LITTELLS LIYING- AGE. Fifth Series, No. 2258. October 1 & 8, 1887. From Beginning, Volume LX. ) 4 Vol. CLXXV. CONTENTS. I. MGR. DUPANLOUP Church Quarterly Review, II. EBERHARDT. Conclusion Blackwoods Magazine,. III. THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN Sus SEX IV. MAJOR AND MINOR. By W. E. Norris. Part iX Good Words, V. A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE, . English Illustrated Magazine. VI. IN VERMLAND, VII. AMIEL, SHE AND I, IN ARRAN, SEA-DREAMS, MISCELLANY, Cornhill Magazine, Macmillans Magazine,. - 50 57 POETRY. 2 THE ROAD TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY,. 2 INDECISION 2 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LIT TELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Pu6iishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. RemitTances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if poasible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should he sent in a regiatered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING Aoa, s8 cents. .3 14 24 33 - 41 2 2 64 2 SHE AND I, ETC. SHE AND I. WHY do I Yove my love so well? Why is she all in all to me? I try to tell, I cannot tell, It still remains a mystery. And why to her I am so dear I cannot tell, although I try, Unless I find both answers here She is herself, and I am I. Her face is very sweet to me, Her eyes beam tenderly on mine; But can I say I never see Face fairer, eyes that brighter shine? This thing I surely cannot say, If I speak truth and do not lie; Yet here I am in love to-day, For shes herself, and I am I. It cannot be that I fulfil Completely all her girlish dreams; For far beyond my real still Her old ideal surely gleams. And yet I know her love is mine, A flowing spring that cannot dry: What explanation? This, in fine She is herself, and I am I. Mid all the cords by which two hearts Are drawn together into one, This is a cord that never parts, But strengthens as the years roll on; And though, as seasons hurry past, Strength, beauty, wit, and genius die, Till death strike us this charm will last She is herself, and I am I. She is herself, and I am I, Now, henceforth, evermore the same, Till the dark angel draweth nigh, And calleth her and me by name; Yea, after death has done his worst, Each risen soul will straightway fly To meet the other: as at first Shell be herself, I shall be I. J. ASHCROFT NOBLE. IN ARRAN. THE scent of heather from the purple hills Blends with the sweet, strong breathings of the sea. The lark in heaven, the plover on the lea, Stray into silence, as the star that stills All labor, with her silvern lamp fulfils 1-ler kindly task, and men from toil are free. Now gorgeous clouds like Tyrian tapestry Engird the sun, whose light upon them thrills Richer and fairer as he leaves their halls, Till all the glory vanishes; and lo! Swathed in a cloud, the little moon, new- born, Steals timidly around the starry walls, Until the first cool herald breeze shall blow Upon the golden eyelids of the morn. Chambers Journal. J. T. LEYENS. SEA-DREAMS. HOT noon upon a great green sea of glass: No wavelet stirs the levels of sun-gold; The waters, lying wide and foamless, hold White pictures of the sea-gulls as they pass. Far off, a long brown line of rocky land Capped with red gables and a grey church. spire; A mountain with its pinnacles of fire Behind a wilderness of yellow sand. And out amid the sea the silver trace Of one small boat that slowly leaves the shores, Urged by the drowsy dip of rhythmic oars: And in the boat two sitting face to face. SIDNEy A. ALEXANDER. Cassells Magazine. THE ROAD TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. O RAYAL in thy life and love and grief, Thou tender heart and type of womanhood, Who teachest sovereignly the sovereign good Of changeless constancy and high belief, And simple eagerness to bring relief Wherever sorrow is, and send the food That hunger cries for which is understood Of thee, beloved, thee of mourners chief I I saw thee go in dazzling pageantry To give God thanks that he, for fifty years, Has given England to thee, of his grace. Said I, I saw thee? Nay, I saw not thee, Nor long that splendor I, through sudden tears, Saw only at thy side the empty place. Pall Mall Gazette. E. R. C. INDECISION. INVISIBLE, unspeakable, whosevoice In the soft murmur of this neighboring sea, From the beginning everlastingly Is thy own witness, energize my choice: Even now, by more than half the allotted span Wisely assigned, the unreturning years In timorous doubts and all too scrupulous fears Have dwindled sore my little term of man. Must it be ever thus? even to the end Fearing to do aught lest I do the wrong, Shall I my spirits patrimony spend? Arise, 0 God this hour and make me strong: Let me this hour to fruitful usury lend One talent in the napkin buried long. Spectator. From The Church Quarterly Review. MGR. DTJPANLOUP.* IN very early forms of art it sometimes happens that the desire for completeness i~ fatal to the effect intended in the pic- ture. The too faithful artist rightly feels that from no single point of view can the whole of his subject be seen and ren- dered; and if the front is important, it does not follow that the back and sides are to be ignored. A really exhaustive por- trait must represent the whole man; and so the painter walks all round him, and conscientiously transfers to his paper all that he sees, from north and south and east and west. The result may be cum- brous and shapeless; it may recall no known specimen of humanity; it may be, in the phrase of Herodotus, like any- thing rather than a man; but, at all events, it is complete; it leaves out noth- ing; no one caa ask any further questions or present any fresh facts in regard to the subject thus displayed. A like method has become common among biographers, with something like the same results. It seems ungrateful to complain about a book so carefully elabo- rated, and so rich in helpful thoughts, as the Life of Bishop Dupanloup, written by the Abb6 Lagrange, and translated by Lady Herbert; but its true worth is seri- ously impaired by the danger which is threatening almost to destroy the very conception of biography. For surely in writing a mans life, as in painting a mans portrait, the skill of omission is essential to the value of the work. A map is not a picture, and annals are not biography. A writer who loads page after page and chapter after chapter with details, often absolutely homogeneous and only evincing over again some trait already fully de- scribed and fastened in the readers mind, may render important services to history, but he fails of the true work of a biog * s. Vie de Mg,-. Du~snlouj~. Par M. LAueu F. LAGRANGE. Quatri~me ~dition. Paris, 1884. 2. L of Mgr. DupunlouA. By the ABBE F. LA- GRANGE; translated irons the French by LADY HER- BERT. London, 1885. 3. Souvenirs dEnfance et de ~eu~sesse. Par E. RERAN. Treizi~me 6dition. Paris, s556. 4 Lea Ca/koligues Liberaux. Revue des Deux Mondes, s58~ s~ Au,~t, 55 D~cembre. MGR. DUPANLOUP. 3 rapher. He may preserve the materials out of which a later writer may conceive and portray the great mans character; he may contribute for the student of a period one aspect of the events; he may illustrate with new specimens and instances the truths of ethics: but he does not give to the world at large that help which should be all mens gain from a noble life; he does not set before us the character that was beyond all characteristics, and beneath all energy and skill in action; he does not make us see, in its unity and unique- ness, the moral form that lived and wrought; he does not bear into our minds a fresh presence, to be henceforward, as it were, of the privy council of our life, a voice to be listened for, a witness to be remembered, a rebuke for all faint-heart- edness. We may, perhaps, be able to get such an image out of the big volumes and the throng of incidents; but we must get it for ourselves, with more expense of time and industry and patience than most men care to give to the task. And so the power of the story never comes to many who would have had real help from a clear and vivid picture, bold and salient and strong in its presentation of that which was at the heart of the eventful life - the man who lived it. The first virtue of a biographer is to see in statuesque dis- tinctness the character which he would make us see; the second is to be ruthless and audacious in omissions. To borrow a metaphor from Mr. Browning, the biog- rapher must recognize his limitations in the selection of details just as a cabin pas- senger must remember the scanty space allowed him as he chooses what he will take with him on his voyage. It would be delightful to take everything he values and enjoys; but then Alas, friend, heres the agentist the name? The captain, or whoevers master here You see him screw his face up; whats his cry Ere you set foot on shipboard? Six feet square I, And in spite of all that a sensitive and enthusiastic nature is inclined to regard as absolutely indispensable, the cabin pas- sengerand the biographermust 4 MGR. DUPANLOUP. understand what six feet mean, Compute and purchase store accordingly.* And yet the biographer of Mgr. Dupan- loup might xvell plead that there never was a life much more difficult to bring within the compass of artistic treatment than his. The times through which he lived, his continual prominence and energy, the great variety of his gifts and of their uses, his restless readiness of tongue and pen, his fights and friendships, his unhesitating acceptance of every task that a conspicu- ous position could attract these are causes which might seem to preclude all hope of unity in the portrayal of his life. And it was, perhaps, impossible for any one writing so near to the events quorum ~zrs magncz fuit, and writing from the standpoint of the Abb~ Lagrange, to keep down in due subordination, orto compress in just proportions, the details of contro- versy and policy and administration which increase the bulk and diminish the effect of these volumes. But we cannot help regretting the result; most of all for the fear lest in the rancre and speed and din and glare of the public life men will lose sight of the real greatness which was in Mgr. Dupanloup. There have been many who have been as brilliant as he upon the stage of history; many who have in the long run exercised far more effect upon the course of affairs. But there are other traits in his life and work which seem to belong to a very rare type of char- acter, which look as though they came out of that inner strength and purity which lift a man at once into the very first rank, and make him really worth watching and remembering. One would like to be quit, as soon as may be, of the ungracious business of finding fault. That task can never be less welcome than when one deals with a labor of love, such as Lady Herbert has achieved in translating the ~vork of the Abb~ Lagrange. But the translation suf- fers seriously from a great mistake of judgment. It was open to Lady Herbert to translate the abbes French quite accu- rately; in which case no one would have complained if the French had shown * Bishop Blougrams Apology. R. Brownings Po- etical Works, vol. v., p. a66. through the English, if the strong and salient characteristics of the original had defied the effort of translation, and the English been brackish, as it were, with French. Or the conception and title of a translation might have been abandoned, and we might have had an English pres- entation of the bishops life, based upon the abbds work, and gathered out of his volumes; in which case the language might have been pure and natural En- glish, and the bulk of the book judiciously retrenched. But Lady Herbert has adopt- ed neither of these plans. We have neither the accuracy of translation nor the at- tractiveness of an independent work. Phrases and sentences are here and there omitted; it would not be too much to say that, regarded as a translation, the book seems quite recklessly inaccurate; but still the language in many passages is plainly hindered and disfigured by the influence of the French idiom. One in- stance will suffice to show the extent of the freedom with ~vhich the original has been treated. The Abb~ Lagrange writes: Cest ~t lui-m~me que nous devons ce que nous allons pouvoir raconter de ses premieres ann~es. Chateaubriand a dit de ses moires, Si telle partie de ce travail ma plus attache que telle autre, cest ce qui regarde ma jeunesse, le coin le plus ignore de ma vie. On pourrait ajouter, et le plus r~v~la- teur. Non certes pour remonter le cours de ses belles ann~es comme Chateaubriand, mais dans un sentiment autrement s~rieux, de profonde humilitt~ et de reconnaissance, lAbb~ Dupanloup, en 1848, pendant une retraite quil fit It Issy, se plut It & rire, sous lceil de Dieu, de simples notcs, It lusage de son & me, inti- tul~es, Souvenirs de ce quejaifait de mat et de ce que Dieu mafait de bien.* Now the corresponding passage in Lady Herberts book is this : We owe to himself the account of his early years. Chateaubriand says in his Me- moirs, If any portion of this work has been more interesting to me than the other, it relates to my youth, that unknown corner of my life. With a far deeper feeling, and with intense humility and gratitude, the Abb~ Dupanloup in 1848, during a retreat at Issy, wrote some simple notes on his childhood for the good of his own soul, and which he Vie de Mgr. Dupanloup, tome i., p. 3. headed with the words, Recollections of what I have done wrong, and of the good which God has done to rne.* Some comments might be made on the grammar of these words; but they are quoted here only to illustrate the extreme liberty which again and again is taken in dealing with the original. Instances at least as marked might be multiplied to almost any extent: thus twenty-five lines of French at the beginning of chapter xxix., concerning the Abb~ Dupanloups grief for his mothers death, are repre- sented by eight lines of English. This is surely inconsistent with the title of a translation; and the importance of insist- ing on accuracy in such matters forbids its being left without very serious cen- sure. At the same time there cannot be claimed for the English version the coun- terbalancing advantage of having got clear from the peculiar characteristics of the French: I embrace you with all my heart; how useful such little gifts are towards young men; an eminent cate- chist, the hope and ambition of all moth- ers such expressions as these keep the sitting sense of the original always hovering about the readers mind; the French idiom is seen, as it were, out of the corner of his eye, while he is looking at the page of English. Lastly (and the word is written with real relish), far more care should be given to the revision of the proof-sheets. Its fame resounded far beyond the diocese, and was as eagerly read by the laity as by the clergy; t Another admirable play of Sophocles, the EEdipus at Colonna; 4 Oculi omnium in te sperant, Domine, et tu das illi escam in tempore opportuno the sight of sentences like these seri- ously interrupts the enjoyment of any book. There the graceless and unwelcome part of the critics work is done at last, and we may turn to look at the life and char- acter which Lady Herbert is most rightly t Life of Mgr. Dupanloup, vol. i., p. 2. t vol. i., p. 355. ~ V5~l. i., p. 457. Travellers to Ejosiedeln should be warned not to seek it, according to Lady Herberts directions, in the Black Forest Ci. 93). ~ Vol. i., p. 57. 5 anxious to set before the mind and heart of English readers. Let us first try to form some idea of the ways by which the great Bishop of Orleans was trained for all his work; then let us glance at the aston- ishing activity of his life, the ceaseless and brilliant energy with which he threw himself into all the manifold complexity of strife and stir around him, the zeal and versatility with which he took the tasks of twenty men; and then let us pause to look rather more steadily at those aspects of his career which seem to yield, as we gaze at them, the gravest, highest lessons which he has to teach us. Felix Antoine Philibert Dupanloup was born on January 3, 1802, at the village of Saint F~lix, between Annecy and Chain- b6ry, and the former of these two places was the scene of his childhood. He began life with no advantages to make success or greatness likely; nay, with hindrances as serious as could well beset him. All that helped him in his early years he owed to the love and self-denial of his mother; and in his letters and elsewhere it is easy to see the depth of reverence and affection with which he owned the debt. There are graceful, loving letters from the young seminarist : Bonne m~re, je taime, je pense ~ toi dans mon travail; je dis, cest pour Dieu et pour ma m~re. - . - Adieu, ma m~re, je vais aller ~s la messe de minuit; je prierai pout- tui ce Dieu nouveau-na, qui eut une mere aussi et laimait bien tendrement. Ton tendre fils. (Vol. i., p. 64.) She enters into the first and inmost thoughts of his life as a priest Mais, pour moi, vois-tu, il ny a quune seule per- sonne que je d6sire ~ m~ premi~re messe, et cest ma m~re * (p. 86). Throughout all those stages of his work in which such an arrangement was possible he lived with his mother, and ~vhen he was superior of St. Nicholas he secured for her a lodging close by, and never passed a single day without going to see her. But when she was dying, at the age of seventy, only a few weeks before her son was made Bishop * Cf. Souvenirs denfance, E. Renan, p. 176: Le plus beau trait du caract~re de M. Dupanloup 6tait 1~smour quil avait pour sa m~re.~ MGR. DUPANLOUP. 6 MGR. DUPANLOIJP. of Orleans, he felt how far his care and loyalty had stayed below the level of his mothers self-forgetful tenderness, and there are very touching words in the pages that tell of those days in his life : Je b~nis Dieu de ces derni~res annees. Mais auparavant tout avait ~ pein~. Et je ne l)arle pas de toutes les peines que je lui donnais par ma froideur, mon indiff& rence apparente, mes duret~s. Oh! quil faut prendre garde que le pr& re n~teigne le flis. Ce ne peut & re la volont~ de Dieu. (Tome i., p. 525.) Again, as he looks back very soon after her death, he writes : Depuis que je lai perdue, je vois quelle tenait dans mon cceur et dans ma vie une place immense. Je lui donnais peu de temps; ma vie ~tait ailleurs; mais ii ny avait rien dans ma vie et dans mon temps oii elle ne fut. Ii y a mule choses auxquelles je maper9ois que je ne tenais qu~ cau~e d~lle; je les aimais parce que ces choses lui faisalent plaisir. Aujourdhui que ma mere n y est plus, toutes ces choses sont mortes pour moi. Je sens que dans les choses m~me les plus indiffd- rentes, ma mere y ~tait. (P. 529.) One may venture thus to dwell on the love of the mother and the son, not only for the other instances which it may recall of great lives moved by a like force, but also because it had an unshared po~ver over Felix Dupanloup. In face he was very singularly like his mother, and many traits of his character he drew from her. She is said to have been digne de ce culte filial; femme ext6rieurement tr~s-simple, mais belle et riche nature; dune culture ordinaire, mais avec des qualit~s qui ne l~taient pas; une trempe ~nergique, une sensibilit6 profonde, un rare bon sens, une ardente foi. * It is not hard to trace in the bishops thoughts and life the reap- pearance of most of these characteristics. His school-days began at Annecy; but the tokens of promise soon encouraged a great venture, and with very scanty means and manifold anxiety his mother decided to take him to Paris, whither they came with an aunt and a cousin towards the end of 1809, when little F6lix was between seven and eight; and there he was pres- ently sent to school at the Coll~ge Sainte- Barbe. At about this time, when he was ten or eleven years old, he had an expe- rience which, discouraging as it seemed, probably bore good fruit in his later work. He learnt how children should not be dealt with; the dreary, ill-arranged cate- chizing at St. Etienne du Mont, and the Vie de Mgr. Dupanloup, i. 52!. stiffness and dryness of the old priest who heard his first confession, probably often caine back to him as a useful and warning memory. At twelve and a half, having been rejected at St. S~verin as too young to be prepared for his first communion, he found his way to St. Sulpice. His biog- rapher has good reason for the words, Le voil~ oct Dieu lattend; tout son aye- nir allait se dt~cider lu (tome i., p. 13). Since the time of M. Olier the work of catechizing had been foremost in the care and fame of St. Sulpice. By the elabora- tion of catechisms and the devotion of catechists the parish had first been lifted out of the abyss of neglect and misery and infidelity and vice into which it had sunk, and the whole scheme of catechetical instruction had been elaborated to con- spi cuous excellence.* Fdlix Dupanloup felt at once, it may be with the dawning sensitiveness of the future catechist, the height and beauty of the work that was going on: Il y avait l~ comme une at- mosph~re de silence, de religion, de re- cueillement, de docilit~, de sinc~rit~ qui me toucha (p. 14). He joined the class at once, and was drawn still further into sympathy and confidence by the simple kindliness with which he was welcomed. He tells the story very frankly and charm. ingly in his Entretiens sur le catd- chisme, whence it is drawn by M. La- grange. Henceforward St. Sulpice, its teaching, its discipline, its character, its friendships, became the fashioning and animating forces of his life. There he was prepared for his first communion and for conflrmation.t There he first received the Holy Eucharist, and knew les mystdrieux ~panchements de l~me ~mue dun enfant dans le cceur de J~sus-Christ, qui lui rdserve pour ce solennel et doux moment ses plus ineffables tendresses (p. 23). There he was confirmed; there the thought of seeking holy orders grew gradually clearer and less timid in his mind; and thence he was sent, with a free burse, towards the close of 1815 to la Petite Communaut~, a school in close alliance ~ Cf. M~thode de Saint Sulpice dans Ia direction des cat~chismes (Paris: Lecoifre, 1874): a complete ac- count of all the details in the system, organization, and arrangement of the various kinds of catechisms. He found at St. Sulpice a very different confessor from his old friend at St. Etienne, and he tells in a few graceful words the happiness that caine to him after he first went for confession to M. de Keravenant: Je sortis tr~s-beureux. Je me souviens encore du boo- heur et de lentrain avec lesqstels jallal, ce jour-IS, faire une partie de barren an Luxembourg. Jamais je ne m& ais senti si l~ger, jamais men camarades ne mavaient vu ni intr~pide S Ia course, sans se douter de ce qul, ce jour-iS, mavait rendu encore ineilleur coureur quS lordtnaire (tome i., p. 57). with St. Sulpice, destin~e ~ chercher et ~ soutenir les vocations sacerdotales (p. 28). There he stayed for three years with many troubles in them; for M. Poi- loup, the superior, was young and mis- understood the lad; he missed the consid- erateness and affection of his friends at St. Sulpice, and the happiest and perhaps the most fruitful hours in these years were those in which he was taken, with the other boys of the community, to the Cat& chisme de Pers~v~rance at the well-loved church. But it was a welcome change when he was removed, according to the usual course of training, to the Seminary of St. Nicholasthe seminary to which some fifteen years later he was to come again, as its superior. There for three years he worked hard, with happiness and success. But probably the most impor- tant element gained at this time in his preparation for the positions to which he was afterwards called came by two friend- ships one with the two brothers De Moligny, who welcomed him to their beautiful home at Courcelles; the other with the Duc de Rohan, who, after a terrible sorrow, had turned his back upon the world and was now on the verge of his ordination to the priesthood. He formed a sudden and close friendship with the young Dupanloup, who thenceforward was constantly at La Roche-Guyon, the dukes chateau by the Seine. Among the group of friends whom he met there he probably learned lessons which stood him in good stead through all his subsequent work, while at the same time he came under the wise and encouraging and help- ful influence of M. Borderies, afterwards Bishop of Versailles. To his influence he ascribed a new beginning in his life, and probably he understood the impulse and the power which most told upon him: Je trouvais quelquun qui maimait et qui mestimait; aimait et estimait ce quil y avait de bon en moi, pour le rendre mei 1- leur: il en avait lespoir, le d~sir, et me le faisait sentir. * It was under these con- ditions that he gradually received into himself the best characteristics of the clergy of the French Church, and began to drink in the spirit which was to be secured for his lifelong help by the next stage in his education the our ears which he spent at Issy and at St. Sulpice.j * Tome i., p. ~t. Some years later he added in a marginal note to these words the characteristic thought: tjest tout le secret de laction sur lea ames. t Le grand s~minaire du dioc~se de Paris, ceat le S~minaire Saint-Sulpice, compos~ lui-m~me en quelque s orte de deux osaisons, celle de Paris et Ia auccursale MGR. DUPANLOUP. 7 Le nom de Saint-Sulpice doit m~tre cher jusquau dernier soupir, he says himself; L~v~que dOrldans est un vrai enfant de Saint-Sulpice . . . nul nen a plus avidement recueilli et plus fld~le- ment garde lesprit (tome i. 55) adds his biographer. It is probably impossible to enter rightly into his character and work without a thorough study of the famous seminary to which he owed so much. And such a study would have elements of fascinating interest; for two books have lately been given to the world which de- serve comparison, and might perhaps throw a good deal of light on one an- other. The first is M. Renans Souve- nirs denfance et de jeunesse, in which he gives us, with characteristic grace and insolence, with an unfailing power of at- traction and of repulsion, his account of the character and work of Issy and St. Sulpice. The other is M. Icards large and exhaustive volume entitled Tradi- tions de la Compagnie des Pr~tres de Saint-Sulpice. Here we have a full de- scription of the whole course of teaching and training and discipline, in life and thought, in mind and morals, adopted with the candidates for ordination; begin- ning from such simple virtues as not crossing ones legs and not putting ones elbows on the table, and ne d~ployant pas sa serviette avant que les personnes les plus respectables naient d~ployd Ia leur, * and going on to the highest con- ceptions and means of progress, ethical, intellectual, and spiritual, in the Christian and the priestly life. The book is elab- orate and thoughtful, and, taken together with such light as M. Lagrange and M. Renan, from very different quarters, cast upon it, might give us a vivid and valua- ble insight into the real life and worth of St. Sulpice4 But the inquiry would g~ far beyond the utmost limits of this arti- cle. It must suffice here to mark the great part which Issy and St. Sulpice had in the life of Felix Dupanloup. It was no little thing that he came to know at this time the P~re de Ravignan and the P~re Lacordaire ; J but the real work of dIssy, o~i lon fait les deux ann~es de philosophie. Ces deux s~minaires nen font, ~ proprement parler, quun seul. Lun eat Ia suite de lautre; tous deux se r~unissent en certaines circonstances; Is congr6gation q ui fournit lea maitres eat la m8me. (E. Renan, Souvenirs denfance et de jeunesse, p. 200). F~lix Du- panloup was a~ issy from 182! to 1823, at St. Sulpice from .823 to .825. * M. Icard, Traditions, etc., p. 123. t Cf. also M. Oliers Pietas Seminarii Sancti Sul pitii (Lecoifre, 1885) ~ His estimate of and relations with the latter would. reward a careful study. But, indeed, a separate article 8 MGR. DUPANLOUP. these years is told in two sentences: La vie surnaturelle s~tablit d~s lors en moi dans une certaine solidit~ qui a depuis souffert bien des affaiblissements, mais qui ne sest gu~re d~mentie gri~vement, je le crois (p. 58). And then: Cest l~ que lordre divin et surnaturel de laction pastoralesur les ames commen~a ~ m~tre ~ . . - Depuis, tout ce qui nest pas cela, tout ce qui nest pas laction pure sur les & mes, nest rien pour moi (p. 72). The vivid and abiding sense of the super- natural; the sure and solid realization of the things eternal and unseen; the love and zeal for souls, supreme, engrossing, animating, and illuminating: these surely were the two greatest and highest lessons that could be given to a man on the eve of his ordination; nothing better could be wished from any course of training than that a priest should trace back to it such gifts as these; and no other enrichment of the mind and heart could go so far towards making him great with the lowli- ness of Gods servants. At the close of 1824 he was ordained deacon; but he remained still at St. Sul- pice, until, on December i8, 1825, he was admitted to the priesthood, by Mgr. de Qu6len, the Archbishop of Paris. That prelate, together with M. Borderies, had long seen the exceptional character and gifts of the young cleric; he was sum- moned at once to live at the archiepisco- pal palace, as one of a group of priests gathered there by the archbishop for study and for special work; and, by an act of remarkable discernment, his energy was concentrated at once on that ~vhich was probably the very best and most success- ful bit of work he ever did the cate- chisms in the little chapel by the Church of the Assumption, which was then taking the place of the still closed Madeleine. As one reads his life and certain of his writings this part of his manifold labors comes out gradually but clearly into its due prominence; and it was most dear and congenial to him. In it every gift of his mind and heart found full and unhin- dered play; it was rich in happiness and promise; and he himself, one may well believe, ~vould after all have called it the greatest as well as the brightest work he ever did. In the midst of all the strife and fame and grandeur and applause he looked back to it with unchanged enthusi- asm and affection; to it he dedicated some of considerable length might well be written on the one subject of his friendships and alliances with men such as M gr. Borderies, M. de Montalembert, M. de Fal- loux. M. Thiers, M. Cousin. of his most important books ; * and it is with unmistakable sincerity that he dwells on this period of his life in the great Entretiens sur la pr~dication populaire, published when he was at the height of his gloryin 1864: Si vous me permettiez ici, messieurs, un souvenir personnel, je vous dirais en toute simplicit~, cest aux Cat~chismes que je dois tout. Pour moi, ah I que les enfants, qui ont mon premier amour et le premier d~voue- ment de ma vie, en sojent aussi le dernier.t To the development and extension in his diocese of the work of catechizing he devoted his utmost energy and care; and some of his very best writing has this aim. The impression of the immense privilege and importance of such labors had been borne in to him at St. Sulpice; it was completed and ensured at the Chapel of the Assumption, and he retained it to the end of his life. He had already begun, during his diaconate and before leaving the seminary, to bear some part in the work of the catechisms connected with the Madeleine; but it now became his especial charge, the appointed field for the powers of his ordained life; and he threw himself into the duty with characteristic energy and with brilliant effect. II sy absorbait tout entier; et renon~ant cou- rageusement ~ tout minist& e ~tranger ~ son ceuvre, ~ toute predication dans Paris, il donnait ~ ses cat& hismes tout son temps et tout son c~ur (tome i., p. 91). To this one work he devoted himself wholly; for the first six years he wrote out all his catechizings beforehand at full length 1: Son grand art ~tait de donner de limportance ~ tout (p. 96). The characteristics and progress of every child in all the hundreds who formed his classes were recorded carefully in his note-books; no care, no toil was spared; and all his matchless gifts of eloquence and quickness and sympathy were lavished with delight and enthusiasm upon this one task. It is not strange that the cate- chisms became famous throughout and * Especially Lceuvre par excellence, ou entretiena sur le cazdchisme. t Entretiens sur Ia predication populaire, pp. 434, 435. ~ Ibid., p. 200. There have been in our own com- munion some who have had wisdom and warm-hearted- ness enough to discern, as clearly as Mgr. Dupanloup did, the pre-eminent importance of catechizing as an integral p art in the work of a parish. An intimate friend of the late vicar of St. Andrews, Wells Street, can recall his saying: If I have ever done any good at all as a parish priest which may well be doubted it has been in my Saturday classes. I am more and more convinced every day I live that casechetical instruction is the only sure foundation on which you can properly build people up in the faith. MGR. DUPANLOUP. 9 J e trouvai chez M. Dupanloup cette grande et chaleureuse entente des choses de l& me q ui faisait sa sup6riorit~. Je fus avec lui d une extreme franchise. Le c6t~ scientifique lui ~chappa tout ~i fait; quand je lui parlai de critique allemande, il fut surpris. . . . Mais quel bon, grand et noble cceur! Jai l~ sous mes yeux un petit billet de sa main: Avez- vous besoin de quelque argent? ce serait tout simple dans votre situation. Ma pauvre bourse est ~ votre disposition. Je voudrais pouvoir vous offrir des biens plus pr~cieux. Mon offre tout simple ne vous blessera pas, jesp~re. (Souvenirs, etc., pp. 323, 324.) beyond France; nor that the young cate- ~tait pour tous, tin principe de vie (p. chist soon found himself rich both in good 177). He remarks in him already an ex- repute and in affection; nor yet that he traordinary ski/i in making others work: clearly felt that his own soul and all his Ce quil & ait, c~tait un ~veilleur incom- powers were growing beyond all that he parable; pour tirer de chacun de ses had anticipated in the strenuous and ~l~ves la somme de ce quil pouvait don- happy activity of congenial work. ner, personne ne l~galait (p. i~9). And It is necessary to pass over several lastly he shows how evident already were scenes of his life in this period, which do the instinct andenthusias;n for education not admit of being summarily told; his which were to form the impulse of many relations with the Orleans princes; his labors and many fights * L6crivain, foundation of the Academy of St. Hya- lorateur, chez lui, ~taient de second ordre; cinth; his share in the beginning of the l~ducateur 6tait tout ~ fait sans t~gal great Conf~rences de Notre Dame (a work (p. i 78). Seven years later when he was which brought him into close and delicate turning away from St. Sulpice and from relations with P~re Lacordaire); and the thought of ordination, M. Renan had finally the tangled troubles which led to occasion to recognize, as he frankly o~vns, his removal from his trust at the Made. a yet higher quality in his former teacher: leine the trust in which he could hardly have a successor. It was a heart.break- ing sorrow and disappointment to him; but it was not long before Mgr. de Qu~len found for him a task wholly apt for his heart and mind. For about eighteen months he was a curate at St. Roch; and then, in the late autumn of 1837, he was appointed superior of the Petit S~mi- naire de Saint Nicolas du Chardonnet the school where he himself had been happy and distinguished as a boy. He had not held that post for twelve months when there came to the seminary a young Breton, who had just been gaining all the prizes in the distant college of Tr~guier Bringing with him such powers and a lad destined to attract attention to traits of character, Mgr. Dupanloup did all places and people concerned in training not fail to work a great change in the him for his conspicuous and perhaps narrow and flagging life of the Little unique position as M. Ernest Renan. Seminary. He widened the range, both The chapter in the Souvenirs den. of admission and of study; he invited fance~~ which treats of this stage of M. lads to enter the school even though they Renans progress into prominence is cer- had no intention of seeking orders, and tainly of fascinating interest; and in lan- he recast the whole Plan of the education guage marked with all the fresh charm of in a far more liberal form. But all these a modesty that has never been overworked changes, and the distinction and prosper- he lays on Mgr. Dupanloup a very serious ity and opposition which they secured for responsibility. M. Dupanloup mavait ~ the school, did far less to make the supe- la lettre transfigure. Du pauvre petit pro- rior famous and to hasten him into emi- vincial le plus lourdement engag6 dans sa nence than the strange affair in which he game, il avait tire tin esprit ouvert et was called to play a chief part very soon actif.* The picture drawn of the life at after his appointment at St. Nicolas, and Saint Nicolas deserves a study in detail, five or six months before Ernest Renan but three salient and suggestive points arrived there. It seems uncomely work are all that may here be selected. They to weigh evidence or peer into doubtful are points in Mgr. Dupanloups character expressions in regard to scenes such as and power which give the clue to a great those around the death-bed of M. de Tal- deal of his subsequent brilliancy. M. leyrand. We are not concerned to esti- Renan leaves no doubt as to the strength mate the moral or spiritual value of the and life that were in the superior: ~ The weightiest and amplest of his writings were est certain quil ~crasait tout autour de devoted to the same sublect; and for his great treatise lui (p. 179). Il fut pour moi cc quil upon education M. Legrange claims that it is le plus ~lev6, sur cette mati& e, le pius p6n6trant, le plus corn- piet, le pius ~ioqueot . . . quaura produit ce si~cle (tome iii., p. 486). * Souvenirs, etc., p. 195. 10 MGR. DUPANLOUP. recantation which he signed at last upon May io, 1838; M. Renan has no doubt upon one side, and bestows on the trans- action some of his coldest, hardest, and brightest epigrams. M. Dupanloup and M. Lagrange seem equally clear upon the other side. What does strike one in the course of the transaction, according to either estimate of it, is the vulgarity (a vulgarity which certainly society, both ecclesiastical and general, did its best to encourage in the unhappy prince) of the mind that at such a time, in such a matter, could presume upon prestige, and dawdle for effect, and think so much about dates and titles, and who would be pleased, and what the world would say, in regard to an act which, if it had any meaning at all, could be nothing more and nothing less than the late cry of a dying, sinful old man for the mercy he should have sought long bef ore. What strikes one among the only consequences of which men can judge is that the young priest who ~vas called to deal with this conspicuous and dilatory penitent, was lifted at once into a publicity which secured full scope and recognition for his many gifts. In 1845 differences of opinion between M. Dupanloup and Mgr. Aifre (who had in 1840 succeeded Mgr. de Qu& en), in re- gard to the management of the seminary, led to his resigning the office of superior but immediately afterwards he received considerable tokens of favor from Rome (to which he had already paid two visits); and early in 1846 the Archbishop of Paris made him a canon of Notre Dame. In that position he remained for three years years remarkable for the development of his extraordinary power and the growth of his splendid fame as a preacher; and also for the first stages of a struggle out of vhich he never entirely escaped, the great and complex struggle over the Edu- cation Law of i8~o. The story of that fight allows of no abridgment which would bring it within the compass of a re- view; it is the first of many passages in the remaining part of Mgr. Dupanloups life which are inseparable from the gen- eral history of France, and which must be left by the critic for the more deliberate treatment and estimate of the historian.* We would only try to follow the narrow ~ For a very interesting account of the struggles in regard to education with which Mgr. Dupanloup was concerned, and of the way in which the best and most brilliant efforts of those with whi ns he stood were mis- represented and spoilt and baffled by the blindness of the Ultramontane press, cf. two articles by M. Leroy- Beaulien, entitled Lea Catholiques Lib~raux, Re- vue des Deux Mondes, 1884, 55 Aoilt, 15 D~cembre. thread of the personal life, as it passes, now clear and now obscured, through all the change and stir and stress of the great world; and so following we must pause at the year 1849. The peculiar sorrow of that year has been already marked; on February 2, the mother whom he had loved so loyally was taken from him. About two months later he was appointed by M. de Falloux to the bishopric of Or- leans. He was consecrated at Notre Dame on December 9, I84~.* And here one is forced in sincere de- spair to give up trying to sketch his life or condense the record of his work. The art of abridgment has been much culti- vated in this day of many examinations and well-informed shallowness; but no Liebig of literature could possibly com- press into a Students Manual all the doings and difficulties and distinctions and distractions of the Bishop of Orleans dur- ing the nine-and-twenty years of his epis- copate. There was not a detail of practical work throughout his diocese which es- caped his swift and penetrating energy. His pastoral letters alone fill three large volumes.t There went out circulaires incessantes au clerg6 pour enflammer son z~le. f Peters pence, charity, re- treats, education, restoration of churches, catechisms, the cholera, devotions to the blessed sacrament, collections for Algiers, prayers for the pope, confirmations, clergy- houses, the duty of reading these are but a few of the matters about which he strenuously and with insistence set to work. He required his clergy to give courses of continuous instruction for f our years, and organized a scheme for secur- ing that this should be done. Archdea- cons, vicars-general, deans all were routed out and arranged and set to work; no one was forgotten or undisturbed, not even a beadle or a chorister. De m~me pour sa maison ~piscopaIe. P~n~tr~ de ce principe formul~ par Saint Paul, quun ~v~que doit gouverner sa maison, ~rceesse dornui suir, il a ~crit, avec la derni~re precision, le r~glement de chacun de ses do- mestiques, et il le leur mettait en mains d~s quils entraient chez lui. (Tome ii., p. 246.) The notes which he made in regard to his new work during the retreat preceding hia consecration are of great beauty and value. t Nouvelles cauvres choisies, tomes v., vi., vii. Even into his relations with his clergy the Ultramontane press did not hesitate to intrude, sedulously stirring up suspicion and hostility against his work. Cf. Revue des Deux Mondes, 1834, z~ D6cembre, pp. 8os, 8o6, 812, 814. It seems either discreditable or ominous that the authority of Rome could not secure at least a decent semblance of loyalty to the episcopate in a lead- ing clerical journal. CL M. Legrange, ii. 44. MGR. DUPANLOUP. II Certainly he sustained the character ~vhich his old pupil gives him, un dveil- leur incomparable; and if the same critic suggests that as a diocesan il fut toujours plus aimd de ses lafques que de ses pr& tres, * it is not difficult to imagine some grounds for the statement. Universal affection is seldom secured by a raid on the vested rights of leisure or of sloth. Even M. Lagrange records that quelques anciens pr~tres, qui croyaient faire pour le mieux en ddbitant toujours ~ leurs paroissiens les pr6nes de leur jeunesse, gof~taient peu ses avis, et surtout leur forme vive, ~ and one can imagine that a like result might come from a like display of energy in certain slumberous parts of England. But the Bishop of Orleans went straight ahead: Cdtait un mauvais conseil (p. 53), he simply says, when some one had advised him to dilute his doses of episcopal tonic. He drew up sys- tematic arrangements for missions and for retreats; he went everywhere, and made the shrewdest notes of all he saw: thus, in one place, Le curd ma dit quil na pas de chandeliers de lautel, et jen trouve chez lui ~ toutes les chemindes; in another, as to candidates for confirmation, Les gar~ons jamais en blouse; . . . on se croit tout permis avec une blouse (p. 63, note). He marked in this fashion the weak or strong points of all the four hun- dred parishes in his diocese. He issued to every curd a paper of questions, in- tended to ascertain the status anima- rum ~vithin his cure; to some he sent privately un autre questionnaire intituld Z?le pastorala somewhat searching and particular document (tome ii., p. 77, note 2). He preached often, enthusiasti- cally, brilliantly, fruitfully; he reorganized and quickened afresh the catechisms in the cathedral; he completely remodelled the seminaries, both little and great; he got the cathedral restored and actively promoted the restoration of many parish churches; he founded communities and systematized devotions; he glorified, Joan of Arc, and fought the prdfet; and no class of men, women, or children es- caped his watchfulness or lacked his in- terest. Surely, one thinks, as even in this ludi- crously inadequate fashion one hurries through the list of his labors, here was business enough for any man. Only one who had turned right away from all else to throw himself wholly into his diocese E. Renan, Souvenirs denfance, p. 179. t Tome ii., partie ire, p. 53. could give life or guidance to enterprises so many and so diverse. But all the while Mgr. Dupanloup was writing books enough to seem an amply sufficient out- come for all his time and strength ; one publisher alone offers us twenty-seven vol- umes; M. Lagrange draws out a list of more than one hundred publications; and some of these at least are works of real thought and originality.* But the thought of his energy becomes fairly astounding when we try to realize how to this pas- toral and literary activity he added the toil and excitement of a public life as conspic. uous and complex, perhaps, as any of his day. There was hardly a controversy in which he did not figure as a champion, hardly a crisis in which his influence did not tell. He left no assailant undealt with, no challenge declined. With news- papers and ministers, with presidents and clergy, in Italy, in Belgium, with any one and anywhere he was ready to do battle for any cause to which his fealty was pledged. When one recalls, however poorly, the struggles in which he bore a leading part a part exposing him to fierce and unflagging criticism, a part im- perilling his influence and credit day after day one feels the rare force and courage that were in him, and the marvellous vigor and versatility which could at once meet the exacting claims of political life at such a time and surpass the demands of an important diocese. All the long and bitter strife about the temporal power of the pope and the relations of the French government with Garibaldi and with Vic- tor Emmanuel; the years and years of fighting in the field of education, while step by step religion was driven from its ground; the contests in the French Acad- emy, more successful apparently for a while, baulking M. Tame of his prize and deferring for ten years the admission of M. Littrd; the whole business of the Vat- ican Council in 1869 and 1870; ~ the war; the National Assembly (in which he sat as a deputy); the Commune; the National Assembly again; the restoration of order and the negotiations with the Comte de Chambord, through these scenes lay the line of his ceaseless work, and there is hardly a chapter in the history of these * Especially valuable are the Entretiens sur la pr~dicatinii populaire; vivid and interesting, sustain- ing throughout a very high and pure conception of the work of preaching. So, too, L ceuvre par excellence, ou entretiens sur le cat~chisme. The account of the bearing of the Liberal Cath- olics of France, in regard to the Syllabus and the Council, given by M. Leroy-Beaulieu in the second of the articles cited above, is full of interest. 12 MGR. DUPANLOUP. eventful years that can be written without the frequent recurrence of his name. Prominent in the greatest struggles, yet finding time to make himself felt in the least as ~vell, he never seemed to escape from the strain and noise of controversy. A restless life it was, from which at last he was called away to rest elsewhere; dy- ing, after a long period of ill health, with all that the love of friends and the minis- try of the Church could do to help him in that last of all his conflicts, on the i ith of October in the year 1878. Ii y a eu un peu de bien. Jai fait de mon mieux. 7ai assez quoique mcii tra- vaulid. So he wrote, with simple sincer- ity, in his last retreat at Einsiedeln barely a month before his death. There is surely a deep and solemn pathos to be felt in the words when we recall the threats and dangers amidst which they were writ- ten, and the changes which have been hastened on in France since he was taken from the fight. Ses derniers regards sur les choses de ce monde ~taient tristes; il vovait ye nir, pour la France et pour lEglise, les calamit~s quil avait voulu conjurer . . . il ne se faisait aucune illu- sion sur les maux qui nous mena~aient. * A strange sequel has lately been written to the story of his public life. Mgr. Isoard, the Bishop of Annecy, has pub. lished a book entitled Cinq ann~es, 1879 1884. In his preface hegives usalist of the various acts of legislation adopted by the French government in their plan of campaign against the Church. It is in- deed an instructive bit of history, well worth studying and remembering; and perhaps Mgr. Isoard hardly exaggerates the consequent state of affairs ~vhen he writes: Le mal dont souffre actuelle- ment en France la religion Catholique We ~vould not incurthe just indignation of M. Lagrange by attributing to Mgr. Du- panloup the blame for this swift sequence of disasters.t But the life of a public man cannot be regarded as a Greek drama; it is not complete in itself; its last chapter is only relatively last ; it is inseparably knit into the ceaseless tragedy of history. Ones attention is arrested, and ones judgment held in suspense, when the im- mediate sequel of a mans work is the help- less defeat of all for which he strove. Not that the very highest qualities of in- sight and justice and self-sacrifice and strength are in this world a sufficient Se- Lagrange, tome iii., p. 460. t Isoard, Cinq Ann~es,p. z6. ~ cf. Legrange, tome iii., p. 495. curity against failures,which may seem even final. The turbid flood that rushes down gathered its force and volume far back in distant hills from many tributary streams, and no skill or toil, or even good- ness, of one man or of one generation may avail to check it: They shall but deliver their own souls by their righteousness; They only shall be delivered, but the land shall be desolate. And then there are those stories of martyrdom in life, of the prophets anguish in his helpless wis- dom, when he alone has seen how the ruin could be stayed and no one would give heed to him, or make the only sacrifice that could availstories sad as his of whom it was written : Eiirep ia~v fS4uyv yv4tz~, A~~s6aOeve~, ~ O,~iror ~tv E?J~vcov ~pfrv Apy~ MaKe& ~v.* Thoughts such as these, and records too, should make us shrink from ever judging a mans work by its apparent and imme- diate outcome in history. But yet, when the reverses are so quick and cruel as those which have fallen on the French Church since the death of Mgr. Dupan- loup, one is forced to look back over the pages of his life, and to ask whether there are no traits which change color, as it were, in the glare of such a sequel; whether nothing could have been done, nothing otherwise conceived, which might have checked that wide havoc of all faith and virtue and nobility which seems to be sweeping over France. Could nothing have been done by any venture of courage, at any risk, to break away from that sinister and crippling in- fluence by which Rome will never suffer a Church to be sincerely national, or to enter with freedom and reality into the life and genius of a great people? Subject Churches everywhere, and sister Churches nowhere: there is the maxim that seems to doom Catholicism to defeat wherever, in the midst of a nation that is waking up to a new consciousness of itself, its powers, and its character, the jealous majesty of Rome controls the policy of churchmen. The Church must be free for vivid, rapid, and whole-hearted sym- pathy with all the truth and good that are astir about it; it must be able without one backward glance, one moment of waiting for permission, to look into the face of modern life and form its own judgment and take its own course; it must not be interrupted in the strenuous and exacting task of understanding every detail of the * Piutarch, Blot TCW 6eKa ~5~r6pcov, p. 68x. MGR. DUPANLOUP. 3 character with which it deals; and then it will not fail to do for this age what it has done for ages past. But David cannot meet Goliath in Sauls armor. And na- tions that have learnt what freedom really means will not long allow the highest sphere of national life to be occupied by the submissive agents of a foreign court.* The aspect of Catholicism in France, as it falls back before the vehemence with which the allied forces of progress and of vice assail it, is stubbornly Roman. It is also to a great extent unhistorical and effeminate. And here, it must be owned, we touch a serious flaw in Mgr. Dupan- loups credentials for greatness. Few things are more distressing than to mark in some French city the manifest signs which show that the Church is losing hold of the more active and vigorous life of the place that the men are drifting away from Christianity; and then, as we go into the cathedral or principal church, to find that Catholicism is represented, not by the calm and austere dignity of its historic greatness, but by the tawdry vul. garity of tasteless decorations, by a stream of feeble novelties in sentimental devo- tions, by a ceaseless and monotonous harp- ing upon the latest, the most disputable, the most exacting and the least commanding of dogmas. Even good men may lack the patience that is needed to discern the inner strength disguised by all these flimsy, unbecoming robes; and others have little difficulty in making the whole thing seem contemptible. It must be feared that Bishop Dupanloup did very little to preserve or to recall for the French Church that ancient severity and self-restraint by which she might com- mand the respect of her opponents and teach her children the true secret of strength in conflict. For instance, in a critical anxiety of his life : Il multipliait les neuvaines, courait ~ tous les autels, faisait des vceux, brfllait des cierges. Car il avait non seulement de la devotion, mais des d~votions. . . . Le 2 janvier, nou- velles alarmes: alors, neuvaine ~ Sainte- Genevieve, et vceu, non plus du chapelet, mais du rosaire tous les jours. . . . Puis, aux approches de la fete de Saint Fran9ois de Sales, nouvelle neuvaine ~ ce grand Saint de la Savoje. Pri~res ~ la Vierge de Saint- Sulpice, ~ la Vierge fid~le, ~ la Vierge tr~s prudente, partout.t Cf. Leroy-Beaulien, Revue des Deux Mondes, z884, 15 D~cembre, pp. 830 and 83440, a passage full of suegestive thoughts concerning the relation of the Church to the cause of liherty. Cf. also M. Renans Souvenirs, p. 190 (ed. s586). t Lagrange, 1. 524. This is not the tone or aspect of Chris- tianity which will retain or regain the al- legiance of thoughtful and vigorous minds in an age of frank inquiry. One more influence there was which must have hindered Mgr. Dupanloup from that calmness of judgment and singleness of sight and reserve of strength which greatness needs. Probably for most men it is true that when once they have at- tained to a sufficient discernment of their powers and their tasks, the less they hear of praise the better they will do their work. The resolutions that tell upon the course of history are formed and held in silence. When the air is still and the din of human voices dies away, then the lead- ers of men see clearly and think truly; then the inner voice is heard without dis- traction. No artist paints his best if ad- miring friends are always chattering in his studio; and perhaps the finest work of all has been done in the years before even one word of encouragement or praise broke in upon the loneliness in which a great man trusted the truth he saw. But round Mgr. D upanloup there was ever a full chorus of enthusiastic admiration; he lived in a hubbub of superlatives; every- thing he did or said or wrote surpassed everything he had done or said or written in the past; and whatever hard things his enemies might say of him, his friends could always hurry up with fresh stores of reassuring panegyrics. Doubtless lfluch allowance must be made for French effu- siveness; but he would have been a stronger man, and would probably have rendered to the Church more lasting ser- vice, if he had been suffered sometimes to work, even for a while, unpraised. In the interesting chapter which closes the work of M. Lagrange, and is ruthlessly omitted by Lady Herbert, the abbd sketches in outline the generous labors of Mgr. Dupanloup in the bishopric of souls, the work of the ministry; and then he~ says (before he passes on to the political and controversial life): Voil~ ce quil a fait pour lEglise, au sei n de lEglise mais, si grand que celasoit, il semble que ce soit peu encore devant l6clat de ses luttes au dehors pour cette sainte ~pouse de J~sus.Christ.* We cannot help feel- ing inclined to reverse the preference in that comparison. We believe that the real greatness of the Bishop of Orleans will be found, not in the splendid exercise of his conspicuous gifts, not in his famous battles or eager altercations, not where Lagrange, iii. 487. 