LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Sixth Series, No. 2609. July 7, 1894. From Begiuning, Volume III. Vol. CCII. CONTENTS. I. LORD WOLSELEYS MARLBOROUGH. By Gen. Sir Archibald Alison, G.C.B., II. THE DEAN OF KILLERINE. Part IX. Translated by Mrs. E. W. Latimer, from the French of III. OCEAN MEADOWS IV. VIA DoLoRosA ATLANTICA, V. THE PROPOSED NILE RESERVOIR. By J. P. Mahaffy and Frank Dillon, VI. IN THE RIVER PEI-Ho. By Win Laird Clowes VII. THE DECAY OF DISCIPLINE, VIII. THE CAPE OF STORMS IX. THE TENACITY OF CHILDISH ERRORS, BEFORE SLEEPING, IRISH SONG, LES ROSES DE SADI, Blackwood,s Magazine, The Abb6 Pr6vost, Quarterly Review, Cornhill Magazine, Nineteenth Century, Blackwoods Magazine, Temple Bar, Macmillans Magazine, Spectator, POETRY. 2 DEAR CHILD, THOU KNOWEST, 2 j BLAME NOT THEE, 2 IN THE RIVER PRI-HO, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY & CO., BOSTON. LITTELL TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DoLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for- waxded for a year,free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money.order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single copies of the LIVING AGE, 18 cents. 3 10 21 30 38 46 49 53 62 I .2 46 Before Sleeping, etc. BEFORE SLEEPING. Now is the dead of night, and I must sleep; But first, my soul, if thou dost aught recall Wherein thou hast done ill, I bid thee weep, And pray Gods tender mercy on thee fall; Purge thyself clean of whatso bitter hate Thou hast for them that wrong thee; sink thy pride, Nor deem thou standest in a higher state Than those whom God thy happier chance denied. Be all for heaven; think life draws near the close Give to repentance thy last conscious breath; For more and more this mortal weakness grows That pledges thee to take the form of death, And sleep a while. What if in dreams the door Of life should shut, and thou return no more? Good Words. CARYL BATTEESBY. IRISH SONG. (Air: What shall I do with this silly old man? WHEN Carroll asked Kate for her heart and a hand That controwled just a hundred good acres of land, Her lovely brown eyes Went wide wid surprise, And her lips they shot scorn at his saucy demand: Young Carroll Maginn, Put the beard to your chin And the change in your purse, if a wife you would win. Then Carroll made Kate his most illigant bow, And off to the iDiggins lampooned from the plough; Till, the beard finely grown, And the pockets full-blown, Says he, Maybe Kate might be kind to me now ! So home my lad came, Colonel Carty by name, To try a fresh fling at his, cruel ould flame. But when Colonel Carty in splendor steps in, For all his grand airs and great beard to his chin, Och! lave me alone ! Cried Kate, with a groan, For my hearts in the grave wid poor Carroll Maginn. Hush sobbin this minute, Tis Carroll thats in it Ive caged you at last, thin, my wild little linnet. THE AUTHOR OF FATHER OFLYNN.~ Spectator. LES ROSES DE SADI. THIs morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses, They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses, But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free. The breast-knots were broken; the roses together Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather, And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea. And the sea was as red as when sunset un- closes, But my raiment is sweet from the scent o1~ the roses, Thou shalt know, love, how fragrant a memory can be. ANDREW LANG. D]i~AR chikt, thou knowest, I blame not thee; Thou too, I know, hast shared my smart. Neither did wrong; twas only she, Nature, that moulded us apart. But not to have sinned, in Natures eyes, I find a brittle plea to trust; She punishes the just unwise More hardly than the wise unjust. She placed our souls, like Heavens lone spheres, In separate paths, no power can move; O truth too heart-breaking for tears! Not even Love, not even Love! LAURENcE BINYON.. 2 Lord Wolseleys Miariborough. From Blackwoods Magazine. LORD WOLSELEYS MARLBOROUGH. BY GEN. SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON, G.C.B. IT has for long been known that Lord Wolseley has been engaged upon a life of Marlborough, and that he has had access to all papers and private documents connected with the career of that great man. The appearance of the work has, therefore, been looked for with much interest ; and the two first volumes of it which are now before the public although they re- late to the first half only, and that the (larkest one, of that varied story, will fully bear out the high expectations formed in regard to it. There is no life of Marlborough ap- proaching it in dramatic interest, mi- nuteness of detail, and excellence of literary execution. Much as we had always admired Lord Wolseleys great talents, we had no conception before of his power as a writer. There is so much of novelty, so much of interest, in the work, that it is a very difficult one to review ; and we can only pretend, by a few extracts, to give a general idea of the great value of its contents. In the early part of the first volume there are many interesting anecdotes illustrative of the state of society, and especially of female society, in the middle of the seventeenth century. To these we will presently allude. Speaking of the old home of Ash, Lord Wolseley says Standing on these garden steps, the threshold of Marlboroughs forgotten birth- place, what heart-stirring memories of En- glish glory crowd upon the brain! Surely the imagination is more fired and national sentiment more roused by a visit to the spot where one of our greatest countrymen was born and passed his childhood, than by any written record of his deeds. This untidy farmhouse, with its neglected gar- dens and weed-choked fish-ponds, round which the poor, badly clothed boy sported during his early years, seems to recall his 3 memory ay, even the glory with which he covered England more vividly than a. visit to Blenheim Palace, or a walk over the famous position near the village of Hochstadt, on the banks of the Danube. The place, the very air, seems charged with reminiscences of the great man who first drew breath here (i. 11, 12). Lord Wolseley draws an amusing picture of female virtue at this time There is a wide gulf between our stand- ard of female virtue and that of the Restora- tion epoch. This is brou,,ht home to us by the fact that an upright, God-fearing gen- tleman like Sir Winston Churchill should have wished to see his only dau,,hter estab- lished as a maid of honor at a court where Charles II. was king. But in those days it was no slur upon a lady to become the mis- tress of a prince ; nor did her family suffer in reputation. Lord Arlington, in a letter of advice to the beautiful Miss Stewart, refers to the position, which he thought she had accepted, of mistress to Charles II., as one to which it had pleased God and. her. virtue to raise her. It is said that the parents of Louise de K~roualle, Duchess of Portsmouth, sent )ler originally to Ver- sailles, in the hope that Louis XIV. would thus favor her. Sir E. Warcup records with pride, in one of his letters, that his daughter, a maid of honor to Queen Kath erine, was one night and t other with the king, and very graciously received by him. The mistress to a royal prince was courted by all who had access to her. Other women envied her good fortune, and her family looked upon her as a medium through which court favors, power, and lucrative employment were to be obtained. In allusion to the statement that Marl- borough owed much of his success in early life to his sister Arabella, Hamilton, who knew thoroughly the French and English courts, writes, Cela ~tait dans lordre. In common with others of his time, he assumed that the favorite of the kings mistress, and brother of the dukes mis- tress, was in a fair way to preferment, and could not fail to make his fortune (i. 35, 36). No one will understand this period who does not realize this remarkable, but true, picture of female virtue in the The Life of John Churchill, Duke of Marl-~ upper cl8sses then. As Lord Wolseley borough, to the Accession of Queen Anne. By General Viscount Wolseley, K.P. 2 vols. Lou- says further on Modesty, the old don: Bentley & Son. outward sign of feminine virtue, was Lord Wolseleys Marlborough. iio longer reckoned all inward grace, mistresses. Of her Lord Wolseley and even regard for common decency says as prudish. Chastity bands made faithless wives. it so happens that all the incidents in Marlboroughs life which are of a shady character, and which have been greedily seized upon by that numerous class whos~ delight it is to blacken the character of great and public men, occur within the period embraced in these volumes Lord Wolseley has most carefully gone into all these incidents, and, while anxious to do the best he can for his hero, has always stated the facts as they appear against him with scrupu- bus impartiality. The charges against Marlborough are four. The first is that lie accepted money from the Duchess of Cleveland, the kings mistress, with whom he had an intrigue; the second, that he de- serted James ; the third that he was a traitor to William ; the fourth, that lie disclosed to the French the plan for Tollemaches attack on Brest. It xviii be most convenient to exam- ine these charges in succession. We will first give Lord Wolseleys picture of him as a young man. Marl- borough, lie says, was tall, and his figure was remarkably graceful, although a contemporary says, II avait 1 air trop indolent, et la taille trop effih~e. His bearing was noble and commanding, and one who particularly dis- liked him tells us that he possessed the graces in the highest degree, not to say engrossed them. He adds that his man- ner was irresistible either to man or woman. The truth was, he knew how to be all things to all men. Kings, courtiers, and private soldiers alike were captivated by his gentle demeanor, his winning grace. He understood court life thoroughly, ca- ressed all people with a soft, obliging de- portment, and was always ready to do good offices. Such being the man, it is not to be wondered at that lie soon became the intimate friend of the exquisitely beau- tiful Barbara Palmer, Duchess of Cleveland, one of King Charless niany She was the most inconstant of women, and had lovers of all degrees, even whilst openly recognized as the kings mistress. She was a gambler and a spendthrift, im- perious in temper, and far from wise. Her cousin, Mrs. Godfrey sister of Marl- boroughs mother was the governess of her children by the king, and is said to have designedly thrown her handsome nephew, John Churchill, in her way. The result was, as anticipated by the lady, an immediate intrigue between them (i. 68, 69). I. Having now cleared the way and put the pieces on.the board, xve come to the first charge against Marlborough, which is thus stated by our author Churchill spent the winter (1673) at home, and again fell a victim doubtless a willing victim to the wiles of his kins- woman, the Duchess of Cleveland. Ex- travagant in her style of living, she squandered on every passing whim the large sums of money bestowed on her by the king. Her young lover, Jack Churchill, was poor, and she is said to have been most liberal to him. She had purchased for him the position of gentleman of the bedeham- ber to the Duke of York, and she is sup- posed to have now bestowed upon him, as a new mark of her affection the sum of 4,500; but the authority for this state- ment is the Earl of Chesterfield, who never lost a chance of repeating any gossip that told against the fame or reputation of the man whom he disliked. But whether the duchess did or did not supply the money with which the annuity was purchased in 1674, it is certain that Churchill came into possession of it about this time. The ordi- nary courtier of the period who had sud- denly found himself in possession of so much money, would have gambled with it, or spent it on some form of pleasure. But this strangely constituted young man was already thinking more of the future than of the present. Bitter experience had taught him the miseries of poverty, and he determined to purchase an annuity, so that, come what might, he should at least feel himself above the daily sting of want. The money was accordingly handed over to Lord Halifax, who, in consideration thereof, settled 500 per annum upon him for life. . . Want of money had engendered in Churchill that strict attention to economy from which parsimony is so often bred. 4 Lord Wolseleys Marlborough. Long-practised frugality degenerates easily into penuriousness, and that again into miserly habits of avarice. It did so in this case (i. 131, 132). Having now clearly stated the case against Marlborough, Lord Wolsel& y takes up his defence thus Books have been written with the ex- press purpose of proving that, however great Marlborough may have been, he was a monster of ingratitude, and only rose to power by low and infamous methods. That he should take money from the woman he intrigued with is often denounced as the worst and most ignoble action a gentleman could be capable of. But this was not the opinion entertained of the transaction by his contemporaries. It was regarded as quite natural that a handsome young sol- dier should be selected by the mistress of the king as one of her lovers, and that, penniless as he was, she should make him large presents. . . . Throughout this in- trigue with Barbara Palmer he did noth- ing more than was done by many others by Monmouth, for instance, who, when an exile, lived chiefly upon the bounty of his mistress, Lady Wentworth. Yet Mon- mouth has not been held up to everlasting obloquy. No English gentleman of to-day would act as Marlborough and Monmouth did; but their conduct was not regarded at the time as either disreputable or unusual, and it is by contemporary law and custom that we must judge them, and not by our own code of morality and honor (i. 132, 133), This is the best excuse that it is pos- sible to make for Marlboroughs con- (luct on this occasion, but we cannot consider it satisfactory. It implies a complete inversion of the position of the sexes to one another ; and it ever must, at any time and in any age, have been a most degrading thing for a gen- tleman to assume the position of a paid prostitute. II. We come now to the second charge against Marlborough that he deserted James. This [says Lord Wolseley] was the great turning-point in his life. Actuated by lofty motives, and in what was to him a sacred cause, he was breaking away from the patron of his boyhood, the friend of his mature years. He, a Cavalier, was becom- ing a traitor, in the common acceptation of the term, and throwing in his lot with his kings greatest enemy. James and Churchill alike suffered for their steady adherence at this epoch to the faith that was within them. One lost his crown, and died in exile, the despised dependant upon the bounty of a foreign sQvereign; and the other, though he lived to be the foremost man in Europe, died detested and vilified by the nation which he made great and famous (ii. 42). Upon this point Lord Wolseleys opinion is that, as a soldier, Marlbor- oughs conduct was utterly unjustifi- able, but that, as a statesman, he acted for the good of his country. From a military point of view, it is mi- possible to acquit Marlborough of desertion in 1688. Although he was not then in Jamess confidence, and held no military command, still, as a favorite of many years standing, and as a courtier who had been most in his secrets and had been promoted by him to high honor, we must be painfully impressed with Churchills ingratitude and heartlessness. His conduct was in the highest degree treacherous and deceitful and it is revolting to think of him and other officers travelling with James from Windsor to Salisbury, and showing him all outward marks of loyalty and obedience, while they were in league with his enemies to betray him on the first favorable oppor- tunity. To hold daily converse with the man whom they were seeking to destroy, and to act towards him as if they were still his faithful servants, implies a depth of baseness and treachery which are all but diabolical. It must be freely admitted that during the ten years between 16881698 Marlbor- ough s career was sullied with acts which in the present day would place him beyond the pale of society, and which furnished Swift and Macaulay with ample materials for condemning him. But the real ques- tion is, Had Marlborough the public good in view when he deserted James, or was his conduct inspired by motives of personal ambition? There is no practical standard by which the conduct of great men of action can be measured. Patriot leaders have generally been unscrupulous as to the means they employed to secure their aims. Thus, with- out attempting to extenuate or excuse the 5 Lord Wolseleys Marlborough. gravity of his military crimes, the point to ough wrote to James to implore his for- be considered is, whether in a supreme giveness and to assure him of his future national crisis his duty to his country did devotion and loyalty. Whilst William was not outweigh and override his duty as a absent in Holland struggling with selfish, soldier? In 1688 Marlborough was some- short-sighted allies to arrange a common thing more than a mere soldier owing mu- plan of campaign against France, Maribor- itary obedience to his sovereign in all ough, Godoiphin, Halifax, Russell, Mor- things. He was a power in the country. daunt, Sunderland, Caermarthen, and The time was one of intense excitement, Shrewsbury, all began to intrigue with religious as well as national. The forces James. They expressed heartfelt contri- were evenly balanced, and Marlboroughs tion, and begged for pardon, and Maribor- influence, into whichever scale it should be ough especially seemed sincere in his cast, would decide the issue. The question repentance. He strove to persuade James he put to himself was, Should he remain that he was truly sorry for his past con- faithful to James, and rivet, perhaps for- duct, and endeavored to make him believe ever, the yoke of despotism and popery that he sincerely wished to see him restored upon the neck of the English people, or to the throne. . . . In this treasonable cor- should he, by transferring his allegiance respondence Marlborough professed to re- and service to William, set them free? gard his past conduct towards James as so As I read history, England owes him a reprehensible that he did not ask to have debt of gratitude for the calculated deceit his confidence or to share Jacobite secrets. which marked his desertion, because it He only humbly begged to be made use of enabled William to accomplish his care- in any way that his former master might fully planned plot without bloodshed. Had deem advisable (ii. 227, 228). Marlborough stood by James as Feversham did, the Revolution could not have suc- ceeded, if indeed it would have been at- tempted; and beyond all doubt he fully appreciated the gravity of the step which he was about to take (ii. 82, 83). We have quoted Lord Wolseleys remarks upon this, the most important act of Marlboroughs life, in full ,be- cause we have never seen the case so clearly and incisively stated, and so justly; in no way palliating his infa- mous and treacherous conduct as a man, but l)Ointing out the political ad- vantages it conferred upon his country. Happy are those who live in times when they are not called upon to choose between such divergent courses.1 III. We now come to the third charge against Marlborough that he was a traitor to William. This seems to be clearly established. Lord Wolseley says As early as January, 169091, Maribor- 1 A more severe view of Marlboroughs conduct at this time is taken by my father, Sir Archibald Alison, in his Life of Marlborough. He points out that what was most unjustifiable in Marl- boroughs conduct was his retaining his position and places when he took this step. Had he laid these down first, and then, as a private individual, joined William, no one could have blamed him. See Alisons Life of Marlborough, i. 12-17. In spite of all this, Lord Wolseley is of opinion that Marlborough never seriously desired to see James estab- lished again in England, but merely sought to hedge against the contin- gency of the exiles restoration. Yet James, writing in 1691, says in his me- moirs He [Churchill] laid open that prince s designs both by sea and land; which, con- currin g with what the king had from good hands, was a great argument of Churchills sincerity (ii. 229). Lord Wolseley thinks that James was never really convinced of Marlbor- oughs lepentance ; but that, Although the poor exile did not believe in Marlboroughs protestations of penitence and loyalty, he was not in a position to reject any proffered aid. The result was that he gave both Marlborough and Godol- phin a full pardon in his own handwriting, and Mary of Modena endorsed it with a few pleasing sentences. Marlborough, hav- ing thus secured what he had so basely plotted for, felt that, come what might, he was at least safe from the block, and his children from poverty. In the following month he declared that he was the most penitent of men. He enlarged upon the sincerity of his remorse for his villainies to ye best of Kings, and yt it would be im- possible for him to be at rest till he had in 6 Lord Wolseleys Marlborough. 7 some measure made an attonement by en- William came to the conclusion that deavoring (though at the utmost peril of the only way was by a combined naval his life) to restore his injured Prince and and military force to capture the most beloved Master. He wrote to James obnoxious of the French stations, and that he was so entirely to his duty and he chose Brest to begin with. A force love to his Majestys person, that he would of about seven thousand men, under be ready with joy upon the least command the command of General Tollemache, to abandon wife, children, and country to regain and preserve his esteem (ii. 230). was accordingly told off for this duty. The plan decided on ~was to land the What a picture of plotting and troops on the narrow neck of land treachery this is ! How sad it is to see which separated the roadsteads of a great man come down so low! Cameret and Brest, and so isolate the port itself. Every effort was made to IV. We come, lastly, to the fourth keep this project dark, but without of the great charges against Maribor- success. When the attempt was made, ough that he disclosed to the French everything was found to be prepared the plan for Tollemaches attack on and ready for defence, and both the Brest, thereby causing its failure with troops who landed and the attacking heavy loss. Lord Wolseley thus states squadron were defeated with heavy the case loss. It was evident that the French had received full information. The question that arises then is, Who gave, or gave first, the information which enabled the French to be reinforced in time to meet our attack with success ? It appears from decisive evidence that Louis XIV. knew of the proposed attack on Brest as early as April 4; for, in a letter from him to Vauban on that date, he says that he had learned from several sources that an attack on Brest is intended by seven thousand British troops, and the combined navies of England and Holland, and he goes on to divect Vauban to proceed thither and take the command. Now the paper containing Marlbor- oughs information, which reached Louis XIV., was one from General Sackville, the Jacobite agent in Lon- don to Lord Melfort at St. Germains, which runs in these terms This [1694] was the year of our disas- trous repulse before Brest, for which Marl- borough has long been held primarily responsible. For nearly two centuries it has been repeated as an historical fact that the destination of the expedition sent against the place was first betrayed by Marlborough to St. Germains, and that it was in consequence of the information given by him in a letter of the 4th May this year that Louis XIV. placed Brest in the condition of defence which caused the attack to fail. In considering this charge, it is essential that the reader should re- member its wording. The charge is not merely that he communicated with James upon the subject before the attack came off for of that there is no doubt but that he was the first who did so, and that it was in consequence of the information he gave that the French king had Brest so well prepared that the attack upon it was re- pulsed with great loss to the English. If, therefore, it be conclusively proved that the preparations were the result of information obtained by Louis from others previous to the date of Marlboroughs letter, then this charge falls to the ground (ii. 304, 305). May 4, 1694. I have just now received the enclosed for the king. . It is from Lord Churchill; but no person but the queen and you must know from whom it comes. Therefore, for What led to the Brest expedition was the love of God, let it be kept secret even this. After the battle of Cape La from Lord Middleton. I send it by ex- Hogne, the French fleet kept within press judging it to be of the utmost con- sequence for the service of the king my its fortified harbors ; but single ships master, and consequently for the service of of war and privateers were frequently his most Christian Majesty. You see by sent out to prey upon our merchant- the contents of the letter that I am not de- men, and they made great havoc of our ceived in the judgment I form of Admiral English commerce. To stop this, Russell; for that man has not acted sin- 8 cerely, and I fear he will never act other- wise.1 The enclosure is in French, and is from Marlborough. Translated, it runs thus : It is but this day that it came to my knowledge what I now send you; which is that the Bomb vessels and the twelve regiments now encamped at Portsmouth, together with the two marine regiments, are to be commanded by Talmach, and are designed to burn the harbor of Brest, and to destroy the men-of-war there; this would be a great advantage to England; but no consideration can, or ever shall, hinder me from letting you know what I think may be for your service; so you may make what use you think best of this intelligence, which you may depend upon as exactly true (ii. 312, 313). It also appears that Floyd, groom of the bedchamber to James, ~vho was in London early in May, received from Godolphin the information that Admiral Russell would certainly appear shortly before Brest, which the military officers deemed open to attack, though the sailors were of a different opinion. Floyds information was laid before Louis at Ver- sailles on May 1, so we are justified in assuming that it was about April the 15th or 20th when Godolphin told Floyd this. It is thus beyond all doubt that the French king, even through this channel, was in possession of the so-called secret at least a week before Marlboroughs letter of May 4 could have reached him (ii. 311, 312). The general result of this is, that positive information was given to Louis as to the impending attack on Biest by two separate people one Marl- borough, the other Floyd, a regular Jacobite agent; and that of the two, Floyd was able to inform Louis a week before Marlborough could do so. But this is no justification whatever of Marlborough ; for it was only by acci- dent, not his fault, that he was antici- pated in his treachery by another. It is clear, however, as shown above, that independent of this authentic in- 1 The authenticity, says Lord Wolseley, of this letter is denied by some because the origi- nal of neither Marlboroughs nor Sackvilles letter has ever been found; but the circumstantial evi- dence is too strong to admit of doubt (ii. 313, 314). Lord TYolseleys Marlborough. formation Louis XIV., as early as the 4th April, had learned from several sources that an attack on Brest was impending.2 We have now gone tllrough, in some detail, the four great charges that have been brought against Marlborough. It cahnot be said that out of any of them he has come forth scathless. But much may be pardoned to a man placed in the difficult position in which he was., surrounded by every kind of tempta- tion, and living in an age when tile principles of honor were relaxed to an extent of whicll we have now, fortu- nately, no conception. No notice of Marlboroughs life would be complete which did not include some account of llis celebrated wife Sarah. Of this very remarkable woman Lord Wolseley gives a full and excellent ac- count. We extract some of its best passages As a child Sarah Jennings had frequently resided at court, when her elder sister Frances was in waiting upon the Duchess of York. During these visits to St. Jamess, Sarah became the playmate of the Princess Anne, her junior by nearly five years. An attachment soon sprang up between the two girls, and Anne loved to have Sarah constantly with her. Sarah also attracted the notice of Mary, the Duke of Yorks second wife, who was only two years her senior, and whilst still quite a child became maid of honor to that beautiful but un- happy princess. . Though less lovely than her elder sister, Sarah was still radiant with beauty, and possessed a graceful figure, and great power of fascination. Numerous portraits enable us to admire her distinguished but scornful style of beauty: there was sweetness in her eyes, invitation in her looks, wrote Sarahs most scurrilous assailant. Sir Godfrey Kneller has recorded for us her small, regular features so full of life, her pretty mouth expressive of disdain, her slightly turned up nose with its open, well- shaped nostrils, her commanding air, the exquisite pose of her small head, always a 2 The arguments on this point will also be found well stated in that very interesting book Para- doxes and Puzzles, by Mr. Paget, as early as 1801, pp. 20-25. Lord JYolseleys Marlborough. little inclined to one side, her lovely neck and shoulders, and her rich, straw-colored hair, which glistened in its profusion as if sprinkled with gold-dust. . . . Over those with whom she talked she exercised a charm, a fascination, that held them en- thralled as much by her graceful wit as by her seductive beauty. But the adorer who worshipped at her shrine was, without knowing how, soon made aware of the imperious temper that smouldered within her, always ready, if stirred, to burst forth as from a hidden volcano, and annihilate the offender. Her portraits, however, do not convey this idea, and no one could im- agine from them that so stormy a spirit lay hidden beneath such a lovely exterior. Her education had been much neglected; but, like many clever people brought up at courts, where all that is wittiest as well as most learned is to be found, she had ac- quired more practical knowledge than was possessed by many classical and philo- sophical scholars. In conversation she was bright and quick, although on paper she expressed herself in long, involved, and often ungrammatical sentences he had never been taught arithmetic, and yet she contrived to master the most compli- cated accounts by some curious process of her own. To draw her character is no easy task. As she was when a girl, so she remained as a mother, as Queen Annes favorite, as wife to the greatest man of his day, and in old age as his widow. Neither time nor increased knowledge of the world ever changed or in any way softened her. She was essentially an unimaginative, unim- pressionable woman, with no illusions about men or about events either human or divine, and without sentiment of any kind except perhaps where her husband was concerned. His love for her was deep, pure, unselfish, and passionate. All his letters, meant for no eye but hers, breathe the same lover-like devotion. They make the reader feel that, from first to last, his one great dread was that she might cease to love him. She did love him sincerely, but in her own haughty and tiger-like fashion. There was nothing demonstra- tive about her affection, but such as it was she gave him her whole heart. In most of the relations of life they were both egotis- tical and covetous, yet their marriage was absolutely uninfluenced by mercenary con- siderations. Their mutual attachment was stronger even than their undoubted worldli- ness (i. 16316~). 