it should be so. She said shed like to see you, Ph~be, and I was a-goin to send for you, as it was yesterday; but it was too late, you see. There she lies, said the woman, pointing to the bed. Will you look at her? No, oh no! I cant, Mrs. Simpson ! Phcebe exclaimed, shrinking back in dread. Then she began to cry, and sobbed out her sorrow. Mrs. Simpson had not much to say; who shall blame her if she regarded death rather as the de- liverer than the destroyer? In any case, she had her days work to attend to, and no time could be lost in vain mourning. Phcebe only stayed a few minutes. The presence of a dead body awed her, and, when she left the cellar, it was with eyes nervously averted from the direction of the bed. She sadly took her way home again. The shock had impressed her gravely, and she had not the heart to go at once on her shopping; that could wait till after PIIcEBE. tea. Phcebe felt, too, that she could no longer enjoy the feast of sweet things which she had promised herself; it seemed improper to make merry just after coming away from the room where her friend lay dead. So she bought a few simple things some bread, and butter, and tea and took them up to her garret. Then she ~isitecl Mrs. Dabbs in the lower part of the house, for the double purpose of pay- ing her rent and borrowing some fuel till she could supply herself. Ph~be expe- rienced not a little nervousness beneath the landladys look of surprise and curios- ity; she explained that she had managed to get a little money to go on with, and then she was olad to escape with a bucket containing Mrs. Dabbss loan of wood and coals. She made a fire, and, as soon as l)ossible, some tea. By that time she was almost herself again, and, as she grew comfortable, with a cup of warm, s~veet tea on her lap, her feet supported by the fender, she reflected how nice it would be to have just one or two mince-pies. And she could get them in a minute. But Phcebe resisted the temptation, and con- scientiously ~vent on with her bread and butter, thtis paying her tribute to poor Lottys memory. It is true the butter was spread just a little more thickly than under ordinary circumstances, but we must not demand too much of human nature. Tea over, she carefully locked her door, and brouoht out the money from the box. She spread it on the table, and played with it much as a child plays with its bricks, making heaps and squares and circles; moreover, she counted it again, to make sure that no one had inter- fered with it in her absence. Cheerful- ness was returning, and thoughts of the things she would buy. As if to help her in regaining her equanimity, a lively street-organ all at once struck up some- where close by, and she heard the scamper of children out of the court to have a dance on the pavement. It was already past nightfall, and the thought of the gleaming shops became irresistible. Again she went forth, and this time strayed no farther than Hoxton Street. There was plenty of choice, so many de- lightfu 1 shops, and such a variety of goods and prices, that she wandered from win- ulow to window and seemed as far from decision as ever. Now she would all but determine upon this or that article, but, when on the point of entering the shop, it seemed better to have just one more look at just one other window, and make sure 35 that she would not have to repent her choice. She came to the doors of the Britannia Theatre. They had that moment opened, and a great crowd of people was swaying, crushing, struggling in the excitement of entering. Pheebe had never in her life seen a pantomime; she was carried away by the spectacle of the crowd, and made up her mind to go in; but she did not know how much she would have to pay. Looking round to find some likely person of whom to inquire, she sawa girl of about her own age standing on the edge of the pavement, her hands in the pockets of a very shabby ulster, her eyes castin ~envi- ous glances at the crowd. Ph~be ap. proached her, and, with some shyness, asked for the information she needed. The girl had rather a pretty face, but it looked huncrry, and she shivered as she replied. Phcebe, who had her money in her hand, turned away to take out six- pence for the pit, when, just as she was doing so, a couple of rough lads, rushing by to get a place, bumped against her, and jerked several coins out of her purse. Fortunately it was a well-lighted spot, and the money did not roll very far. The girl to whom. Ph~be had just spoken was quick with her assistance, and nothing was lost. My! I only wish I was as well off as you, said the stranger, looking at Ph~be with a friendly smile, and again shivering as a sharp blast of wind swept down the street. Are you going in ? Ph~be asked, the inconsequence of the remark being clue. partly to her unwillingness to speak of her money, partly to the alarm from which she was just recovering. The other shook her head scornfully. Ill pay for you, said Ph~be, who, to tell the truth, felt lonely- in her holiday- making, and welcomed the prospect of companion ship. Id rather you give me the money to get somethink to eat, replied the girl, who had kept a very keen eye fixed all the time on Ph~bes face. Are you hungry? Had nothink since last night. The girl showed her teeth as she laughed ; they were faultless rows, and just now remarkably su~,gestive of an appetite. Id go witl~ you, and then we could come back together, said Phoebe, only we should be late. That dont make no difference! ex- claimed the girl, her eyes brightening. 36 PHcEBE. Its the same all through, an it dont matter where you begin. Pli~be allowed herself to be persuaded that this was indeed the case, and turned away with her new companion. The lat- ters taste led her to propose that they should feast on whelks at a street stall some little way off. Ph~be assented gladly, without considering whether this were precisely the best form of refresh- ment for a person who had fasted four and twenty hours, and they consumed the dainties out of oyster-shells, with a sprink- ling of vinegar and pepper. Intimacy naturally developed under such condi- tions. The girl volunteered the informa- tion that her name was Jenny Evans, and by a coincidence, she proved to be, like Ph~be, a flower-maker, also out of work. She was curious about Ph~bes wealth, but Ph~be avoided being too communi- cative, and gave the same vague explana- tion which she had invented for Mrs. Dabbs. They went back to the theatre, and Ph~be paid for both, but on entering, a cheerless prospect confronted them, or rather no prospect at all. The pit was crowded up to the walls; there was just standing-room left, but as for seeing, that was another question. The orchestra was playing, and in a few minutes an ex- cited movement among the people seemed to announce that the curtain had risen. By dint of much pushing and straining, Ph~be could just manage to catch brief glimpses of magic splendor, w-hich tanta- lized her so that she could have cried with vexation. I told you we should be too late! she exclaimed reproachfully to her com- panion. But Jenny seemed to take the matter very indifferently. Whats the odds! she said. You can come to-morrow. Lets go out. I feel awful faint. Almost with tears in her eyes, Ph~be followed out of the crush, and they walked slowly along the street. Jenny, declaring herself revived by the air, chatted famil- iarly. Phc~be began to feel glad that she had met so pleasant a friend, and in a few minutes found herself disposed to talk with less reserve; she began even to hint at a certain piece of luck which had be- fallen her, and to speak of things which she wanted, and had the intention of buy- ing. The very first shop they came to, she made up her mind to go in and pur- chase a hat which she saw in the window. Jenny dissuaded her, but with difficulty. I wish I knew where T was a-goin to sleep to-night, Jenny said, all at once. My landladys turned me out, cos I owe three weeks. Phcebe forthwith proposed that her friend should come home with her, and the offer was cheerfully accepted. Jenny now had the direction of affairs practi- cally in her own hands, and her idea was that they should go home straightway, taking in something for supper with them. Phcebe reluctantly postponed her pur- chases till the morrow; but, when they came to the pork-butchers shop at the corner of her court, the prospect of the very supper which she had so often in vain longed for drove all other thoughts out of her mind. A pound of boiled pork, twopennyworth of pease-pudding, a pen- nyworth of smoking carrots, all rolled up together in a piece of newspaper; Ph~be felt that at length she was making use of her fortune. Ph~be laughed with delight when they were up in the garret at last, and she turned the mass of animal and vegetable matter out of the paper on a plate. A fire was soon crackling up under the kettle, assisting the feeble illumination of the candle. I say, said Jenny, looking round the room, whats all that writin on the walls? Is it some o your larks? Phcebe laughingly explained as they sat down at the table; over the meal she grew more confidential. At last she leaned her face near to her friends how pretty she looked, with her extraor- dinarily bright eyes and the gentle flush on her cheeks ! and asked if Jenny could keep a secret. Jenny thought she could indeed, and she listened with eyes almost as bright as Ph~bes own whilst the lat- ter told all the story of Mr. Quys legacy. As a great, great favor Jenny might have just one glimpse into the box. They both went down on their knees together and peeped underneath the lid, then Phcebe made the box fast once more, and put the key back into her pocket. Very soon after that things began to grow dim before Ph~bes eyes, and her limbs seemed to ache with weariness. To be sure, she had been walking about all day; it was natural she should be tired. Of two things only was she dis- tinctly conscious: one the desire to go to bed and sleep, the other to previously impress upon Jenny the tremendeus im- portance of the secret that had been told her, and to exact promises of fidelity. Jenny was all assurances. She too was REMINISCENCES OF JAMAICA. of opinion that it was bed-time; she only just wanted to warm her feet at the fire a few minutes. And Phcebe watched her doing so, her head sideways on the pillow, till Jennys form became a great, vague, shapeless patch in front of the fires glows, and then all was darkness. When the sense of daylight once more visited Ph~bes eyes, it blended with a dim consciousness of trouble, and a flut- tering at the heart which grew as she became aware of it. She struggled to regain remembrance, and at length raised herself and looked round the room. First, at Mr. Quys sign-manual on the wall; thenshe thought of all the story that hung thereby. Jenny! She uttered the name with a start, but there ~vas no one to reply to it. There was no one else in the room; no sign of Jenny anywhere. Only the plates and knives on the table to prove that it had not all been an unquiet dream. But her box! Why was the wash-hand basin put down on the floor, and the lid thrown back? With one bound she was on her knees beside it, throwing the poor con- tents frantically about, searching for what she could not find. Where was all her money, all the bright silver pieces, the half-crowns, the shillings, the sixpences? And where was Jenny? It was a dull morning. Thin flakes of snow were falling idly down into the nar- row court, and it was bitterly cold. Poor Ph~be! GEORGE GISSING. From Alt The Year Round. REMINISCENCES OF JAMAICA. IN THREE PARTS. PART III. THE natives of Jamaica are childishly and ridiculously superstitious, every ac- tion, word, and thought is full of the supernatural. They are horribly and un- mistakably afraid of spirits, a fact which induced me to think that something must be visible to them, though uns een by our eyes. I caine to this conclusion, not from conviction, or because I ever saw the shadow of a duppy (ghost), though Ad- miralty House was supposed to be peopled with several deceased commodores, but because the fear is everywhere not con- fined to hundreds or thousands, but uni- versal in the breast of every black man, woman, and child in Jamaica, educated 37 and ignorant. I know this inordinate ter- ror was extremely inconvenient. When once a duppy had possession of a house its value ~vent down proportionately, as no native servants would sleep in it for love or money. But, Mrs. M, I said to our col- ored nurse, who was nervous about going out under the shadow of some large trees at night, have you ever seen any your- self? Yes, ma! she exclaimed in a high, shrill tone, her black eyes opening wide. I have seen a plenty, ma. Good king! The last, a Jamaica exclamation resembling Good Heavens! at the bare remembrance of what she had seen. But what are they like? I continued. Like doppies, ma, was the only expla- nation I could get. When Miss N, the celebrated ama- teur flower-painter, came to the hills to paint the mountain glory, as it ap- peared radiant on the hillside, she took Gardens House. Here, sitting before her easel in the cool verandah, double glasses in hand, she looked across the ravine and beheld this magnificent lilac flower in its greatest beauty, shooting up in giant spikes from cliffs quite inaccessible to man, but, having no English servant, she had to sleep in the spacious, silent old house quite alone. Each day at sundown the servants left her, and trooped merrily down to their homes at Gordon Town, where entire families herd together as thick as they can stow, in an atmosphere much resembling that of a slave-deck in the Mozambique Channel. Gardens Great House had, unfortunately, a bad name. I was returning home by moonlight on one occasion alone after a bazaar, and had sent the servants on before. I had passed safely over the dangerous plank, which, at that time, constituted our only means of crossing the river, and was mounting the steep path, when, crouched down on a stone, with his face buried in his hands, I recognized our stalwart cook. XVhat are you doing here, F? I said. I told you to go on quickly and get me some tea. Yes, missus, said he ,startingup and following me closely. I waitin pon missus, de carner round dere, point- ing to a thick clump of trees ahead. Dat carner have a bad neame. Plenty duppies dere, my king! I laughed heartily as we passed the suspected corner, in which he feebly and shakily joined, but he never left my shadow till a cheerful, blazing fire in the kitchen and cooks quarters caine into view, when he made a dart in at the door, shutting it safely behind him. 38 REMINISCENCES OF JAMAICA. Rats have a great deal to do with dup- pies, I amconvinced; our house had a singularly bad name for both these nightly visitants; but our servants and family were altogether so numerous, filling up every room, that, except when we were down at Port Royal, and the place silent and empty when awful histories were recounted on our return duppies did not trouble our household much. Lying awake in my bedroom, which gave on to the verandah, I often heard during the quietest hours, slow, pattering, uncertain steps, and then some heavier body being dragged over the dry, sounding old chest- nut floor, followed by a stifled cry. Stock- ings, boots, gloves, and quite large dolls used mysteriously to disappear every night, and for some time we never could account for it, until in one corner of the verandah a hole was discovered, out of which protruded the foot of a highly re- spected and deeply mourned doll. After this we set traps with great success, catch- ing some aged rats of enormous size and strength, capable of mortal combat with an army of duppies. To make a hideous noise is considered efficacious in scaring away duppies. Long before it is light, hundreds of women bear- ing the produce of the little yam-patch on their heads, meallies, bananas, coko, skel- lion, yam, all on their way to the market at Kingston, stream down the mountain paths, each one in turn making a frightful noise, something between scaring crows and a yell; this is taken up by the next one ahead, and thus partially reassured they trudge on till welcome daylight ap- pears, when their spirits rise, and the ceaseless and senseless chatter, peculiar to the Jamaican female, commences; when it ends none can tellcertainly not till sundown and the reign of duppies again. Conversation is carried on at the very top of a l)articularly harsh voice; you would fancy that they ~vere one and all quarrel- ling violently. Not at all, they are only conversing in their natural tones like a parcel of jays, each lady addressing her companion as maam, shortened into ma, with much apparent formality. Their gait is remarkable: shoulders square and hips swaying under the tremendous burthen carried with such ease and grace on their heads; they get over the ground at an astonishing pace, their gowns kilted high, giving free play to their limbs, till fash- ion demands that it shall be loosed to trail about a foot on the ground, alon gthe filthy streets of Kingston. A servant of all work is almost unknown in this country, each one having his or her particular department, beyond which they rather pride themselves on knowing nothing. Their leisurely movements and slow rate of work would scandalize an active English housekeeper. Our house- cleaner in the hills resided at the Gardens. About nine AM. she would saunter in pro- vided with her stock in trade, which con- sisted of a few fresh limes, a rubber, and some beeswax. Paraffine was occasion- ally substituted for the limes. After liv- ing upon her knees for several hours, at work upon the floor, and making our nice rooms, though open to the outer air, smell dreadfully of Jamaica women, flavored with cocoanut oil, with which they plenti- fully bedaub their heads, she would an- nounce that her toot hurt her (tooth- ache) and depart, trailing a horrid old greenish-black gown after her. For this entertainment we paid two shillings. The hardest-worked .and worst-paid ser- vant is the market-woman, an institution peculiar to the hills, where, as there are no tradespeople, supplies must be pro. cured daily from the market at Kingston. For the poor sum of one shilling and sixpence per day, a fine, tall, strapping young woman willin~ly walks twelve miles into Kingston, brin ging backaheavy load upon her head, uphill the whole way. When ice had to be brought during the illness of our child, the poor market- woman constantly arrived with the melted water streaming from the basket on her head, down the nape of her neck and back, and so to the ground, forming little pools wherever she rested for a moment. The many virtues of our colored nurse have been recounted in a former paper upon Port Royal. There everything ~vas conducted in the household ~vith naval regularity, but in the hills each servant would have squatted outside the kitchen- door in the sun, doing nothing, thinking of nothing, for at least ten hours out of the twenty-four, had it not been for the ceaseless supervision exercised over their goings out and comings in, by my trusty English maid and housekeeper, of whose fine piesence and awe-inspiring demeanor they stood in wholesome dread. She was a great power among them, and could beat down the market-women to half what they impudently but smilingly demanded of me, and ~vhen their toot hurt them, or their headthey suffer much from neuralgia in their rotten teeth, caused by an inordinate fondness for sugarcane they would come to her in a dejected and forlorn way, ridiculous to behold, as REMINISCENCES OF JAMAICA. 39 to one who could certainly cure every ill, and in whose pepper-plasters they had unbounded confidence. Except in the comparatively rare in- stance of a mountain storm, profound still- ness usually reigned during the night at the Gardens. Leaning out of the wide veran- dah window when the moon had risen, a beautiful soft radiance bathed the lovely valley and gorge, glinting upon the shingle roofs of the buildings at Gordon Town, and lighting up the foaming Hope and its grey rocks with burnished silver. It was especially resting, when worn with cares and anxieties as to what the morrow might bring forth, to listen to the rejoicings of millions of happy insects who came out of their shady bowers when night fell, and frolicked in the glad air. Fireflies hurled themselves across the grass, coming down with such force as to extinguish their light for an instant, when on they went in their mad flight; frogs and tree-frogs in chorus croaked out their satisfaction beetles, moths, locusts, and a great, fat, green insect the shape of a turtle, banged themselves against the window-sashes in a gallant endeavor to storm the lights within. All nature seemed glad in the mere fact of living each voice becoming mute as if by one consent just before the dawn of day. One night, between two and three, I became aware that the soft notes of a multitude of wind instruments were floating down the ravine; they sound- ed in my half-awakened ears like the music of heaven. Now it was gone, and must have been only a dream, when lo; a fresh burst, coming nearer, convinced me that it was no dream, but the homeward-bound regiment marching by night from Newcas- tle to Kingston for embarkation. How lovely the swelling notes of a wailing march, dying away almost to silence as they wound round one of the mountain gorges, and swelling out as they emerged again! Gordon Town is reached, and level ground; here the full band bursts forth into Home, Sweet Home. Louder and louder, tramp, tramp, as one man, I could hear their firm, glad feet. They are going home, home! while we have yet more than a year to stay. I could hardly bear it by the time they had played the last note, and were gone far beyond my hearing down to the plains below. Home- sickness seizes one with irresistible force when unnerved by anxiety and illness. Society for us was at that time a dead letter; we were shunned as if plague- stricken, and ~vith reason, after the yellow- fever. Twice a week when returned from Port Royal, we trooped down to the Gardens to meet his carriage and carry up the packages; this was the only glimpse of the outer world we ever got. After a while our visits to Fort Royal became more frequent as the place resumed its healthiness, and the crews returned re- freshed and cheered from Bermuda. A long line of reddish graves on the pali- sades, and the three at Craigton, reminded us, who were spared, of how much we had to be thankful for. At first, though looked at askance by the few ~vhite people, we attended the well-kept little church in Gordon Town, where they are fortunate in the possession of a good and kindly clergyman; but as a tramp up and down in the sun from eleven to one knocked up most of us for the day we became very careful, from sad experience, only to go out morning and eveninga regular ser- vice of our own was established in the front verandah. It was punctually at- tended by all the servants, who would on no account have shirked, as many an English household does, whenever it is practicable. A pleasant and attentive congregation they made in the smartest of Sunday clothes, and countenances to match, joining in the hymns and chants with melody and good-will. In crossing the rooms, the dry old floors resounded to the tread of their heavy splay feet. Quite absurd it was to see them huddled together, each one conscious only of his remarkably thick boots, and trying, but in vain, to subdue some of their inordinate creaking by a futile endeavor to tread gingerly. Safely arrived at the seats pro. vided, tremendous sighs, enough to blow a baby away, escaped them, continued at frequent intervals throughout the service. Sunday must have been truly a day of penance, for on no other occasion, save a wedding or funeral, do they ever wear boots, shoes, or thick black cloth clothes. The women, if possible, present a still greater contrast between everyday attire and a gorgeous Sunday toilette. Light- green is a very favorite color, well dis- tended over starched petticoats that stand alone, a train of ample length and width trailing behind in the dust or mud, as the case may be; hair, glistening with cocoa- nut oil, tightly plaited in innumerable little tails, as if in a vain endeavor to straighten some of its wiry crinkles, sur- mounted with a white straw hat, loaded with gay and cheap flowers and ribbons of every hue. A prayer and hymn book, bound round with a clean and never-to~ be-unfolded pocket-handkerchief, is con- 40 REMINISCENCES OF JAMAICA. sidered important, whether they can read or not. Thus attired, the Jamaica woman proceeds leisurely, with great digni tyof carriage, bridling and smirking, on her way to church. Very seldom is a really handsome woman to be met with. The eyes are too much like restless black beads, cheek-bones too high, and the mouth too coarse for beauty, but many faces are most attractive, particularly when lighted up with pleasure or amuse- men t. Craigton Church was always well filled, ministered to by the good and charitable man who for half his lifetime has lived, beloved and trusted, among them. When this church was blown down in a violent hurricane (so violent that even some solid marble crosses were laid low and hurled to the bottom of the valley, where they were found after many days search), the poorest dwellers in countless little huts round about, contributed something each month to the rebuilding, and sat contented under the shady side of the hill, listening to their dear pastor, from his pulpit the only thing remaining entire under a pine-tree. There is a good deal of revivalism in the mountains, when curious scenes of real or simulated religious enthusiasm are enacted. We always knew pretty well if a revival meeting ~vas going on in one or other of the little tenements above us, the most heartrending cries and groans pro- ceeding from the subject whom the Spirit had moved; but beyond winding them- selves up to a pitch of fervor nearly re- sembling insanity, when they would cast themselves upon the earth and ~vrithe as if in torment, I never heard that it influ- enced them any way, or to any good or useful vurpose. Two earthquakes occurred while we were in Jamaica; the first, in the middle of the night, awoke the Aboukirs peo- ple, who thought her anchors had been suddenly let go and all the cables run out, accompanied by a violent trembling of the ship, which caused a very serious leak in her worm-eaten timbers. I was asleep at Trafalgar, St. Anns, when I awoke feeling the bed being first rocked, and then violently pushed over on one side, accompanied by a rattling of all the crock- ery. But with the exception of the great historical earthquakes of 1602 and 1692, no earthquakes or hurricanes of any very dangerous strength are recorded in Ja- maica, whereas in many of the neighbor- ing West India Islands hurricanes are of almost yearly occurrence between June and November, and are fearfully destruc- tive to life and property. A well-known doggerel among mariners in the West Indies is very much to the point, namely: July, stand by, August, a gust; September remember, October all over. The second earthquake happened about 2 P.~I., and sounded exactly as if an army of four-footed beasts were rushing about overhead, accompanied by a great creak- ing of the massive beams. Jamaica has a future, and a great future, first in the cultivation of fruit for export to the United States, to which industry Sir J. P. Grant gave so great an impetus, and secondly, in that of tobacco, for which the soil is especially favorable. Year by year labor becomes scarcer; Lascars, Coolies, and Kroomen have all been tried and failed financially; the Jamaica ne- gro, who is, of course, better than any imported labor, being on the spot and acclimatized, will not work. He can live entirely to his own satisfaction on the wages of t~vo days a week, his wife find- mo- herself and the children; meanwhile the cane rots during the other four days in which he prefers to sit still and do nothing. The women, on the contrary, often work very hard, plodding on, ill or ~vell, ~vith exemplary patience at their task, be it cutting and carrying an enor- mous bundle of guinea-grass on their head, down a declivity hardly less steep than a stone wall; be it digging over the family yam-patch, at an angle of forty-five degrees, and conveying the proceeds to market. By cottage door and mountain path, men, asleep on their faces, are con- stantly to be seen reposing from the fatigues of an hours work. Dem ~vell lazy, exclaimed a smart young black girl, giving each prostrate body a sharp cut with a twig as she passed them, and then looking back at us with a smile that showed all her milk-white teeth at once. Native labor being absolutely unattaina- ble, all cultivation must be carried on under difficulties; for these reasons, com- bined with excessive cheapness and com- petition in the sugar-market, many once rich caymans at Linstead, and other fertile p laces, have been thrown up. Cu. ban tobacco-planters, weary of perpetual rebellion and warfare in their own island,. have taken these cane-pieces, cane no more, brought their laborers over, and planted them with tobacco. It is a well- known fact that only in that part of Cuba immediately contiguous to Havana is the very best tobacco grown On that part GLIMPSES OF THE SOUDAN. 41 of the coast of Jamaica immediately op- posite Havana, and which the shallower soundings show to have once been con- nected with Jamaica, the same conditions exist, the same humid climate with hot sun, the same colored earth, about the same irrigation ; it would seem as if it only remained for the same cv-e to be ex- ercised in its cultivation and manipulation when dried, for a new and enormously valuable industry to arise out of the dust, it may be once more to elevate Jamaica into her former prosperous condition among the islands. At present these greatly desired results have not arrived, Tamaica tobacco not obtaining a high price in the market, When drawing towards the close of my reminiscences, memory seems only to dwell upon our sweet early-morning ram- bles the lovely mountain scenery, which no poor words of mine can adequately describe; the helpful kindness bestowed upon us in our need by unselfish and noble-hearted people; the great, cool, old house mellowed and beautified by the passage of a hundred years over its grey roof. I remember those lovely, still, trop- ical nights, whose profound peace did so much to heal the troubled minds lying under the shadow of a great dread all our busy and useful life of ceaseless occu- pation, and again I feel our intense thank- fulness when once more restored to the blessings of health. All else has fled into the dim distance, never, however, to be recalled, save with grief and pain. From The Fortnightly Review. GLIMPSES OF THE SOIJDAN. SUDDENLY all eyes have been fixed on the Soudan. It is only a short while since that any adventurous traveller might have joined some trading expedition and seen for himself its wild people, its tropical vegetation, its rare animals; after what has now passed years will probably elapse before a Christian will venture to cross its borders. The accounts therefore of those travellers to whom the Soudan is already familiar ground, have proportionately in- creased in value, and of these narratives none is more complete than the cyclo- p~dia of accurate information, scientific, practical, reliable, The Heart of Africa, written by the enthusiastic naturalist, Dr. Schweinfurth, who in r568 joined a trad- ing company of Khartoom merchants who were setting out for the south in search of ivory. First among the races men- tioned in his journal come the Nubians. Their country has not flourished under Egyptian rule, and is so depleted by emi- gration that much of the land formerly cultivated is now allowed to lie idle. To escape from the intolerably heavy taxa- tion, the young men leave their homes, usually for Khartoom, where they take service as soldiers in the merchant ser- vice and act as escort to the southward- bound caravans. When money is plentiful ~vith the merchants they are well paid; at other times a share of cattle or slaves, the plunder after a raid on some unfriendly tribe, is their reward. They are all Ma- hommedans, and will not touch the cigar of the Christian, from an idea that the tobacco has been soaked in sl)irits. In the same way they will not eat preserves, which they believe to be mixed with the fat of the unclean animal, or cheese, which they imagine to be made from its milk. The spirit merissa presents a temptation which they are unable to resist. They are proud of having abandoned heathen- ism and of their belief in one God. Al- lah is enough for us now, they say, but their belief is also strong in witches and in the evil eye and in the ill-luck of begin- ning anything on a Wednesday or Satur- day. They think that to eat the liver of a vanquished foe will inspire courage, but they cut off and reject the tip of any ani- mals tongue that is put before them; for is it not now, as in the days of St. James, the seat of all evil, a fire, a world of iniquity? They entertain a superstitious reverence for the fakirs or priests of Darfoor, who are supposed to have the power of rendering bullet-wounds in- nocuous. - Zebehr, to whom the command of the army in the Soudan was lately to have been entrusted, had once twenty-five thousand dollars melted into bullets for a campaign against Darfoor, it being well known that witchcraft can be baffled by a silver bullet. An uncomfortable belief is also preva- lent amongst them that some of their women, being witches, inhabit at will the body of a hy~na. Dr. Schweinfurth thought he was performing a meritorious act in shooting a hy~na at Gallabat, but found himself bitterly reproached by the sheikh, who informed him that his mother, being one of these hy~ena women, might have been dwelling in the beast at the time. The Nubians have a love of freedom, which Dr. Schwei nfurth attrib- utes to their hatred of order, and have a greater independence of manner than is 42 GLIMPSES OF THE SOUDAN. known in Egypt proper. When one of them was reproached for not using the customary term of respect, my lord, he answered, We have no lord but Allah. Lively, excitable, and romantic, un- equalled as swift and enduring walkers, they hate method and regular work more than either Turks or Egyptians. They are cowardly in battle and untruthful in word. Their moderation in eating is commendable. They have a sense of humor and understand a joke. Their con- versation is of a far more romantic turn than that of the practical Egyptians: they discourse of the wonders of the world, the Suez Canal, the great ships of the Franks, the wild beasts, and wilder natives of central Africa, and their imagination adds color and detail, as they tell of the pigmies of the south, whom they describe as little men with long beards, and dwell on the adroitness with which they will creep under the body of an elephant and slay him from below. From the White Nile banks to Kordofan and Darfoor the country is inhabited by I3aggara Arabs, a warlike race, some of whose members are tributary to Egypt. Their wealth consists of herds of lean, fly-bitten cattle, but the young men of the tribe, brought up to war and hunting, and at home on horseback from their child- hood, do not devote much time to their flocks and herds, but often hire them- selves out to the Khartoom merchants on their southern expeditions, to enjoy the pleasures of plunder and of the chase. One tribe amongst them, however, the Homr, is the declared enemy of all slave- dealers. They are the finest of the nomad races of the Nile, are not without a love of finery, and adorn their athletic, muscu- lar frames with shirts dyed blue and scar- let. Their features are regular, the color of their skin light brown, their expression open and honest,, though they have the reputation of being the boldest of all Ethiopian robbers, and invite comparison with the American gentleman whose pro- fession was being generally out on the steal. The whole left bank of the White Nile is inhabited by the Shillooks, with a popu- lation of over a million. They are negroes, though not of a degenerate type. When Dr. Schweinfurth was there, the northern part of the country had become subject to Egypt, the chief who had surrendered living at Fashoda, where a garrison was kept to overawe the people. Their hearts were not with their conquerors, but with another chief, Kashgar, a descendant of the ancient reigning family, who still held out in the south against the invaders. The Nubians lost no opportunity of in- sulting and plundering them.. Until the Egyptians came the Shillook government has been the most perfectly organized and conducted of all the negro races of the Nile. Now the country is being deserted, and agriculture is declining. Their land is favored by nature, has a fertile soil, abundance of water, both from rain and from the rising of the river, good pastures, and fish and game in plenty. The Shil- looks are short of stature, and by way of compensation arrange the hair in a comb or crest, high upon the head. The men wear no clothing, the women have only an apron of skins. They seem naturally adapted to the moist river flats on which they live, and with their lean, lanky limbs, small, narrow heads, and long, thin necks, appear to be of the stork or flamingo type, especially when seen leisurely striding over the rushes, or standing on one leg for hours together in an attitude of lan- guid repose, their bodies smeared over with grey ashes. In spite of all their national troubles they are merry and light- hearted, full of jokes and puns, which are sometimes inspired by draughts of me- rissa. A long spear is their only ~veapon. They believe in a great hero, father of their race, who in days long gone by led them to this fertile land. Their creed seems, like that of the Positivists, to be summed up in this ancestral homage, and in a belief that the spirits of the dead are about their path. A girl of the tribe was seen by Dr. Sch~veinfurth, in the gov- ernor s hut, at Fashoda. She had come to appeal against her parents refusal to allow her to rharry her chosen lover, Yod by name. Her voice was choked with emotion as she told of their hard-hearted- ness. They would not allow the marriage to take place because Yod had no cows. To all the governors wise maxims she would only answer, Yod wants me, and I want Yod. But the decision given was that she must wait until her lover was in a better position to make a settlement. Next come the Dinka, the great cattle- breeders. Their territory, park-like in appearance, covers a very large area. They had not submitted to the Egyptian yoke, and were animated by fervent dislike to all foreigners, arising from the raids made on their cattle by the Nubians, who carried off thousands every year. In fig- ure they resemble the Shillooks, but their color is darker, their hair closely cut, ex- cept a tuft at the back, and their low-er GLIMPSES OF THE SOUDAN. 43 teeth broken out. The women wear a clothing of skins, and an immense weight of iron ornaments. A cord round the neck is the symbol of mourning. Their huts are clean, and in the preparation of their food they are more particular than any other tribe. They are fond of farina- ceous messes, and when a large dish has been prepared will repose round it in a circle, each with his gourd of milk or butter, and each eat separately. But they have also a taste for more dainty meats. Turtle soup is not more highly appreciated at the Guildhall than by the Dinka, and if a happy hunter secures the most highly prized morsel of all, a hare, he quietly lights a fire, roasts and eats it, and returns home, innocent and unconscious as a cat after a stolen visit to the dairy. Their cattle are the pride of their eyes and the delight of their heart, dearer than wife or child. In each village the largest build- ing is a hospital for sick cows. The earliest amusement of the children is the moulding of buliocks and goats in clay, and their vocabulary concerning cattle- breeding is richer than that of any Euro. pean country. When a cow dies the neighbors, who, though highly appreciat- in g beef, could not be induced to slay one of their own adored beasts, gather together and eat it ; but the bereaved owner sits apart, unable to touch a morsel. They are useless for food, as they are never killed, and they yield very little milk; but the Dinka is happy if he can sit and gaze at them, growing nice and fat; yet there is no idea of attributing to them anything of a sacred character. Their religion is a wilderness of mi- rages a confused belief in conjurors and jugglers. They are not, however, without some noble feelings. A Nubian, wounded in a cattle raid, lay down by the hut of a Dinka. The owner took him in, sheltered and nursed him, and refused to give him up to his persecutors, and final- ly, when quite cured, sent him with an escort back to his own people. A young man of their tribe, in Dr. Schweinfurths party, suffering from swollen feet, could no longer walk, and his father hearing of it came to fetch him, and carried the strap- ping youth of six feet high on his own shoulders to their home, fifteen or sixteen leagues away. The women are much prized as slaves, and command a high price, having the reputation of being ex- cellent housekeepers, though, like most invaluable housekeepers, they are a plague to their masters in other ways. On the border of Dinka land begins the iron country, stretching to the equator. Here the Dyoor, a small tribe, have their habitation. They are unable to possess cattle, which cannot withstand the as- saults of gnats and gad-flies; but the nature of the soil is taken advantage of, and as every Dinka is a cattle-breeder, so is every Dyoor a smith by birth. Their little clay smelting-furnaces are in con- stant use, and by them are forged the spear-heads and spades used in the prov- ince as current coin. The Dinka con- temptuously style the Dyoor wild men, but are glad enough to keep on good terms with them and to buy their iron- work. Their dialect is that of the Shil- looks, to whom they are related. They crop the hair closely, and their dress, usually made of a calfskin, bears some resemblance to the tails of an ordinary dress-coat. They have more natural af- fection for their parents and their children than is shown by other tribes. The babies lie in cradles, instead of hanging in a strap, and the old grow grey-haired amongst them. The women do the house and field work; the men hunt, and are expert in snaring big game, such as buffaloes and antelopes. A well-filled poultry-yard and a good dog are the two real essentials to happiness in the eyes of the Dyoor. The country of the Bongos is about as large as Belgium. It also has an iron soil, and the red-brown color of the earth seems to be reproduced in the complex- ion of its inhabitants, who appear to be the beginning of a new series of races. They are more compactly built, and their heads are broader than the flamingo races, and they excel in handicraft. There is something poetic in their dialect; a leaf is expressed as the ear of a tree,~ the chest as the capital of the veins. In iron-work they equal, if not excel, the Dyoor; their melting furnaces are more complicated, and they have an unenviable reputation for the excellence of the chains and manacles manufactured by them for the slave-dealers. They take much pains about the tillage of their fields, though when blessed with a good harvest, they are often improvident enough to use so much of the grain for making beer that it fails as food, and they have to live on roots and bulbs till harvest time comes round again. The country is fertii~ and well wa- tered, many streams pass through it, and though no rain falls from November till March, they may say with the lrish, A drought never ruined the country yet, for it is from too much moisture rather than from too little that they have ever suffered. 