4 EBERHARDT. the applause and clamor were loudest all around him, but in the patient and loving care with which he watched and worked for the peace and welfare of single souls; in his gentle, truthful counsels for the highest life; in his tenderness of ministry to little children; in the utter self-surren- der with ~vhich he sought to serve his Lord; in the wisdom and severity with which he strove through silent days and nights of prayer, to keep his own soul pure and true and humble, amidst all the toil, the anxiety, and the honor to which God had called him. From Blackwoods Magazine. EBERHARDT. CHAPTER III. Since, if you stood by my side to-day, Only our hands could meet, What matter if half the weary world Lies out between our feet? TIl\tE, after all, if it does not change us, does not convert us into something abso- lutely different, or even offer an asylum from the past, still always effects some- thing. To weak human nature it suffices to move out of the immediate shadow to find that the point of view has altered. It is almost impossible to look at anything in exactly the same light to-day and six months hence; and though the facts may not have changed in any perceptible de- gree, the burden, from merely being viewed from another point, has shifted, and the sufferer is eased. Nothing had altered. Eberhardt was Sigismund Westenholz, whose personality had been the pain of her youth; the gold circlet on her finger spoke always of the bond, that at least nominally linked her to him, making his name hers. There was still all that bitter memory of deceit and cruelty that had placed her in his power, separating her by mere force of circum- stances from the brother she loved; and yet, as she went over it to-night, under the starlight, the story did not read itself exactly the same as ~vhen she had first heard it. Perhaps the soft balmy night air had something to do with it; perhaps, all unconsciously, healing had been steal- ing over her in these many months in which so little had arisen to remind her of the wound. At first it had seemed as if she could never forget, but little by little the cloud had lifted, until sometimes now the more difficult thing was to remember that she was living in its shadow. To-night, however, it was creeping over her, faint, ill-defined, but yet she was aware of something that precluded the calm in which she essayed to live, and which made her feel restless and ill at ease. These past weeks had been so quiet and peaceful; she had grown to feel at home under this roof which had received her, in the gentle companionship of the kind woman with whom she lived, whom she had learned to know as Madame Esler, and whom she had never learnt to asso- ciate with that closed page of her story. When she had left yonder, as she vaguely denominated the valley over which the ruins of Castle Breitstein gloomed, she had had no plans, no inten- tions for the future. To get away from the castle and its in- fluences was the immediate longing; and, that accomplished, she had accepted the new life that seemed to have opened out to receive her, in the spirit that it was a home which was to be hers forever. And nothing had happened different to-day from any other day, or such a slight thing that it was scarcely ~vorth making an ad- dition of to the ordinary days ordinary events. All this long, hot summer day had passed without a disturbing thought to ruffle its serene surface. The young gladness, which at one time had apparently been banished forever, had seemed beckoning her back into youth, reminding her that she was but a girl after all, and a girl whose whole life had been overshadowed. But the sunshine had stolen about her to-day, and a reflection of it had warmed her heart also, and she had sung little snatches of half-forgotten songs as she wandered about the lovely garden in the early morning gathering roses; and the sound had gladdened the ears of the elder woman, and she had risen and pushed aside the curtains to catch a glimpse of Leigh in the morning sunshine, and tears had stolen into her kind eyes tears of thankfulness at the soft outlines that were bringing back youth to the face, to the delicate color that was finding its unaccus- tomed way under the dark eyes. Madame Esler uttered a word of thankfulness as she noted this, and remembered the girl who had appealed to all the undemanded motherliness with which her heart over- flowed, on that past winter night; but when, a minute later, she returned to her unfinished letter, she sighed as she took up her pen. You ask me, she wrote, if she has spoken of the past? No; no word of reference to it has crossed her lips. And I obey you. I have said nothing to her, though sometimes it would ease my heart to do so. Here Leigh had enteredstill singing her little song, still with the soft color on her cheeks to arrange her flowers, and madame had turned from her letter to lis- ten to the girls talk. They lived a quiet life, these two women, in the old-fashioned house, with its lovely gardens and quaint clipped hedges, amongst which Leigh loved to wander. A quiet life, with few neighbors for they were many miles from the little town but yet not lonely. And to all aliketo every one who broke the monotony of their daily life Madame Esler intro- duced the girl who had come to live with her as Madame Westenholz, otherwise it would have been hard sometimes to realize the past was not a dream. Some- times a question would follow, and Madame Esler would further add, She is a young relation; but Leigh herself heeded little the questions or explanations. She was content to drift and to forget if it were possible. But this afternoon, when, the long hot day over, she had been going up-stairs to dress for dinner, a little thing had disturbed her. Lying on the table, she had seen, as she passed through the hall, a letter, and almost unconsciously she had read the address Eberhardt, Postoffice, Breitstein. The once familiar name, so long un- heard, stirred a quick tide of emotion which brought a wave of color to her cheeks; and she paused, leaning against the banister for a moment, unable to take her eyes from the words. But only for a moment, then she pur- sued her way upwards; but the memories that had rushed back at that unexpected lifting of the curtain which kept them out of sight, ~vould not be banished all at once. Eberhardt! The name stood out be- fore her not the new name which was associated with such bitterness, but the old familiar name at which she had shud- dered as a child, and ~vhich later on With a movement in which there was a little impatience, she hastened her steps and pushed open the door of her room. It was a room that had charmed her from the first. It was not large o rimpos- ingi ndeed, in comparison with the other unused apartments in the house it was small; but there was something pe- culiarly pleasing about the somewhat EBERHARDT. 5 sombre style of the furniture, which was dark and faded, as if it had worn out un- der the influence of human presence, not stood apart and covered up, as was the case with most of the other rooms into which she had strayed. Here everything was homely and comfortable, as if for use; and if the style was sober, that was coun- teracted by the lovely view across the gardens and the park, to the distant shin- ing river. Opening out of the bedroom, and divided from it only by a curtain, was another room that served as boudoir. It contained little but a heavy writing-table and two or three pictures pictures of faces or figures, of a type that suited the serious character of its arrangements, but which yet were oddly at variance with the usual character of boudoir decoration. One especially attracted Leighs attention every time she entered the room. It was called The Vow, and there was little in the picture except the one mans figure tall, upright, alert, standing in a silent, empty street, on which the moonlight shone grey and ghostly. Facing her, he stood, an unsheathed sword in his hand, his dark eyes, under their straight black brows, looking into hers. Something in their expression would now and then reach her heart as she paused in the door- way before entering in; or as she sat reading or working at the table, she ~vould lift her eyes to those above her, and won- der what it meant. What was he vowing there alone in the moonlight? What had prompted that sudden movement? Love, hate, good, evil what was it? What had the painter meant by it? Once she had asked Madame Esler, but she had only told her that it had been bought out of the Salon years ago by one of the house; that the story, if there were a story, she had never heard though it tells one of itself, she added, and that should suffice, even if it be a different one from the one that the painter had in view.~~ But to Leigh the vagueness dissatisfied; she would have preferred it rounded off into something definite, and often she would speculate and make out a story for herself. She had banished as soon as possible the momentary glimpse of the letter that had disturbed her, though, passing down to dinner, almost involuntarily her eyes had strayed to where it had been, but it had disappeared. Of course the post ~vent out at this time, but now and acrain she found her thoughts following it o~ its out- EBERHARDT. ward journey. And now, now that the evening was over, and she stood alone in her room, the memory of it came back. She had dismissed old Margaret, but she had not got into bed. No; it was such a lovely warm night. She was not sleepy, she would sit up a little longer. But when Margaret had brushed out the soft dark hair, and wished her good-night, she did not continue the book she had been reading, but, pushing wider open the win- dow, leaning her elbows on the sill, she looked forth into the night. Such glori- ous starlight, with a slender crescent moon, its quiet and beauty seemed to belong to another world. And, as she leaned thus, there stole once more into her thoughts the memory of that letter. She did not wish to think of it, but there seemed no possibility of escape. What had it contained? She had been mentioned, of course, and how? The past, which she had so nearly es- caped, was clutching at her again, and showing h ow much a part of the present it still ~vas. For the first time for long weeks that desolate room in Breitstein stood out before her, a vague, dim back- ground for the one erect figure standing so strong and distinct. The silence with which those passionate reproaches had been met seemed closing round her again; the eyes, so stern and gloomy, were look- ing into hers. She made a little impa- tient movement, but thought was not tobe banished by that; something still held her enchained there, whilst that terrible scene re-enacted itself, and, as if held by something stronger than her own will, she remained on, albeit half-unwillingly. But at length past and present grew en- tangled, some thought suddenly flying across the vague darkness seeming to serve as a revelation. She lifted her head, which had drooped on to her folded arms, and said, I am sleepy dream- ing,~~ and yet all the time was aware that the dream was truth. With a few hasty steps she crossed to where the open door revealed the light still burning in the inner room, but on the threshold paused, it was an almost unconscious habit, and met the eyes of the picture looking down upon her; the familiar picture the tall figure in its rich dark dress, the moonlight shining weirdly down on the silent street and on the uplifted sword. Was she dreaming still? Clasping her hands, shrinking back as if the pictured figure had come to life, she stood in the doorway, recognizing in a moments flash that these were the same eyes bf which she had been thinking the eyes that had looked into hers in the dreary room at Breitstein. And with that flash, in a moment, yet more seemed to be revealed. This had been his room; all these surroundings had been his. Here he had worked, and read, and lived; from here he had gone forth to that life that she had known. All at once the place seemed alive with his presence; influ- ences were all about her, voices which spoke of what he had dreamed and done between these four narrow walls. The cu~i-tain that hid the past was torn down, and in the quiet and stillness it was as if he were there, a shadow amidst these shadows. She felt her heart-beats quicken, and she was trembling so that she could scarcely stand; but with hands claspe~d she stood still, under a spell, in which to move or speak were alike impossible. She would have shaken it off if she could, but that seemed as impossible as when she had striven to escape his actual presence before. He had helped her then, she found herself acknowledging, but now he was avenged; this strange in- fluence which held her here this influ- ence which spoke to her from the pictures on the walls, and the books whose titles had sufficed, and which she had left un- disturbed and unread was stronger than she was capable of resisting, and she shrank from it, as if in terror. She still stood facing the picture, whose strange resemblance seemed to increase with every moment, feeling imprisoned by the knowledge that had thus suddenly come to her, when swiftly, as it had come, the ter- ror died away. It was as if a soft touch stilled the quickened pulses; the loud beating of her heart grew quieter; the dark eyes into which she looked seemed to express their meaning. Why should you fear? XVhy are ~ou afraid of me? Have I not promised, and the uplifted sword, on which the ghostly light gleamed, seemed recording the vow in the sight of heaven. The spell was loosed, the terror that had possessed her vanished away. With a sigh that might have been relief she turned away, taking up the candle which burned on the table, and recrossed the curtained threshold into the other room. Here there were fewer ghosts, surely nothing to alarm her here, only the one fact that his presence had once been the life of these rooms, that it was in his footsteps she was following, that she was living amid the surroundings from which he had so long been exiled. Standing for a moment with the thought it was almost a sad one flooding her, she lifted the light and looked around. So little here but the dull, old-fashioned furniture, and the one dark, eager boys - face over the chimneypiece. Just the head of a dark-haired lad, with the eager light of youth in his eyes, she had often looked ~it it with pleasure, it was so full of life and hope; but to-night, when her eyes were turning to the accustomed spot, she blew out the candle before they reached it. It told another story now, she did not wish to see it. It bore no glad prophetic promise of a full life into which that had blossomed, but instead spoke of failure and disappointment, bitterness and solitude. To any one who had cared for the boy, how terrible the knowledge of what the future held, into which those eager eyes had looked I To any one who cared for the man, how terrible the knowl- edge of the possibilities of his boyhood! Something so like a sob escaped her, that it startled and aroused her to the con- sciousness of the fact that she was still standing in the dark, the soft summer wind blowing in through the open window, through which were visible the distant shining stars. CHAPTER IV. It is a law that resistance must be equal to force. PERHAPS her unusual vigils made her oversleep herself, for it was late when Leigh made her appearance next morning, and there was something about her man- ner, some languid look, to which Madame Esler had grown unaccustomed, which made her ask if she had slept badly. Not very well, the girl allowed; and, not giving time for any comment, Ma- dame, she said, more as if making a statement than asking a question, that room was your brothers, was it not? She lifted her eyes steadily as she spoke, but the lashes fell before the answer came. Yes, it was Sigismunds, madame said quietly. In many ways it is one of the pleasantest rooms in the house, though it is not large; but if you take a fancy to another, you know you have only to tell me. For half a second the girl hesitated, and then, No, no, she said quickly, I do not want to change I have been there so long. She paused, and then be- I ginning a fresh sentence: The face in the picture is rather like him. He sat for it, madame replied, when LiViNG AGL VOL. LX. 3070 - 7 he was a young man; it was painted by a friend of his. She waited also, having spoken, as if hoping or expecting something further; but when the girl next spoke she had drifted into another subject, and the for- mer one was not referred to again. And there was something else impend- ing, which in their quiet lives was impor- tant, at least to madame, a visit. And it was so seldom that she left home that the very idea was slightly agitating; and in addition, to leave Leigh alone, though it was only for a couple of days, was an extra source of disturbance. But Leigh, learning it was an old friend to whom this annual pilgrimage was to be made, would not hear of its being post- poned; she declared herself quite able to amuse herself during the two days soli- tude. Shall I ask some one to stay with you? madame had suggested. There is Emilie Sybel would gladly come, I have no doubt or would you rather go to her? Leigh, however, refused either alterna- tive. I shall be very happy alone, dear ma- dame do not think of me; I shall gar- den till you return. She was an indefat- igable gardener. I should be really unhappy, as madame still hesitated, if you let my presence interfere with your plans. Thus it was decided; but though the journey, which was only a long drive, was often spoken of, and all the particulars discussed, it was only on this very day, when the departure was so imminent, that Leigh recognized her ignorance of ma- dames destination. And thus thinking, What is the name of the lady with whom you are going to stay? she asked. There was scarcely any perceptible hes- itation before Madame Esler answered in her quiet tones, Von Cortlandt. Cortlandt? Leigh repeated, with a quick catching of her breath, a sudden step nearer to madame. Madame von Cortlandt, madame re- peated. She is an old friend of mine. Her daughter began Leigh im- petuously. Her daughter, Madame Esler inter- posed, was once engaged to my brother. There was a pause, the two women looking at one another the one who had faced and borne sorrow until it was con- quered, only the dark hair so early whit- ened telling what the battle had cost; the other, striving in her ignorant rebellious EBERHARDT. i8 EBERHARDT. youth to escape from it, to deny its power. There was a moment whilst Leigh fought with the flood of recollection that over- whelmed her, a moment whilst some pas- sionate outbreak seemed imminent, but under those eyes that met hers it seemed to die away; her voice, though it trem- bled, was struggling to be calm, as en- gaged, she repeated, as if catching at the word. Emilie von Cortlandt was engaged to my brother for nearly a year, until I know, the girl interrupted quickly, and the words checked anything further that madame might have said. But afterwards, after she had driven away, with many tender injunctions to Leigh how to amuse herself and what to do, those words came back; and though she strove not to dwell upon them, they haunted her, as if they felt they ought to make themselves heard. But she paid little heed to them, at any rate during the hours of that hot summers day. Under the shelter of the trees, read- ing, idling with a little work, and, as it grew cooler, gardening, the day was after all not so long; but when, the solitary dinner over, and it grew too dark to read and was yet too light for candles, they came back to her. And with the wish to banish thought, and that a new occupation would be means to that end, she decided this would be a good opportunity to write to her brother. And with this idea she ~vent to her room. In the boudoir she had her own writing materials about her; and be- sides, within its narrow limits she would be less conscious of the solitude of which she was beginning to weary. But that haven safely reached, she did not, after all, hurry to set to work. She put on a soft white muslin dressing- gown; but having made this preparatory change, something attracted her attention to the window the same window of the bedroom by which she had leaned and dreamt the previous night; and to-night again the lovely soft summer evening had an attraction for her, and she lingered there whilst the dusk deepened and the trees below grew shadowy. She was roused at length by the sound of an open- ing door roused sufficiently at least to recognize that she was wasting time; that if she intended writing, it ~vould be as well to begin. With soft, slow steps she turned away and lifted the curtain that hung between the two rooms; but having done so, for a moment everything reeled before her, whilst she stood instinctively clasping the curtain; then it fell heavily behind her as her hand lost its power, and she realized it was no creation of her brain that stood before her, but the man from whom she had parted on that long-past winter night. Under the picture he was standing, looking up at it, a motionless figure; but at the slight movement of the curtain, at the low startled cry that escaped her, he turned his head. If the expression of his face were hard to read, hers was not so; for Do not be afraid, were his first words. Why are you afraid? correcting them. I did not know you were here. I came to see my sister, and almost unconsciously made my way up here, to look at a room that has an interest for me. Comment seemed impossible. She strove to say something in answer, but the sudden, unexpected sight of him had par- alyz.ed her. Clasping her hands tightly, she struggled to regain calmness, but it was useless. The laces of her gown were stirred by the pulsation of her heart; her very lips were white as she stood shrink- ing closer to the curtain, as if meditating escape. Believe me, he said, if I had known, I would not have run the risk of frighten- ing you like this,his quick glance taking in all the signs of occupation about the flowers, and work, and open book. I thought this wing was safe to be un- occupied, and fancied I would like to look at it before I left. It was a mistake, of course. He paused again, but still she did not speak. But she was no longer looking at him with wide, open, terrified eyes ; they had fallen, the lashes resting a black shadow on her cheeks, and, so standing, a few low words escaped her. You have broken your promise. He heard them, low as they were; and Yes, he said, leaning one hand on the small table between them, and there was a bitter ring in his voice, I have. It was the only thing I could do for you and I have not done it; but you need not fear. Though I have broken the letter, I shall not break the spirit. You are as safe, standing here, from a touch of mine, as if a world divided us. He looked at her a moment longer. There was nothing to-day of that feverish passion that had given her such unwonted power when he had last seen her. That had died away, and she seemed helpless, merely with the instinct to shrink away from him without the power. It touched EBERHARDT. 9 him, and yet at the same time seemed to show more clearly than ever how far apart they stood. She herself at his words was conscious of an abatement of fear of some influ- ence of calm stealing over her, which even ~ervedto deprive him of the terror he had possessed for her. There ~vas reliance still to be placed on his words, though he had proved false; and yet Leigh! His voice saying her name, which she had never heard him do yet, roused her, and she lifted her eyes to be- come aware how dark it was growing that, in the unlit room, his figure stood dark and indistinct amid the surrounding shadows. I think I must have wished to see you once more, though I was scarcely aware it was so; at any rate, I had something to say to you which I have never said yet. What is it? she faltered. That I love you. The words, spoken so low, seemed yet to vibrate through the little room with the force of repressed energy. If I took advantage of your helpless- ness and loneliness, that was my excuse. You, poor child, you had no chance; but,his voice falling, his passionate, gloomy eyes turned to hers, but, not- withstanding, I would have made you love me if I had had a chance! But there was none, fate was too strong for me. He turned away to leave the room, but, as if with rapid change of intention, took two or three hasty steps till he stood by her side. You shall never see me again. It was unfair of me to come to-day, an- other crime, more bitterly, to be laid hereafter to my charge. But as I have spoken, answer me. Tell me you believe me. Believe you? she cried, with sudden passionate energy. No! a thousand times, no! I do not pretend to under- stand you. I trusted you and you de- ceived me. There is no place for me in your life. The words, a cry of despair, thrilled through the small room, words, to the one who spoke them and to the one who heard them, capable of such different in- terpretati on. To the man they were the death-knell of his hopesif he had had any. The momentary unusual passion died out of voice and look; he turned away, taking a few steps before he spoke again. You are right, he said slowly. I have forfeited my chance. I will see my sister and tell her my plans. If you should ever want me, lingering still, you can speak to her. Where shall I find her? She is away, Leigh faltered. Away! he repeated, as if surprised. Are you alone here? Do not fear, as he saw the answer in her eyes, I am not going to stay. But tell me this,L should like to hear it from yourself, are you happy content here? Yes, quite happy, she answered de cidedly. I have been perfectly happy. Her eyes met his almost as if she ex pected him to challenge her words, but he met them in silence, and it ~vas after a pause he said, Well, there is nothing more to say; I will go. As he spoke he took down a book from the little shelves she had never touched, and opened it. I came, I suppose, to say good-bye to Arnheim, he said. I shall take this book, a favorite of my boyhood, away ~vith me. Well, rousing himself, that is all. He slipped the book into his pocket as he spoke, and laid his hand on the lock. If I die, he looked back and said abruptly, before I return to Europe, Arnheim is yours. I have arranged every- thing; it was about that I wished to speak to Marie, but your knowing it is the same thing. Does Arnheim belong to you? The surprise in her voice brought the color into her cheeks. To me? he said wonderingly; did you not know? Why, to whom did you think it belonged? I did not think, she faltered; I fancied it was madames home. And so you were happy? Well, do not let the knowledge disturb you. I shall not haunt it, either in fact or fancy. Did you know that these were my rooms, that here, even I was once young and happy? Did you know it ? as she did not answer. Yes, but I only learned it yesterday. And who was unkind enough to dis- turb your ignorance? No one, she faltered. But her voice was so low that it did not reach him, and he recrossed the small dim room, and stood once more by her side. Who told you? he repeated. No one; I found it out. There was no necessity to give them to you, he said;. they might have gven you those with pleasanter associations. Well, choose others. There are plenty to choose from. His bitter words brought no reply; the 20 EBERHARDT. tears were in her eyes, but they did not fall. He perhaps noted it, for There is no use paining you, he said. Forget what you have heard. This has been my sisters home for years; share it with her, and, for heavens sake, be as happy as you can. It was so dark now that, standing close as he was, his figure was indistinctin the twilight; but his eyes, meeting hers, seemed to compel her to look at him, the eyes that had failed to meet hers in the great dreary room at Breitsteinthe eyes that had haunted her, through the picture that it had grown too dark to see. But though such was the case, almost unconsciously she looked beyond him to that other shadowy resemblance of him- self, as if seeking comfort from it. Good-bye, he said, this is good- bye. You need never fear to find me here again, unless, he paused, unless you send for me. I think we may there- fore look on this as final. All about her, rising slowly, was a cold sea of untranslatable trouble. If she could have understood it, and put it into words, there might have been some ame- lioration, but it was impossible. She did not even understand what was the pain that was making these moments so un- bearable; but there was nothing to be done, least of all, nothing he could do. For it was in a low cry of terror she found a voice at last after he had spoken. Do not come near me! Do not touch me Her face looked white against the dark curtain by which she still stood. He took a step farther back, and Have I not promised? he said quietly. Though, after all, with a thrill of passion in his voice, it is not surpris- ing you distrust me. You cannot even understand that a promise would be sa- cred. You doubt even the chance that brought me here to-night, and argue from that the use I might make of my opportu- nity. When I have gone, look back and think of all the times we have been to- gether not so often after all and one day you will understand that I have loved you. He said nothing more. Through the silence and darkness of the little room his tall figure passed; he had reached the door when her voice arrested him. It was cold and quiet, unlike the sharp tones in which she had spoken before. Tell me this; why did you not tell us, that other night, hesitating a little, that you were engaged to her? Was it worth telling? he answered. I do not think so. I have learned in all these years to hold my tongue. When words can do no good, silence is best. As if to emphasize his words, he opened the door by which he stood, and passed out into the dark passage, from which, by a steep, narrow staircase, there was com- munication with the rest of the house. But on the stairs he paused a moment, perhaps connecting some faint hope with the swift soft footsteps he heard crossing the room he had just left; but the sound of a key turned with some difficulty in an unused lock, gave token a moment later of the futility of his hope. When she had accomplished that one act which stood out clear, and had secured herself from possible interruption, it seemed to Leigh that all the little strength that had kept her standing through the interview deserted her; and, worn and wearied, as if in truth it was hours instead of minutes since she had entered the room, she sank down on to a chair by the window, her face hidden in her hands, as if to shut out some actual vision that haunted her. The cold waters of fear and trouble that had threatened her so lately had risen higher now, and seemed likely to carry her away. And yet, what did she want? She was safe. He had gone, the door was locked, there was nothing more to fear. But his last words haunted her; they held a reproach, although she did not think such had been meant. Her accusations and Leonards, he had not answered them; it would have done no good; he had learned to hold his tongue. It seemed like a reproach levelled at the torrent of wild words with which they had assailed him. She too! Ab, but I was right; he owns it, too. He deceived me, when I trusted him; it would be impossible to trust again. He has spoilt my life, and in exchange he gives me a home. Yes, that is all I have. She rose impatiently, pushing back the heavy hair from her forehead. To him it is nothing, nothing; while to me, what is there? Something made her lift her eyes to the picture, so dimly seen now that it must have been fancy that made her see so distinctly the expression of the dark eyes. Once more she felt the calm stealing over her, heard once more the words quieting her troubled soul, You may trust me. Other words now in addition, You will understand one day that I loved you. EBERHARDT. 21 No, she said, low and vehemently, standing before the silent figure, with slender hands raised to push back her hair, no, it is not so. There is no place in his life for me. He allows it himself. Margaret, how you startled me! With an apology, Margaret lit the can- dles and walked about, putting the room tidy. Are you going to bed yet? she asked when she had done. You look tired, madame; it would be as well. No, no. But stay with me, she went on, do not leave me alone. Sit down here and knit. And as the other obeyed her, Margaret, she said, a minute later, coming closer to her, and laying a cold hand on the knitters busy fingers where is he? Has he gone? The elder womans eyes did not meet hers as, He is writing, she replied. There is nothing to fear he will not stay long; it is a letter to his sister. Where? Her voice ~vas low and earnest, and Margaret stopped working, and took the slender hand in hers. In the library. She added no com- ment to her words, and the girl did not seem to expect it. She turned away, and for a long time paced back and forth the length of the two rooms in silence; but at last she stopped and said abruptly, Mar- garet, is she at Ehrenfelt? No, madame, she lives in Vienna; she never comes home. - Why, her voice fell a little, and she stooped to allow of its being heard, why did she not marry him? For a minute there was no reply, fully a minute, whilst the knitting fell unno- ticed into Margarets lap, and the girl stood waiting breathlessly. Then, Oh, I know, she cried, turning a way; you need not say it, with a despairing ges- ture. It was because of all that stood between them! Dear madame, Margarets voice trembled, but her words reached the younger woman, and she half paused to hear them, wrong hurts so many peo- ple and he has been punished! But it did not seem as if rebellious youth read in the words aught to pity. Justice! youth is so eager for justice, not recognizing that the sword of justice must be wielded by a passionless hand, not by one that trembles to avenge, and then so often lives to regret the vengeance. In silence after that a long time passed, but at length Leigh paused in her restless pacing to and fro, and once more spoke. You can go to bed now, Margaret, she said gently; it was kind of you to stay. Yes, I am tired now. I ~vill try to sleep, and to-morrow to-morrow I shall feel happier. At the words Margaret rose obediently. It is late, she said; you will do well to rest. Shall I wait till you are in bed? No, no, thank you. She held the candle at the door to light the other on her way; but, hidden by a turn in the staircase, Margaret paused and sighed as she heard the unaccustomed sound of the key being turned in the door of the room she had left. Left to herself, Leigh blew out the light and strove to sleep, and for a time a sort of mist spread itself between reality and fancy, and it ~vas only after a time that she realized that the~ wearing round of thought which was perplexing her brain had intervened again between her and sleep. Presently it grew unbearable, and she got up, and, putting on a dressing- gown, leant out into the fresh summer night. Such a soft, warm, starlit night, with a gentle little wind now and again making itself felt. it was soothing, calm- ing. She lingered on, feeling relief. By- and-by, however, she returned to her old occupation of pacing about the room. It will tire me, she thought, and then I shall sleep. She did not lift the curtain and pass into the other room, though each time she turned in her slow, even walk it seemed almost as if it were with an effort she did not do so. Each time she knew that the moment would come when it would be impossible to resist. At last how she had found her way there she was uncertain she was stand- ing in front of the picture, studying by the light of the lamp she held, the well-known features. The soft voice which had called her hither seemed now to be her own heart speaking, and yet its language was strange and unknown. She could not interpret it, was only conscious of pain. She put down the light, and sought to read the comfort she had so often won from those stern features, but to-night they did not offer comfort. There was reproach in the uplifted eyes, the flashing sword. You young, undisciplined have refused to learn the lesson of life. I, through my vo~v, have reached greater heights than you. Renunciation aims at higher things than you have ever guessed 22 EBERHARDT. at. To fall and rise acrain lifts to heights which you have never ~nown. She was no longer standing, but had sunk down in her white draperies under the picture which had so stirred her. If it had spoken aloud, its voice would not have reached her any more surely. All the room was alive with the presence that had filled it, as if inanimate things were speaking of the proud, eager boy who had once lived here, and comparing that memory with him who had been here to- night. I understand your vow, she said softly at length, half kneeling as she spoke. It was renunciation. That is why it has always comforted me. I un- derstand it now. Her voice, low as it was, startled her, and served to bring back her thoughts to the consciousness of her surroundings, and in a half-awakened manner she rose slowly to her feet, and, with a candle in her hand, once more passed beyond the whispers and echoes of the room. But in the further room, where the soft night air still blew, she did not linger. Quietly and steadily as a sleep-walker, she went on to the other door, turning the unaccustomed key as she had done earlier in the even- ing, and stepped out into the dark pas- sage. There was scarcely a plan in her mind. Her immediate thought was to seek Mar- garet and to speak to her. She would ask more; she would learn where he was, what he purposed doing; and then to-mor- row yes, to-morrow she would decide what to do. To let him know something even now, she was not very sure what but she would know to-morrow. In the mean time ~~argaret would speak to her, and this oppressive dreariness would be lightened in her presence. She had known him all his life; she was fond of him. Yes, it was to Margaret she would go. But first first, as her silent footfalls trod the floors, and she found herself near the sitting-rooms almost unconsciously she paused at the library door, and laid her hand on the lock. Here was where he had been earlier; perhaps the letter of which he had spoken might have been, after all, for her. Silently as a shadow she pushed open the door and entered the room; and at first, so unreal were her movements and thoughts, that it scarcely surprised her to find a light burning. It seemed almost, as she crossed the floor, that she had known it all along, that his voice had called her, and that she had known she would find him here. But a minute later the sense of unreality had vanished, and her heart was beating so fast, her hand trembling so, that she had to put down the lamp she still held, and stop and strive to steady herself be- fore she could take another step. It was a reflection of a far-off day the quiet figure seated at the writing-table, a letter before him; but he was not writing. It had been pushed aside, and his face was hidden in his arms, outstretched on the table. There was abandonment, deso- lation in the attitude; and the stillness after a moment restored her strength, and she stole nearer, nearer, till she could have touched him till she could note how thickly sown with grey ~~as the dark hair. For a moment she remained watching him, and then the silence and stillness frightened her, and she laid her hand tremblingly on his arm. He started then, lifting his head; and when he saw her, her name escaped him in a loud, startled cry Leigh! But recovering himself directly, he spoke. What is it? Do you want any- thing, or do you only want to make sure of my movements? No, no. She did not note, scarcely heard, the bitterness of his words, so intent was she on her own thoughts. I thought you had gone, she went on. I was coming to look for Margaret. Do not be troubled. I am going directly it is light. This was a final vigil, he said slowly, but I did not wish or in- tend you to know of it. But why are you awake? And what do you want with Mar- garet? I thought you had gone, she repeated. I wanted to know where you were. Why? his voice ~vas quick and stern, but his eyes were haggard with anxiety, as he leaned towards her and put his ques- tion. What did you want with me? I wanted to ask you a question. Ask it now. He was leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasping the arms, and there was something about them that told of the strain he was putting on himself; and as he spoke he looked at her until she felt compelled to draw a step nearer, felt she must speak. But she struggled against it. Oh, I cannot! she cried despair- ingly; and, noting the efforts she made to retain control over herself, he was silent, as if waiting till she had regained compos- ure. EBERHARDT. 23 She turned away then and stood, her head drooped, her hands clasped, striving to steady them. I did not wish to ask you, she began vaguely. I thought you had gone. If I had known After her irresolute, broken tones, his voice sounded distinct and clear, though low. You will not believe me. I do not blame you for that, Heaven knows, but I should like you to hear me say that noth- ing I have suffered all these years equals what the knowledge of your spoilt life is to me. If there were any way by which I could make you the trusting girl I first knew, I would buy it at any cost; but I cannot. I can only go, and trust that as you are so young, one day you will forget me and be happy. it was coming, he went on, as she made no comment, do not despair. You yourself told me that even here you have been happy. It will come. Never again, she sighed. You despair too soon, he answered. You are tired now, and excited, and in no state to judge. Go back to bed, sleep; and in the morning, when you wake and realize I have gone, all this will seem a dream, and you will forget it. Not in those rooms 1 The words escaped her almost as if unconsciously, and when he answered her it surprised her, as if it were a thought to which he had replied. Leave them. You have only to tell my sister or Margaret your wish, and they will settle the matter for you. She turned away with troubled looks, but yet with decision as if to act upon his words, and he made no attempt to stop her, did not even let his eyes follow her slow steps as she crossed the room. But at the door she paused so long, that he, awaiting its opening, turned his head to ascertain the reason of her delay. She was standing in irresolution watching him, the expression of her face a strange mix- ture of doubt and longing. But as he turned his head and his eyes met hers I am helpless, she cried. I do not wish to stay, and yet you said What is it you want to ask me? You say you cannot trust me, that because of my past you cannot. Be just, and tell me i fit indeed is so. You know it is not; then come here. I swear I will not take advantage of your helplessness, as you seem to fear; and tell me what it is you want to ask me. I cannot, I cannot! she cried; but even so saying, came slowly back to his side. Standing thus, however, she did not speak, though there was something in her drooped head and attitude, as if she were striving to find words in which to clothe her thoughts. So still she stood that, with her down- cast eyes, the black lashes resting on her cheeks, any one looking at her might have thought she slept. You said she began slowly, but she did not lift her eyes. I have said so many things that have hurt you, he went on as she paused, it would be better to forget them all. No, no; this was different. She took a step nearer, and stood behind his chair, laying a slight hand on it, as if to steady herself. Different, she re- peated; and he was aware of a touch on his shoulder a touch which reminded him of that far-off dark day when she had elected to stay with him. You said that if you had had the chance, you would have made me love you.~~ There was no hesitation now; the words came so low and quick that, having spoken, she gave a little breathless sigh and tight- ened her clasp of the chair, as if to pre- vent herself falling. Then, as he did not speak or even look up, in a moment she had thrown herself on her knees beside him. You remember saying it What do you mean? he interrupted. It is too late now. No, no, she cried; do not say that. Oh, do not you understand that it is my only hope? Poor child, he said gently, what can I do? You will repent, and then I shall see it, and know that it is my fault. Better say good-bye, and begin life afresh as well as you can, without me to sadden it. You will live to reproach me. At another time you will remember all that lies between ~ I have remembered it all these months, but it has not made me happy, she urged. Now teach me. What shall I teach you? he answered low; and as he spoke he leant down and took her hands in his. To love you, she faltered. He bent his head and kissed the hands he held. The color flushed into her cheeks at the memory of the same caress he had offered once before, when she had stood in the bare dreary room at Breit- stein, so young and confiding. Looking on that other presentment of herself, in 24 THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. the light of these past months, what a blank, dreary time it seemed! what a life- time between then and no~v! The slight curtain that hung between past and pres- ent was being torn down. Her head drooped till it rested against his arm. The vow! Yes, that was what hAd stood between her and life, that was the reason why the dark eyes had haunted her in that tragic picture, whose story she had so often failed to read. But now she had released him, and given him back life and hope. She could not give him back his youth; those glad, eager boys eyes would never again look forth even upon her; but the mans had gained something which the boys had not foretold. Ah, I understand, she said softly as his hand tenderly touched her hair. It has been all a mistake, but I understand it now. From The Month. THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. Ecquis ad vitam levius heatam Quisque secure citiusque tendit? Tuous quisnam sua tata anhelat Carthusiano? * THE branch line of railway that breaks off from the Portsmouth line at Horsham and runs across the fertile and wooded weald of Sussex, embouching on the sea at the little town of Shoreham, is not much frequented by ordinary tourists or travellers. Beautiful as is the undulating scenery through which it passes, it is sur- passed by other parts of fair Sussex it does not lie on the highroad from or to any large centre, or possess any very noted industry. The quiet, peaceful country, on which there seems to have fallen a cloak of solemn silence, when once the noisy rail is left behind, seems to represent medi~eval rather than modern England, the peace of the past rather than the bustle of the present. Yet the silence is not altogether unbroken,~ for as we make our way across the sunny hills and along the pleasant lanes, there falls upon our ears from time to time a sound that carries our thoughts beyond the Sussex weald, and for that matter beyond the hills and dales of England, to lands where the music of the Angelus still rings out joy- fully at morning and noon and night, and * From a poem, De Laudihus Ordinis Carthusiani. By Seb. Brant, LL.D., given by Maurice Chauncey in hia Hiat. aliquot nostri s~culi Martyrum. where the deep booming bell from the cathedral tower recalls our hearts to God at short intervals during the whole day long. Though, for the matter of that, this Sussex weald has a bell which is not sat- isfied even with the frequent ringing which we are accustomed to hear re-echo- ing across the Italian lakes, or in loyal Tyrol, or in Catholic France. The mid- night watcher hears its deep, sonorous sound as one day passes into another; and ere the sun can show his early rays even in midsummer, again it re-echoes through the whole country round. For in the midst of this sweet country, removed alike from town or village, there stands in a commanding situation, slightly raised above the country round, the Char- treuse of England, dedicated to the En- glish St. Hugh, and containing some thirty or forty of those good Carthusian monks, the name of whose order is familiar to us all, though for the most part we know too little of it, or its magnificent traditions, or the spirit that animates it, or the end that its children set before themselves in their religious life. But it has come before us during the last few months in two differ- ent ways. Among the English martyrs lately raised to the altars of the Church, there are more Carthusians than religious of any other order. The Carthusians had the honor of being first singled ou tasob- jects of thecupidity or the hatred of the tyrant. The protomartyr of England un- der Henry the Eighth was a Carthusian prior of the London Charterhouse. Two other Carthusian priors suffered with him. Six more of them died on the scaf- fold, and nine others were starved to death in prison. All honor to these glori- ous martyrs, and to their brethren of mod- ern days, who make the Sussex weald resound with the notes of their deep- tongued bell of midnight psalmody. Another, and a very different circum- stance has brought these Carthusians un- der public notice of late. Her Majesty the queen of England lately paid a visit to the Grande Chartreuse of France, of which our English Chartreuse is the mod- ern offspring, and enjoyed the rare privi- lege of admission within the enclosure. We shall have to speak presently of this visit, of which a distorted and incorrect account has appeared in the English pa- pers. At present we allude to it merely as one of the motives which has led us to choose the present moment for some ac- count of the noble monastery which now forms the ornament and the gem of cen- tral Sussex. THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. We will suppose ourselves wandering along the lanes and across the fields which lie between the little village of Cowfold and Partridge Green. Our attention has been already arrested by the booming bell, and as we turn our eyes in the direc- tion whence the sound proceeds, we per- ceive a tall spire surrounded by a group of buildings, of which the church seems to be the centre, enclosed by a wall which, as far as its appearance and extent is con- cerned might be the wall of a little city. This idea is confirmed as we notice that inside the wall, and built into it, are a series of houses apparently of two stories each, with their upper story rising over the wall, but without any window or other communication with the outside. These houses run along a great part of the wall; some of them are at right angles to it, others are parallel to it, so that the wall forms the back of the lower floor of the house. Outside this there are within the wall other buildings a little separated from it, larger and more substantial, more of the character of college buildings. In the centre of all there rises the church, in which the architect has with rare skill overcome the difficulties of modern Nor- man, and produced a specimen of it of which even the admirer of modern Gothic cannot deny the beauty, or the suitability to its surroundings. A tall spire sur- mounts the massive tower, which is a landmark all the country round, and gives a dignity to the little city (for city indeed it is) of which it is the crown and central ornament. As we walk round the walls of our city in order to gain admission, we come upon a part of it entirely different from the rest. The front of the city has in the midst a modern house, in itself well-looking enough, but a strange contrast with the monastic pile around it. This is the orig- inal house which stood upon the estate when it came into Carthusian hands, and which now serves as a guest house to the frequent visitors who are entertained there. Within the gates we find two vast quad- rangles, with a smaller one dividing them from each other. In this central court are situated the conventual buildings prop- erly so called; the church, chapter-house, library (immediately over the chapter- house), refectory, chapel for lay brothers, etc. Each of the large quadrangles is surrounded by a vaulted cloister which runs around it. There are in all 3,166 feet of cloister, more than half a mile. Each side of the larger of the two quad- 25 rangles is some six hundred feet in length, 1,595 feet all round. Quadrangles we have called them, but let not the pious reader limit his ideas to the stunted courts of an Oxford or a Cambridge college. Even Christ Church and Trinity are dwarfed by the magnificent proportions of the monastery of St. Hugh. It is a field, not a court, which is enclosed, and the cemetery, which forms a portion of the larger quadradgle, is in itself a goodly burying-ground, though it is but a frac- tional part of the whole extent. Of the buildings we shall attempt no detailed description. Doubtless the pro- vincial bookseller of Brighton or Worthing or Horsham has long since supplied the intelligent tourist with those statistics which are to his taste. Our concern is with the living stones, compared with which the outward structure is of no ac- count except so far as it tells of the char- acter of the order who have built it and reflects the spirit of their piety and the distinguishing features of their rule. But has the Carthusian order any distinguish- ing features in its rule? and if so, what are they? Let us look a little more closely at the order as it now exists, to see what is the virtue and what is consequently the work that we may regard as assigned to it in this nineteenth century of ours. For every order has its own distinctive virtue, which is the centre of its life, the heart whence flow-s the life-blood into its every member. So long as this virtue is strong and vigorous, so long the o rder will flouish and be effective in its ~vork; but if this is lost sight of, decay and demoralization be- gin at once. In some orders the character- istic virtue lies more on the surface than others. The poverty of the children of St. Francis, the obedience of the sons of St. Ignatius, the mortification of the fam- ilies of Mount Carmel, the spirit of pen- ance of the Passionists, are proverbial. But the characteristic of the Chartreuse is not so obvious it lies more beneath the surface. It is not that they above all are conspicuous for their love of solitude. They are not half so solitary as were the monks of the desert, in fact they pur- posely unite a large element of community life, and consider it an essential part of their institute. Nor is it their rule of silence, strict though it be, for the Trap- pists are far stricter. Nor is it their choice of a complete seclusion, of a des- ert, as the site of their monasteries if indeed a place can be called a desert which blossoms with sylvan beauties for other orders, Carmelites and Benedictines. shun 26 THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. the busy haunts of men, and are only joy. No sooner had the chancellor heard dragged into the city by their zeal for the of the choice, than he threw up every- salvation of souls. Nor is it a mere mm- thing, friends, influence, wealth, office, gling of one and another of these several and hastened away to bury himself in a characteristics, as eclecticism finds no cloister. For a time he remained with a congenial home in the regular orders of ~reformed branch of the Benedictines at the Catholic Church, and it is only some Solesmes. But he sighed after greater modern congregations that borrow now solitude and more complete retirement, here, now there, and so construct a com- and by the advice of S~guin, the celebrated posite rule suitable to the special work abbot of Chaise Dieu, he started with six they undertake. In the Carthusian rule companions for Grenoble. At the very we are bound to discover one central idea moment that he entered the town with his running through it all, the key-note of the companions, the holy Bishop St. Hugh of beautiful melody which their holy life Grenoble dreamed that he saw seven stars sends up to the throne of the Most High. fall at his feet, and then arise and cross the Perhaps there is no better means of mountains till they settled in the wild coun- searching for the central idea of any reli- try known as Chartreuse, or Chartrouse. gious order than to recur to the life of its He then observed a house arise, built by founder and of its most prominent saints, angelic hands, and on the roof of it, when In their actions we find reflected the spirit built, these seven mysterious stars took that moved them. We see in their meth- up their abode. While the bishop was odsof procedure the particular direction pondering over his dream, in came St. in which the Holy Spirit was guiding Bruno and his disciples, in whom he at them, and consequently the aim and end once recognized the seven stars, and was ~vhich he desired that the order they able to direct them to the abode for which founded should set before itself. We God destined them. must therefore look for the Carthusian We must leave the life of St. Bruno to spirit to the prominent feature of its notice the characteristic of his action in re- founder, St. Bruno. St. Bruno was chan- fusing the bishopric and going off to live cellor of the diocese of Rheims when in what the world would call a useless life of 1082 the archbishopric fell vacant. He had selfish contemplation in the wild Char- already done a great work for the church treuse. It seems indeed strange that of Rheims. He lived at a time when the when he would have been so eminently struggle between the secular powers and suited to steer the bark of the church of the Church was at its height, and Gregory Rheims through its threatening difficul- the Seventh was fighting his heroic battle ties, he relinquished a post to which it ap- against the fierce attempts of the world to peared to human eye as if God was most encroach on the province of the Church. distinctly calling him. To leave such a At Rheims the war had been waged with sphere of usefulness for an unknown especial fury, and had threatened destruc- future seemed like a delusion; it seemed tion to the power of the clergy there. almost to be running in the teeth not only The chief advocate of the rights of the of common sense, but of the manifest Church had been the holy and energetic guidance of Almighty God. Yet Bruno chancellor, who had opposed himself like hesitated not, wavered not. God called a wall of brass to the enemy who sought him, and that was enough. He broke not to thrust himself into the house of God. only with the world, but with what the He had sacrificed wealth, honors, rev- world would call ordinary prudence. His enues, he had been exiled for several years, action was opposed to all that is com~ but at length had returned triumphant, prised under the name of utilitarianism. to the joy of the clergy of Rheims. And It was the folly of the cross under the now the archbishopric was vacant, and a strange form o running counter to what successor was to be appointed. It was ordinary men, and even good men, would on Bruno, their chancellor, that the choice call ordinary common sense. of the clergy fell. Who had so deserved It is the same spirit which appears to to be head Qf the church for which he had us to be characteristic of the Carthusian struggled and suffered? Who was so order a noble and a sapernatural disre- suited to fight, and fight with success, gard of most worldly wisdom and worldly the battle of the church of Rheims in policy, a disregard of that spirit of utility the exalted position of their leader and which governs the modern world, and of general. which the science of political economy is Bruno was therefore elected, to the the typical representative, a disregard of great joy of all. But short-lived was their the spirit that asks on every occasion, THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. 27 11711 iti5ay? of the spirit which animates modern commerce, of the spirit which can understand the usefulness of active orders, but despises those who live a solitary and contemplative life, of the spirit which te- fuses to accept the employment of the saints and angels in Heaven as described in Holy Scripture, as the highest which man can conceive, and joins with Mr. Harrison in regarding a monotonous round of ceaseless psalmody as a very unattractive occupation for eternity. We must examine the Carthusian rule a little more in detail in order to realize its central idea. No one who studies their rule can deny that the end that the Carthusian sets before himself is to repro- duce as nearly as possible in his daily life the life of the blessed in heaven. This, it is true, may be said to be the aim of every order; but the orders which are strictly mendicant, or which set before themselves the conversion of others, or give themselves to penance and mortifica- tion, cannot do so in the same way that the Carthusians do. The double life of the angels as always present before the throne of God and yet always ministering to men, is represented by this double as- pect of religious life. It is the life of divine contemplation which God has chosen for the Carthusians. Any other element is non-essential to them. If they are studen.ts or authors, preachers or con- fessors, it is rather as a by-work than as in any way their principal aim. The one end that they set before themselves is to repro- duce in their manner of life the manner of life of the angels as Inhabitants of Heazen. Hence we have the following points com- ing out prominent i. The Carthusian life is a life of soli- tude. To be alone with God, to think only of God, to concentrate all the forces of the soul on the knowledge of God. Not only to find God everywhere, but so to arrange their life as to shut out every ob- stacle to the conscious realization of the presence of God, continually to fix their thoughts on God, and to surround them- selves with everything that helps to this, to efface the remembrance of the world, that God may occupy all the powers of the soul. Here is the centre of the life of St. Brunos children. The solitude at which they aim is, we may say, the solitude of God himself, a solitude which seeks to make holy thoughts and desires its con- tinual occul)ation, as God in his divine solitude occupies himself in the activity of intellect and will. But is there solitude in Heaven? Yes, because to all the innumerable multitude there the end of their existence is to be alone with God. This constitutes their essential happiness and joy. If all the rest of the inhabitants of Heaven could cease to exist and one alone remain, he would be none the less happy so long as he possessed God. Accidental happiness indeed he would lose, but this is as noth- ing compared with that which is essential; the joy of the society of all the saints and angels, nay, of our Blessed Lady herself, is as nothing compared with the joy of contemplating God. This is why the Carthusian life is above all a life of soli- tude. 2. But it is not a hermits life. Its solitude is like the solitude of Heaven, a solitude which is compatible with a life in community, nay, community life is essen- tial to it, since the submission of perfect obedience needs as long as we are mortal men, the presence of an external rule and of superiors to whose will our own must bend. In Heaven this submission needs no practice and requires no further per- fection. lt is not to teach the angels obedience that one hierarchy is subject to another, though even they had to learn submission before they were confirmed in grace and admitted to the beatific vision. But here on earth obedience to some ex- ternal authority to which our ~vill must bend is a necessary element of perfection for all except those very few who are called to an eremitical life. It was this union of solitude and society which at- tracted St. Hugh of Lincoln to that order. During a visit he paid to the Grande Chartreuse he carefully watched the life of its inmates. The place itself had charms for him, but its inhabitants, says his biog- rapher, pleased him still more. He ob- served in them a mortification of the flesh united to a continual cheerfulness and freedom of spirit, a continual gaiety and behavior that ~vas irreproachable. Their statutes recommend, not singu)arity but solitude, their cells are separate but their hearts united, each lives by himself but does nothing of himself, has nothing of his own, all live in isolation and yet each acts as the community. All are alone and so avoid the inconveniences and dangers of society, yet there is sufficient of com- mon life not to be deprived of the advan- tages and consolation which are procured by the society of ones brethren. All this, and chiefly the bridle and check of obedi- ence which are a source of security want- ing to hermits, who are thereby exposed to many temptations, charmed St. Hugh and 28 THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. made him desire to embrace the Carthu- sian rule.