9 Both have been accused of venality, but, Lord Wolseley contends, without any great cause. For at that time, he says No person with places at his disposal made any more scruple of selling them than of receiving his settled salary or the rents of his estate; and it was a matter of common notoriety that secretaries of state, as well as comets of dragoons, bought and sold their commissions. Nevertheless, as Lord Wolseley a(1(Is Her [Sarahs] love of money is undoubted, a taste which she shared with her husband. To amass wealth was a pleasure that in- creased with her years. Hers was no meek heart, and she had little reverence for God or man. No belief in revealed religion or dread of future pun- ishment restrained her will or influenced her conduct; she seldom mentioned religion except to scoff at it, and it was only from a contempt for Romanism, and from an in- tense hatred to priestcraft, that she spoke and wrote of herself as a Protestant. True but not tender, she lived for forty-four years with her husband as happily as her domineering temper would have allowed her to live with any one. But she never shared his strong faith, nor allowed him to exercise any influence over her mind in spiritual matters. She seems to have died as she had lived, ridiculing all belief in God and immortality (i. 173). We have no space to go into the very interesting account which Lord Wolse- ley gives of Monmouth and his rebel- lion. This is the only considerable military event which comes within the range of these volumes. It is very well and very clearly written, and gives a good omen of what we will have from him in his concluding volumes, which will have to do mainly with the great and immortal campaigns of this accom- plished soldier. We can make but one extract more that which describes the night after the (lecisive battle of Sed~emoor Slowly the stars died out in the cold flush of dawn, and still the battle raged; but in the growing light both sides began to realize that Monmouth was defeated. When at last day broke with that cold, pitiless light which immediately precedes like Dean of Killerine. sunrise, crowds of the poor beaten rebels cohid be seen streaming back towards Bridgewater. Lord Greys cavalry had disappeared, but a fierce fight still raged on the fatal banks of the Bussex Rhine. There the bulk of Wades and of another rebel battalion still clung undaunted, and, using their scythes and mining tools, fought as only desperate men will fight in religious cause. They found themselves deserted by their comrades and by the Horse that should have protected their flanks, hard pressed as they were by the Life Guards and Churchills Dragoons. This hopeless but gallant struggle was brought to an end at last by a determined ~ttack of the Grenadier companies of the Guards and Dumbarton s regiment. About three hundred of Monmouth s brave8t fol- lowers fell in that charge, dying for an un- worthy leader in what they believed to be a holy cause (i. 333, 334). We envy Lord Wolseley the task which now lies before him. In these volumes he has traversed much that is shady, much that is painful, in Marl boroughs checkered career; in those which are to come he has to narrate the great and bright portion of his life those glorious campaigns in which he established his right to take his place on the list of the greatest com- manders of any age or time, as the worthy companion in arms of C~sar, Frederick, Napoleon, and Wellington. lence so I decided to write each one a note, alluding vaguely to my plan, and requesting ai~ interview. I gave these notes to my man Joe, and I trusted that the zeal with which I was about to undertake on their behalf a dangerous journey might plead in my brothers hearts for my justification. Joe came back in less than an hour with the tidings that they would neither see me, nor open any of my letters. Lord Tenermill had told him this in person, Patrick had sent his message l)y a servant. I grieved for the result, but I saw in it only another incentive to do my duty. Having ascertained with certainty that Patrick was living in Mademoiselle de L s house, I trembled for his honor and his virtue. I decided at last to open myself in part to the count and countess, hoping thereby to gain some light on the vari- ous difficulties that combined to per- plex me. My arrival caused a sudden bustle in their house, for Lord Tener- mill, who was with them, had horses at once put to his chaise, and started for Saint Germain, that he might not meet me. The count and countess seemed much moved at seeing me. so agitated and unhappy. They told me that Tener mill had been almost beside himself on _____________ hearing of the flight of Fincer and his daughter, but that Patrick had seemed to think that it might open his way to [Copyright, 1894, by LITTELL & CO.] happiness. THE DEAN OF KILLERINE. But, I said, with faltering voice, and with tears in my eyes, can you BY THE ABBE PREVOST. blame me for having done what the 1765. laws of God and men both declared to TRANSLATED BY MRs. E. w. LATIMER. be my duty? Could I have done dif- PART NINTH. ferently? I KEPT to my resolution of following They answered with some embar- Fincer and his dauhter into Den- rassment that it was not for them to mark, and on awaking I began to make judge; that both parties were so dear preparations for the journey. I de- to them that they could not take either 1)ated with myself as to whether I side. This showed me that I could should or should not inform my broth- not look for their support in any step ers of this step, notwithstanding their that I might take displeasing to my declaration that they~ would have noth- brothers. ing more to do with me. I dreaded to You may be right, I said to the see them in their present state of mind, count, but how can you lend your lest they should insult me, or use vio- countenance to vice and infamy? 10 The Dean of Killerine. how can you have allowed Patrick to follow Mademoiselle de L to her own house, and to take up his abode there? The count answered me coldly The information that you ask for we have promised not to give you ; you yourself would wish the secret kept, if you knew. But seeing me much agitated, he added There is no stain upon the ladys character. You had better ask your brother to tell you his secret. After that my one thought was how to gain admittance to Mademoiselle de Ls house, and to see Patrick. I was sure that by my exhortations I could force him to speak. I went on foot, and unattended. I found no difficulty in getting in. The servants were perfectly polite, only none of them seemed willing to take me to my brother. Then I asked for his valet. The man was the same faithful servant who had incurred his displeasure in Ireland, but I had brought him over to France with me, and made his peace with his master. He caine forward, but seemed even more alarmed at sight of me than were any of the others. He whispered to me, however, to follow him into a room apart, where he said to inc You must not be offended at us. Our orders are that no one is to see our master yourself in particular. But your Reverence may. be sure, he added, that though he is at l)resent not inclined to meet you, he loves and honors you with all his heart, and the only reason for his estrangement is that he is engaged in somethiiig that he fears you may not approve. But I venture to assure you you would be fully satisfied with his conduct if you knew with what propriety and self- restraint he has behaved. I suppose, he went on, that I ought to keep my promise to my master, and to tell you nothing, but it seems to me best to let you know what I know. Then he told mc that his master and Mademoiselle de L had been mar- ried the very same night I had last seen them at Les Saisons. I was about to exclaim that that only made their conduct the more shameful, but the honest valet inter- rupted me. Hear me, he said. After what occurred in your pres- ence, my master felL that he had better avoid any meeting with Mr. Fincer. He drove to Paris with Mademoiselle de L, but lie s~tayed only a few minutes with her in her house, because she was unwill~ing they should remain alone together. Later lie saw Lord Tenermill, and learned from him what had passed at Les Saisons, and that Mr. Fincer and his daughter had set out for Denmark. My master de- manded from his lordship the papers containing the consent of the lady to the divorce, the approval of the king, and the consent of the bishops. As lie returned to Mademoiselle de L s house he met Joe with a note from you, and read it in great anger. His interview with Mademoiselle de L seemed very exciting. At length he appeared to overcome her scruples, and they set out together for Saint Ger- main. They reached the chateau about midnight. They found one of the two bishops whose ~ipproval they held in writing, and lie married them at once in the kings own chapel, having of- fered very few objections. It took some hours to (Iraw up the proper papers, an(l put everything in legal forni; and day was beginning to break when they returned to Paris. My master ordered the carriage to wait before the (loor, and with his new wife entered the house, when she told inc to call together all her menservants. We found her surrounded by her women. Then she told them that as shw was going away from her house for some time she wished them all to look upon my master as their master, that she put everything she had into his hands, and that she depended on them all to serve him faithfully. Thieii she and my master re-entered their coach, attended only by myself and an old woman, who had nursed her in her in- fancy. We drove to the new convent of English nuns, and as she brought a letter of introduction from the bishop 11 The Dean of Killerute. who had married her, she was received by the mother superior with open arms. My master spoke of her repeatedly as his wife, and at parting, kissed her for the first time. Such was the valets story. He im- plored me not to let his master know that he had told me anything. It was important, lie said, that Fincer should not know the place of Mademoiselle (he L s retreat, but at Qe same time it seeme(l desirable lie should be in- formed that Patrick was legally remar- ried, that lie and his daughter might be convinced that any further pressure of their claims would bring them only exposure and dishonor. I could not but blame Patrick and Mademoiselle de L severely for their unseemly haste in tIPs matter, for both knew that Sara Fincer s consent had been wrung from her by violence, but I did not like to find fault with the king, nor with the bishops. They had had no means of knowing the true state of the case. But now that the mar- riage was accomplished, it seemed to me that Saras real consent should be given to the divorce, and that was what I now hoped to obtain from her. All this I did not tell to Patricks valet, but I was more and more re- solved to set out for Denmark. I promised the servant not to betray his confidence, and lie told me he should not let his master know that lie had seen me. No doubt in all this will be seen that my loving care for my two broth- ers triumphed over personal resemit- ment at their ungrateful treatnient. In my zeal to serve their interests, I had forgotten their contumely. I went to the residence of Count S at once, and informed him and his countess of my intended journey. The count applauded my intentions, but said he hardly hoped my inter- vention would produce any good re- suIts, while the countess represented to inc forcibly, the danger I might run from the violence amid rashmiess of a man like Fincer. Both told me that his to leaving Paris he had threatened to kill her, and that lie had sworn furi- ously at her because she could not (Iry her tears when he ordered her to cease weeping. You had better, said the count and his wife, let things take their course, without interference. But as I had made up m~y mind to under- take the journey, the count assisted ____ me by drawing me out a travelling route, for he had been often on that road on military service. I took no servant with me but Joe, an(l I followed in Fincers track, in- tending to go first to Cologne, and then make my way to Denmark. We were near the frontier, and were at a post-house changing horses, when Joe came up to the carriage, and ~vhis- pered to me that he had just seen Fincer in the courtyard, and having made inquiries, he had found out that he had passed there a few days before, but that, on reaching the frontier, lie had turned back, and was now proceed- ing with all speed to Paris. This news greatly alarmed me. I resolved to follow him as closely as I dared, and judging that whatever it was that took him back, lie was no doubt furiously angry indeed Joe de- scribed him as being soI thought it might be more l)rndent to follow the advice of the count and countess, and not intrude myself upon him with news that might exasperate him still more. I felt that Heaven had befriended me iii letting me know that he had turned back, before I had gone further on my journey, and I followed him as closely as I dared till we both entered the gates of Paris. I had scut Joe on before, and he had a coach waiting for me at the post-house. With my face concealed, I slipped itito it from my travelling carriage. I caught sight of Sara Fincer sitting in one corner of the waiting-room in the post-house, with her two maids. Her father was await- ing the return of a servant lie had sent upon some errand ; when he returned behavior to his daughter had been that they all got once more into their car- of a savage. That when she objected riage. I in my hackney coach followed 12 The Dean of Killerine. them at a distance. They drove into the street in which Mademoiseile de Ls house was situated, and where Patrick was living. I was in an agony of fear, apprehending an encounter be- tween Fincer and my brother, but their carriage drew up at a house opposite to Mademoiselle de Ls, where they got out, and were received as if they were expected. I left Joe to watch what would happen next, and drove to the counts house with this strange news. Before night Joe, hanging round the door of Fincer~s house, l~ad scraped acquaintance with his servants, and found out that when Fincer and his daughter (I dare no longer call her my sister-in-law) quitted Paris, they had left a trusty servant to watch Patricks movements. He knew of the marriage at Saint Germain, though he knew nothing of Mademoiselle de Ls retir~ meat to a convent, and with this news had overtaken his master on the frontier. Fincer, inflamed with rage, had at once turned back to take re- venge on Patrick for the dishonor done his daughter. His first measures were more like farce than tragedy. He clad his daugh- ters servants in our livery. He hired a carriage, and had our arms painted on its panels ; lie sent daily in his danghters name (calling her by her title as the wife of an Irish nobleman) to enquire after Patricks health ; and he hoped in this way to rouse the curi- osity of the neighborhood, and make Parisians understand that Patrick was the husband of two wives, and at least, that the one living under the same roof with him was not his lawful spouse. Fincers measures produced, how- ever, little effect. The neighbors seemed to take no notice. Paris was too large a place for foreigners, even of our rank, to be generally known, and the public showed no disposition to interest itself in the wrongs of Fincer. Meantime, Patrick lived in close re- tirement in Mademoiselle de Ls house ; rarely going out, unless, with great precaution, he visited that lady at her convent. There they talked over 13 the situation, and agreed that the best thing they could do would be to go together as man and wife to Germany, ~and take np their residence there, till Fincers wrath had subsided, and their affairs could be arranged. Mademoi- selle de L spoke German; she knew the country ; she was a Protes- tant, and her money was so invested that there was no need for her to watch over it in France. She was as eager for this step as Patrick, and she urged him to settle everything that she might speedily depart. Though Patrick was very careful not to let any of us know anything of this decision, he called from time to time on the count and countess. He spoke of Fincer, and of his methods of annoy- ance, but seemed to me to think too lightly of (langer to be feared from him. In vain I tried to give him good adx ice, and to inspire him with some of my own fears. He had become willing to tolerate my presence when he vis- ited the count, and even to permit me to join in their conversation, but he would not listen to my admonitions, and appeared to wish to have as little as possible to do with me. I had causes to dread Fincer which I would willingly have imparted to him, had he given me the opportunity. The very, day after he reached Paris Joe had discovered that he went to see one of the leading lawyers in the city. I went there myself the day after, and, without letting him know that I knew Fincer had been to see him, I laid our case before him with fictitious names. He at once said he knew all about it, and told me that he could not undertake our cause, having been already retained on the other side. Yet he thought himself at liberty to tell me that if the matter came into a French court the authority of the king of England, and of English bishops, would have very little weight ; that Fincer was ready to swear that his daughters consent was not voluntary; that similar cases had been decided in a manner unfavor- able to us in French law courts ; and finally he warned me that he thought Fincer was a dangerous enemy, that 14 The Dean of Killerine. whether we gained or lost our cause, he ing lest the return of Fincer should cut was a man whom we slloul(l dread. short our interview I began to question Alas ! Patiick would give me no her as to the (lesigns of her father. chance to tell him this. My sad expe- Alas I she said, reduced to de- rience had made me aware of how little spair as I have been by my husbands account was anything that I could say indifference and cruelty, I am still a~i- about prudence, honor, and virtue. In tated by anxieties on his account. spite of what the lawyer told me, I still Then she told of her fathers fury put confidence in the influence, if not against Patrick, and of his violent be- in the authority of our king and bish- havior to herself. When he first heard ops. I knew that other lawyers, who of Patricks marriage at Saint Gerinain, had been consulted on the case, had his rage was so great that he vowed to given favorable opinions, and I re- Heaven that th~ insult could only be solved, as I could not warn Patrick, to washed out in blood. If too old to take things in to my own hands, and fight him himself, he would hire some bring back peace and happiness to my one to murder him. He was so full of family, this project that Sara, fearing forher I resolved to see Sara, to urge on her husbands life, and unable to calm her all I had had in my mind to say to her father, had offered, if he would give up during my late journey. Joe told me all such schemes, to marry Tenermill. that he learned from Fincers servants But this offer he rejected as coming too that their lady was ill, that she had not late. left her bed since she reached Paris, On returning to Paris, and consulting that doctors were constantly in attend- some lawyers, he began to think that anee, and that she would see no one. his best plan might be to take revenge Nevertheless, by ray orders, Joe by legal means, instead of by murder. watched an opportunity when Fincer He planned to ruin Patrick by public was out, to return to the house, and exposure, and he was now, she said, tell the servants he had met their busy with several distinguished men of master in the street, who had charged law in getting up his case. him with a message he was to deliver I hoped Sara would have told me personally to their lady. something of herself and her own He was allowed to see her. He views of the situation, but everything found that she was eager to see me. It she said was vague. Over and over was arranged that I should be informed again she asked me for my pity. the next time her father was absent, I had been struck by the fact that and, though my visit might expose me she had offered of her own accord to to jeat risks, I should be sure of a few marry Lord Tenermill, and thinking minutes conversation, that avowal offered a good opening for The next day I was sent for accord- the expression of my wishes, I began in gly. I felt deeply grieved to see to talk to her. It is too true, I said, how ill Sara appeared to be. She that my brother has believed himself stretched out her hand: Come and authorized by the authority of the king, tell me, she said, whether you still and the approval of our bishops, to feel pity for my sorrows ? You never make another marriage. And though, ill-treated me, but I thought I should I added (with unpardonable impru~ have found you more devoted to my deuce, unless my good intentions may interests. You have grown cold to be taken into account) his wife has me ; and yet I cannot believe, she not yet taken the place of wife, to added, that you really took part in which on her conscience she believes that horrible conspiracy. Am I to herself entitled, it is only from a feel think you my friend or one of those ing of modesty, and concern for her own who wish my ruin? reputation. She is now in a convent, It was easy to justify myself by tell- where no doubt she will not remain ing her the simple truth. But dread- much longer. This marriage secures The Dean of Killerine. your divorce, though not yet fully com- pleted. No doubt your consent was infamously obtained, still it is legal. The king has accepted it. It is coun- tersigued by your father. One word from you, I added, in my most per- suasive voice, will put an end to all our misery, and bring peace back to our unhappy family. Accept the hand of Lord Tenermill. I will undeitake to shield you from the anger of your fa- ther. He recognized the advantages of the match when it was first proposed to him. I feel no doubt they will have weight with him, now. Sara, I could see, listened eagerly at first, but she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts before I bad done speak- ing. Then she said, as if recalling herself with difficulty to the answer she must make You give me advice that I shall never, be able to take. I only consented to marry Lord Tener- mill when I feared for my husbands life. I never could have kept that promise. I have blamed myself for making it. Then, lifting her head as if she heard the steps of Fincer, she cried I dare not keep you longer, my dear dean. Remember you have promised always to love me. I will let you know when you may come again, but go now, and cautiously. She looked more animated, more like herself, than she did at the beginning of my visit. I drew from this the hap- piest auguries, and indeed it was not until the fatal consequences. of this in- terview had taken place that I realized the terrible imprudence of my own words. Then I felt that 1 was the guilty party in the unhappy event I have yet to tell of in this story. As I made my report of what had passed to the count and countess, I dwelt much upon my view that, if Sara had once said she would marry Lord Tenermnill, there was every reason to hope that she mi~ht be brought by frankness, affection, and tenderness to say so again. Rose and her husband were much pleased with the news I brought them, and we sent off an express to Lord Tenerruill, who was on the point of embarkIng with his regiment for ser- vice in Ireland. That evening, as I sat absorbed in my reflections, Joe came to tell me. that something seemed going on in Mademoiselle de Ls house. He cotmld, not tell what it might be, for Patrick had won over all his servants by presents and by piomises to keep his secrets, and not one of them would tell him what he wished to know. The truth was, although he could not discover it, that Patrick had moved his effects, and much of the furniture from Mademoiselle de Ls house during the night before, and that the horses, carriages, and many of the servants were in the neighborhood of Paris, awaiting his appearance or his orders. A man whom they could trust was to be left in charge. Mademoiselle de L ~vas to return that very evening after dark to make some final arrange- ments, after which they were to set off for Germany before dawn. It was the day after my visit to Sara Fincer that all these things were to take place. Patrick, although he told us nothing of his plans, came the ni~ht before his intended departure to pay a last visit to Rose and Count 5. I was there, and, notwithstanding his re- luctance to let me speak of his affairs, I contrived to tell him about my inter- view with Sara, and implored him to see in it, if he had ever doubted, my affection, my zeal for his service, and a change in my views. At another time probably he might have been touched by this, but no~v lie was preoccupied, and he heard me coldly. Meantime I thought it advisable to endeavor to see Sara again, and sent my Irish servant to arrange with her another interview. Instead of being, as a.t first, eager for my visit, she de- sired to put it off until another day. Joe replied that he found her up and dressed, (iressed with great care, and, as he said, most beautiful. Her expression seemed quite changed. She appeared to have recovered her spirits. I attributed this to her having made up her mind to forget Patrick, and to be happy with Tenermihl. [like Dean of Killerine. Alas ! I was very far from under- standing the situation. All was the fruit of my own imprudent disclosure in our first interview, when, with a view of exalting the goodness of Pat- rick, I had informed her that Ma- demoiselle de L had, with his consent, gone for the present to a con- vent, and that they had agreed not to live together as man and wife until bet- ter tunes. This put two new ideas into Saras head. After she heard this, she paid no more attention to what I was saying to her ; she was only occupied with the thought that the relations of Patrick and Mademoiselle de L to each other, were exactly parallel to hers with Patrick in Ireland. She formed the project, if he were alone in her rivals house, of making her way to him, and by every demonstration of affection, to win his heart. Since she came over to France she had never had an opportunity to speak alone with him. She would seize it at once. She was thinking how she might accomplish this all the time I was talk- ing to her. She knew that Mademoi- selle (le Lhad only hired the chief rooms in the house opposite, and that the conci~rge was not in her service, nor in that of Patrick. She sent for her own landlady when I had left, who entered into her views, and the con- ci~rge was gained over by a sum of money. He knew that the rent was paid, that the house was going to be given up, and that much of the furni- ture had been removed, but he knew nothing of the intended journey to Ger- many. Sara attributed the design of leaving the apartment to Patricks anxiety to escape her observation, and it made her more eager than before to accom- plish her purpose without delay. As soon as it grew dark she left her house with her landlady, leaving her maid in her chamber, to say she was asleep, and must not be disturbed. The concThrge let her through a side door into Patricks chamber. He told her that he was out, but she resolved to wait for him. Alas I it seemed as if the evil genius of our family was never tired of occupying himself with our affairs. Patricks chamber was in great dis- order, as could be seen by two lighted candles stan~ling on a large table. Things lay scattered on the chairs, and on the floor. Sara fOund an empty seat, however, standing behind the Ol)Cfl door of a large closet, and she sat down on it, rather glad that on Pat- ricks return she would not at first be visible. She did not wait long. She heard voices in the corridor. One was the voice of a woman. It was that of Mademoiselle de L, whom Patrick was bringing from her convent, that she might make some last arrangements for her journey. On entering the chamber he begged her to sit down. The servants disen- cumbered a large sofa, and brought it forward, at the same time pushing back the table with the candle-sticks against the heavy open door of the closet, so that Sara was in a sort of prison. Then came what for her was a scene of anguish. Patrick spoke to Made- moiselle de L with words of the most tender affection, and at last seiz- ing her hand, though she endeavored to prevent him, he drew her towards him, and for the first time taking her in his arms, he passionately kissed her. Shame, fury, every passion that can possess the heart of a wronged and jealous woman took possession of Sara. She sprang up from her seat, pushed violently against the closet door, and in so doing, knocked over the table on which stood the lighted candles. They fell, and all was sudden darkness. Only a voice in that darkness was shrieking Traitor I Perjurer! as Sara rushed towards the pair closely folded in each others arms. Alas I in another moment she lay senseless at their feet. Patrick had laid aside his rapier as inconvenient on a journey, and was wearing only a short sword or hunting-knife. Suddenly at- tacked, he knew not by whom, he had 16 The Dean of Killerine. 