44 GLIMPSES OF THE SOUDAN. Their taste in cooking is more pronounced than that of the Dinka. Meat is consid- ered most savory when putrid; all crawl- ing and creeping things are devoured, and decayed fungi, dried and powdered and mixed with their sauces, whet their appe- tites for such dainties as rats and worms. The children even have exciting mice battues, and sell the produce to each other, tied together in bunches by their tails. These are our cows, they say. The men wear aprons of skin, the arms covered with small iron bangles. The women wear such masses of iron rings round arms and ankles that their movement would hardly be more effectively impeded by high-heeled boots. The rest of their costume consists o~ a branch or a bunch of grass. All have a taste for music, and contentedly strum for hours on nonde- script instruments. Their religion is not one that can afford them much consola- tion. They have a firm faith in the ex- istence of witches, and though they be- lieve in spirits, they look on them all as malicious and destructive. Divorce is recognized, and in cases of infidelity, the wife receives a sound flogging, while the co~respondent is fortunate if he escapes with his life. This was once a peaceful country, but since the Khartoomen came in 1850 and made an easy prey of the scattered, leaderless tribes, the arts have been decaying, and the population dimin- ishing. Thousands of boys and girls were seized and sold as slaves. The Mittoo had only submitted to Egypt in 1867, the year preceding Schweinfurths visit; indeed, one or two chiefs even then held out. Their district is wonderfully fertile, requiring little be- yond the proverbial tickling with a straw. They are like the conies, a feeble folk, of little value as slaves on ac- count of the want of strength in the men and the want of beauty in the women. They are not even famous for handicraft, and their huts are slightly and badly built. Their costume is of the simplest; the women gather themselves a fresh garment in the forest each day, and the men attire themselves in the meagre but more dura- ble dress of a skin and a cat-o-nine-tails, a mandarins cap crowning the short hair, and sometimes a high masher collarof leather is permanently fixed round the neck. Spiked bracelets, useful in single combat, are much worn. But in one art, that of music, they excel all their neigh- bors. The soul of music is in them. Their instruments are brought to great perfection; of these the chief are lyres, with sounding-boards, and flutes of the European pattern. They also have an idea of melody. A hundred of them will sin~ together in time and tune. All the skin that is wanting in their work, and the strength that is wanting in their frames, and the beauty that is wanting in their faces, seem to be concentrated in this power of musical expression. The Niam-Niam, a wild and warlike race, inhabiting a country of tropical luxu- uriance, were little known before Dr. Schweinfurths visit. The round face, the plump cheeks, the large, almond-shaped eyes, distinguish them from the neighbor- ing tribes. They are mi~hty men of valor in the chase, and are rapidly exterminat- ing the elephants of central Africa. The soil is fertile, and a third of its produce is devoted to the breweries, where excellent bitter beer is made. They use many weapons, lances and sickle-bladed knives and trumbashes, a kind of boomerang with mischievous-looki n~ iron prongs and points. They file the incisor teeth to a point to facilitate the seizing of an ene- mys arm in single combat. The men wear striped and spotted skins, which the sons of chieftains are privileged to loop up at the side. But, lik.e Samson, their strength and glory lie in their hair, and fancy is exhausted in finding new ~vays of dressing it. Plaits, braids, puffs, tufts, all the ideas of modern coiffeurs of Paris seem to have originated at the sources of the Nile. Dr. Schweinfurth might, by referring to any modern fashion-book, have spared himself the trouble of labori- ously describing an arrangement of rolls, like the ridges or crevices of a melon, piled on the head, and his portraits of warriors with hair worn in puffs at the side, with strz~y locks hanging down, re- call the style of hairdressing that may be seen in Silvys photographs of a few years earlier. Even the modern fringe was an- ticipated by a row of the incisor teeth of a dog hanging across the forehead. The chief duty and pride of a Niam-Niam wom- an is the arrangement of her husbands hair, which is sometimes surmounted by a hat and feathers painfully attached by hair- pins, which have to be removed at night. Her price as a slave is literally above ru- bies, so rarely is she to be had in the market, and, when she falls into the hands of the enemy, no ransom is thought too heavy, no exertion too great for her re- demption. The men, in the intervals of war and hunting, find time for recreation. Smoking they are much addicted to, and also to a game of pitching balls into the GLIMPSES OF THE SOUDAN. 45 holes of a kind of enlarged bagatelle an earthly paradise, the soil fertile, the board. Without the skill of the Mittoo, scenery enchanting clear streams and they are very fond of music; they will green pastures, and groves of palm and play all day and niaht without any inter- plantain. Recalling Eden also, the peo. vals for food or sleep. pIe dress in fig-tree bark, though the Their kings have a far more limited kings wardrobe is elaborate, and fills authority than those of other tribes, and several rooms. One of the ornaments in the divinity that hedges them is not aided his treasury was a necklace composed of by any external show. There is no civil over a hundred lions claws. Any tillage list, and they are supported by the prod- required is done by the women; the men, uce of their own model farms. They have when not at war or hunting, spend the only a kind of suzerainty, with the power morning in smoking, the rest of the day of declaring peace or war. The studied in gossiping. Both sexes arrange the ferocity of their appearance adds to their hair in a large chignon. Bands of hair, influence with their followers; and the often false, are laid across the brow. The energy with which one, in the presence of l)opulation is over a million, and one culti- the enemy, is said to have scrambled to vated farm follows another without a the top of a large ant-hill, and shouted, break. They have some faint idea of a To the caldron with the Turks would divinity living in the sky. In cookery not have disgraced a Mid-Lothian plat. they l;ave an undeniable taste, using form. They believe in witches and evil spices and mushrooms to flavor their spirits, and also in a divinity rendered by sauces. Nevertheless, they are of all the word lightning. Their only form African cannibals the most pronounced. of worship is the rubbing of a kind of In war they use bows and arrows, as well wooden plane on another piece of wood as the usual iron weapons. a kind of praying machine. They have Their women are not marked by the an unbounded confidence in omens, and modesty and domestic virtues of the before determining on any enterprise, will Niam-Niam; they are forward and inquis. force a lump of grease down the throat of itive with strangers, and rule in their a hen, or hold a cock under water. If the houses. The men, ~vhen asked to sell birds survive this treatment the enter- anything, will say, Oh ask my wife ; it prise is proceeded with; if not, aban. is hers. Their favorite occupation is doned. This simple mode of procedure the decoration of their own bodies with obviates the necessity of thinking out a painted patterns; and before a festival policy, or consulting expediency, or pub- (as in more favored lands) every imagina- hic opinion, and is acquiesced in even tion is ransacked for fresh ideas by which when leading to inexplicable retreats be- all rivals may be outshone. The sister of fore the enemy. Let no one hint that King Munza, Kallenghe, had on the first this expedient has ever been resorted to arrival of the Nubians in the country led in Downing Street. a body of troops against them and gained The Monbuttoo, the most southern the day, though her soldiers had never tribe visited by Schweinfurth, are, like been confronted with firearms before. the Niam-Niam, independent. They are Dr. Schweinfurth was disappointed of rather of the Semitic than of the negro going further south to visit the Akka, type, and are taller on an average than the pigmy race. He saw some specimens Europeans. They have brought the arts of them, however, from four feet seven of civilization to greater perfection than inches to four feet ten inches in height, other tribes. Their ornamental wood and of ape-like appearance, resembling carvings and steel chains are unsurpassed, I the Bushmen of the south. One, indeed, and their earthenware is remarkable for Nsewue by name, he adopted, and brought its symmetry and decoration. In archi- as far north as- Berber, where he died tecture especially they excel. The recep- from the effects of over-eating. We get tion-hall of the king Muoza was fifty feet glimpses of other smaller tribes the in height, one hundred and fifty feet in Babucker, with their inextinguishable length, and admirably constructed. Their love of freedom; the Nueir, another of kings have far greater power than those the flamingo races; the Kredys, with of the Niam-Niam, and are surrounded their wretched huts, their gigantic fishing- with courtiers and ceremonies. Munza nets, and their ponderous corn-mills; the received I)r. Schweinfurth with royal merry, light-hearted Sehre, as full of jokes state and display. As a race they are and fun as boys let loose from school remarkable for intellect and judgment, If we are hungry, they say, we sing and are feared in ~var. Their country is and forget it; the A-Banga, who lost 46 THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. their chignons on the field of battle, to be of Kara, where they ~vere bound to dig out brought home in triumph on the point of the traditional hundred poods (thirty. the conquerors lances. The most pain- two hundred pounds)of gold for the Cab- ful part of Dr. Schweinfurths story is met of his Majesty, that is, for the per- that relating to his experience of the sonal purse of the emperor. The horrible slave trade. The resting-places of the tales of subterranean work in the silver dealers were marked with burnt bones of and lead mines, under the most abom- men, and helpless and abandoned ,chil- inable conditions, under the whips of dren. Starvation and cruelty on the jour- overseers who compelled each ten men to ney is the ordinary lot of the wretched accomplish a work that would be hard beings torn from their homes. Dr. even for double this number; of convicts Schweinfurths work proves how little working in the darkness, charged with effect the sovereignty of Egypt had in heavy chains and riveted to barrows; of putting down these horrors. A deceptive people dying from the poisonous emana- show of energy was displayed at Khar- tions of the mines; of prisoners flogged toom and Fashoda, but the overland trade to death, or dying under five and six thou- was then (187o) more brisk than ever. It sand strokes of the rod, by order of tradi- is little wonder after all if, when a proph- tional monsters like Rozguild6eff all et arose calling on the people to turn these tales, well known everywhere, are out the invaders, each tribe had some not tales due to the fancy of imaginative bitter moment to remember when yen- writers, they are true historical records of geance had been vowed against the Egyp- a sad reality. tian dominion. And they are not tales of a remote past, for such were the conditions of hard labor in the Nertchinsk mining district no farther back than twenty-five years ago. They might be told by men still in life. More than that, many, very many, fea- tures of this horrible past have been main- tained until our own times.* Every one in eastern Siberia knows of the terrible scurvy epidemics which broke out at the Kara gold mines in 1857, when accord- ing to official reports perused by M. Maxi- moff no less than one thousand convicts out of some seventeen thousand died in the course of one summer, and the cause of the epidemics is a secret to nobody; it is well known that the authorities hav- ing perceived that they would be unable to dig out the traditional hundred poods of gold, caused the convicts to work without rest, above their strength, until some fell dead in the mines. And much later on, in 1873, have we not seen again a similar epidemic, due to similar causes, breaking out in the Yeniseisk district, and sweep- ing away hundreds of lives at once?, The places of torture, the proceedings were From The Nineteenth Century. THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. IT is not in vain that the word katorga (hard labor) has received so horrible a meaning in the Russian language, and has become synonymous with the most awful pains and sufferings. I cannot bear any longer this katorjnaya life, this life of moral and physical sufferings, of infamous insults and l)itiless persecutions, of pains beyond mans strength, say those ~vho are brought to despair before attempting to put an end to their life by suicide. It is not in vain that the word katorga has re- ceived this meaning, and all those who have seriously inquired into the aspects of hard labor in Siberia have come to the conclusion that it really corresponds to a popular conception. I have already de- scribed the journey which leads to the katorga. Let us see now what are the conditions of the convicts in the hard- labor colonies and prisons of Siberia. Some fifteen years ago, nearly all those ~fteen hundred people who were con- demned every year to hard labor were sent to eastern Siberia. One part of them was employed at the silver, lead, and gold mines of the Nertchinsk district, or at the iron works of Petrovsk (not far from Kiakhta) and Irkutsk, or at the salt works of Usolie and Ust-Kut; a few were em- ployed at a drapery in the neighborhood of lrkutsk, and the remainder were sent to the gold mines, or rather gold washings, * The Kutomara and Alexandrovsk silver mines have always been renowned for their insalubrity. on account of the arsenical emanations from the ore; not only men, but also cattle, suffered from them, and it is well khown that the inhabitants of these villages were compelled, for this reason, to raise their young cattle in neigh- boring villages. As to the quicksilver emanations, every one who has consulted any serious work on the Nertchinskmining district knows that the silver ore of these mines is usually accoml)anied with cinnabar especially to the mines of Shakittama and Kultuma, both worlced out by convicts who were poisoned by mercurial emanationsand that attempts to get mer- cury from these mines have been made several timna by the government. The Akatuy silver mines of the sante district have always had the most dreadful repu. tation for their unhealthiness. THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. 47 slowly modified, but the very essence of hard labor has remained the same, and the word katorga has still maintained its horrible meaning. During the last twenty years the system of hard labor has undergone some modifi- cation. The richer silver mines of the Nertchinsk mining district have been worked out; instead of enriching every year the Cabinet of the emperor with two hundred and twenty to two hundred and eighty poods of silver (seven to nine thousand pounds), as it was before, they yielded but five to seven poods (one hun- dred and fifty to two hundred and ten pounds) in i86o to 1863, and they were abandoned. As to the gold washings, the minino~ authorities succeeded about the same time in convincing the Cabinet that there were no more gold washings worth being worked in the district; and the Cabinet abandoned the district to private enterprise, reserving for the crown only the mines on the Kara River, a tributary of the Shilka (of course rich mines, well known before, were discovered by pri- vate persons immediately after the pro- mulgation of the law). The government was thus compelled to find some other kind of employment for the convicts, and to modify to a certain extent the whole system of hard labor. The central pris- ons in Russia, of which I have given a description in a preceding paper, were in- vented; and, before being sent to Siberia, the hard-labor convicts remain now in these prisons for about one-third of the duration of their sentence. I have de- scribed the horrible treatment to which they are submitted. The number of these sufferers, for whom even the horrible katorga in Siberia appears as a relief, is about five thousand. As to the eighteen to nineteen hundred hard-labor convicts who are transported every year to Siberia, they are submitted to different kinds of treatment. A certain number of them (twenty-seven hundred to three thousand) are locked up in the hard- labor prisons of western and eastern Sibe- na; whilst the remainder are transported, either to the Kara gold washings, or to the salt works of Usolie and Ust-Kut, or to the coal mines on the Sakhalin Island. The few mines and works of the crown in Siberia being, however, unable to employ the nearly ten thousand convicts con- demned to hard labor, a novel expedient was invented, in renting the convicts to private owners of gold washings. It is easy to perceive that the punishment of convicts belonging to the same hard-labor category can be thus varied to an immense degree, depending on the caprice of the authorities, and a good deal on the length of the purse of the convict. He may be killed under the plates at Kara or IJst-Kut, as also he may comfortably live at the private gold mine of some friend, as overseer of works, and be aware of his removal to Siberia only by the long delay in receiving news from his Russian friends. Leaving aside, however, these excep~ tional favprs and a variety of subdivisions of less importance, the hard-labor convicts in Siberia can be classified under three great categories: those ~vho are kept in orison; those who are employed at the gold mines of the Imperial Cabinet or of private persons; and those who are em- ployed at the salt works. The fate of the first is very much like the fate of those who are locked up in central prisons in Russia. The Siberian gaoler may smoke a pipe, instead of a cigar, when flogging his inmates; he may make use of lashes, instead of birch rods, and flog the convicts when his soup is spoiled, whilst the Russian gaolers bad temper depends upon an unsuccessful hunting: the results for the convicts are the same. In Siberia, as in Russia, a gaoler who pitilessly flogs is substi- tuted by a gaoler who gives free play to his own fists and steals the last coppers of the prisoners; and an honest man, if he is occasionally nominated as the head of a hard-labor prison, will soon be dis- missed, or expelled from an administra- tion where honest men are a nuisance. The fate of those two thousand convicts who are employed at the Kara gold mines is not better. Twenty years ago the official reports represented the prison at upper Kara as an old, weather-worn, log- wood building, erected on a swampy ground, and impregnated with the filthi- ness accumulated by long generations of overcrowded convicts. They concluded that it ought to be pulled down at once; but the same foul and rotten building con- tinues to shelter the convicts until now; and, even during M. Kononovitchs rea- sonable rule, it was said to be whitewashed only four times each year. It is always filled up to double its cubical capacity, and the inmates sleep on two storeys of platforms, as also on the floor that is cov- ered with a thick sheet of sticky filth, their wet and nasty clothes being mat- tresses and coverings at once. So it was t~venty years ago; so it is now. The chief prison of the Kara gold washings, 48 THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. the lower Kara, was described by M. Maximoff in 1863, and by the official doc- uments I perused, as a rotten nasty build- ing where wind and snow freely penetrate. So it is described again by my friends. The middle Kara prison was restored a few years ago, but it soon became as filthy as the two others. For six or eight months, out of twelve, the convicts remain in these prisons without any occupation and it is quite sufficient, I imagine, to mention this circumstance to suggest what vices are taught in the,se prisons, and all the demoralization of character that results from this confinement. Let those who wish to study the moral influ- ence of Russian prisons on their inmates peruse the remarkable psychological studies by Dostoevsky, MM. Maximoff, Lvoff, and so many others. The work at the gold washings is alto- gether very hard. True, it is carried on above-ground; deep excavations being made in the alluvium of the valley, to extract the gold~bearing mud and sands, which are transported in cars to the gold- washing machine. But it is most un- healthy and difficult work. The bottom of the excavation is always below the level of the river, which flows at a certain height in an artificial channel to the ma- chine; and therefore it is always covered to a certain depth with the water which is leaking through its ~valls, not to speak of the icy water which flows everywhere down the walls, as the frozen mud thaws under the hot rays of the sun. The pumps are usually insufficient, and so (I write from my own experience) people are working throughout the day in an icy water that covers their feet to the knees, and sometimes to the stomach; and, when returned to the prison, the convict ob- viously has nothing to change his wet dress for: he sleeps on it. It is true that the same work is done under the same conditions, by thousands of free working- men, on the private gold washings. But it is well known that the owners of gold washings in Siberia would have no hands for their mines if the enlistment of work- men were not practised in the same way as were the enlistments for the armies in the seventeenth century. The engage- ments are always made in a drunken state and in exchange for large sums of hand- money, which pass immediately to the pockets of the publicans. As to the settled exiles the ~ose/en/sy whose starving army furnishes the largest con- tingent of workmen for the private gold washings, they are mostly merely rented by the village authorities, who seize the hand-money for the taxes, always in ar- rear. The intervention of the district author- ities, and very often a military convoy, are therefore necessary every spring to send the free hands to the gold washings. It is obvious that the conditions of work are still harder for the convicts. The days task which each of them must ac- complish is greater and harder than on the private mines, and many of them are loaded with chains; at Kara, they have moreover to walk five miles from the l)rison to the excavation, adding thus a nearly three hours march to the days task. Sometimes, when the auriferous gravel and clay are poorer than was ex- pected, and the quantity of gold calculated on could not be extracted, the convicts are literally exhausted by overwork; they are compelled to work until very late in the nights, and then the mortality, which is always high, becomes really horrible. In short, it is considered, as a rule, by all those who have seriously studied the Siberian hard-labor institutions, that the convict who has remained for several years at Kara, or at the salt works, comes away quite broken in health, and unfit for ulterior work, and that he remains thence- forth a burden on the country. The food ho~vever less substantial than at the private gold washings might be considered as nearly sufficient when the convicts receive the rations allowed to the men when at work; the daily allow- ance being in such cases three and six- tenths English pounds of rye bread, and the amount of meat, cabbage, buckwheat, etc., that can be supplied for one rouble per month. A good manager could give for that price nearly half a pound of meat every day. But, owing to the want of any real control, the convicts mostly are piti- iessly robbed of their poor allowance. If at the St. Petersburg House of Deten- tion, under the eyes of scores of inspec- tors, robbery was carried on for years on a colossal scale, how could it be other- wise in the wildernesses of the Transbai- kalian mountains? Honest managers, who supply the convicts with all due to them, are rare exceptions. Besides, the above allowance is given only during the short period of gold-washing, which lasts for less than four months in the year. During the winter, when the frozen ground is as hard as steel, there is no work at all. And as soon as the gold- washingthe years crop of the mines is finished, the food is reduced to an THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. 49 amount hardly sufficient to keep muscles and bones together. As to the payment for ~vork, it is quite ludicrous, being some- thing like three to four shillings per month, out of which the convict mostly purchases some cloth to supply the quite insufficient dress given by the crown. No wonder that scurvy that terror of all Siberian gold washingsis always mow- ing down the lives of the convicts, and that the mortality at Kara is from ninety to two hundred and eighty-seven, out of less than two thousand, every year; that is, one out of eleven to one out of seven, a very high figure indeed for a population of adults. These official figures, how- ever, are still below the truth, as the des- perately sick are usually sent away, to die in some bogadelnya, or invalid house. The situation of the convicts would be still worse if the overcrowding of the pris- ons and the interests of the owners of the gold mines had not compelled the govern- ment to shorten the time of imprisonment. As a rule, the hard-labor convict ought to be kept in prison, at the mines, only for about one-third of the time to which he has been condemned. Beyond this time, he must be settled in the village close by the mine, in a separate house, with his family, if his wife has followed him ; he is bound to cro to work, like other convicts, but without chains, and he has his own house and hearth. It is obvious that this la~v might be an immense benefit for the convicts, but its provisions are marred by the manner in which it is applied. The liberation of the convict depends en- tirely upon the caprice of the superinten- dent of the mine. Moreover, with the absurd payment for his labor, which hardly reaches a few shillings per month in addition to the ration of flour, the liber- ated convict falls, with but few exceptions, into the most dreadful misery. A~l inves- tigators of the subject are agreed in rep- resenting under the darkest aspects the misery of this class of convicts, and in saying that the immense number of run- awax-s from this category of exile is chiefly due to their wretchedness. The punishments-obviously depend also entirely upon the fancy of the superinten- dent of the works, and they are atrocious. The privation of food and the blackhole and those who have read my former articles know what blackhole means in Siberia are considered as merely child- ish punishments. Only the p/?te, the cat- o-nine-tails, distributed at will, for the sligh test delinquency, and to the amount dictated by the good or bad temper of IAV1NG AGE. VOL. XLVI~ 2344 the manager, is considered as a punish- ment. It is so usual a thing in the minds of the overseers, that hundred pi~tes, a hundred lashes with the cat-o-nine-tails, are orderedwith the same easiness as one weeks incarceration would be ordered in European prisons; but there are other heavier punishments in store: for in- stance, the chaining for several years to the wall of an underground blackhole, especially at the Akatuy prison ; the rivet- ing for five or six years to the barrow, which is, perhaps, the worst imaginable moral torture; and finally, the leessa (the fox), that is, a beam of wood, or a piece of iron, ~veighin g one pood and a half (forty. eight pounds) attached to the chain for several years. The horrible punishment by the leessa is becoming rare, but the chaining for several years to a barrow is quite usual. Quite recently, the political convicts, Popko, Fomicheff, and Berez- nuk were condemned, for an attempt at escape from the Irkutsk prison, to be riv- eted to barrows for two years. I hardly need to add that the superin- tendent of the mines is a king in his do- minions, and that to complain about him is quite useless. He may rob his inmates of their last coppers, he may submit theni to the most horrible punishments, he may torture the children of convicts no coin- plaints will reach the authorities ; and the convict who would be bold enough to dare a complaint would be simply starved in blackholes, or killed under the plates. All those who write about exile in Siberia ought to bear constantly in mind that there is no serious control over the man- agers of the penal colonies, and that an honest man will never remain for long at the head of a penal colony in Siberia. If he is merely humane with the convicts, he will be dismissed for what will be de- scribed at St. Petersburg as dangerous sentimentalism. If not, he will be ex- pelled by the association of robbers who gather around so lucrative a business as the management of a gold mine of the crown. The Russian proverb says: Let him nourish a crowns sparrow, he will nourish all his family; but agold mine is something much more attractive than a crowns sparrow. There are thousands of convicts to supply with food and tools; there are the machines to repair; and there is the most lucrative clandestine trade in stolen gold. There is at these mines a whole tradition and a solid organization of robbery, established and grown up long ago, an organization which even the des- 50 THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. potic and almighty Mouravieff could not break down. An honest man cast amidst these organized gangs of robbers is con- sidered by his comrades as a troublesome individual, and, if not recalled by the gov- ernment, he will be compelled to leave himself, ~veary of varfare. Therefore, the Kara gold mines have seldom seen at their head honest men like Barbot de Marny, or Kononovitch, but nearly always such people as Rozguild6eff. And so it goes on until our own times. Not only the abominable cruelty of the managers of Kara has become proverbial, but we need not go further back than 1871 to discover the medi~val torture flourish- ing there in full. Even so cautious a writer as M. Yadrintseff relates a case of torture applied by the manager of the mines, Demidoff, to a free ~voman and to her daughter, eleven years old. In 1871 he saysthe chief of the Kara gold mine3, Demidoff, was informed of a mur- der committed by a convict. The better to discover the details of the crime, Demidoff submitted to torture, through the executioner, the wife of the murderera free woman, who ~vent to Siberia to follow her husband and her daughter, eleven years old. The girl was suspended in the air, and the executioner flogged her from the head to the soles of her feet. She had already received several lashes with the cat-o-nine-tails when she asked to drink. A salted herring was presented to her. The torture would have been prosecuted if the executioner had not refused to continue* Man does not become so ferocious at once, and every intelligent thinker will discover behind this single case a whole training in cruelty of the Demidoffs ; a whole horrible story of barbarities carried on with the conviction of impunity. As the woman in this case was not a convict, her complaints reached the authorities; but for one case brought to publicity, how many hundreds of like cases never come, and never will come, to the knowledge of public opinion! I have but little to say about those hard-labor convicts who are rented of the crown by private owners of gold wash- ings. This innovation was not yet intro- duced when I was sojourning in Siberia, and little has transpired about it since it has been practised. I know that the ex- periment has been recognized as a failure. The best proprietors did not care to em- ploy convicts, as they soon learned how expensive every contact with the authori- ties is in Siberia; and only the worst * Siberia as a Colony, p. 207. owners continued to take them to their mines. Atsuch mines the convicts had perhaps less to suffer from their man- agers, but still more from want of food, from overwork, and bad lodgings, not to speak of the hardness of long journeys to and from the gold mines, on footpaths crossing the wild Siberian forests. As to the salt works, where a number of convicts are still employed, they cause the worst kind of hard labor; and I shall never forget the Polish exiles I saw at the Ust Kut salt works. The water of the salt springs is usually pumped by means of the most primitive machines; and the ~vork, which is pursued even during the winter, is unanimously considered as one of the most exhausting. The condition of those who are employed at the large pans, where the salt solution is concen- trated by an immense fire blazing under the pans, is still worse. The men stay for hours quite naked, stirring up the salt in the pan ; the perspiration is literally streaming on their bodies, whilst they are exposed to a strono current of cold air blowing through the building in order to accelerate the evaporation. \Vith the ex- ception of the few who are employed at some other works at the mine, I have seen but sallow and livid phantoms, among whom consumption and scurvy find an abundant harvest. I shall not touch in this paper the re- cent innovation the hard labor and set- tlement of convicts in a new and remoter Siberiathe island of Sakhalin. The fate of the convicts on this island, where nobody would settle freely, and their strug- gles against an inhospitable soil and cli- mate, deserve a separate studx-. Nor shall I touch in this paper the condition of the Polish exiles of 1864. This subject de- serves more than a short notice ; and I have not yet spoken of the immense class of exiles transported to Siberia to be set- tled there as agricultural and industrial laborers. - Those who are condemned to hard labor, not only lose all their civil and personal rights, they are separated forever from their mother land. After their re- lease from hard labor they are embodied in the great category of the ssybw-~ose- lentsy, and they remain in Siberia for life. No possible return, under any circum- stances, to Russia. The category of set- tled exiles is the most numerous in Sibe- ria It comprises not only the released hard-labor convicts, but also the nearly three thousand men and women (28,382 in the space of ten years, 1867 to 1876) THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. 5 transported every year under the bead of ssylno-poselentsy, that is, to be settled in Siberia, also for life, and with a total or partial loss of their civil and personal rights. To these ssylno-poselentsy or simply poselentsy in the current language must be added the 23.383 exiled during the same ten years ~uz zodvorenie, that is, to be settled with a partial loss of their civil rights; 2,551 exiled ~uzJi/ie ( to live in Siberia) without loss of their personal rights; and the 76,686 exiled during the same time by simple orders of the admin- istrative, making thus a total of nearly one hundred and thirty thousand exiles for ten years. During the last five years this figure has still increased, reaching from sixteen to seventeen thousand exiles every year. I have already said what are the crimes of this mass of human beings cast out from Russia; let us see now what is their situation in the land of exile. A whole literature on this subject has grown up during the last ten years. Official in- quiries have been made, and scores of papers have been published on the conse- quences of the transportation to Siberia, all being agreed as to the followino- con- clusion: Leaving aside some isolated cases, such as the excellent influence of the Polish and Russian political exiles on the development of manufactures in Sibe- ria, as well as that 6f the nonconformists and Little Russians (who have been trans- ported by whole communes at once) on agriculture leaving aside these fe~v ex- ceptions, the great mass of exiles, far from supplying Siberia with useful colo- nists and skilled working-men, suI)plies it with a floating population, mostly starving and quite unable to do any useful work (see the works and papers by M 14. Maxi- moff, Lvoff, Zavalishin, Rovinsky, Ya- drintseff, Peysen, Dr. Sperch, and many others, and the extracts from official in- quiries they have published). It appears from these investigations that, whilst more than half a million of people have been transported to Siberia during the last sixty years, only two hun- dred thousand are now on the lists of the local administration; the remainder have died without leaving any l)osterity, or have disappeared. Even of these two hundred thousand who figure on the offi- cial lists, no less than one-third, that is, seventy thousand (or even much more, according to other valuations), have disap- peared during the last few years without anybody knowing what has become of them. They have vanished like a cloud in the sky on a hot summer day. Part of them have run away and have joined the human current, twenty thousand men strong, that silently flows through the forest lands of Siberia, from east to ~vest, towards the Ural. Others and these are the great numberalready have dot- ted with their bones the runaway paths of the forests and marshes, as also the paths that lead to and from the gold mines. And the remainder consti- tute the floating population of the larger towns, trying to escape an obnoxious su- pervision by assuming false names. As to the one hundred and thirty thou- sand (or much less, according to other statisticians) who have remained under the control of the administration, the unanimous testimony of all inquiries, official or private, is that they are in such a wretched state of misery as to be a real burden on the country. Even in the most fertile provinces of Siberia Toursk and the southern part of Tobolsk only one-quarter of them have their own houses, and only one out of nine have become agriculturists. In the eastern provinces the proportion is still less favorable. Those who are not agriculturists and they are some hundred thousand men and women throughout Siberia are wander- ing from town to town without any per- manent occul)ation, or going to and from the gold washings, or living in villages from hand to mouth, in the worst imag- inable misery, with all the vices that never fail to follow misery. Several causes contribute to th~ achieve- ment of this result. The chief one all agree in that is the demoralization the convicts undergo in the prisons, and dur- ing their peregrinations on the eta~es. Long before having reached their desti- nation in Siberia, they are demoralized. The laziness enforced for years on the inmates of the lock-ups; the development of the passion for games of hazard; the systematic suppression of the will of the prisoner, and the development of passive qualities, quite opl)osite to the moral strength required for colonizing a young country ; the prostration of the strength of character and the development of low passions, of shallow and futile desires, and of anti-social conceptions generated by the prison all this ought to be kept in mind to realize the depth of moral cor- ruption. that is spread by our gaols, and to understand how an inmate of these in- stitutions never can be the man to endure the hard struggle for life in the sub-arctic Russian colony. THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. 