* 3. After the distinguishing feature of solitude and community life combined, the elaborate singing of the divine praises is another essential characteristic of the Carthusian rule. Out of the t~venty-four hours the saying and singing of the office occupies some six or seven. They not only sing the office of the day but the office of our Lady as well, and on ferial days the office of the dead. The office of our Lady is said in the cell, the office for the day and the office of the dead are sung in the church. Seven hours in all of divine praises! What would Mr. Harri- son say to this? He would tell us that it is a commencement on earth of the mo- notonous round of ceaseless psalmody which he dreads in Heaven. But ask those who have tasted the sweetness of this an- ticipation of the chief employment of the saints before the throne of God. Ask St. Bruno, or St. Hugh, or Blessed John Houghton, the martyred prior of the Char- terhouse, and they will tell you that those long hours of the divine office were to them short and sweet only too short for the fervor of their devotion and sweet with a sweetness surpassing all the sweet- ness of earths delights. 4. But we shall best recognize the char- acteristics of Carthusian sanctity by fol. lowing one of them throughout the routine of his day. At 5.30 he rises and begins the day by saying prime of the day and tierce of our Lady. Then he pays a visit to the blessed sacrament. At 7 the con- ventual mass is sung in the church, at which the whole community is present. And here we notice that the mass is in many respects varied from the Roman rite. The priest begins by saying the confiteor, not in front of the altar, but at the side in saying the prayers, instead of extending his hands, he clasps them to~ether and rests them on the altar. The subdeacon has nothing to do except to sing the epistle. The deacon does not wear a dalmatic, but a cowl used on this occasion only. The canon of the mass is said by the priest with his arms extended. Except at the consecration he does not genuflect but makes a profound bow instead. At the end of mass, after unvesting, he lies down on his side to make his thanksgiving, in- stead of kneeling as other priests. The whole rite is as nearly as possible the * Magna Vita S. Hugonis, i. 7, quoted in La Grande Chartreuse, par un Chartreuse, pp. 345, 346, from which much of our information re,pecting the Carthu- sians is derived. Grenoble rite in St. Brunos time, with some ceremonies introduced from Cluny. It is essentially conservative, and hence approaches nearer to the Oriental rite than does the Roman in its present for~n. But to return to the occupations of the Carthusians day. When the conventual mass is over, the various priests say their own masses in various private chapels, all saying it as far as is possible at the same hour, the Carthusian monastery be. ing consequently provided with a suffi- cient number of chapels to allow of this simultaneous offering of the holy sacrflce by all the priests of the community. After mass and thanksgiving, all make half an hours meditation in their cells, and spiritual reading until ten oclock, the hour when sext is said and the spiritual exercises of the morning are concluded, so far as there can be said to be any con- clusion to the spiritual exercises of a Car- thusian. But breakfast? No mention has been made of the hour when the early- rising Carthusians satisfy the cravings of a hunger whetted by the keen morning air, and the singing, not only of the conventual mass and prime and tierce, but of the long night office, of which we shall have to speak presently. When is it that the fast is broken and the body refreshed by the morning refection? Ah ! gentle reader, for a Carthusian breakfast is a zon ens, a thing which has no existence, unless in- deed you choose to call the meal he takes about the middle of the day (or what is the middle of the day to him) by the name which it certainly deserves, if etymolo y is to be our guide, since it literally brea~s the fast of every member of the commu- nity. But if we allow him a breakfast there is no dinner. This meal, taken either at ten or eleven, is his chief meal of the day and for the greater part of the year his only meal, since during the long fasts, which extend over some seven months, supper he has none, save a lump of bread. Even on joyful days his supper scarce deserves the name; a small omelette, or a little fish, some fruit, and a glass of beer, is all that is comprised in the evening meal even on feasts. This one meal in the mid- dle of the day (breakfast or dinner as you choose) is all that the Carthusian stomach can count upon as the means of its support. Look at it as it stands on the turn-about shelf in the outer cell, whither it has been carried straight from the kitchen. It is simple enough, but good, wholesome, and nourishing. There are three dishes, be- side a basin of soup, and they are placed in a vessel something like a very deep THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. 29 saucepan, with a number of layers in which are placed its various component parts. Let us profanely lift the lid and examine what each layer contains. Down at the bottom is a basin of vegetable soup pea soup it happens to be to-day then over that a couple of poached eggs, next a bit of fish, two small red mullets to wit, lying side by side, and at the top one of those round open fruit tarts, such as we may be familiar with in the shops of the Grande Rue of Dieppe, or on the buffet of many a French railway station. Add to this a salad placed in a separate dish, a good hunk of light plain wholesome bread, and two small bottles of rather small beer, and there is the whole of the cuisine sup- plied by the good refectorian for the day. The two bottles of beer, note you, are not both to be taken at dinner that would be quite in excess of Carthusian abstemi- ousnessone of them is for dinner, the other for the light refection (too light, alas, in fasting time !) which goes by the name of supper. Note you, moreover, that this small beer is the one and only beverage of the inmates of the Chartreuse no tea, no coffee, these almost neces- sary adjuncts of modern civilization are not for a Carthusian monk. For their guests coffee worthy of a French ar/irk, and tea which would delight the palate of the English matron, but for the poor monks beer, wholesome indeed and pal- atable, but nevertheless distinctly small, from the first day of January to the last day of December. But is it a day of abstinence on which we have been examining into Carthusian fare? All is ;nazgre soup, solids, every- thing. Is meat never allowed? Here is another distinctive mark of the Chartreuse. By a law unbending as that of the Medes and Persians, by a rule which allows of no exception, no Carthusian monk can taste flesh meat from the day he joins the order to the day of his death nay, within the walls of the monastery no meat can be tasted, and the generous hospitality ex- tended to the stranger stops short of this that under no possible circumstances can any kind of flesh meat be given him within its walls. Eggs, fish, fruit, wine, in all abundance, but of the flesh of four- footed or winged things not a morsel. But whaVof the case of sickness? Here, doubtle~s, there is an exception made. If the physician declares meat to be neces- sary to health, surely leave is given to the sick man for as long a time as it is de- clared indispensable. Not a bit of it. ts~~j~n~ Carth. fol. 48, n 34, quoted in La The rule is absolute. He may have any- Grande Chartreuse, p. 350. Carnis in ~temum cuncti prohibentur ab esu. The prohibition existed as a custom from the first, but in the year 1244 was solemnly enacted in the general chapter as a law, to any breach of which was attached for many years the penalty of immediate ex- pulsion from the order,* and though at the present day the penalty of infringe- ment is mitigated, the law is no less strict, and is most strictly and exactly observed in every Carthusian monastery through- out the world. Do the monks suffer in health or strength from this regulation? Not the least; for such a life as theirs flesh meat is unnecessary and often harmful. They live to a good old age. They are free from many a malady which arises from the ~se of flesh meat. They arise to their midnight office with a freshness which would be impossible if it were not for their wholesome abstinence. But enough of the Carthusian diet. We will now turn to their habitations. As we take a birds-eye view of the mon- astery from the tall church tower which forms its centre and its chief ornament, we notice all around the spacious cloisters those little houses we have already de- scried from outside, little houses, all sepa- rate from each other, opening out into the cloister by a little door for each, and on the opposite side backed by a wall, the lower part of which forms the exterior wall that runs round the cloister. Each of these little houses contains a garden, a covered ambulacrum or little cloister of its own, and four rooms. Of the two rooms on the ground floor one is a store- room, where there is laid up a heap of wood and faggots for fuel and to provide thing else, but no meat, not even a table- spoonful of beef tea may pass his lips under the severest pains and penalties. If it should be a case of life and death, if the medical opinion should be that the patient cannot pull through his sickness ~vithout the nourishment of flesh diet, not even then is it allowed. In such a case indeed the monk may, if not solemnly pro- fessed, be dispensed from his vows, and where life was at stake the dispensation would be granted by ecclesiastical superi- ors without any difficulty whatsoever, but as long as the Carthusian monk remains a Carthusian monk, so long must he abide by the rule ~vhich the Carthusian poet ex- presses in the line, 30 THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. manual labor to the inmate. The other is a workshop, with a turning-lathe, and sometimes materials for carving, carpen- try, the casting of statues, or other pious handicraft. The two rooms up-stairs are an anteroom, where an Ave Maria has to be said before a statue of our Lady as often as the inmate enters his domicile, and where he has to receive any of his fellows who may come to him on business from his snperiors. The inner room is the ordinary living-room. One part is oc- cupied by a ~rie-dieu for prayer and reli- gious exercises; a table in another corner serves for study and for meals; while the simple chintz curtains hide from sight the simplest, not to say the hardest, of beds. Here it is that the main part of the Car- thusians life is spent. Save when he goes to the church for divine office, and when (as on Sundays and some of the greater feasts) the meals are taken in com- mon in the refectory, it is in this little house alone and apart from all the world beside, that he spends his silent, solitary life. But is the life quite silent and solitary? We have already said that the solitude is mingled with community life. Even the silence, strict as it is, has some mitigation. Whenever dinner is taken in the refectory, it is followed by two hours recreation, and then the tongues may wag as fast as they please. In addition to this there is a walk once a week in the country round the monastery, and on this occasion also talk- ing is not only permitted but enjoined. The rule at other times does not bind with the strictness of an absolute prohibition, and the monks are instructed during si- lence time to ask for what is necessary not by signs, but ~vith the tongues with which God has provided them. XVe have wandered away, not undesign- edly, from our account of a Carthusian day. We left our monk, after sext had been said, at his breakfast about II A. M. After this he has some three hours or more for study and manual labor. The manual labor of the Carthusian is not in- tended as a penance. They have not to work in the fields like the Trappists. Their work is intended as a relaxation for the spirit, as a means of rendering them more able to recite the divine office with fervor and recollection. Hence it is to be varied according to the strength of the individual. Some wield the axe, others the saw, others occupy themselves with the cultivation of their gardens, as they find most profitable to the service and praise of God, which constitutes the main feature of their life. Part of this time, moreover, is to be given to study, for study is another important feature of their life. Study has always been held in high es- teem by the order, though not its chief occupation. Not all study, however, but the study of Holy Scripture, of dogmatic, of moral, and, above all, of ascetic theol- ogy. No profane studies are permitted in the order. In the time of the Renais- sance, an attempt was made to introduce the study of Greek. Some Carthusian fellow countrymen of Erasmus became possessed of the idea that no one could get at the true meaning of Holy Scripture unless he understood Greek. Not so thought the General Chapter of x543, in which these ambitious religious received a serious rebuke. These men, it said, forget the holy simplicity suitable to those who are no longer of the world. The time given them to spend on reading works of piety is employed in satisfying a vain curiosity in giving themselves to the study of Greek. We exhort all our reli- gious in the Lord to remember the mo- tives which led them to enter the order. May t never forsake Carthusian sim- Yet it was no want of appreciation of true culture that led the chapter to write thus, but with them culture must be, not for cultures sake, but for Gods. Oh, my God, cries Denis the Carthusian, I thank thee in these last years of my life for having made me enter so young the order in which by thy grace I have lived for forty-six years, and during all that time blessed be thy name! I have always been constant at study. One of the mo- tives which drew St. Hugh of Lincoln to the order was the opportunity of peaceful study, and the exceeding rich supply of literature (prcedives libroru,n abu;idantia) that was there at his disposal, with full time to read, and an undisturbed peace which would render study easy and pleas- ant. He who visits our English Chartreuse will understand St. Hughs enthusiasm. The library is the noblest room in the whole building. It is constructed to hold over twenty thousand books, and is al- ready more than half full. All the modern books worth having on theology, philoso- phy, ecclesiastical history, are added to its shelves. Most of the standard authors of medi~val and later times, Carthusian, Dominican, Benedictine, Jesuit, Secular, will be found there. Even in its present incompleteness it would not be easy to find a religious house in England with a THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. 3 library more complete. And as to the college libraries of Oxford and Cambridge, hide your heads, 0 degenerate successors of the learned monks of old, and see how the spirit of true learning, that ~vas driven forth from Oxford in the days of Somerset the Protector, when Aquinas served as a bonfire and Scotus was torn to pieces in the quadrangle of New College, has found a congenial shelter amid those Obscurant- ist monks who have cherished the tradi- tions of culti+re that you despised. We left our Carthusian studying or working with his hands, or spending his time in pious meditation, pacing to and fro in his little cloister, or walking in his gar- den. The time passes pleasantly enough, and he is almost startled when the deep tones of the big bell announce to him that 2.30 P. si., the hour for saying the vespers of our Lady, has arrived. We say star- tled, because we need scarcely remind our readers that watch or clock (even of Amer- ican cheapness) is no part of the furniture of the Carthusian cell. He is indeed a standing protest against our ever-increas- ing dependence on modern inventions he continually reminds us that these little conveniences with which ~ve have sur- rounded ourselves may be dispensed with without any serious loss of time, and not without some compensating gain ot quiet, peaceful tranquillity. For tranquillity favors solid learning and artistic culture far more than our hurried life of railroads and telegraphs, and rushing to and fro, and ornniu;n ga/herum information, and school boards, and penny newspapers, and science lectures for the people, on all of which ~ve pride ourselves as heralds of a civilization whereby the modern Babylon is to eclipse the ancient Jerusalem, city of peace. Our Ladys vespers ended at 2.45, the big bell sounds again, and the community assemble in the church, where vespers of the day are sung, and on ordinary days the office of the dead immediately follows. This lasts till about four oclock, and after it the monks retire to their cells for their evening meal, if meal it can be called, which for more than half the year consists of nought save a piece of bread. Supper ended, two hours are spent in study, spir- itual reading, and private prayer, at the discretion of individual devotion. For purposely throughout the day a gap is left in the prescribed duties that each may have times for private prayer and spiritual reading and meditation other than those which are imposed by custom or by rule. With one or other of these he occupies himself till 6.30. But what happens at 6.30? You will scarcely believe it, gentle reader, but these good religious are so out of gear with the glories of modern civilization, that at the very hour when you are still driving in the park or sipping your after- noon tea, the good Carthusian is retiring to rest. At the very hour that you are be- ginning what you regard as the serious business of the day, his day is well-nigh over; at the very hour that you are pre- paring to dress for dinner, he is already lying down in rough habit for his brief repose; at the very hour that you are dain- tily sitting down to dinner in your evening dress, he is already sleeping soundly on his palliasse of straw; and he sleeps on while one course succeeds another till the menu is exhausted, and still he sleeps while you linger over your cigarette and glass of claret, and just about the time that you betake yourself to the drawing room, or are already whiling away an hour there before some further amusement begins, he is rousing himself from his first sleep to intercede with Almighty God for the sins and follies that are committed in all our centres of modern civilization each night of the livelong year between eleven at night and the first cock-crowing in the morning. For between ic and II P.M. the whole community arise and in their cells recite, each at his prie-dieu, the matins and lauds of the little office of our Lady. At 11.45 the bell once more sounds aloud and calls them one and all to the church, where to- gether they sing the matins and lauds of the canonical office. Each brings with him his own little lantern, and from it he lights a larger lamp, wherewith to follo~v his breviary and take his part in the office. Otherwise all is dark. No coronas of flaring gas light up the sacred obscu- rity of the midnight office not a candle to throw its light upon the scene nothing but the sub-lustral glimmer of the shaded lamps held by the assembled monks, as their mingled song rises up with a strange charm and weird solemnity amid the dark- ness. Very beautiful that song is a sort of plain chant with certain variations of its ownvery like the ordinary Grego- rian, but yet with the Carthusian stamp upon it; the same as was sung, note for note, in the days of St. Bruno, handed down with the traditional conservatism of their order from then till now. The canonical office finished, on all days, save certain feasts and vigils, the 32 THE CHARTREUSE OF ST. HUGH IN SUSSEX. office of the dead follows. It is two oclock or past before the Benedict us is sung and the last collect said and the night office finished. In the singing of the divine praises three long hours have been spent no, not long, save to those who go to watch and listen, and have not a vocation to the life of which they are so essential a part. But human nature needs repose, and these three hours of psalmody have at least whetted the appetite for sleep. A little after two the monks retire for their second nocturn, if we may so call this second half of their broken time of repose. It is broken indeed, for a little after five they are once more roused to their devotions, and begin a second day with the echoes of the psalmody of the preceding night still ringing in their ears. After our glance over the Carthusian s day or, to speak more correctly, over day and night consecrated alike to the service and praise of God we are able to form a better notion of the Carthusian spirit. It is essentially and above all an unworldly spirit. It is more; it is an anti- worldly spirit. Its motto is, The world is crucified to me, and I unto the world. Its opposition to the world is, moreover, an opposition peculiar to itself. It does not fight the ~vorld as do the active orders. It lives apart from it. It shows its utter contempt for it. It rejoices to run coun- ter to it, and to neglect its maxims, to show its complete independence of it, of its pleasures, amusements, festivities, its manner of life, its laws, its customs, its novelties, its inventions, its wonderful dis- coveries, its press, its public opinion, and everything in fact which goes to make up the ordinary life of the man of the world. What he loves, the Carthusian hates. His whole existence is the reverse of the Carthusians. For his love of society, we have the Carthusians silence; for his in- dependence, the Garth usians obedience. When he is retiring to rest, the Carthusian is rising. When he is in the midst of the evenings gaiety, the Carthusian is rising to sing the praises of God. When he is getting up in the morning, the Carthusi- ans day is well-nigh half done. What would a man of business, judging according to the economy of the world, say to the arrangements of the monastery? What a waste of space in that long line of detached houses, each with its four rooms and its little ambulacrum! in those unused cloisters, in that huge quadrangle which no foot ever crosses! What a waste of time to sing the same psalms over and over again, often three times for the three different offices! What ridiculous old- world customs I So wasteful too. One good gas jet would be more practically useful than all those smoky little lanterns. Above all, what more narrow and stupid than to make the abstinence from flesh meat so unbending a rule that they would sooner die than eat it, even at a physi- cian s command? The whole cast, more- over, of the lifeits solitude, its manual works, so unfit for educated men, its inter- minable offices, its breaking up of the night into two what more utterly at vari- ance with ordinary ideas of prudence and common sense? To all this the Carthusian answers, Mihi mundus cruc~ftxus est et ego mundo. The world is crucified to me, and therefore I naturally turn my back upon it. I am crucified to the world, and no wonder there- fore that it should be my enemy, as it was the enemy of my Lord. If the folly of the world is wisdom with God, what else can I expect than that all the customs, ordinances, and practices of the Carthu- sian rule should be regarded with supreme contempt by the critic whose standard is the collective judgment of modern so- ciety? Yet after all we are perhaps unfair on modern Englishmen if we imply that they have a contempt for the Carthusians. To the vast majority, even of educated En- glishmen, the life of the Carthusians is a sealed book. It is an unknown mysterious land, which rather attracts than repels, simply because it is unknown, and so rouses their curiosity. Even of those who visit the Chartreuse of St. Hugh, how few come away any the wiser! On those who have any sort of cultivation in them the grandeur and magnificence of the place must necessarily make an impression. Those who have any spirit of religion can- not help being awed by the atmosphere of sanctity which hangs about it. From time to time the good prior has been astonished by the sight of Protestant vis- itors, Anglican clergymen and others, throwing themselves on their knees and begging his blessing with the tears run- ning down their cheeks, unable to resist the holy influence around them. Truly God was in this place, and I knew it not. But if the Carthusian cloister is an unknown mysterious world to English men, how much more to English women I Men at least can visit it, but none of the pious female sex can ever set foot within its walls without the express per- mission of the pope himself. One ex- ception alone there is. The sovereign of the country has by custom a right to en- trance into all Carthusian monasteries and convents within her dominions. If the queen of England were to come and knock at the door of the Chartreuse of St. Hugh (and please God perhaps some day she may), she would be admitted as of right and without any difficulty. Not so at the Grande Chartreuse of France for her visit there the popes permit was needed, as it would have been for the visit of any other lady. It is only within the actual dominions of a queen that she en- joys the privilege of which we speak. We regret that our space allows us to say only a word of the second cause that has made us more familiar of late ~vith the good Carthusians the beatification of Prior Houghton and the other Carthusians who laid down their lives for the faith under Henry the Eighth. Very beautiful is the account given by contemporary writers of the strict observance and per- fect discipline of the London Charter- house in the early part of the sixteenth century; very touching the portrait of the virtues, the charity, the humility of their holy prior; very painful the story of the efforts of the tyrant and his creatures to force the monks into submission; very consoling the noble constancy even to death of the prior and a large part of the community; very heartrending the account of the agonizing torments to which they were subjected at their execution. We hope that in a future number we may be able to give some details of this glorious episode in the history of the order. In this present article our object has been to place before our readers a short sketch of our English Chartreuse, which has risen There appeared in several of the English papers an account of the queens visit to the Grande Char- treuse, purporting to be written by an English Carthu- sian, and which contained a number of inaccuracies and misstatements. We can assure our readers that no inmate of the only Carthusian monastery in England was responsible for tbe newspaper account of the visit. It was there stated that the queen had a right to enter as queen, which was false It was also asserted that after a long visit of cotirtesy to one of she cells, her Majesty received front the inmate a beautiful little silver crucifix as a keepsake. Unfortunately for the story, no Carthu- sian in the world possesses a silver crucifix in his cell, as it is against the rule to have anything of silver. He would, moreover, have sinned against his vow of pov- erty in giving away the property of the monastery. The real facts of the queens visit were these. Is is trtae tltat she visited one of the monks in his cell, a young Englishman, nephew to a well-known London priest, stud spetut some time in friendly converse with him. After she had left she sent him in memory of she visit a handsome silver cross. Thouub brought to him by the queens command, of course lie could not keep it. but before returning is to his prior tie wittily wrote on the back the following inscription: Regina dedit; Regula abstuiit; sit Nomen Domini benedicium. A men. LIVING AGE. VOL. LX. 3071 MAJOR AND MINOR. 33 up from the blood of the Carthusian mar- tyrs who suffered just three hundred and fifty years ago. Some seven years ago the foundation stone of this new Charter- house ~vas laid; three years since it was solemnly blessed by the bishop of the dio- cese. Now it has taken firm root, and it lives, and please God will ever live, in the midst of Protestant England till, through Gods mercy, England shall be Protestant no longer. May God grant to many young English Catholics a vocation to the glorious order of St. Hugh, and that this modern Charterhouse may surpass in sanctity of life even the Charterhouse of medi~val days! R. F. C. From Good Words. MAJOR AND MINOR. BY W. E. NORRt5. CHAPTER XXXII. A LITTLE HOLIDAY, IT is not a pleasant thing to have the gout, nor is it a creditable thing to overeat yourself; but since, unfortunately, a very considerable number of persons both have the one and do the other, society at large ought to be thankful for the existence of Homburg. Dismal indeed would be the lot of those who should find themselves reduced to choose between Bath and Bux- ton as a locus~enij~enticg. Now Homburg in the month of August is by no means a dismal place. The light air, the bright sunshine, the early hours, the excellent bands which begin to tune up while the dew is still on the crass and sound their last note only at ~edtime, the host of friends whom everybody is sure to fall in with in the neighborhood of the Elisa- bethan springall these combine to ren- der life at that gay little watering-place a cheerful, innocent, and invigorating sort of business for all such as the beneficent action of the waters does not cause to lie down upon the flat of their backs and howl aloud. But indeed if Homburg had been as dull, as empty, and as enervating as Lon- don at the same season, not the less would it have appeared of all spots upon the earths surface the most desirable to Brian Segrave. Little did he, who knew no,t the meaning of the word gout, care about the curative properties of climate or Brun- nen; little did it matter to him whether or not the broad alleys of the gardens and the terraces in front of the Cursaal MAJOR AND MINOR. 34 were thronged daily by an assemblage of British peers, members of Parliament, and other celebrities, with here and there an affable Royal Highness or Serenity amongst them; to him there was but one person in Homburg whose presence was of the very smallest importance; and a great joy it was to him to discoveras he did on the first occasion of his meeting with herthat this was not the Miss Huntley of Park Lane who was holding out her hand to him, but the Beatrice Huntley of Kingscliff whose frank good- fellowship had made him feel at ease and happy in her company before ever he had committed the folly of falling in love with her. The difference ~vas perhaps more perceptible to him now than it had been in London. Assuredly she had not shown any lack of friendship to him then; only he had had a sense of distance from her social inferiority would be rather too strong an expression which had not been the less real for being difficult of definition, and which, in some undefinable fashion, troubled him no longer in this clearer atmOsl)here. In any case, she seemed bent upon dis- missing Park Lane and all its associations from her memory for the time being. I am out for a holiday and I want to enjoy it, was almost the first thing that she said. Suppose we agree that during the next three weeks we will treat England as a mere geographical expression? I am prepared to treat everything and everybody exactly as you think best, Brian replied. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. Really? Then I will tell you just what you shall do, so that there may be no mis- take. Every morning at half past seven, or a quarter to eight at latest, you will meet us at the Elisabethan Brunnen and trudge up and down, up and down with us, while we drink our prescribed number of glasses and the band plays, until you are ready to drop. Perhaps I shall introduce you to one or two fellow-sufferers, and if I do, you must treat them civilly. Some liberty ought to be allowed to you with regard to your treatment of yourself; so you neednt drink the waters if you dont think they would be good for you. Well. then you will go home to breakfast, and you can rest or compose operas or do ~vhat you like until the middle of the day, when you will meet us again at the Cur- saal and join us in a nondescript sort of meal. In the afternoon ~ve shall stroll down to the lawn-tennis ground by the way, I hope you have brought flannels and a racket with youand if it isnt too hot and there are some nice people there, we shall play. Otherwise, we shall look on and listen to the old fogeys talking scan- dal. I hate driving; but sometimes you will be taken out for a drive, as a small concession to Miss Joy, who adores it. Then will come dinner, and then the band again, and at about ten oclock you will be sent off home to bed You can write D. C. ad Zib. at the end of that programme. How do you like the prospect? Well, he liked the prospect very much, and he liked the fulfilment of it still bet- ter. He too was out for a holiday; he too was resolved to banish melancholy thoughts and misgivings from his mind, if he could; and, as it turned out, he found this quite easy. When every hour of the day is filled up, when one has to rise the moment after waking, and when one goes to bed, pleasantly tired out, at night, little leisure remains for self-torment. That marching to and fro in the crisp air of the early morning was far from being the pain and grief to him that it is to persons of a less robust physique; the friends with whom Beatrice stopped every now and again to exchange a few words, and to some of whom she presented him, were people of agreeable, easy manners and of an outward appearance pleasing to the eye. They represented London society; but they seemed to Brian to represent it in an infinitely more attractive way there than at home; so true is it that the results of observation depend chiefly upon the ob- server. Moreover, the complete novelty of everything was in itself enough to sat- isfy a man who had never been out of England before, while the amusements enumerated by Miss Huntley served as well as-any others to bring about the one end that he desired, ~vhich was to be always near her. But what was best of all was that Miss Joy, who was going through a systematic course of the waters, and who, as she pa- theticallv declared, was losing weight every minute, could not possibly go through the amount of exercise which two young people in perfect health thought nothing of. Besides, sl~ehadtoabsenther- self foi a certain time every afternoon in order to take a bath. Hence it caine about that there were occasional long talks among the more s ecludecl paths of the woods talks in ~vhich not a word was said about Stapleford or the future member for the Kingscliff division or any other of those persons and topics ~vhich had been tabooed by a tacit agreement, but in which MAJOR AND MINOR. generalities were discussed after a fashion which rendered the mention of names wholly superfluous. And in these conver- sations there were always two things by which Brian was impressed: firstly, his companions indecision with regard to her future course (for it was evident that more than one plan was fermenting in her mind); and secondly, her submissive and even admiring way of listening to his own humble views of life and duty, which, to be sure, were of a fascinatiAgly simple character. You are like Mr. Monckton, she said once; you only see two sides to every- thing, a right and a wrong one, and you have no more difficulty in telling which to choose than you would have in distin- guishing between A and B. I suppose, if everybody resembled you, the millen- nium might begin without further loss of time. Sometimes, however, she was a little less complimentary, and seemed as if she were seeking to excuse herself. After all, she would urge, it isnt every point that can be reached by making straight for it as the crow flies. Supposing, tor ex- ample, that you were the prime minister and had to come to a definite conclusion of some kind about the Eastern question and the Irish question and all the other puzzles. You wouldnt find it help you very far on your way to be perfectly sound as to first principles. First of all, you would have to make up your mind what ought to be done, then you would have to discover how much of it came within the range of practical politics ; after which, I suppose, you would have to set to work to cudgel or cajole others into taking the right direction. And do you imagine that you would ever get through that business without persuading yourself that the end justifies the means? If, as would occasionally happen, the discussion took too much of a personal turn, both parties to it were ready, and even anxious, to change the subject. One of them, at all events, was nervously alive to the danger of quitting the safe ground of abstract debate. He felt that the foot- ing upon which he now stood with Beatrice could hardly be altered for the better, though it might easily enough be altered for the ~vorse. XVhether she divined his love for her or not he was quite uncertain but, supposing that she did, that would surely not tell against him, seeing that he was so very careful to avoid hinting at its existence. But, of course, this happy state of things, 35 this ignoring of patent facts and resolu- tion to live only in the present, could not last very long. It lasted, in fact, for the space of one week; at the end of which time the list of arrivals included that of Lord Stapleford, mit Familie und Be- gleitung, at the Hotel Victoria. The last words were probably added for the sake of euphony, Stapleford, as we know, being as yet unprovided with a family, while his Begleitung was confined to a modest unit; but as regarded the principal figure, the announcement was but too accurate- and perhaps the only person who derived any pleasure from the perusal of it was Miss Joy. That disinterested, but slightly obtuse lady did not fail to express her satisfac- tion to Brian when, for the first time since their interview in London, she obtained speech of him in private. This ~vas at the springs on the morning after Staple- fords arrival; and as Miss Joy ambled along the alley beside him, murmuring complacently that all would be well now, that it was high time to have done with hesitation, and so forth, Brian could see Staplefords back and Beatrices moving across the alternate bands of shadow and sunshine a few yards ahead. He tried not to be jealous; he tried not to feel as if he had been abruptly dismissed; he even tried to think that the very well- dressed ,good-humored, and conventional young man who had relieved him of his daily spell of escort duty was a fit and proper person to become Beatrice Hunt- leys husband; and he was about as suc- cessful in this last attempt as in the other two. Nevertheless, he was sufficiently master of himself to conceal his feelings; nor, indeed, was he subjected in the se- quel to any such trying ordeal as during that first hour had seemed to be in store for him. For it speedily became manifest that Beatrice did not wish to be left alone with her cousin. Staplefords man~u- vres, ably seconded by those of Miss Joy, proved totally unavailing to draw her away from the phalanx of friends with which she now chose to surround herself, and if at any time she had a fancy to leave the beaten track for ten minutes or so, it was invariably Brian who was requested to bear her company. However, her whole manner had once more undergone a complete change, so that there was little comfort to be got out of those brief and rare audiences. One should endeavor to avoid incon- gruity, she said one day, when, not with- I out some prickings of conscience, he 36 MAJOR AND MINOR. ventured to suggest that they might wan- der a little deeper into the woods. Hom- burg really isnt the place for pastorals and idyls; make an effort, and bring yourself more into harmony with local color. I have arranged that you and Sta- pleford are to play a lawn-tennis match this afternoon against two men who he says are very strong, and in the evening ~ve are going to have quite a large dinner at the Cursaal no less than eight of us. The programme is altered, then? said Brian interrogatively. The programme is altered, she re- plied. So are the circumstances. That was indisputable; and although the alteration might not be entirely wel- come, yet he had known all along that it must come in the end. Moreover, during the next ~veek or ten days he could not help enjoying himself, notwithstanding the dark clouds that obscured his horizon. Stapleford struck up a friendship with him; he became more or less intimate with the other young men who were at Homburg for reasons which apparently were in no way connected with ill-health; his leisure was fully occupied by games of lawn tennis in the sunny afternoons, by cheery little dinners at the various hotels and restaurants, by strolls through the illuminated gardens after dark, to a musi- cal accompaniment. The really happy portion of his holiday was over, but this epilogue was not devoid of charm, Only, as time went on, he became more and more sensible of an uneasy feeling about Beatrice, whose behavior caused him some perplexity, and also some distress. He would have been glad if she had rejected Stapleford; he would not have been alto- gether sorry if she had seen her way to accept him (for, indeed, the young man deserved every word that Miss Joy had said in his favor); but it seemed rather unfair, and even unworthy, to encourage him and hold him off at one and the same time ; and this was evidently what Beatrice wanted to do. Now, Stapleford, who had the patience of Job and a supply of good-nature so in- exhaustible that he himself might have been cited as offering a personification of that quality, was not a born fool, and con- sequently allowed it to be seen, in the long run, that he did not intend to be trifled with forever. I understand the fun of playing a fish; hut really I cant see any sport in keeping him on the hook after a baby in arms might land him, he said once to Miss Joy, who duly reported this remark in the proper quarter. The effect of it was to bring down upon him such a shower of snubs and cutting little speeches as must have driven him, if he had had a spark of spirit left, to show that a fish, as long as he remains in the water, is a free fish still; and since he responded but feebly to the stimulus, lVIiss Huntley took another way with him, and tried to scare him off by drawing perpet- ual comparisons between him and Brian Segrave, as well as by conspicuously in- creasing her marks of favor towards the latter. Thus she obtained, it is true, the respite which she probably desired; but it was at the expense of offending both her lovers; for Brian was surprised and hurt at being made use of as a stalking- horse. So this odd and rather absurd contest went on until a trivial incident brought it to a climax. One evening they were all returning by train, after dining and wit- nessing a display of fireworks in the Thier- garten at Frankfort. The excursion had not been a l)leasant one for Stapleford, who throughout it had been trying inef- fectually, and somewhat too persistently, to lead his cousin away from the oth- ers; it had not been pleasant for Brian, through whose unwilling instrumentality his efforts had been baffled; and when they reached the Homburg station Bea- trice, with an undisguised yawn, declared that it had not been pleasant for her either. The three Fs, she remarked, as she rose to leave the railway carriage; Frank- fort, Fireworks, and Fatigue and a little one thrown in for fiasco. This experi- ence shall not be repeated. Why stop there? asked Stapleford; for his endurance had been subjected to a prolonged strain; why not add fools? I dont see any occasion to use the plural number, she rejoined. She had her back turned towards him, and was in the act of descending from the carriage, so that there was no great harm in his relieving his feelings by a smoth- ered ejaculation and a stamp; hut cer- tainly it was unlucky for him that he chose the tail of her gown to stamp upon. If Brian, who had already got out, had not extended his long arms and caught her, she must infallibly have fallen headlong upon the platform. She turned round with that look of deadly ire which will come over the features of the best of women under such provocation. Another F, she observed calmly; a big one this time, since it stands for your foot. MAJOR AND MINOR. Im awfully sorry, said Stapleford; I seem to be destined to put my foot in it to-day. You do, she agreed, with marked emphasis; and it seems to be Mr. Se- graves destiny to protect me from the consequences. But for him, I should probably be now lying on a stretcher, with my nose and all my front teeth broken. Now, a little exasperation might very ~vell have been pardoned, under the cir- cumstances, nor was this rebuke at all more severe than many others which Sta- pleford had laughed off; but perhaps it came upon him as the last straw. Any- how, he looked very gloomy and savage over it; and after the ladies had been put into their carriage and driven away, Brian really thought for a moment that the young man who stood frowning at him in the glare of the gas-lamps meant to have his blood. However, there was no sound of anger in Staplefords voice when he said pres- ently, Its early vet; I think Ill walk round to your place and have a smoke with you before I turn in, Segrave, if you dont mind. And as they strolled towards the Kis- seleff Strasse, where Brian had engaged rooms, he discoursed with all his accus- tomed amiability, cracking small jokes and seeming to have quite recovered from a passing irritation; so that, after he had been made comfortable with an armchair and a cigar, it was a little startling to hear him begin, I say, old chap, we may as well under- stand one another. Are we rivals, or are we not? Because Ill be hanged if I can make out. Of course you know what Im here for; but I dare say you dont know that Im about as crazily in love with Beatrice Huntley as a man can be. I tell you that because I think it may make a difference. If youre in love ~vith her yourself, Ive no more to say; but if youre not, you might give a fellow a helping hand, now you know that hes in earnest. Brian hesitated; it was more difficult for him than it was for Stapieford to lay bare the innermost secrets of his heart. Still, thinking himself bound to be honest, he replied with something of a blush: Well, then, since you ask me, I do love her; these things are not matters of choice, you know. But I hope you dont think that I have been trying toto interfere with you in any way. Oh, thats all right, said S tapleford; I only wanted to know. You are just as much entitled to be in love with her as I 37 am, and we wont quarrel over it. Let the best man win. But, my dear fellow, protested Brian, you surely dont imagine that I shall ask Miss Huntley to be my wife, do you? You forget who I am a mere nobody, without an acre of land and with only a few hundreds a year of my own.~~ I dont see what better reason you could find for marrying an heiress espe- cially since you happen to be in love with her. In fact, thats precisely my own case. Not quite, I think, said Brian. Well, its near enough. What I fan- cied was that you suspected me of being after her money; and small blame to you! It began in that way, I confess. Her peo- ple and my people got the thing up, and I had no objection. But after I came to know her, why, 1 changed my point of view altogether; and now Id marry her if she hadnt a sixpence. I would indeed; though I suppose it would be a perfectly idiotic thing to do. So now I think I may claim to be as little of a fortune-hunter as you are, and if I come in first I shall win on my merits, dont you see? Brian nodded. But theres no race, he said. That remains to be seen. I doubt whether she is in love with you, if youll excuse my saying so. Old Joy swears she isnt, but thinks she has no end of a high opinion of you. As for me, Im about sick of this fast and loose game. Now, look here, Segrave, would you mind not coming down to the springs to-morrow morning? It cant make much odds to you, and if youre out of the way, I shall have some chance of getting her to say plainly what she means. Brian readily gave the promise re- quested and added, with some magnanim- ity, I wish you good luck, Stapleford, and if Miss Huntley marries you, she will marry a real good fellow, Im sure of that. You wont expect me to say that I quite enjoy the idea of her marrying anybody. So the two young men shook hands and parted. It may be (tor human nature is human nature, after all) that their mutual good-will would have been a trifle less genuine if each of them had not been secretly persuaded that the others pros- pect of success was small. CHAPTER XXXIII. STAPLEFORD IS FOUND IMPOSSIBLE. By mere force of habit, Brian rose at an early hour the next morning and had 38 MAJOR AND MINOR. nearly finished dressing before he remem- revert to dreams which he had dismissed bered that he was a self-constituted pris- long ago as idle. Stapleford had been oner. He did not repent of the concession pleased to speak as if they stood upon the that he had made which, to be sure, was same footino- but the fact remained that no very important one but ~vhen he rec- an impecunious peer differs in many es- ollected that he had actually gone so far sential points from an impecunious com- as to wish Stapleford success, he could poser of music. Moreover, concluded not help smiling; because, although he Brian, she doesnt care a straw for either had believed himself to be speaking sin- of us. So he went back into the room cerely at the time, he was now quite sure and played scales resolutely until his cof- that he wished for no such thing. How fee was brought to him, together with a could he possibly wish Beatrice to marry few letters, one of which, as he saw with a man whom she did not love? pleasure, was addressed in Moncktons He strolled out on to his balcony, which handwriting. was overgrown with masses of bright-col- Monckton ~vas away on his annual holi- ored petunias, and looked down the sunny day, and wrote from Milford Haven, street towards the Untere Promenade. In whither he had successfully navigated the the distance he could hear the band open- ten-ton yawl in which he was wont to sail ing the proceedings with Em feste Burg the seas when driven to seek a little relax- ist unser Gott; a light, bluish mist hung ation. He had carried away his topmast, over the gardens and softened the rounded had run short of provisions, had not taken outlines of the trees, giving promise of a off his clothes for three days and nights, hot day; from every direction matutinal and had altogether been having a most water - drinkers were hurrying towards enjoyable and invigorating time of it. I their meeting-place at the Elisabethan only wish you were on board, he wrote. spring. There they all went: the heredi- The sea-breezes would do you a great tary grand duke of Langenschwalbach deal more good than you are likely to get with his long-legged equerry; old Lady out of the waters of Homburg or its society Chatterton, looking to right and left with either. I havent heard much from Kings- inquisitive twitchings of the nose, as cliff, except the announcement of your though she already scented scandal in that brother s engagement to Miss Greenwood, pure air; fat Miss Kingfisher, pounding which, of course, will be no news to you. along post-haste to catch up his Serene Then followed a hearty panegyric on Highness; and the judges and the gener- Kitty, and an expression of opinion on the als, and the debilitated young men and the writers l)art that any man who married young men who had nothing the matter her might consider himself uncommonly ~vith them. Then his heart gave a little lucky. jump; for Beatrice herself, ~valking with In the latter sentiment Brian warmly her head in the air, as usual, came within concurred. Gilbert might have written to the field of his vision and passed on, Miss him, he thouo~ht but then he remembered Joy trotting in her wake. Had ~he any that he had not written to Gilbert and suspicion of what was in store for her? resolved to repair that omission forth~vith. Brian could imagine it all. Stapleford This engagement was, to his mind, an would march up with a determined air; entirely satisfactory thing. It showed that Miss Joy, taking in the situation at a Gilbert had a spark of romance in him; it glance would retire precipitately ; and then sho~ved that he was capable of constancy; well, then there would probably be very it even furnished something of an excuse little preliminary beating about the bush. for that sale of land to which Brian had A man who does not mind sacrificing his never been able to reconcile himself; for own life can assassinate the czar of all the when a man wants to marry and cant afford Russias, and a man who is willing to take to do so, he should not be too harshly his chance of rejection cannot be prevent- judged if he disposes of what, after all, is ed from proposing to any lady with whom his own. In his anxiety to whitewash his he is alone for five minutes, be she never brother, Brian had very nearly gone the so reluctant to be proposed to. length of acquiescing in Beatrices favor- And supposing that Beatrice should re- ite thesis that right and wrong admit of no ject this long-suffering suitor, as Brian exact definition, when his thoughts were believed that she would, when it came to diverted into quite another channel by the the push might it not, after all, be just abrupt entrance of Stapleford, whose feat- possible that at some future time, when ures and gait bore the unmistakable im- perhaps he might have made a name for press of defeat. himself But he was determined not to I just looked in to bid you good-bye, MAJOR AND MINOR. 39 said he; Im off to England by the next train. You havent prospered, then? asked Brian, with a not very successful effort to look sympathetic. Prospered ? rather not! Well, Im out of it now, and you can go in and try your luck if you choose; but upon my word, I doubt if youll do any better. Brian did not think it worth while to renew his protestations of the previous evening; but after a time he inquired: Did she give you any reason for refus- in~you? She began by saying that she might very likely have accepted me if I hadnt been in such a hurry; and when I pointed out to her that I had waited about as long as anybody could be expected to wait she changed her ground and declared that my having fallen in love with her made all the difference, because she couldnt consent toaone-sided bargain. Then I suppose she saw that I was a little cut up about it, you know, and she spoke very kindly and seemed to be really sorry for me. In- deed, from the way that she went on about not being good enough for me and all that, I almost hoped that I should be able to bring her round. However, she very soon let me see that the thing ~vasnt to be done. She is an odd sort of girl, concluded Sta pleford thoughtfully. And when Brian, with some warmth, de- clared that she had no equal, if that made her odd, he did not at once assent. It was plain thas he had been hard hit, and also that he ~vas smarting a little from the con- sciousness of having been made a fool of, though he was too much of a gentleman to say so. Nor, after he had gone away, was Brian able to pronounce quite so favorable a verdict as he could have wished upon the conduct of the lady who had no equal. True it was that there were no grounds for accusing her of having flirted with Stapleford merely to amuse herself. What- ever she might be, she was not a flirt; and besides, it had been abundantly evi- dent of late that Staplefords attentions were disagreeable to her. Still it was not less true that she might easily have got rid of him at an earlier stage of the pro- ceedings, that it had been quite unneces- sary to bring him all the way to Homburg to send him about his business, and that her only reason for so doing must have been that she had not taken the trouble to find out her own mind. That seemed to show a certain want of consideration for the feelings of others. But the heat and light of the sun (which the Germans, with a linguistic perversity which might have been expected of them, have made femi- nine), are not perceptibly diminished by the spots which can be discerned upon its surface, and there are many lives which circle round a female luminary. Brians, apparently, was destined to be one of these nor could he feel that the discovery of a trifling flaw here and there in any way lessened the attraction to which he had surrendered himself. Assuredly it was not likely to l)revent him from taking the earliest possible opportunity of indemnify- ing himself for the loss of his accustomed morning walk with Miss Huntley. Knowing her habits as he did, he set forth at three oclock for the lawn-tennis ground, in the confident expectation of meetin~ her; and there, sure enough, she was, sitting under the trees, the centre of a group of spectators, to whom she was chatting as unconcernedly as if there had been no luckless young man at that mo- ment speeding towards Cologne, with the fragments of a broken heart beneath his waistcoat. Brian stood watching her for a short time. She did not see him, nor did he care to force his way through the circle, which was sure to break up pres- ently. But Miss Joy, who occupied a chair some yards in the background~ beck- oned to him as soon as she became aware of his vicinity. Have you heard? she whispered, lowering her sunshade and turning a dis- tressed countenance towards him. He seated himself on the dry grass be- side her. Yes, he replied, Ive heard, but Im afraid I cant look upon it in the light of a calamity, as you do. Well, returned Miss Joy, with a touch of irritability, I suppose it wouldnt make much difference if you could. As for me, I am disappointed and disgusted, and it is a relief to me to think that I am just about to take my last bath. The sooner we leave Homburg now the better I shall be pleased. Are you leaving at once then? asked Brian in dismay; for he had not calculated upon so precipitate a departure. I fancy we shall start in a day or two. I have finished my cure, and Beatrice was saying this afternoon that she had had enough of the place. Where shall you go? To Switzerland, I believe; and then, no doubt, to Kingscliff for the autumn. You know, perhaps, that Beatrice has been having the Manor House put in order and furnished. 