17 arrived, and he might have been kept from entering had not my brothers valet judged prudently that it was best that he should see his daughter, and telling him the truth about what had taken place, he led him into her chain- ber. Furious as Pincer was, the scene before him softened him. The doctors were dressing the wound. While they did so, Sara was lying with her head on Patricks breast, supported in his arms. Anxiety and grief were depicted on his face. It was impossible to consider him the enemy of one whom he was so affectionately attending. It was the first time Pincer had seen Patrick since his boyhood. It made a great impres- sion on him. He began to forget that he saw before him the man who, more than any other in the world, had of- fended him mortally. When the doctors pronounced Saras wound dangerous, but not fatal, and thought she might be removed to her own house, he did not oppose my brothers wish to go with her, and to wait upon her. All the household of Pincer, who knew the situation, were surprised to see my brother lavishing all his cares on the woman whom they believed him to have treated so inhu- manly. He passed the night beside Saras bed, sometimes asking her pardon for his cruelty, sometimes endeavoring to console her by his words and his caresses ; sometimes walking up and down the room in silence, and then resuming his place beside her with in- creasing agitation. His valet de chambre during the night had not left him, but early in the morning he slipped away from Pincers house to tell me what had happened. My first emotion on hearing this was drawn this weapon, and Sara, stum- bling forward in the darkness, fell upon its point, as he held it in his hand. The noise in the room brought in the servants with lights, and then to Pat- ricks horror, the assailant whom he had pierced proved to be the hapless Sara, lying unconscious at his feet with blood flowing from her wound. He ceased to think of Mademoiselle de L. All his care was to succor his unhappy victim. Mademoiselle de L too, was anxious to assist her, but Patrick, fearing the effect on Sara, should she open her eyes and see her rival, took his young wife by the arm, and led her away abruptly, leaving her with her own women, while he re- turned to Sara. As he did so he found himself step- ping in blood, and this sight overcame him. He fell speechless into a chair. Sara, who had been laid upon the sofa, at last began to show signs of con- sciousness. Patrick went to her side at once. He kneeled beside her, and waited anxiously for the arrival of the surgeons. Her first words were a reproach. Patrick could not endure in silence this painful scene. He flung himself upon his knees, and in piteous words, implored her pardon, and kissed her hands. Meantime Mademoiselle de L had done the best thing that she could do under such circumstances, she got into her coach, and drove back to her convent , giving orders to her servants to let her know the next day everything that might take place. Hardly had she gone before Pincer came to the house, in a state like that of a mad man. I have always sup- posed that, having heard of what had passed, his intention was to take the terror. II fancied Pincer was sure to life of his daughters rival. The ser- take revenge. I entered his house with vants and the landlady had abruptly dread, and asked if I could see him. told him that his daughter had been The servants replied that he was with murdered in the opposite house. He my brother in his daughters chamber. jumped to the conclusion that, if it Ii could hardly believe my ears. I had were in Mademoiselle de L s come there hoping to deprecate his house, the deed must have been done anger. Ho~vever, thinking that my by her hands. She was gone when he presence might still be useful, I went LIVING AGE. VOL. III. 106 18 np-stairs, and found Pincer and Patrick sitting each on one side of poor Sara, evidently thinking of nothing but how to assist and console her. They rose when I caine in, but they received inc very coldly. I took a chair offered me by a servant, and we all remained silent. Pincer kept his eyes down Patrick took Saras hand, and kissed it tenderly. Then at last he spoke. You have heard all about this sad affair, he said. Was there ever any one so guilty or so miserable as I am? I scarcely knew how to answer him. It seemed hardly a time for exhorta- tions to duty and to virtue. I confined my remarks to some vague reflections on the mysterious ways of Providence, and added, by way of turning my re- marks to the benefit of those to whom they were addressed, that under dark clouds often shone the light. They made no answer. Then Pincer rose, and, taking my hand, led me into an adjoining room, where he made me take a chair, and asked me what opin- ion I thought he ought to form of my brothers past conduct, of his grief, and of his tenderness for Sara. of his sighs and groans. I have been struck, he said, by his air of mild- ness and of honesty. Perhaps Sara, on her part, may have neglected her duty as a wife. If so, tell me. By pursuing a different line of conduct she may regain his heart I shall be glad of it for it is clear to me that he is not vol- untarily guilty, and that what has hap- pened should not be imputed to him as a crime. I was amazed. The man who spoke thus was no longer the terrible Pincer. I thought it my duty to flatter his hopes of a reconciliation between husband and wife, and to confirm him in his good opinion of my brother. I even spoke of Mademoiselle de L as but a weak obstacle to a renewal of his for- mer vows. It is most important, I said, that Patrick should, for the present, receive no letters from that lady, nor see any one who comes from her. Pincer agreed with me, and gave orders to his servants accord- ingly; and when the doctors decided that his daughter still demanded the utmost care, I could see that he was glad to think this would keep Patrick beside her. Rose and her husband came, but were not admitted, strict orders having been given that no messages, and no visits should be allowed. Patricks valet de chambre, however, I myself allowed to enter. This man, being an Irishman, was altogether in the interests of his countrywoman, Sari~ Pincer, lie told me he had seen Ma- demoiselle de L at her convent, and when lie told her all that had occurred both at her own residence and at Pin- cers house, she had let fall several expressions of concern, and had given him a letter to his master, which no doubt contained complaints of his de- sertion and his attention to her rival. I told him to give me the letter and to go back and inform Mademoiselle de L that his master was not likely for some time to leave the bedside of Pincers daughter, and was too busy, too anxious, and too unhappy to send her any other answer. If she gives you any letters, I said, bring them to me. If she be- wails my brothers fickleness, tell her that lie is too completely overcome by sorrow for what has taken place to think of anything else. The man was intelligent, and under- stood me. At that moment arrived a servant from Count S asking to see me. He brought me word that two couriers were waiting for me at the counts, one of whom had been sent by M. de Ser- clue from Saint Germain by order of the king, who wished to see me that very day. The other was the man we had despatched to Tenermill. I made haste to go to the counts house. Tenermills man told me that though lie had used all diligence he had not reached Dunkirk till the squad- ron was just putting to sea. He had taken a boat, however, and had over- taken the transport which had Tener- mill on board. My brother had received his news with emotion. Then lie went The Dean of Killerine. The Dean of Killerine. below, and had written me a letter. In it he answered my appeal for forgive- i~ess, by saying coldly he cherished no resentment against me, but he thought it best to tell me frankly that he did not wish me for the future to have anything to do with his affairs. lie asked my pardon for expressions that he now regretted, but lie asked me if I always intended to injure my family by vain scruples, which no doubt made myself unhappy as well as others. Surely I must be aware that I had ruined all my brothers hopes by my perpetual interference with their plans. Even the message I had sent imploring his return showed how little I under- stood what was imposed upon a man of the world by his sense of honor. How could I expect him when em- barked on foreign service by order of the king to come back to Paris on af- fairs of his own ? I knew his ardent love for Sara why did I agitate him by thought of her at such a moment? Why did I seek to tear his heart be- tween desire to be with her and his duty? Things were changed since that let- ter was written. I opened that from M. de Sercine regarding the orders of the king. But it spoke so vaguely of his Majestys wish to see me at once, that hope gave way to apprehension. However, I set out at once for Saint Germain. As I went I re-read Tener- mills letter, and could not but feel that he had some ground for thinking that from time to time my zeal had outrun my discretion. I am ready to confess my faults, I said to myself. I am willing those who know more of the world than I do should instruct me as to things I do not know, but why will they not do the same by me, and re- ceive the instructions as to the duties that they owe to their religion, and the principles that form an honest man in the sigl~t of God? As I went on with my meditation it occurred to me that perhaps I had done wrong in never trying to understand how far the laws of honor that governed men of the world accorded with the maxims laid down in the Gospel. Surely, I thought, everything that is right and honorable must, if traced to its source, be found to be compatible with religion, surely the spirit of the Gospel may be carried even into the trivial duties demanded by society. God is a God of order, and it is the spirit of order that de- mands that all duties shall be fulfilled according to their order and degree. Therefore I had been to blame in endeavoring to distract Tenermills thoughts on the eve of his departure; for the honor of a soldier was, after all, its connection with religion, because religion is the mainstay and support of or(ler. When I arrived at Saint Germain I learned from M. de Sereine what he had not told me in his note. Patrick had not been so entirely occupied with his journey to Germany that he had neglected entirely what lie owed to his king. He had not liked to present himself at court, but lie had begged his friend Anglesey to present to the king his respects and his humble ser- vice. Angle sey had done so, but hear- ing nothing of Patricks plans, had not been able to answer the kings ques- tions, and the king wished to see me to be better informed. M. de Sercine added (and this greatly alarmed me) that his Majestys motive for wishing to see me was not curiosity alone. All this caused me to feel great em- barrassment when I was admitted to the presence. I felt I had many things to conc6al, many things to explain, many to hope for, many to fear. I hardly know how far my own wit and my own boldness would have served me if the king had begun, as I expected, by questioning me with severity and reproach. But that excellent prince was only bent on kindness. Before asking me about my brothers, he told me that, as I had never presented my- self at his court, I could hardly be sur- prised that I had not shared in his favors, so that I had made it necessary for him to seek me out in order to in- form me that he offered me the post of his chaplain in ordinary to attend upon his person. He said lie had been keep- ing the place for me for some time. 19 20 It has a salary, he said, which will enable you to live in comfort; and he advised me to resign my beiie- fice in Ireland. lie went on speaking with favor of myself and of my brothers, trying to interrupt me when I would have expressed my gratitude, and, at last, coming to the subject of Patrick, he expressed his regret that he should lose the opportunity of attaching a man of his merits and his birth to his court and his person. He did not even al- lude to the troubles in our family, thinking them, I suppose, at an end. Seeing his Majesty so kind, it be- came easier for me than I expected to tell him what seemed necessary that Patricks journey had been put off, and possibly might never take place, and I added that the reasons that ha.d made him think of leaving France were, I trusted, at an end. Then let me see him here to-mor- row, said the king, and you may rely upon it that what I intend to do for him will induce him to give up his journey into Germany. I should have gone back at once with this news to Patrick, had not M. de Sercine assured me that it was only proper to remain at the chateau until after the kings coucher. While his Majesty was at table, and indeed long into the night, he was questioning me about the state of his affairs in Ireland. He knew of Lord Lynchs death, and asked me the par- ticulars. This led to my telling him that I was the sole depositary of the secret Lord Lynch had inherited from his father. I described to the king the riches in the treasure house, and we debated the ways and means of bring- ing them over to France. It seemed too late to get back to Paris that night after the king had dis- missed me, so I slept at the house of M. de Sercine. But ali! how eagerly I should have returned home at once had Ii guessed what was passing in my absence. I did not reach Paris until midday, and descended at the counts door, full of joy at the news I was going to com municate. But the appearance of the servants foreboded misfortune. I did not question them. I asked to see the count. I was shown in to him, but did not speak. Great changes, he said, have taken place since you have been away. Fincer has died of apoplexy, brought on by a fit of anger. Your brother has disappeared, no one knows whither. My wife has gone to Sara, and I have just left her. She does not yet know of her fathers death, and the flight of him she still calls her hus- band. I hardly knew what to do. I had no sooner quitted the counts house on foot, on my way to Fincers, than I was stopped by Patricks valet, out of breath, who told me he had just come with all speed from Saint Germain, where he had been to seek me. lie went on to say that, in conse- quence of my orders, he had delivered the message I had given him, as if coming from my brother. Mademoi- selle de L had been much moved by it, and had uttered bitter complaints against her husband and Sara Fiucer. She wrote a second letter to my brother, then a third, then others. To none did she receive any answer in writing, only such messages as it pleased the valet to construct out of his own head, and at last so far exceeded his instructions as to tell her that his master said he did not wish to hear from her. Mademoiselle de L was furious. Her feelings, which till then she had controlled, broke forth in passionate reproaches. She declared in the pres- ence of the valet that she would leave Paris at once, that she would set off alone for Germany, and desired him to let her people know that they might make ready for her journey. Having formed this resolution she wrote another letter to Patrick filled with the bitterest reproaches, and tell- ing him of her resolve. This she gave in charge to a person whom she meant to leave in Paris to look after her affairs, telling him to surmount all ob- stacles, and to see Patrick himself. Meantime she put off her departure till The Dean of Killerine. Ocean Meadows. the next day ; but this was unknown to the messenger. He had seen her trav- elling carriage at the convent gate when she gave him the letter. That night her man did not succeed in getting into Fincers house, but the next morning he managed to enter it in spite of the porters vigilance. Mademoiselle de L remained mean- while in terror and despair. The messenger went up the stair- case, and entered an anteroom. It led to Saras chamber. There he saw Patrick sitting in a chair, broken down by loss of food and sleep. He seemed at first to take no notice of the signs that the man made him. But the mo- ment he caine out to him and heard from whom he came, he seized the let- ter. Mademoiselle de L had never lost her place in his affections. He had thought her safe and tranquil in the convent. Her undeserved re- proaches filled him with anguish, ter- ror, and remorse. She spoke of ten letters that she had written to him. He had not received one of them She was about to leave France. Her letter, she said, would be delivered to him after she had gone. He turned furiously on the messenger. The man told him that his mistress had left Paris the night before. At once Sara was forgotten. Furi- ous at the idea that Fincer or his ser- vants had intemepted his letters, Patrick flew down-stairs, to vent his rage on the domestics. Fincer, hear- ing the commotion, came forth to learn what had happened. Patrick re- proached him as bitterly as his ser- vants, and, threatening vengeance, left the house. Fincer, on learning what had taken place, and that Patrick had rushed from his daughters sick-bed to her rival, became in his turn so angry that it brought on a fit of apoplexy of which he died. One of his servants had had the presence of mind to shut the door of Saras chamber, while an- other went to inform the count and countess as her nearest friends. Patrick, meantime, hurried to Made- moiselle de Ls house. He found it vacant. No servant was there but his own valet, who appeared before him trembling; but Patricks suspi- cions had not fallen on him. He asked the man no questions, but entered at once into his own chamber. He seemed almost beside himself. The valet, after doing all in his power for his relief, did not dare~ to oppose him when he spoke of going at once to the post-house, taking horses, and follow- ing Mademoiselle de L upon her road to Germany ; he only begged his master to let him make all enquiries, assuring him of his zeal. But his real object was to get away before his sup- pression of the letters should be found out. First, however, he went to Fin- cers house, and heard what had oc- curred there. Then he passed the convent gate, and saw Mademoiselle de L s carriage still standing there without horses. Then he bethought him that if he were guilty I was quite as much so, and he set out in quest of me at Saint Germain. I was not there. He hurried back to Paris, and met me at Count Ss door. Alas Alas What was I to think of all this ? Either Patrick, impatient at his mans delay, must have gone him- self to the convent, or Mademoiselle de L, informed by her own messenger of what had taken place, had sent to find him. Could Sara be long ignorant of what had taken place? And what was the next thing that might hap- pen? From The Quarterly Review. OCEAN MEADOWS. OUT in blue water, poised on the sur- face of thousands of fathoms of sea, 1 1. Revision des Nostocacdes Hdtdrocyst6es. Par MM. Ed. Bornet et Oh. Flahault. (Extr. An- nales des Sciences Naturelles.) Paris, 18861888. 2. Monographie des OscillarPles. Par M. Mau- rice Gomont. (Extr. Annales des Sciences Natu- relies.) Paris, 1893. 3. Das Pflanzenleben der Hochsee. Von Dr. Franz Schuitt. (Ergebuisse der in dem Atlantis- chen Ocean ausgefahrten Plankton Expedition der Humboldt Stiftung, herausgegeben von Victor Heusen.) Kid ,ind Leipzig, 1893. 4. Report on Deep Sea Deposits. By John Mur 21 Ocean Meadows. the traveller finds it hard to realize that he is crossing a meadow of plants, evading observation as individuals, and even, under ordinary circumstances, inconspicuous in the mass, yet every- where present, affording nutrition to minute forms of animal life, which in turn supply the food of shoals of fishes. The study of these ocean meadows and of the animal life that they support suggests a variety of questions, which are of practical and economic, as well as theoretical or scientific, interest. They are the feeding-grounds of fishes they open out fields of enquiry to natu- ralists ; they offer difficulties to students of geology; and the validity of evolution demands an explanation of the prob- lems connected with their appearance. Writers on sanitation have made us painfully familiar with the facts that a profusion of mingled organisms inhabit the air in greater or less density, and that man is constantly surrounded with evidence of the avoidable as well as the inevitable impurity of his dealings with organic substances. Though such or- ganisms are not true aerial denizens, hut, like the seeds of thistles blown by the wind, are mere passengers through the atmosphere, a consideration of their occurrence in such multitudes in the air impresses us with the fact that the frontiers of the distribution of organic life are scarcely to be delimited. The living earth and its waters teem with inconspicuous and unsuspected forms of bacterial life, performing functions of the utmost utility to man, and on the other hand potent with latent hostility. Such organisms share these attributes with the lower fungi, but the relation- ship formerly presumed to exist be- tween bacteria and fungi is now known to he merely one of function. They agree, that is, in following parasitic and saprophytic modes of life, setting up diseases in the one case and decay in the other, and are as little related as bats are to birds. The true next of kin of bacteria are the other Protophyta containing chlorophyll, the green color ray, LL.D., and Rev. A. F. Renard, LL.D. (Re- ports of the Scientific Results of the Exploring Voyage of H.M.S. Cliallenger.) 1891. ing matter of plants, and vegetating by means of it in ordinary plant fash- ion. This great group is not only more varied in form, but has even wider frontiers than the bacteria as regards its distribution. Owing to less special- ized modes of life tile least special- ized of any organized beings the green Prof op hytd occur universally. They are found wherever there is moisture and a little light, with the moss in its cranny, ill lakes and rivers, by seashores, and, even penetrating to those regions wllere bacterial life is normally scarce or absent, on the tops of mountains and in tile open ocean the blue water~~ of seafaring lan- guage. The admirable work which M. Bor- net and his two pupils, as they would no doubt proudly confess themselves, have done in monographing the great groups of Protophyta called the heter- ocystal Nostocacece (Rivulariecc, Siro- siphoniecc, Scytonemecc, Nostocee) and the Iloinocystal Nostocacece or Oscil- lariece, so much surpasses ordinary botanical systematic work that it is diflicult to refrain from the use of apparently exaggerated language in describing it. The differences of struc- ture and development which are char- acteristic of specie~ of plants are very obscure in these low forms, and their scrutiny is a work of labor in its meth- ods. Tllere are probably no plants, into the systematic literature of which greater confusion has been imported. The bacteria, perhaps, ougIlt to be ex- cepted, since species-making has here fallen into the hands of chemists, med- ical men, and physiologists, who are a law tQ themselves in their mode of dis- eliminating specific rank by physiolog- ical and cllemical tests instead of by tile characters afforded by structure and development. The natural history of bacteria has come to be disregarded, and the sensational recognitions of new forms in association with disease, of wIlicIl professional and daily newspa- pers tell us, will one day form a chapter in the chronique scandaleuse of botany, when these forms find their natural historian in a new Bornet. 22 Ocean JIIeadows. In the early days of the bacteria scare, if it may be so termed, the true path was pointed out by the celebrated botanist Bary in his Lectures on Bac- teria ; but his voice cried in a xvii- derness of eager bacteriologists, who adopted some of his methods and redis- covered others, while they neglected his adjuration to remember that bacteria are to be studied like other plants and not like chemical products and physio- logical principles. A ready means of ~au~ing the amount and character of the work of MM. Bornet, Flahault, and Gomont, is supplied when we compare the disorder that existed among the green Protophyta, which they have monographed, with that existing among the colorless forms the bacteria. In accomplishing their task, the greatest difficulty has no doubt been the relega- tion of the endless bad species to their proper place. The catalogne of spe- cies excludendm enormously exceeds in number the legitimate species, and the conscientious execution of the task of investigating all these claimants to specific rank must have proved a heart- breaking labor. The difficulties have been equalled by the honest hard work and brilliant interpretations of the au- thors. One of the most interesting direc- tions in xvhich science has recently ad- vanced is exhibited in the records of the existence of a flora and a fauna of universal occurrence in the most inhospitable wastes of the sea. The phosphorescence, or luminosity as it is better termed, of the ocean is well known to be due to the presence of organisms in it in vast numbers. This phenomenon, almost as brilliantly ex- hibited on our western coasts as in tropical seas, has at all times attracted notice ; but the conditions of its exhi- bition are even now imperfectly under- stood. From the earliest times to the present there are direct and indirect records of the occurrence of transient phenomena of a like kind to be seen in the open light of day. Many specula- tions have been hazarded as to the origin of the name of the Red Sea. Ilerodotus helps us merely to the name, Ann. Sci. Nat., 1844. and Pliny begins, as was to be expected, the work of mixing in atters, having collected idle tales about King Erythras, the reflection of the suns rays, the color of the sand, and the nature of the water. Montagne, in his memoir on the subject, assigned the true origin of the name to the periodical occurrence in its waters, and in the tropical Indian Ocean as well, of floating l)anks of a microscopically minute seaweed, Tn- chodesrnii~m erythrccu.m. Ehrenberg and others had previously witnessed and commented on the fact, and Candolle had described a similar reddening of the waters of the Lake of Morat, owing to the pre~ence, in extraordinary abun- dance, of an allied organism. Captain Cook, Hinds in the voyage of the Sul- phur, Darwin in the Beagle, and many other observers, hav6 noted similar phenomena in widely distant seas, and have, some of them, remarked the offensive odor accompanying such manifestations. No naturalist who has witnessed one of these great exhibi- tions of the astonishing fecundity of the lowest forms of life, and has ob- served its evil smell and the swarms of animal parasites, can fail to recall the literal truth of Coleridges verse The very deep did rot; 0 Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. Not Tennyson, nor Ruskin, ever stated a scientific truth in poetical lan- guage with less exaggeration, thoun strangely enough,these very lines have been seized upon by sensational book illustrators as material suitably weird for the exercise of their debased craft. Such phenomena are akin to the periodical occurrences of great banks of minute algce in freshwater lakes and rivers, for example, the breaking of the meres, as it is termed in Shrop- shire, where it has been investigated with some success. Cases of the rapid formation of such banks have been often recorded elsewhere, and Lou- doners may observe it annually on a small scale in the ponds of Kensington 1 Sur Ia Coloration des Eaux de la Mer Rouge: 23 Ocean Meadows. Gardens, where, in the months of September and October, the fountains spout sprays of blue-green water. The marine phenomena are on a grander scale. The organisms find the most favorable conditions of temperature, of light, of salinity, etc., for the purpose of multiplication, just as the allied bac- teria find such best possible conditions with the result of an epidemic disease. How far indeed such conditions, wholly external to our bodies and not involving any preliminary weakness of our health, may constitute what is called predis- position to disease, is a subject which students of plant diseases understand much better than the path6logists of man and animals. Visible occurrences such as these are probably much more common in the ocean than is supposed, and an enquiry into their mode of origin leads us to the facts, that suc..h organisms do ordinarily exist at all places in the sea, and that it is merely under the most favorable con- ditions that we observe this sudden in- crease in the numbers of particular species. Those who knew that the whole bulk of animal life in the ocean must be directly and indirectly dependent on the vegetation of the ocean, were puz- zled for many years by the difficulty of accounting for the apparent disparity of their volumes, since the marine vegetation of the coasts alone is mani- festly insufficient to preserve the bal- ance. The least observant eye notes that, on the great carpet of green which covers the earth, the animal life is but a faint pattern; in the ocean the pro- portion seems to be reversed. Owing to the action of sea-water in intercept- ing light, which is necessary for the nutrition of all plants except parasites, there is complete darkness below seven hundred fathoms or less ; but, long be- fore this depth is reached, the quality of light in relation to its action on plants is so profoundly modified, that marine vegetation penetrates to a tri- fling depth. On the other hand, the marine fauna ranges into the great depths, and the impossibility of balanc- ing a mere fringe of vegetation along coasts, plus floating Sargasso banks against the animal life of the whole ocean was apparent to all who consid- ered the matter. The balance has been adjusted by the discovery of an ubiqui- tous marine vegetation, causing the tropical seas to glow with phosphores- cent beams, and discploring polar ice where the sea breaks on it. The exist- ence of these meadows of plants is made plain to us by the direct evidence of tow-netting the upper layers of water with fine silk nets, when their capture, together with the minute forms of animal life that live upon them, is effected. The minute animal life in turn furnishes food for shoals of fishes, and the importance of an en- quiry into the whole life-history and seasonal occurrences of such organisms the basis of the nutrition of marine life, as green plants are of terrestrial life can scarcely be overrated. No such enquiry has ever been conducted in a serious scientific spirit in our seas by other than private investigators, un- equipped with adequate resources for the proper study of the subject in its economic aspect. Our Fishery Boards concern themselves as little with this vital matter as they possibly can. Nor is this apathy surprising, when it is re- membered that the present government have appointed to the chairmanship of the Scottish Fishery Board an estimable gentleman, who possibly understands the branding of herrings, but whose chief qualification for the l)05t was a safe constituency. Yet at the moment when this appointment was made, they had the opportunity, pressed upon them by a large body of scientific men, of choosing an eminent naturalist, whose claims as a student of the ocean are admitted by men of all nations to be unrivalled. Much is heard of the study of the migrations of food fishes ; but why not begin the matter by enquiring into the occurrences of the food of fishes, the vegetation that supports all marine life? Men whose minds are open to such considerations do not sit for safe constituencies in suflicient numbers to make an official enquiry probable in the 24 Ocean Meadows. near future. But, besides the Fishery Boards, there is at least one institution from which light might be expected on such a subject. Some years ago a marine laboratory was established at Plymouth, from which economic as well as scientific blessings were ex- pected to flow. Has such an enquiry ever been made under its auspices? Its mills grind slowly ; but they do not grind small enough for microscopic organisms of this kind. The economic value of such an en- quiry can be sufficiently indicated by briefly comparing its importance for fishery with that of land vegetation for terrestrial life. We know that the nu- trition of the whole animal kingdom, including mankind, depends, wholly and absolutely, upon the activity of vegetation in converting the inorganic into the organic for our food ; and, accordingly, the study of economic botany, especially agriculture, exacts the attention of States as well as of individuals. The basis of fishery