52 But not only is the moral force of the convict broken by the prison; his physical force, too, is mostly broken forever by the journey and the sojourn at the hard-labor colonies. Many contract incurable dis- eases; all are ~veak. As to those who have spent some twenty years in hard labor (an attempt at escape easily brings the seclusion to this length), they are for the most part absolutely unable to perform any work. Even put in the best circum- stances, they would still be a burden on the community. But the conditions im- posed on the poselenets are very hard. He is sent to some remote village com- mune, where he receives several acres of land the least fertile in the commune, and he must become a farmer. In reality he knows nothing of the practice of agri- culture in Siberia, and, after three or four years detention, he has lost the taste for it, even if he formerly was an agricultur- ist. The village commune receives him with hostility and scorn. He is a Rus- sian a term of contempt with the Si- beryak and, moreover, a convict! He is also one of those ~vhose transport and ac- commodation cost the Siberian peasant so heavily. For the most part he is not mar- ried and cannot marry, the proportion of exiled women being as one to six men, and the Siberyak will not allow him to marry his daughter, notwithstanding the fifty roubles allowed in this case by the State, but usually melted away on their long journey through the hands of numerous officials. There was no need in Siberia for the official scheme-inventors ~vho or- dered the peasants to build houses for the exiles, and who settled the poselentsy, five or six together, dreaming of pastoral exile- communities. The practical result was invariably the same. The five poselentsy thus associated in their miseries invari- ably ran away after a useless struggle against starvation, and went undsr false names to the towns, or to the gold mines, in search of labor. Whole villages with empty houses on the Siberian highway still remind the traveller of the sterility of official Utopias introduced with the help of birch rods. Those who find some employment on the farms of the Siberian peasants are not happier. The whole system of en- gaging workmen in Siberia is based on giving them large sums of hand-money in advance, in order to put them permanently in debt, and to reduce them to a kind of perpetual serfdom; and the Siberian peas- ants largely use this custom. As to those exiles and they are the great proportion who earn their livelihood by work on the gold washings, they are deprived of all their savings as soon as they have reached the first village and public-house, after the four or five months of labor of hard labor, in fact, with all its priva- tions at the mines. The villages on the Lena, the Yenissei, the Kan, etc., where the parties of gold-miners arrive in the autumn, are ~videly famed for this peculiarity. And who does not know in Siberia the two wretched, miserable ham- lets on the Lena, which have received the names of Paris and London from the ad- mirable skill of their inhabitants in depriv- ing the miners of their very last copper? XVhen the miner has left in the public- house his last hat and shirt, he is immedi- ately re-engaged by the agents of the gold-mining company for the next sum- mer, and receives, in exchange for his passport, some hand-money for returning home. He comes to his village with empty hands, and the long winter months he will spend perhaps, in the next lock- up ! In short, the final conclusion of all official inquiries which have been made up to this time is, that the few housekeepers among the exiles are in a wretched state of misery; and that the paupers are either serfs to the farmers and mine l)roprietors, or to use the ~vords of an official report are dying from hunger and cold. The tii~z the forest land which cov- ers thousands of square miles in Siberia is thickly peopled with runaways, who slowly advance, like a continuous human stream, towards the west, moved by the ope of finally reaching their native vil- lages on the other slope of the Ural. As soon as the cuckoo cries, announcing to the prisoners that the ~voods are free from their snow covering, that they can shelter a man without the risk of his becoming during the night a motionless block of ice, and that they will soon provide the wan- derer with mushrooms and berries, thou- sands of convicts make their escape from the gold mines and salt works, from the villages where they starved, and from the towns where they concealed themselves. Guided by the polar star, or by the mosses on the trees, or by old runaways who have acquired in the prisons the precious knowl- edge of the runaway paths and run- away stations, they undertake the long and perilous backward journey. They pass around Lake Baikal, climbing the high and wild mountains on its shores, or they cross it on a raft, or even as the popular song says in a fish-cask. They avoid the highways, the towns, and the THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. 53 settlements of the Buriates, but freely camp in the woods around the towns; and each spring you see at Chita the fires of the ckaldons (runaways) lighted all around the little capital of Transbaikalia, on the woody slopes of the surrounding moun- tains. They freely enter also the Russian villages, where they find, up to the ~res- ent day, bread and milk exposed on the windows of the peasants houses for the poor runaways. As long as nothing is stolen by the ramblers, they may be sure of not being disturbed in their journey by the peas- ants. But, as soon as any of them breaks this tacit mutual engagement, the Siber~ yaks become pitiless. The hunters and each Siberian village has its trappers spread through the forests, and pitilessly exterminate the runaways, sometimes with art abominable refinement of cruelty. Some thirty years ago, to hunt the chal- dons was a trade, and the human chase has still remained a trade with a few indi- viduals, especially ~vith the Karyms, or half-breeds. The antelope gives but one skin, these hunters say, whilst the chaldon gives two at least, his shirt and his coat. A few runaways find employ- ment on the farms of the peasants, which are spread at great distances from the vil- lages, but these are not very numerous, as the summer is the best season for marching towards the west: the forests feed and conceal the wanderers during the warm season. True, they are filled then with clouds of small mosquitos (the terri- ble mos/ika), and the brodyagAa (runaway) you meet with in the summer is horrible to see : his face is but one swollen wound his eyes are in~amed and hardly seen from beneath the burning and swollen eyelids; his swollen nostrils and mouth are covered with sores. Men and cattle alike grow mad from this plague, which continues to pursue them even among the clouds of smoke that are spread around the vil- lages. But still the brodyagha pursues his march towards the border-chain of Siberia, and his heart beats stronger as he perceives its bluish hills on the horizon. Twenty, perhaps thirty thousand men are continually living this life, and surely no less than one hundred thousand people have tried to make their escape in this way during these last fifty years. How many have succeeded in entering the Russian provinces? Nobody could tell, even -approximately. Thousands have found their graves in the /a~ga, and hap- py were they ~vhose eyes were closed by a devoted fellow-traveller. Other thou- sands have returned of their own accord to the lock-ups when the mercury was freezing and the frost stopped the circula- tion of the last drop of blood in an ema- ciated body. They submitted themselves to the unavoidable hundred plates, re- turned again to Transbaikalia, and next spring tried again the sa me journey with more experience. Other thousands have been hunted down, seized, or shot by the Buriates, the Karyms, or some Siberian trapper. Others again were seized a few days after having reached the soil of their mother Russia, after having thrown themselves at the feet of their old parents, in the village they had left many years ago to satisfy the cal)rice of the ispravnik, or the jealousy of the local usurer. What an abyss of suffering is concealed behind those three words: Escape from Siberia! I have now to examine the situation of political exiles in Siberia. Of course I shall not venture to tell here the story of political exile since the year t6o7, when one of the forefathers of the now reign- ing dynastx, Vassiliy Nikitich Romanoff, opened the long list of proscriptions, and terminated his life in an underground cell at Nyrdob, loaded with sixty-four l)ounds weight of heavy chains. I shall not try to revive the horrible story of the Bar con- federates arriving in Siberia with their noses and ears torn away, and so says, at least, the tradition rolled down the hill of the Kreml at Tobolsk tied to bio trees ; 1 shall not tell the infamies of the madman Freskin and his ispravnik Los- kutoff; nor dwell upon the execution of March 7, 1837, when the Poles Szokalski, Sieroczynski, and four others were killed under seven thousand strokes of the rod; nor will I describe the sufferings of the Decembrists and of the exiles of the first days of Alexander II .s reign ; neither give here the list of our poets and publi- cists exiled to Siberia since the times of Radischeff until those of Odoevsky, and later on, of Tchernyshevsky and Mikhai- loff. I shall speak only of those political exiles who are now in Siberia. Kara is the place where those con- demned to hard labor were imprisoned, to the number of one hundred and fifty men and women, during the autumn of t882. After having been kept from two to four years in preliminary detention at the St. Petersburg fortress, at the fa- mous Litovskiy Zamok, at the St. Peters- burg House of Detention, and in provin- cial prisons, they were sent, after their condemnation, to Kharkofi Central Pris. 54 THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. on. There they remained for three to five years, again in solitary confinement, without any occupation, without any in- tercourse with their parents, literally starv- ing on the poor allowance of 4d. per day. and at the mercy of their gaolers. Then. they were transferred, for a few months, to the Mtsensk depot where they were treated much better and thence they were sent to Transbaikalia. Most of them performed the journey to Kara in the manner 1 have already described on foot beyond Tomsk, and chained. A few were favored with the use of cars, for slowly moving from one 6tape to another. Even these last describe this journey as a real torture, and say: People become mad from the moral and physical tortures endured during such a journey. The wife of Dr. Bielyi, who accompanied her hus band, and two or three others, have had this fate. The prison where they are kept at middle Kara is one of those rotten build. ings I have already mentioned. It was overcrowded when ninety-one men were confined in it, and it is still n~ore over- crowded since the arrival of sixty more prisoners; wind and snow freely enter the interstices between the rotten pieces of iogwood of the walls, and from beneath the rotten planks of the floor. The chief food of the prisoners is rye bread and some buckwheat; meat is distributed only when they- are at work in the gold mine, that is, during three months out of twelve, and only to fifty men out of one hundred and fifty. Contrary to the law and custom, all were chained in i88i, and went to work loaded with chains. There is no hospital for the politicals, and the sick, who are numerous, remain on the platforms, side by side with all others, in the same cold rooms, in the same suffocating atmosphere. Even the insane Madame IKovalevskaya is still kept in prison. Happily enough, there are surgeons among them. As to the sur- geon of the prison, it is sufficient to say of him that the insane Madame Kovalev- skaya was kicked down and beaten under his eyes during an attack of madness. The wives of the prisoners were allowed to stay at lower Kara, and to visit their husbands twice a week, as also to bring them books and newspapers. The great- er number are slowly dying from con- sumption, and the list of deaths rapidly increases. But the most horrible curse of hard labor at Kara is the absolute arbitrariness of the gaole rs; the prisoners are com pletely at the mercy of the caprices of men who were nominated by the govern- ment with the special purpose of keep- ing them in urchin-gloves The chief of the garrison openly says he would be happy if some political offended him, as the offender would be hanged the surgeon doctors by means of his fists and the adjutant of the governor-general, a Captain Zagarin, loudly said, I am your governor, your minister, your tsar, when the prisoners threatened him ~vith making a complaint to the ministry of justice. One must read the story of the insurrection at the Krasnoyarsk prison, or hear N. Lopatins narrative of it, to be convinced that the right place for such art individual would be a lunatic asylum. Even ladies did not escape his mad bru- tality, and were submitted by him to a treatment which revolted the simplest feelincrs of decency;;and, when the l)ris- oner Schedrin, in defence of his bride, gave him a blow on his face, the military court condemned Schedrin to death. General Pedashenko acted in accordance with the loudly expressed public feeling at Irkutsk, when he commuted the sen- tence of death into a sentence of incarcera- tion for a fortnz~ht, but few officials have the cot]rage of the then provisional gov- ernor-reneral of eastern Siberia. The blackholes, the chains, the riveting to bar- rows, are usual l)unishments, and they are accompanied sometimes with the regula- tion hundred plates. I shall kill you under the rods, you will rot in the black- holes, such is the language that contin- ually sounds in the ears of the prisoners. But, happily enough, corporal punishment has not been used with political prisoners. A fifty years experience has taught the officials that the day it was al)plied would be a day of great bloodshed, as the l)ub- lishers of the Wi/i of the People said when describing the life of their friends in Siberia. As to the prescriptions of the law with regard to exiles, they are openly trampled upon by the higher and lower authorities. Thus, Uspenskiy, Tcharoushin, Seine- novsky, Shishko were liberated from the prison and settled in the Kara village after having reached the term of proba- tion established by the law. But in i88i, a ministerial decision, taken at St. Petersburg without any reasonable cause, ordered them to be again locked up. The law being thus trampled under foot, and the last hopes of amelioration of the fate of the prisoners having thus van- ished, two of them committed suicide. THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. 55 Uspenskiy, who endured horrible suffer- ings in hard labor since 1867, and whose character could not be broken by these pains, ~vas unable to live more of this hopeless life, and followed the example of his two comrades. If the political con- victs at Kara were common murderers, they would still have the hope that, after having performed their seven, ten, or twelve years of hard labor for having spread Socialist pamphlets among work- men, they would finally be set at liberty and transferred to some province of southern Siberia, thus becoming settlers, according to the prescriptions of our penal system. But there is no law for political exiles. Tchernyshevskv, the translator of J. S. Mills Political Economy, ter- minated ten years ago his seven years of hard labor. If he had murdered his father and mother, and burned a house with a dozen children, he would be settled now in some village of the government of Irkutsk. But he has written economical papers he has published them with the authorization of the censorship; the gov- ernment considers him as a possible leader of the constitutional party in Russia, and he is buried in the hamlet of Viluisk, amidst marshes and forests, five hundred miles beyond Yakutsk. There, isolated from all the outside world, closely watched by two gendarmes who lodge in his house, he is buried forever, and neither the en- treaties of the Russian press nor the reso- lutions of the last International Literary Congress could save him from the hands of a suspicious government. Such will be, too, without doubt, the fate of those who are now kept at Kara. The day they became poselentsy will not be for them a day of liberation: it will be a day of transportation from the milder regions of Transbaikalia to the toundras within the Arctic Circle. However bitter the condition of the hard labor convicts in Siberia, the gov- ernment has succeeded in punishing as hardly, and perhaps even more so, those of its political foes whom it could not con- demn to hard labor, or exile, even by means of packed courts, nominated ad hoc, and pronouncing their sentences in absolute secrecy. This result has been achieved by means of the administra- tive exile, or transportation to more or less remote provinces of the empire without judgment, without any kind or even phantom of trial, on a single order of the omnipotent chief of the third sec- tion. Every year some five or six hundred young men and women are arrested under suspicion of revolutionary agitation. The inquiry lasts for six months, two years, or more, according to the number of persons arrested in connection with, and the im- portance of, the affair. One-tenth of them are committed for trial. As to the remainder, all those against whom there is no specific charge, but who were repre- sented as dangerous by the spies; all those who, on account of their intelligence, energy, and radical opinions, are sup- posed to be able to become dangerous; and especially those who have shown dur- ing the imprisonment a spirit of irrever- ence are exiled to some more or less remote spot, between the peninsula of Kola and that of Kamchatka. The open and frank despotism of Nicholas I. could not accommodate itself to such hypocriti- cal means of prosecution; and during the reign of the iron despot the adminis. trative exile was rare. But throughout the reign of Alexander II., since 1862, it has been used on so immense a scale, that you hardly will find now a hamlet, or borough, between the fifty-fifth circle of latitude, from the 4oundary of Norway to the coasts of the Sea of Okhotsk, not con- taining -five, ten, twenty administrative exiles. In January, i88i, there were 29 at Pinega, a hamlet which has but 750 in- habitants, 55 at Mezen (i,8oo inhabitants), ii at Kola (~o inhabitants), 47 at Khol- mogory, a village having but 90 houses, i6o at Zaraisk (j,ooo inhabitants), 19 at Yeniseisk, and so on. The causes of exile were always the same: students and girls suspected of subversive ideas, ~vriters whom it was im- possible to prosecute for their writings, but who were known to be imbued with a dangerous spirit; workmen who have spoken against the authorities ; per- sons who have been irreverent to some governor of l)rovince, or ispravnik, and so on, were transported by hundreds every year to people the hamlets of the more or less remote provinces of the empire. As to Radical people suspected of dan- gerous tendencies, the barest den uncia- tion and the most futile suspicions were sufficient for serving as a motive to exile. When girls (like Miss Bardine, Soubbo- tine, Lubatovich, and so many others) were condemned to six or eight years of hard labor for having given one Socialistic pamphlet to one workman; when others (like Miss Goukovskaya, fourteen years old) were condemned to exile as poselentsy for having shouted in the crowd that it is a shame to condemn people to death for THE EXILE IN SIBERIA. nothing; when hard labor and exile were so easily distributed by the courts, it is obvious that only those ~vere exiled by the administrative, against whom no pal- pable charge at all could be l)roduced.* In short, the administrative exile became so scandalously extended during the reign of Alexander IL, that, as soon as the Provincial Assemblies received some lib- erty of speech during the dictatorship of Loris-Melikoff, a long series of represen- tations were addressed by the Assemblies to the emperor, asking for the immediate abolition of this kind of exile, and stig- matizing in vigorous expressions this monstrous practice. It is known that nothing has been done, and, after having loudly announced its intention of pardon. ing the exiles, the ~overnment has merely nominated a commission which examined some of the cases, l)ardoned a few very few and appointed for the greater num- ber a term of five to six 3-ears, when each case will be re-examined. One will easily realize the conditions of these exiles if he imagines a student, or a girl from a well-to-do family, or a skilled workman, taken by two gendarmes to a borough numbering a hundred houses and inhabited by a few Laponians or Russian hunters, by one or two fur-traders, by the priest, and by the police official. Bread is at famine prices; each manufactured arti- cle costs its weight in silver, and, of course, there is absolutely no means of earning even a shilling. The government gives to such exiles only four to eight roubles (eight to ten shillings) per month, and im- mediately refuses this poor pittance if the exile receives from his parents or friends the smallest sum of money, be it even ten roubles (ii.) during twelve months. To give lessons is strictly forbidden, even if there were lessons to give, for instance to the stanovoys children. Most of the ex- iles do not know manual trades. As to finding employment in some private office in those boroughs where there are offices it is quite impossible * One of the most characteristic cases out of those wisich became known hy scores in iS8i, is the follow- ing: In 1872, the Kursk nobility treated the governor of the province to a dinner. A big proprietor, M. An- nenkoff, was entrusted with proposing a toast for the governor. He proposed it, but added in conclusion: Your Excellence, I drink your health, but I heartily wish that you would devote tome more time to the affairs of your province. Next week a post-car with two gendarmes ttopped at the doorof his house; and without allowing him to see his friends, or even to bid a farewell to his wife, he was transported to Vyatka. It took six months of the most active applications to powerful persons at St. Petersburg, on behalf of his wife and the marshals of the Fatesh and Kursk nobility, to liberate him from this exile (Go/os, Zoryadok, etc., for February 20 and ax, a88z). We are afraid of giving them employment (wrote the Yeniseisk correspondent of the Russkiy K~trier), as we are ~fraid of being our- selves submitted to the supervisit)n of the police. - . . It is sufficient to meet with an Administrative exile, or to exchange a few words with him, to be inscribed under the head of suspects. - . - The chief of a com- mercial undertaking has recently compelled his clerks to sign an engagement stating that they will not be acquainted with politicals, nor greet them in the streets. More than that, we read in i88o in our papers that the ministry of finance brought forward a scheme for a law to allow the common-law and political administrative exiles to carry on all kinds of trades, with the permission of the governor-general, which permission is to be asked in each special case. I do not know if this scheme has become law, but I know that formerly nearly all kinds of trade were prohibited to exiles, not to speak of the circumstance that to carry on in any trades was quite impossible, the exiles being severely pro- hibited from leaving the town even for a few hours. Shall I describe, after this, the horrible, unimaginable misery of the exiles ? Without dress, without shoes, living in the nastiest huts, without any occupation, they are mostly dying from consumption, was written to the Gobs of February 2, i88r. Our administrative exiles are absolutely starving. Several of them, having no lodgings, were discovered living in an excavation under the bell- tower, wrote another correspondent. Administrative exile simply means kill- ing people by starvation, such was the cry of our press when it was permitted to discuss this subject. It is a slow, but sure execution, wrote the Go/os. And yet, misery is not the worst of the condition of the exiles. They are as a rule submitted to the most disgraceful treatment by the local authorities. For the smallest complaint addressed to news- papers, they are transferred to the re- motest parts of eastern Siberia. Youno- girls, confined at Kargopol, are compelled to receive during the night the visits of drunken officials, who enter their rooms by violence, under the pretext of having the right of visiting the exiles at any time. At another place, the police officer com- pels the exiles to come every week to the police station, and submits them to a visitation, together with street-girls. * And so on, and so on! Such being the situation of the exiles in the less remote parts of Russia and * Go/os, February za, x88x. A VENDETTA. 57 Siberia, it is easy to conceive ~vhat it is in and afterwards with the dirty Tunguses, such places as Olekminsk, Verkhoyansk, as a good dog lying on the straw; some- or Nijne-kolymsk, in a hamlet situated at times they nourished me, sometimes they the mouth of the Kolyma, beyond the forgot. And, like the wife of Avvakum, sixty-eighth degree of latitude, and having we ask now again: A h, dear, how long, but one hundred and ninety inhabitants, then, will these sufferings go on? Cen- For all these hamlets, consisting of a few tunes have elapsed since, and a whole houses each, have their exiles, their suf- hundred years of pathetic declamations ferers, buried there forever for the simple about progress and humanitarian princi- reason that there was no charge brought pIes, all to bring us back to the same against them sufficient to procure a con- point where we were ~vhen the tsars of demnation, even from a packed court. Moscow sent their adversares to die in After having walked for months and the toundras on the simple denunciation months across sno~v-covered mountains, of a favorite. on the ice of the rivers, and in the toun- And to the question of Avvakums wife, dras, they are now confined in these ham- repeated now again throughout Siberia, lets where but a few hunters are vegetat- we have but one possible reply: No par- ing, always under the apprehension of tial reform, no change of men can amelio- dying from starvation. And not only in rate this horrible state of things ; no thing the hamlets: it will be hardly believed, short of a complete transformation of the but it is so: a number of them have been fundamental conditions of Russian life. confined to the ulusses, or encampments P. KRAPOTKINE. of the Yakuts, and they are living there under felt tents, with the Yakuts, side by side with people covered with the most disgusting skin diseases. We live in the darkness, wrote one of them to his From Blackwoods Mag3zine. friends, taking advantage of some hunter A VENDETTA. going to Verkhoyansk, whence his letter How it began, who began it, when the takes ten mon//is to reach Olekminsk ; first note of battle ~vas sounded, what we live in the darkness, and burn can- vere the scene, place, and occasion of the dles only for one hour and a half every first exchange of hostilities, remains to day; they cost too dear. We have no this day a mystery. Some are inclined to bread, and eat only fish. Meat can be think that at a certain dinner-party Mrs. had at no price. Another says: I write Highty, who belongs to a notoriously to you in a violent pain, due to perios. short-sighted family, trod unwittingly and tosis. . . - I have asked to be transferred unwarily on Mrs. Tightys long velvet tail to a hospital, but without success. I do as the latter lady was being conducted be- not know how long this torture will last ; fore her into the dining-room. But this my only wish is to be freed from this theory would make the Highty faction de- pain. We are not allowed to see one an- cidedly the first aggressors. Now it is other, although we are separated only by well known and even written in the the distance of three miles. The crown chronicles of the Highty family,vide a allows us four roubles and fifty kopeks long letter in the possession of the pres- nine shillings per month. A third exile ent compiler of this veracious history, wrote about the same time: Thank you, that up to and even beyond the period of dear friends, for the papers; but I cannot the lamentable accident before mentioned, read them : I have no candles, and there and for which Mrs. 1-lighty declares she are none to buy. My scurvy is rapidly made ample apology, the Hightys and progressing, and having no hope of being Tightys were the closest of friends. transferred, I hope to die in the course of Therefore the injury to the velvet train this winter. may be dismissed as irrelevant to the I hope to die in the course of this present inquiry. winter ! That is the only hope that an But that a screw was loose somewhere exile confined to a Yakut encampment between these two highly respected and under the sixty-eighth degree of latitude hitherto united families was soon apl)arent can cherish to the most unobservant member of our When reading these lines we are trans. l3lankshire society. It may be necessary ported back at once to the seventeenth here to mention that Mrs. Tighty, being century, and seem to hear again the words the daughter of a viscount, was naturally of the proto-pope Avvakum: And I re- the guiding star of our dinner-parties, un- mained there, in the cold block-house, less it chanced that a meteor in the per- A VENDETTA. son of an actual peeress sailed for a brief space across our firmament, or, as once happened, that a Von appeared to contest the claim to precedence of the Hon. The perplexity and embarrassment into which we were all thrown by this last complication I shall never forget. We knew the touchiness of the real foreign aristocracy when there was any danger of their being confounded with the sham counts and countesses whom we would have repudiated as haughtily as them- selves. But though there was no doubt about our having now to deal with a gen- uine article, there was no end of doubt as to its claims to rival in pedigree our own indigenous production. Under these puzzling circumstances we were ever- lastingly grateful to Mrs. Tighty for the graceful manner in which she at once abdicated in favor of the stranger, re- marking that the laws of hospitality must always supersede those of etiquette. This observation, especially as our German guest did not hear, or at least did not un- derstand it, immediately relieved us from our dilemma, and also considerably in- creased Mrs. Tightys popularity. For ~ve all liked her, much better than we liked Mrs. Hight , who, as a baronets daughter, and second, though only second rank in our society, was a much more sulphurous element in the composi- tion of our dinner-parties. Mrs. Tightys place was known and assured, alwa)-s ex- cepting under the before-mentioned cir- cumstances, which did not often occur; besides, when they did occur, she had only to be taken down one peg lower, and all was right. But Mrs. Hi~hty was al- ways getting in the ~vay. If we asked her to dinner, we must be sure that there was somebody to hand her, not inferior, or not much inferior, in consequence to the per- sonage whose right it was to escort Mrs. Tighty. In the drawing-room there must be a sort of throne orseat, just half a step lower, as it were, ready for Mrs. Hight yto sink into at the same moment that Mrs. Tighty took the chair of state reserved for her on the other side of the fireplace. The anxious hostess or her daughter had to be on the watch that coffee was handed to Mrs. Highty before any one of lower rank got a chance of it. The Highty and Tighty carriages must be announced as nearly as possible at the same moment; and in wishing her guests farewell, the hostess must be careful to measure out her gratitude for the favor conferred by their visit in nicely balanced propor- tion. in fact she had not a moments peace until they were both safely out of the house. It will be readily understood, therefore, that when it began to be seen that the two ladies declined to meet one another the relief was immense. Formerly it was thought to be a necessary compliment to the one to ask the other to bear her com- pany, and hence all the tribulation which I have been describing. Now we were free from this obligation, and might eat our dinners and pass our evenings in com- fort. Alas! how short-lived was our joy! In the first place, we soon found that now we must give two parties in place of one. If Mrs. Highty was asked to dinner this week, her rival must be invited the next, and, which was still more troublesome, repasts of equal splendor and guests of equal distinction must be provided for both entertainments. For though the two ladies might pass each other when they did chance to meet with so slight a mutual recognition as might be supposed to de- note the utmost indifference to each oth- ers existence, we knew very well from authentic sources of intelligence, that each was devoured by a jealous curiosity to hear the smallest details of the party given in honor of the other. And as it was next to impossible that both parties should be precisely alike in their histories and com- bination, we were constantly giving of- fence. The plot, in fact, was thickening, though not one of us could have told ~vhat was the thread of the story in which, as in a labyrinth of cross-purposes, we were be- coming involved, and a feud which threat- ened to undermine the whole fabric of our society was slowly but surely spreading. For I need hardly point out that, whereas we had at one time laboriously but not unsuccessfully tried to be loyal to a joint monarchy, we now naturally took part with one or the other sovereign. The people invited to meet Mrs. Tighty were very apt to think that their banquet was less sumptuous than thatgiven a few- days before to the hostile faction of H:~hty. And thus things went on until there was hardly a house in our part of the county in which the old pleasant relations had not been altered, and into which envy, malice, and uncharitableness had not found their way. Matters were in this condition w-hen a modest little villa in our neighborhood, which was usually let to summer lodgers, was taken by a lady of whom nothing more was known than that her name was Mrs. Smith. Soon, however, our igno A VENDETTA. 59 rance was dispelled. At first none of us had thought of even calling on her. But a certain old lady who, if she had not been too old and infirm to go out visiting, would rightfully have taken precedence even of the Hon. Mrs. Tighty, and who sometimes saw company at home, invited us all to a great luncheon party, at which, to our amazement and even consternation, we beheld a modest-looking, shabbily-dressed little woman, handed to the luncheon-table by our hostess herself. This ~vas her way of indicating the personage whom she considered of most consequence amongst her guests; and so well versed was she known to be in the laws of etiquette, that her preference of any one to such an honor was always accepted as a sort of social diploma of rank. And on this occasion who should the upstart be before whom even Mesdames Highty and Tighty had to veil their haughty crests, but this most insignificant and unknown Mrs. Smith! We were all stupefied. Was the stran- ger a duchess or priincess in disguise, or could our benevolent but slightly ec- centric hostess design to teach us all a lesson on the vanity of human greatness? If so, she had wofully mistaken her wom- en. Already Mrs. Hightys brow- was black, and even the less combustible Mrs. Tighty was be~inning to swell ~vith in- jured dignity. We onlookers were per- haps inclined after the first shock to enjoy the joke; but ~ve all felt sorry for poor Mrs. Smith, on whom had been thrust this perilous distinction. If the idea of calling on the solitary denizen of Ivy Cot- tage had been about to suggest itself to any one, seeing that Lady had al- ready taken compassion on her, it must now be completely abandoned. We had enough to do with our two factions. Which of us w-ould venture to tackle this third bone of contention? As for Lady s unaccountable caprice, we could only ascribe it to the weakness of advanc- ing age. But we were wrong. The old lady knew what she was about, and guessed, moreover, what was in our minds. When luncheon was over, but before we rose from table, she claimed silence, and an- nounced that she was going to propose a toast. We were accustomed to her kind- ly, old-fashioned ways, but we now felt that something more was coming than the usual health to absent friends, or mention of the brave son in India, of whose glo- ries we were scarcely less proud than his fond old mother. We had seen some whispering between her and her unknown guest, and some putting aside, as it seemed, on Lady s part of an argu- ment or remonstrance from Mrs. Smith. Nonsense, nonsense, my dear, she was heard to say; I want everybody to know. Then she took h~r g,lass in hand, and spoke. My good friends, you know you never leave my table without kindly joining his old mother in wishing health to my dear son, who is still far away from us. But to-day I w-ant you to drink health even before we speak of John to Major Smith, the husband of this lady whom Ive now the pleasure of introducing to you. And Im sure youll do so heartily when I tell you that hes the Major Smith who distinguished himself so at the battle of ; and hes the man who saved my boys life, and who got the Victoria cross; and hes been made a C.B. and hell be a K.C.B., I havent a doubt, if ~ but here her words were drowned in a tem- pest of applause. To be sure, we had all heard of the brave Major Smith, and we were all delighted to drink his health and to see his wife. And after this there could be no doubt about our calling on her, and asking her to our parties and everything. This was all very well, and through the following week carriages and cards poured down on Ivy Cottage. But human nature remains human nature, and etiquette re- mains etiquette, and precedence is a prize not to be lightly relinquished. So, could it be expected that Mrs. Tighty, not to speak of Mrs. Highty, could meekly re- sign the honors hitherto held so undis- putedly except between themselves without a struggle? I need not say with what untiring zeal we discussed the question amongst our- selves as to whether a C.B.s wife ought or ought not to walk before a baronets or a peers daughter. Peerages are cx- l)ensive books, as everybody knows, and none of us were very rich. But to my certain knowledge there was a sudden importation of red books into the country; and those who had none, and grudged buying them, made long pilgrimages, as in olden times, to some shrine where a sight might be procured of the sacred volume. Yet even then we were not quite happy. The V.C. complicated the matter. Also, did not the service done to Lady s ~allant son, our own county hero, increase the weight of our responsibilities? - We thou,jit and talked, we studied tables of precedence, we wrote to the Queen, getting back snubbing answers for our 6o A VENDETTA. pains, and being dreadfully afraid lest our friends should pierce the mystery of our pseudonym, and laugh at us for doing what they were perhaps going to do them- selves. We tried to invent new ways of paying due reverence to our three lumina- ries, and keeping them from falling foul of each other and producing general chaos. And in the midst of all this commotion we heard that Mrs. Highty and Mrs. righty had been reconciled to each other, and were making common cause against the intruder on their rights. Thi s,at least, was one good thing, even though it did not help us much in our difficulties. As for Mrs. Smith, she seemed strangely indifferent to the honors thrust upon her. This was a little exasperating, consider- mo the trouble she was giving us. On the whole, we did not care much for her, though she was inoffensive enough. It was inconvenient, too, to be obliged often to include her little girl in our invitations. Mrs. Smith would not come either to luncheon or garden party without bring- mo her little daughter. She excused this on the ground that she had no nurse or governess with whom to leave the child, who was, I must also say, a well-behaved, good little thing, easily amused, and per- fectly happy if allowed to sit quietly by her mothers knee. The two were de- voted to each other, and if we thought Mrs. Smith rather stupid and common- place, we could not but commend her training of her child. After some little time the ferment of our hospitality sub- sided, much I think to Mrs. Smiths re- lief. She was allowed to remain quietly with little Bessie at Ivy Cottage, and make herself happy with the child in her own way. Then as no third neutralizing element interposed between the two pre- viously contending forces, we began to be afraid of a resumption of hostilities. But Mrs. Highty and Mrs. Tighty had been driven into each others arms by stress of adverse circumstances, and could not all at once retreat from the friendship which had been re-established with s6 much 4- parent cordiality. But our experienced eyes could see that each lady had her high horse standino ominously near, and was prepared on the smallest provocation to mount that warlike steed; and we felt that, after all, the termination of such a hollow truce must soon be looked for. Suddenly one day a rumor spread amongst us. It was Mrs. Highty who brought me the first news. Mrs. Tighty was sitting with me at the time, and I remember that my first feeling when my new visitor was shown in was dismay at the impossibility of providing her with a comfortable chair unless Mrs. Tighty va- cated the one which with some trouble I had provided for her, for I was about to change my house, and my rooms were being dismantled of furniture. And as the Highty equipage drew up at my door, I had seen Mrs. Tighty settle herself still more stiffly and squarely in her armchair. What was I to do? But before I had time to stammer out the apology I had been hastily devising, Mrs. Highty sat down on a three-legged stool that somebody had brought from the kitchen. Oh, she exclaimed, what do you think Poor dear little Bessie Smith has taken diphtheria. Shes very ill, and her poor mother is helpless with terror. Ive just been at Ivy Cottage and seen her. Shes absolutely stupefied. She says the child never had a days illness before. Ive offered to get a nurse for her, for I believe Mrs. Smith is too be- wildered to know what shes doing. It was too true. Soon we heard that the child was sinking. There was no want of help, if human help could have saved her. The mother could only sit by her as if her mute agony of clinging love could baffle the fate that was to sel)arate them. But doctor, nurse, and pitying friends ~vere all at hand, and everything that could be done was donein vain. During these brief but most sorrowful three days there was scarcely an hour of the day during which one or other of us was not at Ivy Cottage. It was absolutely