40 MAJOR AND MINOR. Miss Joy paused and sighed. Is there any likelihood of our meeting you there? she asked by-and-by. Brian shook his head. Oh, no; I shall be busy in London. Besides, there ~vould be nothing to take me to Kingscliff, un- less, indeed, I should go down for my brothers wedding. What! exclaimed Miss Joy, in ac- cents of such amazement that Brian burst out laughing. I should have thought~ said he, that, after spending so many months in our part of the world, you would have been prepared to hear of Gilberts engage- ment to Kitty Greenwood. Prepared or unprepared, Miss Joy re- ceived this intelligence with a demonstra- tion as surprising as it was inexplicable. She flung her sunshade up into the air, caught it by the handle as it fell and ejac- ulated, Hooray! Then, perceiving that her neighbor was staring at her as if he suspected her of having suddenly gone raving mad, Excuse this exuberance of animal spirits, she said; but I never did like your brother, Mr. Segrave, and thats the truth. I may be very dense, observed Brian; but I confess I dont see why your dislik- ing my brother should make you rejoice in his happiness. It is our duty to love our enemies, returned Miss Joy sententiously. Oh, Miss Joy, that really wont do! That wont do? Then you may take it that mine is the glee of a sour old maid who naturally exults when she sees a fel- low-creature blunder into the snare of mat- rimony. And if that doesnt satisfy you, let me mention that I have the greatest esteem and regard for Miss Greenwood; I suppose I may be allowed to rejoice in her happiness, may I not? Yes, but I think you must have had other reasons than those for behaving so indecorously in public. Very ~vell, then; I had other reasons. Only I am not going to communicate them to you; so you neednt bother me. It is time for me to take my bath now. When you write to your brother, please give him my hearty congratulations. With that, she marched off, leaving Brian completely mystified, and resolved to find out from Beatrice what might be the meaning of these enigmatic utter- ances. But of course, when Beatrice separated herself from her friends and joined him, it was neither about the news of his brothers engagement nor about Miss Joys singular manner of receiving it that he was chiefly desirous of talking to her. If you are not going to play lawn ten- nis, she said, let us find some cooler and more sequestered spot than this. 1 have a crow to pluck with you. However, she did not seem to be very seriously angry; on the contrary, there was a lurking smile about her eyes and lips which reminded him of what she had been during that happy week which had preceded Staplefords advent upon the scene. Moreover, she made straight for a certain retired bench, shut in by trees and shrubs, where she and he had some- times sat in those days, but which they had not since revisited. You did not put in an appearance at the springs this morning, she began; was that accidental or intentional? But I wont tempt you to prevaricate. I hap- pen to have been informed, upon the very best authority, that your absence was due to a preconcerted arrangement; and pray, do you consider that friendly behavior? I thought it was friendly to him, an- swered Brian without embarrassment (for he was sure that Stapleford had betrayed nothing more than the fact mentioned); and I certainly didnt think it was un- friendly to you. Why should it be? As if you didnt know I have been using you as a shield and buckler for the last fortnight! But perhaps you dont like being used as a shield and buckler. Anyhow, I can forgiv e you; for you have done both Stapleford and me a service, whether you intended it or not. Oh, what a comfort it is to be able to write Finis to that chapter! Couldnt you have done that before you left London? Brian ventured to sug- gest. No doubt I could; and I see by your face that you think I ought to have done it. You are a man; so you dont under- stand indecision in such cases. You would, if you were a woman, and espe- cially if you were a rich woman. Joseph, whose remarks are often much to the point, said to me before we parted, I could lay my hand on as many as twenty men of good position and character who would be very pleased to have the spend- ing of your money; but I doubt whether you would find one of them wear as well as Lord Stapleford. Stapleford wanted something more than the spending of your money, Brian felt bound in justice to say. Exactly so; and that was just what made him impossible. Why do you look A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 41 at me in that dissatisfied way? Were you so very anxious that I should become Lady Stapleford? No, answered Brian; I never wished that, and Im glad that it isnt to be. All the same, I am very sorry for him. So am I. I expressed my sorrow to him and abased myself before him when he looked piteous at me. Nevertheless, he has had a lucky escape, and he isnt badly hurt. Men who are devoted to ath- letics and sport get over these little mis- adventures with wonderful rapidity. He is going to shoot grouse now; and if that doesnt cure him, as perhaps it wont, the stalking will. I made a point of ascertain- ing that he would get some stalking later on. And nothing would persuade her to take a more serious view than this of poor Staplefords disappointment. You will see you will see, she said. We are in August now; well, before Christmas he will be thanking me for having let him off. If you must needs pity somebody, pity Clementina, who will not be so quickly consoled. You might even spare a little pity for me; for I can assure you that there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth when she and I meet. The mere thought of it makes me long to remain abroad until the winter and then fly to Egypt. I hope you wont do that, said Brian; Oh, I cant. I have urgent affairs to attend to at home; not to speak of the first representation of your opera, which I wouldnt miss for anything. You must write and tell me when the date is fixed. I shall have taken up my abode at the Manor House by that time, and I shall bring your brother and a large Kingscliff contingent to London with me to pelt you with laurels. By the way, said Brian, my brother is going to be married to Kitty Greenwood. I only heard of it this morning. Oh, no! exclaimed Beatrice incredu- lously. And then: You dont mean that it is actually settled and announced? And on being informed that such was the case, she turned her head away and drummed impatiently upon the ground with her foot. A horrid suspicion flashed suddenly across Brians mind. He remembered Miss Joys unaccountable exultation; he remembered that Gilbert had certainly been very assiduous in his attentions to Miss Huntley at Lady Clementina:; din- ner-party; and Gilbert was handsome, cleVer, likely enough to distinguish himself just the sort of man who would prob- ably arouse her interest. But the next instant he was certain that this suspicion was groundless, although there would be nothing surprising in Miss Joys enter- taining it. Everybody must admit that there are things which we know to be facts, without being able to prove them such either to others or ourselves. You dont seem pleased, he hazarded at length. I am not pleased, she ans~vered. I was in hopes that the girl would have had the sense to marry Captain Mitchell, who would make her as happy as the day is long. As for your brother he cares for nothing in heaven or on earth but him- self. I think he must care a little for Kitty, Brian urged. Oh, yes; a little thats the unfortu- nate part of it. I wish you hadnt told me this! I should have liked to have only pleasant memories of our last day. Your last day ! echoed Brian dismally. Yes; our time is up, and I have de- cided to issue marching orders for to- morrow. Now, if you please, I want to forget your brother and Stapleford, and Clementina, and everybody else whom it is painful to think of. Tell me about your opera.~~ But in truth this subject had been some- what threshed out, and neither Brians efforts nor Miss Huntleys could prevent the day from ending in a dreary and un~ satisfactory fashion. To him, at any rate, the shadow of the coming parting was ever present a parting which, as he felt, must add the melancholy word Finis to another chapter than that of which she had so lightly spoken. From The English Illustrated Magazine. A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. PART I. A FEW words of explanation as to my visit. Having been invited over to H ol- land by some dear Dutch friends and distant cousins, to renew old pleasant im- pressions of their country home near Haarlem, I left England in this last, most beautiful, September of 1884. Coming dizzily on deck at Flushing about 6.30 A.M., a glorious sun, and a good breakfast at the station, revived every one. Off by a rather slow but safe ex- press, in a comfortable red-plush-lined 42 A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. carriage, I looked out of the window sleep- ily to see if I remembered it all, i.e., the general view of the country. First im- pressions are the most striking, they say. Mine were slightly confused. A green land, with pollards on its leas; long beds of river grass waving tall plumed heads by the canals for miles, or mowed down and stacked for thatching; bright little cottages, and small children in tight night- caps and sabots. Peasants stopping their ploughs to look at the train, and wearing flat caps, blue shirts, and black corduroys. We are now in a land of blouses and caps. Along raised grassy dykes, long green carts are being briskly pulled by pairs of long-tailed horses. I always like these carts, ~vith their carved rail tilting up pic- turesquely behind, and the short, green prow in front which the driver guides this side or that, while the harness replaces shafts. About Middelburg, little white houses nestle cosily under such enormous red-peaked roofs that the green landscape fairly glows. And now, twice, the sea seems to close in upon our narrow cause- way, while flat green meadows so merge with low grey waters that in the distance one can hardly distinguish between them. XVe are passincr throucrh the islands of Zeeland. We stop at Rosendaal, the junction for Brussels; pretty Dordrecht, ~vith its villas in tiny gardens, containing water, willows, bridges, and summer-houses, in half an acre; and Rotterdam, all bustle and bright- ness, big streets, wide waters a town for commerce rather than residence. Then a great grassy plain for miles, intersected regularly by brimming little water-trenches and covered with herds of black-and-white cattle. Itly eyes desire a red cow and are seldom if ever gratified. Cuyp painted them why are there none now? Thick ~voods ring the horizon; that means the Hague. Then more fatpasturesfollow; Leyden, with its soldiers and students at the station, being a mere interlude. This plain reminds me of children play- ing at Noahs ark on a green tablecloth, and dotting their animals over it. But the view is never unbounded here, as on a prairie, however. Holland has many woods, and these snugly bound and inter- sect the wide meads, while village spires seem always rising out of the trees, and small windmills (for pumping up water from the ditches) turn red sails. A line of roofs breaks the plain, and head and shoulders over these rises a square mass, like a hen brooding over her chickens an old mother watching her children. It is the sight that always meets one from afar in coming ~vithin sight of Haarlem town it is Haarlem Cathedral. It is only a quarter past eleven as we steam into the station. And there is Hugo C waiting to greet me kindest of cousins and most hospitable of hosts. His English-looking family omnibus is waiting with a useful-looking pair of bays. Mounting the box beside himfor lie likes driving himself we are off through the bright, quaint little town. Haarlem makes one seem to have stepped back a century or two, with its narrow, paved streets, gabled house-fronts with curious fa~ades; quiet canals along which the gentry live, with high trees clipped in a screen before their doors; the old market- place and cathedral. Passing all these, we drive partly through the famous wood. Amsterdam is a town for commerce, rich merchants, heavy dinners, and some stiff old country families who cling in winter to their town houses. The Hague is gay, nineteenth century, somewhat cos- mopolitan. But Haarlem, the I)utch say, is where people live who have nothing to do. The description is pleasantly meant, and if not true in all cases, is so in that of my friends. And now our brick- paved road goes out towards the country, among pretty villas, bright with flowers, of course, in this flower-loving land, and shady with trees. We are soon nearing our destination, and my visit has fairly begun. Lindenroede (Lime Lawn) is a good specimen of an ordinary Dutch country house. Square and white, with its green shutters, and raised terrace in front, it stands close to the highroad, as do all its neighbors, behind its gravel sweep. What is almost as universal, too, it is bright and fresh with paint, shaded by fine trees. Even before coming in sight of the house itself I greeted its storks nest, standing as of old in the meadow across the road, in full view of the windows. Most coun- try houses around have one just so placed; a shallow box on the top of a high pole. Some, worse luck! are deserted. The Lindenroede storks had three young ones this year, but it is the second week in September and they are all flown south- wards already. As the carriage turned in at the open gates, Jacqueline, my hosts young mar- ried daughter, was sitting working on the terrace. (This is not her real name any more than others herein given of Linden- roede and its inmates; but if the names are fictitious, not so anything else in this A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 43 truthful little description of a country- house visit in Holland. I simply jotted down what we did and sa~v day by day, aided by nearly everybody in the house.) Jacqueline then came down the steps with the sunniest cousins welcome in the world. The cousinship, by the way, dates from some time about the Revoca- tion of the Edict of Nantesno matter for that, when folk are not only kith but kind. The second breakfast, correspond- ing more to a French de~euner than our lunch, was just ready, it being half past twelve oclock. So, after washing off the dust of the journey and the very Sahara cannot be worse than the sand which drove in at the train windows along from the Hague, threatening to silt me up alive, down I came. The very dining- room has an old friends air from pleasant memories. There is the thick Deventer carpet how handsome those carpets are, and how ~vell they wear! it is a pity we do not know them better. Through the windows we look, on the one hand out at the noble standard chestnuts in the lawn behind the house; on the other side, through the folding-doors set wide open into the hall, and the plate-glass front door of the latter likely enough open, too the view of the road beyond the trees (a view so usual, I might almost call it indispensable, in Holland) is secured while we are at meals. And now, you see, here are the Dutch dishes, you re- member, says Hugo hospitably. Yes, I remember the usual roast veal, the excel. lent mashed and buttered potatoes, the cold pancakes this last a truly national sweet. Lunch over, we adjourn, as in general, to the terrace. There sitting against the house wall, where outdoor chairs and a table make an alfresco draw- ng-room, we chat and watch the vehicles go by, while ~vaves of the hand are ex- changed with friends. Then one carriage turns in, that of Hugos sister and brother- in-law. I remember their fine old house well, since last timeI was here, with its moat all round, except at what an- swered to a dr~wbridge (indeed, answering better), a solid gravelled approach. And their kitchen garden, too; with all the espalier fruit-trees trained into furniture shapes of tables, sofas, and pianos, and those on the wall in loyally regal names. But their visit over, with kindly assurances I look not in the least as if after crossing the sea fatigue drives me to take a nap before unpacking and six oclock din- ner. Meanwhile, the interior of a Dutch gen tlemans house and household may be de- scribed. Of the inmates I will only say that there is mine host first, who has more true friends than almost any man; his daugh- ter, who does the honors of his house in summer every winter he travels afar and her husband. There is also the lat- ters sister, on a visit here, nicknamed the Princess. And lastly, the youngest son of the house, whom we may call the Irre- pressible, while his prettyfiancde gener- ally joins us. There is much in the house too signifi- cant of its owners yearly travels, and taste, to be exclusively Dutch. His own study and his daughters boudoir up-stairs are quite Oriental with spoil from the bazaars of Cairo and Algiers, and from the Holy Land. The passage-way and staircase are hung with blue Damascus tiles. And the pleasant large bedrooms on either side the single cortidor up-stairs are fitted up with French furniture and cretonnes draped in the latest Parisian fashion. But down-stairs there is something more dis- tinctive in the pale-green-painted dining- room, namely, most curious drinking- glasses engraved with all manner of family scenes; also fine sets of old china behind the glass oval cupboards recessed in the wall. Out of this dining-room, there is a little solemn, satin drawing-room, with cabinets full of mine hosts collected curios, but where nobody ever comes. And next this is a little ante-room full of l)alnls and greenery, not much used either. But then comes the favorite sitting-room of the house, opening out of the hall and the serre; the antique room, an excellent specimen of what several other Dutch gen- tlemen also have or aim to have, for it necessitates, perhaps, years of careful col- lection and selection. It is a nearly exact representation of an old-fashioned silting- room, such as you shall see in interiors by Nicolas Maes. The Dutch are intensely conservative; loving their forefathers~ ways and traditions, and treasuring their family heirlooms of old blue Oriental china, old native delft, carvings, brasses, fine engraved glasses, and notably, their old silver. This room, as several others I saw, would give an impressionist the idea of brown-ness, brightened by brasses and blue china. Dark-brown are the high wainscot, the panelled ceiling, carved chimneypiece, and the beautiful old Cor- dovan leather wall-hangings stamped in faded gold; brown also the carved stiff furniture and its cushions. But the gleam of old brass chandeliers and sconces 44 A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. brightens the gloom, many of the latter set round the wainscot ledge being of strange shapes an antiquarian would vainly covet. And besides, the usual brass fire- irons hung up on either side the old tiled fireplace are some less known in England; a brass rc~oussd box holding dried hemp- stalks to light candles, great snuffers, and a long blow-pipe for the fire, also useful in extinguishing candles placed high. Two heavy brass handles depend also from the high chimney-board, their use puzzling me. What are they for? Why, for old gentlemen to hold by when lifting up ne foot to warm their toes! explained Hugo cheerily. Our ancestors were heavy, you see, and could not stand long on one leg without support. After the brasses the blue china re- lieves the eye in the rich sombreness of the room. Big jars, and lesser porcelain of all shapes, are ranged on the wain- scot and all about the room; with queer deft plaques showing sea-pieces, and shav- ing dishes with nicks to hold the vic- tims neck. From a general impression coming to details, two objects in the room strike the eye before all the other furni. ture by their excessive size. The first is a nobly massive walnut press, to hold the family linen and best china. The second a huge Bible on a stand, THE BOOK dwarf- ing all other light mundane literature in the room by its size and solemnity. This handsome ar;noire for the housekeepers treasures is a pride and prime necessity in all the Dutch houses I have seen. And nearly all of them possess also, as down- stairs in the servants room at Linden- roede, handsome carved mangles, and screw-presses for keeping tablelinen al- ways fiat and tidy, these being sometimes so ornamental as to stand in the dining. room. But the antique room, has some rarer curios, such as a carved board and roller-pin, date 1650, for mangling small fine things I was told, and hanging near it from the wainscot a very ancient deep-cut yard measure. Lastly, amongst old spinning-wheels, and some Hindeloopen furniture of great age, painted with (of course) Biblical scenes gaudily, are some square wooden boxes standing about on the floor, carved all over and pierced at the top. These are foot-stoves, still used by some ladies, with a chafino-dish of hot charcoal or peat embers placed inside. Hugo took up one in fine brass, delicately opened-worked. This was my grandmothers stove; she used to carry it to church with the handle over her arm. These stoves, as they are called, are universally used in Holland. The churches are full of coarse ones for footstools; you see the same in the peas- ants houses, in the bathing-boxes at Zaandvoort, with some old bath~ng-wom- ans savory stew keeping hot over them in the especial house upon wheels that is her home by day, and that of her progeny ; and a small urchin in sabots sitting on one in winter to warm himself while munching a carrot or an apple is a frequently funny little sight. Smaller carved ones are used by the people to keep the teapot brewing, and in the nurseries of rich people are useful for hot milk and other infantile wants. We always use one for our chil- dren, with a s~iritus bimpas inside, ex- plained the Princess to me, speaking of her small brothers and sister. Not to take an inventory of all Lindenroede house, I will only add that the kitchen is a pleasant sight, its walls glistening with tiles and bright with coppers and brass; and that in the garret is stored away one of the carved and gilded small sledges, so curiously painted, that one sees in curi- osity shops in Amsterdam or the Hague. It is waiting fora hard winterthere has been no frost to speak of for two or three years past. Come outside the house and you shall see Dutch pleasure-grounds. The lawn is perfectly flat, of course, but what some English who imagine Holland a vast plain studded with a few pollards, do not understand the trees are so fine and so many, they bound the view and keep ones thoughts from much noticing the level ground. A brown piece of water, shaded by weeping willows, winds through the trees till bounded by a little rise topped by a small temple. Every country house around is sure to have such a piece of water, larger or smaller ; and many have a similar little temple. But this being far down in the grounds, is rather to please the eye from a distance than for a philo- sophic retreat. A love of solitary seclu- sion is about the last idea, it seems to me, in most Dutch minds. Burtons Anat- omy of Melancholy would be quite out of favor with my cheerful-minded ac- quaintance. They love, as I said, to sit out on their verandahs or terraces, or bal- conies, within view of the kings highway, and those who pass thereby. Not content even with this, a previous generation built the old-fashioned pavilions one still sees here and there on the road, with large glass windo~vs often reaching to the ground, to see and to be seen, though the house door is only a stones throw A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 45 distant. In these one will often see fami- lies sitting of an afternoon round the cen- tral table, with perhaps some newspapers, and beverages. The Lindenroede sum- mer-house beside the gate has been long taken away, however. To return to the temple, the thick coppice around it is half smothered with wild hops, bending in graceful green tassels; jays and magpies are chattering overhead among the tall trees. To right and left, sandy paths wind through the wood; and near the house lies a large kitchen garden with long rows of vineries, etc.; still nearer a bright little flower-plot and the orangery, where the big plants in tubs that stand about on the lawn are housed in winter. Having described the house, as to the Dutch manner of life, well, Linden- roede was Liberty Hall. Breakfast, to begin with, was ready at eight oclock for the master of the house, and often still waiting at ten oclock for the younger (male) scions. This is easy, for a mahog- any bucket lined with metal and contain- ing peat embers in which a brass kettle is kept singing, is always placed beside every Dutch breakfast-table; and appears at chance five oclock teas too, and after dinner in the drawing-room. The kettle- bucket in Holland is the most characteris- tic object I can think of. At this break- fast one only eats bread and butter, adding sometimes to the latter thin slices of gin- gerbread, which is very good; or a wafer of rye bread. Concerning the latter, there are very few things I dont like in Hol- land; but, without a shadow of doubt, I detest rye bread. Eggs are boiled, if some one cares for them, in the kettle. The old-fashioned way was by means of a small sort of landing-net in which they were first popped; the newer one is to have wire or silver draining-spoons to lift them out. But the young men of the fam- ily going off to business in Haarlem do not even trouble the tea and bread and butter, much less the eggs. About a small cupful of milk and a wafer of rye bread, often nothing but a hasty glance at the morning papers, and they are off, smiling, with bon lours to the ladies left behind. And bonlour is echoed back to the hus- band bound for the law court, with viel plaisir (much pleasure) added to the Irre- pressible soon to become a Benedick, who is off to the Hague to see races, or the Downs to try sporting-dogs in a chasse, and who will send notes at night to an En- glish acquaintance on le s~or/ in Holland, to be published in the Field. Many men whose business is in Amsterdam, but who have houses in Haarlem for economy and quiet, will go to their offices and work till I or 2 P. M. without food. The womankind left behind do odds and ends of work and writing, then lure out the master of the house from his Oriental study to find ripe figs in the beautiful big kitchen garden, and try the grapes sunning on the south wall. Or else we gather roses and arrange them, or take out work and books to the tent, a little wooden arbor facing the small flower-garden embosomed in trees. The books are always English Tauchnitz voluilies, or French novels; mostly the latter. Or again, we perhaps cross the road to a pleasant wood belong- ing to Hugos brother-in-law and sister, whose demesne ranges with Lindenroede, so closely indeed, that, but for a rustic bridge over a water trench green with duckweed and shaded by willows, the sandy shrubbery paths would seem to in- termingle. The wood rises agreeably in little ups and downs, once, no doubt, sand- hills ages ago. Down in a sunny hollow lies a pond full of water-lilies. XVe seat ourselves above on a bench shaded by a coppice, burning red with dying maple- leaves here and there, while surely that flash of living blue over the water down there was a kingfisher; and close by a rabbit pops out on the turf and sits un- heeding our talk. Even putting aside chat about old acquaintances made in past visits on both sides across the water, my Dutch friends had plenty to talk about. Jacqueline and her husband had lately been in London; and, of course, to Paris in the spring previously to see theatres and buy dresses and have a good time, which is a yearly necessity if not a more frequent one. And there was some talk about a possible trip soon to Constantino- ple and back by Vienna. Hugo, who had spent last winter travelling in Spain, was bound in November for Asia Minor tak- ing Paris and Cannes first on his way. The Irrepressible and his fiauc~e were consulting upon Algiers for their honey- moon. The Princess lastly, after a short season in London, had spent the rest of the summer wandering in the Salzkammer- gut. And outside the household, almost every one I met seemed to go to the Rivi- era in spring, and to German watering- places in summer. They say the air is heavy in Holland; certainly on first com- ing one sleeps very sound. Perhaps, after a time in these lowlands, higher, bracing air would be needed. Coming back for ddjeuner at half past twelve we would read the F:~aro or other 46 A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. high literature on the terrace, or write letters till, at three oclock, the landau would be at the door. Would you like to see a silver wed- ding? Hugo asked me one day. Our neigl~bors, the Ms, are holding theirs; and as this is their reception day we must go, like all their acquaintance, to see the presents and pay our respects. We drove off therefore that afternoon, each drest in their Sunday best, to a coun- try-seat of which the translated name is Greendale and Woodbeck. It belonged formerly to the English Hope family. The Roman Catholic Church at Heemstede was adorned with flags as we passed; so was the priests house and the turnpike. Passing in at the gates of a large, closely wooded demesne, the lodge, then the gar- deners house, and further on the stables, all set down among the trees, were like- wise gay with flags and green wreaths. Some distance from the house was a large solitary pavilion in the wood, built to play billiards in, I was told. Carriages were passing and repassing on the drive as we approached, and the gravel s~veep was all enclosed with wreaths of greenerx~, and had flags and three triumphal arches ex- actly as for a first wedding. The festiv- ities, in the same way, are supposed to last a fortnight, during which time the green decorations are kept up. The visit- ors congratulated their host and hostess, who received them in a room where the presents, mostly of silver, were laid out, and each fresh set of guests, after a fe~v minutes stay, came away. In the evening there were to be an illumination of Chi- nese lamps in the grounds and fireworks for the peasantry, ~vith sack races and other such diversions. Then we drove on, for more visits, along the brick-paved road shaded by trees, past smiling cottages so snug and tidy they seemed to promise happy inte- riors. It will be understood that always on either side of the said road runs an open water-ditch instead of any hedges, walls, or banks; and looking over this ditch into the green, level meadows be- yond, dotted ~vith piebald cows, one must further imagine smaller water trenches again (always full), dividing the general green plain into separate portions. But here, near Haarlem, the country-seats are so many, that woods constantly break in closely on the uniformity of the level, whilst bright white villas, seldom far apart, greet us along the road from behind their short green lawns. Here and there, very often indeed, we come on canals by the roadside, these being just broader water ditches. Sometimes, when there has been a strong wind, and the sluices ha~e been opened, they are cleanly brown enough; but often, too often! they are grass-green with duckweed, though there is life enough on them of mud-boats and barges and such-like crafts. By the way, it was a wonder to me that there are so few ducks on these same canals, in spite of the famous dictum of canards, canaux, and the third unkind word. Often,.instead of duckweed, the water is reddish with some other equally small aquatic plant, the effect being picturesque enough in color- ing. One little picture of this very day I remember vividly, of two beautiful sno~vy goats lying on the green bank of Just such a reddish canal; it was bordered with reeds, and overhung by willows and alder. Contrary to preconceived ideas, there are as many goats in this country as sheep and ducks are missing. After vi sit- ing a neighbor, owning one of the noble beech avenues which abound here, stretch- ing in long tunnels of deep gloom to a little arch of light far down, we turned homewards by fresh woods and pastures new. At home, we could already see from the gate the Irrepressible and his pretty fiancee, awaiting us on the terrace, as also Jongherr R., with pleasant-looking bottles upon the table, suggestive of ~vines and minerva water. After the heat of the afternoon, refreshment was grateful, and five oclock tea is as yet new-fashioned in Holland. The young men drove off pres- ently in a fly to the club in town, for an hour before six o~clock dinner; which I mention only because England, being club-land essentially, is apt to imagine that other people have few or no clubs, and so wonder what men do with themselves. People generally ask as to another coun- try, What sort of food did you have? Well, to choose out the most genuinely Dutch dishes, we had, perhaps, potato ~zer/e, or bouillon, flavored with chervil, and containing balls of veal forcemeat. The fish might be soles, or plaice, but, to give me kindly a more national delicacy, we had water bass from the canals some- times. These are about the size of our trout, and are served up, half-a-dozen or so, in a deep dish, swimming in the water they are boiled in, flavored with flat- leaved parsley. (The English name for this plant I cannot say, it being strange to me; but my cousin Hugo declared it un- known to us.) Water bass are eaten with thin sandwiches of rye bread; but without the latter, and the bread and butter only, A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. 47 I thought them excellent. Another night we had a jack, done Dutch fashion. When boiled, all the small bones were removed, and the fish chopped up and mixed with butter, pepper, onions, and savory herbs. Then, rolled back into fish-like shape, the jack is browned, bread-crumbecl, and eaten always ~vith salad. It was really very good. Next came generally roast or stewed veal or beef, mutton being so poor it is rarely eaten. For vegetables, invari- ably potatoes, excellently cooked with but- ter; and besides those we likewise use boiled endives and bread-crurnbed cab- bage. Partridges followed, sometimes au choux; or other game. Wild ducks were plentiful, and some neighbors had just had an early dawns sport, out in the dunes, getting ninety-four birds to four guns. Not so bad, but still not very good, said the Irrepressible. Of sweets and savories I need give no hints, because they were mostly of French origin. Des- sert over, both ladies and gentlemen return together to the drawing-room for coffee, which is drunk in the smallest and most precious of handleless old blue china. Such a set with us ~vould be behind a glass case. Then come liqueurs cognac and aniseed, the latter being a favorite. The gentlemen went out this warm even- ing to smoke their cigarettes on the ter- race for a little while. Then they dropped in again to the cheery antique room for chat and tea. The mahogany peat-bucket and its kettle had been placed by the foot- man, as usual, beside the table, and very old Chinese little teacups, almost as valu- able as the blue porcelain, were ranged on a wooden tray truly Dutch. It was one of the finest specimens of a kind eagerly sought after by curio-hunters, be- ing excellently painted in oils, showing the interior of an old house, Teniers-like, the thick edge being gilded. There was a great demand for English ghost stories that evening. After careful inquiries, I do not believe Holland boasts one genu- ine, respectable family ghost. The jong- herr alone of my hearers had any rever- ence for the supernatural. Him I name to mention that there are but three classes of nobility here, that of jongherr, then baron, and, highest, count. The Dutch are very simple as to titles, and never address their friends as M. le baron, or couzie. Every one knows they are barons or counts, so it would be thought affected or snobbish to call them so, Hugo explained. Servants may sometimes use the phrase, but as often say only mynheer. Of course, peasants speaking to each other of their landlords would say the count, or the baron, that is all. Before we said good-night, the tea and coffee-cups were all washed on the tray by our lady of the house, and dried with a fine napkin, as were the teaspoons, which were replaced in a satin-lined glass case. Then the footman being rung for, they were all locked again in the armoire. This washing of the cups is one of the good old customs against which it must be owned the younger generation grumble. Your ladies do not have this trouble! But, interpose the elders, English people do not use every da~j such old c ups worth from to 3 each. H~!sigh the young folk, we would rather then use common services like the English. Of what use is it to have plenty of ser- vants, if we must do their work? Old- fashioned Dutch people go further, I am told, washing up themselves knives, forks, and plates no matter how many their servants looking over all the linen from the ~vash, and pulling out any lace edges themselves. But this I never saw. Coming down stairs rather early an- other glorious morning, in came the master of the house cheerily from the fresh outside air. Good-morning to you, ladies. I have just been to your uncles already to congratulate him it is his birthday. In the course of the day all the rest likewise went to congratulate and several more birthdays happening during my visit, all were equally remembered by troops of friends as by relations. Some presents are perhaps given, and the gar- dener would send in what I may call a cushion of flowers, carefully arranged as a table centre-piece. Just as our little breakfast was ended, Jacqueline called to me, Look! there is the aansprekcr. Do you remember him? I wonder who is dead! I saw a strange figure going swiftly to the servants side door. A tall man dressed in lugubrious black small- clothes, and silver-buckled shoes, black deep-flapped coat and waistcoat, his head crowned by a three-cornered hat and long weepers. He carried some papers, for his duty is to go round the neighborhood and announce all deaths. This time it was no one of importance. Another curious old custom relates to births, and the towns of Haarlem and Medemblik alone own with pride its right. In 1573, when the Span- iards took Haarlem after its famous siege, they sent notice that all houses wherein lay a mother and new-born babe should have their knockers muffled in ~vhite for a 48 A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. month, and so escape sacking. Thence- machines and bobbing bathers in dismal forth births in Haarlem are celebrated by sack-like dresses to see; and little Dutch what has now become an ornament on the children playing about with their English doors, called a kiopper. Hugo brought or Swiss nurses. The talk around is won- forth their family one to show me. A derfully polyglot. The Dutch use their square of lace with his coat of arms finely own language by nature; but almost as embroidered and edged with exquisite old often speak, and they assure me think, in Mechlin. This is lined white for a girl, French, from habit, their second nature. half in l)ink for a boy. Fastened over To know it is a polite necessity, like hay- wood, it was hung out by day, and care- ing a visiting-dress; and only old-fash- fully goffered again at night. The Jews ioned people would dream of sending the plague here of all curio-fanciers invitations otherwise than in French, and scenting out every bit of old silver, lace, indeed many more familiar letters. As china, or carving in cottage or family seat to English, I can remember no one of our came sniffing around his klopper with acquaintance who did not know it a little, vainly large offers for the Mechlin when many, like my kinsfolk, excellently well, last it was hung out. and they like to practise on all occa Several mornings we used to start early sions. Most know German, too; some, for Zaandvoort in the cozereuse, or stan- perhaps, Italian. hope Jacqueline driving us along the Driving home in time to dress for din- straight road, bordered by trees, through ner, most likely some neighbors pay an the downs, or dunes. These lie like a evening visit afterwards, and stay chat- troubled sea of sand-hills all along the ting till nine or ten oclock. In summer coast, covered with sparse green and cop- this is the favorite hour for callers, and pice. They are divided into shootings, the terrace is gay with laughter and voices said to be fair as to partridges and pheas- in the warm evenings. But it was getting ants, and very good for wild duck and dark now to stroll out from Haarlem, or rabbits. Lonely and sheltered, with fresh the environs. One day we saw a peasants sea-air and sweet copse scents, the downs wedding passing the gate, a procession are pleasant to ramble in through a sum- bound on the gala drive that follows the mers day, taking ones lunch in a basket, civil and religious ceremony. There were as the Lindenroede household do. Near fifteen to eighteen little yellow-varnished the coast, sandy tracts are carefully and gigs (or chaises, as they call them), the anxiously planted with coarse grass-tufts, whips and the plaited long manes and each only a foot apart, for this grass bind- tails of the horses adorned with ribbons ing the loose san~1 against cruel winds and flowers; an orange horse-cloth hang- forms the bulwark of the land. Zaand- ing behind the gig. First came the best- voort is the smaller, quieter rival of fash- man and bridesmaid; next the happy pair ionable Scheveningen, a few miles down in a more ornamental tilbury than the the coast; and all the pleasanter to my following pairs. Each man drives on the mind for being so much less frequented. left side ~vith his right arm round his maid- Passing through the old fishingvillage ens waist, taking toll at all bridges, with its wooden houses, we leave the and throwing sugarplums at the gazers in coureuse, and go down on the deep sands. the villages. The old folk follow four to- Here sitting in big basket seats, like por- gether in larger covered yellow chaises ters chairs, to keep off the wind, we watch shaped like poke bonnets with glass sides. the low, grey sea; the big fishing-smacks N. B. Some little tilburys have caps, called pincks hauled up ashore * with too, Jacqueline remarks to me, but their wooden fins, and their blue pennons these are only for married ~eop?e/ No flying; the fishwives with their lace caps unmarried peasant girl or boy ventures to and curved straw bonnets, peculiar to drive in such. The peasants end their themselves, and long aprons, with a stripe drive with a dinner somewhere, and diver- atop always of a different stuff, why, no sions. But as the latter are the same as at one knoweth. The fishermen wear blue a servants wedding, I can describe them shirts, and crimson sercee trousers, often for both. At Lindenroede, the last ser- rolled up to the knee, ~s they go about vants wedding ~vas minus the peasants barelegged; and there are, too, bathing- drive; but a party was given in the long glass orangery for them. Here they sang, Pink was an old name in Shakespeares days for a danced, with laughter and noise; ate cakes smali vessel, and drank their favorite z5ersico. This pink is one of Cupids carriers: clap on more . (A sail, pursue. drink in which pounded peach-kernels is (Merry Wives of Windsor.) the chief ingredient.) The family come A VISIT IN A DUTCH COUNTRY HOUSE. out to watch them, and then the favorite dance, a kind of kiss-in-the-ring, is sure to begin. Joining hands in a circle, all dance round one in the middle, singing the old song beginning, Daar ging een Pater langs de kant, En het was in de Mei. the whole being translated as follows There went a friar along the way, And it was in the May! It was in the May so gay, And it was in the May! Come, father, give your nun a kiss, Six times you sure may have that bliss, Six times is not seven! seven is not eight! Oh how sweet are this maidens lips I At the last verse the man in the middle kneels on one knee, and calling out a girl to sit on his raised knee, kisses her sev- eral times, then retires. She, in turn, calls out another swain who likewise kneels and kisses her; and so the danc- ing, singing ring goes noisily on. This pastime is amongst the good old cus- toms recognized by all; and even young people of good family, of school boy and girl ages, indulge in it at festive seasons. When Sunday morning comes, we drive into the French church at Haarlem; dis- regarding the glorious sounds of the ca- thedral organ reaching us even outside as we pass through the old market-place. No the Dutch service and sermon in there is too prosily long. Our church is small, whitewashed, and bare to ugliness. The few ladies sit on chairs in the middle, the fewer men in pent-house pews around. A cantique or two, a little Ivangile, a lono prayer made by the black-gowned minis- ter, and a longer sermon, ended by a glass of water, forms the service. Add also, that for the collection two black velvet tasselled nightcaps, with peaks, are handed round at the end of long poles. Inside one peak is written Iglise, on the other ~auvres. Church over, we get warmed driving back in the cheery sunlight to lunch. In the afternoon the large carriage and pair of horses takes us all for an hours drive through the woods of pretty Bloemendaal or Overween, full of charm- ing villas inhabited by rich Amsterdam merchants or retired Java planters. Then about four we turn like all the carriages of the neighborhood towards Haarlem Wood. Sunday afternoon in the wood is a Haarlem sight. In one of the open spaces of the old wood, which is one of the chief beauties of the to.wn, a band plays opposite the club or societeit. The LIVING AGE. VOL. LX. $072 49 verandah and enclosed lawn of the latter are crowded thickly with members and their families, sitting round little tables, some with various refreshments, all talk- ing gaily. The repose of Vere de Vere, the passionless expression and half-extin- guished voices of which our high society has been accused lately by a Gallic ob- server, are not fashionable here. Dutch stolidity or phlegm is, I think, true of the lower classes; but added to good humor and cheerfulness. Carriages with well- dressed l)eople stand about in the shade. Through the wood come likewise all man- ner of little peasant gigs, and larger farm- ers hooded chaises from the fen-lands of the dried lake. Here and there are women with curious head-gear, among many too many, of late years without costume. Silver and gold skull-caps cov- ered ~vith lace, from Friesland; other caps with pinned-up lappets and all man- ner of queer pins of gold-twisted wire and diamond sparks; forehead ornaments, coral beads; enormous winged muslin caps from down beyond Leyden. And prettiest of all, the orphan girls of Haar- lem, who ~vear black skirts, snowy ker- chiefs, with coquettishly modest muslin caps, long white mittens, and short sleeves, one crimson, the other dark blue. (The Amsterdam orphan girls wear a sim- ilar dress, but one side of their skirts is crimson, the other black.) Even in win- ter they gobonnetless; but.then the maid- servants will go shopping also with only their clear muslin caps on their heads. Some of the horses in the carriages are very handsome. Here in a young cousins dog-cart, comes an English chestnut ~vho, after winning prizes at home, carries all before him in Holland. His master goes yearly to England; and Yorkshire and the lslington shows see him regularly. In a field beyond the wood, a tent is pitched, and a pigeon-match shooting at clay pigeons going on. We recognize from afar various gentlemen from the country round, and some lady friends, then we turn homewards towards five oclock. Life, on the whole, goes comfortably and cheerily in the Haarlem neighborhood, if quietly. There were a good many country-house dinners going on during my visit, and a few tennis parties; though tennis is not made the rage and accom- plishment it is in England. Most people were straying home from various German watering-places; and many of those who had country-seats would nevertheless go intd town, the Hague, or Amsterdam, for some winter months. In Haarlem, what 50 IN VERMLAND. the Princess called ?a telite vie en yule was fast approaching; when, unless a hard frost stirred every ones pulses, there would most likely be few amusements ex- cept some dinners, and perhaps a rare subscription ball. The Hague, however, at an hours distance, has a gay season of its own. And there people, as in all capitals, give themselves airs, form cliques, and set cancans and gossip afloat. Nevertheless, though wherever human na- ture isbeing as it is! some scandals and heart-burnings will arise, yet the Dutch affirm that social life among them is far more moral, purer, and happier than in France firstly, or secondly in England, of late years. MAY CROMMELIN. From The Corohill Magazine. IN VERMLAND. THERE is, perhaps, no more popular fallacy than the belief that European tour- ist resorts, worth visiting, have been long since explored. To assert that every spot in Europe has not been prospected, time- tabled, and described in the crimson-cov- ered guide-book, which is part and parcel of our civilization, would undoubtedly be rash. But, happily, these records have not always sufficed to turn on the full stream of light-hearted, light-headed sight- seers who tramp along the corridors of old-fashioned hotels, thump the keyboards of long-suffering pianos in public morning- rooms, drive up prices sky high for miles around, and gravest of all indictments cause a host of pestering guides, with smatterings of English, to spring up like mushrooms from a congenial soil. Many a bypath and roadway of an incon~arable and picturesque beauty can still boast an idyllic quietude, hitherto undisturbed by the hurried feet of myriads. Foremost among these may be counted lovely tracks on the western frontier of Sweden, and bound thither we found ourselves on board one of the many steamers that call at Go- thenburg. It was late in spring. The passage across the North Sea, which had been a pleasant one, was drawing to a close. The Gdta Elf, an estuary leading to the town, would be entered early the next morning, and now, with a smooth sea, a ruddy twilight, and an accomplished sup- per, our captain unbent somewhat and re- lated cheering anecdotes anent himself, his passengers, and other seafaring mat- ters. The day before I had watched him with dignified ease rebuke the gratuitous familiarity of a well-meaning, but sadly misguided, fellow-traveller. That was at dinner, when we were all assembled on those hard benches with movable backs. on each side of that long cuddy table with its crude display of cutlery and cruet- stands, aM so aggressively bright and mat- ter-of-fact that they generally succeed in chilling any faint-hearted appetite. Be- tween meals, though, with tablecloth and Newcastle porcelain removed, the aspect of this arrangement in cabin furniture is particularly despondi ng, always recalling to me a certain desolate schoolroom to which obstreperous boyhood was occasion- ally relegated, to grapple in solitude with some discrusting problem. At the head of the tab~e the captain presided, and next to him was a Hamburger merchant, who had ordered a bottle of champagne and two glasses. When the steward had brought the wine, uncorking it with a pop and a flourish, as a gentle hint to the rest of us that we might with advantage follow such a laudable example, the German had filled one of the glasses, and with atro- cious self-complacency and an air as who should say, Theres a treat for you!, pushed it towards our bold commander. The latter, with a look of supreme con- tempt, merely observed: Thank you; I never take wine with my passengers. But now we were near our journeys end, and on the upper deck the captain had been telling some of his experiences to a small knot of men, which did not in- clude his Hamburger friend. Did you ever come across a Norwegian pilot? I asked, cherishing a sailors veneration for the indomitable courage of these northern sea-dogs. Did I ? he returned with warmth; I should think so. Why, only last year, bound for Christiansand, I came here in a dense fog that had lasted nearly all the way across. Knowing I ought to be pretty close ashore, I stopped her en- gines and blew the whistle; but not a yard ahead could I see, and as night set in, I dont deny I didnt like it. Sud- denly I heard a voice: Do you want a pilot, sir? and, looking over the side, there, sure enough, was a pilot-boat. Well, the fog was as thick as a wall; but no sooner ~vas the fellow on board, than Full speed! Starboard her helm! and away we went for the rocks. After steaming ahead for about half an hour the roar of the breakers became deafening, and I could see absolutely nothing noth- ing but the fog. Hard a-port!the pilot sung out, and hard a-port it was. Close IN VERMLAND. 5 to us the surf thundered among the rocks; but a moment later we were in smooth water and were brought to an anchor as handy as if it had been clear daylight. The captain here walked away a few paces to get a better look at something forward. When returning he added: Sir, you may go through the length and breadth of this ~vorld, but for hardiness and skill you will not beat the Norwegian pilot This warm encomium recalled a remi- niscence of my youth, which at the time made a vivid impression upon me, and ~vl~ich, though it has absolutely nothing to do with the present visit to Sweden, I cannot refrain from mentioning. Imag- ine a stormy winters day with a pale-blue sky, a dark-blue turbulent sea, and a ship with close-reefed topsails. The gale howled in the rigging, ballooning the nar- row strips of canvas and rap-rapping the running gear against the spars with weari- some monotony. Under our lee, as far as the eye could reach, stretched the iron- bound coast of old Norway, where the waves, leaping unceasingly against the black rocks, hurled jets of white foam high into the air. From out among these granite boulders a small craft appears, showing at first only a spritsail with a red stripe down the middle; but when it draws nearer we can see that the boat is covered with a deck, is broad of beam, clinker- built, and pointed fore and aft shaped, in fact, like a gull. There are but two hands on board. The pilot yellow- bearded, broad-shouldered, with a sou- wester on his head stands by the mast; his son, a mere lad, has hold of the tiller. Our ship has been kept close-hauled, laboring heavily in the rough sea, and presently the boat is to windward a short distance off. With his hand firmly on the tiller the boy is keenly ~vatching his chance, and the next moment runs us dan- gerously near; then a rope is thrown; is deftly caught by the pilot, who ties it. round his waist, and the boat again sheers off. There is a moments suspense; a big wave approaches; as it rises it lifts the small craft on its crest to a level with our rigging; in that instant the pilot jumps, and lands safely in our mizzen shrouds. The lad meanwhile has promptly luffed, and alone in his nutshell, now lost to sight, now heaved aloft, he makes his way sturdily towards shore; but on board the frigate we know that alls well! A tiumber of barren grey boulders formed the first and rather disappointing impression of Sweden. The next morn- ing, for miles along the shore, these bald granite islets, some small, some large, lie in serried rows with deep water between them and the mainland a convenient ar- rangement that should be appreciated by yachstmen, since it affords vessels of or- dinary size an opportunity for coasting agreeably in smooth water, even when the Kattegat or the Ska~er Rack outside are in a mood severely unpleasant. There was a golden light upon the calm sea, a crisp, invigorating atmosphere. In the far dis- tance the rocks took a bluish hue, rising up out of the water in a fantastic, airy manner that almost equalled an eastern mirage. As we entered the G6ta estuary we overtook a crowd of open fishing-boats making their way to town, deeply laden with glittering herring; in the level beams of the early morning sun their red sails, the blue ocean, and the grey granite background harmonized admi rab~y. Our steamer passed close to many of the fleet, and it was impossible not to be struck with the fine physique of their crews, robust and stalwart, yellow hair and fair beards being unmistakably the fashion. The Swedish flag dark blue with a gold cross flut- tered over the fort of Elfsborg, which crowns a small island in the middle of the river. Anent this place there is a curious story. The young I)anish admiral, Peter Tordenkjold, the hero of many a bold romance in the eighteenth century, had fruitlessly besieged this stronghold for weeks. At last he sent an envoy to the defenders to say that, having received heavy reinforcements sufficient, in fact, to take the place by assault at any time to save needless bloodshed he proposed that a truce should be agreed upon, and that the commandant should personally inspect the new troops and so judge for himself whether resistance was possible. The invitation was accepted; the com- mandant was cordially received and con- ducted to a tent, where a sumptuous banquet had been provided in his honor. History then relates that the sailor host here passed the bottle so freely and with so much frank, engaging hospitality, that it was difficult, not to say impossible, for the Swedish officers to refuse besides, having suffered considerable privations during the long siege, their heads were perhaps not so strong as usual. Be this as it may, the troops were afterwards in- spected. The various regiments had been drawn up in the small town on the main- land opposite; but when the mounted offi- cers had reviewed the ranks paraded in one street and had turned into the next, 52 IN VERMLAND. the soldiers promptly and silently filed off at the other end and formed afresh in a third street, this manceuvre being repeated until all the town had been traversed. The effect was so imposing that the com- mandant forthwith signed an unconditional surrender.* Beyond Elfsborg the timber trade as- serted itself with a vigor that was almost appalling. All thoughts of the landscape vanished. It is said that in Gothenburg the figure of speech most in use is Three by nine by fourteen, a mysterious shib- boleth meaning an aver age plank, meas- uring three inches in thickness, nine inches in width, and fourteen inches in length which may be fairly accepted as proof of the commercial prosperity of the town. Here on either side, as we steamed up the river, ships of all classes and all nations were taking in deals of yellow pine. Huge timber-yards, with stacks of wood tall as houses, lined the route; and everywhere, walking about with a long plank on their shoulder, ~vere men whom nature apparently would have treated with more justice had she omitted to provide them with heads, since in the matter of carrying planks with ease this troublesome appendage seems awkwardly in the way. But presently our engines were slowing, then an observatory, churches, and cus- tom-house buildings swung into view, and a few moments later our steamer was tightly secured along the quay. Every- body flocked to the landing-stage, b(tt foremost the Hamburger merchant, en- cumbered with a bewildering variety of travelling paraphernalia, and, lo and be- hold! our captain was actually shaking him cordially by the hand. There are none like sailors to forgive and forget. Gothenburg somewhat reminds one of a Dutch city; it is neat, prosperous, and highly respectable; it has canals, stone bridges, and indifferent pavements. But there the resemblance ceases. The quaint- ness, the variety of color and structure that delight the eye in towns like Rot- terdam, Amsterdam, and Schiedam are looked for here in vain, and, judging from what one sees, the Swedes do not appear to excel in architecture. The rows of stolid, yellow-brick fa~ades, varied now and again by a dull grey where the masonry has been polished with a coating of cement, couple uniformity of design with monotony of aspect, and give the idea that the para- mount object had been to keep the cold well out of doors during prolonged severe winters. The long lines of narrow case- ments mostly with double frames, the little spy-mirrors fixed outside, which, without opening the window, enable the people within to see up and down street, and the utter absence of balconies, all confirm this impression. Most of the houses have only a height of two or three stories, and nowhere are there any vener- able-looking piles, such as stimulate the curiosity simply by the general air of his- tory that pervades them. Even such minor and frivolous matters as plate-glass shop fronts with varicolored displays, which do so much to dispel the dulness of a street view, are few, considering the undoubted wealth of the inhabitants. In the canals lay small schooners and other craft from the inland lakes not crowds of vessels as in the towns of Holland, but a few scattered here and there and their masts, sails, and fluttering streamers gave a welcome look of gaiety to the quay. The population move about preoccupied and busy. The fair sex, undoubtedly fair and mostly pretty, dress in good style with decided elegance, and walk well, notwithstanding the municipal preference for pointed stones. The men affect an Anglo manner and bearing, grow flowing whiskers, and the many who speak En- glish do so without the trace of an accent. But for a commercial town the bustle and traffic are slight save by the riverside, where the lumber-yards absorb the princi- pal energy and interest. On the whole, one arrives at the conclusion that this is the place where the Swedes make thefr fortunes, that afterwards they may spend them in Stockholm. For the ardent tour- ist there are, of course, the ordinary amount of sights, and foremost among them figures a botannical garden of which the citizens are proud. But these things come under guide-book particulars, and Gothenburg represented to us on this oc- casion merely a halting-place en route for Vermland, the province of forests and lakes, beloved by the Swedes and sung of in one of their charming romances, the Vermlandovisa, as follows Ack Vermeland Du skbna, Du htirrliga land, Du Krona bland Svea rikes kinder.