is precisely the same as the basis of agri- culture, and, as now conducted, fishery is in the same state of development as agriculture was in the days when nomadic man chased and slew the beasts of the field without bestowing a thought on the nature of their pastures. The primitive hunter indeed knew, as the modern fisherman knows, that there are special feeding-grounds, be- cause both have blundered on them. Our Fishery Boards have developed so far as to be able to tell the fishermen what they must not do. The negative result is something to be grateful for; but it seems asking too much to invite these authorities to discover some course which might be recommended in the way of positive action. No such advance is likely to be made until their investigations pass beyond purely tech- nical matters into the regions of science. It is true that examinations of marine 25 of the pelagic flora; they are other- wise a mere groping in the dark. Apart from the economic aspect of the study of pelagic vegetation, the snbject has a purely scientific impor- tance and interest not only to natural- ists but to students of geology as well. The extensive fossil (liatomnaceous de- posits, containing the innumerable and exceedingly minute siliceous shells of diatoms a ~roup of the lowest alge of Tertiary and Quaternary age, now used in the manufacture of dynamite, polishing powders, etc., are the testi- mony of the rocks to the enormous activity of these organisms in the fresh and salt waters of past times. It is an interesting fact about these great fossil deposits, that, though many specific forms are represented in each of them, vet either a single species, or at most a few, compose the mass of each forma- tion. It is exceptionally noteworthy that they all belong to genera, and in a very high proportion to species, liv- ing at the presei~t time. In the chalk itself there are preserved species still extant, and before the chalk there is aii absolute blank in the record of the rocks as to this form of vegetation, though the conditions appear to have existed abundantly for the preservation of such comparatively indestructible bodies as the siliceous shells of dia- toms. Castracane has indeed recorded that he found in the ash of English coal eight species of freshwater dia- toms of common occurrence at the present day. But exhaustive and fruit- less research has been made by others, and the record is open to question. Some of these deposits are of fresh- xvater, and some of marine, origin and it is again noteworthy that the hat- tei~ contain many forms now exclusively marine. The records of the Chal- lenger and other expeditions have shown us, that the floor of the ocean, over many laige tiacts, is now receiv- temperatures are conducted. One is ing, in the form of diatomaceous ooze, tempted to wonder why they are made vast quantities of the siliceous walls of possibly on purely meteorological diatoms slowly showered down from grounds. Such observations are of the the surface layers of water, where in greatest value in connection with oh- life they play their part as pelagic veg- servations of pelagic life especially etation. The naturalists of Sir James 26 Ocean Meadows. Rosss Antarctic Expedition have de- only have we no sure knowledge of scribed a great tract of ocean bottom in many biological problems concerning the South Polar Sea which is composed them, such as their mode of motion, of this diatomaceous ooze. The tow- but we have this great want of a due nets of the Challenger and other expe- search for them in the earlier rocks. ditions have captured on the surface There is a further reason for the need in many quarters, but especially here, of filling this blank in the interests of the living diatomaceous scum which evolution. Judged by their structure, rains down its dead to form this de- we are justified in the inference that posit on the bottom. South of latitude they are among the least changed de- BOo, the Chiallenger narrative tells us, scendants of the most primitive forms the tow-nets were on some occasions so of life, and may therefore, on this filled with diatoms, that large quan- ground alone, be presumed to have tities could be dried by heating over a had an earlier origin. i~ we combine, stove, when a whitish, felt-like mass then, such a consideration with the was obtained. fact of first occurrence in many varied The agency at work here is similar forms, and the presence of favorable to the occasional swarms of other conditions of life and of preservation pelagic alg~ in the Red Sea and the in previous epochs, it will be seen that tropical oceans and in temperate, fresh- the validity of evolution demands an water lakes, and the conditions for its earlier record of their appearance in operation are the same. Not only the rocks. now, but, as the geological deposits As regards the geographical distribu show us, from the remote past, are tion of the pelagic diatoms, it may be these outbreaks of the predominance of safely stated that their home is to be single torms known. They have con- found in the colder waters of the north- tinned in kind, and the very species em and southern oceans, where they concernedi in the operation in Tertiary outweigh in bulk all other pelagic times continue to exist. Not only the plants. They occur in much smaller typical form, but the species them- numbers in the tropical seas. Asso- selves, which have gained and main- ciated with them in this respect are tamed such an ascendency, have thie Peridiniece, a very remarkable survived as the fittest. They are of so grout) to be found on our own coasts, many varied forms that the British which would repay closer study, since Museum collection illustrating the dif- our knowledge of their true nature ferent species and their distribution in is certainly imperfect, and lingering space and in time consists of fifty thou- doubts remain whether botany or zool- sand slides for the microscope. This ogy should claim them. Thie pelagic type of organism (hoes not slowly dawn OsciUariecs are more characteristic of on geological history, gaining with the warmer than of the colder regions successive ages kaleidoscopic changes of the ocean ; while of the other Pro- of form and development. At their tophyta, Protococcacecc, etc., which oc- earliest appearance in the rocks they cur in the open sea, there is not enough burst upon us in great profusion of known to warrant any delimitation of forms, and these we have with us liv- their geographical distribution. Char- ing at this day. The conditions for acteristic of tropical seas is the singular their preservation in the earlier rocks Pyrocystis noctiluca (with one other were, as has been said, beyond doubt species, P. .fusiforrnis). As its discov- favorable. There was never such an erer, lDr. John Murray,i says: This argument for special creation as organism is always present arid often this subject offers in its present condi- in enormous abundance at the surface tion. The study of diatoms is open to of the open ocean in tropical and sub- many reproaches now made by bot- tropical regions where the temperature anists, accusations of unwarrantable 1 Challenger Exped. Narrative, vol. i., part 2, species-making, and the like but not p. 935. Ocean J[Ieadows. is over 68~ or 7O~, and the specific gravity of the water is not lowered by the presence of coast and river water. It is strongly luminous, and is the chief source of the diffused phospho- rescence of the sea in equatorial re- gions. The most brilliant displays of phosphorescence observed (luring the whole cruise of the Challenger were due to its presence in great numbers at the surface after calm weather. With a parallel geological history and of a present biological interest that eclipses the Diatornacece, the iRhabdo- spheres and Coccospheres are among the greatest natural puzzles that await solution. Geologists are familiar with the occurrence in the chalk and later formations of bodies called Rhabdo- litlis and Coccoliths, the broken down parts of Rhabdospheres aad Cocco- spheres like those of the present day. These are now regarded as pelagic alg~e; and though their nature is ob- scure, the balance of evidence leans towards this opinion as the correct one. They are abundant in all surface and subsurface waters of tropical and tem- perate seas away from the influence of coast waters, and are not infrequently observed entangled in the protoplasmic matter of such pelagic animals as Fo- rarninifera, and Radiolarians, in the stomachs of Salpe and of Crustaceans. They can, however, be collected float- ing free in the water. While the Rhabdospheres are confined to the warmer regions, the Coccospheres ex- tend to colder waters, where they are met with in even finer development than within the tropics. The broken down parts, or Rhabdoliths, are found in all the globigerina oozes (deposits of Foraminifera) of the tropics, and the Coccospheres in the deep deposits of subtropical regions, while Coccoliths occur massively in some of the globige- rina oozes. In short, Rhabdoliths an(l Coccoliths play a most important part in all deep-sea deposits, with the ex- ception of those laid down in polar and subpolar areas. These organisms, though they excite such geological interest, and possess a surpassing biological importance from the rOle they play in the ocean, are so little known that hardly any fact is to be added to this brief statement. It was hoped at one time that a report would be issued on the collections made by the Challenger expedition of the pelagic alg~ other than the dia- toms ; but the material brought home was not extensive eneugh nor in a suffi- ciently ~ood state of preservation to admit of this. In the preface to the volume on Diatomacece, the editor, whose personal knowledge of the sub- ject entitles his opinion to the assent of all naturalists, remarks An inter- esting account of these pelagic alg~ may be looked for from the first natu- ralist who has the time and opportunity to examine them in the living state on board ship, immediately after having been taken from the waters of the open ocean. Since the time of the Challenger expedition the methods of minute study of the lowest forms of life have ad- vanced in many respects, and good hopes were entertained that when the recent German expedition set out to study the Plankton or floating life of the Atlantic, many of the mysteries of the pelagic flora would be cleared up. Among its voluminous and excellent reports anil tediously written narrative (everything was Plankton that came to its net) there is one on the plant life of the open ocean by Dr. Franz Schiitt, while further details about the Pyro- cystecc are promised by Dr. K. Brandt. The expedition surveyed the North Atlantic more or less along the sixtieth parallel, touching near Cape Farewell the cold East Greenland current, which a year or two hence will bear Dr. Nan- sen back to us amid its floes, down the Labrador current and across the Gulf Stream to Bermuda; thence obliquely to the south-east as far as Ascension, crossing the north equatorial and Guinea currents ; north-westward down the south equatorial current to the mouth of the Amazons, and so straight home to Kiel rid the Channel. It was an excellently planned route for the examination of representative sections of the northern and tropical Atlantic, 27 Ocean Meadows. and its zoological results are valuable. If the total contribution to the botany of blue water is to be judged by Dr. Schtitts Pilauzenleben der iloclisee, then we have to be thankful for a cer- tain advance, for an accumulation of fresh facts, but for not a single expla- nation of any of the problems indicated above. Dr. Schiitts sketch of the plant life of the open ocean is interesting, but is padded out with commonplace botan- ical facts already known to the majority of cultivated readers. The most valu- able of his services are his estimates of the relative volumes of the component parts of the pelagic flora and their dis- tribution in the northern and tropical Atlantic. His most interesting record is that of the superficial and vertical (list:il)ution of a minute globular alga, Halosphcera viridis, which was first described and studied by Dr. Schmitz in the Bay of Naples. It was found abundantly in the warm Atlantic, first on entering the Gulf Stream, with great regularity throughout the tropical sea, and right up to the English Chan- nel. This record by itself is of great interest, but it cannot compete with what we are told as to the vertical dis- tribution of Halosphcera in the ocean. Schmitz and others have always found it in the superficial layers of water, but this expedition secured it alive by means of the Heusen closing tow-net from the great depths between 1000 220Gm. Since sunlight wholly fails to penetrate the greater of these depths (if it reach the lesser), Dr. Schiitt may well ask, Was grime Pflanzen dort machen sollen? Haeckels ingenious suggestion that the ph osphorescent light of animals wandering in the depths might suffice for the work of assimilation by green plants can hardly be seriously accepted by botanists, as Dr. Schiitt owns. He takes refuge in the charmingly vague statement that the key of the riddle will be found in oceanographic conditions, which is probably true if he means that the plants have been swept there by the influence of currents of submerged waters. It is very disappointing to find that this expedition never once found either Coccospheres or Rhabdospheres pos- sibly their tow-nets were not fine enough. Anyhow this, the most im- portant botanical problem which the expedition could have found to study, is contemptuously dismissed in a few lines of small type. Because this Ger- man botanist could not find them, he must needs suggest that either they belong to the Forarninifera rather than to the algte because of their association in occurrence, or, as has been said by others, they are mere inorganic forma- tions, like the celebrated Bathybius. It is a misfortune that this expedition failed to find these organisms an dgive us an account of them. It makes the misfortune blameworthy when the gap is filled with the suggestion that they were not worth finding. The final Challenger volume cannot now be munch longer delayed. Its rec- ords of the distribution of pelagic life, however imperfect they may be as regards the vegetation, will throw a side light on the shortcomings of the Heusen expedition. Dr. Schiitt adopts the attractive view commonly held as to the Sargasso Sea that its gulf- weed is a mass of drifted Sargassum, which, torn from the Antilles, has been borne, like the derelict ships of the Atlantic, by the currents to this still region of the ocean, where, on the bursting of the airvesicles, the plants perish and are renewed by fresh sup- plies from the Antilles. This view commands many adherents it accounts for all the facts except the important one, that Sargassurn bacciferurn, the prevalent form, does not grow attached in the Antilles nor anywhere elsein abundance if at all. Records have indeed been published of its occurrence attached but the marine flora of the Antilles is well known; capable and observant men have collected its Sar- gassa, but none of them have found the factory that furnishes forth the great ~expanse of the Sargasso Sea. It is possible to contend that S. bacciferarn is a growth form modified by its passage down the stream, but this 28 Ocean Meadows. 29 on an intake pipe and let the sea-water run through a silk bag, which thus acts as a tow-net or filter. Dr. Murray has put the apparatus to the test, and was able to secure specimens from the sur- face layers in excellent condition while crossing the North Atlantic, obtaining the Coccospheres that eluded the elab- orately equipped Geiman expedition, and observing their living contents. By such means our ocean steamships can be pressed into the service of bota- nists, and their o~vners and command- ers may be confidently reckoned on for practical sympathy with any study of the sea. The engineers surface tem- peratures and the route pricked on the chart would be found at the observers service. But though the results of this method may be anticipated to be con- siderable, it can never tell us of the range in depth of the organisms ; it can never survey currents and map out regions, unless in the most indirect fashion; it can never achieve what an expedition deliberately planned and properly equipped could attain. Almost every great advance in the study of the ocean has beeii made by this country, and the annals of the royal navy are eloquent of the distin- guished part it has played in this progress. Other countries are now competing with us in the study which without arrogance we may call our own. No costly equipment is needed. The use of a cruiser (of dignified speed only) would no doubt be furnished by the Admiralty for a brief period, while the government grant administered by the Royal Society is often spent with less return than an investigation of this kind, costing a small portio1~ of its annual amount, would yield. Let the fitting men come forward and demand it. again is possible only by admitting that the plants continue to grow and develop after being set free, which is incon- sistent with the rest of the theory. There are other arguments for and against this point, but Dr. Schiitt ig- nores them. A most interesting and instructive estimate was made by Dr. Hensen of the relative mass of the gulf-weeds of the Sargasso Sea, and its microscopic vegetation. This estimate, though confessedly only approximate, puts the microscopic and ordinarily in- visible vegetation far in excess of the Sargassa in bulk. No better example could be provided of the extent of this universal pelagic flora, and it is made all the more impressive by the fact that the Sargasso Sea is by no means rich in such forms when compared with northern and southern regions. It has been made clear that there is here a new realm for botanical explora- tion and study, and that for scientific and economic reasons this must be un- dertaken. The earlier oceanographic expeditions, the Challenger expedition, and the German expeditions have all of them demonstrated this fact, and have indicated the nature of the problems to be solved, and but little more. The zoologists have already broken up this great deep, and have advanced their science with magnificent results and they have called on botanists to do their part. It is the mere truth to state that, with the single exception of Dr. Franz Schiitt, no botanists have seri- ously gone down to the sea in ships to study this great subject. They have been content to stay in laboratories and scoff at the imperfectly preserved mate- rial brought home by zoological col- leagues. The work must be done on the spot the organisms must be stud- ied alive. By the admirably simple contrivance of Dr. John Murray any ocean steam- ship may be converted into a Plankton expedition at the expense of a few shil- lings for the study of surface forms at all events. Tow-nets are unneces- sary, and the steamer may proceed on her ordinary business at undiminished them. There is probably no region so speed. It is only necessary to fit a tap fertile in the forms of pelagic life as Another great opportunity will soon arise and must not be let slip. The proposed Antarctic expedition, for which a convincing case has been made out, can add to its usefulness by taking such an investigation in hand, not only in the southern seas but on its way to Via Dolorosa Atlantica the Southern Ocean, and an expedition which should not make the study of its vegetation one of its main objects had better stay at home. There is little fear of the subject being neglected in its widest aspects, since it is one of the professed aims which the promoters have in view, to use the language of a prospectus. Botanists will have them- selves to blame, and the public will have them to blame, if through their supine indifference this great and rich harvest of the ocean be not gathered in. In another respect the times are favorable. For many years this country lost its once eminent position in the study of the coast vegetation of the sea but during the last six or seven years so much good and honest work has been done by a young and energetic band of observers that this position has been in a great measure retrieved. There are not lacking among our younger botanists men of skill in the use of the most recent methods of re- search, capable of meeting the Germans on their own field. It will be their fault if the naturalists of another nation forestall them in taking possession of not the least honorable part of our em- pire over the sea. From The Cornhull Magazine. VIA DOLOROSA ATLANTICA. RAIS. Gigantic. Wednesday. We are lying snug and steady in the Alex- andra Dock ; the time is half past nine in the evening. We should have left Liverpool at four. Outside the library in which I write you hear steps walk- in g up and down the deck with the reverberations of a seaside pier in Au- gust. Inside, under the golden elec- tric light, business men (good business men, Ive no doubt, but ridiculous to a degree in Margate yachting caps) are frowning and writing, rustling flimsy pal)er, to catch the ten oclock mail- bag. They are travellers for the great Anglo-American firms; they cross the Atlantic three or four times a year and call the stewards by their Christian names. No one seems to know why we dont start; some say its the tides wrong, and some that its too rough for us to cross the bar. The real reason I un- V derstand to be an accident to an Amer- ican vessel, blown by the gale across the dock gates and at present barring our exit. Anyway~ we are still as a rock against the quay side, while the booming wind that has swept the face of heaven clean and freshened to a joyous twinkling every February sta.r, wreathes its thin shrill lips through ou~ rig~ ing with a high hooting cry, Come outside, you great coward, and Ill show you! We are all aboard, down to the last steerage passenger, with his high cheek-bones and worn fur cap, his flat, light-haired, freckled wife, tied up in a scarlet shawl ; his rough, red, mottled faced child, stamping about in a yellow fur coat, like a young Eskimo. When I strolled on shore before dinner, down the long dock-shed, flickering with gas and pungent with cases of onions, I met a youthful son of Erin stagger- ing towards the New World with his bundle and flushed skin-full of whiskey. He challenged us to fight, of course, Whos the next? Come on, both av ye! and was assisted up the gangway by the dock policeman and a iagged compatriot selling the Lrening 3fail. Down-stairs I beg pardon below, my stout little steward wipes his pol- ished dome of a forehead and advises me to go to bed now, before we get outside. In his trim white jacket he regards me benevolently, and his eyes twinkle at my assurance that I am a fparsome sailor, as though he had heard it often before. I suppose he must; he has been voyaging between Liverpool and New York for seventeen years. Seventeen years ! Why, he should know every wave and every sea- gull by sight. As I sink between the rough and l)leasant country-inn sheets of my berth I hear the lap of the water, the throbbing of a pump, and a drowsy voice from the next cabin that mur- mums, What a lot of bolts and rivets spring mattress George ? 30 Via Dolorosa Atlantica. Thursday. Still in the Alexandra Dock. A sailor, who tells me no one is allowed ashore, looks up at the shrill rigging and doesnt think the ranting, snoring gale is anyway abated. I go down to breakfast to the splendid gilded saloon (with an entirely unnec- essary lurching, sailor-like walk), and find a type-written menu, a hands length, crammed with every English and American delicacy. Clam chow- der, corn cakes, buckwheat, hominy, and cranberry jelly make me feel as though Bartholdis statue were already in sight. On deck the day is windy-brilliant. The sky is Eton blue, and through the haze the white gulls circle tempestu- ously. The surface of the dock is occasionally lashed into wreaths of skurrying mist. Near me two business men in yachting caps, to whom nothing in the voyage or in natnie are notice- able, talk earnestly and gustily. I hear, stall-fed cattle went right down to the bank, sir, and got itif that had been all the money he had in the world, he couldnt a been tighter. Now its 11.30 by the dock clock, and were gradually lurching away from the Alexandra quay side. We pass the dock gates and out into the leaping river. Against the bright sun- light the houses and shore of New Brighton look black as a silhouette. The last I see of the Lancashire coast is the long dun sand-hills, patched with ragged grass blown into shapeless hum- mocks by the wind. Then, like sticks, the masts of a wreck. All round the hurricane deck tarpaulins are stretched they flap-flap ,fiap! monotonously; they rumble with the dull thump of loosely stretched drums. As the Gigantic is still steady, passengers promenade briskly, and as they pass me in my deck-chair, I hear scraps of their con- versation. A stout woman with a pinched waist, a brown ulster, and a cap pinned over her streaming hair, asks, Has she any money at all ? Her companion, a wizened little man, dried up and brittle, in a shrunk covert- coat, answers disagreeably, Seventy pounds a year. Droll, these fleeting scraps of conveisation. I remember at South Kensington Station, only the other day, two men passing me with heavy, iml)ortant ti-cad while waiting for the train. If I survive my wife, says one to the other solemnly, as I hope I shall. Ocetera desunt, for the train came in. But what a glimpse into a household! All the early afternoon we get fairy views of the beautiful Welsh coast. Holyhead and its lighthouse look clear and sharp as in a water-color drawing. From my deck-chair I begin to notice the beginning of acquaintanceships and flirtations. One of the most obvious is that of an elderly, golden-haired lady, with deep-set, twinkling eyes and the highly artificial figure of a dressmakers mantle-hand, who walks the planks sharply with one of the travellers in yachting caps. He is the type of handsome swell of a third-rate comic paper in its seaside summer number; he wears a serge suit, and, with his hands plunged in his jacket pockets and his sturdy, bourgeois legs planted briskly down one after the other, he regards his companion with that fatuous air of the irresistible who has had much success among barmaids. The husband of the golden-haired lady sits playing poker in the smoking-room where the company looks like that the commercial parlor of a Manchester hotel, and the atmosphere resembles a blue fog. As the Gigantic turns towards Qucenstown the trembling and throb- bing approach something more definite in the way of movement. I make up my mind to get shaved while I can. The barber, who is curled up asleep in his little shop, operates upon me deftly and informs me this is the one hun- dred and eighty-fifth time he has crossed the Atlantic. He chaiges a shilling for the shave, and says I shant get done in New York for that money. Then he turns with a low bow to the most important man on board, our member of Parliament, who sits on the captains right in the saloon. If the poor gentlemans well enough he will be called on to preside at the concert 31 Via Dolorosa Atlantica. that always takes place the last night. Indeed, hc has the air, as he strolls about in his fur coat, of already con- sidering his neat and appropriate re- marks as chairman, or at least one of the many important social and polit- ical problems of the day. Possibly, however, I do him an injustice, and he is only wondering whether he is going to be sick. Dinner is announced by a couple of sailor-boys marching about playing bu- gles. I find those bugles very trying in mid-Atlantic ; they are tooted just outside my cabin door, a ad they seem to say Get up and come into the sa- loon, my boy. There youll find meat and rich sauces and puddings and wine. Even Sam, the steward, ad- mits they sometimes have boots thrown at them. At dinner I observe the mo- rose feeling growing stronger; my hair has a tendency to rise off my forehead, the menu seems absurdly, outrageously, disgustingly long. I am next rather a handsome girl who cant understand why I dont talk to her. She asks me to pass the salt, and when I do it in dreary silence she says, Thank you very much, and looks me straight in the eyes. The table steward bends over me with the menu and presses more food on me. His voice sounds muffled as though it came from a tele- phone. I rise with a frown, I sway gently from side to side, the joints in my legs dont feel sufficient to meet the upward and downward movements of the deck. The talk and the laugh- ter, the rattle of knives and forks grow fainter. I find myself in a narrow passage with a brass rail on on~ side and a limp fire-hose on the other. I say aloud fretfully, I want cabin 125. In despair I open a door, any door; its a bathroom. Fortunately I meet a boy carrying linen, from whom I de- mand Sam, my steward Sam. He says, Sam is at plates, mister. That means Sam is assisting to wash-up. At last, cabin 125. The curtains, the coats, my dressing-gown are swinging from side to side. I throw my clothes off me as though they were all shirts of Nessus. I fall asleep, dully, heavily, like a drunken tramp under a hay- stack. At one in the morning I wake to ab- solute silence and stillness. We are at Queenstown. I discover Sam has been in and fastened a tin arrangement, very like the tronc pour les pauvres outside a Catholic church, on to the edge of the berth. Tr~s commode, ~a. At three I wake again and find we are leaving Queenstown. Sam, who looks in upon me, replies to my inquiries as to whether it isnt very rough, Well, the winds been here before us. Friday. Sam opens the portholes, and, leaning one fat hand on the edge of my berth, asks how I am. In a strangled voice I reply that I am wretched. His consolation is that he will see me again presently. The bu- gles blow for breakfast; I hear the water going into the batl~, loud voices, somebody who whistles the Pina- fore. The sea gushes into the glass cap of the portholes and gushes out again; gushes in and gushes out. A basket-work chair advances from the other side of the cabin, meets a port- mantean, and retires. My toothbrush rattles in the glass, bottles fall. I doze. Sam comes in carrying a little basin of chicken broth and some crackers. He says its half past eleven. I stare at him stupidly when he mentions crackers. I think of a Christmas party and my dear small nephews and nieces. But crackers are only pallid-looking biscuits, to escape fromu which I put my head under the clothes. Sam sighs and says lie will see me again presently. Surely I told hini to take away the chicken broth? I know I tried to. Doze. The bugles blow for lunch for din- ner. The Pinafore whistler sings the curates song in the next cabin as he blithely dresses. The sea gushes and hisses in and out of the portholes; the curtains of my berth sway over my face and brush it. I ring the electric bell for Sam to come and close the port- holes and shut out that horrible gushing sea. The boy comes in and says Sam is at plates. I try to throw into my glance an order to close the portholes. 