necessary that some one should take charge not only of the sick-room, but of the miserable, paralyzed mother. We relieved one another. Mrs. Highty and Mrs. Tighty took their turns of watching and attendance, and shared with one an- other the duty of providing the proper stimulants and nourishment which Mrs. Smith was unable to think of. And as they had been foremost in efforts to save her, they stood nearest one another when we followed little Bessie to her quiet grave. Mrs. Smith rejoined her husband in India. There was rejoicing amongst us last year when we heard that another daughter had been sent to comfort them. Mrs. Highty and Mrs. Tighty are the two god mothers. I do not say that between these ladies there never arises a shade of animosity which reminds one of the old vendetta. But they are good Churchwomen both; and as every Sunday they walk up the TIlE FABRIC OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. churchyard path and pass the little grave cut back the face of the walls or not, his on which each so often places fresh me- restoration of them has not proved very morial flowers, the sight of it must, I successful. Wren also cut out and re- think, help them to begin another week at placed the fire-stone window-jambs and least in mutual charity and good-~vill. other features, and apparently in several XVas it for this that the child came cases altered the lines in the old mould- amongst us? ings in such a manner as to make it diffi cult to discover the ancient detail. The Oxfordshire stone which he used, though beautiful in color and texture, has been clearly shown to be incapable of resisting the London atmosphere. As regards the wall surfaces round the clerestory windows, wherever the fire. stone has been allowed to remain they have become very seriously decayed, the decay having in some places penetrated to a depth of seven or eight inches, so that the architect is surprised that the heavy cornices and parapets should have found a sufficient support in so ruinous a wall. Just before his report, in some of the very worst places on the south side of the nave, the superstructure had been removed and the face of the wall rebuilt; but this only went a very little way, and Mr. Pearsons opinion two years ago was that immediate and very extensive re- pairs and restorations were urgently needed for the ~vh3le of the masonry of these clerestories. Very much the same was his conclusion in regard to the flying buttresses supporting the clerestory walls. In some places they are dangerous, and in others so decayed that pieces of stone are constantly falling from them upon the lead roofs below. The clerestory of the choir is also urgently in need of repair, thouah its condition is not quite so bad as that of the nave and transepts. Going round to the south side of the nave, over the cloister roof, the report is of the most gloomy character, declaring that it is scarcely safe to pass along this cloister roof, or, indeed, along any of the lower roofs. Large pieces of stone are con- tinually falling, being detached by the rusting of the iron clamps with which the masonry was thoughtlessly l)ut together. Very considerable damage has from this cause been done to the western towers, the whole surface of which is disfigured by the bursting off of triangular and other shaped pieces of stone; these heavy pieces fall not infrequently, and do much damage. As to the transepts, that on the south side has been recently restored under the direction of the late Sir Gilbert Scott; and the porch of the north tran- sept is also new. But above that porch the masonry is in places very loose and unsafe, and demands complete and exten From The Times. THE FABRIC OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. FOR some time past it has been known. that the fabric of Westminster Abbey is in a condition requiring the most exten- sive repairs. The interior, indeed, is in good order, and it may be hoped that a long time will elapse before any further restorations are necessary to it. But with the outside the case is different. Beneath the coating of grime and dirt with which long ages have covered the structure, and which conceals the decay from the eye of the casual passer-by, there has been lone going on a process of decomposition which, if not arrested, must speedily cause the ruin of the building. The dean and chapter, well aware of this state of things, have taken measures to be fully and ex- actly informed of the extent of the dan- ger, and have long been casting about for a means of meeting it. In ~larch, 1882, they received a report from Mr. John L. Pearson, R.A., the well-known architect, on the state of the Abbey, which was by no means calculated to set their fears at rest. As this report has now been for some two years before the authorities, there is no indiscretion in our mentioning the principal points of it. Mr. Pearson begins by discussing the history and con- dition of the clerestories of the nave and transepts, and describes the work as left by Sir Christopher Wren in the beginning of the last century. He charges Sir Chris- topher, who had undertaken the external restoration of the Abbey, with having cut back the wall surface two or more inches a treatment which could hardly have answered with the best weather-stone, and which was certain to fail ~vith the softer fire-stone that had been used throughout the Abbey. For the credit of Wren, how- ever, it may be remarked that Mr. Pear- sons judgment is contradicted by an ex- press statement of Wrens, who in a letter dated June, 1713, when he was a very old man, declares that he faced the walls with Burford stone. It is difficult to decide between two statements that contradict one another so flatly but, whether Wren 62 THE FABRIC OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. sive repairs. The stonework of the clere- story of Henry Viis Chapel, of the fly- ing buttresses, and of the pinnacles, is also badly decayed, though in this part of the building the ruin may be arrested by timely measures. The cloisters also re- quire some restoration, but they might be allowed to wait till the body of the Abbey has been dealt with. It is thus evident that if Westminster Abbey is not to be allowed to fall into ruin very considerable works must be at once undertaken in order to save it. The question then arises, How are the neces- sary funds, which are estimated at from 6o,ooo to So,ooo, to be raised, and by what means may future generations be spared the periodical scandal of discover- ing that this great historical church has fallen into decay? A slight retrospect of the history of the fabric of the Abbey, with a special view to this question of a fabric fund, may here be not out of place, and it ~vill at least show that we of this generation are not alone in making the discovery that a great med i~va1 building is a costly heritage. While the monas- tery of XVestminster existedI.e., from Edward the Confessors reign to the dis~ solution in 1540there seems to have been no definite provision for the main- tenance and repair of buildings belonging to the monks. Two reasons may be given for this. The Abbey was in close con- nection with the crown, and the abbots were individually of great power and wealth. It was seldom difficult for the monks to obtain what sums were neces- sary from tile king for the support of a building ~vhere kings were crowned and buried, and many parts of which had been built by the benefactions of kings. Un- der Henry II. Abbot Laurence obtained a grant from the king and the empress Maud for the purpose of repairing the Abbey buildings and reroofing theni with lead, and the same abbot, and many of his successors, obtained from time to time leave to impropriate livings for the same purpose the very converse, it may be remarked, of the proceedings of the present day, when so many of the cathe- clrals have been mulcted for the benefit of the smaller livings. The contributions made by Henry III. to the rebuilding of the Abbey and the building of the Chap- ter House are matter of history, and Henry II l.s benefactions were continued by many of his successors. The abbots, again, were generous. The fourteenth century has left numerous records of in- dividual abbots contributing to the work of building and rebuilding, the most mu- nificent of all being Archbishop Langham, abbot from 1349 to 1361, who, both in his lifetime and by his will, gave so much money to the Abbey that by that means, and with aid from Richard II., the build. ing of the nave was pushed forward, the abbots house and the Jerusalem Chain. ber were added, and the cloisters com- pleted. But by the time of Edward IV. we find that the Abbey had fallen into an unsatisfactory condition, and that espe- cial efforts were necessary in order to extricate it. A curious letter from the king to the pope, written in the year r478, and dated Ex op~iduIo ;iostro Grene- wici is printed in the history of the Ab- bey which was written in the last century by Richard Wid more, appealing in a pite- ous manner to his Holiness to excuse tile newly elected abbots from the costly jour- ney to Rome for confirmation, on the ground of the poverty of the monastery. The king writes XVe pray you that the Apostolic See should condescend to succor the Monastery, which is now not only tottering but almost fallen, and which is on the point of utter ruin. A part of that Monastery, indeed, our ancestors built, and that portion is even now almost wasted by age; but the greater part they left unfinished, and of this up to the l)resent time the poverty of the Monastery has l)revented the coinple- tion, partly through the expense of the con- firmation of the newly elected Abbots, and partly through the badness of the seasons and the floods, which have ruined the greater part of the estates of the Monastery. A pathetic appeal, truly, and one which ought to find an echo in the hearts of every cathedral chapter and of every country clergyman of our own day, when agricul- tural distress has once more become a bitter reality. Neither in Henry VIJ.s time, when the royal munificence was expended upon the famous chapel, nor up to the dissolution, nor during the short ten years from 1540 to 1550, when Westminster was a bish- opric, nor on the reconstitution of the Abbey as a collegiate church, in 1560, were any separate estates or funds set al)art for the support of the fabric. Dean Williams (16201640) who was also Bish- op of Lincoln, and afterwards Archbishop of York, spent no less than 4,500 on the church alone, repairing at his own cost the north-west exterior and the chapels on the south-east. Scandal, indeed, said- that much of his generosity was at the expense of the prebendaries, but this was expressly contradicted in a chapter act of 1628, THE EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. 63 which indignantly denied that our dean had done such repairs out of the diet and bellies of the prebendaries and revenue of the said church, and not out of his own. It was clear, then, that under Charles 1. there was no fabric fund in existence, and that the general tradition still survived which made the abbot or hIs successor mainly responsible for the maintenance of tlie building. It was only in 1662, after the Restoration, that Dean Dolben, after- wards Archbishop of York, prevailed on the chapter to assign henceforth one prebends share i.e., one fifteenth of the total annual divisible income to the maintenance of the fabric, a measure which was thought worthy of honorable mention in the archbishops epitaph. Un- til the handing over of the estates to the commissioners the measure introduced by Dean I)olben was adhered to, but it is only too plain that the sum so assigned was totally inadequate. In 1697 a petition from the dean and chapter to the House of Commons stated that since the Restora~ tion they had spent nearly 20,000 on the church, but that their surveyor reported that 40,000 more was needed, and, in con- sequence of this, an act of Parliament granted to a commission, on behalf of the Abbey, one-sixth of the proceeds of a duty levied on coals imported into Lon- don, the same to be assigned for the repair of the Collegiate Church and for no other purpose whatever. The act was to be enforced from 1700 to 1716, and by a new act in the ninth year of Queen Anne the grant was commuted for a sum of 4,000 annually up to 1724 for the same purpose. But neither these large sums nor the ingenuity of Sir Christopher Wren sufficed to put the Abbey into complete repair. Between the years 1731 and 1741 sums of 4,000 were granted in at least four or five sessions of Parliament; and in those years, under the superintendence of Dean Wilcocks, the greater part of Wrens plans were carried out, including the erection of the western towers. We hear no more of appeals to Parliament until the present century, but in 1807 ~ve find the dean and chapter petitioning the House of Commons, and stating that dur- ing the last twenty years they had ex- pended neaily 29,000 on the church. A committee of inquiry sat, and a grant of 2,000 was immediately made, to be fol- lowed up during the years between 1809 and 1822 by grants amounting altogether to 42,000. Since that time, and until the transfer of the estates to the Eccle- siastical Commission, the one - fifteenth share of the divisible income of the chap- ter agreed to in I)ear Dolbens time was always devoted to the fabric, with the ad- dition of any revenue from the sales of timber and money paid for monuments, and any odd surplus funds of which the chapter might find itself possessed. The average expenditure in the years immedi- ately preceding the transfer of estates was something over 2,300a sum which was largely increased after the commuta- tion. From Mr. Pearsons report, however, it is plain that this expenditure has been quite insufficient to keep the building in proper repair, and the question which is now under anxious discussion is by what means the very large sum immediately required can be raised. We understand that ne~otiations are in progress between the dean and chapter, the ecclesiastical commissioners, and the government, out of which it s hoped that some prompt and satisfactory solution will be arrived at. What will be the exact nature of that solu- tion is not as vet decided, and it would be l)remat~1re to suggest any one course in preference to the others which are open. One method, however, we may deprecate, and with all the more confidence since we beiieve that it finds no favor with the dean and chapter. This is not a matter for a public voluntary subscription. West- minster Abbey is not the church of any group of individuals, or of any parts, orof any sect, or even of the estahlshment itself. It is bound up with the history of the nation. If the maintenance of the fabric is beyond the resources which the Chapter either commands at present or by some judicious arrangement can be made to command, then the responsibility for it ought to fall, not upon a few benev- olent individuals, but upon the nation as a whole. From The Academy. THE EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEM BROkE- London: Feb. 19, 1884. WITH reference to the interesting dis- cussion lately published in the Academy concerning the authorship of this famous epita~)h, perhaps I may be allowed to say that, in looking through a small volume of poems with the title, Poems written by the Right Honorable William, Earl of Pembroke, Lord Steward of his Majesties Household, whereof many of which are 64 THE EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. answered by way of Repartee, by Sr. Ben- jarnin Ruddier, Knight; with several Dis- tinct Poems written by them occasionally and apart (Lond., i66c.j, I find this cele- brated epitaph in the following form: Vnderneath this sable Herse, Lyes the subject of all Verse, Sydneys Sister, Pembrokes Mother: Death, ere thou hast kilid another, Learned, fair, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee. Marble Giles let no man raise To her Name for after-dayes; Some kind woman born as she, Reading this (like A/lobe) Shall torn Marble, and become Both her Mourner, and her Tomb.* It would thus at first sight seem that the editor of the volume, John Donne, as- signed the epitaph to Pembroke or to Ruddier. But it is certainly not probable that either the one or the other was the true author; and, indeed, the editor says in his preface that, besides genuine poems, it is quite possible that there are others which be surreptitiously got into their company. l3ut, if so, the fact that the epitaph ~vas inserted in a volume so closely connected with the Pembroke family is important, especially as tending to show that the authorship was already in ififlo obscure or unknown. Mr. H. S. Milman, in the Academy of January 12, states definitely that the epi- taph was written by XVilliam Browne, mentioning as evidence a volume in the British Museum Library (Lansd. MS. 777), in which, accordino- to Mr. Milman, Browne wrote the epitaph and signed his name thereto. I have examined the MS., which certainly contains the epitaph, but Brownes signature is not appended to it, as it is to some other of the poems. Moreover, the volume contains poems to which other names than Brownes are ap- pended. The insertion of the epitaph in this volume is therefore no proof that I3rowne was the author. I have failed to obtain evidence as to whether the MS. is in the handwriting of Browne. If this could be shown, it might prove that Browne was alive in i6~o a fact which does not seem to be otherwise known. But it seems to me that the writing on the title is not from the same hand as that which wrote the epitaph; and I should doubt, indeed, ~vhether the poems are not in the writing of more than one hand. Of * Giles in the seventh line is an evident misprint for Piles. course, ho~vever, the question would be settled if Mr. Milman has evidence in support of his assertion that in October ifizi William Browne laid upon the herse of the Countess Dowager of Pembroke a scroll bearing the epitaph in question. But, if such evidence is not forthcoming, the attribution to Jonson, though by no means certain, seems likely to continue on grounds of internal probability. As to the substitution of marble for sable, and the dropping away of the last six lines, this would easily occur after an in- scription had been placed over the count- esss grave. There is both in the printed volume above mentioned, and in the Browne MS. with E. of Pembroke appended, a little- known poem which should be interesting to students of Shakespeares sonnets, see- ing that it was in all probability written by the Mr. XV. H. to whom sonnets to 126 were addressed, and on account also of the similarity of thought to that found in those poems. It is given in the printed volume in this form : Souls joy when I am gone, and you alone, which cannot be, Since I must leave myself with thee, and carry thee with me; oh give no way to grief, but let belief of mutual love, This wonder to the vulgar prove, Our bodies not we move. Yet when unto our eyes absence denves each others sight And makes to us a constant night; when oaths change to delight,* Fools have no way to meet but by their feet; why should our Day t Over our spirit so much sway To tye us to that way. The MS. (in which the poem is divided into five stanzas) has the following addi- tional lines inserted before Fooles have no meanes [so MS.], etc. : Let not thy wit beweepe Wounds, but sense deepe, For while we misse By distance, our iippiovning blisse, Even then our soules shall kisse. The student may compare Shakespeares Sonnets, 22, 27, 39, 6i, 62, c/ al. THOMAS TYLER. * When others change to light, MS. I Playe, MS.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 2077. April 12, 1884, S From Bezinning, Volume XLVI. 4 Vol. CLXI. CONTENT S. I. CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE II. THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. Part IX., III. A FORTNIGHT IN FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA, IV. A RENEGADE, V. MR. HAYWARD VI. THE LIFE OF LORD LYTTON, VII. FREDERICK DENISON MAURiCE, VIII. CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY, IX. GREEK FIRE LORD, THOU ART GREAT, A PICTURED MEETING4. Contemporary Review,. Blackwoods Magazine,. National Review,. Macmillans Magazine, Fortnz~,xhtly Review, Blackwood.r Ahzgazine, Spectator, Spectator, Knowledge, P0 E T R Y~ 661 Two SONNETS OF CONTRAST, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & 00., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted diredly to ike Pubtiskers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,freeofalostage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money shouidbe sent in a registered letter. Ailpoetmasters are obliged to regisset letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTItLL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, x8 cents. . 81 . 87 . 95 . 105 . 112 . 122 . 124 . 126 66 LORD, THOU ART GREAT, ETC. LORD, THOU ART GREAT. FROM THE GERMAN OF SEIDL. LORD, thou art great! I cry, when in the east The day is blooming like a rose of fire. When, to partake anew of lifes rich feast, Nature and man awake with fresh desire, When art thou seen more gracious, God of power, Than in the morns great resurrection hour? Lord, thou art great! I cry, when blackness shrouds The noonday heavens, and crinkling light- nings flame, And on the tablet of the thunder-clouds, In fiery letters write thy dreadful name. When art thou, Lord, more terrible in wrath, Than in the midday tempests lowering path? Lord, thou art great! I cry, when in the ~vest, Day, softly vanquishd, shuts his giowing eye; When song-feasts ring from every woodland nest, And all in melancholy sweetness die; When givst thou, Lord, our hearts more blessd repose, Than in the magic of thy evening shows? Lord, thou art great! I cry at dead of night, When silence broods alike on land and deep; When stars go up and down the blue-arched height, And on the silver clouds the moonbeams sleep; When beckonest thou, 0 Lord, to loftier heights, Than in the silent praise of holy night? Lord, thou art great! in natures every form; Greater in nonesimply most great in all; In tears and terrors, sunshine, smile and storm, And all that stirs the heart, is felt thy call Lord, thou art great! Oh let inc praise thy name, And grow in greatness as I thine proclaim. Golden Hours. A PICTURED MEETING. IF, some sweet night, out of the mist and rain, The seas hoarse cry, and the tumultuous pain Of storm winds, wailing at their own unrest, And echoing cries from my own heart un- blest, A sudden bell should ring, and I should hear Your unforgotten voice close at my ear, In calm ccnventional accents speak my name, And looking up should see, as ih a frame, You standing in the doorway, with the light Full on your face, and close behind black night, The day since last we said good-bye would seem Like a strange tale, or half-remembered dream! But how to meet ? With gladness I would rise, To seek some answering gladness in your eyes; And finding it,too moved to meet your smile, Would lean my face against your arm awhile, Mingling a teardrop with the raindrops there, To feel your touch so tender on my hair! And though my heart would be too deeply stirred To give for welcome even one glad word, I think your heart would hear its happy beat, And understand that words would sound less sweet; But what your voice would answer, quiet and low, I cannot tell, I only long to know! Belgravia. BESSIE DILL. TWO SONNETS OF CONTRAST. I- WHAT THE FATHERS FOUND. A HAND that shaped the plastic stuff of things, With more than all we know of craftsmans skill; A mind that ruled the fingers fashionings With more than we can dream of prescient Will; Contrivance superhuman, yet which brings Its elder-brother-hood with human shift Writ on the face of its perfected plan; Economy beyond a housewifes thrift In ~vorld-material, from the simplest flower, The tiniest herb and insect up to man. All these our fathers found transcendent Power, Unerring Art and unhorizoned Love In naturewith some puzzles, which an hour Of sound apologetics would remove. II. WHAT THE SONS FIND. A struggling herd, of whom some fight their way To the perfected type by slow degrees, Through countless forms of death and of decay, And (possibly) a Being, watching these; Whose attributes we know not, save to say That none in full infinitude he bath. Not Poweror else Omnipotence laid by; Not Skill his blunders strew creations path Not Thrift the world stands shuddering at its waste Not Love! the unselected millions cry. Nought infinite; unless it there be traced, Where the grim Humor of his work appears Seasoning the scheme for mortals, with a taste As sharp as anguish and as salt as tears. Fortnightly Review. 66 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. 67 From The Contemporary Review. CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. THE Ferry ministry has come out won- derfully strengthened from the struggles of the last few months strong enou ~ h, indeed, to suggest the possibility of its being destined to a longer life than any of our ministries have had as yetper- haps strong enough to last till the next elections, and create, both in the Chamber and in the country, a real governmental party. M. Ferry has succeeded in ac- quiring a political status and authority such as none of his predecessors enjoyed, not even M. Gambetta. And yet we can- not even now call him a great statesman. He has, indeed, shown some of the most indispensable qualities of a statesman, skill and courage; but we are still unable clearly to discern the leading ideas of his policy, whether at home or abroad. Ex- cept in the matter of public instruction, where no one can dispute the magnitude and solidity of his work, he seems rather to have allowed himself to be led by cir- cumstances, and, while avoiding extreme measures, to have gone with the current of Republican opinion. So far, Gambetta remains the only Republican statesman who has had a definite programme. But M. Ferry will of course, by the very exer- cise of power, be brought to frame one, which will be the result of practical expe- rience worked out by a singularly clear and impartial mind. Experiences, both trying and instruc- tive, have not been wanting to him these last months, and he has come out of them with credit. He has fairly disabled the two parties leagued to oppose him the coterie of M Wilson and M. de Frey. cinet,* and the Radicals of the Extreme Left. These two parties have invented a useful cr3-, which represents no substan- tial fact, and which they reiterate with more perseverance than conviction. M. Ferry and his partisans, according to them, are Absolutists. They themselves * M. de Freycinet, however, has lately changed his tactics- He is flattering the Repuhiican Union, trying to gain partisans hy exciting an appetite for office, and endeavoring to supplant M. Ferry, not by opposing him, but simply by taking his place. are Liberals. Under this pretext they claim to unite for common action Moder- ates like M. de Freycinet, Jacobins like M. Clemenceau and M. Madier de Mont- jau, and semi-Anarchists like M. Clovis Hughes and M. de Lanessan. This pre- tended opposition of principles, the theory of which is solemnly set forth in the Non- zeiie Revue, and hotly advocated in the France, simply covers a low ambition for power, and a sham coalition in which the Moderates are playing into the hands of the Radicals. M. Ferry has twice given battle to this coalition, and twice come off victorious once by his dismissal of Gen- eral Thibaudin from the ministry of war, and again by the splendid majority he ob- tained in support of his policy in Tonquin. We have already pointed out the mis- take he committed in ever accepting M. Thibaudin as a colleague. A man of mod- erate abilities, and disliked in the army, M. Thibaudin was fain to surround him. self with sycophants, to administer by fa- voritism, and to act in the council as the representative, if not the secret agent, of the Radicals. The ministry of war fell into a state of total disorganization. The Radical journals contained a series of in- discreet revelations, which came straight from the cabinet of M. Thibaudin. Other indiscretions appeared at the same time in the Petite France, the organ of M. Wilson. These emanated from a higher source. The information M.. Wilson ob. tamed as a member of the presidents family he used as a journalist. It became every day more evident that a conspiracy was being formed a~ainst the ministry, and that the Radicals gained their chief support, on the one hand from the minis- try of war, on the other from the son-in- law of the president. The visit of the king of Spain accentuated the situation, and led to its speedy solution. Looking at M. Ferrys conduct in this matter by itself, ~ve may find him guilty of some imprudence in not insisting that the visit to France should precede the visit to Germany, and in not taking stronger measures for the preservation of order when it was known that the coming guest bore the title of colonel of the Uhlans of Strasbourg. His mistake lay in his in- 68 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. ability to believe the Parisian populace capable of an act of stupid and childish unreasonableness. Bismarck was a better psychologist. But patriotic feeling had little to do with the hisses which greeted King Alfonso on the 29th of September. They were really intended for M. Ferry. From the moment the kings arrival was known, the journals of the Extreme Left, and those which followed the lead of M. Wilson, joined in a chorus of abuse against the unpatriotic ministry which was huinil- iating France before a royal guest come only to insult her ; they implied that M. Gr6vy had consented against his ~vill to receive the king; they dwelt on the noisy demonstrations in the streets, and stirred up new ones by the violence of their lan- guage; they declared that M. Thibaudin had no part in the policy of his colleagues. M. Thibaudin submitted to the pressure of his Radical friends to such an extent that he not only declined to figure in the cor/?ge of the king of Spain, but refused to furnish the military escort and band, whose presence would have done much to diminish the scandal and mitigate the gravity of the situation. This time the measure was full, and M. Ferry took oc- casion to rid himself both of General Thibaudin and of M. XVilson. M. Gr6vy, reduced to the necessity of painfully ex- cusing himself to the king of Spain and accepting a frigidly polite reply, felt that his son-in-law had compromised him, and found it necessary to require from him greater reserve in the future, and also to consent to the dismissal of M. Thibaudin. M. Thibaudin gave in his resignation in terms which amply justified M. Ferry in exacting it, and was replaced by General Campenon, whose energy and ability had been universally recognized when he held office in the Gambetta ministry. The danger of international difficulties arising from the incident was quickly dispelled by the moderation of the king and of the Spanish ambassador, the Duke of Fer- nand Nuflez; and this miserable escapade, which uave rise to so many unpleasant comments on French character in the foreign press, was allowed to remain what it really was a mere matter of in- ternal politics. The retirement of M. Thibaudin was received ~vith a burst of invective from the Radical press. It seems never to have occurred to them that the more the~ made common cause with him the more evident it became that M. Ferry was jus- tified in removing from his camp an oppo- nent of his policy. These attacks did some service to the ministry by defining its position. It had come into office at the moment when the expulsion of the princes was the burning question, and when the Radicals, being noisier than the rest, seemed to take the lead of the Republican party. The time had now come for repudi- ating this compromising association. IV.!. Ferry used the opportunity afforded by a visit to Rouen and Havre, under pretext of inspecting the works of the lower Seine, to emphasize the separation. He declared that the ministerial policy was one of progress and reform, but he also declared that what France needed most of all was rest, stability, and labor; lie ridiculed the extravagant promises held out by the Radicals, and defied them to formulate a programme of government. Some pas- sages in his speech even recalled the statesmen of the time of Louis Philippe, and seemed to imply that lie regarded the government of France less as a demo- cratic government than as a bourgeois govern ment of democratic tendencies. From that time it was open xvar; and the Radical press spared neither taunt nor calumny. In several bye-elections the candidates of the Extreme Left carried seats hitherto held by members of the Republican Union. But the violence and. partial success of the Radicals only served to rally the majority more closely round its chief. It was indeed carried away by its old anti-clerical antipathies into some acts contrary to the ~vislies of the ministry such as the suppression of the vote for the seminaries, and the reduction of the salary of the archbishop of Paris by fif- teen thousand francs; but when the Sen- ate replaced these items and sent the budget back to the Chamber of Deputies, the Chamber, at M. Ferrys request, re- considered the votes and reversed its former decision. The most significant incident of all was the vote for maintain- CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. 69 ing the French embassy to the Papal See, what absurd? And as to the question of and the speech of iVI. Spuller which pre- the budget, it had far better be left to set~ ceded that vote. M. Spuller, Gambettas tie itself according to usage. If the clepo- most intimate friend, ignoring the saying ties would cease to settle legislative ques. of his old chief, Clericalism, that is tions, and suppress public services the enemy we have to face, spoke elo- created by law, by the short and easy quently not only of the great social and method of refusing the credits required moral interests represented by Catholi- for them, the Senate on its side would cism, but of the necessity of securing re- willingly give up reinstating the rejected ii~ious peace in France. This politic credits in the form of amendments; but language corresponds, I am sure, with the it is better that this should be done by private convictions of the majority of Re- tacit agreement, and that the Senate publicans, but they have been long in should be allowed to retain a ~veapon adopting it, and one may still question which may be useful, for instance, when whether they will be able steadily to act the Chamber attempts to decide a ques- in accordance with it. On this point the tion like that of the separation of Church Radicals will have many allies in the heart and State by simply refusing to vote the of the Republican Union and the reli- budget of public worship. The result of gious question must remain one of the this curious situation is, that the journals chief embarrassments and dangers of the friendly to the ministry almost all oppose republic. It is not, however, the only revision, and that the Radical papers take one. Last year, at the last sitting of the advantage of M. Ferrys declarations, and Chamber, M. Ferry announced that in warn him that he will have to go through 1884 he would propose a revision of the with it and frame an entirely new consti- Constitution. There was little need to tution. The Gambetta Cabinet fell on this explain that he understood revision in a question of revision ; it remains to be very different sense from that of the Ex- seen whether the Ferry Cabinet will be treme Left, and thus bring do~vn on him- more fortunate. It has, at least, the im- self a gross insult from M. Clovis Hugues, mense advantage of not having been re- a deputy of Marseilles; but it is none the quired to face this question at starting, less true that the question involves an and of having had time to consolidate, be- equivocation and a misunderstanding. fore dealing with it, what appears to be a The moderate Republican party accepted staunch majority. the idea of revision only to deprive the The firmness of this majority was Radicals of the power of using it as an shown in the debate on Tonquin. So far election cry; it would assuredly prefer to as one can judge, the Republican majority do without revision altogether and in any had no great liking for the expedition, and case it does not mean what the Radicals they had a real dread of war with China. mean by it. While the Radicals wish to At the bottom of their hearts they had a overhaul the Constitution from top to good deal against the ministryfor not bottom, and to destroy the Senate if not having called the Chambers earlier, for not the presidency of the republic itself, the having sul)ported M. Bour~e, and so on. Moderates are only prepared to introduce But they did clearly understand that you some modifications into the mode of elect- must not upset a ministry because you ing the senators, and to regulate their disagree with it on points of detail ; and powers in matters of finance in such a after the remarkable report of M. Ldon manner as to prevent conflicts between Renault, the votes of the toth and iSth the two Chambers. Is it worth while, for of December secured to the ministry this, to open up the whole question of the the moral and material support of which Constitution, to assemble the congress, it stood in need. This was so much the and stir the country from one end to the more fortunate, because the fears and anx- other? If the results are tolerably satis- ieties of the Chamber were quite ground- factory, what does it signify that the less, and sprang from ignorance of Asiatic method of recruiting the Senate is some- concerns. To abandon the delta of Ton- 70 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. quin would have been not only to give up ropean affairs makes it a very incompe- a most promising commercial route but to tent judge in these matters. lose all credit in the East, and justify the It is very evident that Germany feels Chinese diplomacy, ~vhich has all along herself always on the defensive against been threatening us with war without ever France, and the moment she believes her- having the slightest intention of undertak- self about to be attacked, she will forestall ingit. M. Bour~e had, as ~ve have al- the blow; but she has no interest in mak- ready said, deserved his recall by enter- ing ~varit serves her purpose better to ing, without authority from his govern- isolate France, to prevent her contracting ment, into negotiations with China, thus any useful alliance, and to form, mean- implying a recognition of her rights over while, a vast alliance of European States Tonquin, and by sending home, as a treaty under the leadership of Germany In accepted by China, a draft which really order to attain this object, it is useful to only represented the ideas of M. Bour6e. represent France as a restless, quarrel- The ministry acted ~visely in going reso- some nation, a nursery of revolutions and lutely forward, attributing but little im- childish ambitions, a menace now to portance to the warnings of the Marquis Spain, now to Italy, now to Germany. Tseng and the articles he contributed to Above all, it is necessary to reiterate this the (azdois, and adopting with regard to theme in order to keep up to a sufficient China that determined attitude which has pitch the passion for German unity among always been so successfully used by En- Germans, who, in ceasing to fear the gland. It cannot be denied that, owing to common foe, might cease to regard Prus- past mistakes, the whole affair is and must sia with tender deference. This is why be onerous and difficult; but the ministry the German press strikes up such a mar- cannot repudiate the task it has inherited, tial strain from time to time. It does not and must make the best that can be made at all imply that M. de Bismarck is plan- of it. ning a fresh invasion, \Vhat he most These distant foreign and colonial ques- cares for is to prevent any rapprochement tions would not seem to us so serious as between France and Russiathough he they do, if it were not that in Europe himself, as early as 1854, spoke of such a itself France is not only isolated but rapprochement as being among the inev- threatened ; so that she can never feel table events of the future. His whole safe in diverting either money or men policy during these last months has been from the necessities of her own defence directed to this object; and he has suc- on the old Continent. The threatening ceeded in re-establishing cordial relations articles which appeared last October in between Russia and Austria, as well as the journals supposed to derive their in- between Russia and Prussia. It is said spiration directly from the German chan- that some time ago he was trying, on the cellor, created serious uneasiness in contrary, to bring about a rupture between France. The charge of entertaining bel- Austria and Russia; but it is difficu!t to licose projects, of using arrogant and in- believe it. The chances are too uncer- jurious language, and of even endangering tam. Besides, however reai the hostility the safety of Germans resident in France, of Russia towards Germany, is it possi- was so remote from the truth that it ble, at the present moment, to dream of seemed to have been purposely devised an alliance between the autocrat of all the to prepare public opinion in Germany for Russias and the French republic? XVe an approaching war. The journalists of must wait till Europe is a little more ac- Cologne and Berlin are surely not so igno- custo med to the existence of a great re- rant and inexperienced as to take a scur- public in her midst. At present she is to rilous newspaper like the Anti-Prussian the nations a paradox, and to the dynas- as representing French opinion. They ties a chimera. The triple alliance in must know that if there is a fault charge- which Spain is perhaps to be included able upon the mass of the French nation is to a great extent a sort of mutual assur- at this moment, it is that of being peace- ance soclet)- against democracy, a means able and apathetic to excess. That we of giving a more solid basis to the internal should show some ill-humor at finding policy of the States of which it is com- ourselves everywhere surrounded by sus- posed. picion and hostility, is not to be wondered For the same reason they have fostered at; and it certainly is a long way from in France these groundless fears from wishing to go to war. For the rest, the which we are now beginning to recover. uneasiness of the French public was ex- Spain may be fairly set aside. The in- aggerated - Its general ignorance of Eu- sultiui g reception of the king in Paris is CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. 