* A dainty little steamer, so commodi- ously arranged, so scrupulously clean with white paint, and so well provided with excellent fare that we half fancied our- * Thus, at recorded * Oh! Vermiand, thou lovely, thou most entrancing least, is it in the Danish chron- land, ides; doubtless the Swedish version differs somewhat. Thou crown of Sveas possessions, lewel of her banct IN VERMLAND. selves on board a yacht, was ready to take us up the G6ta Elf against stream. Here the river has not yet joined the sea on its journey from the great Lake Venern, after leaping the Tro1lh~ttan, and it is much narrower than below Gothenburg, where its waters mingle with ocean. Immedi- ately upon leaving the to~vn the charm of the journey began to grow. On either bank were verdant meadows with contented cows placidly browsing. Here and there, from surrounding clumps of feathery birch and larch, peeped forth some substantial homestead, built of tim- ber of course; the dwelling-house painted deep red, relieved by a border of white round the window-frames; the wooden shingled roofs tarred and weather-stained to a sombre blue. The groups of buildings, thus set in three shades of vivid green, from meadow, birch, and larch, made delightful harmo- nies of color. They occurred perhaps too rarely, however, the farther Gothenburg was left behind, and presently the sense of being in a large country where space was not yet cramped, and where there was a breadth and vastness that one generally imagines exists only on the other side of the Atlantic or at the Antipodes, was borne in upon one. We glided by saw- mills, either sunk in a dell or hollow on the rivers edge, or near a lock, the water of their mill-ponds supplied by the Elf, and falling with full force over the huge revolving wheels. In adjacent reservoirs were men with long poles with hooks, sort- ing the pine logs, which, after an adven- turous and independent course across great lakes and down streams, arrive here from far away inland. Frequently our steamer would slacken, and peasants (the men almost invariably provided with a leathern apron, the most distinctive feature of their dress hereabouts) would come alongside in their boats to fetch sacks of flour and sundry groceries, or a bundle of children and a ~vife; or we passed by oth- ers ashore waiting for the ferry with cart and horses, their figures reflected in the limpid water. In the distance were vil- lage spires, and, as a background, an in- terminable line of bald grey hills with scanty patches of moss on their hoary tops. Formerly their ridges were thickly covered with pine woods; but, being so easy of access, these forests were the first to fall before the constantly growing de- mand from abroad. By imperceptible degrees the character of the landscape changed from pastoral to sylvan. The copses of birch and larch 53 grew denser, the pines became more im- posing, and the hills seemed to draw closer in around us. When we reached Troll- h~ttan the sun had already set, but the wonderful northern twilight did but soften the contours of the distant hills, leaving an opal glow which, as late as ten oclock, made it possible to read a letter in the open air. Trolihattan means the roar- ing wizard, and the falls fully justify the mythic title. On the top of a steep hill just above our landing-place lies the vil- lage of the same name, overlooking that part of the river which flows from Lake Venern towards the fall. Here the stream runs placidly enough, winding past mossy banks, with graceful weeping silver birches moistening the tips of their leaves in the current. But near to the hotel the bed narrows suddenly ; a little farther on the river leaps down among large boulders in a curved volume of deep green water, which at once is churned into a wealth of bubbling foam. Leaping the rocks again and again, it rushes downward on a sharp declivity for nearly half a mile. On one side of the cataract the cliff rises high and steep, clothed with close- set files of sombre pine-trees, enlivened here and there with patches of birch. On the village side the hill descends gradually with the falls, and on its top a row of deep- red buildings seems almost to overhang the torrent. These are merely prosaic iron- works, saw-mills, and other factories that use the energy of the fall as motive power; but, being built of timber, colored to the universal red tint, their solid outlines do not clash with, but even lend to the pic- turesque. From one of these factories an iron bridge is thrown across; and, stand- ing on this, one best realizes the mighty power of this seething volume, flowing incessantly and with giddy velocity be- neath ones feet. The noise is deafening, and one wonders unconsciously why this rush does not finally empty all the lakes in S~veden. Above, where the fall be- gins, from time to time a log floats uncon- cernedly to the brink, when suddenly down it is hurled into the fuming cauldron be- low, disappearing, reappearing, end up, to be again and repeatedly flung forward, only recovering equilibrium when finally reaching less turbulent ~vaters below. The huge trunks cut in midwinter and sent adrift in spring to continue their eventful journey, each bear a distinctive mark. At various stages on the rivers men are sta- tioned who intercept, sort, and retain those intended for their particular mill, sending the remainder onward till ulti 54 IN VERMLAND. mately th~y reach their destination; but it is generally not until after midsummer, when the hay is safely stacked, that the peasant finds time to visit the mill and settle accounts. Here he goes straight to the sorters office. ~vhere the clerk, having consulted his books and reckoned up how many logs of this particular brand have reached them, takes a piece of chalk and jots down the sum total on his clients back. The latter ambles contentedly off to the head offices sometimes at the other end of the town where he receives his money, and by the aid of a clothes- brush the account is acquitted. Whether the Swedish chancellor of the exchequer can enforce the affixture of a receipt stamp in these cases I have been unable satis- factorily to ascertain. Our steamer had passed into a canal by the side of the fall, where, through a suc- cession of locks, she was gradually raised to the level of the river above; an opera- tion that occupies the whole night, which is wisely spent by travellers at the adja- cent and comfortable hotel. This canal is a fine piece of engineering xvork, com- menced in 1793 and finished in the begin. fling of this century. At Venersborg, the capital of Vermland, an old-fashioned, quaint little country town, the Lake Ve- nern opens out broad and wide. This is the largest inland sea in Sweden, and con- nected with Stockholm through a succes- sion of lakes and canals. Our course lay to the left side, which necessitated a change of steamer, and though our new boat was somewhat smaller than the one we quitted, it was equally commodious, equally clean, white-painted, and well ar- ranged. The lake is large enough to allow of losing sight of land when in the centre, and it can be rough, which, however, in summer time is rare. Following the western coast for some distance, we en- tered the river Sefie. Through the heart of Vermland, and away over the frontier, nearly to Kongsvinger in Norway, a string of romantic lakes is opened up by means of this watercourse. The entrance is through a lock so narrow that our crew, standing by the bulwark, were able coin- fortably to put a leg over on to the quay and, by a judicious push, aid the steamer through. Here is the town of Sefle, which, to judge from several three-storied, white-painted buildings, should be of some importance; for in this part of the world white paint seemed to indicate a higher level of refinement, the picturesque red being mainly confined to rural home- steads. Soon the stream widened into a broad expanse, bordered alternately with rich arable land, pastures, or dense forests, and dotted with islets covered with copse- wood; then again narrowing to a channel, it led to a fresh lake. Every moment frightened teal and duck rose on the wing and passed overhead. We saw large vil- iages, with substantial, well-to-do houses surrounding the church, and frequently glimpses were caught of the gables and high roof of some pretentious mansion standing in its own grounds, with exten- sive farm buildings at its back. The estates in this part of the country are very fine, some of them with as much as forty thousand acres of forest. In one of the lakes an isolated church, perched on the brink of a steep hill, was faithfully re- flected, even to the golden cross on its spire, in the placid blue beneath. Later it was my privilege, one Sunday, to wit- ness the congregation, in smart attire, ar- riving from all sides of the lake in four- oared boats to attend divine service here. On ~veek-days, returning in the evening from their labor, they accompany the measured stroke of their oars with song, and their voices, floating across the water, are caught up and melodiously echoed against the close-set ranks of pines. Otherwise the most striking characteristic of these tracts is the prevailing stillness. The rumble of wheels and cracking of whips are seldom heard, the waterway be- ing greatly preferred for the carting of hay from the meadows, etc., or as a route to the nearest town. The deep aisles of the forest are silent. No birds chirp and twitter between the needles of the pine boughs, only now and again the gentle ripple of a brook, scattering itself over rocks that seem soft as velvet from their thick covering of moss, falls on the ear, or a few dry twigs crackle for a moment as a fox slips through the bank into its hole: these are the only sounds in spring. The early morning, before sunrise, however, is an exception. Then the capercailzie gives forth his curious notes, that most resemble the sound of wine poured from a long-necked bottle; the woodcock and blackcock flutter in the open spaces, and the squirrel mounts hastily to the top of the tree to watch the figure of man creep- ing stealthily on his prey. The croak of the hoodies a large crow is heard near a glade and round the clearings. Jackdaws are plentiful, growing bold i~ear the houses, and still managing joyfully to secrete an occasional spoon. My destination reached, I was put IN VERMLAND. 55 ashore at a small private landing-stage. Having proceeded up a broad birch-tree avenue two miles long, and through a gar- den, I stood before an imposing white mansion with a tall pointed roof. The wide-open hall doors showed me a spa- cious ante-room, but it was impossible to discover either bell or knocker, and no one appeared. Within, an open door to the right disclosed a study, or smoking- room, with guns and several sets of elks antlers on the walls ; to the left, through another open door, a billiard-table was visible, and in front a flight of carpeted stairs led to the floor above. But no liv- ing being was anywhere to be seen. Hav- ing coughed and given other similar signs of an embarrassed presence, I was about to mount the stairs, when a large brown dog suddenly showed himself, and, coming up to me, placed a damp nose confidingly in my hand, bringing forward a pair of shorn and pointed ears, wagging a stumpy tail, and looking up with an expression that plainly said: Yes, you see, they cut my ears, but I dont mind now. Having ac- cepted this new acquaintance, I came to the conclusion that my best course would be to follow wherever he might lead; and as presently he returned to the garden, I did likewise. He appeared flattered, wag- ging the stumpy tail emphatically, and then, turning sharply round the corner of a shubbery, revealed to me three young ladies in an arbor, one with a book, one embroidering, and one leaning back, try- ing hard to balance a flower on the tip of a very pretty little nose. At the sight of a stranger there were signs of perturba- tion, which sensibly increased when they found themselves addressed in a strange tongue. At that moment, however, my host appeared, and, amidst much laughter and in excellent English, made me cor- dially welcome. All through Sweden social intercourse is encumbered with much ceremonious etiquette, particularly among the landed gentry. The three Scandinavian tongues employ the two personal pronouns thou and you; the first familiarly, the sec- ond when speaking to a mere acquaint- ance. But a well-bred Swedish gentleman addressing a stranger will always, with old-fashioned courtesy, substitute the equivalent for Monsieur, regardless of harrowing repetitions, and ~vhere a title is demanded, even under the difficulties of rapid speech, it is never for a moment omitted. As such politeness, however, in the end becomes both monotonous and wearisome, they have a practical way of cutting the Gordian knot. When a casual acquaintanceship has ripened into genial sympathy or mutual respect, your Swedish friend at once proposes a brotherhood. This is a distinct social ordeal, the initia- tion to which demands a special rite. The man who has requested the honor of be- coming your brother provides you with a glass of wine filled to the brim, he himself holding another; both rise, each linking the right arm of each; looking one an- other boldly in the eyes and pronouncing the words Skal bror/* the beakers are emptied. Henceforth you are expected to use the pronoun thou, and you take your stand on the footing of relationship. Among the reminiscences of this visit to Vermland is an evening when I acquired no less than six new and stalwart broth- ers. On the simbject of ancienne politesse, I should mention, by the way, that there is a well-known Swedish gentleman who always gives precedence to his own son, because he has one ancestor more than his father. The national character is anything but gloomy or morose, and social gatherings and festivities abound. The people, both high and low, always find happy excuses for dancing, singing, skating, and sledg- ing, managing in some way or other to make existence cheerfuL A fine voice is as common property as are dark eyes in Spain, and with the better classes it is generally Nell trained. The peasants dress is not particularly curious, though an occasional red petticoat may help to bring color into the fields; their rich folk- lore and quaint legends, however, are full of mystic charm, and are still told, and lis- tened to, with awe. Thus, in the house where I was a guest, there had been some- where about the sixteenth century a cer- tain dame, a widow owning the estate, who was renowned far and wide for her miserly temper and cruelty. Amongst many other things she had one day, in a fit of anger, pushed a poor kitchen wench into a cauldron of boiling water. Enter- ing her great drawing-room immediately after this deed, the irate dame was some- what surprised to find there, awaiting her, a gentleman, grave and decorous, dressed in rich black velvet with finest lace ruf- fles, but having a rather fiercely upturned moustache. Madame, he said, bowing courteously, right warmly have I ad- mired the charm of your character, the delicate execution of your slightest whim. May it be permitted a humble adorer to Your health, brother. IN VERMLAND. kiss the tips of your sweet fingers? The stranger here held out a bejewelled hand, and the lady foolishly put hers into it; the next moment they were whirling together in the mazes of a wild waltz. Breathless, she begged to stop, but her cavalier was untiring and held her fast, dancing and dancing till her shoes were worn from her bleeding feet. At last he flew through the wall with his shrieking partner, but where they disappeared a hole remained in the masonry, no bigger than a pea, it is true nevertheless, by no human skill could it ever be closed. Thus runs the legend, and it is proved by the fact that even now, when modern art has invented all sorts of wall decorations, still there is always a draft in that room! The tales about trolls and other wicked imps should be heard in the forest cabin, especially in the gloaming, when the gaunt old crone has a flickering pine knot on the hearth. Her brow perpetually puck- ered, she relates her story with a manifest unwillingness that in itself gives great force to the delivery; the flare from the fire throws the rude rafters overhead into weird, fitful prominence, illuminates the scared faces of a couple of youngsters, who cower together in a corner near the window, as the wind moans sadly in the pines or makes a frantic rush at the door. Game of all sorts is plentiful in Verm- land. The smaller streams are stocked with trout, while the lakes swarm with teal and wild duck. In the forests are blackcock, woodcock, capercailzie, and, best of all, elk. For the latter, however, the close time extends over eleven months of the year, and only in September is it lawful to shoot this big game. A peculiar breed of dogs which somewhat resembles the Pomeranian spitz, but larger, stronger, and with a rougher coat, is kept for this sport. They are trained to follow and tease the elk in mock combat, thus allow- ing the hunter to approach his swift and ~vary quarry, which, even with this aid, often takes a day to stalk. Only a true sportsman and steady shot can bring down an elk, which must be hit in a vital spot, a dozen bullets elsewhere being merely a further incentive fora gallant leap into the distance, where he is forever lost to his pursuer. This fact has caused many Svedish sl)ortsmen to discontinue the drives which formerly occasioned merry autumn gatherings at the country houses. Some years ago the owner of an estate here entertained a shooting-party under rem~ rkable circumstances. His nephew and heira youngster who was every ones favorite and no ones enemy but his own made a tour on the Continent, staying for some time in London and Paris and enjoying himself amazingly, but re- turning discovered that he had unfortu- nately outrun his uncles liberal allowance to an extent he dared not confess. The old bachelor listened with grim pleasure to the tales of society, sport, races, and other gaieties abroad, but on pecuniary matters he held views of his own, and his nephew remained bashfully reticent with regard to his difficulties, though th ese grew steadily more and more oppressive. It would do these foreigners good to see what sport there is still in old Sweden! his uncle had observed with a sliTht sense of pride one day, and he adde~ that he thought his nephew might with advantage have invited some of his foreign friends for the elk-shooting, which in his forest had been left undisturbed for nearly a quarter of a century. The young fellow caught at the idea, and some six weeks later announced the expected arrival of some Englishmen for the elk season whereupon the old gentleman rubbed his hands with great satisfaction, and swore he would show his boys friends what Swedish hospitality was made of. His nephew, however, received this enthusi- asm gravely, talked a great deal about what was good form in the present day, and finally insisted that since neither his uncle nor any of his neighbors understood a word of English, the correct thing would be for him to take this opportunity to pay his annual visit to Stockholm. To this startling proposition the old gentleman at first demurred, but as he had never won renown as a shot, he ultimately consented to leave for town when once he had re- ceived and installed his guests; upon this point he insisted. On the day fixed for the arrival of the expected visitors a gorgeous banquet was laid for them, and some other guests invited in their honor in the great hall, and carriages with servants in dress liv- eries were sent to meet the steamer. Whether the four English sportsmen were pleased or otherwise I know not, but con- sidering that they had merely combined to hire this shooting through the Field, without even the remotest knowledge of the name and position of the owner, they must have felt considerably puzzled. I was told that only one was able to sit down to dinner in a dress coat, the others appearing promiscuously in tweeds and norfolks The young schemer, who had conceived this daring plan for clearing his debts, knew ~vell that his uncle would be implacable should he discover the real truth about the strangers, and in his anx- iety that all might go smoothly, had pro- posed to send dress suits of his own to their respective rooms, but this offer was declined. The dinner, however, went off well. Completely unsuspecting, the old gentleman sat at the head of his table, beaming genially upon his guests, and making pretty little speeches through the intermediary of his nephew, the only interpreter, who, very nervous, talked pro- fusely. Luckily for this reckless young- ster, the Englishmen who had taken the shooting were not only young men, but also high-bred gentlemen, and their young hosts usual charm of manner in the end worked wonders. Some years after the secret leaked out, and the outraged uncle made a will cutting his nephew off with a shilling. Thanks, however, to a bracing climate and a sturdy constitution he lived long enough to tear up this instrument and fold to his manly chest a young scape- grace who has since become an ornament to his country. From Macmillans Magazine. AM IEL IT is somewhat late to speak of Amiel, but I was late in reading him. Goethe says that in seasons of cholera one should read no books but such as are tonic, and certainly in the season of old age this precaution is as salutary as in sea- sons of cholera. From what I heard I could clearly make out that Amiels jour- nal was not a tonic book; the extracts from it which here and there I fell in with did not much please me; and for a good while I left the book unread. But what M. Edmoncl Scherer writes I do not easily resist reading, and I found that M. Scherer had prefixed to Aniiels journal a long and important introduc- tion. This 1 read; and was not less charmed by the mi/is sa~ien/ia, the under- standing kindness and tenderness with which the character of Amiel himself, whom M. Scherer had known in youth, was handled, than interested by the criti- cism on the journal. Then I read Mrs. Humphry Wards interesting notice, and then for all biography is attractive, and of Amiels life and circumstances I had by this time become desirous of knowing more the Etude Biographique of Mademoiselle Berthe Vadier. AMIEL. 57 Of Amiels cultivation, refinement, and high feeling, of his singular graces of spirit and character, there could be no doubt. But the specimens of his work given by his critics left me hesitating. A poetess herself, Mademoiselle Berthe Vadier is much occupied with Amiels poetry, and quotes it abundantly. Even Victor Hugos poetry leaves me cold, I am so unhappy as not to be able to admire Olympio; what am I to say, then, to Amiels Journ~e Illuminde, Riant soleil davril, En quel songe Se plonge Mon c~ur, et que veut-il? But M. Scherer and other critics, who do not require us to admire Amiels poetry, maintain that in his journal he has left a book which will not die, a book de- scribing a malady of which the secret is sublime and the expression wonderful ; a marvel of speculative intuition, a psy- chological experience of the utmost value. M. Scherer and Mrs. Humphry Ward give Amiels journal very decid- edly the preference over the letters of an old friend of mine, Obermann. The quo- tations made from Amiels journal by his critics failed, I say, to enable me quite to understand this high praise. But I re- member the time when a new publication by George Sand or by Sainte-Beuve was an event bringing to me a shock of l)leas- ure, and a French book capable of renew- ing that sensation is seldom produced now. If Amiels journal was of the high quality alleged, what a pleasure to make acquaint- ance with it, what a loss to miss it I In spite, therefore, of the unfitness of old age to bear atonic influences, I at last read Amiels journal, read it carefully through. Tonic it is not; but it is to be read with profit, and shows, moreover, powers of great force and value, though not quite, I am inclined to think, in the exact line which his critics with one con- sent indicate. In speaking of Amiel at present, after so much has been written about him, I may assume that the main outlines of his life are known to my readers; that they know him to have been born in 1821 and to have died in i88i, to have passed the three or four best years of his youth at the University of Berlin, and the remain- der of his life mostly at Geneva, as a pro- fessor, first of ~sthetics, afterwards of philosophy. They know that his publica- tions and lectures, during his lifetime, AMIEL. disappointed his friends, who expected authority of genius, moments of irresistible much from his acquirements, talents, and intuition in which a man feels himself great as vivacity; and that his fame rests upon two the universe and calm like God! . . . What volumes of extracts from many thousand hours, what memories! pages of a private journal, Journal In- And now for Obermanns turn, Ober- time, extending over more than thirty mann by the Lake of Bienne. years, from 1848 to i88i, which he left behind him at his death. This journal My path lay beside the green waters of the explains his sterility; and displays in Thiele. Feeling inclined to muse, and find- explaining it, say his critics, such sincerity, ing the night so warm that there was no hard- with such gifts of expression and elo- ship in being all night out of doors, I took the quence, of profound analysis and specula- road to Saint Blaise. I descended a steep tive intuition, as to make it most surely bank, and got upon the shore of the lake .,, where its ripple came up and expired. The one of those hooks which will not die. air was calm; every one was at rest; I re- The sincerity is unquestionable. As to mained there for hours. Towards morning, the gifts of eloquence and expression, the moon shed over the earth and waters the what are we to say? M. Scherer speaks ineffable melancholy of her last gleams. Na- of an ever new eloquence ~ pouring itself ture seems unspeakably grand, when, plunged in the pages of the journal; M. Paul Bour- in a long reverie, one hears the rippling of the get, of marvellous pages where the feel- waters upon a solitary strand, in the calm of a ing for nature finds an expression worthy nigl~t still enkindled and luminous with the of Shelley or Wordsworth; Mrs. Hum- setting moon. beyond utterance, charm and phry Ward, of magic of style, of glow of our vain years; vast consciousness and splendor of expression, of the poet of a nature everywhere greater than we are, and artist who fascinates us in Amiels and everywhere impenetrable; all-embracing prose. I cannot quite agree Ober mann passion, ripened wisdom, delicious self-aban- has been mentioned; it seems to me that donmenteverything that a mortal heart can we have only to place a passage from S& contain of life-weariness and yearning, I felt nancour beside a passage from Amiel, to it all, I experienced it all, in this memorable perceive the difference between a feelino night. I have made a grave step towards the for nature which gives magic to style an~ age of decline, I have swallowed up ten years of life at once. Happy the simple, whose one which does not. Here and through. heart is always young out I am to use as far as possible Mrs. I-Iumphry Wards translation, at once No translation can render adequately spirited and faithful, of Amiels journal. I the cadence of diction, the dying fall will take a passage where Amiel has evi- of reveries like those of S~nancour or dently some reminiscence of S~nancour Rousseau. But even in a translation we (whose work he knew well), is inspired by must surely perceive that the magic of S~nancour a passage which has been style is with S~nancours feeling for na- extolled by M Paul Bourget. ture, not Amiels; and in the original this Shall I ever enjoy again those marvellous is far more manifest still. reveries of past days, as for instance, once, Magic of style is creative ; its pos. when I was still quite a youth in the early sessor himself creates, and he inspires and dawn sitting amongst the ruins of the castle of enables his reader in some sort to create Faucigny; another time in the mountains after him. And creation gives the sense above Lancy, under the midday sun, lying of life and joy ; hence its extraordinary under a tree and visited by three butterflies; value. But eloquence may exist without and again another night on the sandy shore of maoic of style, and this eloquence, accom- the North Sea, stretched full length upon the b beach, my eyes wandering over the Milky panying thoughts of rare worth and depth, Way? Will they ever return to me, those may heighten their effect greatly. And grandiose, immortal, cosmogonic dreams in M. Scherer says that Amids speculative which one seems to carry the world in ones philosophy is on a far other scale of breast, to touch the stars, to possess the infi- vastness than S~nancours, and therefore nite? Divine moments, hours of ecstasy, he gives the preference to the eloquence when thought flies from world to world, pene- of Amiel, which clothes and conveys this trates the great enigma, breathes with a respi- vaster philosophy. Amiel was no doubt ration large, tranquil, and profound like that greatly S~nancour s superior in culture of the ocean, and hovers serene and boundless like the blue heaven! Visits from the Muse I and instruction generally; in philosoph- Urania, who traces around the foreheads of ical reading and what is called philosoph- those she loves the phosphorescent nimbus of ical thought he was immensely his contemplative power, and who pours into their superior. My sense for philosophy, I hearts the tranquil intoxication, if not the know, is as far from satisfying Mr. Fred- AMIEL. eric Harrison as my sense for Hugos poetry is from satisfying Mr. Swinburne. But I am too old to change and too hard- ened to hide what I think; and when I am presented with philosophical specula- tions and told that they are on a high scale of vastness, I persist in looking closely at them and in honestly asking myself what I find to be their positive value. And we get from Amiels powers of speculative intuition things like this: Created spirits in the accomplishment of their destinies tend, so to speak, to form con- stellations and milky ways within the empy- rean of the divinity; in becoming gods, they surround the throne of the sovereign with a sparkling court. Or this: Is not mind the universal virtuality, the uni- verse latent? If so, its zero would be the germ of the infinite, which is expressed math- ematically by the double zero (00). Or, to let our philosopher develop him- self at more length, let us take this return to the zero, which Mrs. Humphry Ward prefers here to render by nothingness This psychological reinvolution is an antici- pation of death; it represents the life beyond the grave, the return to Scheol, the soul fading into the world of ghosts or descending into the region of die Milt/er; it implies the simplification of the individual who, allowing all the accidents of personality to evaporate, exists henceforward only in the~invisible state, the state of point, of potentiality, of pregnant nothingness. Is~not this the true definition of mind? is not mind, dissociated from space and time, just this? Its development, past or future, is contained in it just as a curve is con- tained in its algebraical formula. This noth- ing is an all. This p~nctum without dimen- sions is a tunctum saliens. French critics throw up their hands in dismay at the violence which the German- ized Amiel, propounding his speculative philosophy, often does to the French lan- guage. My objection is rather that such speculative philosophy as that of which I have been quoting specimens has no value, is perfectly futile. And Amiels journal contains far too much of it. What is futile we may throw aside; but when Amiel tells us of his protean na- ture essentially metamorphosable, polaris- able, and virtual, when he tells us of his longing for totality, ~ve must listen, al- though these phrases may in France, as M. Paul Bourget says, raise a shudder in a humanist trained on Livy and Pascal. But these phrases stood for ideas which .59 did practically rule, in a great degree, Amids life, which he often develops not only with great subtlety, but also with force, clearness, and eloquence, making it both easy and interesting to us to follow him. But still, when we have the ideas present before us, I shall ask what is their value, what does Amiel obtain in them for the service of either himself or other people? Let us take first what, adopting his own phrase, we may call his bedazzlement with the infinite, his thirst for totality-. Omnis determinatlo est negatlo. Ami el has the gift and the bent for making his soul the capacity for all form, not a soul but the soul. He finds it easier and more natural to be man than a man. His permanent instinct is to be a subtle and fugitive spirit which no base can ab- sorb or fix entirely. It costs him an effort to affirm his own personality; the infinite draws me to it, the henosis of Plotinus intoxicates me like a philtre. It intoxicates him until the thought of absorption and extinction, the nirzdna of Buddhism, becomes his thought of refuge. The individual life is a nothing ignorant of itseif, and as soon as this nothing knows itself individual life is abolished in principle. For as soon as the illusion vanishes, nothingness resumes its eternal sway, the suffering of life is over, error has disappeared, time and form have for this enfranchised individuality ceased to be; the colored air-bubble has burst in the infinite space, and the misery of thought has sunk to rest in the changeless repose of all- embracing nothing. With this bedazement with the infinite and this drift towards Buddhism comes the impatience with all production, with even poetry and art themselves, because of their necessary limits and imperfection. Composition demands a concentration, de- cision, and pliancy which I no longer l)ossess. I cannot fuse together materials and ideas. If we are to give anything a form we must, so to speak, be the tyrants of it. We must treat our subject brutally and not be always trem- bling lest we should be doing it a wrong. We must be able to transmute and absorb it into our own substance. This sort of confident effrontery is beyond me; my whole nature tends to that impersonality which respects and subordinates itself to the object; it is love of truth which holds me back from concluding and deciding. The desire for the all, the impatience with what is partial and limited, the fasci- nation of the infinite, are the topics of page after page in the journal. It is a 6o AMIEL. prosaic mind which has never been in contact with ideas of this sort, never felt their charm. They lend themselves well to poetry, but what are we to say of their value as ideas to be lived with, dilated on, made the governing ideas of life? Ex- cept for use in passing, and with the power to dismiss them again, they are un- profitable. Shelleys Life like a dome of many-colored glass Stains the white radiance of eternity Until death tramples it to fragments has value as a splendid image nobly in- troduced in a beautiful and impassioned poem. But Amiels colored air-bubble, as a positive piece of speculative intui- tion, has no value whatever. Nay, the thoughts which have positive truth and value, the thoughts to be lived with and dwelt upon, the thoughts which are a real acquisition for our minds, are precisely thoughts which counteract the vague as- piration and indeterminate desire pos- sessing Amiel and filling his journal; they are thoughts insisting on the need of limit, the feasibility of performance. Goethe says admirably: Wer grosses will muss sich zusammenraffen: In der I3eschrankung zeigt sich erst der Meis- ter. He who ~vill do great things must pull himself together: it is in working within limits that the master comes out. Buf- fon says not less admirably : Tout sujet est un; et quelque vaste quil soit, il peut ~tre renferm~ dans un seul dis- cours. Every subject is one; and however vast it may be, is capable of being contained in a single discourse. The ideas to live with, the ideas of sterling value to us, are, I repeat, ideas of this kind; ideas staunchly counteracting and reducing the power of the infinite and indeterminate, not paralyzing us with it. And indeed we have not to go beyond Amiel himself for proof of this. Amiel was paralyzed by living in these ideas of vague aspiration and indeterminate de- sire. of confounding his personal life in the general life, by feeding on these ideas, treating them as august and pre. cious, and filling hundreds of pages of journal with them. He was paralyzed by it, he became impotent and miserable. And he knew it, and tells us of it himself with a power of analysis and with a sad eloquence which to me are much more interesting and valuable than his philos- ophy of Mala and the great wheel. By your natural tendency, he says to himself, you arrive at disgust with life, despair, pessimism. And again: Melancholy outlook on all sides. Disgust with my~ self. And again: I cannot deceive myself as to the fate in store for me: in- creasing isolation, inward disappointment, enduring regrets, a melancholy neither to be consoled nor confessed, a mournful old age, a slow agony, a death in the desert. And all this misery by his own fault, his own mistakes. To live is to conquer incessantly; one must have the courage to be happy. I turn in a vicious circle; I have never had clear sight of my true vocation. I cannot therefore fall in with that par- ticular line of admiration which critics, praising Amiels journal, have commonly followed. I cannot join in celebrating his prodigies of speculative intuition, the glow and splendor of his beatific vision of abso- lute knowledge, the marvellous pages in which his deep and vast philosophic thought is laid bare, the secret of his sub- lime malady is expressed. I hesitate to admit that all this part of the journal has even a very profound psychological inter- est; its interest is rather pathological. In reading it we are not so much pursuing a study of psychology as a study of morbid pathology. But the journal reveals a side in Amiel which his critics, so far as I have seen, have hardly noticed, a side of real power, origi- nality, and value. He says himself that he never had clear sight of his true vocation; well, his true vocation, it seems to me, was that of a literary critic. Here he is admira- able; M. Scherer was a true friend when he offered to introduce him to an editor, and suggested an article on Uhland. There is hardly a literary criticism in these two volumes ~vhich is not masterly, and which does not make one desire more of the same kind. And not Amiels literary crit- icisin only, but his criticism of society, politics, national character, religion, is in general well-informed, just, and penetrat- ing in an eminent degree. Any one single page of this criticism is worth, in my opinion, a hundred of Amids pages about the infinite illusion and the great wheel. It is to this side in Amiel that I desire now to draw attention. I would have abstained from writing about him if I had only to disparage and to find fault, only to say that he had been overpraised, and that his dealings with MaYa seemed to me profitable neither for himself nor for oth- ers. Let me first take Amiel as a critic of AMIEL. literature, and of the literature which he naturally knew best, French literature. Hear him as critic on that best of critics, Sainte-Beuve, of whose death (1869) he had just heard. The fact is, Sainte-Beuve leaves a greater void behind him than either B~ranger or Lamartine; their greatness was already dis- tant, historical; he was still helping us to think. The true critic supplies all the world with a basis. He represents the public judg- ment, that is to say, the public reason, the touchstone, the scales, the crucible, which tests the value of each man and the merit of each work. infallibility of judgment is per- haps rarer than anything else, so fine a bal- ance of qualities does it demand qualities both natural and acquired, qualities of both mind and heart. What years of labor, what study and comparison, are needed to bring the critical judgment to maturity! Like Platos sage, it is only at fifty that the critic is risen to the true height of his literary priesthood, or, to put it less pompously, of his social function. Not till then has he compassed all modes of being, and made every shade of ap- preciation his own. And Sainte-Beuve joined to this infinitely refined culture a prodigious memory and an incredible multitude of facts and anecdotes stored up for the service of his thought. The criticism is so sound, so admirably put, and so charming that one wishes Sainte-Beuve could have read it himself. Try Amiel next on the touchstone af- forded by that half genius, half charla- tan, Victor Hugo. I have been again looking through Victor Hugos Paris (1867). For ten years event after event has given the lie to the prophet, but the confidence of the prophet in his own imag- inings is not therefore a ~vhit diminished. Hu- mility and common sense are only fit for Lilli- putians. Victor Hugo superbly ignores every- thing which he has not foreseen. He does not know that pride limits the mind, and that a limitless pride is a littleness of soul. If he could but learn to rank himself with other men and France with other nations, he would see things more truly, and would not fall into his insane exaggerations, his extravagant oracles. But proportion and justness his chords will never know. He is vowed to the Titanic; his gold is always mixed with lead, his insight with childishness, his reason with madness. He cannot be simple; ]ike the blaze of a house on fire, his light is blinding. In short, he astonishes but pro- vokes, he stirs but annoys. His note is always half or two-thirds false, and that is why he perpetually makes us feel uncomfort- able. The great poet in him cannot get clear of the charlatan. A few pricks of Voltaires irony would have made the inflation of this genius collapse, and rendered him stronger by rendering him saner. It is a public mis- fortune that the most powerful poet of France should not have better understood his r~/e, and that, unlike the Hebrew prophets who chastised because they loved, he flatters his fellow-citizens from system and from pride. France is the world, Paris is France, Hugo is Paris. Bow down anti worship, ye nations! Finally, we will hear Amiel on a con- summate and supreme French classic, as perfect as Hugo is flawed, La Fontaine. Went through my La Fontaine yesterday, and remarked his omissions. . . . He has not an echo of chivalry haunting him. His French history dates from Louis XIV. His geog- raphy extends in reality but a few square miles, and reaches neither the Rhine nor the Loire, neither the mountains nor the sea. He never invents his subjects, l)ut indolently takes them ready-made from elsewhere. But with all this, what an adorable writer, what a painter, what an observer, what a master of the comic and the satirical, what a teller of a story! I am never tired of him, though I know half his fables by heart. In the matter of vocabulary, turns of expression, tones, idioms, his language is l)erhaps the richest of the great period, for it combines skilfully the archaic with the classical, the Gaulish element with what is French. Variety, finesse, sly fun, sensibility, rapidity, conciseness, suavity, grace, gaiety when necessary, nobleness, seriousness, grandeur you find everything in our fabulist. And the happy epithets, and the telling proverbs, and the sketches dashed off, and the unexpected audacities, and the point driven well home I One cannot say what he has not, so many diverse aptitudes he has. Compare his Woodcutter and Deaths with Boileaus, and you can measure the pro- digious difference between the artist and the critic who wanted to teach him better. La Fontaine brings visibly before you the poor peasant under the monarchy, Boileau but exhibits a drudge sweating under his load. The first is a historic witness, the second a school-versifier. La Fontaine enables you to reconstruct the whole society of his age; the pleasant old soul from Champagne, with his animals, turns out to be the one and only Homer of France. His weak side is his epicureanism, with its tinge of grossness. This, no doubt, was what made Lamartine dislike him. The religiotis string is wanting to his lyre, he has nothing which shows him to have known either Chris- tianity or the high tragedies of the soul. Kind Nature is his goddess, Horace his l)rophet, and Montaigne his gospel. In other words, his horizon is that of the Renascence. This islet of paganism in the midst of a Cath- olic society is very curious; the paganism is perfectly simple and frank. These are but notes, jottings in his journal, and Amiel passed from them to broodings over the infinite, and personal- 62 AMIEL. ity, and totality. Probably the literary criticism which he did so well, and for which he shows a true vocation, gave him nevertheless but little pleasure because he did it thus fragmentarily and by fits and starts. To do it thoroughly, to make his fragments into wholes, to fit them for coming before the public, composition with its toils and limits was necessary. Toils and limits composition indeed has; yet all composition is a kind of creation, creation gives, as I have already said, pleasure, and when successful and sus- tained, more than pleasure, joy. Amiel, had he tried the experiment with literary criticism, where lay his true vocation, would have found it so. Sainte-Beuve, whom he so much admires, would have been the most miserable of men if his pro- duction had been but a volume or two of middling poems and a journal. But Sainte-Beuves motto, as Amiel himself notices, was that of the emperor Severus: Laborernus. Work, Sainte-Beuve con- fesses to a friend, is my sore burden, but it is also my great resource. I eat my heart out when I am not-up to the neck in work; there you have the secret of the life I lead. If M. Scherers intro- duction to the Revue Germanique could but have been used, if Amiel could but have written the article on Uhland and followed it up by plenty of articles more! I have quoted largely from Amiels lit- erary criticism, because this side of him has, so far as I have observed, received so little attention, and yet deserves attention so eminently. But his more general criti- cism, too, shows, as I have said, the same high qualities as his criticism of authors and books. I must quote one or two of his aphorisms. Lesprit serf bien s~ tout, mais ne suffit d ~-ien: Wits are of use for everything, sufficient for nothing. Une societd vii de sa fol et se ddveloppe ~ar la science. A society lives on its faith and develops itself by science. LEtat libiral est irrdalisab/e avec i~ne religion antilzU- rale, et 15resque irrialisabie avec labsence de religio;:: Liberal communities are impossible with an anti.liberal religion, and almost impossible with the absence of religion.~~ But epigrammatic sentences of this sort are perhaps not so very diffi- cult to produce, in French at any rate. Let us take Amiel when he has room and verge enough to show what he canreally say which is important about society, re- ligion, national life, and character. We have seen what an influence his years passed in Germany had upon him; we have seen how severely he judges Victor Hugos faults; the faults of the French nation at large he judges with a like sever- ity. But what a fine and just perception does the following passage show of the deficiencies of Germany, the advantage which the western nations have in their more finished civilization! It is in the novel that the average vulgarity of German society, and its inferiority to the societies of France and England are most clearly visible. The notion of a things jar- ring on the taste is wanting to German ~sthet- ics. Their elegance knows nothing of grace; they have no sense of the enormous distance between distinction (gentlemanly, ladylike) and their stiff Vornehmiichkeit. Their imag- ination lacks style, training, education, and knowledge of the world; it is stamped with an ill-bred air even in its Sunday clothes. The race is practical and intelligent, hut com- mon and ill-mannered. Ease, amiability, manners, wit, animation, dignity, charm, are qualities which~belong to others. Will that inner freedom of soul, that pro- found harmony of all the faculties, which I have so often observed among the best Ger- mans, ever come to the surface? Will the conquerors of to-day ever civilize their forms of life? It is by their future novels that we shall be able to judge. As soon as the Ger- man novel can give us quite good society, the Germans will be in the raw stage no longer. And this pupil of Berlin, this devourer of German books, this victim, say the French critics, to the contagion of German style, after three hours, one day, of a Geschichte der ~Esthetik in Deutschland, breaks out: Learning and even thought are not every. thing. A little esprit, point, vivacity, imagi- nation, grace, would do no harm. Do these Pedantic books leave a single image or sen- tence, a single striking or new fact, in the memory when one lays them down? No, nothing but fatigue and confusion. Oh, for clearness, terseness, brevity Diderot, Vol- taire, or even Galiani A short article by Sainte-I3euve, Scherer, Renan, Victor Cher- bulioz, gives one more pleasure, and makes one ponder and reflect more, than a thousand of these German pages crammed to the mar- gin and showing the work itself rather than its result. The Germans heap the faggots for the pile, the French bring the fire. Spare me your lucubrations, give me facts or ideas. Keep your vats, your must, your dregs, to yourselves; I want wine fully made, wine ~vhich will sparkle in the glass and kindle my spirits instead of oppressing them. Amiel may have been led away deteriora sequi; he may have Germanized until he has become capable of the verb d1~erson- naliser and the noun r6irnplication; but I after all, his heart is in the right place; AMIEL. 63 zidet meZiora ~robatque. He remains at bottom the man who said, Le livre :erait 7flOfl aenbition. He adds, to be sure, that it would be son ambition, if ambition were not vanity, and vanity of vanities. Yet this disenchanted brooder, full of a tranquil disgust at the futility of our am- bitions, the void of our existence, bedaz zied with the infinite, can observe the world and society with consummate keen- ness and shrewdness, and at the same time with a delicacy ~vhich to the man of the ~vorld is in general wanting. Is it possible to analyze Ze grand monde, high society, as the Old World knows it and America knows it not, more acutely than Amiel does in what follows ? In society people are expected to behave as if they lived on ambrosia and concerned them- selves with no interests but such as are noble. Care, need, passion, do not exist. AU real- ism is suppressed as brutal. In a word, what is called le grand monde gives itself for the moment the flattering illusion that it is mov- ing in an ethereal atmosphere and breathing the air of the gods. For this reason all vehe- mence, any cry of nature, all real suffering, all heedless familiarity, any genuine sign of passion, are startling and distasteful in this delicate milieu, and at once destroy the collec- tive work, the cloud-palace, the imposing architectural creation raised by common con- sent. It is like the shrill cock-crow which breaks the spell of all enchantments, and puts the fairies to flight. These select gatherings produce without intending it a sort of concert for eye and ear, an improvised work of art. By the instinctive collaboration of everybody concerned, wit and taste hold festival, and the associations of reality are exchanged for the associations of iniagination. So understood, society is a form of poetry; the cultivated classes deliberately recompose the idyll of the past, and the buried world of Astr~a. Para- dox or not, I believe that these fugitive at- tempts to reconstruct a dream, whose only end is beauty, represent confused reminis- cences of an age of gold haunting the human heart; or rather, aspirations towards a har- mony of things which every-day reality denies to us, and of which art alone gives us a glimpse. I remember reading in an American newspaper a solemn letter by an excellent republican, asking what were a shopmans or a laborers feelings when he walked through Eaton or Chatsworth. Amiel will tell him: they are reminiscences of an age of gold haunting the human heart, aspirations towards a harmony of things which every~day reality denies to us. I appeal to my friend the author of Tri- umphant Democracy himself, to say whether these are to be had in walking through Pittsburg. Indeed it is by contrast with American life that nirvdna appears to Amiel so de- sirable. For the Americans, life means devouring, incessant acfivity. They must win gold, pre- dominance, power; they must crush rivals, subdue nature. They have their heart set on the means, and never for an instant think of the end. They confound being with individ- ual being, and the expansion of self with hap- piness. This means that the~ do not live by the soul, that they ignore the immutable and eternal, bustle at the circumference of their existence because they cannot penetrate to its centre. They are restless, eager, positive, because they are superficial. To what end all this stir, noise, greed, struggle? It is all a mere being stunned and deafened! Space is failing me, but I must yet find room for a less indirect criticism of de- mocracy than the foregoing remarks on American life. Each function to the most worthy: this max- im is the professed rule of all constitutions, and serves to test them. Democracy is not forbidden to apply it; but Democracy rarely does apply it, because she holds, for example, that the most worthy man is the man who pleases her, whereas he who pleases her is not always the most worthy; and because she supposes that reason guides the masses, where- as in reality they are most commonly led by passion. And in the end every falsehood has to be expiated, for truth always takes its re- venge. What publicists and politicians have to learn is, that the ultimate ground upon which every civilization rests is the aver- age morality of the masses and a sufficient amount of practical righteousness. But where does duty find its inspiration and sanctions? In religion. And ~vhat does Amiel think of the traditional religion of Christendom, the Christianity of the Churches? He tells us repeatedly; but a month or two before his death, with death in full view, he tells us with peculiar im- pressiveness. The whole Semitic dramaturgy has come to seem to me a work of the imagination. The apostolic documents have changed in value and meaning to my eyes. The distinction be- tween belief and truth has grown clearer and clearer to me. Religious psychology has be- come a simple phenomenon, and has lost its fixed and absolute value. The apologetics of Pascal, Leibnitz, Secr~tan, appear to me no more convincing than those of the Middle Age, for they assume that which is in q ues- tion a revealed doctrine, a definite and un- changeable Christianity. Is it possible, he asks, to receive at this day the common doctrine of a divine Prov 64 AMIEL. idence directing all the circumstances of our life, and consequently inflicting upon us our miseries as means of education? Is this heroic faith compatible with our actual knowledge of the laws of nature? Hardly. But ~vhat this faith makes objective we may take subjectively. The moral being may moralize his suffering in turning the nat- ural fact to account for the education of his inner man. What he cannot change he calls the will of God, and to will what God wills brings him peace. But can a religion, Amiel asks again, without miracles, without unverifiable mystery, be efficacious, have influence with the many? And again he answers: Pious fiction is still fiction. Truth has su- perior rights. The world must adapt itself to truth, not truth to the world. Copernicus upset the astronomy of the Middle Age; so much the worse for the astronomy. The Everlasting Gospel is revolutionizing the Churches; what does it matter? This is water to our mill, as the Ger- mans say, indeed. But I have come even thus late in the day to speak of Amiel, not because I found him supplying water for any particular mill, either mine or any other, but because it seemed to me that by a whole important side he was eminently worth knowing, and that to this side of him the public, here in Englan datany rate, had not had its attention sufficiently drawn. If in the seventeen thousand pages of the journal there are many pages still unpublished in which Amiel exercises his true vocation of critic, of literary critic more especially, let his friends give them to us, let M. Scherer introduce them to us, let Mrs. Humphry Ward translate them for us. But sat patrice Pri~vnoque datum: MaYa has had her full share of space al- ready; I will not ask for a word more about the infinite illusion, or the double zero, or the great wheel. MATTHEW ARNOLD. A BEAR HUNT IN THE HIMALAYAS. A correspondent writes to the Field: We had news of a large black bear; so I sent on my shikari and rifle to the D& k Bungalow at Doonga Gully, ~vhere I was to sleep. I ar- rived at the bungalow toward the small hours of the morning. The shikari was waiting to say that he had got a tracker, and we were to start for the bear at 5 A.M. After a walk of six miles of the steepest climbing I ever had, and hanging on to fearful precipices those of the Himalayas must be seen to be under- stood we came on the bears fresh tracks. He was evidently a large one, from his pugs (foot-mark). We tracked him for some dis- tance to the edge of a terrible incline. We were at a height of over ten thousand feet, and there was snow in all the ravines. The tracker went on in front, and presently came back with a face of delight to say that the bear was lying on a rock just outside his cave, taking the air. It was now so steep that I had to take off my shooting-boots and walk with bare feet, as a slip would have been fatal. Luckily there was a strong breeze blowing from the bear up to us, so there was no dan- ger of his scenting us, which is most to be feared in bear-stalking. Down we went to- wards him, creeping nearer and nearer, till at last we got within forty yards. My shikari had now become so excited that he was shak- ing all over, and kept telling me to fire. I wanted, however, to make sure, so crept on till within twenty paces. The shikari~s ex- citement now became intense, and he nearly spoiled the whole thing. In trying to restrain himself he coughed loudly, and up sprang the bear. At once I gave him the right barrel in the shoulder; but it seemed to have no effect, and on he charged straight at us, making a terrific shindy. I gave him the left barrel in the middle of his body, and the shock of the bullet rolled him over; but he contrived to get into his cave, to which he was close, be- fore I could give him another bullet. Know- ing he was mortally wounded, we waited half an hour before reconnoitring. We then went to the cave, but it was so deep and dark that we could do nothing. Getting a lot of wood, we tried to smoke him out, but he did not show. We then sat down, and, after a coun- cil of war, concluded we could do nothing without light and help. I therefore remained with the shikari while the tracker went back to Doonga for a lantern, which in due time arrived. We then entered the cave, the shi- kari first with lantern and a knife, and I next with the rifle. The cave was very narrow and went far into the rock. We had got about twenty yards, when suddenly the bear, which was hidden behind a turn in the cave, gave a roar, seized the shikaris hand and the lan- tern, tore his arm and leg, and left us in per- fect darkness. How we got out of that cave I know not; but we did so with very fair av- erage speed. Luckily, the bear was injured so that he could not rise on his hind legs; as we afterwards found, the bottom of his spine was smashed, and the bullet in his intestines, but he had just been able to strike at the shi- kari. To make a long story short, the bear died next day, and a man with a long torch went into the cave, and the carcass was pulled out. It measured six feet from nose to tail, and five feet nine inches round the chest ~