32 Via Dolorosa Atlantica. Far down under the bed-clothes a strange voice says portholes. The boy looks at me alarmed and says, Sam will see me presently. In the middle of the night I wake with a baked, parched thirst. I ring the bell and a strange man enters in a dark flannel shirt. By my directions lie gives me an effervescing drink. He makes it too strong and it fizzes over my face and hair deliciously. He says it is two oclock, and blowing pretty hard. I look at my watch and find its twenty past three. Thats the worst of going west; the nights are all the longer. I hear the sea boiling up into the portholes like a witchs cauldron. I slide from side to side in my berth and have to grip the edge to prevent myself from falling ont. Yes, says the stra.nge man, shes rolling. Saturday. As I follow the motion of the ship, I cannot help thinking of a country road that climbs and dips and falls, turns corners, rumbles and bumps over ruts and unmended spaces; stops for a minute or two to let the horse- power breathe and then dashes on again wildly, whip-bethwacked. I fancy my- self in a shaky, weak old chaise; I am driving from Devizes to Marlborough over the downs; the road is very bad, there are huge stones and long raw places. As we sway and slide along, I build up beside our path Wiltshire farmhouses and villages. We stop for one trembling, suspended moment op- posite a Cold Harbor I know. There is a damp-stained blue paper in the parlor, blue horsemen are leaping blue fences, some of them are cut in half by the corner china-closets. Outside a horn blows; it is that rackety young Pike with his tandem. Chalker, the farmer~ enters to look at me, with his little eyes and long teeth. No, its Sam, steadying himself with the door handle, and young Pikes horn is the bugle for breakfast. Sam has an orange stuck on a fork, the skin and the white all cut away, the juice dripping. Dare I? Sam opens the portholes and says, Its a nasty morning again. The sea boils up into the portholes like milk into a saucepan. LIVING AGE. VOL. III. 1Q~ I notice that the voices in the cor- ridor and from the neighboring cabins are stronger, more cheerful. Sam says all his gentlemen are up with the ex- ception of one next door, who spends the day making noises, each more com- plicated than the last. Sam says he wouldnt be so bad if he didnt think himself so well and eat so much. Why doesnt lie imitate me? Yesterday I broke a biscuit in half. To-day I suck an orange. All day long I doze, doze confusedly. There are times in ocean voyages, I am sure, when these great ships strike and roll over marine monsters taking their ease near the surface. Often and often I felt the Gigantic strike something, struggle for a few moments with a body, vast and pulpy; either cut its way through it, or rise above and along it, and then go free again through the unresisting waves. Frequently I was sure I heard screams and dolorous cries of anguish. It was just as though we had run over some one in the street. Perhaps these vessels that are lost and never heard of again (the City of Bos- ton, for instance, which they suppose destroyed by an iceberg) are in reality smashed and devoured by the revolt and combination of outraged furious monsters who have borne the mutila- tion and death of their dearest long enough. Sam visits me later in the intermina- ble day with milk and lime water ; to strengthen the stomach, he says. No use, my good Sam; je nepuispas le re- tenir. Steps, bugles, voices, the man who sings Ta-ra-ra-booin de ay while he gets ready for dinner, the man who comes down late from the smoking- rooni and undresses noisily. Sunday. Sam suggests I should see the doctor. The doctor comes rolling and lurching into my cabin after the half past ten Church of England ser- vice in the saloon. He, too, has had seventeen years of voyaging to and fro ; it took him two months, he says, to get over his sea-sickness, so I can scarcely complain of my three days. He is an Irishman of the jovial type of Charles Levers doctors, with a brogue 33 34 one might cut with a silver knife. He demands my tongue, and when, with an immense effort I show it to him, Ol wish oid got wan so dane, says he regretfully, lie orders me milk and lime water aud a visit on deck, neither of which prescriptions I have the faint- est idea of obeying. He tumbles out of my cabin like an amateur actor pre- tending to be extremely drunk, and I fall again to intermittent dozing. In the afternoon I am seized with a passionate desire to see the face of this restless, storm-lashed Atlantic. I be- gin by sitting up in my berth for the first time for three days. My head feels full of molten, swimming, clang- ing lead ; my legs, on the other hand, as I dangle them impotently over the side of my berth, are as pieces of string. ~ fall on my knees, grown leaden now instead of my head (which feels light and bobbing as a cork), and with the help of the basket-work chair which slides to my aid, (Irag myself like a shot rabbit to the opposite berth below the portholes. How high above me it seems, and now how low! Up I clamber and look out through the gush- ing, boiling porthole. Waves, green and curling ! hollows, slabs, terraces, troughs of water, broken and tumbling. White ridges and manes, and vast, deep pits where the sea appears clean sliced into polished sides of the richest verd-antique. Not a ship, nor a bird; only the low grey sky, with its masses of slowly shifting cloud ; only the grandiose, breaking seas. Tempestu- ous as the seascape is, its very silence strikes me as ominous. It is like watching a man in a fit of dumb, in- articulate rage. It reminds rue of see- ing people dance, through a window, when you dont hear the music. In the evening Sam persuades me to sit in the basket-work chair while he makes my bed. I sit in a limp heap, like Irving in the last act of Louis XI. Sam entertains me, meanwhile, with stories of vessels which break their machinery when (just as we are) three days out; the rest of the voyage is made laboriously under sail, and lasts three weeks. Also he tells me of sni cides (they had one for each of their first five voyages) and burials, not at all uncommon. He winds up with an account of a commercial gentleman in the next cabin who had delirium tre- mens all last voyage, and required a strait waistcoat, Sam, and three super- numeraries to keep him quiet. I wake at six in the morning to find a strange man on his knees moving his hands mysteriously over tIme floor. He says he is searching for my boots to clean them. He describes it as a nasty morning aga.in and bitterly cold. Monday afternoon. However Sam managed to get me up on deck, I dont know. To rue it was like stumbling about inside a kaleidoscope, every ob- ject going through a constant shifting and wondrous sea-change.. I have a recollection of his holding me by the arm and sliding me into a deck-chair~ Now, he says, the deck-steward will see after me. When he leaves me I feel as though I have lost my only friend on board, and that I am about to shed the bitterest tears of my life. I open my eyes and see a sailor in a son - wester dropping a thermometer over- board and pulling it up again to examine the temperature of tIme water. That is, I believe, to discover whether there be icebergs in the neighborhood. Then comes to me the (leck-stewar(l. He prodtmces the menu from his inside jacket-pocket and holds it under my nose. I look at it blankly and drearily~ I see beef and mutton and things fricass~ed. Then I look at him and his (lumb, entreating eye. My white lips murmur something inarticulate ; neither of us speaks, but, thank heaven, he understands inc and goes. Healthy, hearty people walk sturdily up and down the deck, talking and laughing. I get hideous whiffs of their tobacco, and the end of my deck-chair is occasionally knocked in a way that moves me to blind fury. If I had a gun handy, there are two young men I should certainly shoot. They wear Norfolk jackets and flannel trousers, they appear to enjoy the cold and the motion, the wind envelops me with occasional clouds of the horrible mix Via Dolorosa Atlantica. Via Dolorosa Atlautica. ture they are puffing at. I try to attract the attention of the captain, who is walking up and down with a pretty girl, assuring her that he will get her to New York on Thursday afternoon; I have an idea that lie will put those two young men in irons if I ask him to, properly. The deck is so bitterly cold that, to avoid being frozen and affecting the thermometer which the man in the son -wester pulls up and down and ex- amines carefully every half hour, I drag myself miserably into the library. The library (owing perhaps to the quantity of light literature it contains) is even more unsteady than the deck. I close my eyes and listen to two American girls chaff a fat young Dutch- man in a yachting cap and a reach- me-down mackintosh with capes. He amuses them so much that they carry him off down to the saloon for after- noon tea. I feel that if I dont speedily get below again I shall disgrace myself and my good friend Sani. I have a vision as I lurch along cabin-wards of leaping brass handrails and a long twining fire- hose, twisting like an empty snake. Fortunately, Sam is sitting in the pas- sage amusing himself with a highly colored Americami comic paper. I fall shuddering into his arms ; he undresses me like a child and puts me back into the familiar berth. He looks at me mournfully, and says he will see me again presently. Tuesday. Nothing but shipwreck ~vill induce me to rise, and even then I shall insist on being the last person to leave the vessel. The doctor looks at me and says to Sam, Fwhat shall we do to get um on deck? Shah we put powder under um? All day long I lie and read, not un- pleasantly. I have Half Hours of the best American Authors, which I took out of the library before we started, and Hardys Return of the Native, bought at Crewe. What years ago it seems since we left London in the spe- cial, since I jumped out at Crewe and bought the book. How like a dream it seems to recall the two French people sitting ol)posite in the luncheon car, the woman with her vivacious mon- key face, cunning and shrewd, but miot unpleasant ; the man, handsome and sulky, with his common hands and thick legs. I set her down as a trap~- zienne, and he as the strong man who stands below steadying the rope, watching her gyrations with affected palpitations of terror. She read Belle-maman when she was not quarrelling with him, and lie had a crumpled copy of Gil Blas. And the American ladies, in diamond earrings and tight scalskin jackets, chattering of the London shops and hotels while the pleasant English landscape slid past, with the ploughing teams on the brown uplands, the solitary figures trudging along the roads, the broad fields greenly shimmering with the winter wheat. And the wind in Liv- erpool, yelling through the docks, and the first sight of the Gigantic ; and the sheaf of kindly telegrams waiting in the box iii the saloon ; and the steward, looking in his Eton jacket like a huge schoolboy, marking off our places for dinner and lmandin~ us each a number. How far off they all seem to me now tumbling in mid-Atlantic, how far off and yet how clear. Wednesday. As I stand looking at time sea, with a faint, wavering smile, a gentleman in a heavy ulster and a cap says cheerfully, Youve hind a very bad time, havent you? He in- troduces himself as the man who suf- fered so much in the next cabin. His face is plaster-white and tightly drawn his eyebrows have gone up into his hair ; his eyes are criss-crossed with a tangle of premature wrinkles. Really, if I looked like that, I should conceive it my duty to remain in my berth till I iml)roved. As I havent been shaved since last Thursday, I tumble below (I am rap- idly getting my sea-legs now) with a sort of shiani hearty Come aboard, sir air, down into tIme barbers shop. There I find our member of Parlia- ment, who addresses me remarks of the courteous-foolish order. lie ap- pears to be oiie of those gentlemen (not 35 Via Dolorosa Atlantica. 36 altogether uncommon in the House of and when one knows that in other Commons) who mistake dulness for parts of the ship the old, the sickly, the weight, and slowness of speech for badly clothed and badly fed are suffer- evidence of sagacity. Like Mr. Chick, ing a thousand times more, without a he believes in making an effort when single comfort or atteution to alleviate on board ship ; he never gives way, he their misery. I stood upon the narrow says; he forces himself to get up on bridge that runs above the part of the deck ; he forces himself down into the ship given over to the steerage passen- saloon to eat. Which, being inter- gers, and looked down upon them, preted, simply means he isnt seasick; grouped about in the chilly dusk and in for if any man tells me the trouble can the light that fell from their saloon be overcome by mere strength of will, door. Bare-headed women, wrapped I have no hesitation in proclaiming in shawls like factory girls, came and him liar, of the second or self-deceived ~vent busily with tin pannikins ; gaunt order. men like drovers stood about talking When I am in the barbers chair, and quarrelling; children tied up in facing me in the glass I find a thin, shawls ran backwards and forwards, white old man, with a short, dark screamed at by their mothers as they beard, a stubby moustache, a blank, stand screaming at their frowsy, White- hollow eye, a wrinkled forehead. chapel doors. A cook came out in his When I turn my head I see who it is; white jacket and threw a paper of saw- the object does the same ; he mimics (lust over the side. The wind carried all my gestures; he gets shaved just as the sawdust back like a cloud among I do. When I look up at the barber the women and children, and I saw a for an explanation of the phenomenon, mother cover her childs eyes quickly he says in a guttural German-American with her hands, caring nothing for tone, Well, I never tink I see you herself, anxious only to protect her again. You look pretty sick, mein child. In front of the door an old goodness ! woman was sitting on a tin box, un- In the afternoon, as the day grows cared for and unnoticed. The light finer, I venture (lown into the saloon fell on her face, ravaged by care, and for a cup of tea. The snn blazes in age, and sickness. It was, perhaps, upon the gilding, lavish as a lord the first time she had ventured out to mayors barge. There is a group round take the air since leaving Liverpool, the piano, practising for the concert. and she sat there, like a weather-beaten A young man in a light suit and a dull statue, out of which time and trouble penny-reading baritone moans through had gradually worn all semblance to In Days of Old when Knights were joy, to life, and even hope. Age, and Bold. He goes through the song exile, and sickness, every human mis- three times, and each time misses the ery seemed to beat its bat-wings round high note by half a tone. He doesnt that impassive, suffering face. Later seem to have a notion hes fiat, though in the evening when again I hooked the lady accompanying him hits the down from the bridge, she was still sit- right note significantly. There are ting there, alone. good people, I believe, who ~vihl sing Thursday. Land-ho! Its half past fiat in heaven without any idea that eleven, and Fire Island is in sight. I they are spoiling the general harmony. look out of the library window and see But, after all, how absurd it seems to a long, how sandy shore, just like the complain of three or four days sea- last I saw of Lancashire, only that it is sickness when one remembers what patched and painte(l with snow. I see people must have suffered in the old a lighthouse, from whence they will days of sailing vessels and paddle telegraph our arrival to New York, steamers ; how unmanly, when on the and a wreck, heaped broken among Gigantic one is surrounded with every the sand-dunes. We dont go very attention and comfort, even luxury, fast because of the fog; we keep blow- Via Dolorosa Atlantica. ing our great horn like a Triton, but we expect to be at the quay-side at five oclock. Lunch is really rather a pleas- ant meal on board these huge Atlantic liners. The member of Parliament hopes with a conciliatory smile I am none the worse for my resurrection. He regards me as he regards every one else on board as a constituent, a pos- sible voter, some one to be won over by the irresistible charm of his manner. The pie tty American girl opposite re- marks pointedly, Its vurry strange how folk turn up on board at the last moment whom one hasnt noticed be- fore. Thats said partly for fear that I should flatter myself I had been no- ticed, and partly in revenge for a smile I couldnt help our first evening at some rather startling Americanism of hers. The table steward talks to me in the low, cooing voice one uses to an invalid ; he calls me by my name (no one says sir on the Gigantic), and brings me the menu every two minutes. My handsome neighbor gives me an account of her sufferings (nothing to mine), and presses on me a lemon sot{ffl~ she and her companion have had specially made. They seem to travel in considerable luxury, for their last act before leaving Liverpool was the purchase of a number of chickens for their private consumption en route. How fast the last hours on board fly in compensation for others so tortur- ingly slow. Heres Staten Island and New York harbor; heres the George P. Flick, a ferry boat ornamented with a large gilt eagle, lumbering alongside, and bringing a Customs House officer in a peaked cap. He reminds me I have a fan and a silver box to smuggle. I dispose them about my person with considerable trepidation, and go down into the saloon to sign a paper declar- ing I have nothing dutiable in my lug- gage. No more I have; they are both in my pockets. I regard with interest ~he Customs House officer, the first American I have seen on native soil, and can scarcely answer his questions for staring. He is a handsome, weary man, exactly like one of Leechs volun teer officers of 1860,and he writes rap- idly, holding the pen between the first and second fingers. Theres Bartholdis gigantic statue at last, and there are the piers and swing of Brooklyn Bridge. Sam has fastened up all my luggage, and we shake hands heartily. I shall never forget him and the oranges he brought me, stuck on a fork. As I go down the gangway a crowd of faces look up at me from the dock. A twinkling Irishman darts at me with a telegraph form and a pencil ; he leaves them with me with a sweet, wistful smile, and rushes away after others. My luggage is all waiting for me under my initial in the huge shed I have to open every trunk and bag, and watch large, dirty hands play over my clean linen. Sam comes to shake hands with me again, and gets me an Irishman and a truck to take my lug- gage to a fly. An Irishman opens the door, an Irishman drives me ; the first shop I see is Michael Feeneys saloon bar. I drive jolting over tramway lines, under elevated railways, between piles of snow as high as the early walls of Rome. I see an unmistakable Irish policeman, in a helmet with a turned down brim, regarding with admiration a colored lady sauntering through the slush of the sidewalk in goloshes. We are nearly smashed by a cable-car slinking along, ringing a funereal, clanging bell. I see a disused lamp- post ; with a dark-red letter-box fas- tenedl to it; next, a tall, black, electric light pole. On the lamp-post I read, on one side, Fifth Avenue; on the other, East 26th Street. On the top of a huge building theres a huge sky- sign, Admiral Cigarettes, Opera Lights. On the face of it three large clocks tell the time in London, New York, and Denver. As we jolt past, up Fifth Avenue, I read on a board, Oh, mamie, wont you take your honey boy to see Peter F. Dailey in A Country Sport? This is New York. 38 From The Nineteenth Century. THE PROPOSED NILE RESERVOIR. I. THE DEVASTATION OF NUBLA. IN an article winch appeareti in the last number of this review,1 Sir Benjamin Baker, a distinguished engi- neer, has (lone his best to vindicate the proposed scheme of turning Lower Kubia into a reservoir for the benefit of Middle and Lower Egypt. He dis- creetly confines his estimate of tile damage which tile execution of this plan xviii cause to tile loss of the tenl- pies and inscriptions at Phil~, and most of his adversaries have been con- tent to confine their opposition to the same ground. But, as Sir Benjamin Baker and his friends say, they court the fullest an(l most unbiassed discussion, it is well to insist that the loss to arch~ology and the violation to sentiment caused by the submerging of Pllil~ are ilot tile only elements in tile question, as was stated last month in tile adjoining arti- cle tile whole of Lower Nubia will be l)ut under water. The flourishing little town of Shelal, containing perhaps one thousand people, with their Ilouses, stores, farms, palm-trees, etc., must be sacrificed ; so must all tile dwellings and little farms on both sides of the Nile for fifty miles at least, and per- haps as far as tile turn of the river at Korosko. There is not one word in Sir Benja- min Bakers article about the ruthless expatriation of tile inhabitants of all this district. And for what purpose ? For the enriching of the population of another province! What is to be done witil all tilese poor Nubians? They cannot be driven up ilItO tIle desert, nor is it shown where any new land can be found for them ; if they are to be quar- tered on the inhabitants of Middle or Lower Egypt, the discontent of both exiles and hosts will go far to counter- balance the advantages of a larger water supply. Moreover, with sub- merging of Ilouses and farms will fol- low the ruin of many other temples, 1 LIvIuG AGE, No. 2607, p. 748. upon which the article in question is sileilt. What about IJebot, Dakkeh, Kalabsheh, Gartass, Tehfa, Dendur, at all of which are picturesque, historic ruins, ilot tllorOughly explored, and in- scriptions not yet adequately copied ? In tile same country tilere are, tioubt- less, many inscribed stones, anti in the toml)s of Coptic Christians many papy- rus rolls of tile greatest value, yet to be discovered. All this area, so l)Lecious to arcil~ology, is to be sunk under the water. The material mischief, how- ever, botil actual and prospective, will be enormous quite apart from questions of Seiltinleilt. A considerable number of harmless people are to be turned out of their homes, witilout any provision being proposed for their support, not to say any consideration taken of tileir feelings. And for what? Our author tells us that As to the absolute necessity for the construction of a reservoir with the least possible delay no shadow of doubt was expressed by any member of the Commis- sion. Fortunately, he goes on to explain this al)solute necessity. Will the reader be- lieve Illat it amounts simply to this an estimated gain to the State of 750,0001. yearly, and of ten times that amount to the cultivators of Lower Egypt? It is not pretended that this population is in want ; it is not true that there is any want in Egypt; tile people never were so prosperous since Ptolemaic times; tile absolute necessity of the engineers is simply the standpoint of greed on the part of the State, perhal)s of certain bondilolders, doubtless of the farmers in Lower Egypt, of whom Sir Benja- min Baker naively tells us that after the perfecting of the barrage near Cairo~ and the consequent enormous increase of water 5UPI)1y during the last few years Notwithstanding this, the de- mand for water by the cultivators is as great as ever, and no means exist for satisfying their wants by storing up more water, etc. If the State did not sell water, and so increase its revenues, such a statement might pass for mere The Proposed Nile Reservoir. The Devastation of Nubia. philanthropy ; as it does, we may here again translate Sir Benjamin Bakers curious English into its proper equiva- lent: No convenient means exist for making more legitimate taxes out of tl)e people, or of satisfying their un- limited demands. If he complains that he will not take his words in their natural acceptation, we reply that in the present case we (leny that any want exists in Egypt, an(l in any case we are only applying the lesson he himself teaches us con- cerning his use of the English language. Commenting upon the statement that the majority of the commissioners are absolutely convinced that it is prac- tically impossible to place the dam elsewhere than at Phil~, and upon the very just criticism of the French com- missioner, that the word impossible was absurd, he says : that the British Commissioner [i.e., he himself] thought it was often a very useful word in relation to practical problems, and he had indeed used it with good effect when reporting some years ago to a group of financiers on the Panama Ship Canal. One hardly knows whether to thank him for the honesty of this statement, or for the reverse ; at all events, we now know that whenever he uses the word impossible, it may be merely be- cause it is useful, especially in making a report to a people whom he cannot easily persuade by argument. In the present case, Sir Benjamin Bakers impossibility corresponds very well to his necessity. The scheme he advocates is necessary because he is convinced of its soundness; the scheme he opposes is impossible because he is OppOse(l to it. But however useful he may have found this use of terms when dealing with a group of financiers, he will find it the reverse when dealing with people who understand ordinary logic and ordinary English. It makes us slow to accept his facts, and very suspicious of his arguments. It leads us never to take on trust his necessities and impossibilities, but to sift every one of his statements. Perhaps even more significant than these are his silences. lie never tells us that one 39 of the schemes is to make a reservoir a little above Phil~, thus saving at least that precious island. He will not con- template the feasibility of making sev- eral small reservoirs, thus obviating the risk of one great (lam, where an accident might entail a devastation of all the country. He. will not tell us definitely the objections to the Wady IRnyan scheme, but puts us off with vague generalities. Why, then, is he so positive that one scheme, and one only is practically possible? Simply because he is con- vinced that it will cost less, and so much less that any other plan must be considered extravagant, and a mere expensive luxury to be paid for by any sentimental objectors on the ground of arch~ology. Now, in the first place, we cannot be sure that he has cor- rectlv estimated the cost of the dam at Phil~. He has said nothing about the indemnity required for the homeless Nubians ; he has said nothing about the yearly loss to Upper Egypt and Nubia from the disappearance of tour- ists. Mr. Cook could doubtless tell us how many thousands sterling are in- volved in this latter item. Probably the loss would not be less than one million when capitalized. Although, therefore, Mr. Willeockss scheme is called the cheapest, it may possibly be the dearest, even in actual outlay of cash. But even on Sir Benjamin I3akers statement, even if the dam be- low Phil~ be the cheapest plan, let us count the cost of its cheapness. If the gain to Lower Egypt is indeed, accord- ing to his figures, to be neaily 10,000, 0001. per annum, would it not be quite reasonable fot- the country to pay a single half-year of this profit to save its temples, and to avoi(l disturbing the Nubian population ? If these poor people are as fond of their homes as other nations, the hardship of having these homes put under water to make people five hundred miles off richer is surely a grave objection. If 5,000,0001. wOnl(l avoid this cruelty and save the sentimental primacy of Egypt, is it reasonable to say that Egypt mnst not pay it, and we must subscribe to sup- 77w Proposed Nile Reservoir. port our fads ? To say that the na- tives do not care about such things and therefore would not pay for them, is only to put th~eiu on a level with the engineers who can see no value in antiquities except as vast masses of stone to be hoisted into the air as a display of modern science. Among intelligent and civilized people, the answer could hardly be doubtful. As Sir Benjamin Baker uses an illustra- tion from imaginary English circum- stances, so shall I. Supposing the water supply of London, though suffi- cient, was such that people were ready to pay for twice as much water, and so the engineers declared (in the interests of their profession or of a company) that a great new reservoir was abso- lutely necessary, and one plan was to dam up the Thames, so as to submerge all its valley as far up as Oxford, in- cluding Magdalen College, which lies close to the river supposing an alter- native were proposed, which could be carried out at the increased cost of six months income of the expected profit, and which would save all the valley with its villages, its churches, and Magdalen College, would any one in the nation, except an engineer who loved a dam more than a medi~val college, hesitate? We argue, then, that the Kalabsheh dam, or the Wady Rayan scheme, even if costing five mil- lions more than the other alternative, would be the best, and in the high- est sense the cheapest, for the country. But Sir Benjamin Baker leads us to believe, by his use of the word impos- sible, that the difference in cost is out of all proportion. Now, will the reader consider the following figures, copied for me by a friend from Mr. Willcockss report. They are the estimated cost of all the alternatives. If the dam were constructed at Silsileli . Below Phike . Just above Phihe Kalabsheh (50 miles above Phihe) . 1,650,0001. 1,400,0001. 1,750,0001. 