7 certainly much to be regretted; but the internal affairs of Spain are far too unsta- ble for her friendship to be very useful, or her enmity very terrible. With Italy it is quite otherwise. italy is now a ho- mogeneous nation, animated by sincere and ardent patriotism. Her two opposi- tions, Republican and Ultramontane, have no real force, and constitute no menace to her stability. She has succeeded, within the space of a few years, in creating a regular administration, in establishing financial order and prosperity, and in lay- ing the foundations of a vast system of public instruction. From an agricultural and industrial, and, above all, from a com- mercial point of view, she has before her the prospect of a magnificent future. Her vast stretch of seaboard, and her splendid sailor population, give her the first place among the Mediterranean powers; and at the same time, her rapid numerical in- crease keeps up a supply of emigrants who will create commercial colonies for her all the world over. It is one of the first interests of France to maintain a good understanding with a country which, if it wields at present no great military force, will nevertheless, in no very distant future, have become equally formidable in its economical and in its military and naval aspect. It is no less the interest of Italy to secure the friendship of France, whose opposition on the Mediterranean might seriously hinder her development. Unfortunately, for the last fifteen years misunderstandings have gone on multi- plying between them. France has treated Italy ~vith indifference, mingled with sus- picion and contempt; and Italy on her side generosity not being her most prominent national virtue has lavished her attentions on conquering Prussia, and kept all her kicks for conquered France. At Tunis, in particular, she began with a series of intrigues and provocations which obliged France to lay hands on a country where her own safety required that her authority should be paramount. The Pu- nisian affair completed the estrangement between the two governments, and has- tened the conclusion of the triple alliance. The visit of the prince imperial to Rome on his return from Spain was a sufficiently open manifestation of the personal friend- ship which unites the reigning families of Italy and Prussia. At first sight this triple alliance may seem a direct menace to France; and it did in fact cause considerable irritation and uneasiness in France from the first; but, looked at a little closer, it will be seen to be not altogether to her disadvan- tage, and it may even be the starting-point of better relations with Italy. It has, in fact, been doubly useful to her. In the first place, it has rendered it impossible for her to dream of entertaining a warlike policy, and forced upon her a juster ap- preciation of the political importance of Italy. In the second place, Italy herself, having gained a considerable access of strength, and not caring to be the slave of her relations with a too powerful ally, is beginning to show a new friendliness in her dealings with France. Public opin- ion had been in rather too great a hurry in supposing that the alliance was offen- sive as well as defensive. The Italians had the good sense to reserve full liberty of action in case of a war hem under- taken by either of their allies; the com- pact was only for mutual defence in case of attack by some other power, and at the same time included the mutual guarantee by Italy and Austria of each others actual possessions. The alliance has no such great military importance; but it does two things for Italyit obliges Austria (though at the risk of vexing the Irre- dentists) to change her attitude of cold disdain for one of friendly regard; and it gives to the ministry of Depretis and Mancini a strength such as no ministry has had before, since no one would care, by overthrowing it, to break the link be- tween Italy and Germany. Thus the en- trance of Italy into the triple alliance seems on the whole to be much less a combination for purposes of foreign pol- icy than a very astute mana~uvre tor se- curing parliamentary stability at home. There is nothing to prevent the establish- ment of friendly relations between France and Italy; especially now that Italy, fol- lowing the example of the other powers, has consented to the abolition of her con- sular jurisdiction in Tunis, in return for some wise concessions on the part of France. With regard to Austria, the situation is equally satisfactory. Austria, like Italy, is by no means disposed to let herself be drawn into an aggressive policy, and if circumstances have brought her to con- sent to a manage de raison with Germa- ny, she has not lost her distrust of an ally who may at any moment be seized with an irresistible longing to swallow up her German provinces. The triple alliance, therefore, while it forces France to main- tain a purely pacific attitude, leaves her so much the more at liberty to carry on friendly relations with the European pow- 72 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. ers, and to pursue her colonial policy in minishing the number of ~vorking hours, the East. and even of working days. We can This pacific attitude is the more neces- hardly be surprised, under the circum- sary, because at the present moment finan- stances, that German and Belgian industry cial and economical considerations must is everywhere supplanting ours. The hold the first place in French policy. The workmen complain of the greed of em- excessive expenditure on school buildings ployers who go abroad for cheaper labor; and public works has brought about a but is it the fault of the employers that state of gratuitous financial embarrass- the Parisian workman asks ten francs a ment. With their habitual thoughtless- day and works four or five days a week? ness, and with the one idea of gratifying Building in Paris costs nearly half as the electors, the deputies have at once much again to-day as it did ten years ago, lightened taxation and multiplied ex- because the wages of all the men employed penses; the extraordinary budget has in- have risen half as much again. The re- creased every year, till several hundred suIt is, that the builder cannot get a rea- millions of francs have been added to the sonable interest on his capital, that build- national debt. We are now drawing in ing is at a standstill, and that the men are and trying to economize; and something starving. In addition to these discon- has been effected by the conversion of tents, we have been threatened with a the Rente and the arrangement made with strike in the police force, in consequence the railway companies; but it is impossible of a recent law relating to the prefecture to rectify the situation at a stroke without of police; and the new regulations with breaking positive engagements; and it regard to the sweeping of the streets will take years of prudence to restore our have deprived thousands of ragmen of finance to its former prosperity. The their means of subsistence. All this has matter would be less serious if it were not gone to increase the general distress; but that French industry and in particular it has, on the other hand, also sufficed to Parisian industry is at this moment prove the total inability of all the efforts passing through a severe crisis, aggra- of the anarchists to stir up the working vated by anarchist, and even to some ex- classes to acts of violence. If the liberty tent by royalist, agitations. Parliament we now enjoy has its dangers, we see that itself ~vas affected by the movement, and it carries the remedy along with It. The the Chamber gave itself up for five days disintegration and discredit into which to idle disputes, and to economic disserta- the reactionary parties especially those tions which only gave lamentable proof of of Prince Jerome and his son have the ignorance and want of common sense fallen, is a striking illustration of this. with which some of our representatives are afflicted. Happily M. Ferry inter- Thanks to the comparative calm of po- vened, and closed the oratorical tourney Htical life, the last six months have been with a capital speech, which brought marked by considerable activity in the things back to their true proportions, and world of literature, science, and art. showed that the solution of the problem The l)lastic arts must always hold the is to be found only in prudence, labor, and foremost place in public appreciation. a sound economic policy. \Ve certainly Exhibitions may multiply as they will, but shall owe much to the ministry which shall Paris will go to all of them. The trien- succeed in giving a firm direction to the nial exhibition got up by the State could economic policy of France. For fourteen hardly be expected to succeed, by the years we have been tossing to and fro be- side of the annual exhibition which for tween free-trade and protection; and our the last three years has been left to the industries never know what efforts may free initiative of the artists themselves. be required of them, nor what protection Yet, contrary to expectation, and in spite they may count upon. They suffer from of the unfavorable time of the year (Sep- the excessive pressure of public business,. tember to November), it was a very great and from the provisional character which, success indeed, It was arranged with so far, has always attached to republican exquisite taste; the works of art were not government. Social agitations also have too many to be studied without fatigue; their part in the crisis; and, above all, and, the number of exhibits allowed to be the improvident and exacting spirit of the sent in by a single artist being unlimited, working classes. Little by little the work- each master could give a much more com- men of Paris have obtained a really un- plete idea of the real character of his reasonable increase of wages; and at the genius than in the annual exhibition, same time they have been constantly di- where two works only are allowed to CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. 73 each. The only fault that can be found with the triennial exhibition is that it con- tained too many things ~vhich had already appeared in the Salon of 1883, and were still fresh in our recollection. The first thing that struck the eye on entering was the immense superiority of the sculptures over the paintings. A school of sculpture which counts among its members such men as Dubois, Chapu, Merci6, Falgui~re, Saint Marceaux, Fr~miet, Idrac, Dela- planche, Barrias, Suclietet, and Guillaume, cannot but hold a distinguished place in the history of art. Never before has France possessed such a number of emi- nent sculptors; and it is to the honor of our time that an art so grave,so little ap- preciated by the masses, and so far from lucrative, should have risen to its present height. It proves that there are many for whom an honest and disinterested quest of the beautiful has attraction enough. Amongst the paintings, on the contrary, it was curious to see how many painters lost by the collocation of so large a number of their works. Faults and mannerisms stood out with inexorable distinctness. Here you had M. Cabanel; you felt the charm of his grace and deli- cacy; but you were disappointed at his soft and insipid painting, and the barren commonplaceness of his large historical compositions. You came to M. Bonnat, and his coloring shocked you by its harsh- ness and unreality. M. Cabanel softens and rounds his forms; M. Bonnat brings them out as if with a hammerstroke; M. Cabanel steeps his figures in cream and pomade; M. Bonnat paints them a go6d brick red, and drowns them in anchovy sauce. He is a vigorous artist, but lie exaggerates as much as M. Cabanel at- tenuates. The portrait of M. Engel Doll- fus, by M. XVencker, a masterpiece of delicate execution and artistic insight, alone eclipses all the Bonnats. It is the same with Bastien Lepage. You admire his strong and noble qualities; but you feel their inconipleteness, and realize how much lie leaves to be desired in the way of perspective and composition. On the whole, there are only three painters who have really gained by this exhibition of their work M. Meissonier, M. Henner, and M. Emile L~vy. lvi. Meissonier had not been exhibiting anything for a good while; but, by way f preparing the pub- lic for his own collection in April, lie sent seven new works to the triennial exhibi- tion. Their variety of subject and execu- tion attracted notice at once. The Visit to the Chateau was painted with a clear, delicate, and somewhat dry touch, and contained a number of small figures exe- cuted with the utmost precision ; The Guide was almost like a water-color in tone, and the medium-sized figures of the peasant guide and of the soldiers he is leading throu~h the ~vood are wonderful studies of type and attitude. The same transparency of tone characterizes a fine study of the ruins of the Tuileries ; while a picture called Le Chant had the warmth of a Venetian canvas. The two finest things in the whole exhibition were a h)ortrait of Mine. Mackay, a triumph of truthful and finely rendered form; and an interior of St. Marks at Venice, where a woman in deep black, overwhelmed with sorrow, is seen kissing the image of the ilhzdonna de/Baccia. There is a passion- ate eloquence in the gesture; and the dun lighting of the church is given with mas- terly skill. It is really delightful to see a man of M. Meissoniers abe, who has already touched the summit of fame, seek- ing with indefatioable earnestness new spheres of toil, and actually succeeding in renewing his youth by sheer hard work. M. Henner, for his part, does not attempt new things- his gamut is not very varied; but he has such masterliness of execution, that when you see five or six of his works together you are overconie by their con- summate charm; you forget your most reasonable criticisms, and ,,ive yourself up to the pleasure of admiring. His kneeling Nun ~ is a work which might fearlessly be placed side by side with those of the greatest of the great colorists. M. Emihe L~vy sends nothing but crayons life- size crayon portraits; but no oil painting could surpass them in vigor, and they have a brightness and freshness and vivacity such as oil cannot give. M. de Nittis had already introduced this style of l)ortrait- ure on a large scale; and even before him M. Gahbrund had shown that the crayon can produce effects no less forcible than those of the brush. M. L6vy has profited by the example, and placed himself at a single - bound in the first rank of crayon portraiture. The charming crayonists of the eigh. teenthi century might indeed complain that we are losing sight of the true character of the crayon, which subordinates every other quality to those of grace and light- ness; but the whole artistic ideal of the eighteenth century was different from ours. We may enjoy the pleasant things of a Boucher, a Fragona rd, or a Wattean but we neither see nor feel like them. Their very charm for us is, that they be- 74 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. long to another ~vorld than ours. It was a happy idea to bring together in the Rue de S~ze an eighteenth-century exhibition, in which the pictures were seen surround- ed by artistic objects of all sorts charac- teristic of the ordinary life of the period furniture and stuffs, snuff-boxes and miniatures and thus the artists con- ception was replaced, so to speak, amidst the social surroundings out of which it sprang and to which it was adapted. The collection was not open long enough to satisfy the connoisseur; it had to give way to the water-color exhibition, from which some of the best names are missing this year, including those of Heilbuth and Cazin; but where, on the other hand, we find M. Tissot, who has acquired in En- gland so curious and original a manner, and M. Zuber, the true successor of Jacquemart, who will worthily take his place between Franais and Harpignies. The Water-Color Society has just lost one of its most brilliant members, one of the most delightful of our younger paint- ers, Louis Leloir. There ~vas something in him both of Regnault and of Fortuny. He had not, of course, the ~enial fire, the powerful imagination, of the first, nor the keen vision and dazzling fancy of the sec- ond but he was in the highest degree graceful, elegant, poetic, s~lritael. A dis- tinctively French character marks the ~vork of the gifted illustrator of Moli~re, the I)ainter of the Fianc6s, of the Grandfathers Name-day, and of those fascinating fans in which butterflies, flow- ers, and women seemed to flit by as in a dream. A faultless draughtsman, a re- fined and original colorist, his individual- ity stood out distinctly enough amongst the crowd of painters, and in his chosen branch of art he had attained a high pitch of perfection. Leloir died at forty. A little while before, a still younger artist had passed away, one of the most robust and wholesome painters of his generation, Ulysse Buti n. He loved to represent the wild life of seafaring populations; he had the art of portraying with masculine sim- plicity all that is most tragic, touching, stirring in the destinies of the fisher-folk. His last works had given him a high place amongst our artists; but the death of his wife, to whom he was tenderly attached, broke his heart and shortened his life. These conscientious and earnest painters, who recognized that art is long, and who found life so short, cannot be called rnas- ters or leaders of a school, and yet we rank them far hiTher than the clumsy and conceited painter whose works have just been exhibited at the Ecole des Beau~c Arts, M. Manet. The exhibition will at any rate have had the effect of reducing this overrated artist to his proper level. Ignorant of his craft, and hardly master, to the last, of his own brush, M. Manet, who ~vas a very astute Parisian, less de- voted to art than eager for fame, tried to pass off his incapacity and his mistakes as the wilful and forceful negligence of gen- ius. A man whose best works are but imitations of Velasquez, of Rembrandt, of Franz Hals, or of Goya, successfully posed as an innovator, the inventor of open-air painting. By the help of a few blustering critics he succeeded for some time in l)assing for the founder of a school, and exercised a real and lamentable influ- ence on contemporary painters, who would have done better to !earn from the true masters, the Florentines, the Vene- tians, and Velasquez. Happily, the school properly called that of M. Manet, the Im- pressionist school, has brought to light the feebleness and trickery covered by these pretended innovations, and all that remains of the experiments of which M. Zola made himself the apostle is an effort to obtain harmony of coloring by the op- position of crude tints an effort in which many of M. Manets followers have suc- ceeded a good deal better than he did himself. in any case, the l)raise M. Ma- net merits least of all is that of being a realist. Nothing could be more conven- tional or more artificial than his methods and to call him a realist is to confound the real with the ugly, the trivial, and the indecent. But there is little meanincY in these fu- tile distinctions and dispute~ as to ideal- ism and realism. I appeal to the readers of M. Sully Prudhommes newly published book on Expression in the Fine Arts (Lemene), a piece of profound and pene- trative analysis, formulated in terms of almost mathematical precision, yet rich in thought, and instinct with the genius of the poet. He discriminates with great ingenuity the part played by sympathy in every work of art sympathy between the artist and his work, between the work and the spectator. No artist can boast a purely objective creation: he must reveal in his work his own ideal; he gives, and cannot but give, himself. The ideal may be a vulgar or a stupid one, but it is always there. M. Sully Prudhomme con- ducts an extremely delicate analysis of the emotions which the artist can excite by the mere combination of material ele- ments, of line, color, and sound, ren CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. dered interpretative through the medium of his refined sensitive organization and his technical skill. He shows how the study of language throws light on the manner in which sensation awakens in us a whole series of physical and moral im- pressions, of an agreeable or disagreeable kind, which serve as the material of art. Finally, he shows us the finished artist, himself strongly stirred by what he sees, and keenly responsive to the objective character of all he represents, mingling his own soul with his work, and thus add- ing to the charm of the material elements he has chosen, and whose objective ex- pression he conveys, the subjective expres- sion which flows from his own personal emotion. One must turn to the book itself for a wonderfully fine analysis of the constituents of expression in archi- tecture, sculpture, and painting, in music and in the dance. One sees he.re how impossible it is to contrast idealism with realism, the expression of thought with technical skill. The perfection of the artist consists in his use of a full mastery of the technical detail of his art as a means of uttering noble feeling and comprehen- sive thought; and in his faithful rendering of the expression proper to the objects he represents, while he penetrates and trans- figures them by the communication of his own individuality. If the subtle and abstract analysis of M. Sully Prudhomme makes his book somewhat hard reading, the same fault certainly cannot be found with M. P. Bouraets Essays in Contemporary Psy- chology (Lemene), which nevertheless bear the stamp of a truly philosophic mind. The peculiar value of these studies lies in this, that instead of judging every work according to certain more or less ar- bitrary canons of literary taste, M. Bourget turns his scrutiny upon the minds of the authors themselves, considered as repre- sentatives of the society of their day. He deals only with those authors who have exerted a real influence on our time Stendhal, Baudelaire, Flaubert, Tame, Dumas, Renan. It is tantamount to a psychological analysis of the modern French mind; and it is the work of a man evidently destined to be himself a creator in fiction. He has just contributed to the Nouve/le Revue a story full of exquisite feeling, called Second Love. M - Bourget might have added some in- teresting touches to his study of Flaubert if he had had access to those Letters to George Sand (L~vy) which have since appeared. He would probably have laid more stress on the weak points of that great writerthe cynical contempt for his fellow-creatures which parched and narrowed his nature, and the absence of any moral ideal whatever. He spent his life in hating the bourgeois, and in writing about them. The composition of these outbursts of scorn and dislike caused him desperate weariness; he groans over it in his letters, and in his last novels, Senti- mental Education, and Souvard et P6ar- chet, he fairly communicates it to his reader. What he really enjoyed was work which involved learning as well as imag- ination, such as Salammb& and The Temptation of St. Anthony. Perhaps, after all, lie was really a born scholar and historian, gone astray into fiction. One is almost led to think so, when one reads his really profound ol)scrvations on the task and uses of science, and on the evils arisin.g in France from the want of a solid higher education. In his letters he shows himself with all his faults, his af- fectations of vulgarity, his familiarities and mischievous pranks, his narrow theo- ries on art, his coarse and extravagant pessimism; but also with his great quali- ties, his independence of character, his disinterestedness, his devotion to litera- ture, and his astonishingly l)rofol]nd and vigorous opinions on history, politics, and society. M. Flaubert founded no school. The one who takes after him the most of all our younger writers, M. Guy de Maupas- sant, has not his exaggerated artistic scru- pulousness, and on the other hand has far more force. He has talents of the first order; and it is a pity that his morbid desire for sensuous or repulsive scenes renders his books almost unreadable to delicate minds. The recollections of his Algerian travels, which lie has just pub- lished under the title In the Sun (Havard), are wonderful in coloring, and worthy of a place beside the travels of Fromenti n. Among recent works of imagination there is only one which can lay claim to real originality, Mon Fr~re Yves, by Pierre Loti. Pierre Loti is the pseu- donym of M. Viau, an officer of marine, who, without the least idea of ever be- coming a novelist, ~vrote for his own amusement, in the form of a story called Le Manage de Loti, his recollections of Tahiti, and produced quite a sensation in the literary world by his extraordinary descriptive power, and by the originality of a certain curt, clipped, somewhat inco- herent style, not in the least like any one 75 76 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. elses. He afterwards published, under the title Fleurs dEnnui, a series of sketches of maritime life on the Adriatic and in Algeria; in the Spahi he de. scribed the life of the soldiers in Senegal; and finally, in Mon Fr& e Yves (L~vy) he gives us that of the Breton sailors. There is something very touching and natural in the love of the simple Breton seaman for Pierre Loti, and a most tragic pathos in the conflict between the passion of drink, to which his temperament and habits have enslaved him, and which con- tinually returns upon him, and the gentle influence of a loving and unselfish wife. Side by side with lovely bits of Breton scenery we have pictures of the tropic seas, the storms and calms of the Pacific, which raise Pierre Loti to a place among our best living writers. Few works of fiction deserve to be spoken of in the same breath with Mon Fr~re Yves, but we must nevertheless mention LId6al, by M. J. de Glouvet, the magistrate, who has risen to distinction by his studies of forest life. There is much to praise in the high moral tone of this novel, and in its charming pictures of the idle country lite of the nobility. M. Octave Fenillets Widow (L6vy) shows that i1~5~ genius has kept its freshness in spite of years and suffering. The plot of The Widow is very original, and the first part is vigor. ously treated, though it falls off towards the end. M. Rabusson is a bolder and more modern, a more alert and humorous, Feuillet. His first works gave offence by their shameless immorality; but Ma. dame de Givr6is free from faults of this kind; its two heroes have real originality of character, and retain their integrity in the midst of the most passionate conflicts. M. Rabussons style is easy, graceful, and harmonious. Amongst these ~vorks of imagination we must perhaps reckon ORells witty and amusing pamphlet, John Bull and his Island. On the whole, notwithstanding all it has to say against them, it I)resents a rather flatter- ing portrait of the English people or rather of good society in England, for he paints the populace in terrible colors. Hardly so terrible, however, as those of M. H. Frances London Barefeet (Va-nupieds de Londres ), a bitter and brutal book, the accuracy of which a for- eigner may be hardly able to estifnate, but which gives an impression of wild exaggeration. It is not easy to give a truthful picture of any people or any soci- ety. A book on Berlin Society has just come out, by one Paul Vasili (we suspect that this is only the norn deAbeuze of some Russian ladx), in which truth and falsehood, flattery and backbiting, are so cleverly mingled as to be hardly distin- guishable. It is too full of minute and accurate detail for us to accuse the author of speaking of things he does not person. ally know; but many of its conclusions seem to be dictated by a spirit of blind hostility. Turning to history, we find some really remarkable works which call for notice. To the examinations for the doc/or~f ?s letires we owe a monograph by M. de Ia Blanch~re on Terracina, one by M. Loth on the establishment of the Bretons in Armorica, in which he maintains that it was no peaceful colonization of unoccu- pied territory, but the violent conquest of an inhabited country, and one by M. Flammermont on the chancellor Mao peou and the Parliaments, in which that impor- tant episode in the history of the eigh- teenth century is elucidated by the help of a mass of unpublished documents. The ministry of foreign affairs has opened its series of historical publications with M. A. Sorels collection of instructions addressed to French ambassadors in Vi- enna from 1648 to 1789. M. E. Forgues has brought out the first volume of his Memoirs of the Baron de Vitrolles (Charpentier), one of the most active agents of the Royalist party towards he end of the Empire and under the Restora- tion a singular character, uniting the most intelligent scepticism and the most original opinions with an extreme Legiti- mist fanaticism. M. P. de R~musat gives us two volumes of exceptional interest, the Correspondence of Ch. de R6mnusat and his Mother (L6vv). The mother was at Toulouse, the son in Paris both were keen and independent observers; both wrote in a charming style; and their lett~rs give us a lively picture of Parisian and provincial society at the time of the Restoration. They are real pages of his- tory, and at the same time they bring us into delightful contact with this gifted mother and son. We have another admi- rable little book, which throws into a form accessible to all classes of readers the life and work of M. Pasteur. This Histoire dun Savant par un Ignorant (Hetzel) will soon be in every ones hands, and will help to give shape and definiteness to the somewhat vague and exaggerated popular idea of his teaching. it will be read with a sense of lively gratitude to the man who has not only saved impor- tant industries beer, silkworms, sheep CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. but who has been indefatigable in his efforts to attack at their very source the diseases which desolate humanity. One of the most remarkable of our re- cent historical ~vorks is the sixth volume of the History of Florence, by M. Per- rens (Hachette). This volume brings us down to the time of the Medicean rule. Never has the history of the celebrated republic been made the object of such deep and wide research. M. Perrens may be said to have been the first to un- derstand in all its details the development of the Florentine constitution. He has fairly restored the old republic, with its commerce, its arts, its social and religious aoitations; and his work is, beyond dis- pute, one of the most considerable con- tributions of these last years to modern history. M. Luchaire is still a young man, but he has crained at a single bound a place among the masters. His Essay on the Political Institutions of France under the Early Capetians (Picard) is a model of sound criticism and right meth- od, and embodies the results of very ex- tensive research. It is written in support of a very interesting, just, and to a great extent new, theory on the institutions of that epoch. Far from seeing in the acces- sion of Hugh Capet a violent rupture with the institutions of Carlovingian France, and the inauguration of the ne~v era of the feudal monarchy, he shows that the Ca- petian monarchy was regarded as an uninterrupted continuation of the Carlo- vi n gian, and that the institutions of the earlier period were slowly transformed into those of the later. iVI. P. Viollet, the able editor of the Etablissements de St. Louis, has undertaken a work which will be equally useful to the historian and the jurista manual of the old French juris- prudence ( Manuel du Droit Fran~ais). The first volume, which deals with the sources of law and the condition of per- sons, is a marvel of conciseness and lu- cidity. Every page bears evidence that we have to do with no mere compiler, but with one who has studied every point on which he speaks at first hand, and who compresses into a few significant sen- tences the fruit of long arid laborious research. His work leaves all former treatises on the subject far behind, and marks a new stage in the study of the history of law. Investigations of this kind have come more and more into favor of late. M. Glasson has just published six volumes on the History of the Polit- ical and Judicial Institutions of England, in which the judicial part of the subject, in particular, is treated with great learn- ing and ability. If now we turn from the world of study, where we have seen of late years the signs of such encouraging progress, to that of amusement, we shall find many interest- ing experiments crowned by unequal suc- cess. Whether in Froufrou or in the Dame aux Cam~lias, id me. Sarah Bern- hardt succeeds by the mere charm of her genius in filling the vast hall of the Th& ~tre St. Martin; yet some of her audi- ence, as they mark the forced tones of her voice, the exaggeration of her acting, and the ever-increasing nervous tension of an over-strained system, cannot but foresee the near approach of the time when the admiration of the public will be worn out, and turned to irritation. She has lately started a new piece, Nana Sahib, by M. Richepin, which contains some fine passages that take the ear, but which seems by its strangeness of con- ception to belong rather to the fairy scene of a pantomime than to sober drama, and which, though M - Rich epin appealed to the interest of the public by himself act- ing the part of the hero, had a run of but few nights comparatively. We may just mention the Parisian Drama of M. Octave Feuillet, and the Maitre de Forge of M. Ohnet, both of which drew crowds to the Gymnase. They are good plays, made on the ordinary pattern, but they teach us nothing new. It is the same with the clever drollery given at the Palais Royal by MM. Meilhac and Gille, Ma Camarade. The Rois en Exil of Alphonse Daudet failed at the Vaude- ville, not only because a cabal had been started against it, but because M. Dau- dets story, however charming as a novel, does not afford the materials for theatrical representation. The principal persons are all either absurd or odious. The Maucroix of M. Delpit, at the Th6~tre Fran~ais, is a series of startling and im- probable effects, ~vhich cause the spec- tator more surprise than emotion. Ant I to speak of Pot-I3ouilli, the bourgeois drama taken by M. Busnach from the dullest and most disagreeable of M. Zolas novels? Except a few coarse expressions never before heard on the stage, there was nothing of novelty in it, nor any sign of an attempt at originality. Three other pieces seem to deserve special mention M. Jan nets Bel Armand, M. T. Cop- p6es Severo Torelli, and M. J. Aicards Smilis. The most striking thing in the Bel Armand, which was played with success at the Od~on, is its union of 77 78 CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. moral elevation a feature all too rare on the subject itself, there would be much to the stage at present with a degree of enjoy in this consummate expression of scenic skill extremely remarkable in a a fine dramatic situation. Smilis, by frrst attempt. M. Jannet is not only an Jean Aicard, played with rare perfection inventor of dramatic situations but a by the artists of the Com6die Fran~aise painter of character, and this first success Got, Febvre, Worms, Laroche, and Mlle of his seems to promise him a brilliant Reichemberg has excited, wrongly we future. Severo Torelli is, so far, M. think, far more unfavorable comment in Copp6es greatest success on the stage, the press than Severo Torelli. Of and no doubt the Od6on company, includ- course the plot of Smilisis quite out- ing Mine. Tessandier, M. Albert Lambert, side the sphere of ordinary reality; the and M. Paul Mounet, has largely con- whole piece belongs to the realm of poetry, tributed to the result. It is a romantic and must be accepted, to begin with, on drama of the school of Victor Hugo, and this understanding; but the moral proba- the plot is open to somewhat severe criti- bilities are always respected, and the psy- cism on the ground of moral verisimilitude. chological study which forms the basis of It is the end of the fifteenth century; Pisa the whole is at once new and profound. is groaning under the tyrants dominion. Smilis is a Greek foundling, adopted and The young Severo Torelli, whose father brought up by an officer of marine, who had long be fore been engaged in an abor- has risen by his merits to the rank of ad- tive conspiracy and had been pardoned, miral. She loves him as a father, but conceives the project of assassinating the with entire and exclusive devotion; his tyrant, when he learns from his mother ~vhole affection is concentrated on her, that she had bought her husbands life at and as she grows up his fear of losing her the price of her honor, and that lie is the becomes so acute that he ends by propos- son of the man whose death he is contriv- ing to marry her. She agrees at once, ing. Then comes the struggle in the for the simple. reason that his wish is young mans mind between his horror of always hers, and without at all realizing parricide on the one hand, and on the the nature of the pledge. But the cere- other his hatred of the tyrant and his mony is scarcely over before the admiral oath to his comrades. His scruples are perceives, from the simple answers of the overcome at last, and he is about to ac- girl, who does not understand his altered complish the murder, when his mother tone, that he has been guilty of more than forestalls him, kills the tyrant, and then a mistake, and that the filial relation which destroys herself. The last scene, in lie has allowed to grow up between them which she snatches the poniard from her forbids the substitution of a different tie. sons hand and deals the blow herself, is Months pass, revealing to him more and admirable as a stage effect; but it must more of her life and character; he has to be admitted that the young mans hesita- watch the innocent awakening of her tion makes no great claim on our sym- heart; he sees that she loves and is loved; pathy. The tyrant is so little his father, and lie dies, in such a manner as to simu- and has become so in such an odious late a natural death, confiding her to the manner, that parricide in such a case care of the man whom she loves. The loses its horror. It would be almost more situation is a difficult, perhaps a question- natural for the conflict to take place in the able one; but it is treated with exquisite heart of the mother, who ~vould hesitate purfty and delicacy. M. Aicard, in his as much to reveal her dishonor to her son prose, has never forgotten that lie is a as to leave him to commit an unwitting poet; and the very poetry of his work l)arricide. A pious mother would dread redeems what is startling and exceptional such a criiiie for her son more than lie in it. Smilis has nothing in common would for himself. But however this may with the modern conventional type. It be, the improbability of the subject is re- is a literary and dramatic attempt of a deemed by the beauty and poetry of the perfectly original kind; and many of the form. M. Copp6es versification is ad- critics, disconcerted by its very originality, mirable, and never has his language been too illiterate to feel the beauty of its form, more supple, niore sonorous, more rich too unrefined in sentiment to understand in thrilling words and striking imagery. the loftiness of its inspiration, have piti- Everything that goes to torm the frame- lessly maltreated it. But the public, work of the piece is handled in a niasterly whose tears have flowed over it, have felt style ; the local coloring is both truthful its beauty ; and even if it is not to obtain and agreeable. If it ~vere possible to for- the full success it deserves, it does none get all that is unreal and unpleasant in the less honor to .tbe young poet in the CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. 