LITTELLS LIYING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 2259. Qotober 15, 1887. From Beginning, Volume LI. ( Vol. CLXIV. CONTENT S. A GREAT LESSON. By the Duke of Argyll, MAJOR AND MINOR. By XV E. Norris. Part X MASANIELLO, A SECRET INHERITANCE. By B. L. Far- jeon. Conclusion DONATELLO, AND THE UNVEILING OF THE FACADE OF THE DUOMO AT FLORENCE, REALISM AND IDEALISM THE LAST DAY OF WINDSOR FOREST, SOME CLERICAL REMINISCENCES, A CARTHUSIAN MONASTERY NEAR MERAN, THE UBIQUITY OF THE JEWISH RACE, Nineteenth Century, Good Words, Temple Bar, English Illustrated Magazine, National Review, Fortnsghtlv Review, National Review, Temple Bar, Spectator, 7ewish World, P0 E TRY. FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION, 661 WILL HE COME? INVITATION . . 66 WAITING, MISCELLANY, . 67 77 92 104 109 116 119 125 127 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For ETGIeT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING Aoa will be punctually forwarded Sor a year,free of postage. Remittances should he made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, :8 cents. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Ix. x. 66 . . 66 . . 128 66 FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION, ETC. FROM GENERATION TO GENERATION. WITH each new spring Newborn it wakes, when every forest thing Unfurling is and buds are blossoming. In tones we know It speaks, that voice of immemorial woe, That leaves should come againthat we should go! Ere the Greek sung, In words melodious from the heart-blood wrung, It leaped to life in prehistoric tongue. Grey ages toss Its fainting echoes the far chasm across, Bridging their ancient to our present loss. It hath an art As universal as the human heart In every land and clime it plays a part. It shall be true, Old and yet ever young, trite and yet new, Whenever trees are green and skies are blue. When from the gloom Of the dark earth upbreaks the tender bloom There shall be sound of wailing at the tomb. When clouds are cleft With silver splendors, and when rains have left Upward shall yearn wild arms of love bereft! Unceasingly Rings down the centuries one piteous cry, That these, that these should live that we should die! Cornhill Magazine. INVITATION. COME when Spring touches with gentle finger The snows that linger Among the hills; When to our homestead return the swallows, And in the hollows Bloom daffodils. Or, if thou tarry, come with the Summer, That welcome comer, Welcome as he; When noontide sunshine beats on the meadow, A seat in shadow Well keep for thee. Or, if it please thee, come with the reaping, When to safe keeping They bring the sheaves; When Autumn decketh with colored splendor And pathos tender The dying leaves. Or come and warm us when Winter freezes, And northern breezes Are keen and cold, With loving glances and close hand-pressings, And fervent blessings That grow not old. Nay! do not linger; for each to-morrow Will break in sorrow If thou delay: Come to us quickly; our hearts are burning With tender yearning: Come, come to-day. J. ASHCROFT NOBLE. WILL HE COME? THE sun has lit the wood and set; With heavy dews the grass is wet; The firs stand out in silhouette, Sharp, tall, and stilly; Sometimes a rabbit flits in sight, A scampering whisk a gleam of white; Naught else. Her scarf she gathers tight The air is chilly. The belfry clock strikes slowly eight! Ah, waning love makes trysters late; Slack suitor he whose queen may wait! She stops and listens: A dead leaf rustled that was all! Well, maiden pride will come at call; She will not let the teardrop fall It stands and glistens. She turns but hark! the step she knows I The branches part and, swinging, close; What penance now on him impose The tryst who misses? She cant be hard, though sore she tries, For love will melt throogh loving eyes, And all the chiding words that rise Are crushed with kisses. FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE, M.A. WAITING. ONCE, in the twilight of an autumn day, I stood upon a beaten path, that led The shepherd lads to where their charges fed In pastures high above the upland way: Solemn, and lone, and still, the mountain lay; And, like a dome above a temple spread, The blue sky stretched its beauty overhead, With not one floating clond to preach decay. Always above the hush, through the soft light Slow waning the wide solitude was fraught With mystic impulse from the silence caught Half intonations heralding the night That to my heart, awe-bound, conveyed a sense Of calm expectancy and questionless suspense. Chambers Journal. ALFRED WooD. A GREAT LESSON. 67 From The Nineteenth Century. he was the grandson of Dr. Erasmus Dar A GREAT LESSON. win a man very famous in his day, who THE most delightful of all Mr. Darwins was the earliest popular exponent of evo- works is the first he ever ~vrote. It is lution as explaining the creative ~vork, and his journal as the naturalist of H.M.S. who, both in prose and verse, had made it Beagle in her exploring voyage round familiar as at least a dream and a poetic the world from the beginning of 1832 to speculation. Charles Darwin in his jour- nearly the end of 1836. It was published nal seems as unconscious of that specu- in 1842, and a later edition appeared in lation as if he had never heard of it, or 1845. Celebrated as this book once was, was as desirous to forget it as if he con- few probably read it now. Yet in many curred in the ridicule of it which had respects it exhibits Darwin at his best, and amused the readers of the Anti-Jacobin. if we are ever inclined to rest our opinions Only once in the journal is there any allu- upon authority, and to accept without sion to such speculations, and then only doubt what a remarkable man has taught, to the form in which they had been more I do not know any ~vork better calculated scientifically clothed by the French natu- to inspire confidence than Darwins jour- ralist Lamarck. This is all the more curi- nal. It records the observations of a mind ous and interesting, since here and there singularly candid and unprejudiced fix- Charles Darwin records some facts, and ing upon nature a gaze keen, penetrating, enters upon some reasoning, in which we and curious, but yet cautious, reflective, can now see the undeveloped germs of the and almost reverent. The thought of how theory which ultimately took entire pos- little we know of how much there is to session of his mind. But that theory was, be known, and of how hardly we can learn beyond all question, the later growth of it is the thought which inspires the nar- independent observation and of indepen- rative as with an abiding presence. There dent thought. He started free free at is t 00, an intense love of nature and an least, so far as his own consciousness was intense admiration of it, the expression of concerned. The attitude of his mind was which is carefully restrained and meas- at that time receptive, not constructive. ured, but which seems often to overflow It was gathering material, but it had not the limits which are self-imposed. And begun to build. It was watching, arrang- when man, the highest work of nature, but ing, and classifying facts. But it was not not always its happiest or its best, comes selecting from among them such as would across his path, Darwins observations are fit a plan. Still less was it setting aside always noble. A kindly man moving any that did not appear to suit. He might among his kind seems to express his have said with truth that which was said by spirit. He appreciates every high calling, a greater man before him: Hypotheses every good work, however far removed it non fingo. This is one of the many may be from that to which he was himself great charms of the book. devoted. His language about the missiona- And yet there was one remarkable ex- ries of Christianity is a signal cxample, in ception. Like every other voyager who striking contrast with the too common Ian- has traversed the vast southern ocean, he guage of lesser men. His indignant denun- was struck, impressed, and puzzled by its ciation of slavery presents the same high wonderful coral reefs, its thousands of characteristics of a mind eminently gentle coral islands, and its still more curious and humane. In following him we feel coral atolls. Why is it that so many of that not merely the intellectual but the the continents and of the great continental moral atmosphere in which we move is islands whose coasts front or are sur- high and pure. And then, besides these rounded by the waters of the Pacific, are great recommendations, there is another fringed and protected by barrier reefs of which must not be overlooked. We have coral? The curious question that arises Darwin here before he was a Darwinian. is not why the coral should grow at all, or He embarked on that famous voyage with how it grows. All this, no doubt, is full no preconceived theories to maintain. Yet of wonder wonder all the greater the 68 A GREAT LESSON. more we know of its structure and of the nature of its builder. But let the growth of corals in seas of a certain depth and temperature be assumed and passed over, as we do assume and pass over a thousand other things with which we are familiar. The puzzle here is why it should grow in the form of a linear barrier along a coast, and yet not touching it, but at a distance more or less great sometimes very great and always leaving between it and the land an enclosed and protected space of water, which, once they have found an entrance through the reef, ships can navi- gate for hundreds of miles. Why should this same curious phenomenon be re- peated on a smaller scale throughout the thousands of islands and islets which dot the immense surfaces of the Pacific? XVhy should these islands so often be the centre of a double ringfirst a ring of calm and as it ~vere inland water, then a ring of coral reef fronting the outer sea, and lastly the ocean, depths out of which the coral reef rises like a wall? Why should this curious arrangement repeat ~rtself in every variety of form over thousands of miles until we come to that extreme case when there is no island at all except the outer ring of the coral reef and an inner pool or lake of shallower water which is thus secluded from the ocean, with noth- ing to break its surface shining with a calm, splendid, and luminous green, set off against the deep purple blues of the surrounding sea? For effects so uniform or so analogous, repeated and multiplied over an area so immense, there must be some physical cause as peculiar as its effects. Moreover, this cause must be one affecting not merely or only the pecul- iarities of the animal which builds up the coral, but some cause affecting also the solid rocks and crust of the earth. The coral animals must build on some foun- dation. They must begin by attaching themselves to something solid. Every coral reef, therefore, ~vhatever be its form every line of barrier reef however long every ring however small or however wide, must indicate some corresponding arrangement of subjacent rock. What cause can have arranged the rocky foun- dations of the coral in such curious shapes? Extreme cases of any peculiar phenomenon are always those which most attract attention, and sometimes they are the cases which most readily suggest an explanation. Ring-shaped islands of such moderate dimensions that the whole of them can be taken in by the eye, supply such cases. There are atoll islands where ships can enter, through some break in the ring, into the inner circle. They find them- selves in a perfect harbor, in a sheltered lake which no wave can ever enter, yet deep enough and wide enough to hold all the navies of the world. Round about on every side there are the dazzling beaches which are composed of coral sand, and crowning these there is the peaceful cocoanut palm, and a lower jungle of dense tropical vege- tation. On landing and exploring the woods and shores nothing can be seen but coral. The whole island is a ring of this purely marine product; with the exception of an occasional fragment of pumice-stone, which having been floated over the sea from some distant volcanic eruption, like that of Krakatoa, here disintegrates and furnishes clay, the most essential element of a soil. But reason tells us that there must be something else underground, how- ever deeply buried. When the corals first began to grow, they must have found some rock to build upon, and the shape of these walls must be the shape which was thus determined. One suggestion is obvious. Elsewhere all over the globe there is only one physical cause which determines rocky matter into such ring-like forms as these, and which determines also an included space of depth more or less profound. rhis physical cause is the eruptive action of volcanic force. When anchored in the central lagoon of a coral atoll, are we not simply anchored in the crater of an extinct volcano its walls represented by the corals which have grown upon it, its crater represented by the harbor in which our ship is lying? The vegetation is not difficult to account for. The coral ~grows until it reaches the surface. It is known to flourish best in foaming breakers. These, although con- fronted and in the main resisted by the ~vondrous tubes and cells, are able here and there in violent storms to break off A GREAT LESSON. 69 the weaker or overhanging portions of the coral and dash them in fragments upon the top of the reef. Often the waves are loaded with battering-rams in the shape of immense quantities of drift timber. These bring with them innumerable seeds and hard nuts able to retain their vitality whilst traversing leagues of ocean. Such seeds again find lodgmen t among the broken corals, and among the decaying pumice. Under tropical heat and mois- ture, they soon spring to life. The moment a palm-tree rears its fronds, it is visited by birds especially by fruit-eat- ing pigeons bringing with them other seeds, which are deposited with conven- ient guano. These in turn take root and live. Each new accession to the incipient forest attracts more and more numerous winged messengers from interminable archipelagoes until the result is attained which so excites our admiration and our wonder, in the atoll islands of the Pacific. All this is simple. But here as elsewhere it is the first step that costs. Are all atolls nothing more than the cup-like rings of volcanic vents? And if they are, can a like explanation be given for the barrier reefs which lie off continental coasts, and where the crater-like lagoon of an atoll is represented only by a vast linear expanse of included and protected sea? Here were problems eminently attrac- tive to such a mind as that of Darwin. Vast in the regions they affect, complicated in the results which are presented, most beautiful and most valuable to man in the products which are concerned, the facts do nevertheless suggest some physical cause which would be simple if only it could be discovered. All his faculties were set to work. Analysis must begin every work of reason. Its function is to destroyto pull to pieces. Darwin had to deal ~vith some theories already formed. With some of these he had no difficulty. The earlier voyagers fancied that the coral-building animals instinctively built up these great circles to afford themselves protection in the inner parts. To this Darwins answer was complete. So far is this explanation from being true, that it is founded on an assumption which is the reverse of the truth. These massive kinds of coral which build up reefs, so far from wanting the shelter of a lagoon, are unable to live within it. They can only live and thrive fronting the open ocean, and in the highly aerated foam of its resisted billows. Moreover, on this view, many species of distinct genera and families are supposed instinctively to combine for one end; and of such a combination Dar~vin declares not a single instance can be found in the whole of nature. This is rather a sweep- ing assertion. In the sense in which Darwin meant it, and in the case to which he applied it, the assertion is probably, if not certainly, true. The weapon of analy- sis, however, if employed upon it, would limit and curtail it much. We cannot indeed suppose that any of the lower ani- mals, even those much higher than the coral-builders, have any consciousness of the ends or purposes which they or their work subserve in the great plan of nature. But Darwin has himself shown us, in later years, how all their toil is co-operant to ends, and how not only different species and families, but creatures belonging to different kingdoms, work together most directly, however unconsciously, to re- sults on ~vhich their common life and propagation absolutely depend. In the case before us, however, this second ob- jection of Darwin is superfluous. The first was in itself conclusive. If the reef-building corals cannot live in a la- goon, or in a protected sea, it is needless to argue further against a theory which credits them with working on a plan to insure not their own life and well-being, but their own destruction. But next, Darwin had to encounter the theory that atoll islands were built upon extinct volcanoes, and represented noth- ing but the walls and craters of these well-known structures. This he encoun- tered not with a sweeping assertion, but with a sweeping survey of the vast Pacific. Had those who believed in this theory ever considered how vast that island-bear- ing ocean was, and how enormous its supposed craters must have been? It was all very well to apply some known cause to effects comparable in magnitude to its effects elsewhere. The smaller atolls might possibly represent volcanic 70 A GREAT LESSON. craters. But what of the larger? And what of the grouping? Could any vol- canic region of the terrestrial globe show such and so many craters as could corre- spond at all to the coral islands? One group of them occupies an irregular square five hundred miles long by t~vo hundred and forty broad. Another group is eight hundred and forty miles in one direction, and four hundred and twenty miles in another. Between these t~vo groups there are other smaller groups, making a linear space of more than four thousand miles of ocean in which not a single island rises above the level of true atolls that is to say, the level up to which the surf can break and heap up the coral masses, and to which the ~vinds can drift the result- ing sands. Some atolls seem to have been again partially submerged half- drowned atolls as they were called by Captain Moresby. One of these is of enormous size ninety nautical miles along one axis, and seventy miles along another. No such volcanic craters or mountains exist anywhere else in our world. We should have to go to the air- less and waterless moon, with its vast vents and cinder-heaps, to meet with any- thing to be compared either in size or in distribution. And then, the linear barrier reefs lying off continental coasts and the coasts of the great islands are essentially the same in character as the encircling reefs round the smaller islands. They cannot possibly represent the walls of craters, nor can the long and broad shel- tered seas inside them represent by any possibility the cup-like hoilo~vs of volcanic vents. These theories being disposed of, the work of synthesis began in Darwins mind. He sorted and arranged all the facts, such as he knew them to be in some cases, such as he assumed them to be in other cases. Above all, like stout Cortez and his men, from their peak in Darien, he stared at the Pacific. The actual seeing of any great natural phenomenon is often fruitful. It may not be true in a literal sense that, as Wordsworth tells us, Na- ture never did betray the heart that loved her. But it is true that sometimes she discloses her secrets to an earnest and inquiring gaze. Sometimes things actu- ally are what they look to be. Outwardly they are what their image on the retina directly paints them; and in their history and causes they may be what that image suggests not less directly to the intellect and the imagination. So Darwin, one day, standing on a mountain from which he commanded a wide space of sea, looked down upon an atoll with its curious ring of walled-in water, calm, green, and gleam- ing in the middle of the oceanic depths of blue. Did it not look as if there had once been an island in the middle? Did it not look as if the coral ring had been built up upon the rocky foundation of its former shores? Did it not look as if, somehow, this island had been removed, and the encircling reef had been left alone? Some- how This could not satisfy Darwin. How could such an island be removed? Its once fringing and encircling reef would have protected it from the devouring sea. Did it not look as if it had simply sunk? Subsidence! Was not this the whole secret? The idea took firm hold upon his mind. The more he thought of it, the more closely it seemed to fit into all the facts. The coral fringing reef of the island would not subside along with its supporting rocks, if that subsidence took place slowly, because the coral animals would build their wall upwards as fast as their original foundation was sinking downwards. And was there not a perfect series of islands in every stage of the suggested operation? There were islands with coral reefs still attached to their original foundations, islands with fringing reefs adhering to them all round, and leav- ing no lagoons. There were others where the foundations had sunk a little, but not very much, leaving only shallow and nar- row spaces of lagoon water between the island and the barrier reef. Others there were again where the same process had gone further, and wide and deep lagoons had been established between the reef and the subsiding island. Then there was every variety and degree of the results which must follow from such a process, until we come to the last stage of all, when the island had wholly sunk, and nothing remained but the surviving reef a true atollwith its simple ring of coral and its central pool of protected water. Then further it could not but occur to Darwin that the objection which was fatal to the volcano theory was no diffi- culty in the way of his new conception; on the contrary, it was in strict accordance with that conception. The vast linear reefs lvi ng off straight and continental coasts, which could not possibly represent volcanoes, were completely explained by a vast area of subsiding lands. The reefs were linear because the shores on which they had begun to grow bad been linear also. The immense areas of sheltered sea, from twenty to seventy miles in A GREAT LESSON. 7 breadth, which often lie between the bar- rier reefs and the existing shores, for ex- ample, of Australia and New Guinea, were explained by the comparatively shallow contours of land which had gradually sub- sided and had left these great spaces be- tween the original fringing reef and the existing shores. The more Darwin pon- dered, the more satisfied he became that he had found the clue. The cardinal facts were carefully collated and compared. First there was the fact that the reef- building corals could not live at any greater depth than from twenty to thirty fathoms. Secondly there was the fact that they cannot live in water charged with sediment, or in any water protected from the free currents, the free winds, and the dashing waves of the open and uncontaminated sea that vast covering of water which in the southern hemi- sphere is world-wide and world-embracing. Thirdly there was the fact that the coral reefs rise suddenly like a wall out of oceanic depths, soundings of a thousand fathoms and more being constantly found close up to the barrier reefs. Fourthly there is the fact that on the inner side, next the island or the continent which they enclose or protect, the lagoon or the sheltered area is often very deep close to the reef, not indeed afrording oceanic soundings, but nevertheless soundings of twenty to thirty fathoms. All these facts are indisputably true. Taking them to- gether, the conclusions or inferences to which they point may well seem inevita- ble. Let us hear how Darwin himself puts them in the short summary of his theory which is given in the latest edition of his journal: From the fact of the reef-building corals not living at great depths, it is absolutely certain that throughout these vast areas, wherever there is now an atoll, a foundation must have originally existed within a depth of from twenty to thirty fathoms from the surface. It is im- probable in the highest degree that broad, lofty, isolated, steep-sided banks of sediment, arranged in groups and lines hundreds of leagues in length, could have been deposited in the central and profoundest parts of the Pacific and Indian Oceans, at an immense distance from any continent, and where the water is perfectly limpid. It is equally im- probable that the elevatory forces should have uplifted throughout the above vast areas innu- merable great rocky banks within twenty to thirty fathoms, or one hundred and twenty to one hundred and eighty feet, of the surface of the sea, and not one single point above that level; for where on the whole face of the globe can we find a single chain of mountains, even a few hundred miles in length, with their many summits rising within a few feet of a given level, and not one pinnacle above it? If then the foundations, whence the atoll- building corals sprang, were not formed of sediment, and if they were not lifted up to the required level, they must of necessity have subsided into it; and this at once solves the difficulty. For as mountain after mountain, and island after island, slowly sank beneath the water, fresh bases would be successively afforded for the growth of the corals. So certain was Darwin of these conclu- sions that he adds, in a most unwonted tone of confidence : I venture to defy any one to explain in any other manner how it is possible that numerous islands should be distributed throughout vast areas all the islands being low, all being built of corals, absolutely requiring a founda- tion within a limited depth from the surface.* The voyage of the Beagle ended in the autumn of 1836, and Darwin landed in England on the 2nd of October. He pro- ceeded to put into shape his views on the coral islands of the Pacific, and in May, 1837, they ~vere communicated to the pub- lic in a paper read before the Geological Society of London. His theory took the scientific world by storm. It was well calculated so to do. There was an attrac- tive grandeur in the conception of some great continent sinking slowly, slowly, into the vast bed of the southern ocean, having all its hills and pinnacles gradually covered by coral reefs as in succession they sank down to the proper depth, until at last only its pinnacles remained as the basis of atolls, and these remained, like buoys upon a wreck, only to mark where some mountain peak had been finally sub- merged. Besides the grandeur and sim- plicity of this conception, it fitted well into the Lyellian doctrine of the bit by bit~ operation of all geological causes a doctrine which had then already begun to establish its later wide popularity. Lyell had published the first edition of his famous Principles~~ in January, 1830 that is to say, almost two years before the Beagle sailed. He had adopted the volcanic theory of the origin of the coral islands; and it is remarkable that he had nevertheless suggested the idea, although in a wholly different connection, that the Pacific presented in all probability an area of subsidence. Darwin most proba- bly had this suggestion in his mind when he used it and adopted it for an arg~iment which its author had never entertained.t * Journal, p. 468. t Lyells Principles, xrth edition, p. 595. 72 A GREAT LESSON. However this may be, it must have pre- pared the greatest living teacher of geol- ogy to adopt the new explanation which turned his own hint to such wonderful account. And adopt it he did, accordingly. The theory of the young naturalist was hailed with acclamation. It was a mag- nificent generalization. It was soon al- most universally accepted with admiration and delight. It passed into all popular treatises, and ever since for the space of nearly half a century it has maintained its unquestioned place as one of the great triumphs of reasoning and research. Al- though its illustrious author has since eclipsed this earliest performance by the- ories and generalizations still more attrac- tive and much further reaching, I have heard eminent men declare that, if he had done nothing else, his solution of the great problem of the coral islands of the Pacific would have sufficed to place him on the unsubmergeable peaks of science, crowned with an immortal name. And now comes the great lesson. After an interval of more than five-and-thirty years the voyage of the Beagle has been followed by the voyage of the Challenger, furnished with all the newest appliances of science, and manned by a scientific staff more than competent to turn them to the best account. And what is one of the many results which have been added to our knowledge of nature to our estimate of the true character and his- tory of the globe we Wve on? It is that Darwins theory is a dream. It is not only unsound, but it is in many respects directly the reverse of truth. With all his conscientiousness, with all his caution, with all his powers of observation, Dar- win in this matter fell into errors as pro- found as the abysses of the Pacific. All the acciamations with which it was re- ceived were as the shouts of an ignorant mob. It is well to know that the plebis- cites of science may be as dangerous and as hollow as those of politics. The over- throw of Darwins speculation is only beginning to be known. It has been whispered for some time. The cherished dogma has been dropping very slowly out of sight. Can it be possible that Darwin was wrong? Must we indeed give up all that we have been accepting and teaching for more than a generation? Reluctantly, almost sulkily, and with a grudging silence as far as public discussion is concerned, the ugly possibility has been contemplated as too disagreeable to be much talked about. The evidence, old and new, has been weighed and weighed again, and the obviously inclining balance has been looked at askance many times. But de- spite all averted looks I apprehend that it has settled to its place forever, and Dar- wins theory of the coral islands must be relegated to the category of those many hypotheses which have indeed helped science for a time by promoting and pro- voking further investigation, but which in themselves have now finally kicked the beam. But this great lesson will be poorly learnt unless we read and study it in detail. What was the flaw in Darwins reasoning, apparently so close and co- gent? Was it in the facts, or was it in the inferences? His facts in the main were right; only it has been found that they fitted into another explanation better than into his. It was true that the corals could only grow in a shallow sea, not deeper than from twenty to thirty fathoms. It was true that they needed some foun- dation provided for them at the required depth. It was true that this foundation must be in the pure and open sea, ~vith its limpid water, its free currents, and its dashing waves. It was true that they could not flourish or live in lagoons or in chan- nels, however wide, if they were secluded and protected from oceanic waves. One error, apparently a small one, crept into Darwins array of facts. The basis or foundation on which corals can grow, if it satisfied other conditions, need not be solid rock. It might be deep-sea deposits if these were raised or elevated near enough the surface. Darwin did not know this, for it is one of his assumptions that coral cannot adhere to a loose bottom. * The Challenger observations show that thousands of deep-sea corals and of other lime-secreting animals flourish on deep- sea deposits at depths much greater than those at which true reef-building species are found. The dead remains of these deeper-living animals, as well as the dead shells of pelagic species that fall from the surface waters, build up submarine eleva- tions towards the sea-level. Again, the reef-building coral will grow upon its own dibris rising, as men, morally and spir- itually, are said by the poet to do, on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things. This small error told for much ; for if coral could grow on deep-sea deposits when lifted up, and if it could also grow seaward, when once established, upon its own dead and sunken masses, then submarine elevations and not submarine Journal, ed 1852, p. 477. A GREAT LESSON. 73 subsidences might be the true explanation of all the facts. But what of the lagoons and the immense areas of sea behind the fringing reefs? How could these be ac- counted for? It was these which first impressed Darwin with the idea of subsi- dence. They looked as if the land had sunk behind the reef, leaving a space into which the sea had entered, but in which no fresh reefs could grow. And here we learn the important lesson that an hypoth- esis may adequately account for actual facts, and yet nevertheless may not be true. A given agency may be competent to produce some given effect, and yet that effect may not be due to it, but to some other. Subsidence would or might ac- count for the lagoons and for the l)rotected seas, and yet it may not be subsidence which has actually produced them. Darwins theory took into full account two of the great forces which prevail in nature, but it took no account of another, which is comparatively inconspicuous in its operations, and yet is not less powerful than the vital energies, and the mechanical energies, which move and build up mate- rial. Darwin had thought much and deeply on both of these. He called on both to solve his problem. To the vital energy of the coral animals he rightly ascribed the power of separating the lime from sea-water, and of laying it down again in the marvellous structures of their calcareous homes. In an eloquent and powerful passage he describes the wonder- ful results which this energy achieves in constructing breakwaters which repel and resist the ocean along thousands of miles of coast. On the subterranean forces which raise and depress the earths crust he dwelt at least enough. But he did not know, because the science of his day had not then fully grasped, the great work performed by the mysterious power of chemical affinity, acting through the cog- nate conditions of aqueous solution. Just as it did not occur to him that a coral reef might advance steadily seaward by build- ing ever fresh foundations on its own fragments when broken and submerged, or that the vigorous growth of the reefs to windward was due to the more abundant supply of food brought to the reef-building animals from that direction by oceanic currents, so did it never occur to him that it might melt away to the rear like salt or sugar, as the vital energy of the coral animals failed in the sheltered and com- paratively stagnant water. It was that vital energy alone which not only built up the living tubes and cells, but which filled them with living organic matter capable of resisting the chemical affinities of the inorganic world. But when that energj became feeble, and when at last it cease the once po~verful structure descended again to that lower level of the inorganic, and subject to all its laws. Then, what the ocean could not do by the violence of its waves, it was all potent to do by the corroding and dissolving power of its calmer lagoons. Ever eating, corroding, and dissolving the back ~vaters of the orig- inal fringing reefthe mere pools and channels left by the outrageous sea as it dashed upon the shore were ceaselessly at work, aided by the high temperature of exposure to blazing suns, and by the gases evolved from decaying organisms. Thus the enlarging area of these pools and channels spread out into wide lagoons, and into still wider protected seas. They needed no theory of subsidence to account for their origin or for their growth. They would present the same appearance in a slowly rising, a stationary, or a slowly sinking area. Their outside boundary was ever marching further outward on submarine shoals and banks, and ever as it advanced in that direction its rear ranks were melted and dissolved away. Their inner boundary the shores of some island or of some continent might be steady and unmoved, or it might be even rather rising instead of sinking. Still, unless this rising were such as to overtake the advancing reef, the lagoon would grow, and if the shores were steady, it would widen as fast as the face of the coral bar- rier could advance. Perhaps, even if such a wonderful process had ever occurred to Darwineven if he had grasped this extraordinary example of the give and take of nature of the balance of oppos- ing forces and agencies which is of the very essence of its system, he would have been startled by the vast magnitude of the operations which such an explana- tion demanded. In its incipient stages this process is not only easily conceiv- able, but it may be seen in a thousand places and in a thousand stages of ad- vancement. There are islands without number in which the fringing reef is still attached to the shore, hut in which it is being pitted, holed, and worn into num- berless pools on the inner surfaces, ~vhere the coral is in large patches dead or dying, and where its less soluble ingredients are being deposited in the form of coral sand. There are thousands of other cases where the lagoon interval between the front of the reef and the shores has been so far 74 A GREAT LESSON. widened that it is taking the form of a barrier, as distinguished from a fringing reef, and where the lagoon can be navi- gated by small boats. But when we come to the larger atolls, and the great seas included between a barrier reef and its related shores, the mind may well be stag- gered by the enormous quantity of matter which it is suggested has been dissolved, removed, and washed away. The breadth of the sheltered seas between barrier reefs and the shore is measured in some cases not by yards or hundreds of yards, not by miles but by tens of miles, and this breadth is carried on in linear directions, not for hundreds of miles, but for thousands. And yet there is one familiar idea in geol- ogy which might have helped Darwin, as it is much needed to help us even now, to conceive it. It is the old doctrine of the science, long ago formulated by Hutton, that the work of erosion and of denudation must be equal to the work of deposition. Rocks have been formed out of the ruins of older rocks, and those older rocks must have been worn down and carried off to an equivalent amount. So it is here, with another kind of erosion and another kind of deposition. The coral-building animals can only get their materials from the sea, and the sea can only get its materials by dissolving it from calcareous rocks of some kind. The dead corals are among its greatest quarries. The inconceivable and immeasurable quantities which have been dissolved out of the lagoons and sheltered seas of the Pacific and of the Indian Ocean, are not greater than the immeasurable quantities which are again used up in the vast new reefs of growing coral, and in the calcareous covering of an inconceivable number of other marine animals. Here then was a generalization as mag- nificent as that of Dar~vins theory. It might not present a conception so impos- ing as that of a whole continent gradually subsiding, of its long coasts marked by barrier reefs, of its various hills and irreg- ularities of surface marked by islands of corresponding size, and finally of the atolls which are the buoys indicating where its highest peaks finally disappeared be- neath the sea. But, on the other hand, the new explanation was more like the analo- gies of nature more closely correlated ~vith the wealth of her resources, with those curious reciprocities of service which all her agencies render to each other, and which indicate so strongly the ultimate unity of her designs. This grand explana- tion we owe to Mr. John Murray, one of the naturalists of the Challenger expedi- tion, a man whose enthusiasm for science, whose sagacity and candor of mind, are not inferior to those of Dar~vin, and whose literary ability is testified by the splen- did volumes of reports now in course of publication under his editorial care. Mr. Murrays new explanation of the struc- ture and origin of coral reefs and islands was communicated to the Royal Society of Edinburgh in 188o,* and supported with such a weight of facts and such a close texture of reasoning that no serious reply has ever been attempted. At the same time the reluctance to admit such an error in the great idol of the scientific world, the necessity of suddenly disbelieving all that had been believed and repeated in every form, for upwards of forty years of cancelling what had been taught to the young of more than a whole generation has led to a slow and sulky acquiescence, rather than to that joy which every true votary of science ought to feel in the dis- covery of a new truth and not less in the exposure of a long-accepted error. Darwin himself had lived to hear of the new solution, and with that splendid can- dor which was eminent in him, his mind, though now grown old in his own early convictions, was at least ready to entertain it, and to confess that serious doubts had been awakened as to the truth of his fa- mous theory. If, however, Mr. John Murray has not been cheered by the acclamations which greeted his illustrious l)redecessor, if the weight of a great accepted authority and of preconceived impressions has kept down the admiration which ought ever to reward the happy suggestions of laborious research, he has had at least the great satisfaction of observing the silence of any effective criticism. But more than thishe is now having the still greater satisfaction of receiving corroborative sup- port from the observations of others. His own series of facts as ascertained during the voyage of the Challenger constituted an array of evidence tolerably conclusive. But since he read his paper in Edinburgh, an island has been discovered in the Solo- mon group by another naturalist, Dr. Guppy,t which lifts into the light and air a complete record of the series of opera- tions beneath the waters of the Pacific to which Mr. Murray ascribes the origin of countless other islands, islets, and atolls. Here the barrier reef and the atoll have * Proc. Roy. Soc. Edin., vol. x., pp. ~o~e5. t Surgeon of H.M.S Lark. Trans. Roy Soc. Edin., June, s88~. A GREAT LESSON. been elevated from their bed, and all their foundations have been sho~vn. Those foundations are not solid rock, but are just what Darwin assumed they could never be, deep-sea deposits. These had been originally, of course, laid down in more or less oceanic depths. But eleva- tion, not depression, had begun the work. The deep deposit had ceased to be deep, because the crust of the earth, on which it lay, had been bulged upwards by sub- terranean force. The deep bottom had become a shoal, rising to the required distance from the surface level of the sea. The moment it reached the thirty or the twenty fathom depth, the reef-building corals seized upon it as their resting- place, and began to grow. Possibly some process of induration may have affected the deposit before it reached this point. Probably it was consolidated or indurated by the luxuriant growth of myriads of deep-sea creatures at depths greater than thirty fathoms. It has recently been discovered by an- other naturalist of the Challenger school * that there may be a special explanation of this part of the operation. It is found that shoals have the immediate effect of converting the tidal wave of deeper ~vater into a current. This current sweeps off the looser deposits covering the shoal. Deep - sea corals then settle upon it. These may, and often do, build up their walls to a great height, and if this height reaches the zone of the true reef-building species, a firm basis is at once provided for their operations. Shoals have lately been discovered off the African coasts of the Atlantic, which in tropical seas would probably have become coral islands. This may or may not have been often the case in the Pacific. But it does not affect the ques- tion, except in so far as it may justify Dar~vins conception that reef corals can- not grow on loose deposits. They may have ceased to be so soft and loose as they are when resting in the quiet depths of the thousand-fathoms sea. This indura- tion may be part or an accompaniment of the process of elevation, but whether it be so or not the process is equally one of elevation and not of subsidence. In The island described by Dr. Guppy the founda- tions of the reef-building corals are seen resting directly on the remains of the pelagic fauna, and both theories equally assume and assert the uncontested fact that these foundations when the coral * On Oceanic Shoals discovered by the S.S. Dacia, by J. Y Buchanan, F.R.S. E. Proc. Roy. Soc. Edin., Oct., 1883. wall began to grow must have been pre- viously elevated to the requisite level, that, namely, of from one hundred and eighty to one hundred and twenty feet below the surface of the ocean. Mr. John Murrays explanation is fully confirmed that the coral reefs often begin on shoals; that these shoals are due to elevations of the sea bottom; that the reef ~vhen once es- tablished can and does grow seaward upon its own fragments broken and submerged; that these form a talus capable of indefi- nite advance until the furthest limit of the shoal is reached; that the rearward ranks of the coral animals die as they are left behind in the hot and shallow waters of the lagoon; that their calcareous skeletons are then attacked by the solvent action of the water, are eaten away and carried off to form the materials of new reefs and the shells of countless other creatures. These have likewise been confirmed by the in- vestigations of Mr. Alexander Agassiz in the West Indies. Often in the Pacific, as in all other regions of the earth, the elevating forces rest for ages, having done all the work which on some particular area they have got to do. The shoals remain shoals only covered with the walls and battlements of coral. This is the case which accounts for countless islands never exceeding a certain height. On the other hand, and otherwhere, the elevating forces, after a rest, resume their opera- tion, lift up these coral walls and battle- ments wholly out of the sea, and make other islands by the thousand which be- come the delight of man; whilst in yet another class of cases the elevations open out into volcanoes, and constitute great areas of land which are among the most fertile regions of the habitable globe. But everywhere and always the ubiquitous coral animals fix on every shoal and on every shore, vhether old or new, and re- sume the wonderful cycle of operations in whch they are a subordinate but a pow- erful agent. In a recent article in this review I had occasion to refer to the curious power which is sometimes exercised on behalf of certain accepted opinions, or of some reputed prophet, in establishing a sort of reign of terror in their own behalf, some- times in philosophy, sometimes in poli- tics, sometimes in science. This obser- vation was received as I expected it to be by those who being themselves subject to this kind of terror are wholly uncon- scious of the subjection. It is a remarka- ble illustration of this phenomenon that Mr. John Murray was strongly advised 75 76 A GREAT LESSON. against the publication of his views in derogation of Darwins long-accepted the- ory of the coral islands, and was actually induced to delay it for two years. Yet the late Sir Wyville Thomson, who was at the head of the naturalists of the Chal- lenger expedition, was himself convinced by Mr. Murrays reasoning, and the short but clear abstract of it in the second vol- ume of the Narrative of the Voyage has since had the assent of all his col- leagues. * Nor is this the only case, though it is the most important, in which Mr. Murray has had strength to be a great iconoclast. Along with the earlier specimens of deep. sea deposits sent home by naturalists dur- ing the first soundings in connection with the Atlantic telegraph cable, there was very often a sort of enveloping slimy mucus in the containing bottles which arrested the attention and excited the curiosity of the specialists to whom they were consigned. It was structureless to all microscopic examination. But so is all the protoplasmic matter of which the lowest animals are formed. Could it be a widely diffused medium of this protoplas- mic material, not yet specialized or indi- vidualized into organic forms, nor itself yet in a condition to build up inorganic skeletons for a habitation? 1-Jere was a grand idea. It would be well to find miss. ing links; butitwouldbebetterto find the primordial pabulum out of which all living things had come. The ultra-Darwinian enthusiasts were enchanted. Haeckel clapped his hands and shouted out Eureka loudly. Even the cautious and discrimi- nating mind of Professor Huxley was caught by this new and grand g eneraliza- tion of the physical basis of life. It was announced by him to the British As- sociation in i868. Dr. Will. Carpenter took up the chorus. He spoke of a liv- ing expanse of protoplasmic substance, penetrating with its living substance the whole mass of the oceanic mud4 A fine new Greek name was devised for this mother slime, and it was christened bathybius, from the consecrated deeps in which it lay. The conception ran like wildfire through the popular literature of science, and here again there was some- thing like a coming plebiscite in its favor. Expectant imagination soon played its part. Wonderful movements were seen in this mysterious slime. It became an irregular network, and it could be seen o Narr chall. Exp., vol i., p. 751. t Proc: Roy. Soc, No. rot, z868, pp. igoi. gradually altering its form, so that entangled granules gradually changed their relative positions.* The natural- ists of the Challenger began their voy- age in the full bathybian faith. But the sturdy mind of Mr. John Murray kept its balanceall the more easily since he never could himself find or see any trace of this pelagic protoplasm when the dredges of the Challenger came fresh from bathysmal bottoms. Again and again he looked for it, but never could he dis- cover it. It always hailed from home. The bottles sent there were reported to yield it in abundance, but somehow it seemed to be hatched in them. The lab- oratory in Jermyn Street was its unfailing source, and the great observer there was its only sponsor. The ocean never yielded it until it had been bottled. Atlast,one day on board the Challenger an acci- dent revealed the mystery. One of Mr. Murrays assistants poured a large quan- tity of spirits of wine into a bottle con- taining some pure sea-water, when lo! the wonderful protoplasm bathybius ap- peared. It was the chemical precipitate of sulphate of lime produced by the mixture of alcohol and sea-water. This was ba- thos indeed. On this announcement bathybius disappeared from science, read- ing us, in more senses than one, a great lesson on precipitation. t This is a case in which a ridiculous error and a ridiculous credulity were the direct results of theoretical preconcep- tions. Bathybius was accepted because of its supposed harmony with Darwins speculations. It is needless to say that Darwins own theory of the coral islands has no special connection with his later hypotheses of evolution. Both his theory and the theory of Mr. Murray equally in- volve the development of changes through the action and interaction of the old agencies of vital, chemical, and mechani- cal change. Nevertheless the disproof of a theory which was so imposing, and had been so long accepted, does read to us the most important lessons. It teaches us that neither the beauty, nor the impos- ing character, nor the apparent suffi- ciency of an explanation may be any proof whatever of its truth. And if this be taught us even of explanations which con- cern results purely physical, compara- tively simple, and comparatively definite, how much more is this lesson impressed upon us when, concerning far deeper and The Depths of the Sea, 2nd ed. London, 874, pp. f1~arr. chall. Exp., vol. i., p. 939. MAJOR AND MINOR. 77 more complicated things, explanations are offered which are in themselves obscure, full of metaphor, full of the pitfalls and traps due to the ambiguities of language explanations which are incapable of being reduced to proof, and concern both agencies and results of which we are pro- foundly ignorant! ARGYLL. From Good Words. MAJOR AND MINOR. BY W. E. NORRIS. CHAPTER XXXIV. H A L F-It E G R E T S. So large a number of well-meaning but officious persons thought fit to assem- ble at the railway station to bid Miss Huntley good-bye, that Brian obtained no more than a shake of the hand from her, and indeed was indebted to his phys- ical advantages of stature and muscle for even that small boon. He returned to his rooms, through a town which had all at once become utterly commonplace and un- interesting, and began to pack up forth- with. The curtain had fallen; the scene was vacant; duty as well as inclination beckoned him away; for that mornings post had brought him an opportune re- minder from Phipps that his time was not his own. Two days afterwards he was once more at his old quarters in Duke Street, and on the following evening his collaborator, who had taken a small house on the river for the summer months, in order to be within easy reach, dined with him at their deserted club and laid before him the final arrangement which had been entered into with the manager of the Ambiguity Theatre. That enterprising person had decided to introduce The Kings Veto~ in the beginning of November, being of opinion that failure would be less costly and disastrous then than at a later date. However, the manager did not anticipate failure, while Phipps professed himself assured of success. Only, you know, Segrave, said he, you musnt mind a few excisions and alterations. I dont pretend to judge of your work from the musical critics stand. point, but I think I know pretty well what will fetch the play-going public, and it is the play-going public that we have to please, no matter at what sacrifice. You have only to give your orders, answered Brian. I wont promise never to argue, but Ill promise to yield if I cant talk you over.~, And he kept to his word, notwithstand- ing that, after the piece had been put in rehearsal, the sacrifices demanded of him proved to be rather greater, and the ex- cisions more numerous than he had bar- gained for. In every field of art a man must sooner or later find himself face to face with the question of whether he will pursue his vocation for its own sake or for the sake of profit. Both motives are legitimate, but they are very seldom com- patible with one another; and although a compromise may be, and generally is, ar- rived at, self-respect is apt to have a little of the bloom rubbed off it in the process. Brian, who at one time might have felt that his first duty, after all, was to keep life in himself and that beggars must not be choosers, had no longer that incentive to pander to popular bad taste, and in spite of his anxiety to achieve success, there were moments when he thought that success if it should come, would be hardly worth the price asked for it. Fortunately, his modesty and good tem- per not only kept him on excellent terms with Phipps and the manager, but induced them to stretch a point here and there to give him pleasure; and if the perpetual consultations and discussions in which he was required to take part did nothing else for him, they at least served to fill up his time and a large measure of his thoughts. Of Beatrice he heard nothing; but then he had not expected to hear of her; nor had he been again disquieted by that fugi- tive surmise with reference to her and his brother, although in the brief acknowl- edgment of his congratulations which he had received from the latter, there had occurred a somewhat ambiguous phrase. With your romantic notions you will probably consider me a wise man, not a fool; but I confess that I am sometimes amazed at myself. I have always, as you know, been a common-sense, common- place person, with a proper appreciation of the main chance, and if I had allowed a great chance to escape me for the sake of love (as I may have done, for who knows what is in the lucky-bag until he has dipped his hand into it?), shouldnt I be bound, in mere consistency, to accuse my- self of almost criminal folly? People whom the force of circumstan- ces has deprived of a confident will some- times relieve themselves by making half- confidences to those whom they believe to be too dense to understand them, and it MAJOR AND MINOR. may have been in obedience to some such impulse that Gilbert had penned the above incautious words. For nothing could be more certain than that, after a week or two of unthinking bliss, he would begin to formulate against himself the accusa- tion specified; and even if his own judg- ment had not condemned him, was not Mr. J3uswell ready and determined to act the part of a candid friend? That pillar of the Liberal cause was not long absent from Kingscliff, nor, after his return, did he lose much time in paying Gilbert a friendly visit. So youre going to be married, I hear, he began. Well, Mr. Segrave, you dis- appoint me, you do indeed. Not that Ive a word to say against your young lady, far from it. But she aint the right one ,you see. Perhaps, said Gilbert mildly, I may be excused for thinking myself the best judge of that. Quite natural you should think so, as- sented Mr. Buswell generously; though not ~vhat I should have looked for from a man of your intelligence. I gave you fair warning too, as you may remember. Dont you make any mistake about it, sir; you ought to have married the Manor Ouse, or, in other words, Miss Untley. And it was altogether useless to take up a lofty tone with this too familiar per- sonage, and point out to him that the usages of society forbid such free men- tion of ladies names. You and me aint society, he re- turned, not a whit abashed, and what passes betwixt you and me dont go no further. Im determined to have the Manor Ouse. and I make no doubt but what I shall have it; for if you dont marry the young lady, theres plenty of others for her to choose from, and we may expect to see the property put up for sale again before very long. Ony, as I told you before, if Kingscliff dont get the land through you, ~vhy, theres a fairish num- ber of Kingscliff voters who may think you aint the man to represent em. Threats or warnings of this kind, re- peated day after day in varying language, made Gilbert long to throw off the Bus- well yoke and fight his own battle; but that, as he very well knew, would be tanta- mount to abandoning the contest. Bus- well, who continued to work for him with apparent assiduity, and who was all-pow- erful with the Radical portion of the con- stituency, could, and doubtless would, start a third candidate if defied; and it was easy to foresee who, in that event, ~vould be compelled, by loyalty to his party, to retire. Thus it came to pass that the brow of Miss Kittys lover was often clouded by care, and that he sometimes distressed her by the total irrelevance of his replies. I do hope, dear, she said one day, with a profound sigh, that when you are a member you will never, never vote for such an abominable thing as triennial Parliaments! What would life be ~vorth to us if it were one long general elec- tion? It is indeed an appalling picture, an- swered Gilbert, but I dare say we should get accustomed to it and pull through somehow. I think any kind of life would be worth a good deal to me so long as I had you beside me, Kitty. He said these pretty things to her every now and then, and meant them, too. He was still as much in love with her as he had ever beeu, and he realized besides that she was his best friendpossibly his only friend. If her love and companion- ship did not suffice to console him for all imaginable losses and disappointments, it must be acknowledged that therein he did not greatly differ from the majority of mankind; his misfortune was that he was perfectly conscious of a fact which most of us manage to keep out of sight. No date had as yet been fixed for the wedding. It was to take place after the election, but how soon or how long after remained an open question. Admiral and Mrs. Greenwood were not in a hurry, nor was Kitty; and for the time being they were, one and all, too much impressed with the paramount necessity of getting their candidate returned to have leisure for the consideration of other projects. That their utmost efforts would be re- quired was becoming more and more manifest as the autumn approached. It was all very well for Mr. Buswell to boast, I old this division in the oller of my and; but when his audacious words were reported in the Conservative camp, Sir John Pollington shook with silent, comfortable laughter, instead of becoming scarlet in the face and using bad language, as he would have done earlier in the year. For Giles, Q. C., was now hard at work and was proving himself able, energetic, and apt in the acquisition of popularity. All the hot summer through he was hold- ing meetings here, there, and everywhere, making acquaintance with his constituents from the highest to the lowest, and de- lighting them with an inexhaustible sup- ply of jokes and anecdotes. To the staid 78 MAJOR AND MINOR. 