1,600,000l. The difference of cost is therefore not worth mentioning. What then, can have possessed Sir Benjamin Baker to call all the schemes but his own im- possible? For instance, the Kalabsheh scheme, which Mr. Willcocks reports as esti- mated at 1,600,0001., is declared abso- lntely impossible on financial grounds alone as against~ the scheme which the same authority estimates at 1,400,- 0001. Snrely here his fancies have completely overridden his facts. Doubt- less, an engineer has sentiment, though of a very peculiar sort. There must be engineering beauties or difficulties in one scheme, as compared with an- other of nearly the same cost, which make him declare the one perfect and the other abominable. Sir Benjamin Baker and his commission must have fancies like these, which they cannot justify by their own figures. Naturarn expeUas furca, tarnen us gee recurret. But is the techni~al sentimentality of the engineer to override the arch~eo- logical and artistic sentiments of the mass of cultivated men ? Still worse is the greed of the finan- cier, or his longing to show an increased surplus in the Egyptian revenue, which overrides all other views of the well- being and civilization of the country. Is it certain that the people would be happy if the shadoof and sakya were abolished, and water sold to them at their doors by a native official? Is it certain that the water of the Nile, cleared of its deposit by standing in huge reservoirs, will not lose a large part of its fertilizing qualities ? Are not great experts, like Colonel Ross, opposed to the scheme ? If a clear and unbiassed discussion were indeed desired, such points should be fully and carefully argued. But our author, whose abilities certainly do not appear in the field of controversy, lets the cat out of the bag for us on this point also. Lord Cromer (he tells us), Sir Edwin Palmer, and others, etc., can and will do the work, in spite of all opposition, but will look for, and doubtless obtain, the encour- agement and support of the home govern- ment and of every well-wisher of Egypt in this country. - 40 The Submergence of Phila~. This can only be described as the lan- guage of a set of bullies who have (le- termined upon an act of tyranny, yet are afraid of public criticism. They know perfectly well that almost every well-wisher of Egypt in this country is against them. The home government will probably regard the question sun- ply from its political side, and ~vill be otherwise indifferent. Only the sordid interests of speculators, of greedy finan- ciers, the hopes of contractors, and the curiosity of constructors may be with them ; they will never gain over en- lightened public opinion. They may dam up the Nile, but they will not dam up public indignation; they may sub- merge the most beautiful and historic island in the world, but they will not choke the love of the beautiful in the hearts of civilized men a treasure which no dams can satisfy. They may pretend that they will hoist into the air acres of temples, a scheme perhaps as visionary as many other more reason- able engineering schemes ; they will succeed in hoisting themselves into a pillory of public and lasting obloquy. The claims of the valley of the Nile upon the sympathies of the civilized world, and its importance as compared with the valley of the Indus, or any other river, are of historic importance. The love of history, the care of histor- ical monuments, is one of the main evidences of civilization as contrasted with barbarism, which only compre- hends the present arid its material in- terests. It is in the nature of money speculations to lead back even intelli- gent and well-bred men from the spir- itual civilization which their fathers have acquired into the spiritual bar- barism from which their ancestors have escaped. The vice of exclusive devo- tion to finance has infected the whole administration of Egypt, since the de- parture of the one financier who adds to his special genius for dealing with money an enlightened interest in higher things. Therefore, when Sir Benjamin Baker tells us in conclusion that the whole question may safely be left in the hands of our able and 41 tried representatives in Egypt, he asks us to do what the recent history of Egypt commands us to refuse. Lord Cromer an(l his colleagues have proved over arid over again that, in questions concerning the antiquities of Egypt, they are the very last people to be trusted. They have either openly ex- pressed their contempt for this depart- ment of Egyptian wealth, or they have used it as a sop to humor the sensibil- ities of the French, whom they desired to oust from other departments. They have surrendered the whole charge of the antiquities to the French exclu- sively, so much so that an Englishman, desiring to excavate at his own cost, has to seek permission from a French- man in Egypt. They have long neg- lected to extend police control to the care of tombs and temples, which are being ravaged by natives and dealers without let or hindrance. They have hitherto omitted to find a safe housing for the vast treasures now in danger of (lestruction at Gizeh. On every ques- tion concerning antiquities they have shown themselves either utterly care- less or utterly weak. Aiid yet these are the men in whose hands we may safely leave the present problem Sir B. Baker, at all events, has not supplied us with a single shred of good argument in favor of the proposed scheme. Perhaps there are other and better reasons for the proposal. If so, let them be produced and subjected to an unbiassed discussion before the commission of what now appears to be a great crime. J. P. MAHAFFY. IT. THE SUBMERGENCE OF PHIL~E. SOME years ago an opportunity was afforded me, in the pages of this review, of calling attention to the de- struction that menaced the Arab mon- uments of Egypt. It would be out of place at the present moment to re-open that discussion except in so far as it bears upon the question of the preser- vation of the monuments of ancient Egypt. Less fragile than the graceful struc The Proposed Nile Reservoir. tures that adorn the Ino(Iern cities of the East, these monuments afford, with their inscriptions, a lasting record of a bygone civilization such as no other country in the world has yielded. At the period referred to it was generally believed that the temples of ancient Egypt were safe in the custody of the eminent men entrusted with their safety and preservation. It is only lately that the decay inseparable from the work of human hands has attracted the attention of the gnardians appointed to protect these precious relics. A so- ciety has been formed, at the sugges- tion of Mr. E. J. Poynter, IR. A., now director of the National Gallery, for the special purpose indicate(l by its name The Society for the Protection of the Monuments of Ancient Egypt. In his capacity of honorary secretary, Mr. Poynter has worked with unremitting zeal in conjunction with his colleagues, among whom may be reckoned several eminent engineers, with the view of securing the objects of the society. Their exertions have, in several in- stances, been crowned with success. The steps that are being taken for the preservation of the great temple at Karnac will, it is hoped, arrest the dis- integration that threatens the columns of the Great Hall, and at Abon-Simbel the Egyptian government has, at the instigation of the society, adopted measures which will protect the tem- ple from a serious danger to which it was exposed. It will readily be be- lieved that the society received with consternation the news that the beauti- ful island of Philre with its group of temples that gem of the Nile which, for a century at least, has won the ad- miration of every traveller is men- aced with destruction. The Technical Commission on the question of reservoirs have expressed their unanimous opinion that a reser- voir should be constructed in the Nile Yalley, rejecting the Wady Rayan project as being too costly ; but, after examining the various projects, they disagree as ~ the one most suitable for adoption. Sir Benjamin Baker and Signor Torricelli are decidedly in favor of the damn at Assouan. M. Boul~, the third member of the Commission, re- jects the Assonan scheme, on account of its interference with Phil~ and its temples. It would be impossible within rea- sonable limits to enter at length into a discussion upon the different phases of a (lifficult and intricate question, but Sir Benjamin Baker, whose opinion on the engineering features of the case I should be the last to challenge, leaves the opponents of the scheme no alter- native but to reply. It is hardly neces- sary to say that any question involving the welfare of the Egyptian people is deserving of our most anxious consid- eration. The point where we are at issue is the manner in which that de- sirable end is to be attained. Sir Benjamin Baker rests his argu- ments a good deal upon the belief that the people of Egypt are profoundly in(lifferent to the preservation of mon- uments belonging to an age too remote to appeal directly to their understand- ing ; but surely this is an argument that cuts both ways. It is usually re- garded as a function of a protecting government to foster every civilizing agent that would promote the welfare of the l)eople. It is true that he offers as a solatium the prospect of more abundant crops, but under a wise and honest system of government, the re- verse of that under which the native inhabitants have so long groaned, they would still have enough to render them the envy of many nations less favored by nature so far as the resources of their country are concerned. The surpassing beauty of the spot and its surroundings have l)erhaps thrown into the shade other aspects of the question of even greater impor- tance thaii the threatened submersion of Phil~. A letter addressed to the Society of Antiquaries by Mr. Somers Clarke calls attention to the disastrous consequences that would ensue if ever this gigantic scheme vere carried into effect. The summary inserted in the Times of time 13tl~ Of AI)ril wonl(l be too lonz for insertion here. Int a brief ex- tract may help to prove that it is not 42 The Submergence of P/dice. only from a sentimental point of view that the question should be regarded. Mr. Somers Clarke writes The irrigation engineers have recom- mended a vast reservoir, the base of which would be formed by a dam placed at a short distance below the island of Phil~. The dam will create a reservoir of enormous extent, not only drowning the island of Phihe but extending southwards into Nubia for nearly a hundred miles. When full the waters of the reservoir will rise several feet above the highest level of the pylon of the Temple of Isis at Phike. The rocks sur- rounding the island are full of hiero- glyphic inscriptions ; these will spend many months under water, andthere is yet much to be discovered in the immediate neigh- borhood. It may be mentioned in passing that the Temple of Isis is adorned with painted columns, the preservation of which is a marvel, considering the age of their construction. Rich har- monies in green and blue, relieved in places by bands of red colors which the lapse of ages has left almost un- touched will be left to moulder in the waste of waters by which they will be submerged. Mr. Somers Clarke mentions other structures which would be destroyed, including a Ptolemaic temple at PebOt, retaining its original girdle wall, and Gertasseb, a small hyp~thral temple of great beauty and in fair preservation, and the most magnificent temple to be found in Lo~ver Nubia, at Kalabsheh all to be submerged, and the inhab- itants transported he knows not whither. The concluding passage refers to a matter that seems hitherto not to have been fully considered. How are the unfortunate inhabitants to be coml)eu- sated for the discomfort and privations which no pecuniary reward can ade- quately allay ? The promoters of the biggest thing in the world and their underlings will doubtless reap a rich harvest. Undis- turbed by the adverse criticism of mere sentimentalists, which they can afford to despise, they will embark with a light heart in a scheme that will earn for us the just reprobation of the whole civilized worl(l. As an instance of the petitio pria cipii which it would be hard to match, Sir Benjamin l3uker dogmatically as serts that, no other site being available, the thing must be done. When rail- ~vavs were tirst introd4leed into Russia it was represented to the Czar Nicho- las that a certain projected line should be made to deviate from its intended course iu order to avoid injury to some valuable property, tipon which II. I. M. calle(l for a rule and drew a straight line from point to point, saying, That is the direction the line must take. This is the autocratic tone adopted by the English comumissioller with regard to the island of PliiU . Frenchmen may exclaim, rica 91 est sacr6 pour ic sapeur. Mr. Heatheote Statham, the editor of the Builder, alluding to the proposal to meet the case by removing these temples to a neighboring island, writes The mere fact that such a proposal should have been made only shows how totally impossible it is for engineers to understand the architectural aspect of the subject. In the same connection Mr. Cecil Torr says The temples at Phihe were designed for the island. They follow the curves of the shore and the undulations of the ground in consummate harmony with every feature of the landscape. Put them on another site and all this beauty is destroyed. It has been the custom with a certain class of arch~ologists to underrate the Ptolemaic temples of Egypt on the ground that, being comparatively mod- ern, they must necessarily represent a (Iel)ased period of art, an opinion that I must distinctly traverse. Greek in- fluence has imposed a certain grace of line into their contour that more than compensates for the absence of the massiveness which characterizes the earlier periods of Egyptian architec- ture. The fact, moreover, that they form a link in the chain that marks their evolution and transition confers upon them a peculiar interest and ren 43 44 ders it all the more imperative that their preservation should be demanded and insisted upon. Eager to seize upon any plea that might seem to favor their designs, these iconoclasts seek to minimize the gain to humanity and true civilization offered to the world by these splendid monuments, and meas- ure their enterprise by its bigness rather than by any inherent merit it may possess. It is difficult to believe that Sir Ben- jamin Baker can be in earnest when he suggests tilat the temples at Phil~ might be raised above the water level, a feat which he says could be accom- pushed without injury to a single stone. Yet he insists upon this mon- strous proposal in terms that are calcu- lated to appeal to the uncultivated taste of such of his countrymen as would regard this tour de force in the same light as an exhibition of strength by an acrobat at the Aquarium. Grant- ing that this treatment of the ruins were capable of achievement, what are the conditions under which they would be seen ? Perhaps the best way of answering this question will be to quote Sir Benjamin Bakers own words When raised [he says], the ruins surely must be of greater interest to any intel- lectual tourist than before. Half of the wonder and admiration excited by the mon- umental works of ancient Egypt arises from the magnitude of the masses handled and transported by the old Egyptians rather than from their artistic merit. It would be in accord, therefore, with the spirit of the surroundings if English engineers raised tens of thousands of tons where the Egyp- tians raised hundreds.1 It would be difficult to find words to characterize the absurdity of this state- inen~t. Has Sir Benjamin Baker ever condescended to read any of the books descriptive of the temples of Egypt the great work published under the auspices of Napoleon; in Germany, Lepsius and Ebers; in our own coun- try, Sir Gardner Wilkinson and Fun- ders Petrie, and many others? Did iThe italics are my own. these men find nothing to admire in tile Great Hall at Karnac, the temple of Luxor, or the wonderful and awe- ins~)iring AbouSimbel beyond their measurement and weight ? Even a visit to our British Museum woul(l suf- fice to dispel the illusion that size is the chief element in the grandeur of the Egyptian monuments. Then we are told tilat from the artistic point of view tile appearance of Phihe would be en- hanced because tile temples would rise out of a wide, placid lake instead of appearing in a hollow If, witil tile permission of Sir Ed- ~var(l Watkin, Sir Benjamin Baker were to conceive the plan of transportin~ Stonehenge to tile summit of Snowdon in order to make room for some pro- jected railway, it would scarcely sur- pass in extrava~an ce tIle project of hoisting up the temples. Tile Cooks tourist credited with the exclamation How wonderful would, it is likely enough, return to ilis steamer dazzled by tile magnitude of tllis engineering feat, but possibly it might fail to excite the enthusiasm of a class of travellers who would re~ard these precious relics from a different standpoint. Passing to the practical considera- tion of the comparative sites that have been suggeste(l for tile reservoirs, Sir Benjamin informs us that The government engineers submitted four projects to the Commission but, reading between the lines, it was clear enough that they had little confidence themselves in the practicability of three out of the four plans, and they expressly threw the final responsibility of the rejec- tion upon the Commission. Now it is not for me to dispute the faculty claimed by Sir Benjamin Baker of reading between the lines, but it is unfortunate that we are not in posses- sion of the causes of tllis want of confi- deuce. Tilis important factor in the consideration of tile question is passed over lightly, as if it were self-evident. We are not, for instance, clearly in- formed of tlle reasons for rejecting Mr. Cope Whitellouses brilliant and omig inal su~estion in favor of tlle Wadi IRnyan reservoir, excei)t on tIle ~iound The Proposed Nile Reservoir. of expense and certain elements of doubt as regards the supply of water and the effects of percolation. The second government project was that of a dam at Gebel Silsila, where the rock was found to be of inferior sandstone with hands of clay. This scheme appears to have been rejected on more sub- stantial grounds, but neither of the above schemes would interfere with the monuments. The next project was for a dana at Kalabsheh, which it was admitted had many advantages, but was rejected on financial grounds in favor of the only other alternative, the selection, namely, of the Phil~ dam. Here M. Boul~, the French commis- sioner, diverged from the opinion of his colleagues on the ground that it would involve the injury or destruction of the temples at Phil~. This demur- rer, redounding as it does to his honor, is a fair index of the reception that will assuredly be accorded to the scheme in France and on the Continent generally. No~v the objections raised to the first three projects on the ground of expense would equally, or perhaps in a greater measure, apply to the Phil~ scheme when, coupled with the compensation to the inhabitants of the flooded dis- tricts we add the cost of raising or removing the temples an item the expense of which is only approximately stated. With regard to the suggestion that the temples might be raised so as to dominate the great mass of water intended to be accumulated above the dam, the question arises, What would be the aspect of these buildings at cer- tain seasons, with the river at its nor- mal level ? how would the intervening spaces be filled up ? At present, rest- ing on their natural level, the fallen stones and 5Ubris constitute a natural framework to these beautiful ruins. The palm-trees some of the finest of which have, I regret to say, already been ruthlessly destroyed would, of course, perish. The acacia - bushes which fringe the shore would suffer the same fate, and the temples would rise in their naked baldness and present a spectacle so ridiculous that their great- 45 est admirers would rather see them totally submerged. No assurance on the part of the British commissioner that the Temple of Isis, with its fres- coed columns, could be raised without injury, will suffice to allay our anxiety on this score. The stones might be raised with safety, but the plaster upon which the colors are laid would infal- libly crack and perish. Sir Benjamin Baker may rest assured that a large number of our countrymen who hitherto have viewed the occupa- tion of Egypt with satisfaction would regard it in a very different light if it involved the destruction of any impor- tant monument ; and while the ques- tion is still trembling in the balance, it behoves all who desire to maintain our position in that country to raise their voices in condemnation of such a scheme. Mr. Gastin, the under-secre- tary of state, is, we are assured, strongly in favor of saving Pliil~, if this can be done consistently with the plan of con- structing a dam on a spot best cal- culated to serve the interests of the country, and we might find comfort in this assurance were it not vitiated by the fact that he favored the scheme of removing the temples to a neighboring island meaning probably Biggeh. But this project seems now to have been abandoned in favor of the equally fantastic plan of raising the temples to a higher level a choice of evils with which we need not trouble ourselves, seeing that either plan would be pre- posterous. Nothing could be more infelicitous than the holding up of the present con- dition of IRome as an example and a justification of the proceedings that threaten to injure or destroy some of the monuments of ancient Egypt. Two blacks do not make a white, and if the Italians of the present day think proper to (leface their capital by improvements tending to reduce it to a commonplace modern city, it is an example to be avoided rather than copied. It should, however, be noted to the credit of the Italian government that the antiquities have as far as pos The Submergence of Phila3. In the River Pei-ho. sible been spared, so that, although the picturesque element is 1fliS5i1l~ the arch~ologist has little to complain of. That art and engineering have not always been divorced is evidenced in the structures of ancient Rome, and, later, the period of the Renaissance affords examples, especially in Italy, of what their combined forces have been able to achieve. The dark cloud that now obscures the beauty and interest of modern Rome, the utter tasteless- ness that pervades most of the so-called improvements that render a visit to the sacred city a source of regret to the traveller who knew her before this ic- lapse into barbarism all this is held up to us as an excuse for the drowning of a vast tract of country in Nubia, cul- minating in the submersion and, ipso facto, the destruction of the island of Philie. Sir Benjamin Baker takes exception to the term Vandalism in connection with the proposed destruction of Philie. It must be admitted that the compar- ison is hard upon the Vandals, who, after all, were simply barbarians let loose upon the world in search of loot while the modern engineers, with all the advantages of education and cul- ture, seem to think that the world was created solely as a field for their enter- prise and for opportunities of gain. This is apparent in the suggestions they offer us in compensation for the injury they would inflict upon places hallowed by association, and monu- ments which reflect the mind that con- ceived them. Absolutely without the religio loci, so important an clement in the appreciation of architecture, the promoters of this scheme seek to sat- isfy us by promises the performance of which would either prove abortive or result in a great sham that would rca- dci us the laughing-stock of civilized Europe. Fortunately, the commission- ers are not the final arbiters on this question. The ultimate decision rests with higher powers, who, it is to be hoped, will not hesitate to condemn a project that would be a stigma upon the British occupation of Egypt. FRANK DILLON. From Blackwoods Magazine. IN THE RIVER PEJ-HO. June 25, 1859. A NAVAL PEN5IONER5 STORY. [The episode which is the subject of this ballad is in every detail historical. For certain inci- dents, which are now made public for the first time, the author desires to acknowledge his obligations to various survivors of this gallant affair, and notably to Admiral Sir George Om- manney Willes, G.C.B. (who was captain of the Chesapeake); to Paymaster-in-Chief James William Murray Ashby, C.B. (who was secre- tary to Rear-Admiral Sir Jamcs Hope, and who has lent copies of all the official papers and ph us bearing upon the subject) and to Staff-Captain John Phillips (who was second master of the Plover, and who saw Flag-Officer Tatnalls boat come alongside, and witnessed or heard what happened subsequently). It may be added that no medal was granted for this hard-fought action.] A YARN about some victory ? Why, bless you, theres no need For the likes o me to spin you one there isnt, sir, indeed. The folks as writes in the papers, or as. brings out regular stories, Have told you all you want to know about them naval glories. Theres precious little danger of the victo- ries hem forgot; But, Im feared, we do a bit forget the actions as was not. Yet I count it to their credit, when men have done their best, Though they have to turn their backs at last and leave undone the rest. Theres many a victory, surely, decisive and complete, As meant a sight less fightin than a hardly fought defeat And if people do their duty, every man in his degree, Why, defeat may be more glorious than a victory needs to be. What do I think of furriners ? Well, theyre of many a sort Youll find a different lot of them in every furrin port, Theres Christians and theres cannibals;, theres yallers, browns, and blacks Theres people as is fully dressed with nothin on their backs; But the only kind o furriner its pleasure to recall Is the Yankee, and, I reckon, he aint. furriner at all. 46 In the River Pei-ho. He is? Well, howsomever, sir, he speaks like me and you He has a heart inside him; he aint French, nor Turk, nor Jew. I say he aint no furriner; but have yonr way, not mine, Though I dont see how he can be when I think of fifty-nine. Ay! theres a yarn as I can spin for- gotten far too soon Bout our defeat in Chiney on the twenty- fifth of June. It aint for me to tell you how the troubles there began, Nor I dont pretend to remember the whole of our admirals plan; Twas a question of sendin our envoy up, by way of the River Pei-ho, And the Chinese blocked the channel, de- termined he shouldnt go. They had thrown three booms across it, and had lined both banks with forts, Designed by iRoosian friends of theirs, ac- cordin to all reports. Yet, br we never dreamt as how the Chinese meant to fight; Theres mostwise more of bark, you know, in them there chaps than bite. Leastways, we thought, if it came to blows, theyd have to pay the bill, For we didnt see no troops about, and the forts lay wonderful still But a Yankee frigate below the bar had heard and seen a bit, And their admral s coxen said to me, Youll find youre chewin grit. That self-same admral Tatnall flag- orficer they called im, Was a rum un, so they all agreed, when things went wrong and galled im; Yet he was an excellent orficer rough, praps, but bluff and hearty, And very particular friends with Admiral Hope and the British party, Though I did hear tell that, in eighteen twelve, in the old American war, He fought as a mid agin us, and no one hated ns more. His cox en, who told me that, explained and it may be true, I spose That a family quarrel aint the same as a row with outside foes: Young brothers will fall to loggerheads and fight to their hearts content; And, in course, its sad enough to see, but there aint no lastin rent And from what I saw in Chiney, I tell you,. fair and frank, I shant complain if I never have a better friend than a Yank. Well, the Chinese beggars promised as. theyd do as we desired, And open the way; but they didnt stir, and our admral he got tired; And at last says he, We must force the forts and burst the booms all three, And clear the road to Tientsin, that our envoy may go free. So he took his gunboats across the bar, and he passed the word of warnin: Be ready to-morrow, the twenty-fifth, at half past four in the mornin. The first boom was of iron piles ; the sec- ond, of heavy spars The third, of timber baniks, cross-lashed, and tied with iron bars. The Chesapeakes skipper, Captain Willes, that night, with a boat or two, Crept up in the dark and nearly cut the ~econd of em through; But the Chinee rascals, bless your heart, were not to be done that way, And they made the whole thing good again by dawn of the followin day. I was then A. B. in the Plover, which hoisted the blue at the mizen, When the adm ral came with his staff to our little packet from hisn. The Possum was sent to the first boom, and moored to it close as could be; There was likewise the Starling and Janus, the Cormorant, Kestrel, and Lee, Not forgettin the Bant rer and Nimrod,. and, lower down, nearly abreast, The Haughty and Forester, formin a kind of reserve to the rest. The channel was narrow and awk ard, and the stream ran strong in our faces, And it wasnt no easy matter to get to our proper places The Starling stuck in the mud on the left, the Bant rer stuck on the right, And the others had many a nasty shave of gettin no share in the fight; But, by two oclock in the afternoon, we were most of us near to our stations, And the Possum, by admrals orders, began to commence operations. She had made a hawser fast to one of them spiked iron piles, And she tugged and tugged at the thing,. and she blew off steam meauwhules; In the River Pei-ho. It set me laughin to see her, for I couldnt help thinkin, in truth, It was just like a little dentist along of a stubborn tooth. But the pile came out at last, and gave the Possum room, And she and the Plover together moved up to the second boom. I never saw a lovelier day; the sun was hot, and the sky Was as dark and deep a kind of blue as the admrals flag in the fly ; And when we neared the second boom, and all lay calm and still, It began to seem s if the Chinee braves were wantin in pluck or will. But, bless you, sir, we did them wrong, for suddenly every gun In the forts blazed down on our little craft; there were thirty-five, if one. They had the range to a nicety, and they looked right down on our decks, And in half an hour, or little more, the Possum and we were wrecks; A shot took Cap en Rason, cuttin im clean in two (And no wonder, sir, for he stood there right full in the enemys view). And another struck a soldier, MKenna was his name, A cap en he was in the Royals, and served him just the same. The adm ral he was wounded, likewise the second master, And, as the afternoon wore on, the men fell ever faster. One shot most cleared our for ard gun of all its proper crew, And others tore great holes in us, and cut our cables through; Thats why we drifted down a bit, it wasnt for loss of pluck, There wasnt a man on board us but cursed our evil luck. We drifted, steerin as we could, until the muddy tide Carried us down to the Cormorant, and we lashed to her starboard side. We were not out of range no fear and we kep on firm hard, For our bow-gun cleared the Cormorants bows, though only by a yard; But they took the admral out of us, he bein very bad, And board us there wasnt comfort nor quiet to be had. Im tellin how the Plover fared, but I wont forget the rest For every single craft engaged did just as much her best; The Lee and Kestrel, sadly mauled, were sunk by the Chinee shot; And the Possum had been ordered where the fire was not so hot; Yet the action hadnt slackened much, ex- cept on the Chinee side, And it looked as if a victory might even then betide. At half past four, or thereabouts, as near as I could learn, A double-banked cutter came longside, with the Stars and Stripes at the stern. Flag-orficer Tatnall, burly and tanned, was sittin, as usual, aft, And behind him sat his coxen, my pal of the Merican craft. They came to our starboard gangway, and, just as they happened to come, Blowed if some Chinee gunner didnt man- age to hull my chum. I thought to myself: Why neutral folks, as hasnt no business here, Should be pullin about in this storm of shot is a point as isnt clear ; But, when old Tatnall climbed on board, and I heard what hed to say, I began to look at the pullin about in a different kind of way; For he asked them to take him to Admral Hope (which, in course, our orficers soon did), And he said as he trusted he might be of use in removin and tendin the wounded. He crossed our deck to the Cormorant, where our admral s flag was flyin, And he left his cutter full of men alongside idly lyin; And I saw the Mericans eyes on us, as we loaded and fired as commanded (We were fit to drop from weariness, be- sides bein so short-handed); And one says: Bill, while we sets down here we does what we didnt oughter; Im going to help them blokes up there, for blood is thicker than water. So first that one, and then some more, slipped shyly aboard the Plover, And did a job for the dear old flag as was blowin out ragged above her; They didnt say much, and they made no fuss, and I scarce know how it was done, 48 But, upon my word, an American crew was presently workin our gun; And so we rested a welcome spell till Tat- nail, comm agen, Called out, with a roguish look in his eyes: This aint neutrality, men ! Hed been to yarn with Admral Hope, and hed said there something too Bout blood bein thicker than water; and, no doubt, hed a liked to do What his boats crew did without askin,if only hed felt so free, I mean, to have a slam with us at the yallow-faced Chinee; But, in course, it wouldnt have been the thing, and he couldnt do less than say, Come, come, my men, you must quit that gun in a mock indignant way. Ay! that old man was a good un; and when the assault had failed, For we tried to carry the forts that night, but the walls could not be scaled, He sent his little steamer, a craft called the Toey-whan, To help our boats with the wounded, and he thus saved many a man. It wasnt the business of neutrals; he might have kept apart; Nobody wouldnt have blamed him, only his kindly heart. And thats why I draw the line when I hear our ridic bus bluster Bout furriners bein all alike, not up to the British muster. Theres furriners as are furriners, and theres furriners as aint Ive met a sight of the first sort, and theres some as would rile a saint), But the furriners as aint furriners, the only ones I know Are the Yankee sort as stood by us that time in the River Pei-ho. WM. LAIRD CLOWES. From Temple Bar THE DECAY OF DISCIPLINE. This phrase sums up the situation and epitomizes the whole bearing of modern decadence. The sense of dis- cipline has almost gone. Respect for duty, as duty against inclination, is nowhere. Personal desire takes rank 1~iefore the general good, and self- i~straiut, including obedience to the LIVENG AGE~ VOL. III. 108 49 law tilat virtue WiliCh once stood in the forefront of the Stoics virile creed is now derided as the poor, pinched, starveling offshoot of a discredited asceticism. Pleasure, ilot ~vell-doing, forms tile burden of each mans desire, and the hogs of Epicurus stye are cherished in the drawing-room and suffered to run loose in tile streets. The spirit of disintegration at present so fashionable, expresses itself in noth- ing more plainly than in the impor- tance given to and claimed by the individual on tile right hand given to and claimed by bodies of men working against the interests of the community on tile left ; these bodies of men, by the way, being simply the extension of the principle of individualism egotism multiplied and magnified by just so Inucil and so many. In every departulent of modern life we see this same decay of discipline, backed by excessive regard for the soft and easy-going of the individual. Hu- man nature, being at the best but an imperfect kind of thing as well as in- finitely subtle, complex, and elusive, and law being definite in form and unelastic in substance,it is absolutely impossible to frame all decrees so as to cover every conceivable kind of excep- tion. With the best ivill in the world, tilere must be occasional injustice, if only by tile fact that while the rule is necessarily the same, the nature of the recipients as necessarily differs. Hence the measure dealt out to each alike, is harder for the one than for tile other. Order, not unchecked individualism, is the great law of the universe ; and this order is brought about by the close in- teraction of forces which must needs include the partial suppression of the unit for the common good of the whole. We see this law, this trutil, every- wllere. From the flower-seeds buried in the forest, and prevented from com- ing to the light because of the over- powering domination of that forest, to tile strangling of the weaker sapling by the more vigorous vitality of its stronger neighbor frOul the hands, which , given favorable chances, tile rod of empire might have swayed, The Decay of Discipline. 