79 eyes of all true men of taste. At the same time that Smilis was being produced he was republishing, with splendid illus- trations, one of his most beautiful volumes of verse, the Chanson de lEnfant. He has now fairly entered on the path of fame, where he moves on beside his older peers, Sully Prudhomme, Copp~e, Theu- net, who has just given us, in the Jour- nal de Tristram, a delightful collection of his impressions of travel ; A. Lemoyne, one of our most finished poets, whose two volumes contain not a single negligent or imperfect piece; and G. Lafenestre, who has just now forsaken poetry for the his- tory of art. The history of art has given rise of late to a number of books remarkable for merit of one sort or another; it is no longer left to the dabbling of the amateur and the dilettante; it has become the study of specialists who combine taste with learn- ing. M. Miintz is one of those who have most contributed to the advance in this direction. Whilst giving us an excellent bibliography of everything which has been written on Raphael, from Passavant down- wards, he constantly enriches his Bibli- oth~que Internationale de lArt with works of the highest order. I may men- tion in particular the two last that have appeared the Claude Lorrain of Mrs. Mark Pattison, and the Della Rob- bias of MM. Cavallucci and E. Molinier. Quantin is publishing the useful Bibli- oth~que de lEnseignement des Beaux Arts, containing some little popular books which are really scientific compen- dia drawn up by men of the highest au- thority. Such are M. Collignons book on Greek arch~ology and mythology, M. Bayats on Byzantine art, M. Miintzs on tapestry, and M. F. Lenormants on coins and medals. Then, alongside of these elegant little volumes, we have M. Rayets splendid publication, the Monu- ments of Ancient Art, where admirable reproductions of Egyptian, Greek, and Roman art are accompanied by disserta- tions which throw a flood of light on some important points in the history of art and civilization. M. Rayet has just been chosen to succeed M. Lenormant in the arch~ological chair of the Biblioth~que Nationale, and no choice could have been more satisfactory. He has not, of course, the versatility and the inexhaustible vari- ety of learning which distinguished his predecessor, who could turn ~vith incred- ible facility from the study of cuneiform inscriptions to that of ancient coins, and from the history of Egypt to that of the Greco-Norman civilization of the south of Italy ; but his solid learning, sound criti- cal methods, and uprightness of character, inspire a respect and confidence which unfortunately cannot always be accorded to the work of M. Lenormant. The loss of M. Lenormant has un- doubtedly left a gap in the ranks of the Acad6mie des Inscriptions, but this loss is amply made up for by its recent acquisi- tions. M. Paul Meyer, the happy dis- coverer of so many important medi~val documents; M. Maspdro, the director of the Boulak Museum, who scents an Egyptian monument with the keenness of a Mariette, runs it down with the same relentless energy, and then deciphers it with the learning and ingenuity of a Lep- sius or a Roug~ and finally, M. dArbois de Jubainville, who, after acquiring a great reputation as a medi~valist by his history of the Counts of Champagne, has just established himself as an authority in a new domain, by his Introduction to Cel- tic History and Literature, and his Cat- alogue of the Epic Literature of Ireland. The French Academy has also had its vacant chairs, and has had to fill them by new elections. The place of Jules San- deau has been filled, after a sharp contest, by M. Edmond About, who, if he plays no very important part in the literary move- ment of to.day, at least was once, in the days when he wrote his Contemporary Greece and his King of the Moun- tains, one of our best and most charac- teristically French writers a true son of Voltaire. M. Copp~e, his unsuccessful rival, has since had his turn. He suc- ceeds M. de Laprade, the Lyonnais poet a poet of the second rank, but with a really original vein, and some fine inspira- tions. He was at once a Catholic and a pantheist, and in such poems as Psyche and the Poem of the Tree he speaks of nature with the harmonious eloquence of a Lamartine. His chief fault was his monotony; his verses had a sustained and even majestic serenity, but they were wanting in life, movement, and color. Towards the end of his life he wrote some pretty and touching verses in a more fa- miliar style, such as Pernette and the Livre dun Pare. We are also indebted to him for having been the first to attack the boarding system of the French lyc~es, in his eloquent and indignant book, LEducation Homicide. On the very same day with M. de La- prade died M. Henri Martin. He was not a great writer, but the nobility of his char- acter, and the conscientiousness which 8o CONTEMPORARY LIFE AND THOUGHT IN FRANCE. he carried into all his work, gave him a title to our respect second to that of few French authors. Strictly speaking, his whole career is summed up in one work the History of France which he was all his life furbishing, correcting, re- touching, in order to leave it as perfect as possible. No other history of France is so elaborated and so complete. As a politician, M. Martin leaves behind him an irreproachable character. He was the incarnation of patriotism, of uprightness, of disinterestedness. Every useful and generous movement might count him be- forehand among its supporters. He had the most genial nature, the warmest and the purest heart. He did nothing but good during his life, and, dying, left not a single enemy. If the Academy has had its days of mourning it has also had its festivals the day when lvi. Rousse read his eloquent report on the rewards of merit; the day when M. M6zi~res, welcoming M. de Ma- zade, I)ronounced beneath the astonished dome of the Institute a eulogy on Gain- betta; and, above all, the day when 1W. Pailleron told, with characteristic clever- ness, the story of the life of Charles Blanc. But, after all, these academic meetings, even the most brilliant of them, are not unmingled enjoyment. It is pleas- anter to read the speeches by your own fireside than to stand freezing in the crowd at the doors of the Academy for a coupl~ of hours and then sit stifling inside to hear them spoken. But what would you have? Itisthefashion; and there area good many pretty women who would think themselves wanting to the whole duty of woman if the Academy had a reception and they were not there. The resuscitation of the Italian theatre is the fashion too. The tenor Maurel has succeeded in forming a capital company, has taken the old Th~tre des Nations, and persuaded the best society in Paris that it is good form to subscribe, at exor- bitant prices. XVill he succeed? He may, if he resolutely aims at bringing out new works, like the H6rodiade of Massenet, which was received with great and legiti- mate enthusiasm, and especially if he has the courage to attempt Wagners operas say Lohengrin, to begin with. But he will not succeed if he confines himself to the old Italian repertory, and gives us superannuated works like Verdis Simon Boccanegra, and Bellinis I Puritani, and Donizettis La Favorita. It must be confessed that the Italian music of the early part of the century is no longer to our taste. The symphonic concerts have educated the public, and we must now have either modern or pure classical mu- sic. We are weary of II Trovatore and Robert le Diable; we want Fide- ho or Tannhaiiser. At the same time that M. Massenets H6riodiade was carrying off one vic- tory at the Th~tre Italien, his Manon Lescaut was carrying off another at the Op6ra Comique. It is by his grace and tenderness that M. Massenet conquers, and this lively and impassioned subject has given him some of his happiest in- spirations. ~Ve are glad to see our own composers represented more and more on the French stage. It is painful to see B. Godard obliged to produce his operas in Belgium, and Saint Saens driven into Germany with his Samson and Dalilah. A new operatic venture, the Op~ra Popu- laire, under the management of 1W. de Lagren~, may perhaps facilitate Fhe pro- duction of new work, at the same time that it brings the great operas within reach of those who cannot afford the prices of the Op~ra or of the Th~tre I talien. Before concluding we must refer to the death of 1W. Eug~ ne Rouher, who was known during the last ten years of the empire as the vice-emperor. 1W. Rou- her entered the political arena as a repub- lican in 1848, when he was thirty-four years old; but from his first entrance into the Chamber he attached himself deci- sively to the party of Prince Louis Napo- leon, and threw in his lot, once for all, with the Bonapartists. The 2nd of De- cember made him a minister, and thence- forward he was always in high office, either in the Council of State or in the successive ministries of the empire. His special merit consisted in his extraordi- nary financial and commercial ability. He was the prime author of the treaties of commerce, and the chief defender of freedom of trade. This constitutes his most solid title to fame. After the death of 1W. Billaut he had to become the cham- pion-in ordinary of the imperial policy in the Chamber He filled his post with true forensic skill, but with the unscrupu- lousness of a l)leader to whom all causes are equally defensible. He was the apol- ogist of the Mexican campaign, of the occupation of Rome, of the insane policy with regard to Germany which in 866 and 1867 was paving the road to Sedan; of the imperial despotism of the years between 1852 and t86o, and of the Liberal reforms of the next nine years. Clearly THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. 8t as we may see that he was too intelligent to approve of the foreign policy of Napo- leon III., he must nevertheless bear his share of the responsibility, since he al ways found sophistries to justify it, and used his influence to carry it with the Parliament. His boasted fidelity to the emperor was rather that of an obedient, humble servant than of a sincere friend and far-seeing adviser. We are reminded of his private virtues, the simplicity of his manners, the laboriousness of his life and these praises are deserved; but yet he seems to us rather an industrious man of business, selfishly occupied in doing the best he could for himself, than a statesman whose first interests were the interests of the country. But, from a financial point of view at any rate, he leaves the reputation of an honest man which is no small praise for a familiar of Napoleon III. As a speaker, he had vigor and perspicacity, with a wonderful power of handling figures; but he was wanting. in elegance and correctness of form, and cannot be called eloquent. He is a wild boar wallowing in the mire, said M. Thiers; but he can deal a fa- mous blow with his snout. The death of the emperor left M. Rouher discour- aged and hopeless; he had no longer any faith in the emoire. The fact does honor to his penetration. G. MONOD. From Blackwood s Magazine. THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. CHAPTER XXIII.. HE WOULD BE SOMEWHERE ELSE ON THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. ~ Drawne with the powre of an heart-robbing eye, And wrapt in fetters of a golden tresse SPENSUR. Six young ladies have been introduced to the reader in these pages, six ordinary, average, unremarkable, almost undistin- guishable young ladies, all in the bloom of first youth, and none as yet givingany promise of any lasting attraction when that bloom should have passed away. Yet, although all six might have been culled at random from the ranks of cheer- ful rosy faces one meets with every day, each had her own individual trait, which, if it could scarcely amount to a redeem- ing vice, still served to mark her out to the student of character. Thus Lotta Hanwell was an important fool, whom the severest shock to her vanity would not LiVING AGE. VOL. XLVI. 2346 have awakened to the fact that she was not of first-rate consequence in the eyes of the world. Mary Tufnell was a poor wit, who had long depended on the laugh of her friends. Emily, less endowed with animal life, clung to the romantic and sentimental. Bertha romped ; while of the remaining two, Marion Appleby was a benevolent blunderer, who with the best intentions frequently did and said the wrong thing; and Juliet but Juliet is the only one of the set who deserves more than this passing attention. Juliet, to begin with, was not quite what she appeared to be. There was a little deep corner in her shallow mind, and in that depth there lurked a seed of power which none of her fellows possessed, and which but few~ suspected, and it was the detection of this ability for mis- chief, this capacity for undertaking it and enjoyment of it, which made the youngest Miss Appleby just worth notice in the eyes of the proud and penetrating Ma- tilda. She had been by times scornfully amused by Juliets wiles ; she was not afraid of either brother being beguiled by the in. And Juliet was useful at the Hall, and she came with her hair nicely brushed back behind her ears, and her simple frock tied in with a ribbon, and a string of coral round her heck; and she would hang so lovingly upon dear Lady Matil- das arm, and sit at her feet, and lay her cheek upon her knee, and be so childish and fond and confiding, that the only ~vonder ~vas she had not long before the period at which she first came under our notice been turned into the pet she de. sired to be. But Matilda wanted no pet, and hardly knew what to do with so much affection; she suffered her young friend, up to a certain point she preferred her, which she ought not to have done, to the blunter and duller and truer Marion; but she did not trouble her head much about the Applebys, unless it were to summon them to perform a service or assist at a ceremony. That done, she would call the pair good girls, and commend them much as if they had been her waiting-maids, and presently she would toss them a favor in her imperial, careless way; but as for making a companion of either miss, tell- ing either one her thoughts, sharing with either her pursuits, Lady Matilda once owned with the special and startling can- dor with which she at times allowed home truths to Teddy, that she would as soon seek for a kindred spirit in her daughter: 82 THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. Lotta was at least on a par with the Ap- plebys. For mediocrity was just what this naughty Matilda could not tolerate; and having been endowed by heaven with beauty and talent enough to have satisfied a score of women if shared among them, she must needs jeer at those whom who can tell? she had perchance herself robbed. It was shameful; and little Miss Ap- pleby Juliet, you understand who was so fond of dear Lady Matilda to every- body round, and who could hardly keep away from dear Lady Matilda four days out the five if the Hall were occupied, Juliet, in spite of her admiration for every- thing said and done by her friend, was sometimes so spleenfu~ and indignant that she could scarce contain herself, when time after time it proved that the youthful xrand mother, still in her charms trium- phant, drew to herself, and away from the pink-and-white daisies, the budding beau- ties of the neighborhood, every man, old or young, who appeared on the scene. It was atrocious, it was more than femi- nine patience could stand, to see how one and another would, on pretexts the most trivial, steal into the magic circle which invariably formed around Matilda to mark their efforts to obtain her notice, their joy beneath a word or smile of kind- ness ; and never, l)erhaps, had this been more keenly felt by Juliet Appleby than on that November night when she and her sister had been summoned to meet Robert Hanwells friends, Mr. Whewell and Mr. Challoner, who were hers and Marions by right, and upon whom could she have made an impression even a decent impression she might have made Teddy Lessingham blink his eyes and bestir himself to escape from his sisters dominion and lay hand and heart at her feet. But vVhe well had only paid her a few stock compliments over the piano, and that apparently out of the mere super- fluity of his good-humor with an evening so delightfully and exclusively given up to Matilda; while Challoner had as good as turned his back upon her, his partner, during dinner, and had never come near her afterwards; and although he could not have been said to have then and there entered the lists with the gay barrister, no one knew better than Juliet Appleby how effectually he had made up for lost time afterwards. She had bitten her lip from mortifica- tion more than once subsequently, when, ordered up to the Hall, she had found herself a mere lay figure at the entertain- ment, expected to talk and eat and behave properly and see nothing, while Challoner hung over Matildas chair, and murmured in her ear, and gazed into her face. She had been there one afternoon late, when Matilda had been playing to herself on the organ in the dim old gallery, and Matilda had been at no pains to bid her stay; but she had stayed in spite of this and almost in spite of herself, stayed to see and spy. Challoner had come in presently. He had come in wet, tired, torn by thickets, and splashed with mud and mire, his shabby shooting-clothes still on, hung round with shot and powder belts, just as he was, in short, only having left his gun outs.ide, and he had taken off his cap, showing the disordered hair beneath in dark, moist rings over his brow, and had sat down to listen~ leaning his rough cheek on his hand, while a soft undisguised emotion stole over his face; and as he had sat there in the half light, his broad shoulders lounging forwards, a humble, subdued, overmastered giant, he had looked a captive whom any woman might have been proud to win. He had looked a captive, every inch a captive, too. None but a lover durst have sat where he sat, done as he did, come in as he had come. He had not spoken much, and Matilda had played softly on; but Juliet had left them thus, and she had left ~vith a sting at her own heart. She, too, could have liked Jem Challoner, and he had hardly seemed to know that she was there. Her astonishment on hearing of his engagement to Mary Tufnell only a few hours before she saw him in the lecture- room at Clinkton for of course she saw him, and sa~v that he saw hermay be imagined. Astonishment had at first been everything; then came deeper and deeper mortification, lastly malice. He had been an engage cI man, and yet he had dared to trifle with Lady Matilda Wilmot. Oh, how deeply must he have been in love to have so dared! All else must have gone to the winds while he gave free play to his unlawful passion, and now doubtless he was here to break off the match and then return to Overton, to be received there with open arms. The horrid man it was just like him. She hated the sight of his great big back as she sat behind it, pretty close behind it, during Herbert Mildmays lec- ture; she hated to remember how often she had seen it pass and repass along the terraces at Overton Hall. Then she had THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. 83 had a sight of the wretchs face, and seen that it was the same stony stick of a face that had been on view the first night at the Overtons dinner-party not the face that had subsequently grown under Ma- tildas hands and all at once she had resolved not to see it this time. No, she would not seem to see him, would not speak to him until she had given her home-thrust, but she would write to Lady Matilda that very night. Prudence, however, intervened. Sup- posing that Lady Matilda already knew, no good would be gained ; supposing she did not,she would certainly not like Juliet Appleby the better for telling her. Be- sides, it would be delightful to lie in wait and see all she could of Challoner, and hear all that ~vas to be heard of his doings, and then, 1/zen confront him before Mary Tufnell, and inquire, in a way that could not be mistaken, after his friend Lady Ma- tilda Wilmot. The day after the lecture every one knew about the fancy ball, and it was at this fancy ball that Miss Appleby decided to make her great scene. The very next day to that on which it was to be given, she purposed returning south, and would then have the felicity of break- ing the news to Matilda with all the sur- prise, and veiled sympathy, and delicate assumption of her auditors indifference, that ~vas appropriate and respectful. She would be able to say that she had been presented to the future Mrs. Challoner that she had congratulated him, and that he had been forced to accel)t her congrat- ulation aod she had seen herself saying this with a troubled and distressed face, and had also beheld a troubled, distressed face averted from her as she spoke. It was worth waiting for, this fancy ball. Go to it she must she liked fancy balls; and to go with a mysterious pur~ pose, with a design on the peace of three several persons to go with a knife un- der her cxlove and a leer under her mask gave a zest to the l)romised evenincr the like of which she had never had be- fore. Short as the intervening time was, it seemed even longer to Juliet Appleby than it did to Jem Challoner. All of these good people were thus, we see, playing their own game. Challoner, whose hand was the worst, was becoming more and more reckless as time went on; and having got over his first fright on. meeting Miss Appleby, and finding that she did not intend to recog- nize him under present circumstances, he made up his mind that all was yet Un- known to her, and that she was merely revenging herself for previous neglect. She was now ~vith the better sort of peo- ple, he with the worse; and it seemed to him that the ridiculous idea that he would have been glad now to claim an acquaint- ance he had previously despised, had in- cited her to turn upher nose and turn away her head from him. It was charming; he ~vas delighted with Juliet: Lord Overtons little note, which lay snug and safe in his breast- pocket, would assuredly never have been penned had she sent the tidings flying south. It was I)lain, it xx-as clear as day, that she had not heard a syllable, and the reason for such ignorance was seen in the charge laid by Mr. Tufnell to her hosts the Windlasses; and and such being the case, the devil returned to tempt Chialloner. The night of the ball was near and Miss Juliet was to be there. So, he would be elsewhere. She should not see him attached to Mary Tufuells red cross and black gown that merry evening. Up to this hour he had been going drearily and dutifully on with what he had to do; he had been walking in a plain path, and, though he had been unhappy, he had been able to keel) his unhappiness to himself, and even to take some sort of comfort in the hope that he was at least giving no liresent cause of offence to an innocent Yirl or her relations. Even in his heart he had not given way to an un- kind, or an unjust, or an unmanly thought; he had not allowed himself to fret, or to mock, or to swear; but he had risen, morning by morning, wondering languidly what the day would bring forth how soon the blow would fall, and his fate be sealed. Any post might bring him the cool line from Overton which should ring his knell in its congrattilations and good wishes; and accordingly every postmans rap sent the blood faster through his pulses, espe- cially when, as happened more than once, his eye caught a glimpse of a coroneted envelope among the bud get brought in by the servant, and he knew as by instinct for whom it came, long before Tufnells slow solemn voice read out, James Chal- loner, Esq, and handed the missive up the table. It would be from Teddy, of course. When Overton wrote, he con- tented himself with the nearest halfsheet handy; even Matilda ~vas not particular, unless she happened to be in a stately mood; but Teddy never used any but the best paper and the biggest envelopes, and 84 THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. he was always glad to show off his excel- da ignorant, might yet free himself, might lent handwriting, and make the most of yetoh, he could not think of what he his correspondence. He said he wrote might not yet do, once he had broken the best hand in the family, as indeed he loose, had awakened from the nightmare did; but Matilda appealed to Challoner, of the past fortnight. and of course he stood by her. He never saw his own name now in that bold free CHAPTER XXIV. caligraphy without thinking of this. The scrap of paper whereon the brother and TI M E P A S S E S. sister had contested, their beautiful faces The wheel of life no less will stay and mirthful voices as they did so, all Inasmootlithanruggedway came before him as often as he opened a COWLKY. fresh envelope, and he would for the next So much for the man; now for the few seconds hear nothing of what was woman. passing in the room not, indeed, until Very quietly, not unhappily, Matildas he could draw one short breath of relief days passed. Memory, on the one hand, ~vhen assured that there was nothing, supplied pleasant themes, which hope, on nothing yet. the other, whispered would soon return; The letter would be long, friendly, and she doubted nothing, and feared nothing. full of information he thought he knew Challoners abrupt departure had, truth to who supplied the information, and ev- tell, charmed her more with him than any- ery topic and every reference meant this: thing else could have done; and the con- eVe have not forgotten you. Do not viction that it only remained with herself forget us. How dear such an intima- to summon him back at any moment, ren- tion was, how doubly dear as contrasted dered her able to support her dignity and with what might have been, may be imag- pass the time of his absence without much med. inward, and without any apparent, wean- Lord Overtons invitation did the rest. ness. Every honest resolution, every worthy Her schools, her poor people, her broth. aspiration gave ~vay under it; coming as ers even her daughter, had plenty of her it did on the very day when the report company, and benefited by her cheerful- about Miss Applebys being at the ball ness. There was a poor woman who was was confirmed, it was too much; Chal- sick, several miles away from Overton loner went straight out and ordered the Matilda visited her every day, read to her, dress he did not mean to wear. One was sang to her, brightened and cheered her ready, needing only a few slight altera- dingy little room,alrnost made her for- tions, and it could be sent in the same get her pain. The boys in her Sunday evening; and the gentleman professed class were troublesome; she, made no himself satisfied, and was so, after his complaint of them, she won them over by own fashion, patience and forbearance. The good rec- Yes, he would give the ball the slip, tor of the parish ~vas more devoted to her plausibly. No one would guess that any- ladyship than ever. He had always said thing of the kind could have been his in- the earl was a model of a gentleman, and tention when the gorgeous suit had actu- his sister an excellent, charitable, practi- ally come in, and ~vhen his good hostess cal Christian, not what you would call would have only seen afresh what a profoundly pious, not perhaps a very couple he and Willie Dobb had been. He deeply thinking woman, but one who was would be off before any one was stirring in always to be found on the right side, the morning, called a~vay by business, whose heart was in the right place, and it seemed he was always being called away who, he believed, would grow in grace as by business now; but on this occasion she advanced in life. If we are to be his departure would be easy he would known by our fruits, the worthy speaker have nothing to say, and no one to see would proceed, he ~vished all his parish- him go; he would merely leave a note of ioners had as good fruits to shosv as Lady explanation, and then then he would be Matilda Wilmot. Her conduct to her somewhere else on that frosty night than brother now he did not refer to Over- in Mrs. Dobbs smart vestibule. His ton the way she managed that young hand shook, and his eye glowed beneath Lessingham, was beyond praise. A wild his dark brows as he told himself where young fellow, and scarcely more than half- he would be, and with whom. No news witted, he was goin~ to the bad as fast as could now reach Overton before he did; he could go when his sister took him in and once there, he might yet keep Matil- hand. Lucky for him it was her being a THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER, 85 widow, and scarcely any other kind of a widow would have done. Why, she was as good as a young fellow for Teddy; she rode with him, walked with him, played billiards with him, amused him and kept him out of mischief from morning to night. She brought him to church, too, regularly, brought him twice in the day; whereas until she came he had never, or hardly ever, been inside a place of worship since he was a boy. People talked of Lady Matildas marry- ing again. That was all nonsense. Poor thing! she had had enouTh of marriage, given over, when she was a mere child, to a selfish old cur, who had made her life miserable. She would think twice before she burnt her fingers a second time. There was that Mr. Challoner. To be sure Mr. Challoner had been hanging about for a considerable time; and he must own that just for a short space for a very short space he had had his suspicions. Certainly Mr. Challoner had seemed very intimate, and he was a fine- looking man, not too young; but oh, there was nothing in it nothing in it. Lady Matilda was a lively woman, who made herself pleasant without meaning it (he would not have said she flirted for the world); and here was a proof that it was as he said, in Mr. Challoners having taken himself off, and all going on as before at the Hall. Lady Matilda had been down at the rectory the day before, and everybody there had remarked that she was quite in her usual bright spirits, full of the Christmas charities and Christ- mas decorations, and not even inclined to grumble at the frost, which compelled her to forego her favorite exercise and go about on foot. Very little inclined to grumble, indeed, had Matilda been; that frost had another meaning for her than going about on foot; it meant Overtons despatch, and it ~vas all that was wanted in the way of an ex- cuse for the same. After being at the rectory, hearing and entering into all the arrangements there, and paying a long and friendly visit, the fair pedestrian found herself still with half the afternoon on her hands, Teddy being busy at the skat- ing-ponds, which were to be cleared, swept, and tidied, in view of the approaching Christmas Eve. That Christmas Eve, it must be remarked, was the evening of the Clinkton festivity; and it was also to be signalized at Overton Hall: Challoner had telegraphed that he could not come the same day, but would be with them on that following, it had been at once and unani mously decided that the home ponds should not be skated upon until he came. I had better go on to Endhill, con~ cluded Lady Matilda, as she emerged from the rectory; I may as well see Lotta to- day, as l)erhaps she may have to complain of me by-and-by, with a little smile. It is really a good thing Lotta is so near, her thoughts ran on; it is pleasant to be able to see her and the dear baby when- ever I like; and if I lived further off, I fear I should go but seldom. Teddy dis- likes it so much : that is another reason for uoino~ to-day. I dont like taking poor Teddy where he does not wish to go. And he not Teddy this time he dis- likes it, too. Well, well, they are men, and must he humored, I suppose; we women always do have to take the disa- grecables in this life on to our own shoul- ders. Now, of course, I like going to see Lotta, but then I hate lust as much as they do going to see Robert - and here she caught sight of Robert, and had no more time for reflections the reflec- tions, you will understand, having twirled and twisted, and run in and out of her brain as she walked, so that she was still harping on the one idea, with all its multi- farious variations, when she turned in at the cottage-drive. Robert was in the garden, busy with some projected alterations, and his com- panion, whom he was consulting and ad- vising, and explaining to, was Lotta. Lotta loved to consult. lf you ask me, Robert, I should not go quite so far along the wall. That is the only thing. All the rest would be per- fect. You are such a good planner You see I have thought it out thor- oughly, my dear. You may be ri~ht about its being too far; but I doubt it. How- ever, I will consider your opinion. Oh, my opinion, she thought it only second to his, my opinion is really worth very little, I am afraid, Robert. You know; of course, I I only say what I think ; this is not my department ~ To be sure not; but I am always glad to hear what you have to say. When one gives one s whole attention to a thing, however, as I have done to this Ab, Lady Matilda, as she walked up, who would have thought of seeing you to-day? You have not ridden, of course. Uncle Edward with you? Pray come in and rest. Lotta, my dear ____ And without your hat, Lotta; do you want tocatch a cold? said Lady Matilda, kissing her daughter. It is not sum- mer, though the sun is shining, and _____ 86 THE BABYS GRANDMOTHER. You are often without yours, mamma. I am different. I am not a catch. coldy person, and I have a thicker mop of hair, said Lady Matilda frankly. Be- sides which, I dont kr~ow that you ever saw me sitting out of doors in a sharp frost ~vith a bare head. I had only sat down for a moment. But your mother is certainly right, my dear, said Robert; I ought to have thought of that, if you did not. I will get your hat at once, and he ~vas starting off. No; stop; let me go myself, said Lotta, rising somewhat heavily, for Lotta had not grown thinner since we saw her last. You are busy, Robert, and I have nothing to do. Let me go. Not at all. Stay where you are. I am never busy if you need me, rejoined he heartily. I am only sorry that I did not notice before that you required a hat. Lady Matilda, the wheelbarrow will dirty your dress; allow me. He drew it aside, and passed on to the house. As he did so, he did not seem nearly so ridiculous as usual: Matilda felt no inclination to scoff, and looked after the retreating fig- ure with a sensation that was almost new. He ~vas a poor specimen of a man, this Robert, but was he not a good husband? What would it be like to have even such a husbandone who would spontane- ously avow after more than a years mat. rimony that he was never busy if his wife required an attention? And she actually found herself taking note for the future, and with a sense of something like shame for the past, that there might be worse things in the world than an over- drawn politeness, when it was thus carried into the recesses of home life. There he was, that long-backed prig, stalking solemnly back, stalking along cheerfully and readily with the precious covering for his precious Lottas head; and there was she affectionately, if some- what stolidly, receiving the attention, the two quite taken up with each other for the time being. With a softer feeling at her heart than she could have at all ex- plained, Lady Matilda watched the little scene, marked the little pat on Lottas shoulder which acknowledged Lottas thanks, and Lottas satisfied, tranquil re- ception of the same, as of one used to such kindly treatment,and then the visitor rather suddenly said she would ~o indoors. She would not hear of taking any one else in with her. Lotta had let out that Robert was busy, and her mother could wait till he and Lotta ~vere at liberty. Lotta must stay with him, of course; she was a a help, quite gravely Well, I suppose I am, said Lotta. At least Robert thinks so. He says he would rather go by what I say than an architect. Of course that is going too far, but I always feel 1 understand a little of these things. Which I do not. And so, as I can be of no use My dear Lady Matilda! Of no use! Of no sort of use. I will just go in by myself, and you shall come when you are ready. Yes, I will rest, thank you. I have lots of time to stay. Dont hurry. 1 will go and fetch down baby and have a play with him; and with a quick step she tripped off merrily towards the house. Half an hour afterwards, which vas the extreme limit Mr. Hanwells decorum would permit of their remaining behind, he and Lotta found her in the drawing- room, sitting on a low seat by the fire, gazing into the embers, with the babe asleep upon her knee. They stood in front of the window as they passed, and looked in, and spoke, but no one answered, and they could not attract attention by signs. Mamma is so absent, she never notices anything when she is in these moods, said Lotta. Then, entering, Ho, mamma! what are you thinking about, in here? You were quite lost in a day-dream, I should say, just now. Rob- ert and I stood and peeped in at you through the windo~v, we thought you would have heard us; but we did not tat), for fear of disturbing baby. We thought you would have seen us, but you never looked round. The window was shut, said Lady Matilda curtly. We must have darkened the window. Perhaps you did. And we had a good look at you. Rob- ert said you made quite a pretty picture in the firelight, you and baby. Is he not a dear boy? Look at his little fat arm. How nicely it shows against your dark velvet! Robert said you ought to be painted holding him just like this, at- taching full value to the compliment, with a distinct impression that Roberts com- ments, whether expressed or ~therwise, were not always so favorable. Do you know, mamma, I really do believe, con- tinued the young matron slowly I really do believe that we shall have to shortcoat him before the three months are out; I really do. Shortcoat Robert? FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. 87 Mamma! of course I meant baby; did I not say baby? but you were not at- tending. Perhaps not, my dear; no, I dont know that I was, said Lady Matilda calmly. But do attend now, for it is really a serious matter. If any one else had sug- gested it but Mrs. Burrble herself said 1 must. Well, my dear, do it. Before the three months are out! And in the depth of winter, in weather like this! Mamma! Well, my dear, dont do it. Mamma, you are really All I mean is that he grows so tremendously fast, that I dont see how we can keep him in his long clothes any longer: he is bursting out of them everywhere; and what to do, I declare I dont know. It is nonsense making new bodies, when he really could wear short things perfectly well; and yet I do not like indeed I could not, and would not on any account, run the risk of shortcoating in this weath- er. What do you think? It is difficult to say, observed Lady Matilda thoughtfully. But her thoughtfulness was, alas! de- tected. I declare, mamma, I dont be- lieve you are thinking a bit about it, cried Lotta, unfortunately on the alert. I believe you never heard a word I said, and I was going to tell you how nice he looks in your new pelisse, mollified by the recollection ; it is really a beautiful pelisse; and oh, mamma, where can I get that kind of edging on the frock? Nurse says it is much the finest and best she has seen, and it will wash beautifully. I am very glad of it. Do you know where it could be got? And the flannel I should like to show you our flannel; I do not feel sure that it is fine enough Pray dont, my dear. I I never did know about flannel and things. And then it is so long ago, and somehow I seem to have to have lost sight of it all. I love a baby, pressing the infant ten- derly to her bosom; I love this dear little baby very much but I am afraid I do not care as I ought to do about its clothes, with a smile. Oh, but it must be dressed, said Lotta sententiously. You would not have it without anything to put on Oh yes, 1 would, laughed her mother. Well, you are odd, mamma. But you hold him very nicely, said Lotta pat- ronizingly. Do you remember the day Mr. Challoner was here the day before he left when you would put baby into his arms? How frightened he was! I declare I believe he had never had a baby in his arms before. I declare I believe you may be right, my dear. Lady Matilda was bending over the little one, and trying for her own gay tone. He was so very awkward. So very awkward. Mr. Whewell took him as handily as possible. But, continued Lotta astutely, althouah Mr. Whewell made such a fuss over baby, and gave him a very handsome mug, and said all kinds of civil things, I like Mr. Challoner really the best of the two. Mr. \Vhewell grew to be tiresome. It was very good of him to come down, I know, and of course Robert and I were pleased but he stayed too long, quite too long; and the worst of it is, Robert says he is sure he wants to be asked down again. I should not ask him though, should you? Certainly not, said Lady Matilda promptly. Robert says he believes he will offer. I think we might almost refuse him if he did offer. I should. Well, I must say I like babys other godfather the best, concluded Lotta com- fortably. Ah, but, said Matilda to herself, as she walked home afterwards, but would you say the same, my dear, if babys other godfather were to be turned into babys grandfather? And the appellation struck her as so delightfully ludicrous that she laughed aloud all by herself on the lonely road. From The National Review. A FORTNIGHT IN FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. THE action of the French in further Asia is now turning the eyes of Europe to a l)art of the world which, considerin~ its proximity to the course taken by a large majority of the vessels trading with China, is singularly little known. Saigon, it is true, is known to all Englishmen ~vho have travelled those seas in the steamers of the Messageries Companys; but their acquaintance with French Cochin China has been confined to the overpowering heat and swarms of mosquitoes, which render the twenty-four hours delay in the 83 FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. river at Saigon anything but a pleasurable dived black and white kingfishers in one. The number of otlir countrymen who search of their abundant prey. The even- have taken advantage of the opportunity ing was not so peaceful: it ~vas rendered to visit the Khmer ruins described in this hideous by thousands of mosquitoes, and article is so very small, and there are so gruesome smells of great power and va- many who pass that way, that perhaps a riety, wafted now and again from the short account of a trip, which will most banks, said to arise from the frying of thoroughly repay them, may induce some certain fish for the purpose of extracting to get the necessary introductions and their oil, but bad enough to have been disembark at Saigon, instead of hurrying the outcome of a holocaust of Cambod- from it ~vithout regret as if there were gians.. nothing in its neighborhood worth see- Early next morning the Harpon cast ing. anchor opposite Phoom Peogh, the capi - Cambodgia is perhaps as little known tal of Cambodgia, a dirty arrangement in as any kingdom in the great continent of brown of little mud-houses, raised high Asia; ancf~et it once boasted buildings, out of the water on piles for fear of floods, the ruins of which, now to be seen on its with nothing imposing about it, unless a confines, are as well worth inspection as brown handbell - shaped brick-and-stone any in Egypt, and, with that exception, erection to Buddha, which stands at the more so perhaps than any in the world. back of the town on a little conical hill, The chance of travel brought Lady Har- be called so. These hillocks are to be ris, myself, and two friends, in January, metwith not unfrequently, but whether 1882, to Saigon, the capital of French of volcanic or artificial origin none could Cochin China ; whence, thanks to the tell us. The country round them pre- kindness of M. de Villiers, the then gov- sents no appearance of volcanic action, ernor, we were enabled to make and whilst the rock of which they are formed in great comfort the journey to the ruins frequently does. of Angkor Wat. The present ruler of Cambodgia, Noro- The gunboat Harpon commanded dom I., has the advantage of being under by M. Picard, naval lieutenant fully the French protectorate; a fact which, for provisioned for the ten days voyage, was fear of mistake, is made known to the pub- I)laced at the disposal of the party; and lic in letters several inches long on a no- on the morning of January 6th she was tice board outside the residence of the steaming up the waters of the broad river chief French official. Me-kong, by whose aid the French once The front of the kings palace stands in hoped to open up trade with Yunnan, a a courtyard, which contains several other hope frustrated by the unnavigability of buildings, the most remarkable being the its upper waters. Up it for about one public ballet-hall. This consists of two hundred and twenty miles lay our course, very long and narrow roofed sheds, run- and very varied were the scenes it pre- ning parallel to each other. That in which sen ted. The banks are well wooded, and the performance takes place is lighted by the remarkable resemblance which, at a gaudy gilt metal oil-lamps, hung from the little distance, tropical trees have to roof, which is supported by numerous English, caused them to bear a close like- wooden pillars. At one end of this build- ness to the banks of our Thames in sum- ing, otherwise open to the winds of heav- mer; but there the resemblance ceased; en, is a hideous wooden erection, indiffer- The craft on the river consisted alto- ently representing rocks, and over that gether of either huge house-boats or little two gilt-framed looking-glasses. The gondola-like canoes, between some of floor is matted, and a curious balcony, the which latter exciting races might no~v and use of which no one could explain, is sup- then be seen taking place; otherwise, ported on one row of pillars about four everything was very peaceful. Dusky feet from the ceiling. A capital N and families gazed mildly at us from beneath an imperial crown are thrown indiscrimi- the ancestral cocoanut patch; water-oxen nately about on the lamps, lintels, and turned up their noses at us, in that super- door-posts, to let every one know that cilious way they have, from the muddy Norodom is king. The other shed is for water in which they stood immersed to the the spectators, and contains a railed-off chine; little white egrets and great cranes enclosure, forming the royal box; the stood on the waters edge with their long wall, which divides it from the place where necks and beaks pointing at the sky in a the ladies of the court sit, being decorated straight line, or flapped owlishly across with a portrait of M. Gravy, two indiffer- our track; whilst everywhere darted and ent representations of battle-scenes, and FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. 