79 country gentlemen and their families, and to the well-to-do inhabitants of the Kings- cliff villas, his oratory came as a spring of fresh water in the desert. He was, per- haps, rather vulgar (and this exercised villadom a good deal), but then he was so very amusing; and what reward can be too great for a man who is capable of extracting amusement from modern En- glish politics? Even those who said they really must vote against him could not help liking him; and as for Admiral Greenwood, it would have been nothing short of cruelty to restrain him from ask- ing this jolly opponent to dinner. So Mrs. Greenwood gave her consent, and the invitation was accepted, and Mr. Giles made himself so pleasant to everybody that all sting of personal animosity was removed from the struggle at once and forevet. This was creditable to both sides, and was generally declared to be so; but somehow or other Giles got all the glory of it. In the humbler ranks of society, too and especially among the tradespeople he earned many friends for himself. Business is business, and some of the latter shrewdly remarked that Mr. Segrave would continue to reside among them and consume the necessaries of life whether he were elected or not; whereas a stranger who spent his money freely, and who made no secret of his intention to purchase a villa in the town, in the event of his return, would be a distinct acquisition. All these things rendered it imperative upon earnest Liberals to bestir them- selves; nor had Gilbert any reason to complain of lukewarmness on the part of his friends. In certain quarters of the borough Miss Kittys influence was very strong, and many were the promises of support which her pleading drew from those who, on previous occasions, had not troubled themselves to go to the poll. The admiral, too, did good service by beating up the outlying districts and pro- claiming aloud what great things the party of progress meant to do for the downtrod- den tillers of the soil. He was, moreover, nobly seconded by a person from whom, at the most, nothing beyond a benevolent neutrality could have been expected. In truth, it was no love for Gilbert Segrave (whom he disliked and distrused) that led Captain Mitchell to espouse the cause which Miss Greenwood had so much at heart; but to her he could not help being loyal through thick and thin, and to please her he would have undertaken tasks more repulsive than that into which he now threw himself with characteristic energy. Gilbert found that it ~vould not do to sneer at the exertions of this unsolicited parti- san. The only approach to a difference that he ever had with Kitty was when, with flushed cheeks and a quiver in her voice, she begged him to keep disparaging remarks about Captain Mitchell for other ears than hers. He never breathes a word against you, she said, although Although he might justly lay so many sins to my charge? suggested Gilbert, smiling. No, not justly; but it must be more difficult for him to be generous than for you. And he is very, very generous I cried Kitty, with tears in her eyes. Well, if Mitchell abstained from bring- ing accusations against the young squire of Beckton, there were others who were less considerate; and indeed one of the terrors of canvassing is that the canvassed will not always understand the difference between public and private qualifications. Thus Mr. Puttick, when waited upon and requested in the most urbane manner to state his political views, replied bluntly that he didnt see a haporth to choose between Tories and Rads. If either side had proposed to abolish the duty on spir- its, that would have been something like; but he had been informed that no such measure was in contemplation, and conse- quently he hadnt no politics to speak of, beyond the general sentiment of Rule Britannia, which gave him a slightly Con- servative bias. But what I want cleared up, sir, is this, said he, fixing his eyes upon Gil- berts. It has been put about as you done Mr. Brian out of his rights; and parson, when I ask him the question fair and square, he dont give me no answer. Now Danl Puttick aint the man to prom- ise his vote to a thief, if youll excuse the liberty of me sayin so. It was not everybody who spoke with such shocking directness; but of hints and insinuations there was no lack; and the worst of it was that many of these were uttered in Kittys presence. Gilbert bitterly attributed their origin to Monck- ton, but Monckton was another person of whom it was hardly safe to speak ill to his betrothed, so he had to smother his wrath and derive such comfort as he could from her indignant repudiation of the calumnies reported by Mr. Puttick and others. It was something to know that neither whisperings nor backbitings could avail 8o MAJOR AND MINOR. to shake her faith in him for an instant; it was something to know that, come weal, come woe, she would always remain faith- ful to him. But he, for his part, did not want woe to come, and at times he was sadly doubtful whether he would always remain faithful to her. If only she had had Miss Huntleys fortune, or even the half of it! Every day, as he left his own domain, he had to pass the Manor House, and the sight of the transformation that was being wrought in that long-disused dwelling, of the masons hurrying to and fro the crardeners planting, transplanting, and levelling, the furniture-vans unlading at the door, became a grievance to him. The place really ought to have been his; it ought never to have been separated from the Beckton property; perhaps he forgot that it had never been intended to be so separated. And after all, and in spite of all, it might have been his. That was the thought which would keep recur- ring to his mind and vexing him with its importunity. He might he was almost sure of it have gained possession not only of the Manor House, but of all the ~vealth of which but a trifling portion was now being lavished upon its improvement; and wealth to an ambitious man means so much more than mere luxury. He had, it is true, the grace to be ashamed of these half-regrets; he tried to shake them off, and never went the length of asking him- self whether it might not be yet time to repair his error supposing that he had committed an error. Still he looked for- ward to Miss Huntleys return with no slight interest and curiosity, ~vondering how she ~vould receive him, and what effect the news of his engagement to Kitty Greenwood would have had upon her, and whether she would or ~vould not exert her- self on his behalf in the coming election fray. In process of time the builders men dcparted, the traces of their labor were removed, the stream of furniture-vans ceased, and the gravel-drive was carefully swept. At last, when Gilbert was riding howewards one fine autumn afternoon, admiring the yellow and russet tints of the woods with that increased appreciation which arises from the sense of ownership, a smart victoria dashed past him, and he was aware of two ladies, one of whom turned her head to nod to him in a very friendly fashion, while the other allowed him to see no more of her person than a very broad back. Miss Joys back and any expression that she might contrive to throw into it possessed as little interest for Gilbert as her face would have done; but that glimpse of Miss Huntleys stimulated his desire for an interview with her; and indeed neighborly courtesy seemed to de- mand that he should lose no time about leaving a card at the Manor House. To the Manor House he accordingly betook himself on the following day; but even if he had wished to stop short at the formal ceremony of leaving his card at the door, he could hardly have done so after being informed that Miss Huntley was at home and had given particular orders for his admission. He was not sure that he quite liked this implied conviction on her part that he would call at the earliest possible moment, and, being more or less conver- sant with the ways of women, he at once suspected her of a design to draw him away from his allegiance. That she must resent his abrupt desertion of her he did not doubt for an instant; women, he thought, always do resent such behavior, whether the deserter be personally indif- ferent to them or not. Thus, with his nerves ready braced up for action and all his wits on the alert, he followed the but- ler across a thickly carpeted hall, which the resources of modern upholstery had adorned out of all resemblance to its for- mer self, and was shown into what he remembered to have been in old days a small library. Here, too, the upholsterers and decora- tors had been at work, and certainly no lady could wish for a more charming snuggery than that in which Miss Huntley was now seated, writing letters. Gilbert took in all the details of the picture at a glance the subdued coloring, the artistic furniture, the Japanese bronzes, and old china, and what not and smothered a sigh, for the refinements ~vhich money can buy always appealed forcibly to him. A wood fire was crackling cheerfully upon the high, brass-mounted dogs ;but the windows, which looked out over the bay, had been thrown open, letting in the crisp autumnal air and a flood of yellow sun- light. Beatrice rose and held out her hand with a frank smile ~vhich ought to have sufficed to disarm suspicion. This is very pretty of you, she said. I wanted you to be the first to welcome me, because I am painfully aware that I and my be- longings are brand-new, while everything around us is as old as the hills. Your countenance gives us a sort of sanction; and we shall try to mellow as quickly as we can. MAJOR AND MINOR. 8i I dont think either you or your be- longings stand in need of any sanction, ans~vered Gilbert politely. We are grateful for it, all the same. Now find a comfortable chair for yourself, and tell me what Kingscliff has been say. ing and doing all this long time. CHAPTER XXXV. MISS HUNTLEYS TACTICS. SAD it is to think of neglected oppor- tunities, and sad to look upon what might have been ours, but for our folly or per. versity; but the contemplation of great gain relinquished from honorable and disinterested motives is both soothing and inspiring. Gilbert, sitting in a luxurious armchair, with his back to the light and his eyes upon the beautiful and wealthy lady who had placed herself opposite to him, felt that he occupied a strong moral position, and that in any encounter which might be imminent it ~vould be needless for him to employ strategy. So, in an- swer to her question he said, Kingscliff is, and has been, busy elec- tioneering. That sums up its public an- nals. In the way of personal items, I dont know that I have any to offer you, except what you have perhaps heard al- ready, that I am going to be married. And then he looked at her to see whether she would wince. Of course, she did no such thing; she laughed a little and answered: Oh, I heard of your engagement ages ago, and I ought to have begun by congratulating you; but I feel as if all that had been gone through. It was such a very foregone conclusion, wasnt it? I didnt know it was, said Gilbert, not best pleased. Is it also a foregone conclusion that I am to be congratu- lated? Naturally. It would require a stronger mind than mine to offer anything except congratulations to persons about to marry.~~ I am sure you would always use the proper formula; but are your congratu- lations sincere in my particular case? persisted Gilbert, not choosing to be put off in that way. You must be very conceited if you doubt it. Kitty Green~vood is the pretti. est girl in the county, and as good as she is pretty. Really, with the highest pos- sible resl)ect for you, I dont see what better fortune you are entitled to by your merits. I dont consider myself entitled to LIVING AGE. VOL. LX 3074 any good fortune at all, Gilbert declared only I am not a rich man, and many people would say that I should have acted more prudently by marrying a woman with a little money of her own, thats all. I thought you might possibly take that view. Oh, if you talk about prudence that is another matter. One may be permitted to congratulate ones friends sometimes on being imprudent. Congratulations are especially appropriate in the present in- stance, because I shoulc~ imagine that, as a rule, you look a very long time before you leap. We cant all be romantic I myself, for instance, am distressingly the reverse but that is rather our misfor- tune than our fault; and nothing is more refreshing than to see an unromantic per- son doing a romantic thing. Still, I hope you wont give up all idea of political life just yet; that would be almost a pity, I think. He assured her that he fully intended to enter Parliament and remain there, if only a majority of the electors could be brought to intrust their interests to him, and this for a time gave the conversation another turn. But Miss Huntley soon harked back to the subject of Kitty Green- wood, in whose praise it seemed as if she could not find anything strong enough to say. So eulogistic was she that at length Gilbert, somewhat bewildered by a line of criticism which he had not anticipated, and a trifle vexed by the reiterated impli- cation that he was fortunate beyond his deserts, began insensibly to point to the reverse of the medal and to hint that, although Kitty might be worth a sacrifice, a sacrifice had not the less been made for her sake. He caught himself in the act of saying that a man who has gone certain lengths in the heedlessness of youth cant honorably retreat, and broke off, red and ashamed, in the middle of his sentence. Miss Huntley did not seem to see his embarrassment. Are you by any chance going to Morden this afternoon? she asked; and if you are, may I drive you there? I do so want to see Kitty again. He could not, of course, do otherwise than accept this offer gratefully; and soon afterwards he was seated in a low phaeton, drawn by a pair of well-matched cobs, and driven by Miss Huntley with the ease of a practised whip. She contrived to keep him very well amused by the way. She never in her wanderings lost touch of the fashionable world, its sayings and doings, whereas Gilbert, the moment that he left London, felt himself as utterly excluded 82 MAJOR AND MINOR. as if he were dead from the society which he loved all the more dearly because he did not, strictly speaking, belong to it Therefore both the matter and the manner of Miss Huntleys talk fell refreshingly upon ears which for so many weeks had been listening to quite another style of conversation; and of this she was doubt- less aware. She may even have been also aware that the effect produced upon her hearer was not entirely pleasurable, and that by degrees he became affected with a vague restlessness and dissatisfaction, as exiles are moved first to joy and then to tears by the accents of their fatherland. How completely out of it one is down here he exclaimed, with a sigh. To which she responded cheerfully, Oh, you will be glad enough to be out of it for a few months after a session or two. The time is rapidly approaching when Parliament will meet before Christmas, and sit until the second week in August. He sighed again, wondering whether he would be able to afford a London house, and whether, if he could do so, it would be such a house and in such a neighborhood as to enable him to receive the friends whom he was chiefly desirous of retaining. This was a point which he had latterly debated more than once with painful mis- givings. He dismissed it impatiently, as he had dismissed it before, with the per- fectly just reflection that it was too late to repine at comparative poverty now, and that he must be contented with such good luck as had fallen to his share. Nor, in truth, did that luck present itself under an unfavorable aspect when Kitty, who had seen the approach of the phae- ton from afar, came to the door to greet her lover and embrace hervisitor There was no need to draw comparisons between these two reunited friends. Certainly Miss Huntleys dress was more skilfully cut than Kittys; but a woman with her income would have been inexcusable if her gowns had been badly cut; and if she had a certain air which was lacking in a provincial maiden, what else could be ex- pected? Each was charming in her own way. The warm-hearted Greenwoods, at any rate, found Miss Huntley charming, and loudly proclaimed their joy at her return. The admiral bustled into the drawing- room, where she was seated between his wife and daughter, and joined in their demonstrations with much heartiness. Well, Miss Huntley, you make us all very proud; upon my word you do. The whole world to choose from, and you have chosen Kingscliff! I shouldnt wonder if Buswell were to mention that in one of his huge painted advertisements. A busi- ness-like man, Buswell, and uncommonly useful to us at the present juncture, I can tell you Our friend there is to be our future M.P., you know, and we shall count upon your assistance to get him in But she shook her head laughingly, and unfastening her jacket, pointed to a small yellow enamel brooch, fashioned in the shape of a primrose, which she wore at her neck. Sent me by Clementina, she explained, with instructions to display it at all times and places until further orders. Would you expose me to the risk of being disowned by my family for- ever? Perhaps, as you have no vote, and as your out-door servants wont be upon the register, we may forgive you for sporting that ugly symbol, answered the admiral; but it isa sad thing to think of your being still in the darkness of Toryism, Miss Huntley. I was born and bred in a Tory atmo- sphere, she said. If I havent yet seen the error of my ways it is the fault of Mr. Segrave, who undertook to convert me, and abandoned his enterprise before he was half-way through it. Naturally, I have had a relapse, and Im afraid there wont be time to instruct my ignorance of the difference between tweedledum and twee- dledee before the end of November. However, as Gilbert soon discovered, she was neither so ignorant of these dis- tinctions nor so persuaded of their micro- scopic character as she chose to pretend. She did not remain long at the Green- woods that afternoon; but he met her there again on the following day, and walked home with her ; and as they walked she spoke of the future distribution of parties with a shrewdness which both sur- prised and fascinated him. Whatever you do, she said, dont go in for extreme Radicalism. The coun- try isnt Radical yet; or if it is, that is only a passing fit, which will be followed by a reaction when the inevitable Euro- pean war breaks out. lt is quite true that the mass of the electors neither know nor care anything about foreign politics; but the result of having no foreign policy will be brought home to them before they are much older, and then they will get fright- ened and angry. Join the moderates and bide your time. It is the fashion to laugh at these men, but they are the men who will come to the front as soon as they have found out what to call themselves, and MAJOR AND MINOR. 83 when once they are in the saddle it wont be easy to form a strong opposition to them. At your age you can very well afford to wait through one Parliament without committing yourself. Now these opinions, whether wise or not, seemed so to Gilbert, because they happened to chime in with his own; nor was it only with regard to the position which he should take up in the House that Miss Huntley had sound advice to offer him. According to herand here again he was quite of her mindit is not in public life alone that the path to office and honors is to be found. To be acquainted ~vith Cabinet ministers and the wives of Cabinet ministers is an advantage which a man of tact may easily turn to account, and which, at the very least, must render his existence more enjoyable and exciting than it could otherwise be. The great thing, she declared, is to be seen and known. That is both a means and an end; and if one is to be neither the one nor the other one might almost as well be planting cabbages at Beckton as sitting in the House of Commons, night after night, listening to weary, dreary de- bates. Such sentiments found a ready echo in Gilberts heart; nor is it surprising that they should also have set him speculating upon the probable future career of Miss Huntleys husband. That lucky individ- ual would, at all events, have what ~vas denied to himunlimited command of ready money and a house at which the best of good company would congregate. It was not in the course of one or even two interviews similar to the above that Gilbert succeeded in making himself thor- oughly discontented. The greater part of his leisure time was spent with Kitty, and spent more pleasantly, perhaps also more profitably, than in devising ambitious schemes. But Kitty, in spite of the claims of her lover and of the canvassing labors which she had undertaken on his behalf, had not severed her connection with St. Michaels, and it frequently hap- pened that her presence was required at the church or the vicarage after the daily five-oclock evensong. Gilbert was wont to accompany her so far and then to take his way homeward; but now that the evenings were drawing in, it was dull work to sit all alone in the great empty house at Beckton, waiting for the dinner-bell to ring; and what could be more natural than that a forlorn bachelor should turn aside to the i\Ianor House for a cup of tea and a little improving conversation? As a matter of fact, he did so turn aside nearly every day, and about this time Kitty noted with satisfaction that he ceased to grumble at her for making herself a slave to that immaculate parson. One cannot please everybody. These evening visits, these prolonged tt~te.ci- t~tes by the firelight, which seemed to give so much pleasure to Gilbert, and in which Kitty (who ~vas duly informed of them) acquiesced quite cheerfully, were a source of deep disquietude and disgust to Miss Joy. Not often had she ventured to read a lecture to the some~vhat imperi- ous lady whose nominal chaperon she was; still, being a courageous and conscientious woman, she felt it incumbent upon her one morning to say, Beatrice, dear, Mr. Segrave comes here too often. Does he? asked Beatrice with inno- cent simplicity. Well, now that you mention it, I dare say he does. He hasnt begun to bore me yet though. I dont mean that; I mean that he comes here too often for his happiness and perhaps for Miss Greenwoods into the bargain. Matilda, my beloved, are you so des- perately anxious for his happiness? I dont care a brass farthing whether he is happy or unhappy; it is about you that I am anxious, answered Miss Joy candidly. Oh neither about him nor about poor Kitty, then, after all? Now be hon- est, Matilda; dont you think that I am pretty well able to take care of myself? Most certainly I do not, Miss Joy declared ; that is just exactly what I dont think. How little you know me! Some day you will admit your mistake. ln the mean time, if it would relieve you to speak a word of warning to Mr. Segrave or to Kitty, or to both of them, pray do so. Nobody will be the worse for it. And nobody ~vill be the better, sighed Miss Joy, conscious of her impotence. The excellent woman saw plainly that neither warnings nor remonstrances would be of any avail, and therefore held her peace; but she was sorely distressed in mind, for Gilbert, of whom she had never thought too highly, had forfeited the last vestige of her esteem by his present be- havior; and what was still worse, she found herself compelled to admit that Beatrice was behaving quite as badly as he. That was as much as to say that the world was upside down. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the little 84 MAJOR AND MINOR. ~vorld in ~vhich Miss Joy dwelt was com- posed for the most part of people who could not easily believe their bosom friends capable of treachery. The soft, misty autumn days passed on and brought no clouds over the contentment of the Greenwood family. Kitty, it is true, re- marked that Gilbert was nervous and irri- table at times ; but this she attributed to election worries, and was too sweet-tem- pered to resent. As for jealousy, that had never been among her failings. Certainly she had been a little jealous of Beatrice Huntley once upon a time, and had con- fessed that peccadillo, hali penitently, half laughingly, to Gilbert long ago. In those days she had not been sure of his love she was sure of it now, and it would have required something a great deal more serious than his visits to the Manor House to make her distrust him. As reasonably might he have distrusted her for making much of Mitchell, who at this time was far more constantly with her than Gilbert was with Miss Huntley. For Mitchells goods and chattels ~vere being packed up. Somewhat suddenly he had announced his appointment to another coastguard station in the north of England, and Kitty, who divined that the transfer had not been unsolicited, felt that the least she could do was to make his last days at Kingscliff as pleasant for him as might be. On the eve of his departure a few friends were invited to a farewell dinner in his honor at Morden Court; and then it was that Miss Huntley and he had a little talk together for the first time since her return; for although they had met before, neither of them had displayed much anxiety to com- pare notes with the other. Now, however, she beckoned him aside to say, So you are retiring from the field of battle. That is the usual thing to do after one has been beaten, is it not? he returned. One should not allow oneself to be so easily beaten. Well, I dont know about that; under certain circumstances defeat is inevitable, I suppose. And a bungling ally is not quite the right person to make criticisms, perhaps? Oh, you mustnt put words into my mouth that I never used, Miss Huntley. I know you did your best for me and very kind it was of you, Im sure. Nevertheless, I miscalculated my strength; and you didnt think much of my tactics, did you? Mitchell hesitated. You never told me what your tactics were, he replied at length; but as far as I could understand them, they werent exactly well, I dont think I should have employed them myself. The fact is, I believe honesty to be the best policy. Miss Huntley did not appear to relish the condemnation which she had invited; for she frowned and shut up her fan with a snap. That sounds a very rude thing to say, Mitchell went on apologetically; but what I mean is that in these cases it is really all plain sailing. She didnt care for me, and she did care for Segrave. That seems to me to be final. I couldnt make her care for me. Oh, excuse me; that doesnt follow at all. And how do you know that she cares for Mr. Segrave? How do you know that the person with whom she is in love isnt an imaginary being whom she will never find inside Mr. Segraves skin? But this was too subtle for the straight- forward Mitchell, who shook his head and answered, It would be no kindness to encourage me, Miss Huntley, even if you could. But you cant. I must grin and bear it. The only thing is that I find I cant bear to stay here, and that is why Im off to Berwi ck-on-Tweed. Leaving the enemy in possession.~~ Oh, I dont want to call him the enemy. He and I have never hit it off together particularly well; but most people like him, and after all, he is the man whom she has chosen to be her husband. And suppose the man whom she has chosen to be her husband should break her heart some fine day? In that case, I shouldnt think twice about breaking his head. A very useful and practical measure, though hardly to be described as either prevention or cure. Perhaps you wouldnt carry it out, though; perhaps by that time you may have found consolation on one side or other of the Border. Mitchell reddened. Look here, Miss Huntley, said he a little roughly; I have known Kitty Greenwood since she was a child in the schoolroom, and I have never in all my life loved another woman. I dont know that it matters very much what you may think of me; but if you think that I shall find consolation, as you call it, at this time of day, you make a mistake. - Dont be angry, she returned, laugh. ing; I give you full credit for constancy, though I cant say as much for your per- severance. Apparently, your notion of MASANIELLO. 85 fighting a battle isnt the same as mine. If I were in your place I should say to myself that all was not lost so long as the girl whom I loved remained unmarried, that engagements have been broken off before now, and that when a woman looks at a rejected lover with tears in her eyes, it is because she is beginning to find out what he is worth. She didnt look at me with tears in her eyes! exclaimed Mitchell. What do you mean? I)id she not? I suppose I must have been deceived, then, when I caught a glimpse of her across the dinner-table. Perhaps she had swallowed an overdose of mustard, or she may have been dazzled by the brilliancy of her prospects. To be sure she might have wept all the tears of Niobe before you would have seen them; for your own eyes dont seem to be as sharp as a sailors ought to be. Since you wont use them at Kingscliff, perhaps you may as well be at Berwick-on-Tweed as here. It wouldnt be a bad plan to take a return ticket though. What do you mean? asked Mitchell, for the second time. That you will be wanted to act as best man to Mr. Segrave on his wedding day, of course. What else should I mean? and what part could suit you better? You have chosen to surrender to him without striking a blow; it is only fit that you should walk in his triumph. Mitchell drove home that night with a young man who was loud in his commen- dation of Miss Huntley, her beauty, her talents, and her amiability. The elder man listened for a long time with that silence which is said to imply assent; but at length he responded, Miss Huntley may be all that you say, and I should think she is; but between you and me, I doubt whether she is quite right in the upper story. It was this impression of her, and no other, that he took away with him to Berwick-on-Tweed. From Temple Bar. MASANIELLO. MASANIELLO was born at Amalfi in the year 1622. His father ~vas a fisherman, and the child first saw the light among the nets and baskets of a little hut on the seacoast. His birth was attended by an augury. It is said that an ancient monk, whose glittering eyes and snowy beard had gained for him, among the village folk, the reputation of a prophet, once visited the cottage and having looked long upon the child as it lay asleep in its poor cradle, broke forth into a prediction that the boy would some day rise to more than kingly power, but that his empire would be brief, and his fall sudden. The seer who uttered such a prophecy deserved his fame. The story of Masaniello the most romantic story in the history of mankind fulfilled the oracle; with what exactness, and by what events, we propose to call to mind. The boy was brought up to his fathers trade. When he was about his twentieth year he left Amalfi and crossed the bay to Naples. There he took a garret in a house which overhung a corner of the great market square; married a girl no richer than himself; and thenceforward every morning, as soon as the sun rose up behind the black peaks of Vesuvius, his boat was to be seen dancing over the blue waters of the bay. The life of a fisherman is hard and poor. Masaniello went barefooted. His dress was the common dress of the fishermen of Naples, loose linen trousers, a blue blouse, and a red cap. But his figure, though not tall, was striking; his face was handsome; his eyes black, large, and glittering; and there ~vas about him a peculiar air of self- reliance, the index of a bold, capable, and fiery mind. For about four years he lived quietly; in poverty, yet not perhaps in discontent. But the Spanish viceroys who ruled Na. ples, and who had long waxed fat upon the taxes, were yearly sucking deeper of the peoples blood. A tax was set on fish, a tax on flour, a tax on poultry, wine, milk, cheese, salt. At last a tax on fruit, the fare on which the lower classes chiefly lived, brought the city to the brink of a revolt. Yet it is probable that, even then, without a leader, the popular excitement would have died away in empty threats and mutterings. At this crisis, the agents of the government happened to fall foul of Masaniello. A basket of his fish ~vhich had not l)aid the tax was seized and car- ried to the castle. The same day his wife was stopped as she was carrying in her apron a small quantity of flour, was dragged to the receipt of custom, and being found to have no money, either to pay the duty or to bribe the agents, was locked up in a cell. They had better have hanged a hundred lazzaroni on the gibbet in the market- 86 MASANIELLO. place. Masaniello was stung to madness. in a loud voice, and our cursed govern- From that moment his sole thought was ment a famine. The fruit is not worth of revenge, selling; let it go ! And with the words The most tremendous weapon known to he kicked over his baskets, and sent the man was ready to his hand a city on the gourds and oranges rolling on the ground. verge of riot. His measures were soon At that instant, as the crowd stood taken. In appearance they were harmless, breathless in excitement, a voice sent even trifling; but in truth they were most forth a cry of No more taxes! The dexterously planned. He began by col- voice was Masaniellos. The crowd lectingin the market-place a knot of boys. caught up the words; they swelled into a To each of these he taught a phrase of thunder. In an instant the rebellion was words, and gave a little cane, bearing on afoot. the top a streamer of black linen like a Andrea Anaclerio, the elect of the peo- flag. Soon five hundred, and at last two ple, rushed out of his palace, and threat- thousand, of these volunteers, were going ened Arpaja with the whip. But a storm up and down the city. In the hovels of of sticks and melons flew about his ears the lazzaroni, among the stalls of the fruit- a large stone struck him on the breast; sellers, before the gates of the toll-houses, and he was glad to fly for refuge into the under the windows of the Spanish nobles, Chapel of Our Lady. everywhere their slender ensigns fluttered, Masaniello sprang upon a fruiterers and the pregnant words were heard: table. The crowd already recognized God be with us, and Our Lady, and the their leader. He began to speak; and he king of Spain! But down with the gov- spoke with a certain rude and fiery oratory eminent, the fruit-tax, and the devil!~ which moved his hearers more than elo- Masaniellos scholars made a vast sen- quence. He bade them rejoice, for the sation. A few of the spectators mocked hour of their deliverance was at hand. and jeered; but the seed ~vas scattered in St. Peter, once a fisherman, had beaten no stony soil. It sprang up and flour- down the pride of Satan and released the ished; and in three days it was ready to world from bondage; so likewise would bear fruit. he, Masaniello, another fisherman, strike It was Sunday, July 7th, in the year off the bonds of the most faithful people. 1647. The day was the festival of Our Let them pay no more taxes; let them win Lady of the Carmes, a day which had back with fire and sword the ancient priv- for centuries been held in celebration of ilege of Naples, the right of freedom from an ancient victory achieved against the all taxes which the Spaniards had in- Moors. It was the custom on that day to fringed. His own life might fall; his erect in the marketplace a wooden castle, head might ride aloft upon a pole. But which was defended by a company of to die in such a cause would be his glory. boys, while another company, half-naked, There is no rhetoric which thrills its and painted red, with turbans on their hearers like that which gives the echo to heads, in imitation of the Moors, assailed their passions. The crowd broke into a its battlements with a storm of apples, fierce shout, and turned with exultation to melons, cucumbers, and figs. This spec- the work of ravage. The first object was tacle, which usually ended in a free fight the toll-house in the square. Faggots and uproar, was, as might have been ex- drenched with pitch were hurled in at the pected, excessively popular among the windows; a lighted torch was added; and lower classes; and that morning, at the the building in a few minutes was a pile hour at which the fruit-growers from the of raging flames. Then there was a cry villages began, as usual, to pour into for arms. A ponderous beam was brought the city, the square was already thronged and wielded by strong men, the gates of with thousands of spectators. the Carmine Tower were beaten in, and The performance had not yet begun; the crowd rushed eagerly upon the pikes the crowd was waiting, idle and unem- and halberds. Clubs, knives, and bars of ployed, ready to welcome any manner of iron were pressed into the service; and excitement; when suddenly a startling the mob, thus armed, preceded by the cry was heard. One of the fruit-sellers banner-boys of Masaniello, turned in their had refused to pay the tax! wild justice towards the palace of the The man was Arpaja of Pozzuoli, Ma- viceroy. saniellos cousin. The plot had been Their way lay past the Prison of St. arranged between them. On being called James. They halted there to burst the upon to pay the duty, Arpaja flew into a doors and to add the prisoners to their rage. God gives us plenty, he exclaimed number. MASANIELLO. 87 At length they reached the palace. The guards who stood at arms before the gates were swept a~vay. The viceroy, Ponce de Leon, Duke of Arcos, and those about him, strove to secure themselves behind the inner doors. But the barricades were broken in. The duke ~vas hunted like a thief from room to room, and forced at last, at the peril of his life, to drop from a back window by a rope, and to fly in a close carriage to the Castle of St. Elmo. Then thc palace was sacked from floor to roof. A great fire was kindled in the street. Rare and costly furniture, hang. ings, pictures, jewels, golden dishes, gob- lets stamped with the proud arms of Ponce de Leon, were hurled out of the windows, and piled into the flames. Yet in all this, and throughout the whole revolt there was no private theft. These riches ~vere held as things accursed, as treasures purchased by the peoples blood, and worthy only to be sacrificed in the hour of their revenge. And now the people, drunk with the giddy wine of vengeance, required no fur- ther rousing. The time had come for discipline, for order, and restraint; and Masaniello turned with all his vigor to the ~vork. Then was seen the power of a commanding mind. In a marvellously short space of time, the mob became an army. Parties, each led by its own cap- tain, and missioned to its separate duty, began to go forth through the city, search- Ing the armorers shops for weapons; tearing down the Spanish standard from the Carmine Tower, and planting in its place the ancient flag of Naples; march- ing through the streets, with trumpets singing and drums rolling, collecting vol. unteers; bursting open the Prisons of St. Maria and St. Archangel; dragging the cannon from the bastion of San Lorenzo, and setting the great bells pealing an alarm. As often as the Spanish soldiers met with a detachment of the rioters, there was a fierce fight ; lives were lost on both sides; but the guards were always over- powered. All business became suspended, The shopkeepers shut up their shops, and joined the rebels. The nobles and the farmers of the taxes, with beating hearts and faces white with terror, barred them- selves inside their palaces. Only a train of monks, in stoles of white, with censers in their hands, ventured, about the hour of vespers, to issue from the Convent of St. Paul, and to pass with prayers for peace along the streets. When night fell, Masaniello was at the head of fifty thousand men. Nor did dark- nes~s check the course of his proceedings. Thousands of candles, torches, cressets, watch-fires blazing at every corner of the streets, made the city as bright as day. Recruits came streaming in without cessa- tion. And all night the work went on. As soon as day began to break, new swarms of volunteers, equipped with sickles, pitchforks, scythes, and even spits and pokers, came pouring in from all the country round. But the arms most used that day were links and torches. A plat- form was erected in the market-place; and there Masaniello sat, and gave his orders. The toll-house in the square was now in cinders; but in different quarters of the city there were several others. Masaniello drew up a list of these, together with sixty of the proudest palaces in Naples, which their owners had enriched or built out of the produce of the taxes. All these were ordered to be burnt; and throughout that day, and far into the night, parties were going forth unceasingly with faggots, pitch, and torches. Women and children helped the work with sacks of straw and cans of oil. In every quarter of the city some haughty edifice, the home of a Mira- bello, or of an Aquavana, was turned into a heap of smoking ruins. Treasures of all kinds, and of untold value, perished in the flames. Pictures of the Madonna and the saints were alone held sacred, were preserved, and hung up in the churches. Nothing was taken by the people. So strong on this point was the public feeling, that one of the rioters who ventured to pick up a silk scarf was instantly dragged into the market-place, and hanged by a fierce crowd. Meanwhile, the viceroy had stolen se- cretly from St. Elmo, and was now shut up in Castel Nuovo, which was kept by a strong guard. From the castle he sent out his orders. But the few bands of guards which he could spare were entirely useless; and in truth the duke was in a desperate pass. He tried tactics; and he tried devotion. He sent out the Duke of Maddaloni and the prior of Rocella with a piece of parchment, which he pretended was the privilege of Naples. But the crowd immediately found out the trick; the prior was hooted, and the duke came near to being torn in pieces. He then bethought himself of St. Gennaro; and in the chapel of the great cathedral, the chapel in which, three times a year, the holy head, enshrined in silver, is still laid upon the altar, and the priest lifts up before a crowd of pilgrims the vials of sacred blood, the august relics were dis- played. The saint, however, wrought no 88 MASANIELLO. miracle; and the viceroy passed the night without reserve, the prayer of the most in agonies of uncertainty and trepidation. faithful people. While the duke was quaking in the cas- The populace received the news with tie, Masaniellos power was rising higher raptures of delight. It was rapidly ar- every hour. He was already, indeed, in ranged that the viceroy, with the chief everything but name, the governor of officers of state, should meet the people Naples. The proud and beautiful city on the morrow in the Carmine Church, ~vas at his feet. The haughty cavaliers of when the treaty should be ratified on oath, Spain durst not wag their fingers; for the and a solemn service held in celebration. number of his followers was now at least The insurgents ~vere still kept under arms. a hundred thousand. His throne of tim. But to all appearance the revolt was at an ber in the market-place was surrounded end. The remainder of the day passed by battalions of armed men, ready to carry quietly. All the city, in joyful anticipa- out his slightest orders. Beside him, at tion, looked forward to the morrow. a table, six clerks were constantly em But this spirit of contentment was des. ployed in writing out his edicts. One of tined to be roughly broken. Masaniellos these proclamations, which is recorded, chief subalterns were Genovino, a fierce shows that Masaniello possessed, like all old monk, and Perrone, the captain of a born leaders, a falcons eye for details. crew of bandits who had their dens among The nobility were ordered to walk out the gorges of Vesuvius. The latter, who without their cloaks, monks to put off had joined the cause in the confident be. their cassocks, and ladies to wear no skirts lief that his five hundred desperadoes that swept the ground; for in all such would enjoy a thieves paradise among the garments arms might be concealed. The treasures of the palaces, had been bitterly law courts were shut up. Criminals of deceived, and was at heart a traitor. His every rank and station were dragged be- opportunity was soon to come. That fore that strange tribunal at which Masa- night he had an interview with the duke niello was both judge and jury. In one of Maddaloni and his brother, Don Carafa. corner of the market-place a gibbet was From that meeting the bandit carried off set up; and the course of justice was of a heavy bag of gold. Nor was the treas- the admirably swift and ready kind which ure paid for nothing. Judas had received characterized the judgment-seat of Minos. the price of blood. It was agreed that Sempre dinanzi a lui ne stanno molte; on the morrow, during the ceremony in the Vanno a vicenda ciascuna al giudizio; church, and in full view of the spectators, Dicono e odono, e poi son gum volte. Masaniello should be shot dead. The morrow came. At noon the great So vast was the first change in Masa- Church of Our Lady was crowded to the niellos fortune! Two days had sufficed doors. Perrones bravos, to the number to raise him from the task of mending of three hundred, ~vere scattered here and nets and hawking mullets, to a throne as there among the crowd. A gorgeous can- absolute as ZimZizimis. opy had been set up before the altar, above The viceroy was secure within the cas- the crimson cushions of the viceroy and tle; but the castle was kept in a close the bishop. Masaniello was standing on stage of siege. No provisions could pass the altar steps, a bare sword in his right in; and the duke, and the scores of lords hand, surrounded by a host of lords and and ladies who had found refuge with cardinals, conspicuous, among robes of him, were beginning to feel miserably in scarlet and tunics laced with silver, by his want of meat and poultry, fruit and wine fishermans shirt and his cap without a and snow. A spy brought word that feather. The viceroy had not yet arrived; Masaniello was preparing a new list of but the music of his bugles could be heard palaces to be set in flames that night. approaching. This was the moment on The dukes mind had been wavering; he which the conspirators had fixed. Per- saw no hope in holding out; these tidings rone suddenly held up his hand; and from turped the scale; and he gave way. different parts of the church seven car- It was the afternoon of Tuesday; Masa. bines were instantly fired point-blank at niello was sitting on his bench of judg- Masaniello. Two of these were so near ment, when a packet from the viceroy him that the flash of the explosion singed was put into his hand. He tore it open his blouse. The others struck the altar before the crowd. It contained the true at his side. Yet, wonderful to state, not parchment of the privilege; and in a letter one of the seven balls so much as grazed which accompanied the parchment, the him. duke expressed his willingness to grant, The bandits had relied with confidence MASANIELLO. 8g on the fall of Masaniello, and the confu- sion and dismay of his adherents. Their error cost them dear. When the smoke cleared off and he was seen still standing on the altar-steps, their hearts misgave them. And they had good cause for ter- ror. The crowd, raging with fury, turned upon them; and in a moment the church was ringing with the din of battle. The desperadoes, men whose whole lives had been passed in fighting, now fought like wild beasts brought to bay. But the con- test was not equal; and they fought in vain. Soon, above the roar of voices and the clash of arms, were heard the yells of wretches being torn in pieces in front of the great altar. A part escaped into the adjoining convent; but these were quickly hunted out and butchered. A few got clear away into the mountains and plunged into the darkness of their dens. Perrone, who was seized alive, but covered with wounds, was dragged into the square, and iml)elled by threats of torture to reveal the authors of the plot. He had just gasped out the names of Maddaloni and Carafa when he fell back dead. Two hundred poles were set up in a cir- cle about Masaniellos throne; the corpses of the traitors were beheaded; and soon the fierce head of a bandit grinned on every pole. Two poles, higher than the rest, were placed before the platform, and left vacant. One of these waited for the head of Maddaloni; the other, for the head of Don Carafa. The duke had taken refuge in the Mon- astery of St. Efrem. A spy warned him that his hiding place was discovered. He stole out of the convent in a monks gown and cowl, mounted a swift horse, struck the spurs up to the rowels, and galloped for his life to Benevento. He was just in time. The crowd, failing to find him in the convent, burnt his palace to the ground, and turned in search of Don Ca- raf a. The don was less lucky than his broth- er. A monk from the convent of Zocco- lanti was seen stealing towards the gates of Castel Nuovo. He was seized, and a note found sewn into his sandal. lt was from Carafa to the viceroy; he was hiding in the convent; and he implored the duke to send a guard, with cannon, to protect him. The convent was instantly attacked. Carafa, in a friars frock, sprang out of a window, rushed into a cottage, and crawled under a bed. The woman of the cottage made a signal to the crowd; and in a mo- ment Carafa was dragged out, and hacked in pieces. His head was borne in triumph to the market square and set up in its place; his right foot, enclosed in a kind of iron cage, was fixed beneath it; and un- der the ghastly effigy was written this in- scription: This is the head and foot of Don Carafa, traitor to the most faithful people. A more terrific spectacle of warning has seldom made the blood of men run chill. The plot had failed; Masaniello was stronger than ever. His escape was re- garded by the people as a miracle. At the time of the attempt he had happened to be wearing, suspended by a ribbon from his neck, a coin, on which was stamped the image of the Virgin. It was plainly to this talisman that his life was owing. Henceforth he was regarded with a double honor, as the champion of the people and as the favorite of Heaven. All thought of the privilege had, for the time, been driven from mens minds. It was evening when the viceroy, who had shut himself up again in Castel Nuovo, sent out a letter to disclaim all knowledge of the plot. He was probably sincere; for the duke, had he conspired against an enemy, was more likely to have planted a stiletto in his back than to have shot him in the open. His protest was accel)ted. Masaniello returned word that he pro- posed to ride next morning to the castle, and to have some private conference with his Grace about the public weal. That day marked the height of Masa- niellos power. As soon as it was known that he proposed to ride in public through the city the people prepared for an ova- tion. The houses were decked as for a day of festival. Garlands of flowers and myrtle branches strewed the streets, and twined round every balcony and doorway. Gorgeous arras, tapestries, and banners of rich stuffs, hung out of all the windows; and every point of outlook, on window, roof, and balcony, was alive with eager gazers. The procession started from the Carmine Church. First came a band of heralds, waving flags and blowing silver bugles; then troops of mounted soldiers, glittering in coats of mail; and then a company of boys and young girls, gaily dressed, with baskets in their hands, toss- ing a shower of flowers before the heros horse. Masaniello had, that day, put off his humble garb; and the people with delight beheld their leader in a suit of silver satin, a hat with a gay plume, and a sword bestarred with jewels, prancing upon a steed as white as snow equipped in gold and azure. Behind him came the 90 MASANIELLO. carriage of the cardinal, and the sedan of his chief counsellor; and the cavalcade moved slowly to the castle, with the splen- dor of the pageant of a king. Masaniello was received at the castle gates by the captain of the dukes guard. He alighted, and attended by the cardinal ascended the steps towards the entrance. In front of the portico he turned, and in a loud voice charged his followers, that if he failed to reappear within an hour, they should burst with fire and sword into the castle, and demand the reason. At this hint of treachery the people shouted fiercely. Masaniello, as he turned away, drew out of his breast a scroll of writing. It was the parchment of the privilege. And at that sight, more eloquent than words, the great crowd roared again. Whatever treason Ponce de Leon might be hatchingand the suspicion did him no injusticehe received his visitor with the most gracious smiles. It was agreed, ~vithout a word of cavil, not only that all taxes should be taken off, and that a free pardon should be granted to all rebels, but that Masaniello should maintain his men in arms until assent to the agreement could arrive from Spain. Finally, with many assurances of his esteem, the viceroy pressed his enemy to accept the rank of Duke St. George, at the same time hang- ing round his neck, with his own hands, a chain of massive links of gold. Masa- niello, having gained his ends, professed himself the dukes most humble servant; and in this pleasant comedy the time slipped fast away. Presently a roar was heard outside the castle. The hour was over; and the people, mindful of their pledge, were preparing, without more ado, to burst in at the gates. Masaniello, with the duke beside him, came out into a balcony before the palace. At the sight of their leader safe and sound the people broke forth into long and loud huzzas. The sight was one which might have swelled with pride the heart of any king. Masaniello was not loth to show the duke some token of his power. He called for cheers and the vast sea of heads below them roared in succession at the names of Our Lady, of the king, of the Duke of Arcos, of the cardinal, and of the most faithful people. When the shouting was at the loudest, Masaniello laid his finger on his lips; and in an instant there was the silence of the grave. Finally, he bade the crowd disperse; and forthwith, as if by miracle, the Largo was left empty. The duke could hardly trust his eyes as he surveyed the scene. The cardinal had invited Masaniello to reside in his own palace; and, in the cardinals carriage, he drove thither from the castle. Throughout that night the bonfires blazed, the guns thundered, and the bells pealed merrily in all the steeples~ And Masaniellos power was at its height. At its height,during two days, it re- mained. His men were kept in arms; and he ruled the city like a conqueror. It had been arranged that the ceremony which Perrones plot had broken off should be renewed on Saturday, the i~th of July; and on that day, amidst a scene of pomp and splendor, the privilege was ratified on oath before the altar of the great cathedral. And now the old monks oracle was half fulifiled. Masaniello had attained to kingly power. Was the latter half of the prediction now to come to pass ? was his empire to be brief, and his fall sud- den? A strange and awful answer was at hand. The Duke of Arcos was nursing in his brain a scheme of vengeance which, for ingenious and inhuman villany, would have been heard with rapture by a crew of Dantes fiends. This scheme ~vas now mature. That night, after the proceedings in the church, he arranged a splendid sup- per at the castle, at which Masaniello and his wife were the chief guests. There, either in a glass of wine, or, as others say, in a ripe fig, Masaniello swallowed a strange poison, which had been com- pounded by the dukes physician, Don Majella. This drug was not intended to take life; its effect was more terrific; it was of the nature of the insane root, which takes the reason prisoner. The victim, when he sat down to the banquet table, was a man of great and striking powers of mind, pre-eminently cool, ~vary, resolute, and sagacious. When he rose up from it he was a madman. The effect of this atrocious scheme was soon apparent. The supper ended; the guests departed; and nothing unusual was observed. But early the next morning the people in the streets were startled at the spectacle of Masaniello, in a ragged shirt, and with a stocking on one leg~ running at full speed towards the castle. At the entrance, he demanded audience of the viceroy; the guards, who knew him, durst not bar his passage; and he made his way into the dukes presence, crying aloud that he was starving. The false and smil- ing Ponce de Leon looked upon his handi- work with glistening eyes. Food was brought; but the wretched man would MASANIELLO. 9 now touch nothing. A new whim had seized him; they would go, the duke and he together, to Posilippo, and spend the day in pleasure. The duke eluded the proposal on the score of pressing busi- ness; and Masaniello sailed alone in the dukes gondola. Forty boats of minstrels came behind him. Crowds of gazers, lost in wonder, watched his progress from the shore. During the voyage he amused himself by flinging handfuls of gold coins into the water, and shouted with laughter, as the sailors dived to fetch them. At Posilippo, he ordered a rich feast to be set out; and it is said that before the boats head turned at evening towards Naples, he had drunk twelve bottles of lacryma Christi, the rich and giddy wine which ripens only on the ranges of Vesu- vius. Reeling with the effects of wine and poison, he was taken to his bed. The next morning he was raving. He called for a horse, and with a bare sword in his hand, rode furiously about the streets, slashing at all who ventured to oppose him. At length, he found his way to the seashore. At sight of the sea he threw himself from the saddle, and shrieking out that he was in flames, rushed, dressed as he was, into the waves. But all the waters of the ocean could not quench the fire that burnt him up. As soon as he emerged, he broke into fresh freaks of vio- lence. I-fe swore that he would fire the city; he hurled himself, sword in hand, upon the bystanders. His own friends were forced to seize and overpower him, to bind him with a chain, and to lead him to his house, where he was placed under a guard. The plot had been most cunningly con- trived. There was nothing to excite sus- picion; for the madness of the victim was easily ascribed to overstrain of mind and body, to days of ceaseless vigilance, and nights without repose. Masaniello might now be murdered almost with impunity; not as a rebel to the State, but as a dan- gerous madman. Four hired men were ready to put a finish to the work of treason. Their names were Michael Angelo Aidozzone, Andrea Rama, and Carlos and Salvator Cattaneo; the last two, brothers. Early on Sunday morning these four men repaired, with carbines in their hands, to Masaniellos house. They looked in at the door; but, to their surprise, the object of their search was nowhere to be seen. His guards were asleep; his chain lay on the floor. The madman, by whatever means, had gained his liberty, and disappeared. Several hours were spent in fruitless search. All traces of the fugitive had vanished. Nor was it till late in the after- noon that he was seen again. It was about five oclock; the service in the cathedral was drawing to a close; the cardinal was preaching to a vast assem- bly; when a ghastly, ragged figure, with wild eyes and matted hair, was descried upon the steps of the great altar. The figure carried in its hand a crucifix, to which, at intervals, it muttered and gestic- ulated. It was some time before the ghost was recognized. But it was Masa- niello. The cardinal xvent up to the intruder, and, with great tact and management, in- duced him to be led away into the adjoin- ing convent. He went calmly; for his violent humor had given way to a strange apathy, and he was now as docile as a child. He had not many minutes left the church when the four assassins entered it together. They soon learned what had occurred. Attended by a small band of their own party, they followed the track of their prey into the convent. Masaniello had retired alone into a quiet quarter of the cloisters. He was leaning from a window, and looking out across the waters of the lovely bay, over which the wind of evening was now beginning to blow coolly. The sound of footsteps roused him. He turned round quickly, with the words, Who wants me? I am here. Before he had time to speak again, or to make any movement of de- fence, the four assassins raised their pieces and fired upon him in a volley. All four shots took effect. He fell back, dying, against the stone~vork of the win- dow, and sank thence to the ground, with the faint cry, Ah, ungrateful traitors ! Almost before the words were spoken, the rattle was in his throat. In another mo- ment he was dead. Salvator Cattaneo threw himself upon the body, and severed the head from the shoulders with a knife. A spear was brought, the head was fixed upon it, and the band of conspirators, bearing it aloft, rushed out into the streets. Nothing could illustrate more strikingly the tremendous power which the dead man had wielded than the sensation which was excited by the tidings of his death. The news spread like wildfire through the city. His own followers seemed struck with stupor; his enemies went wild with fierce delight. One band rushed forth into the market-place, and took down from their place of infamy Carafas head and foot. 92 A SECRET INHERITANCE. Another hastened to the convent, sought out the headless body of their enemy, and haled it by a rope out of the cloisters. The viceroy left the castle and rode to the cathedral, where doubtless he gave thanks to St. Gennaro for having blessed his plot. Soon all the horde of smaller tyrants and oppressors began to crawl in swarms out of their cellars, caves, and convent cells, to feast their eyes upon the sight of the head of the terrible fisherman going up and down the city on a pole, and to have a kick at his carcase as it was dragged along the kennels. At length the head was fixed upon a spike above the gateway of the Holy Spirit; and the body was hurled into a ditch near the Nolana gate. Such was the fall of Masaniello. But it was his fate to illustrate, beyond example, the mutability of human things. And the last scene of the strange drama was not vet. The great mass of the people still re- vered the name of theit deliverer. The savage violence of his madness had trou- bled and estranged them. But his death struck them with consternation; and in a few hours nothing was recollected but his greatness. Night had not come before tens of thousands were murmuring his name with blessings, and calling upon each other, with tears of shame and rage, to remember all they owed to Masaniello. The hearts of his enemies, which had been thrilling with delight, began to feel a chill; and soon their bands, which had been going up and down so gaily, van- ished like mist before the gathering of the multitude. That night, preparations were set on foot for a burial worthy of a peoples hero; and before morning all was ready. The corpse was taken from the ditch into which it had been thrown. The head was brought down from the pinnacle above the gate, and fastened to the shoulders by a thread of silver. The body, washed and drenched with perfumes, was laid, clothed in a vestment of white linen, upon an open bier, and carried to the Chapel of Our Lady, where it was placed in front of the great altar. A crown was fixed upon the head, and a sceptre set in the right hand; and thus, in pomp and splendor, as at the burial of a king, the corpse of Ma- saniello lay in state. For many hours the crowd continued to stream past the spot; a rain of flowers fell ceaselessly upon the body; and the tolling of the bell, and the mournful music of the organ, were mingled with the constant sound of weeping. At length, when the sun was sinking, the bier was placed upon a lofty car, and drawn by coal-black horses through the streets. Five days before, along that very road, the hero of the hour had passed in triumph, amid the blaze of banners and the shouting of the crowd. Now, black hangings drooped from every window; faces dark with sorrow crowded both sides of the way. Before the hearse a thousand priests, in stoles of white, walked with censers in their hands and crosses lifted; behind it, muffled drums and trumpets played a solemn march. Then came a company of men-at-arms, with spears re- versed and colors drooping; and then thousands, and tens of thousands, of the people. The solemn pageant wound its way through all the quarters of the city. At length it turned again towards the church. The organ broke forth into the last ma- jestic service of the dead. A stone was lifted in the marble pavement; and there, with more than royal splendor, amidst the blaze of torches and the strains of solemn music, the dark house closed forever above the dust of Masaniello. From The English Illustrated Magazine. A SECRET INHERITANCE. BY B. L. FARJEON. BOOK TEE SECOND. XXIII. IT was not till at least an hour after- wards that I remembered the promise I had given to Emilius. Carew still slept, and had not stirred from the position in which I had found him. Two or three times I made a gentle effort to remove from beneath his hand the papers I had found in the secret drawer, but as my de- sign could not be accomplished without violence, I abandoned it, There was no doubt in my mind that he had read them, and his tenacious hold upon them denoted that he had formed some strong resolution with respect to them. With the intention of fulfilling my promise to Emilius, I softly left the room. Mrs. Carew, sitting in a room above with Mildred, heard my movements, and swiftly and noiselessly glided down the stairs. In a low tone I made her ac- quainted with what had passed between me and Emilius, and I perceived that she was not unprepared for Emiliuss demand for an interview. When I repeated to A SECRET INHERITANCE. 