50 The Decay of Discipline. but which fate and circumstances have out that mercy which belongs only to bound to the flail and the plough, to the extenuating circumstances. Every- man of passions, energies, ambition in where they plead for pity for the crim- excess of the moral law and beyond the inal and oblivion for the victim. limits of social allowance the full Punishment is an offence to their loose fruition of each individual life, a mans notions of morality ; and the liberty of unchecked development on the lines which they claim to be the most faith- he would most prefer, irrespective of ful exponents does not include the others, is a dream impossible to realize right of repression or the justice of if society is to hold together. But this reprisals. It is all part and parcel of is the confessed aim of both anarchists the decay of discipline which charac- and the new hedonists ; each sect of terizes our present day. It reproduces revolutionaries doing its best to bring in our time and age the conditions of about a time of universal license, the the old Roman Decline, preceding the one by murder and dynamite, the other final Fall. by the roses and raptures we know In the growing-time of nations, as of; the one desiring free trade in prop- of other organisms, the law is one of erty so that no one shall hold for him- increase, of ag~ regation, of compact self what his neighbor desires, the welding together of the several parts other advocating unabashed indulgence and minor members. In the time of in every form of voluptuousness and decay before dissolution, the law is pleasure. And both fling to the winds, that of disintegration. Branches fall as so many cobwebs brushed from the and leaves are shed, and the once glittering mosaic, the duty of self- flourishing oak becomes a scarred, un- restraint, the obligations of discipline, sightly wreck. When nations wish to the necessity of partial subordination make themselves strong they absorb for the general good. those smaller neighboring countries For much of this, one section of the which, isolated, are so many sources of press is mainly responsible. Certain danger, but, unified and consolidated, of our democratic journals take it in create imperial strength. In our own hand to weaken wheresoever and when- time Italy has formed a homogeneous soever they can all respect for author- nation out of her various principalities, ity, simply because it is authority, each in deadly rivalry with the other. Like the typical miner: Eres a Genoa and Naples, Rome and Florence, stranger, lets eave arf a brick at Venice and Palermo were all classed im, these exaggerated democrats cry under the one generic head of Italy, out: Heres a law, let us villify it. but they were really hostile forces Heres a man in authority, let us slate massed behind frail barriers which him. Dealing with the army, they divided but did not protect them. So encourage that kind of emasculating with Germany. These two countries self-pity, those whining expositions of saw the advantages of a compact na- minor disagrecables, which are to mili- tionality, and the disadvantages of a tary discipline what dry-rot is to the congeries of individual kingdoms with- beams and rafters of the temple. They out cohesion and therefore without open their columns to anonymous acen- power. Hence Italy made herself into sations and unproved statements which a nation under the one samne law, the spread like wild-fire among the rank one same governmnent, and Garibaldi and file and create a general spirit of as the hand, Cavour as the head, ac- dissatisfaction of no good to any one. complished a feat in modern history They re-try all cases ; cavil at all judg- paralleled only by the like unification ments; pillory all local muagistrates of Germany. This has not been who dare to administer the law as it brought about without pain and loss to stands, and who, knowing the private individual states and persons; but the lives and previous record of offenders, good of the community, the splendor administer with strict justice and with- and strength of the empire, were held The Decay of Disc4iline. of more value than the partial loss to certain members, and the result has justified the forecasts of the promoters. In like manner the United States resisted the attempt of the South to dissolve the Union. That old fable about the bundle of sticks was their practical text; and the motto on which they acted was United ~ve stand, liVi(lcd we fall. These three nations have all been made and saved by patri- otic men sincerely devoted to the good of their country, and not afraid of re- sponsibility nor averse from such amount of suffering as must needs accompany all great efforts. It has been reserved for some of us the degenerate offspring of a decadent time to palter with high treason under the softening euphemism of Home Rule. Philosophic radicalism stands as the verbal sponsor for the disinte- gration of the empire ; and the weak- backed plea is the irish want it. That is, the Celticpeasantry, inflamed by the Roman Catholic priesthood and the professional politicians, cry out for what they believe will give them the land for nothing and coals for the trouble of digging. Why not give them what they want? say those to whom the decay of discipline is as an enlarged charter of generous freedom. It is so much more pleasant to say yes than no, and why should one be disagreeable and forbidding? If Ire- land wants to separate herself from us, in Heavens name why not ? Ul- ster, by the way, not coming into the picture at all. In the same way we have philo- sophic radicals and cosmopolitan uni- versalists who go out to India to teach the blessings of self-government to a country composed of different reli- gions, different races, (lifferent castes, all impossible to be welded together into a compact and equal whole like Germany or Italy a heterogeneous mass only to be held by a predominant superintending power. But we this power are to be gradually .superseded by what? The warlike Mohamme- dan, intolerant, tyrannical, fanatical? The learned Baboo, supple, subtle, 51 hair-splitting, incapable of large gen- eralizations ? The Parsee, purely mercantile ? The Brahmin with his iron-cast systems, destructive of all spontaneity, all kinds of freedom ? The difficulty of our fit successor does not enter into the account no more than the difficulty of Ulster enters into the Home Rulers account. Let but the individual be gratified and a fig for elemental principles, or for the com- munity, the future, the integrity of the empire It is like the weak complaisance of indulgent nurses when children cry for some costly ornament as a plaything. They are sure to break that fine old Satsuma vnse; they will infallibly lose that rare gem ; but let them have it if they want it. Why should they cry when they could so easily be pacified? And the inheritors of those priceless treasures the heirs to that threatened property, what of them ? Inheritors and heirs are but insignificant folk in the estimation of Home Rulers ; and the disintegration of the emnl)ire in the autonomy granted to Ireland with its Celtic population and its men of Ulster to India with its hostile races and irreconcilable religions is but another form of that decay of disci- pline from which wq are suffering. The woman question is perhaps the most striking of all those forms of de- cay. The sex has never been famous for its aptitude to yield a willing obe- dience to authority, unless backed by force. Supported only on reason and the general good, law for the most part fails to impress the feminine mind, and the working result has ever been when women can evade a law or break a rule, without punishment to follow, they (10. We see this spirit now rampant and raging. From smok- ers to drilled volunteers, from Dodo to the Heavenly Twins, the modern woman renounces the old forms which once restrained her and differentiated her from men on the one hand and the Lotties and Totties of the Haymarket on the other. Now that differentiation is so slight as to be scarcely discerni- ble. The Chevalier dEon would find 52 herself in good company were she to reappear on the earth to-day; and the Dubarry would not be singular, either in her own origin or in her imitators. The unique seed, however, that we have planted, with the hideous flower resulting, is the Revolted Daughter, that last expression of indiscipline and decay that flourishing candidate for initiation into corruption. In the worst times of French decadence the girls were assumed to be fenced off and kept sacred. Even under Louis XV., an unmarried mistress was a j)ublic scan- dal. But modern English ladies of name and position. of unblemished re- pute in their own persons, have not blushed to advocate the theoretical instruction in vice and the practical participation in coarse pleasures and im modest liberties of unmarried girls, simply because restraints are irksome. The decay of discipline, indeed, of which we speak obtains nowhere more than in our homes. The old-fashioned ideas of subordination and authority have gone, like the old-fashioned order of chivalry and the dead-and-done-with sentiment of clanship. The obedience formerly exacted by parents and paid by children ranks among the lost arts and destroyed graces. The tone of do- mestic life altogether is changed ; and if any one is under the yoke of disci- pline, it is the husband for the first part, and the parents for the second. According to our most resonant oracle in this matter, if the mother exercises, or tries to exercise that authority which age, experience, and maternity itself have hitherto been supposed to confer, as by the nature of things, the girl rushes off to some fashionable doctor, or as fashionable divine, to confide her troubles to ears sympathetic with the physical sufferings involved in nervous irritation, and to those which under- stand the mental distress of thwarted desires. Of course it is to be supposed that the mother is always to blame, and the daughter always deserving of pity. That the mother should be the victim and the daughter the tyrant, does not seem to strike those sympathizers as among the possibilities of the situation. Authority, because authority, must be the only thing in fault; and the decay of discipline is to the good of all con- cerned. We do not say that mothers are always impeccable; far from it. When they fail in the true maternal instinct, and either coerce or neglect their daughters when they set these daughters the bad example of levity and worse in their own lives, and let them become runagates because they are inconvenient as companions or (lamaging as witnesses ; when they keel) them as schoolgirls till they are nineteen or more, simply to defer so long as they are able the uncomfortable confession included in their appearance then is the balance of wrong on the maternal si(le; and the girls are but to be pitied if they become insolent, in- tractable, fast, and I)odoesque. These are, however, the exceptions; and the Revolted Daughter, for the most pait, belongs to a good mother whose main fault has been her weakness. The relative value of things does not count with those who advocate the rights of individuals without consider- ing the whole result. It is as if they should rejoice when a wood is burnt down, because all manner of sup- pressed weeds and wild flowers have then leave to spring to the surface. The oaks and elms, beech-trees and poplars, all good for the service of man and the profit of society, lie in charred and blackened masses ; but by their sacrifice, acres of ground-ivy and l)lue speedwell, of wood-betony and en- chanters nightshade, please the eye and fulfil their own law. Yet no great thing has ever been done in life where the material was more considered than the result. All grand work demands individual sacrifice, and lives are well given for the establishment of an enduring achievement. The workmen who lost their lives, say, in the building of the Forth Bridge, the soldiers who have died in defence of their country, the martyrs who were slaughtered for the maintenance of truth, all have been individual lives sacrificed for the greater gain of the community. And all have given themselves under the The Decay of Di~c~jpline. The Cape of Storms. 53 law of authority and by the welding things as they are, and sows the seeds power of discipline. If the puling sen- of mutiny at all four corners. The timent of modern times, by which the Sunday demonstrators in Hyde Park individual is made of more importance preach sedition, blasphemy, and re- than the community, and person~ dis- forms brought about by dynamite and comfort ranks before the splendor of anarchy. Our daughters revolt against an everlasting achievement, if this had the authority of their parents and the been the rule in days gone by, we restraints of maidenly modesty ; and should not have risen above the baser our women rebel against the limita- level of barbarism, we should never tions, the functions, and the duties of have come to the grandeur of a nation- their sex. It is the hour of disintegra- ality, nor to the glorious dignity of dis- tion all through in imperial politics, cipline. For discipline is dignity. It society, and the home. And only when is a nobler thing to be one of a magnifi- we have come back to a due sense of cent community, under supreme laws, the moral grandeur and social strength belonging to an imperial organization, which lies in discipline and co-ordina- giving and receiving, sacrificing and tion, shall we have shaken off this endowed, than to be a mere unit iso- present nightmare and reawaken to the lated and unsupported, whose freedom true knowledge of relative values. is desolation, and whose liberties in- clude neither communal interaction nor legal protection. The higher we go in self-conscious life, the more we find From Macmillans Magazine. this sense of communal interaction, THE CAPE OF STORMS. which necessarily includes the partial THOUGH every schoolboy presumably suppression of individualism this obe- knows to a nicety where the Cape of dience to discipline, wherein consists Good Hope is situated, there does un- true liberty. The apotheosis of mdi- doubtedly prevail in less enlightened vidualism is to be found in autocracy. circles some vagueness of conception The tyranny of such men as King as to the exact locality of that cele- Theebaw, Runjeet Singhi, and the like brated headland. Even the gentle is individualism in excelsis. The dis- reader (to take an instance) is faintly ciplinary prohibition of laws by which conscious of uncertainty, and answers one man may not hurt another, and (if questioned politely) with a brisk- the compacted interaction of the van- ness not born of conviction: The ous members of a community, are the Cape of Good Hope? Why, of course true and only methods of freedom I know where it is; down at the end of known to civilization. Our modern South Africa. contempt for this disciplined interac- Gentle reader you are not very far tion is a step backward, not forward ; out, fifty or a hundred miles, perhaps. it is exchanging order for confusion, And, as you say, it is not of the slight- and co-ordination for chaos. est consequence from a practical point The l)resent has lost some beautiful of view. In the interests, however, of possessions of the past. Manners are abstract science, I ask leave to mention ruder, and, if morals are no more lax, (having recently obtained the informa- modesty is less exact. Waxed fat we tion on the spot), that the Cape of kick ; and patience, with obedience to Good Hope lies at a considerable dis- authority, lies in the limbo of the effete tance from the end; and is in fact the and done with. Tile House of Coin- middle one of three promontories, sev- mons rebels against the Constitution erally inconspicuous, whlich jointly ter- by which it exists at all ; and, like fret- inmate a slender peninsula, some ful children when denied tileir desire, twenty miles in length, forming the tile Radical members strike tile re- barrier between False Bay and the straining hand of constituted authority. Atlantic Ocean on tile west. These The press encourages discontent with three headlands, lying near together, 54 and commonly undivided oa a map of moderate scale, are locally desig- nated Cape Point. It was here that Bartholomew Diaz first enconutered in full force the prevalent south-easterly gales, and denounced the rugged, threatening, threefold promontory uri- der the sounding appellation of the Cape of Storms ; to be afterwards re- christened by pious, trustful hearts, the Cape of Good Hope. The Cape of Storms, the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Farewell ! Is there nothing in aname? As touching old Diaz, this brave Por- tuguese sailor was not, by a good many centuries, the first to double the Cape of Storms. More than two thousand years before him certain Ph~nician ex- plorers circumnavigated Libya, that is Africa, from the east, in the reign, and by the command, of Pharaoh Neco king of Egypt. The pages of profane his- tory show nothing more indisputably authentic than their story. It actually corroborates itself; listen to Herodo- tus. They sailed, these silent Phie- nician mariners, out of the Red Sea and southward, returning to Egypt in the third year, by way of the Pillars of Hercules [the Straits of Gibraltar]. They reported (a tale to me incredible, believe it who may), that in rounding Libya they had the sun on their right hand. The sun in the north ! Good, wondler-loving, story-telling Herodotus can believe a good deal, but not this. Through a vista of twenty-three centu- ries we seem to see him slowly smile and wag his head, and even to catch some muttered, half-audible allusion to the Horse-Marines. But this is, after all, another story, more interesting to scholars and arch~- ologists than to us. To come to my own ; I went (lown, at Georges invita- tion, to spendi a month at his farm, which occupies the whole southern portion of the Cape peninsula. It was a comfort to turn my back upon the dust and noise and manifold offences of Cape Town. The train, slo~vly skirting Simons Bay, landed me in an hour or two at Simons Town terminus, not of railroads only, but of roads gen- erally, with all other signs and prod- nets of civilization. Beyond this I had twelve or thirteen miles to walk over an unknown land. A kind of a path there was, for the first mile or two but this soon faded in the wilderness, and, finding that it led nowhere, be- came extinct. It was midday and mid- winter, the mo~Ali of June to wit, elsewhere leafy, but not here. On and on I walked down this strange, stony, flower-bespangled peninsula, a land of songless birds and scentless flowers, of unfamiliar forms and hues. Gorgeous branching hyacinthine blossoms, crim- son, orange, and purple, without leaf of green, burst here, there, and every- ~vliere from great white cloven bulbs and burned, unnaturally luxuriant, on the shadeless, yellow ground. Short- eared rock-rabbits (mysterious crea- tures allied to the elephant and rhinoceros) flickered in an(1 out of their stony burrows. Brilliant spotted bee- tles jaunted on unheard-of legs, high and dry above the dusty soil. The sun himself was crossing the meridian from right to left behind me, and throwing the shadow backward on the dial. As if to enhance the strangeness of the solitude, a single telegraph wire crawled over inaccessible places on great gaunt stilts, eighty or a hundred yards asun- (Icr, leaning and straddling in all direc- tions, black as gibbets against the sky. Leading as they ultimately did to the lighthouse, and passing at no great distance from Georges farm, these might have guided me, had I been able to follow them ; but they suddenly veered to the right, sprawled over an imnh)ossible ravine, and sped away to the western coast-line, leaving me to steer southward by the sun. Strolling hour after hQur through this painted desert I mounted at length upon a higher, narrower ground. Ilere the still blue bay and the mistier ocean closedi in on either hand ; and the southern half of the peninsula stretched and spread in view before me, lying, tinged with a flush of innumerable flowers, hi~h upon the waste of level sea. Far ahead stood the lighthouse on the extremity, remote, and barely discernible, till on a sudden, its lantern The Cape of Storms. The Cape of Storms. returned a ray of the northern sun, and a dazzling white star flashed out in the daylight on the summit of the Cape of Good Hope. As I walked farther, the peninsula lay lower and broader. Nothing was visible here except the sky and the jagged surface of the undu- lating land. As I surmounted its suc- cessive crests, sweep after sweep of rock-strewn valley met my wearied eyes. The twelve miles seemed to have extended themselves at least to twenty, and the sun had nearly com- pleted his course, when at last, in the far distance, I sighted Georges house, lying long and white against the oppo- site slope of a broad, low vale. But in proportion as my spirits were raised by the nearness of my goal, so they fell with the increasing irregularity and difficulty of the ground, here ent up into rifts and miniature chasms of the limestone rock, there impe(led by loose stones and boulders, choked by yielding heather or altogether hidden by bush. As I lay down to drink at a peaty pool of rain-water, the sun dropped sud- denly behind the ridge, and night came on in strides. I stumbled on in the direction of Georges farm, now invis ible, with every prospect of missing it, and finding myself hopelessly benighted in the wilderness ; but, to my great relief a light gleamed forth from a window and guided me throti~h reed brakes, thickets, melon-patches, potato- grounds, fences (sunk and otherwise), and finally, oh joy ! a gate ; and then, like a shipwrecked sailor stag~ering on firm land, I emerged upon a solid gravel path. Here was Georges farm at last, vis- ihle in dim outline, apparently a com- modious and desirable family mansion sprim~ging out of this unearthly xvaste. Through the large ~vindow I espied the back of Georges head as he sat reading in an easy-chair. He heard my foot- step, rose, and disappeared ; while, dazzled by the lamp light, I stumbled over the threshold, and opened the door by the simple process of falling a~ainst it. Hullo D said a familiar voice. Who goes there ? Friend, I answered, recovering myself. Ad- vance, friend, and give the counter- sign, said George, grimly smiling, and meeting me with outstretched hand. I had not seen him since he came into his extravagantly out-of-the- way possessions, bought by his father a year before. There he stood, some- what sterner of mien, ajid looking con- siderably older than his twenty-five years, well finished in feature and limb, and as sj)ick and span in this solitude as if he had just returned from a garden-party at Government House. I threw my knapsack into a corner, and myself into a low chair. I never was so thankful in my life, as when I saw your house just before sunset. I ma(ie sure I should have to camp out in this outlandish desert of yours. You did run it rather close, said George; I expected you two hours before this. You would have found it awkward getting here after dark, at any rate if you had lost the path. Path ! I said. What path ? I havent seen the ghost of a path for the last ten miles at least. Ive been steer- ing by the sun (and that xvent the wrong way) till I saw your light. Oh, theres a l)atli right enough, said George, though I admit its not easy to find it, if you dont know where to look. Theres a wagon-track too, if you come to that, away behind over there. George jerked his head back- ward towards the west. You wouldnt have seen my place though from that. Well, here you are anyway; come on and eat. Supper over, we sat smoking at the open win(lo\v looking out upon the cool night. The sky, though star-lit, was intensely dark, while lo~v on the hon zon a yellower star waxed four times every minute to a steady piercing glow that seemed to cut the darkness like a knife. How far off is that lighthouse? I asked. Four and a half miles as the crow flies, answered George. Which re- minds me that Starling (hes the light house-keeper) wants you to go over and stay a day or two with himn. He 55 56 lives up there with his wife and family, and though lie has a partner, its pretty lonely. Youll see him in a few days; lie always calls here when lie goes to Simons Town. Lets have a game of cribbage. lie drew a small table up to the win- dow, and we played cribbage for love, with due solemnity and a pervading sense of calm. I know no more tran- quihhizing game. After a night of troubled dreams, not uncommon amid strange surroundings, I awoke, rejoiced to find myself at Georges farm. I was in a large and lofty chamber on the ground floor; there is seldom a second story in these Dutch-built houses. It was nearly seven oclock, and the sun shone upon my face, over-topping the rising ground that shut in the homestead on the east and west. I dressed and ~vent out on the terrace, which ran along the west- ern front of the house. Southward the view was more open, the end of the valley being closed by the promontory, with the lighthouse crowning it, look- ing curiously near and neat. Scattered on the stony slopes near the homestead cattle were straying untended, grazing on such patches of herbage as they could find. The kraals for housing them stood near by in rather a ruinous condition. A certain space, not large, was inclosed, and cultivated at least to the extent of being clear of stones and bush; elsewhere melon-vines crawled over the barren ground. At some dis- tance George was standing, dressed with great neatness, and superintend- ing thc work of two or three Kafirs, who, judging from their merry faces, as well as from the absence of assign- able motive, were digging in the saud for fun. George joined me at the gate. 1 wonder what you think of the place, lie said. You see its all very fine and large, but I cant get anything to grow here, except watermelons and flowers. The property doesnt pay anything, of course, at present; but the governor knows what lie is about. They are forming a company to work the limestone down at the Point. They [like Cape of Storms. will make a railway down here from Simons Town, and probably a fashion able watering-place, built oii my ground for iuivalids and PeoPle from the colony and frouii England. I shah be a mu- hionaire, said George gloomily, if that is any satisfaction to anybody. Well, cheer up, I said ; things might be worse than that. Lets go and look over that ridge. We strolled down the slope and over a plank which bridged a dry groove at the bottom of it. What is this ? I asked George. This is a river, George auiswcred, belonging to me, the southernmost river on this peninsula. It rises over there to the west, and flows, as you see., beneath this bridge and out into Simons Bay. ~ometimcs it contains water, but that is only after rain. Quitting with reluctance the banks of this delectable stream, we walked up an(h over the further slope. In less than a quarter of a mile Georges farm, so far as it consisted of buildings or other tokens or signs of mans pres- ence, had disappeared as completely as if it had been swallowed up in the earth. We stood in the primeval ~vil derness. The ground sank away to the shore of the bay about a mile distant, and betweeii us and the blue water a herd of antelopes were grazing, ap- l)arelitly on stones. Look there