89 two likenesses of Chinese worthies. In one corner, at the moment of our visit, were seated some scantily clad but earnest Cambodgian students, reading aloud from palm-leaf manuscripts; whilst in another stood, in solemn contemplation of M. Gravy, a cream-colored pony. Next we inspected an equestrian statue in bronze of King Norodom, of a very Napoleonic character. It stands in a place, which had been originally a square, surrounded by a handsome balus- trade, with broad walks, ornamented with bronze vases and lions, intersecting it; the whole laid out and the statue set up not twenty years ago. At the present time there is hardly a vase left on its pedestal, or a pedestal in decent repair. The lions which defended the base of the statue are no longer rampant ; the bal- ustrade has caved in; and one corner of the place has evidently been let out in lots for building purposes. Consider- ing that some six thousand pounds were spent on this absurd imitation of European style, it would have been wiser if it had been placed above high-water mark. The best remains to be told. The statue had evidently been designed by an artist who knew nothing of Cambodgia, for he had put the king into a French generals uni- form and on to a gigantic horse, whereas the ponies of the country are very small; the real reason for these incongruities being, that Norodom, anxious to leave behind him something more monumental than his good deeds, had caused to be purchased for him in France a ready. made equestrian statue, and substituted for the original head a likeness of himself. The inscription on the plinth is to the effect that it was presented to him by his loving people. The following story, illustrative of his devotion to French manners and customs, is told of King Norodom, but must be taken for what it is worth. A few years back some European visitors, soon after their arrival at Phnom Pengh, were, much to their gratification, honored by a visit from his Majesty. Among other topics of conversation, the mode of carrying out military executions in France was dis- cussed, and received marked attention from the king, w ho, in fact, introduced the subject. The visit came to an end, and Norodom retired. Whilst the party were comparing notes as to his affability, courtesy, and intelligence, several shots were heard, and, on inquiry, it turned out that Norodom, having learnt all he could about military executions, had at once proceeded to give a practical illustration of this recently acquired knowledge on the persons of sundry ladies of his harem, whose entire devotion to himself he had reason to doubt. In the afternoon a visit was paid to the palace where the king was to hold a lev6e. The costumes of the party were varied, some in full evening dress, some in black swallow-tails and white ducks, some with white neckties, some with black, some with high waistcoats, some ~vith low, and some with none at all; the happy pos- sessor of a pair of grey kid gloves was regarded with much envy. Walking into the palace without knocking or ringing, for the very good reason that it ~vas desti- tute of bell and knocker, we found our- selves in a gaudily painted hall, furnished with gilded tables and chairs; where presently appeared a scantily clad old gentleman smoking a cigarette, who, hay- ing glared superciliously at us for a mo- ment, retired through a door so covered with black finger-marks that we mistook it for the coal-hole; lie reappeared, how- ever, almost immediately with a bottle, and vanished. Slightly daunted by this inhospitable reception, we seated our- selves to await further events. After some time, another scantily clad individ- ual appeared, this time through the front door, and informed us that the king had a fever, and could not receive. He re- covered sufficiently, however, to entertain us in the evening at a ballet, when he proved to be an amiable-looking gentle- man of about fifty, arrayed in a white coat, a mauve shawl round his loins, ruby stockings, and black leather shoes, and wearing his hair bound up with a white fillet. The ballet took place in his private dancing-li all, ~vhichi, in addition to such lamps as those mentioned above, was lighted by the ordinary cotton-wick and cocoanut oil of the country, floating in~ very classical bronze tripods. The danc- ers dresses of scarlet and gold, sur- mounted by the gilt spire-shaped Siamese headdress, were most gorgeous, but the dances utterly tedious the sanie contor- tions of fingers, bending of knees, and ungainly spread-eagle postures that are to be seen in all native dances from India to Japan. The orchestra and chorus were, however, more worthy of notice. The latter was composed of twenty or thirty women, wearing round their shoulders bright-colored Cambodgian shawls, who sang in a very high key, and struck to- gether two sticks in time to the music. 90 FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. The orchestra, besides tomtoms, drums, and flutes, numbered a Swiss gigliara-like instrument, but of much greater range, with a very mellow tone; and another, an arrangement in a half-circle of small gongs hung on a frame, in the centre of which sat the performer using a leathern-headed dru rnsti ck. Next morning our little ironclad was once more forcing her way against a strong current up a little stream, the banks of which were covered with a jungle of maonificent bamboos, and large trees all matted together with creepers. The only flower to be seen was a large yellow one much resembling the alamanda; but it did not require them to make it a lovely scene. Hundreds of egrets, storks, cranes, bit- terns, and pelicans hovered around us, or sat solemnly on the trees, while here and there flashed, like drops from a rain- bow, great blue-blacked, red-breasted king- fishers. A rustling in the thick foliage of a creeper-covered tree perhaps attracted our attention; and there went, leaping from branch to branch, a troop of great mon keys. Presently we passed the floating village of Compong-Chnang, but put off paying it a visit until we came back. Floating vil- lages are common enough in Cambodgia, but it was the first we had seen, and our curiosity was naturally excited. Drainage commissioners are evidently unnecessary under such circumstances, for, if a neigh- borhood becomes unpleasant, the inhabi- tants have only to up-anchor and move to sweeter quarters. On our return journey we made a closer acquaintance with Coin- pong-Chnang, its gardens, its poultry- yards, and its pmg-styes; and understand that the Cambodgian pig is an exceed- ingly well-shaped, gentlemanly fellow, not in the least like your razor-backed, barrel- stomached, pike-snouted Chinese porker. The vegetables, for even the salad must be grown on a raft, are raised in pots, and the poultry share the family hearth c~ lZr- landaise. Passing through a narrow way between the houses ~ve crossed the Grand Square of Compong-Chnang, not at present built on, but presenting many eligible sites for family rafts, and arrived at the shore-built part of the town, where the mayor met and conducted us to the temple. This place of worship stands on a stone plat- form some twelve feet high, approached by a flight of steps, guarded at the base by the remains of some stone figures closely resembling the Chinese lion; on the platform have been planted mango- trees, in whose shade ~vere standing sev- eral buff, saffron, canary, gold, every shade of yellow, clad bonzes. Presenting noth- ing well worthy of remark, we passed on to the village, where we found great prep- arations for a wedding-feast, in the shape of cooking of much pig and meal cakes. The bride and bridegroom were presented to us, and received with much gratification a dollar as our wedding present; the of- ferings of their friends, chiefly eatables, were all done up in green leaves. Leaving Compong-Chnang, the stream we had left the Me-kong in the night gradually widened until it opened out into a broad expanse of water, the first of the two lakes, Cam man Tien and Cam man Dai, to the north of the second of which lies Angkor; and what, a curious sight here presented itself! A lake truly, but a wooded lake, for on either hand are copses, clumps, and ~voods, the trees form- ing which stand several feet deep in water. About midnight the Harpon cast an- chor at the northern end of the Great Lake, whence, after a few miles in sam- pans, i.e. dugouts, the journey to Angkor had to be completed in the carts of the country. The following day accordingly saw us transferred to these vehicles. The body is like nothing so much as a butch- ers tray resting between a pair of high wheels, the axles of which are of great length, and have attached to them long parallel bars lashed together, for eand aft, by cross-pieces. The pole is curved in a crescent shape at the tip, which rises some seven feet from the ground, and to this tip are attached the nose-ropes of the oxen; they are thus prevented from run- ning out or getting their heads down. An hours drive brought us to our rest~ ing-place for the night, in the town of Siem-reep. This resting-placesala in the vernacular was a good-sized erection of straw hurdles on piles; with floors of thin bamboos laid some inches apart, so that there is no fear of spoiling a carpet by upsetting a basin. Our dinner very nearly came to an untimely end during this transit; for, the luggage having~been piled into bullock-carts, on the top ot one had seated himself the Chinese cook, in which precarious position he was undaunt- edly preparing the soup the fish he had already cooked whilst being poled along in one of the treacherous sampans when the bullocks took it into their heads to run away. By what sleight of hand he managed to save the eatables it is impos- sible to say, but dinner-time proved that he had done so. FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. 9 On the following morning an early start, delayed for a few moments only that we might be presented to the governor of Siem-reep the viceroy of the king of Siam, and a very great man indeed en- abled us to reach, by a dusty forest track, the causeway leading to the main entrance of Angkor Wat before the heat had be- come oppressive. How shall we describe these buildings, which present in themselves almost the only records of the great race that raised them, occupied them, and passed away? There is no reliable history of their erec- tion no certainty by whom, in what century, or in the reign of what Khmer king they were built. They have been known to the French by reason of their neighboring colonyfor little more than twenty years, practically that is; though in the fifteenth century Portuguese mis- sionaries knew of their whereabouts; and, when founii, tropical vegetation had done its worst on the more ancient, and unless active steps are taken to arrest its prog- ress, ~vill before long have left its inerasi- ble mark on the pagoda of Angkor, the only building in good repair. Who were these men of such gigantic ideas and ex- quisite skill? This much we do know of them from a manuscript in the imperial library at Peking, translated by Abel Remusat, viz., that in the nineteenth cen- tury A. D. a Chinese traveller to these - countries found a highly enlightened race, possessed of much gold and silver, and far advanced in civilization. It appears to have been frequently at war with Siam, and the point of attack for the latter peo- pie was generally the city of Angkor Thorn, i.e. Great Angkor. But Chinese records aver that as far back as the sec- ond century of our era, Cambodgia, or Tchin-la, paid tribute to China; and cer- tainly in the sixth century they were be- lieved to be in much the same state of prosperity as the Chinese travellers found them enjoying. About the fourteenth century their glory is supposed to have waned, dimmed by the power of Siam. Whence these Khmers, or Cambod ~ians, as their degenerate descendants are now called, derived their origin - whether they came north from Java, east from Cambodgia in the north-west of British India, or south from central Asia is alto- gether buried in obscurity. The little that is known was only discovered by the dili- gent search of Abe! Remusat and others in Chinese records; for, before the coin- mencement of the present century, the Cambodgians themselves depended for their history chiefly on tradition, and had no written records writings, that is to say, that could be translated, for, though there are many mural inscriptions, all but two are in Akson characters, a dead lan- guage for many years past to the li/era/i of Cambodgia and Siam. Angkor Wat is now visited by Buddhist pilgrims, and the village within the walls is inhabited by Buddhist bonzes; but Dr. Ferguson in his work, History of Eastern Architecture, says of Nakhon \Vat, as he calls it: If, however, there is one thing more certain than another, it is that Nakhon Wat was not originally erected by Buddhists, or for Buddhist purposes. In the first place, there is no sign of a dagoba, or of a vihara, or of a chaitya hall in the whole building, nor anything that can be called a reminis- cence of any feature of Buddhist archi- tecture. It is reasonable to suppose that it was originally dedicated to the worship of Brahma, and was afterwards overwhelmed by the wave of Buddhism. Our description of Angkor must be but a bald one, for it is not in our power to de- scribe accurately or in fitting language the carvings, the bas-reliefs, the terraces, the cloistered courts, the monoliths, capitals, columns, and friezes of the great pagoda; but even if we could give a fairly correct verbal picture, it would be impossible to transmit the feelings of awe that steal over the wanderer in those far-off climes, as he walks through the bat-haunted cor- ridors, or as he looks down on it from Ba-keng, the only rising ground near, of the solemn stillness that surrounds these magnificent remains of a race that is dead As he sees it then, buried in the mazes of the horizon - touching forest, he might easily imagine it to be one of those weird, grey, ghost-haunted castles that Gustave Dora loved to paint, or the enchanted pal- ace of fable with all and everything asleep in and around. The western and main entrance, a mag- nificent oval- arched gateway, is ap- proached by a causeway, the balustrades of which, as also of the steps which lead up to the arch, originalJy represented the body of the sacred seven-headed serpent carved in stone; while from each side of the arch start the walls which enclose the extensive park, wherein stands the pago- da. From the gateway to the pagoda itself runs another stone causeway, more overgrown with vegetation even than the first, out of which rise the steps leading to the main entrance of the temple. The plan of the pagoda itself is, roughly 92 FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. speaking, as follows. The main building or tower, raised high above the galleries that surround it, upon a magnifi- cent basementascended by twelve pre- cipitous flights of steps, three to each face has a circular-storied roof of great height, tapering to a blunt apex; at each corner of the cloistered quadrangle, in the centre of which it stands, and about forty yards from it, rises a smaller tower of similar shape; from midway between each of which, connecting the sides of the quadrangle with the tower, and so forming a cross, run galleries open at the sides. The cloisters of this quadrangle form the first enceinte, fifty feet below which is the second, and thirty feet below that again the third enceinte. The galleries of all are parallel to one another, while those of the second and third are on the western side connected by three more galleries parallel to one another bisected by a fourth, an- other cross being thus formed. Extending through the whole length of the third enceinte is to be seen the chef dwuvre,a gigantic carving in low relief upon the inner wall, eight feet high and eleven hundred yards long. Finely carved pillars support the roof on the opposite side, sufficient lic~ht being thus introduced to show off the carving. One cannot but admire the ~visdom of the architect, who, realizing the enemies he had to contend with, succeeded in protecting his work gracefully, and at the same time admitted sufficient light. Neither Boro-boda in Java, nor Madura in British India, exhibit such foresight. The alleys of the former expose its wonderful carvings to the heat and damp of the tropics, with a result only too apparent on the weather-frayed stones ; while the great hall of the latter is a dingy, smoky, oily hole, in which ad- miration of the great monoliths is strongly qualified with disgust at the temperature, atmosphere, and want of li~ht. The great bas-relief of Angkor, which to our mind is superior in execution to anything at either of the above-named temples~ presents, among other carvings most worthy of the closest inspection, several different types of the human face, many animal forms, huge battle-scenes replete with incident and full of life, the capture and exportation by their con- querors of slaves, the infliction of tor- tures, as well as scenes of a more peaceful character. Many of the stones, from one to two feet square, on which these carv- ings are executed, and which form the inner side of the gallery, have taken a remarkably fine polish, looking like highly glazed earthen-ware; and on a few of the chief figures may be seen the remains of the gold leaf which once covered them. The best-known part of the has-relief is a representation of part of the Ramayana the song of battles showing the great contest between Ramas allies the mon- keys, armed with clubs, and the Yakshas, or demons, armed with bows and pikes. In one part may be seen Rama himself, carried by the king of the monkeys; in another, a chariot and its occupants at- tacked; in a third, two monkeys trying to stop the onward progress of a chariot, the agonized expression of their faces clearly showing how impotent are their efforts, whilst everywhere beneath the fury of the battle lie the dead. Again in another place may be distinguished the wounded showing their injuries to the doctors, who are tending their disabled comrades. In this part of the work it is curious to ob- serve that the horses tails are invariably hairless, whilst elsewhere they are as flowing as an Arabs. Besides horses, one may see carved on the waIl elephants, huge apteryxes, tigers rhinoceros, and deer, and covering the wall along half the length of one gallery, the great seven- headed serpent. In another gallery, companies of sol- diers are to be seen marching two and two, or in single file, the dressing of their bodies being quite perfect; whilst further on slaves are being driven from their homes by gigantic captors; here is one trying to escape despite his chains, there another begging on his knees to be spared the blows his brutal driver deals merci- lessly around. Dr. Ferguson says One bas-relief, however, is occupied by a different subject, popularly supposed to repre- sent heaven, earth, and hell. Above is a pro- cession so closely resembling those in Egyp- tian temples as to be startling. The king is borne in a palanquin very like those seen in the sculptures on the banks of the Nile, and accompanied by standards and emblems which go far to complete the illusion. In the middle row sits a judge with a numerous body of assessors, and the condemned are thrown down to a lower region, where they are represented as tortured in all the modes which Eastern ingenuity has devised. Perhaps there is nothing in this great work more worthy of study than the dif- ferent types of face to be found in it. The slaves have an Ethiopian, some of the soldiers the old Egyptian cast of countenance, whilst here and there one would suppose the sculptor had been in ancient Greece, so correct are the profiles. FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. 93 There are but few stones in this magnifi- cent temple not carved in some way or other, whilst some of those which form the roofs of the galleries are certainly carved on both sides. Imagine the accu- racy of design and fineness of execution, which turned out stones to form an arched roof without mortar or cement, every stone carved on both sides, and finished so beautifully as to drop into its place and hardly show the division between it and the next, the pattern at the same time on both sides being uninterrupted! The columns, ~vhich support the roofs of the galleries and halls, are frequently monoliths, with bases and capitals of beautiful design; where they are not mon- oliths, every block is covered with carv- ings in low relief; those which form the door-posts being particularly fine; and, most wonderful of all, every pillar is essentially of the Roman Doric order, which does not occur anywhere in India. The design in the tracery is certainly very similar throughout, but so graceful that the eye does not weary of it. The arch of the roofs is a peculiar oval one, and is the only one anywhere about the buildings, for the lines of all the door- ways and windows are rectangular. The window spaces, whether open or closed, as they are in places with stone slabs, have in either case curious grooved stone columns placed perpendicularly in them. The galleries of the upper quadrangles are not ornamented with anything so mag- nificent as the great bas-relief, but most of the stones forming the walls are finely carved, and in every niche and corner on the exterior, as high as the main tower, are tevadas, i.e., angels of heaven, beau- tifully executed in low relief, some in a marvellous state of preservation. To this meagre description of Angkor Wat may be added the fact that, to whomsoever originally dedicated, it is now visited by many native pilgrims of the Buddhist faith. But before leaving it we feel tempted to make one more extract from Dr. Fer- gusons most interesting work: The sculptures of Nakhon Wat are sufficient to prove the state of perfection which the art of transport had reached in this community. In these there are numerous representations of chariots, all with wheels from three to five feet in height, and with sixteen spokes, which must be of metal, for no London coaclibuilder of the present day could frame anything so light in wood. The rims, too, are in metal, ai~d apparently the wheels turn on the axle. Those who are aware how difficult a problem it is to make a perfect wheel, will appreciate how much is involved in such a perfect solu- tion of the problem as is here found. But it requires a knowledge ef the clumsiness of the Romans and our medi~val forefathers in this respect, and the utter barbarism of the wheels represented in Indian sculptures and still used in India, to feel fully its importance as an in- dex of high civilization. If, however, the Cainbodgians were the only people who, before the twelfth century, made such wheels as these, it is also probably true that their architects were the only ones who had sufficient mechanical skill to construct their roofs wholly of hewn stone, without the aid either of wood or concrete, and who could dovetail and join them so beautifully that they remain watertight and perfect after five cen- turies of neglect in a tropical climate. Except in the works of the old pyramid-building Egyp- tians, I know nothing to compare with it. When we put all these things together it is difficult to decide whether we ought most to admire the mechanical skill which the Cam- bodgian architects displayed in construction, or the largeness of conception and artistic merit which pervades every part of their de- signs. These alone ou~,ht to be more than sufficient to recommend their study to every architect. To the historian of art, the wonder is to find temples with such a singular combi- nation of styles in such a localityIndian temples constructed with pillars almost wholly classical in design, and ornamented with bass- reliefs so strangely Egyptian in character. To the west of the pagoda stands the village of Angkor, our resting-place for the night, the only available house in which we found already occupied by three French gentlemen, viz., a sculptor taking casts of the bas-reliefs, a photographer, and a doctor. The chief of this mission, M. de Ia Porte, was at the time lying ill at Saigon, but eventually recovered. This house differed from our lodging of the previous night in that it had no walls at all; and, until a screen of mats and wine- cases had been rigged up, nothing in the shape of a separate apartment for a lady. What with our party and servants, and the members of the mission and theirs, the cane floors of the central dais and the gallery round it were somewhat crowded when we came to turn in for the night. Before that time arrived, however, we had in the afternoon, when the sun had lost some of its power, visited other ruins. Going out at the west gate, along the stone causeway flanked by sacred lakes, in which water buffaloes, up to their backs in their favorite element, were placidly munching the wet grasses, while all around them and even on their backs stood the great white cranes, and turning north- 94 FRENCH COCHIN CHINA AND CAMBODGIA. wards into the forest we passed, after half an hours drive, under the grand entrance of Anrkor Thorn, a magnificent but ruined gateway, with the oval arch peculiar al- most to Khmer architecture. The roof appears to have been of the same shape as that of the towers at Angkor Wat; and on it, looking towards the points of the compass, can be discerned four gigantic sphynx-like faces; and above the north- ern of these was growing a great tree, the roots of which came creeping down the walls like huge pythons. In the prosperous times of this country, the walls starting from this gateway en- closed a great city, numbering t~venty thousand houses and some fine temples, of which last only two remain to show that there ~vere giants in those days. On through the forest ~ve drove, ~vith now and then a glimpse of elderly mow keys gazing indignantly at us, while their wives and children went jumping off from bough to bough like squirrels; under the great trees, from which the natives obtain the turpentine in which they dip their torches, each with a black hole burnt in its side for the liquid to collect in, but flourishing nevertheless; llianas, almost as long as the trees themselves are high, coming down as straight as lightning-rods from the topmost branches; with here and there, for a bit of color, great bunches of purple orchids. Having glanced at the ruined temple of Angkor Thorn in far too ruinous a state for description and the statue of the Leper King, we turned back to the tem- ple of Baion, perhaps the most impressive of all. This was originally a central pa- goda, surrounded by some fifty smaller towers, on every one of x~hich were the four sphynx-like faces. On each floor are the ruins of quaint little courts, with deli- ciously cool cloisters, well adapted to pro- tect the inmates from the tropical sun; dark galleries with bright pictures of green trees at the end, and precipitous staircases. Everywhere roots and creep- ers are pushing their determined ~vay, forcing asunder the unmortared stones, too surely indicating that, gigantic though it be, Baion is doomed. It will be indeed deplorable if the rapid and destructive steps of tropical vegeta- tion upon these remarkable buildings are not soon arrested ; and it is to be regret- ted that the country, in which those named and others stand, is no longer under the rule of the king of Cambodgia. For the French, ~vith all the good will which they evince in the world to preserve them, are unable to take the same steps in Siamese territory as they could in a country over which they exercise protection, and ~vith the administration of which they have very recently more immediately concerned themselves. The return journey to Saigon was une- ventful but for two things. ~he one was the sight and audience of the famous musical kites. These huge toys have fastened to them a little stringed instru- ment, of the nature of an iEolian harp, from which the musical sounds, composed of variations on four notes, produced by the action of the wind on the strings pro- ceed; and when four or five of these monsters are soaring placidly in the heav- ens the air is filled with harmony. The other event occurred at Siem-reep, where we found on arrival an intimation from the governor that he meant to dine with us that night. All the resources of the expedition were at once called upon; the last tins of preserved meats and veg- etables were opened, the last old rooster was solemnly slaughtered, and grave were the consultations whether the candles would look better stuck to the table in their own grease or fixed in empty claret- bottles. The great man arrived in state, pre- ceded by torch-bearers, a slave holding the vice-regal umbrella over his head, though it was after dark and no rain fall- ing, and followed by a numerous retinue. He was dressed much as we had seen him the day before, with the exception of a white coat intead of a black one, and was accompanied by his eldest son, a young gentleman of some twenty years, who had but recently returned from Bangkok, where he had been sent to receive his education ; resulting, so far as the Enolish language is concerned, in a thorough knowledge of three ~vords, Yes, No, Brandy, all of which were at once re- peated with pride and volubility. The governor was most affable; and, having got rid of his mouthful of betel-nut, washed his mouth out and ejected the contents at his retainers, who sat cower- ing in a half-circle behind him, made an excellent dinner; after which the whole party l)roceeded to his residence to witness aballet. The monotony of the dance was enlivened by the presence of another of the governors sons, a precocious boy of about five, who smoked incessantly every- thing we offered him cigarettes, cigars, cheroots, all were fish that came to his net, until we offered him one of the vice-regal manillas; and that he politely declined. A RENEGADE. The following morning saw us again on board the Harpon ; and two days later we cast anchor at Saigon, none the worse for the trip, for aiding us to accomplish which, and thereby giving us the opportu- nity of seeing one of the most remarkable groups of buildings, and perhaps some of the finest stone-carving in the world an opportunity, which, at the tune of our visit, had not offered itself to more than ten or flfte~n Englishmen, I believe we were and are most grateful to his Excel- lency the governor of Saigon - HARRIS. From Macmillans Magazine. A RENEGADE. CHAPTER I. INVALIDS may be pretty accurately di- vided into two clasres, those, namely, who are likely to live, and those who are likely to die, and for my own part I believe I belong to the former category. My beset- ting ailmentasthmabegan when I was eight year~ old, and seems likely, as far as I can judge, to last until I am able to write myself that age with a second figure superadded. The enjoyments doubtful ones at best, as I understand of an English winter are, however, strictly prohibited to me, a sentence of lifelong, half-yearly banishment having very early in my career been pronounced, and be- ing to all appearances never likely to be now seriously intermitted. As a rule I am able to submit myself to the decree with a fair show of equanimity; a mod- erate endowment of philosophy being eked out in my case with a really remarkable capacity for conjugating that newly in- vented and decidedly un-English-sounding verb to laze. Moments however arise when even the most philosophic, or the least actively disposed, soul rebels, and when November four years ago I left En- gland for the banks of the Nile, it was, I remember, in a distinctly less cheerful and more contumacious frame of mind than usual. I had already been five times in Egypt. It followed therefore that I did not partic- ularly care about going there a sixth. I had been four times up the Nile, twice penetrating above the second cataract, consequently that entertainment had long since lost whatever novelty it once pos- sessed. Not being an Egyptologist, or as little of one as a man can help being un- der the circumstances, I felt no hankering 95 to rifle the tombs of the Pharaohs myself, and no great curiosity as to who else may be engaged at the moment in so doing. In short, I was bored, and by way, there- fore, of compromising flatters, I resolved on this occasion to cut short the regula- tion winter by a couple of months, and leaving Cairo about the bedinning of March, towards the middle of that bois- terous month I found myself at Venice. Here, after a weeks dawdling amongst. the canals and lagtines, I proposed mak- ing my way north by easy stages. At Turin, however, I was encountered by such gales of wind, accompanied by such torrents of sleet and snow sweeping down from the Alps, as called unavoidably for a halt, and the newspapers reporting the weather, if possible, worse elsewhere I was obliged to reconsider my de- cision. To push on to Paris under the circumstances was, I felt. a folly, particu- larly as I had really no very tangible ex- cuse for so doing. Not caring therefore, to return to Venice, I fell back upon Genoa, intending to remain there another three or four weeks, until such time as I could with safety proceed northwards. As any one who has ever sojourned in that city knows, however, Genoa is about the worst spring quarters any ma,n sensi- tive to weather can easily select, the Mis- tral, the Tramontana, the Maestro, vorse still, the Greco that atrocious and in- genious combination of all the worst qual- ities of a north and an east wind making it at that season their chosen and especial home. I had not therefore l)een there many days before it became evident to me that as I could not go north I had better move south, and accordingly I put myself in the train for Pisa, intending to devote a couple of days to that town, and then proceed to Florence. Hardly had I started before the weather recovered its teml)er as if by magic. The deadly Greco gave place to a benign~tnt breeze, laden ~vith the combined scents of all the newly opened flowers. The sun shone; the matchless panorama unfolded itself before us as we moved. It was some time however, I must own, before these benign influences began to have any perceptible effect upon my ill humor. I had left Genoa in anything but an ami- able frame of mind. Wanting to go north, here I was, on the contrar, travel. hog due south. I had nothing earthly to do at Pisa, and, if possible, rather less at Florence, why, then, merely to ward off a probably hypothetic peril, should I give myself such an inordinate amount of trou 96 A RENEGADE. ble, I inquired of myself with petulant an- noyance. Little by little, however, the subtle charm of the scenery won me over in spite of myself. Perhaps until one has fairly tried it, one scarcely realizes how difficult it is to go on staring with consistent gloom at a landscape which in return laughs in your face, and makes mock of yotir woes at every turn. In this respect this eastern Riviera may perhaps be com- mended above every other scenic combi- nation upon the face of the earth. Na- ture has endowed the Ligurian with a mine of color of its own; a land which breaks into flowers under his feet; a sea which glitters and sparkles like diamonds; a sky whose frowns are brighter than the smiles of many a less happily endowed land; and as if all this was not enough, the unconscionable Ligurian must needs im- prove upon matters by turning colorist upon his ow~ account, painting the out- sides of his house with strange hues of purple, crimson, and fervid yellow, varied with stripes and bars, lines, dots, circles, crescents, putting in doors and windows where no doors and windows whatsoever exist, not unfrequently ending by perpe- trating some grotesque and perverse par- ody of those blue seas and snow-capped peaks visible to him without its walls. Now, whatever may be said for the ~sthetic merit of those audacious combi- nation of madders and ochres, one thing at least is certain, and that is, that a man must either be in very serious trouble in- deed, or else totally devoid of any sense of the ridiculous, who can continue to look at those amazing productions of the paint- box without sooner or later his muscles insensibly relaxing. Such, at all events, was my own experience on this occasion. Little by little my ill-humor abated. That austere frown with which I had embarked upon my journey gradually gave way to something more atune to the jocund char- acter of my surroundings. Though neither an author nor an artist, nor belonging to any of those sensitive classes whose souls are supposed to be s~vayed by every fresh fluctuation of the barometer, that subtle chemistry which lurks in blue skies and sun-swept seas affected me as it affects every other animal with eyes, and rather to my own surprise I found myself rap- idly becoming amiable and even animated under their softening and benignant sway. The train in which I had taken my place was all that was most omnibus, stopping not only at every station marked in my Bradshaw, but also at a good many others of which that conscientious guide took no cognizance at all. I was not par- ticularly disposed to quarrel with this tediousness, however. Having nothing, as I have said, to do when I arrived, it did not seem to me to be a matter of any very profound importanceat what precise moment that event took place. What, however, I did quarrel with, and what I did feel disposed to grudge, were the tunnels, which, not content ~vith carrying us into the interior of the earth at the very moment when its surface became most attractive, further added to the injury by shooting out a succession of glaring lan- tern-like fiaThes into our faces, to the se- rious imperilment of our eyesight, and the no less serious acerbation of our tempers. At last, when the train drew up for a few minutes at a small, vacant-looking station a sort of smiling oasis between two yawning abysses of gloomthe im- pulse suddenly took me to go no further. The place looked inviting, I thotight. True, I had never heard its name before. I had never heard of any one having stayed there, but what of that? There was nothing like trying. I was obviously in the mood for an adventure, and here was an adventure which seemed to sug- gest it self unsought. Have you an hotel here? I inquired of a porter, who, attracted probably by my irresolute demeanor, had come up to the door of the carriage. He threw out each finger separately, as an Italian does when he wishes to empha- size an assertion. An hotel? Ma si, signore an excel- lent hotel not here, but up there at San Biagio yonder. If the signore would only give himself the trouble to alight. The signore did alight; slowly, deliber- ately; half ashamed of his own absurdity; half doubtful even now ~vhether to put that absurdity into serious execution or not. Having only a portmanteau and a bundle of rugs, there was no need fortu- nately to make an application to the guard. Five minutes more and the yawn- ing mountain had swallowed up train, guard, and all, and I was left staring blankly around me, suddenly awakened to the fact that I had put it out of my own power to proceed to Pisa that evening. It was too late, however, for repentance now, and the only thing left was to make the best I could of the situation. Well, and your hotel; is there an omnibus to it ? I inquired of the porter. This time he shook two fingers back- A RENEGADE. wards and forwards vigorously before his face. An omnibusbut no, signore, there is not even a road. No road? None none, that is, that can be called cczrrozzabile. But let not the signore be disquieted on that account. There was a path, a very admirable path; he himself would with pleasure conduct the signore. For some way this path of ours skirted the edge of cornfields, sky-blue at present with lupins or tawny with marigolds and poppies. Here and there it was arched, too, by vines just then beginning to expand their leaves and tightly curled tendrils. From the outside the town itself sho~ved a somewhat stern and de- serted aspect, but there was, as I soon found, no lack of life when once we got inside. At the bottom of a long, much broken-down and dilapidated flight of steps a pedlar had just opened out his ~vares gorgeous, if flimsy, Manchester cottons, and dazzling tartans, red, yellow and bottle-green, sprawling about over the niossgrown and decaying masonry. As we advanced the crowd, too, seemed to thick. en. Every window, every loggia, every balcony showed its head or its group of heads. Girls, bare-armed, bare-necked, bare-footed, several with huge masses of stone balanced upon their heads, were coming up the steps. Old women, with distaffs in their hands, were busily twisting tow through their wrinkled and sunburnt fingers. Old men, too, sat on the door- steps or leaned against the wall. One or two of the latter had little capes of black velvet, trimmed with tarnished silver braid, about their toil-bent shoulders. There had been a fesf~z that morning, my guide informed me a great affair; the bishop himself had assisted at it. It was a pity, a thousand pities, he observed compassionately, that the signore could not have arrived a few hours earlier. The street, or rather path, up which we were mounting was about as perpendicu- lar as a path can be which does not break into actual steps. A sort of an irregular brick-work pavement ran down the mid- dle, but the holes in it ~vere something portentous, while on either side the natu- ral rock on which the town grew jutted up in undisguised peaks and promontories. The steps leading into the houses, too, belonged mostly to the same description of natural architecture; the bricks which had once apparently supplemented it hay- - ing n ow mostly retired, while the rock LIViNG AGE. VOL. XLVI, 2347 97 retained its original solidity, rising in ir- regular lumps not unlike the nodules of flint upon the surface of a chalk-pit. At last we arrived at the uppem- level or platform upon which the hotel stood. Well, it w-as not so very bad not half so bad, probably-, as I had every right to expect. It w-as a brown-faced, simple- minded, straggling sort bf a locanda, un- pretending, as the guide-books say half inn, in fact, and half public-house, with a huge, withered bush fashioned over the door, a row of cane-bottomed chairs in front, and a little vine-covered $ergoia, where tw-o old gentlemen in nightcaps were sipping their wine from two thin- beaked, gree n-necked flasks. Overhead was a row of windows shaded with vene- tian blinds and edged with neatly painted jambs, which doubtless gave light to the guest-chambers. Whatever mine hosts private amaze- merit at my appearance may have been, he disguised his sentiments with the adroit- ness of his nation, and proceeded to usher me up a trembling staircase into one of the before-mentioned apartments. It was a clean little room enou~h, with a brown cemented floor, four whitewashed walls, and a ceiling adorned with strangely twisted scrolls, each scroll ending with what would appear to have been intended for the semblance of a human figure. Could I have dinner in an hour? I next inquired. Of course I could have dinner in an hour, or at any hour. The hotel was not at present full rather, in fact, the con- trary. There was another ~uest, however, a young gentleman, who by a miracle had ordered his dinner for the same hour; the two signoi-es should be served together. This essential point decided, I pres- ently sauntered out again and sat me down upon one of the stone ledges which ran along both sides of the little piazza, Even without the assurance of my con- versational friend of the station I could have guessed that a f~sta was in prog- ress, it being difficult otherwise to account for the evident buzz and tremor of excite- ment, the endless squeaking of penny whistles and ringing of cracked bells, which had been going on without inter- mission from the moment I set foot in San Biagio. All the world and his wife, not to speak of his sons and daughters, his dogs, his goats, and his grandchildren, seemed to be promenading in the immedi- ate vicinity of the perch I had selected. Below me the big town wall, shaggy with l)ellitGries and large sedums, dropped A RENEGADE. 