93 her Emiliuss words, Tell her she has nothing to fear from me, and that the faith I have in her will not allow me to believe that she will conspire to rob my life of the one joy it contains for me, she clasped her hands across her eyes, and remained so for a little while. It is his due, she said, but though she strove to speak calmly she could not con- trol her trembling voice and quivering lips; I must see him. When ?I asked. I cannot at this moment decide, she replied. I must have time to reflect. Meanwhile, there lies our first care. She pointed to the study in which her husband slept. You understand that he is determined to see you before another day and night have passed? Yes, I understand. How is Mildred? Bright and well, with the exception that she is concerned about me. She sus- pects nothing. It is better so. Trouble comes soon enough. Indeed, indeed! she murmured, with a strangely pathetic note in her voice as though she were pitying herself. If we but knew if we but knew! But to do everything for the bestwhat can one do more? A heavy punishment is about to fall upon me, and yet I thought I was acting right. Go to my husband. He may need you when he wakes. She glided up the stairs to Mildreds room, and I re-entered the study. Carew still slept, and I remained at my vigil till noon without observing any change in him. In addition to my position beino- one of embarrassment, I found myself laboring under a feeling of exhaustion. I had had no rest, and had passed a long and anxious day and night. Insensibly my eyes closed; I struggled against na- tures demand, but it was too imperative to be successfully resisted, and at length I fell asleep. So thoroughly worn out was I that it ~vas evening before I awoke. Carew, also awake, was gazing at me as I opened my eyes. I would not disturb you, he said. You appeared to be thoroughly exhaust- ed. I am not so young as I was, I ob- served, with an attempt at lightness. Have you been awake long? For some hours, he replied. I glanced at the table; the papers were still there; his eyes followed the direction of mine and he nodded gently. Have you remained with me the whole time? I asked. Oh, no. I left the room two or three times. My wife looked in occasionally to see if you still slept. He motioned with his hand to a corner of the table, and I saw bread, and meat, and wine there. Eat, he said; you must be hungry. I was glad of the food, and the xvine gave me strength. Carew himself drank two glasses. We are but poor, gross creatures, he said, dependent upon a crumb of bread for the life we think so wonderful. Is the scheme which created it monstrous or beneficent? Is it the work of an angel or a devil? Have you finished? Yes. Something is necessary between you and me, something which must not remain unspoken. The time for concealments, evasions, self-delusions, torturing doubts (now cleared up, fatally), is at an end. One question first, I said, thinking of Emilius; has Mrs. Carew left the house during the time I have slept? No; I forbade her. I have still for some few hours a will of my own. He touched the papers written by his father. After I left you here yesterday, you dis- covered these? I discovered them before you gave me the record of your life to read. You have read it? Every word. Had my fathers record been discov. ered when I was a young man, had he dealt by me justly instead of mercifully, what evil might have been averted! I have no intention of ~vasting time by idle words, by vain regrets. I have fixed my course. I seek some enlightenment from you. Tell me all that passed within your knowledge since I spoke to you last night at the door of this room. Keep nothing from me. Absolute frankness is due from you to me, and I claim it. Believe me, I am animated by but one supreme desire a desire for justice. All lighter senti- ments are dead within me, except pity for the lady who has the misfortune to be my wife. I loved her with a very pure and complete love. I dare not wrong her by saying I love her still and yet, and yet You see, I am still human; that is the worst of it. Tell me all. I did so, concealing nothing, softening nothing. I faithfully, mercilessly de- scribed the events of the night that had passedhis leaving the house, his wifes entreaties that I should follow him to pre- vent the committal of a dreadful deed, my 94 A SECRET INHERITANCE. doing so, his movements in his search through the grounds dagger in hand, the strange intelligence which, asleep as he was, directed those movements, fortu- nately unsuccessful, his return to the house, locking me out, my discovery and interview with Emilius, and finally my entrance into the study, where he sat asleep, his hand firmly guarding the pa- pers I had found in the secret drawer. He listened quietly and attentively, and did not interrupt me bya word. It was ~vith a feeling of apprehension that I approached Emiliuss description of his dream, in which had been pictured the murder of Eric, but no outward sign was visible in Carew to denote agitation. The only question he asked was with reference to Emiliuss desire for an interview with Mrs. Carew. Could I discover a reason for it? I answered that I could not, but that there must be some powerful reason that Emilius, free from prison, should journey to England for the special pur- pose of the interview. I have no remembrance of leaving the house last night, said Carew, and upon other evidence than that which is fur- nishecl to me, should scout the tale as a monstrous invention. But it is not for me to doubt. I was born into a fatal inher- itance, and I must suffer for it. 1-low? I cried. The past is past; there is no undoing it. If you think of invoking the law, you may banish the idea; it cannot touch you. From the hour that I read my fathers confession, said Carexv, I became a law unto myself. I will not pain you by ask- ing whether you believe me guilty or no; you cannot do otherwise than look upon me as a monster, as I look upon myself. The law cannot touch me, I believe; and well do I know that not only what has been done cannot be undone, but that it cannot be atoned for. But the future must be secured. My father wrote that the one consolation he had was that he endeavored to perform his duty. He did not so endeavor. His duty ~vas to en- lighten me, an innocent being, while my parents lived, as to the nature of the inheritance transmitted to me. Then I might have done what it is incumbent upon me to do now. At least, if I had not the courage for that, I should not have cast a blight upon the life of a pure and white-souled lady. You are an authority upon the disease of insanity, and the dif- ferent forms in which it presents itself in human beings; and you must be aware that it would be a difficult task to find doctors who would declare me to be mad. Setting aside the sufferings of regret, my mind is as clear and logical, as your own or any mans. My reason is it crooked, warped? No, it is clear as a lake, and I can see straight on to the end. In my sleep I am another being. Granted. But what crime can human evidence bring home to my door? None. What guilt is mine, others have suffered for, and the law is satisfied that it did not stumble. Emilius can come forward and say, That monster killed my brother. They will ask for evidence, and he will relate a dream. You are a madman, they will declare. You saw me last night prowling round my house in search of whom? In search of an enemy who long years ago was my enemy, and who, having endured the punishment inflicted by the law for a crime which he was proved to have com- rnitted, comes now to England to injure and rob me. So sensitive am I respecting the safety of my wife and daughter that even in my sleep I protect them. A sub- ject I for admiration. No hand, no voice, would be raised in horror against me; I should be lauded, praised, set up as an example, while Emilius would be regarded with loathing. Yet he is a martyr, and I am a devil. Who is to punish me? Are there other men as I am? If so, there should be a law to destroy them while they are young, before they are ripe for mischief. It would be a simple safe- guard. As he had sat in silence listening to me, so now I sat in silence listening to him. There was not a trace of passion in his voice; it was calm and judicial. Even when he called himself a devil there was no deviation from this aspect of absolute composure. What wrote my father? he con- tinued. What wrote he too late? I most solemnly adjure him never to marry, never to link his life with that of an inno- cent being. If his heart is moved to love he must pluck the sentiment out by the roots, must fly from it as from a horror which blenches the cheek to contemplate. Our race must die with him; not one must live after him to perpetuate it. I lay this injunction most solemnly upon him; if he violate it, he will be an incredible mon- ster. In making this quotation he did not refer to the written pages; word for word, he repeated it by heart. It was a proof ho~v deeply upon his mind and heart were graven his fathers fatal confession. rhus said my father, but he said it not in time. He failed in his duty, and led me into worse than error. Well do I now understand the mystery of my early home, of my boyhoods life. Why did he not kill me? God and man would have ap- plauded the deed. Had it not been that he paused here, as though he had finished what he had to say, I doubt whether I should have spoken, so overwhelmed was I by this merciless self-analysis and self-condemnation. But the silence enabled me to recover myself, to think of other matters than himself. You told me, I said, that you forbade j our wife to leave the house. Then she as not seen Emilius? No. She ~vill see him to-morrow. He says he must see her this day or night. He expects me to acquaint him with the result of his messacre to Mrs Carew. Go to him and implore him to leave it till to-morrow. Then there will be no dif- ficulty. It is but a few hoursand he has waited so many years. His mission cannot be so urgent. He declares it is. He is possessed by a just fury. It is his intention. I suppose, to denounce me to my ~vife. The one joy in life that remains to him is the joy of making the woman who loved me shrink from me as from a pestilence. That joy shall be his to-morrow; and if then he is not con- tent, I will submit myself to him as he shall dictate. You can assure him of my honesty in this. You forget, I urged. He desired me to tell your wife that his errand was not one of revenge. He is justified in using any subterfuge to obtain an interview with her. If she had reason to believe that he came to in- jure me she would not see him. Go to him, and tell him to-morrow. Tell him also that I have pronounced judgment upon myself. I had no choice but to comply. He spoke with a force and a decision there was no gainsaying. XXIV. I HAVE omitted to mention that a letter was delivered to me from my son Reginald. It was written in London, almost imme- diately upon his arrival there. There were in it about twenty words in relation to the business I had entrusted to him, for the purpose of securing his absence the remaining three and a half pages were filled with rhapsodies upon Mildred. It was Mildred, Mildred, nothing and nobody but Mildred. She was the light of his 95 life, the hope, the joy of it; nothing else but Mildred was worth living for; nor even I, his old father, who never thought, who never would think, any sacrifice too great to make for his sons happiness. I did not complain, and I do not; it is the way of things, and ~ve old ones must stand aside, and be humbly grateful that we are allowed to witness the happi- ness which we have clone our utmost to bring about. Not that this was the case with Reginald and myself. The duty devolving upon me was to prevent, not to assist in, the accomplishment of his dear- est hopes. How would the lad take it? Would he look upon me as his enemy? Would he thrust me aside, and rush wildly to a fate I shuddered even to contem- plate? Would not the example before him serve as a~varning? I could not say. The more I thought of the matter the more disturbed I became. Certainly, he could not marry Mildred without Carews consent, and that, I knew, would be with- held. The true story of her husbands life could not be concealed from the knowledge of Mrs. Carew; and knowing it, she would not allow Mildred to wed. If necessary, Mildred herself must be told how impossible it was that she should ever think of marriage, and she would refuse my son. And Reginalds heart would be b:oken. Of that I was con- vinced. It would be a blow from which he would never recover. These were my reflections as I went out into the grounds of Rosemullion to seek Emilius. I had not long or far to seek. Near the copse in which he was concealed the previous night he suddenly presented himself. I have been looking and waiting for you all day, he said. Can you realize the torture I am suffering? I did not answer his question, but gave him an account of what I had clone, and then I conveyed Gabriel Carews message to him. To wait till to-morrow! Emilius ex- claimed. He asks, he implores me to ~vait till then? I have told you, I said. It seen~s to me not unreasonable. It seems to you it seems to you! he repeated in petulant excitement; and the next moment begged my pardon for speaking so to me, who had proved myself his friend. But you do not know this fiend you do not know of what he is capable! You believe what I have told you of the eternal wrong he has inflicted upon me a wrong for which he can A SECRET INHERITANCE. 96 A SECRET INHERITANCE. never hope to be forgiven in this world or the next. You believe it, and yet you say he is justified in asking me to wait till he has had time to carry out the secret de- sign he has formed to prevent me from obtaining justice. You believe it, and yet you justify him. 0 God in Heaven! Is there, has there ever been, justice on earth? And I am to wait, who have ~vaited for twenty years, who have suffered unjustly for twenty years. And I am to stand aside ~vhile he completes his work and dashes the cup of happiness from my lips! No! Again and again, no! This night is my limit. Before it passes I will see Mrs. Carew, and she shall right me. You can tell this to the monster yonder who has juggled you so successfully. I endeavored to argue, to reason with him, but he would not listen to me. So I left him, his last words being that noth- ing on earth should move him from his resolve. xxv. THE clock struck nine as I re-entered the house. A servant accosted me with a message from Mrs. Carew, requesting me to go to her in the little room in which Carew was in the habit of taking tea with her the apartment he had described as a sanctuary of rest. Mrs. Carew was alone. My husband is asleep, she said, and asked me to see that he was not dis- turbed. He told me that you had gone out to see Emilius, who was to come here to-morrow morning. Have you seen him? Yes, but he declares he will not wait. He insists upon seeing you to-night. Poor Emilius! It is but a few hours longer. He must have patience till to- morrow. Deeply as I pity him, I am grateful for the delay, for it gives me time to make a confession to you. I do not know whether it should have been made before but now it is imperative. I have been praying for strength. My husband prayed with me. In the days of our courtship, when he and the good priest of Nerac were friends, Mr. Carew was in the habit of accompanying me and my dear parents to church; but for many years he has not entered a place of worship. I do not ask you to betray his confidence, but was he not more composed when you left him? It seemed to me that he had made up his mind to a certain course he did not explain it to me, nor did I ask him to do so which might be the means of atoning for the errors of the past. I am not at liberty to say more; what passed between us I regard as in sacred confidence. I am glad he has you to rely on, said Mrs. Carew. He came to me voluntarily an hour ago, and the conversation we had has done me good. He was wonderfully gentle and humble but indeed, Mr. Carew was never arrogant s.- and I gath- ered the impression that he had in some way discovered that he was in the habit of walking abroad during the night and causing me distress of mind. He spoke kindly, too, of poor Emilius, and said he hoped to be forgiven for any wrong he had done that unhappy man in the past. The air is very sweet to-night, is it not? I have been in some anxiety myself, I said haltingly, scarcely knowing how to reply to the question, which appeared to me a strange one at that moment, and have scarcely noticed; but there is a soft air blowing, and the night is fine. You are anxious about Reginald, she said, and Mildred? Yes, I said, surprised that she should approach the subject. She pressed my hand. Mr. Carew, when he was here with me, said the air was peculiarly sweet, and I gather the impression from him. It is always so with one we love. I questioned myself whether I should impart to him what I am about to impart to you, but he ap- peared to be so much in need of rest that I decided not to agitate him. I trust he will forgive me when I make my confes- sion to him to-morrow. To-night you will counsel, you will advise me? Command me entirely, I said. I thank you. I have wished Mildred good-night also, and we shall be quite un- disturbed. She has received a letter from your Reginald, and is replying to it. A lovin~ task to a young girl in her posi- tion. I winced, and determined that the night should not pass without my acquaint- ing Mrs. Carew with my views respecting the impossibility of a marriage between Mildred and Reginald. A knock at the door here caused Mrs. Carew to call Come in. A servant entered with keys, which he handed to his mistress. All the doors are securely fastened? she asked. Yes, madam, replied the servant. Come to me, she said, in the morn- ing for the keys. When we were alone Mrs. Carew said that before she commenced she wished to see that her husband was sleeping well, A SECRET INHERITANCE. and I accompanied her to his room. He was lying on his right side, breathing calmly and peacefully. There was a cer- tain intentness in the expression of his features, as though even in his sleep his mind was bent upon some fixed resolve, but otherwise I was surprised, after what he had gone through, that he should be so quiet and composed. I had never before realized how powerful was the face I was now gazing on; the firm lips, the large nose, the broad forehead, were indications of intellectual power. No sign of weak- ness was apparent, none of indecision or wavering. He was a man capable of a great career. My dear father used to say, said Mrs. Carew, that Mr. Carews mind was the most comprehensive he had ever met with. She stooped and kissed him lightly on the forehead, without disturbing him. We trod gently out of the room. He will have a good night, she said. I must go up to Mildreds room. The light was shining through the crevices of the door. Not asleep, Mildred? said Mrs. Ca. rew softly. No, mamma. I shall be, soon. Dont remain up too long, my dear. No, mamma.,~ Good-night, Mildred. Good-night, dear mamma. Mamma? Yes, child! I have just given Reginald your love. That is right, my dear. And I have told him not to remain away too long. That is right, my dear. Good-night, dearest mamma. Good-night, my dearest. Alas for Reginald! I thought, as we descended the stairs. Alas for the hopes of that young girl! In her own apartment Mrs. Carew in- formed me that it was by her husbands wish the lower doors were securely fas- tened, and the keys given to her. In order, she said, that it might not be in his power to leave the house in his sleep. He did not say so, but that was his thought. XXVI. I RELATE in my own words the strange story Mrs. Carew imparted to me. Al- though she had erred, her confession was like a rift of sweet light in the dark clouds which hung over Rosemullion. It brought more than hope and comfort to my old LIVING AGE. VOL. LX. 3075 97 heartit brought joy. In a very few moments you will understand the meaning of my words. Transport yourself back to the village of Nerac, a year after the marriage of Lauretta and Gabriel Carew. Business of a particular nature took Carew from Nerac for a space of three months; he was absent that time, much against his will, for his wife was near her confine- ment. This took place safely two weeks after his departure, and he was duly in- formed of the event. All was well at home; Lauretta and her baby girl were thriving. The days and the weeks passed until two months went by. Carew, in his letters to his wife, expressed the profound- est joy at this precious home blessing. Smarting as he was during that period from the growing coldness of the villagers towards him, and chafing at the injustice of the world, he placed an extravagant value upon this baby girl, who would be, he said, a charm against all evil. He longed for the time when he could hold this blessing in his loving arms; now his happiness was complete; he asked for no greater treasure. In the growth and de- velopment of the new young life he would find solace and consolation. His wife was enjoined to take the most tender care of their child. You and she are one, Carew wrote. Each is incomplete with- out the other. I cannot think of you now apart. Were I to lose one my life would be plunged into darkness. Then befell an event which brought horror and grief to Lauretta. It happened that her nurse had fallen sick, and was compelled to go to her own home; there was no other female servant in the establishment capa- ble of undertaking a nurses duties, and Lauretta therefore took them cheerfully on herself. Two months, as I have said, had passed after the birth of the baby girl. Carew was expected home in a fortnight. In the dead of night, when all in the house were asleep, with the exception of Lauretta, she, watching by the cradle of her baby, heard a sound of moaning with- out. She listened intently; it was her own name that she heard uttered in ac- cents of deepest pain and suffering. It was a wild night; heavy rain was falling, the wind was raging; and through the sounds of the storm came the wailing of her name, with half-choked sobs and en- treaties for help and pity. It ~vas but an hour before that Lauretta, awaking, had heard proceed from her baby- girl, lying in the cradle by her bedside~ 98 A SECRET INHERITANCE. some light sounds of difficult breathing which had alarmed her. She got up and dressed, and tended her bady, who, after a while, seemed a little easier; hut with the natural anxiety of a young mother Lauretta remained awake watching her child. The moans for help outside appeared to be especially addressed to her and to her alone, and she seemed to recognize the voice. She crept softly down, and unfastened the door. Who is there? she asked, during a lull in the storm. The answer came Patricia! Help me! Oh, help me, and let no one know! It was Emiliuss wife. Lauretta assisted her indoors. The poor girl was in a pitiable plight. Fam- ished, ragged, penniless, with a baby in her arms. Both ~vere wringing wet. The pelting rain had soaked them through and through. Throbbing with sympathy and compas- sion Lauretta quickly undressed Patricias baby, and put it in her own warm bed. They had by this time reached Laurettas bedroom, in which her own child was lying. Lauretta wished to call the ser- vants, but Patricia sobbed that she would fly the house if any eyes but Laurettas rested on her. It appeared, according to the poor girls story, that her father was in pursuit of her, and had vowed to kill her and her baby. He will kill mehe will kill me moaned Patricia. No one must know I have been here but you no one, no one! And then she rocked herself hysteri- cally and cried, What will become of my poor baby girlwhat will become of her? I heard that your husband was not here, and it gave me courage to crawl to you. Not that it matters much. It isnt for myself 1 care. My father may kill me I have not long to livebut mybaby, my baby! Oh, save my darling, save her for the sake of my innocent Emili us! It was then that Lauretta noticed, for the first time, signs in Patricias face which interpreted by her fear and the poor girls words, seemed to be signs of ap- proaching death. And still Patricia in- sisted that she would not remain in the house; no force or entreaties could make her. What then can I do for you? asked Lauretta; she had already given Patricia food and money. Take care of my child, replied Patri- cia. Bring her up as your own. Let her never know her fathers disgrace, her mothers shame. It ~vill be an angels deed! For pitys sake, do not deny me! You are rich, and can afford the charity and if in your husbands life there has been guilt, this act of charity will atone for it. See here look on her innocent face. Having the power, you have not the heart to deny me. Ah, if your angel mother were alive, I should appeal to her, and should not appeal in vain! She loved Emilius, and believed in his innocence yes, to the last she believed in it. I know it for a certainty. You, too, loved my poor martyred husband, and he loved and nonored you and yours, with all the strength of his faithful heart. He is inno- cent, innocent, I tell you! God forbid that I should accuse any one of being guilty I am too desperate and despair- ing, and my childs life, the salvation of her soul, are at stake. When your sainted mother died, did all goodness die out of the world? Ah, noit is not possible you live again ii~ her. In you she lives again, and all her mercy and sweet kind- ness which caused us all, from the highest to the lowest, to worship her, to look upon her as something holy. For her sake, if not for my own, you cannot, cannot deny me this charity, you who have it in your power to grant it! All this, and more. To say that Lau- rettas heart was touched is inadequate; it overflowed; it yearned to assist the suffering mother, so near to her through her young motherhood, through the old ties with Emilius and Eric. A choking cry from her own baby girl caused her to rush to the cradle. Within the hour a fatal circumstance occurred. Laurettas baby drew her last breath. It has nearly all my clays been my be- lief that everything in human life is to be accounted for by human standards. I am shaken in this belief. In this death of Laurettas baby I seem to see the finger of fate. Vain to attempt to describe the ago- nizing grief of the young mother. So overpowering was it that she lost con- sciousness. She recovered her senses when the storm had passed and the morn- ings light was shining on her. When she awoke to reality, what did she see? Her husband had suddenly and unex- pectedly returned home. She was in bed, and he was sitting by her side. Gabriel, Gabriel ! she cried, and, overcome by the terror of her great loss, she would have lost consciousness again I but for an unaccountable joyousness in his manner, which mingled strangely with the sympathy he must have felt for her suffer- ing condition. It was, doubtless, the storm, he said soothingly. It raged so fiercely for an hour and more, that I am told it exceeded in violence anything of a like kind that has been experienced in these parts for the last fifty years. No wonder it has had such an effect upon you. Half the trees in our garden are uprooted. It hastened my steps home, for I know how these convul- sions of nature affect you. But as you see, the danger has passed; the sun is shining brightly; but not more brightly in the heavens than it is shining in my heart. She listened to him in amazement, and raising herself in bed she looked around for Patricia. She saw no sign of the hap- less woman. The cradle in which her baby girl had died ~vas by the side of the bed. Carew bent over it and said in a tone of ecstasy, Mildred Mildred! Our Mildred our dear ewe lamb! How sweetly and soundly she sleeps! Oh, my darling wife! What care I for the injustice of the world now that this treasure is ours? My sweet my sweet! You recompense for all. Do you know, Lauretta, as travelling home I neared the beloved spot which contained you and our treasure, my heart almost stood still at the fear that I should not find you both well. And now how can I be sufficiently grateful? Of no account to me is all that transpires outside the circle which contains you and my dear one in the cradle here. I set great store upon our child, Lauretta. She is to me a guarantee of all that is worth living for in the present and the future. When I ar- rive(l home and found you prostrate I was at first overwhelmed, but I soon discovered that you had fainted, and I judged rightly, did I not, dear wife of my heart, that, not being strong, you kept it from me while we were apart, in order not to distress me? But now all is ~vell all shall be well. See, Lauretta, she opens her eyes, our darling. The question is can I raise her safely and place her by your side? Yes, it is done, and I am the happiest father in the worler! Was she dreaming? In the clothes in which her child died rested this child of Patricias, smiling, blooming, laughing and crowing as Lauretta drew her to her breast. Carews delight, his gratitnde, his worship for the babe he belieVed to be his own, the sul)erstitious store he set upon her young life, were so unbounded, that 99 Lauretta did not dare to undeceive him. She feared, if she told him the truth, that it would unsettle his reason, and produce between her and him a gulf which could never be bridged over. She accepted the strange combination of circumstances, and held her tongue. Her own dear babe was dead, but this new Mildred, whom she grew to love truly as if she were her own, remained, and grew to what she is, a flower of beauty, goodness, and sweetness. Nothing more did Lauretta hear of Pa- tricia; whether she died or lived was not known to her. It is but a detail but necessary to complete the story to state here that Patricia lived but a few months after the occurrence of this strange event. More important is it to state that, in some unexplained way, Emilius learns that his daughter lived, and that the Carews were bringing her up as if she were a child of their own. His term of imprisonment over, he had come now to claim her. It would be impossible for me to give expression to my feelings of gratitude at this wonderful revelation. The despair into which I had fallen at the contempla- tion of the wrecking of my dear son Regi- nalds happiness vanished. A fair future lay still before him, and the most cherished hopes of his heart would be realized. I was sure that Emilius would not mar them. A nature so noble as his, so strong in suffering, so heroic in the highest form of human endurance, could not lend itself to the committal of a petty act of selfish- ness whereby the child upon whose mem- ory he had lived during his cruel and unjust imprisonment would be rendered miserable and unhappy. To this mar- tyred man I was ready to bow my head, ready to give him my friendship, my sym- pathy, my hearts best fruits of confidence and esteem. Thinking of him, I was awed that a man could live through the anguish that had been his portion, and still retain the inherent dignity and nobil- ity of a great and noble nature. xxvii. HARK! whispered Mrs. Carew, her story told, and before we had time to de- bate upon the wisest course to pursue. What sound is that? It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In this sound there was no at- tempt at concealment. The footsteps were those of one who desired his pres- ence to be known. I divined instantly who it was who, by some means unknown to me, obtaining an entrance into the A SECRET INHERITANCE. 100 house, was now approaching the room in which Mrs. Carew and I were sitting. I could not, and did not blame him. In his place I should have acted as he was act- ing. The silver clock chimed the hour of twelve. You will see him, I said, rising to my feet and advancing to the door. See whom? asked Mrs. Carew, with her hand at her heart. Emilius. It is he and no other man who is coming here. He has a great stake in this house. He is justified. My husband? she gasped. Is safe, if you will only be guided by me. It is your duty to be brave and strong. Never was courage more needed than at this moment. And not only cour- age, but wisdom. Decide quickly. There is no time to lose. I will be guided by you, she said faintly. I threw open the door, and saw Emilius standing in the passage, uncertain which direction to take. Enter, I said in a low tone. Mrs. Carew is here. For the sake of others be gentle, and do not alarm the house. He entered, and Mrs. Carew and he stood face to face. The native dignity of the man instantly asserted itself. He removed his ragged cap and stood bareheaded before her. But there was no cringing in his attitude. It was perfectly respectful something, indeed, more than that; it was the atti- tude of a man who once was this sweet ladys equal, and who, despite the judg- ment of the world, still knew himself to be her equal, and worthy of the esteem she once accorded to him. But as he gazed upon her, and she upon him, in silence for a few momentsa silence which I did not dare to break his stern mood melted. He saw and recognized her, as he had always seen and recognized her in the time that was gone, ~vhen he was entitled to hold up his head among men but never more so in truth and honor than now a gentle-mannered lady, in whose face shone the reflex of a sweet and womanly nature. Remembrances of the past rushed upon him and softened him. Forgive me, he said humbly. And then tears filled my eyes as I saw it, and knew the suffering she was bravely enduringshe held out her hand to him. He bowed his head over it, as for a mo- ment he held it in his. I could not wait any longer, he said softly. I have entered like a thief in- to your house but I have waited so long! It is I who should ask for forgiveness, she said. Emilius, be merciful to me and mine! I have no thought of revenge, he said, in a voice as soft as her own. I am a broken-down man, with one sole hope. But I could not stand before you, the Lauretta I loved with the pure love of a brother, if I did not know myself un- stained by crime or any taint of dis- honor. I believe you, Emilius, she said. You believe me, Lauretta! he ex- claimed, advancing a step towards her. I believe you, Emilius, she repeated. Had he come with savage intent she could not more surely have disarmed him. It is more than I dared hope for, he said. How often, Lauretta, in the gloom of my prison, have I thought of you and your dear parents, of the home of inno- cence and love in which I was ever a wel- come guest, of the once happy village in which I was honored and respected! Some crumbs of comfort fell to my lot, some gleam of light shone through the darkness. Had it not been so, and had I not been animated by another hope, I might have gone mad. Good Father Dan- iel visited me regularly, at permitted inter- vals, until he died. He had the firmest faith in my innocence, and he brought me messages which fell like heavenly balm upon my wounded spirit. Your sainted mother believed in my innocence, and she bade him tell me so, and that her love for me ~vas unchanged. And now, you I But your mothers soul shines in your eyes. It could not have been otherwise. He paused a moment or two, reflecting what to say. On one of Father Daniels vis- its he brought me a letter, securely sealed; It was against the prison rules, but that did not deter him from doing what he deemed to be right. I hastily concealed it, noting first, however, with a beating heart, that it was addressed to me in my wifes handwriting. I asked him if he knew what it contained, and he answered no; and then, with a grave face, he bade me prepare for solemn news. I felt at once what was coming. Can you divine my purpose, Lauretta, in telling you this? I think I can, she replied. Go on. It was while the good priest was on a mission of mercy that a villager came to him and said that ma hut hard by a A SECRET INHERITANCE. A SECRET INHERITANCE. I0I woman was dying, and, hearin gthathe was in the neighborhood, begged him to come to her. Father Daniel xvent, and discov- ered that the woman was Patricia, my wife. She ~vas very near to death, and she had only strength to entreat him to deliver to me, secretly, a letter she had written. He promised to do so, and in a few minutes after he received it from her she drew her last breath. Before she died he asked her after her babe for Patricia was quite alonebut she did not seem to understand him. Subsequently, however, he learnt from the villager that Patricia had said her baby was dead. This was the mournful news which Father Daniel conveyed to me in prison. Despite his attempts at consolation, I felt when he left me that I was truly alone in the world. Brother, ~vife, child, all dead I I prayed to God to send death to me soon. X,(XThat had I to live for? But there ~vas my wifes letter, and before twenty-four hours had passed I found an opportunity to read it. Lauretta, that letter informed me what had become of my child, and it laid upon me an obligation of secrecy for so long a time as I was in prison. Patricia solemnly ad- jured me not to breathe to a living soul that our child lived in your care; but I was to be released from this obligation when I was a free man. Then I was to act as it seemed to me right to act. Is there any need, Lauretta, for me to enter more fully into the particulars of Patri- There is no need, Emilius. Except, perhaps, to say that when you were lying senseless before her, and your tender blossom lay dead in its cradle, it was only then that the idea entered Patri- cias mind of changing the childrens clothes, and leaving her baby with you. It was done, and Patricia stole away with your dead child at her breast, herself to die, as she well knew, before many ~veeks had passed. I have something to tell you, Lauretta and here Emilius s voice was charged with a new note of tenderness. When Father Daniel next visited me I begged him to discover where the dead babe was buried, and to put a few flowers on the grave. The good priest did more. He paid a village woman to attend to it, and he left a small sum of money to be spent in beautifying the grave of your child. Flowers have grown upon it and around it from that day to this. I visited the grave before I set forth on my jour- ney here, and I knelt and prayed there. I prayed a blessing upon you, Lauretta, and I prayed that I might live to see the hope fulfilled which shone like a star upon me through the long years of my prison life. Lauretta, he cried, stretching forth his trembling hands, my child my child 1 She lives, sobbed Mrs. Carew, in goodness, health, and beauty a flower of sweetness! He fell upon his knees before her, and kissed her dress, and it was then I heard a sound without, which, for a moment, transfixed me with terror. They, over- whelmed by emotion, were deaf to this sound. It was that of a man creeping stealthily from his chamberand that man Gabriel Carew. Quickly recovering myself, and feeling the necessity for un- mediate and prompt action, I addressed Emilius and Mrs. Carew. Attend to me, I said impressively. Allis well with you. You, Emilius, have gained a daughter, and will embrace her at sunrise. You, dear lady, have not lost a daughter, for Mildred will be to you as she has ever been. I have proved myself your friend. Answer quickly have I not? Yes, they both replied. Do not, therefore, ask me for the rea- sons tor my present action. I demand from you both a sacred promise that you will not leave this room till I call for you, till I give you permission. It shall be given at the latest by sunrise. I must have this promise I must! My voice, my manner, Mrs. Carew s fears for her husband, and confidence in me, compelled assent. We give it, she said. We give it, said Emilius. I accept it, and bind you to it. What I do is for the good of allfor your future, for Mildreds future and to avert disaster. Only I can do this. Whatever you hear, you will not open this door ~vithout my permission, after I leave it. When I am gone, turn the key, and ad- mit no one unless I desire it. It is un- derstood. Yes, they said. it is understood. As I closed the door behind me I heard the key turned in the lock. Xxv. THE sound of soft footsteps proceeded, as I supposed, from Gabriel Carew, but to my surprise he ~vas not coming towards the room I had just left, hut was stealthily ascending the stairs which led to Mildreds room. His eyes were open, and his move- ments were dictated by intelligent caution, but he was asleep. In his left hand he carried the naked dagger. 102 A SECRET INHERITANCE. I ran up the stairs softly and swiftly, heedless of danger to myself, and walked by his side. He took no notice of me. Standing by the door of Mildreds room he paused, and was about to put his hand to the handle when I seized his wrist. What are you about to do? I whis- pered, my lips close to his ear. Speak low, the house must not be disturbed. To my horror, he replied, in a whisper as low and distinct as my own: Our race must die with him not one must live after him to perpetuate it. I lay this injunction most solemnly upon him; if he violate it he will be an incredible mon- ster. They were the words written by his father which he had already quoted to me earlier in the day. Your daughter is not in that room, I said, not raising my voice, grateful that we had as yet attracted no notice. If you enter, your purpose will be frus- trated. Who speaks to me? he asked. The spirit of murder, I said. The Devil, who is leading your soul to perdi- tion. Come with me. I will direct you aright. He shuddered, but he did not hesitate. \Vith my hand still firmly grasping his wrist, he allowed me to lead him from the room. We descended the stairs, slowly, stealthily, until we reached the landing upon which the study was situated. I led him into the room, and with lightning motion locked the door and plucked out the key. Then, uncertain how next to act, I took my hand from his wrist, and re- treated a few steps. He, also, was now uncertain of his movements. He stood still a while, then tried the door, and find- ing it fast,took some halting steps this way and that, and finally fell into the chair in which he had been accustomed to write. As I gazed upon him, I was sensible of a gradual change in his appearance. A pallor crept into his face, a film seemed to come across his eyes. Alarmed, I grasped his shoulder with rough strength, and shook him violently. Mr. Carew! I called. He trembled in every limb, closed his eyes, and clasped them with his hands in one of which he still held the dagger. Presently he removed his hands from his face, and looked confusedly at me. Are you awake? I asked. Yes, he replied faintly. Give me a glass of ~vater. I gave him a full glass, and he drained it. I observed as he did so that it was only by an effort he prevented it from slipping from his hand. Then he spoke again. How came I here? he asked. Skil- ful as you are in your profession, you can do nothing for me. How came I here? I conducted you hither, I said, from the door of Mildreds room. You have a dagger in your hand. Until this moment he seemed to be unconscious that he held the weapon, and now he started and allowed it to drop to the ground. Give thanks to God, I said solemnly, that I stepped forward in time to save the life of an innocent child. Great God I he murmured. It is fit that I should die! The silver chimes of the clock pro- claimed the hour of two. He smiled pite- ously and gratefully, and said, It is almost time.~~ There is a hidden meaning in your words, I said. What have you done? Doctor, you are wrong. There is no hidden meaning in my words. All is clear and plain. What should I do to myself? What should be done to such a man as I? You are not deceiving me. You found me, you say, at the door of my daughters room, with the dagger in my hand? It is true. Then my purpose was murder. What further confirmation is needed of the truth of my fathers revelation? Be thankful, doctor, that your son Reginald has es- caped trom my daughter, my miserable, unhappy child. Ah, me! Whose fate is the heaviest, hers or mine, or the innocent flower I married? I can give you some comfort, I said. In one respect I can set your heart at ease. Impossible, impossible! he cried. Not so. I have that to relate which, though at first it may cause you pain, can- not fail, upon reflection, to make you grateful. If I were to tell you that you have not transmitted to an innocent girl the fatal inheritance ~vhich has weighed like a curse upon your life, how would it be with you? It would be heavenit would be light! Unconscious sinner as I am, it might mean forgiv~ness! I have been closeted with your wife, from whose lips I have heard what you should hear. You will listen to me? Will you be long? he asked, with a strange smile. A SECRET INHERITANCE. 103 I will be as brief as possible and receive it from me, as I received it from your wife, that every word I utter is true. I told him the story of Mildred, who untilnow he had believed to be his daugh- ter. Perceiving that he was ill, I short- ened it as much as possible. Once or twice I paused in my recital, and asked him if he was in pain. In pain! he cried. When you are bringing heaven to me! The agitation you observe in me proceeds from joy. Do.not linger. Finish quickly, quickly! At the chiming of the half-hour my story was done. There was a happy light in Carews eves. White as his face had grown peace had stolen into it. 0 God, I thank thee! he murmured, raising his arms; and then he suddenly fell forward on his face. I raised his head, and assisted him into a recumbent position. Tell me, for heavens sake, what you have done! I cried. You shall know all, he gasped, with pauses betNeen his words. First, though about Emilius you went to seek him, did you not? He was to be here to- morrow. He is here now, I said, in this house. It was to recover his daughter that he came to England. Do not leave me. When I went to bed to-nightand kissed my angel wifefor the last time I thought never to wake again. It is painless. In my old xvan- derings I came across a man we talked of death how easy I kept it by me through all these years. It will defy you, doctor no trace remains the subtlest poison, the easiest death. It has served me well. Go quickly, and bring Emilius. Not my angel wife. There is no pain. Thank God, my life is ended I Go Emilius! I flew from the room, and returned with Emilius. Gabriel Carew lay back in his chair motionless. The terror of death was not in his face. But he was dead. It was popularly supposed that he died from heart disease. There were in him no indications of having died from other than natural causes. What I knew I kept to myself. Not alone what I gathered from his own lips as to the manner of his death, but of the last incident of his dream-life, and of my providentially sav- ing him from the commission of an awful crime. A great number of mourners stood about his grave. Until that time, it ~vas not known how wide and large had been his charities. Even his wife had been in ignorance of countless deeds of goodness which he had done in secret. There were men and women there whom he had snatched from poverty and despair, and who now brought flowers to drop into the last resting-place of their benefactor. Children, too, were lifted up to look into the grave of the master of Rosemullion. Emilius stood bare-headed by my side. God forgive him! said Emilius. The disclosure of Mildreds real parent- age made no difference in the relations between her and Mrs. Care~v. It was mother and daughter with them, as it had always been, and even some additional and subtle tie of new tenderness was added to the feelings of love for each other which will animate their hearts till the last hours of their lives. No one in the county, ~vith the excep- tion of ourselves, is acquainted with the story of Emilius. A dignified, gentle- mannered gentleman, he quickly won the esteem of all who came in contact with him. There often reigns in his face a strange expression of sadness, and he sometimes speaks to me of Eric; but there is joy in his life, and he is grateful for it. The marriage of Mildred and Reginald was postponed for a decent time, and then these young people were made happy, and sent upon their honeymoon, accompanied by blessings and tears and heartfelt wishes for good. As I prepare to end my task I see in my minds eye the form of one who, in every act of her life, in every gentle ~vord that falls from her lips, has sanctified for me the name of woman. Not only in idea, but in deed. God bless Mrs. Carew! is said by many out of her hearing, and if to live a good, pure life will earn Gods blessing she has earned it, and it is hers. 104 DONATELLO, AND THE UNVEILING OF THE From The National Review. DONATELLO, AND THE UNVEILING OF THE FACADE OF THE DUOMO AT FLOR- ENCE. A SKETCH. Yet there are lives that, mid the trampling throng, With their prime heauty hinom at evensong; Souls that with no confusing flutter rise, Spread the svings once, and sail in Paradise; Hearts for whom God has judged it hest to know, Only hy hearsay, sin, and waste, and woe; Bright to come hither, and to travel hence Bright as they came, and wise in innocence. The Renewal of Youth and Other Poems. By F. MyeRs. SUCH a life was that of Donatello, and it is an occasion like the unveiling of the fa~ade of the Duomo at Florence which arrests the trampling throng of the nineteenth century midway in the tread- mill of life, and suggests thoughts other than those practical considerations which will encroach in undue proportion upon the economy of human existence; just as the Duomo itself, rising in silent majesty out of the heart of a city alive with a thou- sand past memories, astir with ever-pres- ent life, forces an involuntary homage from all who come for the first time within its precincts. It would not, perhaps, be very easy to analyze the cause of the emotion. The student of literature, having learnt from a great master a lesson in the sublime, might trace it to an overwhelming sense of the power and strength necessary to conceive and fulfil a design of so much grandeur and such vast dimensions the student of art might ascribe the sense of awe to a perception of a grand whole, produced by excellence in every part. But there is yet something more; something which has the power to touch those who are neither lovers of literature nor students of art, and ~vhich, without appealing to the un- derstanding, can awaken a responsive chord in the heart of the most ignorant contadino when he looks up with fond pride at the Santa Maria del Fiore, that great landmark in the horizon from his home, nestled in some nook of the sur- rounding hills. He cannot explain it, but it has very recently been explained for him, within the walls of the great cathedral, if he made one of the seven thousand who, during the past Lent, have hung upon the words of Padre Agostino da Montefeltro. From the lips of that saintly preacher he will have learnt that the explanation lies in that one word re- lzgion, which he has been exhorted to inscribe on his laborers banner as the climax of labor and union; and that it is that same word which had power, in the far centuries back, to say to those stately walls, where yet linger the echoes of the eloquent voice, Ye shall be built. Nor had that impression time to fade from his mind before it was renewed by another influence, to which, since the time of Giotto, no Florentine has been insensible the influence of art. The ~vords of the preacher had fallen upon the ear; the les- son for the eye was no less striking, when, a few weeks subsequently, the veil fell from the fa~ade of the Duomo and re- vealed it in all its majestic beauty, com- pleted after a lapse of five centuries, a first-fruit of free Italy, a harbinger of the much-desired harmony between Church and State which will one day complete the perfection of the united kingdom. Among the representative characters chosen out of Florentine history as worthy to find a place in the glorious fa~ade, because of their various witness to the truth of Christianity, the most prominent position is assigned to Dona- tello, and justly, for he was eminently the sculptor of Christianity It was in Chris- tian art that he attained his celebrity, and even if he had not contributed some of his finest work to the adornment of the Duomo itself, there would, on that ground alone, have been a very marked fitness in a commemoration which combined the celebration of his fifth centenary with the unveiling of the facade. There is no positive record of the date of Donatellos birth, though it is indicated by himself in his returns for the tax-col- lectors, but the year 1386 is now generally accepted to be the correct date. I-Ic was the son of Niccol6 di Betto Bardi, a wool- comber in Florence, and, as such, a mem- ber of LArte della Lana, one of the seven major arts of Florence. But, where- as his father had taken an active and vehement share in the Florentine factions, Donatello held aloof from them, preferring to remain in the untroubled atmosphere of art, where, with nothing to distract his mind from the continued study of her sublime lessons, he was able to reach an eminence hitherto unattained by predeces- sor or contemporary. History affords but scant details of his early years, except that he was brought up from childhood in the Casa Martelli, where he made himself beloved by his amiable qualities, his docility, industry, and love of study. The rudiments of art he is supposed to have learnt from Lo- renzo di Bicci, one of the most celebrated among the painters and artists of the fourteenth century. FACADE OF THE DUOMO AT FLORENCE. 105 In the earliest edition of his ~vell-known work, Vasari indulged in a preamble to the life of Donatello, afterwards eliminated by the author himself, either because too high-flown in style, or because he thought it militated against the opinions he had previously expressed of those sculptors who had preceded Donatello in art. This preamble, however, reappears in the last edition of Vasari,* and forms so lively an introduction to the subject, that it is to be regretted that it cannot be reinserted in the text, instead of being relegated to a note. The sculptors [Vasari writes] whom we have hitherto described, belonged to the ancient, though by no means the antique, school of art; dismayed by the many difficulties of art, they never could produce anything but round, shapeless, blunt forms, alike in bronze or marble. Their own intellects being blunt and. stupid, they must needs produce their resem- blance in the forms they modelled. Thus their works were devoid of vigor or anima- tion, it being utterly impossible to give a prop- erty not inherent in the donor. This being the case, nature, justly indignant at seeing herself so grossly caricatured, determined to send into the world a sculptor who could in- fuse grace and proportion into her luckless marbles and hardly-used bronze treasures, which, as a provident mother, were dear to her as the offspring of long diligence and care. From this quaint description of the early efforts of the medi~eval sculptors, it is evident that, by the side of Donatello, they can only be looked upon in the light of stone-carvers, and that when their work is compared with his it falls far short of any claim to hold a place in the divine art of sculpture. Donatello turned from the conventional forms they had been content to repro- duce the stiff, emaciated angels of the fifteenth century, with their impassive expression of countenance, no matter whether the emotion intended to be repre- sented ~vas one of joy or sorrow and, studying directly from nature, he made his cherubs robust and smiling, like the chil- dren he took for his models. Thus he contrived to imbue his works with a life and movement hitherto unknown to sculp- ture, and to create an era in that special branch of art, at the same time that Ghi- berti was modelling the gates fit to be the gates of paradise, and Brunellesco plan- ning the cupola of the Duomo. Both these artists were impressed with the promising talent of the young sculptor. Ghiberti employed his prentice hand~ Vasari, Opere, vol. ii., Ed. Milanesi, p. 395, note. in modelling the famous gates, and Brunel- lesco gave him a lesson in refinement of execution, which has come down to pos- terity in the famous anecdote of the Crocifisso delle Uova. Donatello had been for a long time at work upon a cru- cifix (it is still to be seen in the Cappella dei Bardi in Santa Croce); he had be- stowed upon it the utmost care and pains in the ~vish to bring it as near perfection as possible, and it can easily be imagined how great was his disappointment when, on showing it to Brunellesco, he ~vas told that the proportions of the figure upon the cross were those of an ordinary peas- ant, and could not worthily represent the Saviour. Donatello was stung to the quick, yet he replied with gentleness: If it were as easy to do as to criticise, you would be ready to admit that my figure is the figure of the Christ, and not that of the peasant. Still, do you, in your turn, take a piece of wood, and see if you can make a better one. Some months after- wards Brunellesco invited Donatello to breakfast, and having filled his workmans apron with eggs and fruit and other pro- visions, desired him to make his way to the studio; he (Brunellesco) ~vould follow him shortly. Donatello, on entering the studio, looked up and saw in front of him a crucifix of such exceedingly beautiful workmanship that he threw up his hands in an ecstasy of astonishment, forgetting the eggs and other provisions in his apron, which rolled out upon the ground. Bru- nellesco, who had followed close upon the steps of Donatello, perceived with infinite satisfaction the success of his little strat- agem; but Donatello, with the humility which was the most striking trait of his character, frankly confessed: To you it is given to represent the form of Jesus Christ. I can only represent that of a peasant. The anecdote, perhaps already too no- torious, is cited because it not only illus- trates the character of Donatello, but the stages by which he attained to the perfec- tion of his art. His direct study from nature, without the chastening influence derived from the knowledge of the an- tique, produced the result, happily for art, justly censured by Brunellesco. But the influence of nature, when afterwards balanced by careful study of the antique in Rome, under the guidance of the same great master, resulted in that peculiar del- icacy of form and modelling, which, added to his previous vigor and freedom, gave to his work an individual character and charm as yet unrivalled. The frank criti io6 DONATELLO, AND THE UNVEILING OF THE cism of Brunellesco in no way altered the relationship between the brother artists, except perhaps in dra~ving still closer the bonds that united them, and they worked together in Rome with the utmost dili- gence; the one in his research after archi- tectural models, the other in close obser- vation of the classical statues, bringing back to Florence the power to produce ~vorks of art which now, after the lapse of five hundred years, make the centre of attraction for the Florentines in the midst of their triumphant festivities. The sculpture of the Annunciation, for the tomb of the Cavalcanti in Santa Croce, was the work by which Donatello first gained his reputation in Florence. No sooner was it completed than his services were in immediate request for the Duo- mo, and, during the years 140812, he was busily engaged, ~vith other artists, in pre- paring statues of saints and prophets for the old fa9ade. Some of these have per- ished, others were moved inside whem the fa~ade was destroyed; and among these were a very powerful statue of St. John the Evangelist, another of a prophet, and another of Joshua, all effigies of citizens of the time, and representations of unmistakable truth. To this period also belongs the famous statue of King David, delta Zieccone, executed for one of the niches of the Campanile, where it still remains, ~vhich, by its very designa- tion, bears witness to the uncompromising truth displayed by the sculptor in his study from nature; the bald head (hence the title of Zuccone) and the large fore- head being an exact reproduction of his model, a certain Giovanni di Barduccio Chierichini, so true to life that it is said the last stroke of the chisel was accom- l)anied with the passionate exclamation of Parla / from its creative genius. The same consciousness of power and successful achievement made Michael An- gelo, in the following century, demand, in a frenzy of enthusiasm, of his stone Moses, the reason of his silence. There is, indeed, a close analogy between the works of the two great masters, alike in the boldness of their conception and their complete mastery over their art; and the Italians are wont to say that either the spirit of Donatello inspired the works of Buonarotti, or the spirit of Buonarotti worked by anticipation in Donatello. Again, it is worthy of notice, that upon both artists was conferred, by their admir- ing contemporaries, the epithet of terrildie. As applied to the works of Donatello the word would be more aptly rendered by astonishing than by any other word, because it conveys the effect produced by the grandeur and power of his manner; but when appl