98 some thirty or forty feet into a tangle of olives and chestnuts, the latter still only in half leaf. I could see the bluish, half- ripened spikes of barley pricking their way upwards between protecting lattices of yellow canes. Beyond, a few scattered houses showed pink or brown amongst the leaves. As far as I could see, however, all this part of the region was at present deserted, the inhabitants having doubtless come to swell the pageant within the walls. Presently the bell of the church, which had been silent awhile, broke out into fresh clamor. Some of the old men who had formed part of the procession began mounting up the steps in its direction. Nobody else, however, appeared to avail themselved of the invitation. From where I was sitting I could see its dusky inte rior, which seemed empty, save for two or three tinsel-clad saints, whose brilliantly pink faces blushed inanely out of the ob- scurity. Outside, however, the crowd grew and grew, streaming up the steps, laughing, eating cherries, chattering. The stairs were so excessively steep that these figures as they ascended from below had an oddly melodramatic effect, as though each had been pushed up separately through sonic invisible trap-door, and I amused myself for some time watching these successive apparitions as they rose one by one as it were frm the very bow- els of the earth. I had not been long, however, engaged in so doing before a new figure, of a totally different type from the rest, attracted my attention. At first I could only see its head, or rather hat, which was of bright yellow straw, with a huge bunch of crimson gladiolus stuck in one side. Erratic headgears are rather ihe rule than otherwise in Italy, so that this alone would not particularly have ar- rested my notice. As the wearer of the straw hat came up the stairs, however he gradually displayed first the upper por- tions of a suit of light grey summer iweed, then a pair of knickerbockers of the same material, finally red stockings and low shoes, made conspicuous with large buckles. Come, come, thought I to myself, evidently I am not the only tourist here. Those shoes are no products surely of San Biagio? While this was passing through my mind I had myself become an object of observation. Having just reached the corner where I sat, the young man in the straw hat glanced at me for a moment with an expression of mingled astonish- ment and, as I thought, disfavor; then, passing abruptly on, lie hurried down the steps which led out of the town, skipping nimbly from step to step, and disappear- ing from sight the next moment along a narrow, weed-grown pathway. I waited a little longer, wondering, rather, who and what lie was, tvondering, too, whether this procession, of which whispers had reached me, was about to take place. Nothing, however, happened; the people continued to drift about in more or less aimless groups ; the sun saiik gradually behind the poplars towards an horizon already colored to receive it. Presently a sharp - edged little breeze swee~)ing across the lulls from the oppo- site side aroused me to a consciousness of the fact that a stone ledge upon the slopes of the Appenines was not perhaps precisely the most suitable position in the world for a person of asthmatic tenden- cies, and accordingly I descended the steps and betook myself back to my inn. The rooni into which I was presently ushered by my landlord himself in person was a long, low apartment, made lower by a ceiling adorned, with heathen divinities of the same peculiar and arbitrary type of anatomy as those which adorned my chain- ber above. A cloth had been laid across one end of the bare brown table, and here two places I found had been set. 1 had just bOt through the soup an oleaginous concoction of the consistency of porridge when my fellow convive entered. As I was prepared to expect, it was the gentleman in the yellow hat whom I had already seen upon the piazza. He hesitated a niinute at the entrance, glanc- ing with evident disfavor at the arrange- inent which had made him my temporary companion; finally, however, lie advanced, and with a movement of the head ~vhich may have been meant for a botv, but was not particularly like one, seated himself beside me at the festive board. I had been puzzled at first sight as to his nationahity~ Germans in Italy are rather given to breaking out into wild ex- travagances of dress, and it had struck me at first sight that this oddly attired individual might not improbably prove to be a German possibly a German painter. On a nearer view, however, this supposi- tion vanished. There are indications of nationality which go beyond anything which dress or even language can furnish, and these indications convinced me, even before my neighbor opened his lips, that I was in the presence of a compatriot; with which conviction I presently re- quested him, in my native tongue, to hand A RENEGADE. 99 me the pepper, that condiment chancing to be at the moment nearer to his elbow than to my own. He started, and for an instant I fancied that he was going to turn a deaf ear to my surely very inoffensive request. Ap- parently, he thought better of this, hand- ing the article in question, however, with an averted face and a backward movement of the head which seemed to intimate that the compliance was not to be taken as an excuse for any further assaults upon his privacy. I was a little piqued, and not a little amused. If, however, he preferred to eat the bread of silence and unsociability, why, I, too, could resign myself to that necessity; and accordingly I addressed myself to my dinner with as much equa- nimity as its very moderate merits would admit of. Apparently my companion was quite unable to imitate my equanimity. A more restless individual I have rarely, I think, encountered. First he fid~eted a good deal up and down in his chair; next he poured out for himself, and drank ,glass after glass of water. At last, after but- toning and unbuttoning his coat several times, he walked over to the open yin- dow, pushed it still more widely open, throwing himself back with a sort of gasp into his chair as he returned. Tremendously hot this evening, aint it ? he said at last. Is it? I answered rather drily. Well, no, I shouldnt have said so my- self. In fact, before you moved, I was rather thinking of asking you to close that window. My companion stared as if I had asked him to set fire to the house. Close it! he ejaculated. It is no matter, of course, if you would prefer not doing so, I continued politely. It is only that as I suffer from asthma I naturally dislike draughts; added to which I have just come from Egypt, so that I feel a good deal the difference of climate. It was hotter there, then, than even it is here, was it? Very much hotter. Good Lord! There was something so ingenuous in this involuntary exclamation that my re- sentment died away, and I began to feel an amused wonder as to who this very naive fellow-countryman of mine could be, and what had brought him to San Biagio of all places in the universe. You were hardly well-advised in com- ing to Italy so late in the season if you dislike warmth so much, were you? I observed dispassionately. My companion reddened. I love Ita- ly, but I detest hot weather, he answered petulantly. And yet it is not nearly as warm to. day as it often is in London, I persisted. Very likely. But I have never been in London. I stared at him to see if he could be seriously in earnest. Englishmen and Britons generally are frequently accused of being better acquainted with other countries than their own ; still, for a man to come abroad without having ever taken the trouble to make himself acquainted with the metropolis of his native land seemed a degree of inattention not easily conceivable. Never been in London? I repeated inquiringly. Never. I took the steamer at Glas. gow.. You are Scotch, I responded, this time not inquiringly. Yes, I am Scotch. It was said curtly, almost defiantly; and, turning away, my fellow-lodger ad- dressed himself resolutely to his dinner with an air which seemed to proclaim that no compulsion short of torture should again wring another xvord from his lips. As I ate my fried fish, which was good, and dallied with my cutlet, which I am bound to say was detestable, my mind was a good deal exercised with specula- tions as to the identity and previous history of this very decided variation of the genus tourist. Despite his preposterous clothes and his uncompromising manners, he ap- peared to me to be a gentleman; at all events, he had not at all the air of a shop. boy who had bolted with the contents of his masters till. Indeed, what shop-boy particularly what Scotch shop-boy, it may be asked would have selected San Biagio, of all places, in which to make merry upon his stolen booty? On the other hand, it was at least equally evident that my new acquaintance had some doubtless excellent, reasons of his own for desiring as much as possible to repel all unnecessary intimacies, and not unnat- urally this disposition of his had an imme- diate and an irresistibly stimulating effect upon my own curiosity. Meanwhile, that it was no business of mine was pretty obvious, and accordingly, when our land- lord returned, I diverted my unappre- ciated powers of conversation to him, making sundry inquiries as to the hour of post, also as to the departure of trains I00 A RENEGADE. next morning for Pisa. He was not less prompt with his replies than are the gen- erality of his countrymen, and I was not long in being furnished, not merely with an answer to my questions, but with a general catalogue raisonude of the social life, politics, and resources of San Biagio and its vicinity. I observed that my unknown compa- triot, though he did not join in this con- versation, listened to it with marked at tention, anti when we were again alone he remarked abruptly, How well you talk! You seem to un- derstand everything he says. Well, more or less, I responded mod- estly. You see I have spent several winters in Italy, so I ought to be able to speak the language. These people here, though, talk a jargon that it is by no means easy to follow, I added. A jargon? It is not a good place to come to tc) learn Italian, then? That depends upon whom you find to teach you, I answered smiling. Edu. cated peopleif there are any educated people here talk correctly enough, I suppose, everywhere. The common peo- ple, on the other hand, are barely intelli- gible. Dont you observe that they talk a dialect that can hardly be said to be Italian at all? I should not understand them, how- ever well they talked, he replied gloom- ily. People say Italian is such an easy language, but I cant say Ifind it so. It is easier, though, dont you think, than either French or German? I an- s wered. Very likely it may be, but I dont know either of them. I know Latin and Greek though, and some Hebrew, he added not, however, to talk. it is possible that my countenance may have expressed some slight amusement at this last assertion, for my companion went on rather defiantly, Latin is supposed to help a man tre- mendously in italian, but 1 cant say I see that it helps me. Perhaps you have not been long enough in the country to make a fair trial 1 said consolingly. I have been here three months. Not all that time, surely, at San Bia- gio? No, I was a fortnight first at Milan. Even so that seems to me a large pro- portion to give to a place like this, and on your first visit too to Italy. There are so many other places of greater interest to see. I dare say there may be, but I did not come to look at places I came to find a friend. Some one who lived here? I hazard- ed, seeing that he stopped short. Yes. He told me so, at least. It was a man I knew at Glasgow. None of these people though appear to have ever heard his name, although I wrote it out upon a bit of paper and showed it to nearly everybody I met. You must remember this is not the only San Biagio in Italy, I answered. Possibly your friend may be living at one of the others. This seemed to be an entirely new idea to my companion. I didnt know there were several San Biagios, he replied. There ought not to be different places of the same name in one country, ought there? Perhaps not, ideally, I answered. Still it does happen practically pretty frequently. Even in England one meets a good many cases of the same sort. I re- member once driving through Hampshire, and I came to quite the smallest village, I think, I ever beheld in my life three thatched cottages all in a line, with a pump and a one-storied schoolhouse. A little girl was coming along with a mug of beer in her hand, so I stopped her and asked her what was the name of the place. London, sir, she answered promptly; and then opened mouth and eyes wide with astonishment because I burst out laughing at the announcement. My companion did not appear to be at all as much struck as I expected with my little anecdote a lack of appreciation which upon reflection I accounted for on the grounds of that metropolis being nearly as unfamiliar to him as to my Hampshire maiden. The ice thus broken, however, he speedily became communicative, and from that time up to the end of dinner our flow of conversation rarely ebbed for more than a minute at a time. CHAPTER II. THIS meal ended we returned to the piazza, the cold wind which had driven me in having by this time given place to a perfect stillness. I offered my companion a cioar, which he accepted, and we strolled backwards and forwards in the growing obscurity, watching the gyrations of the fireflies as they thridded the mazes of the cane-brakes beneath, or broke in myriad sparks against the wall, sweeping up A RENEGADE. I0I towards us as if driven skywards from some invisible furnace. Having by this time apparently made up his mind that I was a person who was to be trusted, my newly made acquaint- ance seemed to pass at a single bound from the extremity of reserve into a very abandonment of confidence. He hadnt had a single soul, he told me pathetically, to speak to for the last five weeks, except one old sailor down at the port who had picked up a few words of English in the course of his ~vanderings He had met some English people in the train and else- where, but hadnt cared to make acquaint- ance. There were reasons, he mysteri- ously added, why he did not want to see too much of his own fellow-countrymen. I was cautious, feeling that I had al- ready erred on the side of indiscretion, but it was evident that my new acquaint- ance was not a man to do things by halves, and I was not long in being made ac- quainted with the short and simple annals of his previous history. His name, lie told me, was Maclean John Donald Maclean and until the last three months he had never left Scotland, the greater part of his life having been spent in a remote parish in Banffshire. An orphan at six years old, he had been brought up by a small and repressive circle of uncles and aunts, the latter pre- dominating, and had from a very early age been destined for the service of the Scotch ministry. His uncle, the present head of the family, was himself a Presbyterian minister; so also had been his own father; so likewise, I think he said, had been his grandfather. In short, it was the estab- hished family tradition, and a minister, whether lie liked it or not, the young man accordingly was bound to be. As a matter of fact lie did not like it at all; had always, he said, detested it, and grew to detest it more and more as the years went on. When the time canie for his being sent to college, hich ad petitioned hard to be sent to an English university; his prayer, however, had been disregarded, and he had been duly despatched to Glas- gow. Here, according to his own account, he had not got on particularly weh~, and I could readily credit it. To the average youth of that practical locality so fantastic a being must decidedly have appeared in the light of an anomaly. He was fond of music, and had taken lessons in singing, had also made some progress in learning to play the flute an accomplishment which had not, as lie hinted, added to the respect with which his fellow-students regarded him. His singing-master had been a young Italian, who had come to Scotland in the hopes of making his for- tune, but was then hastening home again as soon as he had scraped together suf- ficient to pay for the journey. From Mac- leans account lie was evidently suffering severely from the distressing malady of nosta4gie; his descriptions olowi n~ ~vi th all the natural exaggerations of the exihe~ having first aroused in the latter a strong desire to visit Italy. With the regular work he had made but moderate progress. On the other hand, lie had embarked largely upon a course of philosophic or semi-philosophic readings, which, if they had no other particular re- sult, l~ad at all events sufficiently demon- strated to him that to be a Presbyterian minister was clearly not his vocation. This, upon his return home, he had can- didly announced, and had positively de- clined to proceed to the training college, which was his next predestined step. He had hardly reckoned, however, so he ad- mitted to me, upon the violence of the opposition lie was destined to encounter, while they, on the other hand, appear to have over-reckoned upon that yielding and vacillating strain which was evidently a recomizable point in his character. At all events, all the family terrors, as well as all the theolooical bolts, either forge- able in the vicinity or procurable from a distance, seem to have been at once set in motion against the offender. If lie had not been put into a dungeon and fed upon bread and water, lie had at all events supped sorrow for his contumacy. His life, lie told me solemnly, had been a burden to him, so that he must either, he felt, yield, shoot himself, or escape. The end of it was, that one day, after the do- mestic thumbscrews had been applied with even more than usual vigor, he had retired early to his bedroom, convinced, so his relations fondly believed, of the error of his ~vays; had there written two letters, one individually to his uncle, an- other collectively to his aunts; had packed up a valise of such modest dimensions as lie could carry himself; and at the first grey of morning, while the rest of the inmates were still innocently sleeping, had slipped out of the house, made his way to the nearest stagecoach, upon the roof of which he had travelled to the railway. Then, feeling that as long as he remained on Scotch soil his safety continued du- bious, lie had taken his passage upon a vessel which happened to be sailing direct to Genoa. 102 A RENEGADE. And you have actually heard nothing from any of them since? I inquired. No, nothing, he replied, with rather an air of alarm. How should I? They dont know where I am. But they may think you are dead, I said remonstratingly. Oh no, they cant think that, he re- plied ingenuously, because, you know, I have drawn my money since, from the bank at Inverness. I have a good deal of money of my o~vn, he went on to ex- plain. It was my mothers, so no one can interfere with my spending it. I came of age the week before I left home. I could not help laughing a little at the remarkable timeliness of this coincidence. I still fail to understand how you came to San Biagio of all places, I said, paus- ing in our walk to look down at the ravine which lay dark and cavernous belov us. Oh, that was on account of Simor Novaro my music-master, you know; he came from here, or at least a place of the same name, and I wanted to find him. He is the only friend I have in the world that isnt Scotch, he added pathetically. But failing to find him, why did you stay on so long? I persisted. My companion reddened; hesitated; stole a scrutinizing glance first at me, and then around and above us as though he feared the breeze might waft away what he had to say, or the fireflies convey it to other ears than those it was intended for. At last, I say, you know Italian well, really well well enough to write a letter in it, dont you? he asked abruptly. Yes, I can write an Italian letter after a fashion, I replied, perplexed at what seemed to me to be the total irrelevancy of the question. I wont promise that it ~vouId satisfy a grammarian, but 1 dare say for all practical purposes it would do well enough. Why? Is there any par- ticular letter you want me to write for you? He nodded energetically. To some one here? He nodded again; then paused, and again looked cautiously around him. The fact is its a its an offer of mar- riage, he said suddenly, with one of those abrupt bursts of confidence to which he ap- peared to be prone. An offer of marriage! I ejaculated, in a tone of profound astonishment. And an offer for whose marriage, may I ask? Then as he still continued silent, Not your own, surely? He nodded again. And to whom, if it is not an imperti- nent question, do you propose to offer yourself? I inquired. Then as he did not immediately answer, Not, surely, to any one here ?I went on ,~ lanci nginvol- untarilv round me at the small houses perched in picturesque squalor one behind the other over the wall. A third time he nodded his head. I dont want to write to her, but to her father; thats the proper thing, I know, to do. And you wish me to write and propose for you to this father, whoever he may be? Is that it? This time my new friends head went up and down like a mandarins. XVell, then, my dear Mr. Maclean, l)lease dont think me disobliging, but really Im afraid I do not see my way to doing anything of the kind, I replied, hardly able to keep from laughing, but speakin~, with all proper gravity. I could not positively undertake the respon- sibility, and you yourself would be the first to reproach me afterwards were I to do so. Added to which you are rather young, dont you think, to take such a step? Only conceive the feelings of your rela- tions ! He frowned ferociously. My relations have nothing upon earth to say to it ! he retorted an~rily. I have thrown them off. We shall probably never meet again. In fact, I dont wish to see them again. I mean to live in Italy. Well, then, setting them aside, and thinking only of yourself, you would not, believe me, be married six months no, nor two before you would begin to curse the hour you ever set eyes on the young lady, much less married her; any spare time you had over from anathema- tizing yourself being spent in anathema- tizing me for having aided and abetted you.~~ Shes the most beautiful being in the whole world ! he exciai med. Beautiful? pooh, almost all Italian women are that, more or less, at least un- til their.youth begins to wear off. But you tnay take my word for it they are not as a. rule the most comfortable wives in the world for Englishmen. I am not an Englishman. \Vell, then, for Scotchmen. Not to speak of the difference of position, which in this case without of course knowing anything about your inamorata I should imagine to be considerable. Evidently I had hit another of the A RENEGADE. 103 many points upon which my young friend was explosive. Position! he almost shouted, bring- ing his fist down upon the stone ledge be- side him with a force which must, I think, have hurt considerably. Position ! What is position? A figment! An imagina- tion! A lie! A thing got up for the ex- press purpose of keeping humanity apart. What business have people to talk of their positions? How can one human being have more of a position than an- other? You may call me a gentleman, if you choose, I cant help it if you do. I dont call myself anything of the sort. I am a man I I felt that it would be cruel to suggest that, whether or not he was the former, the latter was exactly what it did not quite appear to me that he had as yet attained to being. I therefore proceeded calmly with some of the other points of my remon- strance. No sooner ~vould you be married than you would find you had absolutely nothing in common, I said. No tastes, no sym- pathies, no antecedents, not even a mutual language.1 His face fell. Yes, thats true. Its a desperate bore, my not knowing any Italian, he said ruefully. If those fools had only had the sense to teach it to me instead of all that idiotic Greek and Hebrew! You could hardly expect them to know how rapidly you were destined to find a requirement for it, could you? I said pleasantly. Besides, that seems to me the least part of the impediment, I went on. With a little industry you might soon overcome that. There are some other things though that you could not. Wait till you see her! he retorted confidently. I fail to see how my doing that would affect the question, I replied. Very likely I might agree with you as to her appearance, but whether that would be sufficient foundation to marry upon seems to me to be a totally different matter. My companion did not appear to be paying any heed to my prudential obser- vations. I say, should you like to see her? he suddenly inquired. See her? When? XVhere? At this hour? I replied with some astonish- ment. Yes, now, immediately at least at ten oclock. You dont mean to say that youre in the habit of seeing her at that hour? Yes, regularly every evening, he an- swered, laughing. I never miss. Then, my dear fellow, allow me, as a man who has spent a good deal of time in Italy, allow me to assure you that a young. woman, an unmarried girl, who allows young men to visit her a~t this hour of the evening isnot one who other considera- tions apartyou ought so much as to dream even of marrying My new acquaintance only laughed the more, as if it was the most exquisite jest in the world pulling out his watch, and slanting it so as to allow the light of the half-risen moon to glance across its face. Come along, he exclaimed hurriedly. Well only just be in time; theres not a moment to lose. Well, then, since you insist upon my accompanying you, you must at least let me go back first to the inn for some wraps, I replied. Remember that I am an invalid, and though the evening, I own, is certainly an exceptionally warm ode, I am not sure that I have not been comoiit- ting an impudence by remaining out even as long as I have done. We returned accordingly to the inn, where Maclean waited impatiently whilst I found and duly buttoned on an over- coat. Come along! he cried, and seizing my arm with all the familiarity of an old acquaintanceship, he hurried me down the steps by ~vhich he had ascended that af- ternoon to the piazza. If this part of the town sho~ved ~veird and decrepit in the daytime, it naturally showed a hundredfold more weird and more decrepit now. Save for an occa- sional, and generally more than half ex- tinguished, oil lamp in one of the lower windows, not the vestige of any attempt at illumination ~vas to be discerned. The moon had begun by this time to struggle above the grey, semi-opaque clouds which beleaguered the lower parts of the sky; but the street, or rather vicolo, we were in was so narrow that only a stray and attenuated patch of light lay ghostlike here and there upon the centre of the pathway, or caught some distorted reflection of itself in one of the small-paned windows, stuck, as if accidentally, high up in the vacant-looking walls. Yawning openings, black as Ere- bus, and leading apparently into immeas- urable space, showed here and there at the bases of the buildings. In and out and round about the crumbling, half- 104 A RENEGADE. shapeless masses of masonry, fireflies danced and flickered, their intermittent flashings forming to the eye a sort of pat- tern or network of light linked together something like those phosphorescent or- ganisms which may be seen swarming upon the midnight surface of the sea. At last we came to the foot of a fresh flight of stairs leading in the opposite direction to the one by which we had de- scendecl. Up these stairs Maclean, who was leading, sprang rapidly so rapidly that it was as much as I could do to keep up with him. When we reached the sum- mit, we found ourselves upon the small uppermost piazza, from which, as from a pedestal, springs the tall Lombardic tower conspicuous for miles and miles around San Biagio. Most of the houses here were dark and silent as the tomb, but in one, the largest of the group, which abut- ted on to the tower itself, a light was burning in the basement story, another, a faint, bluish flame, twinkling before an image of the Madonna which projected a little from the wall between two of the windows, and was protected by an iron grating or network. Maclean, who was evidently much ex- cited, seized me again by the arm, and drew me into a corner, indicating a great block of stone upon which I was to seat myself. I obeyed, wondering not a little, and we ~vaited in the almost total darkness, the moon, which had painted for itself a broad, lozenge-shaped l)atch of light a sort of heraldic decoration upon the fur- ther side of the piazza, not having attained as yet to where we sat. Presently the clock of the church tower beneath us struck the hour of ten, the long-drawn strokes reverberating slowly across the silent town. Hardly had the last vibration died away before an upper window in the house Opposite to us opened, and a young woman appeared at the case- ment holding a lighted taper in her hand. She appeared, as far as could be judged in the highly imperfect light, to be tall and well developed, with that broad defini- tion of brow and clearly marked oval con- tour of face of which in Italy one sees the type repeated in so many different variations. Setting down the candle, she proceeded to fill the oil lamp in front of the Madonna from a small flask which she carried in her hand. This done she stirred the wick with a long pin, produced for that purpose from her own raven tresses; then, having first glanced, stol idly rather than coquettishly, downwards into the piazza, presumably to see wheth- er any lurking adorers were about, she shut the window again with a loud bang, and disappeared into the interior of the house. I felt Macleans hand tremble under mine. Isnt she glorious? he whispered. She is an extremely handsome girl, I answered, as, in fact, from your de- scril)tion I expected to find her. But if she is, what then? Surely you did not really imagine that the mere sight of those rolling black eyes of hers was to convert me to the opinion that you would be act- ing wisely in marrying her; throwing over all the traditions of your life, and all for what? For a rather more than usually good-looking Ligurian peasant! He turned away without answering, hurt evidently by my tone, and we began silently descendinr to the lower l)art of the tower, groping our way down the narrow staircases, and along narrower vicolos, braced together, the latter many of them ~vith arches, as a l)reservative, it is said, I believe, against eart~~quakes. At one place an old woman with a dicker- ing tallow candle in her hand was coming down the staircase of a house, muttering to herself as she did so, the light flaring with cruel distinctness upon her wrinkled neck and hollow, mumbling jaws. Then she turned at right angles into a black, cavernous recess, honeycombed seemin~ly like an old cheese, and the darkness sud- denly swallowed her up again. When we reached our inn I felt that it would be unkind to let Maclean retire for the night with the sound of my last dis- paraging remarks ringing unpleasantly in his ears, so asked him if he was not sleepy to come into my room and we would have a chat at the window over our cigars. He assented readily, and my efforts at sooth- ing his susceptibilities appear to have succeeded, judging by his last words to me that night, which were, You cant think how tremendously glad I am youve come to San Biagio. I was awfully disgusted at first though, as I dare say you must have seen. Didnt you? Well, it did not strike me you were exactly l)leased, I admitted. No, I know I wasnt; but I am now. I hope youre not going away adam ? I had intended leaving to-morrow. Oh, but dont, pray dont! Its not half such a bad little place when you MR. HAYWARD. 105 come to know it. And you have no idea what a kindness you would be conferring upon me by staying. Pray do. It seems to me, on the contrary, that you would be very much wiser if you were to come away with me, I replied. Why not come to Florence to-morrow? You admit that you have not seen it yet, so that you can form no idea of what an in- teresting place it is. He shook his head vehemently. I couldnt. Indeed, indeed, I couldnt. Its out of the question quite. Evidently you dont at all realize how serious this is to me. I dont say, of course, that Im wise about it, very likely not. Very likely to you a man who has been so much about the world it may seem supremely ridic- ulous, but I cant help that. A fellow can only follow his own instincts. Ive seen heaps of other women before, but I never saw one whom I felt I whom I had the least bit the same sort of feeling about. Dont you think that a man must always be in the right in following his instincts? he added insistently. Well, no, I should hardly say that, I demurred. He must be pretty sure first where his instincts are going to lead him, you know. He tossed up his head defiantly. Well, Im not afraid. Im a tremen- dous believer in instinct. It was that, much more than anything else, that drove me away from home from Scotland. I felt sure that there must be some l)lace or other where I sho~ld be happier, could get on better altogether, than I ever could there. And the minute I saw her jerking his thumb in the direction of the to~ver I had just the same feeling. It is a case of instinct, as I say a sort of fatality. Let us hope that it may not prove the latter really, I replied sententiously. There are few more serious fatalities, mind you, than falling in love with the wrong woman He threw up his head again. Well, Im not afraid; not a bit. And as for fatalities, Im not superstitious either, though I am a Highlander not a scrap. Besides, I kizowit will come right; I can always trust my instincts. But youll promise to stay at San Biagio a little longer, wont you? he added be- seechingly just to see me through it, you know ? Good-night. And without waiting for my answer he ran down-stairs, and a minute later, rather to my surprise, I heard his steps resounding along the stones. From The Fortnightly Review. MR. HAYWARD. THE morning newspapers of the 7th of February contained the account of a funeral ceremony held the previous day in St. James Church, Piccadilly, which must have caused many readers no little surprise. The name of the man round whose bier the mourners were gathered was probably unknown to the large pro- portion of the provincial public, and would have been strange to a far larger, had not the Tizzies of the preceding Monday de- voted two columns of big type to his life, and summed up his character and career in a leading article. But the company collected to pay the last token of respect and regard to his memory within the church, from which the din of the most bustling of West End thoroughfares is audible, comprised men distinguished in various walks of life, known and honored by all their countrymen. The prime min- ister placed a wreath of snowdrops, fresh from the woods of Hawarden, upon the l)all. Near him stood one or two of his colleagues in the Cabinet; stood two or three ex-Cabinet ministers; stood also men famous in diplomacy, in la~v, as well as in statesmanship and letters the or- naments and representatives of what is called society. It is impossible to con- ceive of a more typical gathering, and Mr. Hayward could have desired no more sig- nificant tribute to the l)osition he had achieved long ago, and the kind of ascen- dency he had held. Those to whom his patronymic either conveyed no idea at all, or little else than a dim impression of some powerful reviewer whose writings they could not well indicate, must have been at a loss to account for the attention paid to him by men who are already part of En- glish history. I propose briefly, and, as it cannot but be, most inadequately, to give some explanation of this phenome- non; hereafter I trust there may be pub- lished in the pages of the Fort;zz /ztly Review a more finished and worthy study of Haywards life and labors. Nothing can be more misleading than many of the estimates of Mr. Hayward which have already appeared in print. He has been represented as a profes- sional diner-out, a raconteur, a trifler, a cynic, a mere wielder of flippant persi- flage. If he had been only one of these persons, or if he had been all of them combined, he would have failed to ac- quire the influence and distinction which belonged to him. English society, what- ever its follies and frivolities1 is essen io6 MR. HAYWARD. tially serious. The wits and wags, the farceurs and light comedians of the din- ner-table, make a transient reputation, but they never reach the place which, willingly or unwillingly, was accorded to Hayward. He had his angularities; he had his faults; hut the estimate in which he was held and the authority ~vhich he had won were, on the whole, not more creditable to himself than to the society from which he derived his power. If he had been less passionate in his love of truth, less eager in his pursuit of it, less intrepid in his championship of friends and in his denunciation of foes, he would never have come to eminence and even autoc- racy. Endowed with a legal and thor- oughly logical mind, with accurate and abundant knowledge, with prodigious en- ergy, with a rare power of argumentative speech of the kind one may call overbear- ing, he still will not be remembered as a great lawyer. He produced no indepen- dent work of large dimensions, and he was not,