I said George excitedly, stooping down. Just my luck I theres a splendid shot for you ! As lie spoke the header threw up his head and sniffed the air ; and the whole herd, startled into precipitant flight, swept away and vanished like a ripple over the corn. On the other haiid, a great solitary ostrich, black with white wings, stalked showhy past us at no great (histance~ raising and ruffling his plumage, pick- ing his steps and swaying his snpphe neck vithi fastidious dehiberation and ostentatiously ignoring our l)1esence.. Before us spread the great square expanse of False Ba.y, with the bold outline of Cape llangklip standing sen- tinel at its southeastern corner, and facing, as it in stern salutation aCross. twenty miles of water, the hiither guard~ The Cape of Storms. on the promontory of the Cape of Good Hope. Even beyond Cape I-Thug- klip a faint line of coast was discern- ible trending over southeastward, and terminated by the summit, just visible above the horizon, of Danger Point. I dont know how you feel, said George, but breakfast is what I am thinking about. Well take a walk round afterwards with the guns. Theres plenty of game on the estate partridges, pheasants, reet-buck, spring- buck, to say nothing of lions, tigers, and other fearful wildfowl; but for goodness sake, whatever you do, dont shoot a baboon. I shot one last year, and I havent got over it yet. She was a female, who had come over the fence with a young one after the pumpkins, and I let drive at her from the window. I knew it was murder all the time, and half hoped I should miss her ; you know how I mean. Well, she died, screaming for all the world like a woman, and trying to screen her little one, thinking I was going to tire again. Ugh ! it makes me feel like Cain. In spite of this gruesome reminis- cence we managed on returning to the house to eat a few pounds of venison- steak for breakfast; and after a matn- tinal game of cribbage (a relaxation which ~ve allowed ourselves at any odd hour of the day) we took a gun and a rifle and went a-hunting. You shoot partridges, said George, and Ill look after the buck. Its lucky there are two of us now. When I am alone, as sure as ever I go out with the rifle, I put up covey after covey of partridges, but no buck. I take the gun, perhaps an hour after- wards, and see buck by the dozen, but never a bird. Its a funny world. Ive known things go contrary, my- self, I said. I wonder which sort of a morning this will be. It proved to be a partridge morning. The birds were tame, and hard to miss, and it fell to my lot to make the bag. Though we saw spring-buck in the distance, we failed to get within range, or if we succeeded, missed, no diffi- cult feat at half a mile. having had enough of it, we returned home to dinner, and spent the rest of the day reading novels, c~~i~versing, and ~)lay ing the unfailing game. I made the acquaintance of Starling one morning when he called in on his way back from Simons Town. Tall, bearded, and grave Gf deportment, leading an ass equipped with panniers and accompanied by a villainous-look- ing l)lack attendant, he reminded me of nothing so much as a calendar from the pages of the Arabian Nights. Originally (indeed for the greater l)alt of his life) he had been a common sailor, a class of men whose excellent qualities are usually exhibited in the rough. Starling was a gentleman, if refinement of mind, showing itself in courtesy of speech and act, give title t~ the name. He invited me with great cordiality to pay him a visit, and I arrange(l to go one day in the next week, especially as George had been called away on some unwonted busi ness which would (letain him at least. two days in Simons Town. On the day appointed George rode off northward on his favorite horse, small, wiry, and unshod, and I set out in the opposite direction to visit my friend the lighthouse-keeper on the Cape of Good Hope. Acting on Georges advice, instead of making a bee-line across country direct for the lighthouse, I bore westward to the right, and about two miles from the farm struck the wagon-track which winds along the coast. Towards the southern extremity of the peninsula, where the promontory rises higher and higher, the road ascends, well-cut and ~vell-kept, by a gentle gradient up the western face of the cliff. It was by this road that the government wagon brought stores and material to the lighthouse-keepers every month, and weekly communication was kept up by messenger Irom Simons Town. There was something companionable and exhilarating about this smooth, firm road. Cactus, aloes, and other foreign-looking vegetation fringed it on the inner side, growing with a regu- larity which almost suggested the care 57 58 of man. High on the left the light- house with its out-buildings came su(l- denly into view, whiter than the clouds that flecked the dark blue sky, while far beneath the South Atlantic sparkled and danced in the sun. As the road curve(l sharply round the southern angle of the cape and hid itself from view, the voices of laugh- ing children broke upon my ear; and a slender girl in a white dress and straw hat appeared round the bend, leading a donkey, on which a much smaller boy, perhaps three years old, was riding. Where did these sailors children, born and bred in the wilderness, get the delicacy of their looks and speech and manner? It was Starlings clear grey eves that looked at me from under the shade of the broad hat. Father told me to say, if I met you, that you are very welcome, and to show you the way to our house. He is busy in the office. Willie, you must kiss this gentleman. Matters being thus placed, once for all, on an easy and amicable footing, we all turned and ascended the hill together, and emerged on a kind of plateau sloping upwards towards the apex of the promontory, where it was cut short by the precipitous descent. The lighthouse stood nearly at the ex- tremity, mounted high on a tumulus of rock, so that its base was only reached by steps. Below, and son~e fifty yards northward, two fiat - roofed dwelling houses lay just down the western slope, thus protected from the south east storms. The whole was brilliantly whitewashed, terraced in front, and built with the square and solid regular- ity of a fort. I was led in by the children, and made my salutations to their mother, of whom I will only say (if I may p~- sume to speak at all) that she filled the position she held, as she would doubt- less have filled any other, ~vitli wom- anly kindness and grace. It was not England, but the Cape of Good hope. A little bedroom had been tastefully decked with flowers for my reception. Everywhere, on every face, there was evidence of that sincerity of kindliness The Cape of Storms. which may underlie the formal polite- ness of ordinary society, and, on the other hand, may not. After we had chatted a good while, about England, George, Cape Town, children, cooking, and other topics of mutual interest, Starling came in from the telegraph-house, and we all sat down to dinner in the little parlor, with a feeling (I can answer at least for one of the party) of great contentment and ease. I found, not without surprise, that I was not the only guest. It was characteristic of Starling that, small as were his means, he entertained at his cottage in perpetual hospitality an old sailor-mate of his younger days. Jimmy was his unofficial name the children addressing him as grand- father, though he was unconnected with the family by any closer tie than the bonds (elsewhere more elastic) of love. Though somewhat bent by years, he was a wiry old man, with a strong, shrewd, kindly face. Jimmy kept him- self in the background during the greater part of the meal, possibly out of deference to strangers ; but towards the end came forward with an observa- tion, Theres a donkey down the road haid and fast to a telegraph-post, and imme(liately effaced himself. Thats Peter, said Starling ex- planatorily to me, alluding to the black servant. Brown, my mate, sent him in again to Simons Town the day be- fore yesterday, but I suppose he got on the spree, poor fellow. When he does that, it often takes him two days to get back. He keeps lying down to sleep, you see, but first always makes the donkey fast. Hell be turning up just now, youll see. After dinner Starling fetched a ide- seoi~e, and carefully scanned the road far beyond its limit of visibility to the naked eye. There they are, he said, both of them. And now youll like to see the lighthouse perhaps? Come along this way. Following Starling closely I entered the lighthouse by a low doorway, and mounte(l a narrow spiral stone stair- case dimly lighted by loopholes in the thick wall. It was like climbing up The Cape of Storms. the tower of an old church, only far cleaner. Mind your head, said Starling as the darkness dispersed. here we are. We stepped into a polygonal chamber about fifteen feet across. Every si(ie was glass, nothing but glass, framed between slender iron pillars which seemed far too slight to support the roof. This, however, with the aid of the plate-glass they certainly did ; there was nothing else to support it, except the thin steel shaft which ran vertically up the centre of the room to a socket in the roof. The first natural impulse was to walk slowly round the chamber, drinking in the view through each separate pane. On the north side the wilderness stretched away to where in the dim distance Table Mountain reared its canopy of cloud. Passing eastward, the eye took in at one survey the vast blue surface of False Bay, hundreds of square miles in extent, and followed the opposite coast-line as far as the gri in promontory of Cape llangklip guarding the entrance on the east. The three remaining quadrants of the circuit, from east by south and west and round again to north, presented an unbroken horizon-line of sea. After sating my eyes with this mag- nificent prospect I turned to examine the interior of the lighthouse, and stood lost in admiration at the simple mechanism of the revolving lanterns which flash their warning from the Cape of Storms. Throughout the night, four times every minute, a beam of light streams out to every point within the circumference of the visible horizon, distant at our altitude some five and thirty miles. Yet the light which pierces to this great distance at any given moment on a dark, clear night, is emitted 1)y a flame no brighter and no bigger than the flame of an ordinary duplex (Irawilig-room lam ix Imagine such a lamp burning at a dis- tance of, say, half a mile. Its light is radiating up ~vards, dow n~vards, north, south, east, west, and in all intermedi- ate directions ; so that the eye receives only an inconceivably small fraction of the whole amount of light emitted, 59 nothing like a millionth part. And yet the lamp is seen. What, then, if the whole of the light, instead of being dispersed, were concentrated and di- rected towards you in a single beam ? Its intensity would be enormously in- creased. No longer seen with diffi- culty it woUl(1 glow out with a dazzling brilliance in one diVection, and except in that direction it would not be seen at all. All that is required, then, to render a lamp visible for thirty, a hundred, yes, in the absence of ob- struction, even a thousand miles, is an apparatus that shall collect and divert the whole, or much, of its light into a single narrow beam of parallel rays. here is the apparatus these four huge, black, round-ended extinguishers just over our heads. They are fixed horizontally, with open end directed outwards at the extremities of four arms, set at right angles to one another (like four fingers of a sign-post) on the upright central shaft. They are not really extinguishers. On the contrary they are concave mirrors, polished on the insidle to the highest pitch of bril- liancy, as you can see if you stand on tiptoe and look in. The lamp, an ordi- nary oil-flame, is set far down, almost out of reach. The curvature of that deep mirror is paraboloid ; the lamp sits in the focus thereof, and by virtue of a property of the curve called a parabola, all the rays which fall from the lamp on to the mirror, forwards, backwards, up wards, downwards, audi sideways, iii short, nearly the whole of the light it gives out are (liverted by reflection into one and the same course, and issue from its mouth a single, bril- liant beam of light. There are four lamps ~vith their mirrors ; and there fore four beams at right angles shooting to the remotest verge of the horizon. Shaft, arms, mirrors, lamps, and sweep- ing light-beams are caused to rotate regularly once in a minute, or in any other time required, by simple clock- work mechanism set in motion by a heavy weight which falls down the centre of the tower ; and the rate of movement is regulated by this vane, which is made to revolve very rapidly, 60 here on the centretable, and which can be so adjusted as to encounter a greater or smaller resistance from the air. You seem to be interested in those lanterns, said Starling, reappearing suddenly at the low doorway. Hullo, I said, you went out very quietly. Yes, I am interested, I con- fess. My notion of the inside of a lighthouse was something quite differ- ent from this. Considering the tre- mendous distance you can see the light, I expected to find hundreds of lan- terns, at least. No, said Starling, only these four ; and you only see one of them at a time. It takes a lot of work to keep those mirrors bright and the machinery in perfect order, I can tell you. That is done in the daytime, of course. Then one of us has to be here all through the night. Letting the light out, even for a minute, would mean dismissal, if any ship saw and reported it. Its a lot of responsibility, year after year. Brown and I divide the ni~hts into two watches, from sunset to midnight, and from midnight to sun- rise, and we take them alternately. So you see Im off duty every other day for twenty-four hours at a stretch. It comes less tedious to make a dog-watch of it, instead of taking the same hours every night ; and we ~et time to go to Simons Town and back comfortably when we want to. You havent seen Brown? Hes off somewhere to-day in his new boat, fishing. Thats his wife down there in the yard. Clever woman ; knows all the code-signals, and the telegraph too, and works em better than he can. Every ship that comes into Simons Bay signals her name and port of sailing to us, and we telegraph them at once to Cape Town. Im slow myself at that business.~~ We ought to be able to see Georges farm from here, I said, looking north ward. The lighthouse is plain enough from it. Well, so you can see it, said Star- ling, over there, just where that dark line ends. Thats the vlei, what he calls his river, running past his house. Look through this glass. With the aid of the telescope I couhl see the house with surprising (listinet ness. I sometimes see George with the glass, said Starling, if he happens to be standin~ against that light face of the house, the end where your bed- room window is. I saw you three or four days ago; at any rate I saw George and another man. I knew George by his white helmet five miles. away. When a telegram comes for him and I have no messenger to send, I flash to him with a looking-glass. Its easily done in bright sunshine, and if any one happens to look this way at all, it is bound to be seen. Then he sends up, or rides over himself. It looks quiet enough no~v, lie went on, turning sea ~vards ; but you ought to be here. when a south-easter is blowing. Youd think the whole point was going to carry away. On the r6ck, there, the spray actually dashes in your face from the sea below, eight hundred feet, as salt as salt can be. Come down and have a look. We descended the winding stair, and went out of the lighthouse on to the smooth and nearly level plateau of rock surrouiidin~ it. rfhe foot of the hillock on which the lighthouse stood was about twenty yards from the edge. We walked on to where the plateau grew unpleasantly narrow, with a steep slope on one side, and on the other ap- pareitly nothing. Come and look over here, said Starling, anxious to (10 the honors of the l)laee, and lounging to the very edge of the precipice. Its eight hundred and fourteen feet, the book says. He leaned affectionately over the horrid abyss, with his hands in his pockets, jerking his pipe up and down with his teeth. It goes right slah down, lie continued ; if I droppe(i this pipe out of my mouth, it would fall into the sea without touching anything. Come and look. Oh, all right ! I said, I believe you. For the Lords sake, man, take care of yourself! Supposing that rock gave way! Thats firm enough, lie answered, The Cape of Storms. The (i/ape of Storms. stamping hard on it with his great sea- boot, about three inches from the brink. Come on! You arent afraid, are you ? Afraid! I answered with indig- nation. Im simply sick with fear. I wouldnt go a step nearer that beastly cliff if you offered me fifty pounds. So marked an influence had strong emotion on the classic purity of my customary speech. Starling was visibly disappointed but too considerate to betray his contempt. Oh well, of course, he said, I didnt know you felt like that. Youve been aloft on shipboard, havent you, main top-gallant cross-trees, say ? Yes, I have been up there, I an- swered; but I didnt enjoy it, and I took precious good care not to let go the shrouds. Theres nothing to hold on to where you are. Hold on to me, said Starling. And (irag you with me to destruc- tion ! No, thanks ; three yards is near enough for inc. Just at the point where we were standing a vertical scoop, as it were, has been taken out of the promontory clean down to the base, and the cliff is absolutely precipitous. Elsewhere it slopes more or less, so that you can ~get up and down if you choose to try. Here, just underneath the li~hthouse, you could get down with great celerity, but you couldnt get up again. The rock on the top was level, smooth, and clean. Lie down flat, said Starling, if you are afraid of feeling queer, and pop your head over. You can see the gulls dowmi there, by the water. Ill hold your legs, if you like. He was so evidently ashamed of me iliat I thought it right to feign at least indifference. Certainly, I said ; I should like to look over of course. Shall I walk to the edge and then lie down, or Oh, crawl if you prefer it, said Starling patiently. I crawled. There are not many places in the British Empire where you can see straight down eight hundred feet, at any rate not places easy of 61 access. I looked over, and thought I was in the car of a balloon. The cliff was more than perpendicular ; it seemed to be pitching forward ; it certainly swayed. There were the gulls, little white specks, down by the sea at the base of the cliff. I could not see the upper half of it at all. Its nothing wheb youre used to it, is it? said Starling, loosing hold of my legs. Oh, nothing, I agreed, crawling backward several yards and sitting up, but not too high. Im glad II looked over ; its a splendid precipice. Youll hardly believe it, said Starling gravely, kicking a pebble into space, George doesnt believe it, I can hardly believe it myself, but its true, all the same. Our cat got killing the fowls, so I tied her up in a bag with a stone, and pitched the whole lot over here, just where I am standing no~v. She turned up next morning without a scratch. That is how it was. Ill take my oath on it, before a magis- trate if you like; and theres no more to be said. George told me that story, I said, and I believe it. Well, I must say I am glad to hear that, said Starling. Lets go in now ; youd like to rest and smoke, I dare say. I shall take the early watch to-night; and if you are inclined to give me the pleasure of your coin- pany for any part of it, I shall be only too glad. I sat up till midnight playing euchre with Starling in the lighthouse on the Cape of Storms. The wind had risen since sunset, and roared boisterously round and over the point; but no tremor shook the strong fabric of the lighthouse; and the revolving mirrors crept as smoothly an(h noiselessly as phantoms above our heads. This effi- cacy in preventing waste of light was amply demonstrated. In this lantern- chamber, visible over an area two hun- dred miles in circuit, we played cards by the light of a candle. I xvent to the plate-glass windovs, and peering into the darkness through shading hands gazed at the league-long shafts of light 62 sweeping past as if material things, and giving an impression of stupendous momentum as they swung through the thickness of the night. Next morning brought a sudden change. We had unanimously carried at breakfast-time a project for a gen- eral descent to the beach, down the path which Jimmy had lately invented and warranted feasible for all men. The day was then to be spent in ram- bling and scrambling round the base of the Cape promontory, fishing from the rocks, picnicking on the sands, with such further diversions as might prove acceptable alike to old and to young. Starling and I stepped out to look at the sky. It was clear and calm, wind gentle and northerly, last nights south- easter fallen and left no sign. One minute, said Starling ; theres the telegraph calling. I followed him mechanically into the office. He rapped back, and set the tape unwinding. George, Simons Town, he read out, to, I thought soits for you. If you come take horse find me here. Thats your message here it is on the tape. I asked Starling to inquire if George was there. The answer came, No written message. That means, I said, that my leave is cut short; and some one from Cape Town has seen George and told him of it. This is the day for letters, isnt it, Saturday ? Yes, said Starling; the post- man will be here in about an hour, I expect. If the notice comes for me, I shall have to leave you at once Im afraid, so as to get to Simons Town in time for the evening train. Every man must do his duty, said Starling, but I hope theyll spare you a day or two more. The postman brought the expected summons, sure enough. So there was no more to be said, except good-bye They all came out on the terrace, and called after me as I walked away down the rocky path, Good-bye, good- bye! When shall we see you again? I could only answer, Some day, please God ! and hasten on my way. Hours after I turned my horse to take a last look southward from the furthest point of vantage ere riding on to Si- mons Town. That faint fire-signal was not lit by the hand of man. It was the setting sun that flashed the last farewell from the lIghthouse on the Cape of Good Hope. From The Spectator. THE TENACITY OF CHILDISH ERRORS. IT must be within the experience of almost all men to look back in utter astonishment at the quaint, not to say idiotic, mistakes they made as children in misunderstanding words and phrases that they heard in their earliest lessons. It is astonishing, moreover, how long these mistakes of intelligence hold their own, and refuse, so to say, to be reconsidered. The best illustration of this is the frequently false interpreta- tions attached by children to the lit- urgies and the Scriptures from which they have received their most lasting an(l most useful impressions. To our childish mind the words seemed to mean something or other whidh no sane man would ever have taken them to mean, and when once the false idea had firmly taken root it never occurred to us to question our childish interpre- tation until many ycars later, when all of a sudden, perhaps, it dawns upon us that the compilers of our Liturgy did not write pure nonsense, and with a secret blush or an open smile we put away the childish thing for good and all. For years a certain boy in the west of England used to repeat the Lords Prayer thus Our Father we chart in Heaven. He had learnt to read, but having learnt the prayer by heart before learning to read, he did not happen to study the Lords Prayer in print until one day he perceived the words which art, in place of the accustomed we chart, which no doubt he imagined he had seen a hun- dred times. He gravely came home and informed his sister that her book, The Tenacity of Okildish Errors. The Tenacity of Childish Errors. which he had been using, had a curious misprint in every case where the Lords Prayer occurred. Many children, we fancy, are puzzled by the Scripture moveth us in sundry places. The word Sunday for sundry is an easy substitution, and even if the meaning of sundry be known, the interpretation is not always clear. We know of a gentleman, now in the yellow leaf of life, who declares that he always understood the words to mean, the Scripture moveth us wher- ever we may be, whether in London, or in the country, or at sea, in sundry places, in short, to acknowledge and confess, etc. More amusing than this is the misapprehension which a little girl once fell into of the words A General Confession, the rubrical direction immediately following the Ex- hortation. She read it A General Con- fusion ; and as everybody knelt down, and there was a considerable rustling of dresses and shuffling of feet at this time, she supposed it was done in the desire to obey orders. We are not sure that she did not do her best to add unneces- sary noise and stir in kneeling (lown in order to make up for those who were indifferent and careless about their duty. A more profound mistake may be extracted from the words of the morning Collect for peace : In knowl- edge of whom standeth our eternal life. In every considerable handful of churchgoers we will venture to say there is one at least who has always taken these words to mean that our eternal life, or our life in the future world as distinct from our life here, stands revealed before God in his omni- science, in whose knowledge i.e., in Gods knowledge standeth our future life. Of course this implies an unscriptural view of what eternal life is; but it is not given to every one to connect the Collect directly with St. Johns Gospel (xvii. 3). There are probably few, if any, Englishmen who can support a friend of the writers in his misinterpretation of the simple re- sponse in the Litany : We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord. As a little boy he regularly understood the 63 choir and congregation to say: We beseech thee to hear our school law; and it was a matter of some concern to him that only for their own school rules was supplication made, and not for the rules of any other parish school. It did not seem quite fair. The Psalms afford countless oppor- tunities for blunders of interpretation; but at present we can but recall the case of one who was declaiming against the unintelligibility of them as a whole, and cited as an instance verse 14 of Psalm lxviii. : When the Almighty scattered kings for their sake ; then were they as white as snow in Salmon. Who ever heard of snow in Salmon? he asked indignantly; salmon in snow one could understand, but snow inside a fish is perfectly ridiculous. To come on to similar difficulties in the case of the Bible. Who, as a child, has not been puzzled by the pre- sumptuous guest who took the highest room at the feast? The writer of these woids always pictured to himself a lofty building ~vith several suites of apart- muents, the best of which were at the top, and lie supposed that each guest was allowed a whole room to himself. how the feast could have possessed any social charm under these circumstances he never knew, but that Ihe word room should simply stand for place at table never occurred to him for years. There is a difficulty often met with in the Old Testament, arising out of the humble Eastern method by which one man speaks of himself to another man as thy servant. Many cultivated persons, we fancy, are puz- zled by Naamans remark to Elisha after lie had been cured of the leprosy. he offers the prophet gifts, which are courteously declined, and then goes on to say : Shall there not, then, I pray thee, be given to thy servant two mules burden of earth? For thy ser- vant ~vill henceforth offer neither burnt offering nor sacrifice unto other gods, but unto the Lord. Why, we asked ourselves, should Nanman want to give Elishas servant, Gehazi presumably, such a cumbersome pres- ent as two mules burden of earth, just 64 because Elisha would accept no valu- able gift? And what has such an arrangement to do with Gehazis deter- mination to serve the Lord henceforth? Why, indeed, should Naaman officiously trouble about Gehazis religion at all? That should be Elishas concern, not his. It was like the solution of a tiresome puzzle when one day it dawned UI)OU the writer years after it should have dawned upon him, no doubt that if for thy servant you read I or me, the whole passage be- comes plain, except, indeed, the use of the mules burden of earth to Nanman himself. This was, no doubt, to build an altar with. Nanman fancied that the Lord, who preferred the waters of Jordan to those of Abana and Pharpar, would likewise prefer an altar made of the soil of i~rael to any other reared in the region of Damascus. A more curl ous, if less excusable, misinterpretation from the New Testament is worth re- cording. In St. Mark ii. 3, we are told that they come unto him bringing one sick of the palsy, which was borne of four. Not noticing the spelling of the word borne, many members of a congregation, we believe, regularly think of this remark as containing a curious fact about the poor mans his- tory, he was born into the world one of four. No wonder, they fancy, that he was a cripple! born of four! But what an interesting graphic touch so like St. Mark! Probably lie knew the family, and the poor mother! I wonder whether she survived? One friend assures us that he never discov- ered his mistake in this particular pas- sage until he was confronted with it in the Greek during a university examina- tion. Among misinterpretations of popular hymns, the first case that will occur to many is that of The Churchs One Foundation, which to most thoughtless or youthful singers always stands as The Church is One Founda- tion. This might suggest many a Greek or Latin parallel to the classic mind, but to us the foundation cannot The Tenacity of Childish Errors. stand for the structure. Another in- teresting mistake gave a little girl some years ago serious difficulty. Teach me to live that I may dread The grave as little as my bed; were the lines that seemed to her to contain such bad teaching. Dread the grave ! she thought, why should I pray to dread the grave? I do not believe I ought to dread it. As to its being as little as my bed, of course it will not be larger than my bed, there is no reason why it should. Until quite lately it never occurred to the middle- aged woman that the childs interpreta- tion of the lines was all wrong. It is needless to add further examples of the mental indolence which accepts the childish interpretation of a phrase or word which would have caused no shadow of difficulty if noted for the first time by the mature intellect. The only question of importance to be drawn from the subject is, how far does the same mental indolence play a part in the acceptance or rejection of religious doctrine and truth ? We believe that the crude ideas of childish imagination that continue to be ranked as orthodox among grown-up persons are at least as numerous as the crude or utterly false interpretations that we have mentioned above. The results of such indolence would obviously be twofold. On the one hand, narrow and unscriptural views would gain a hold over the mind and influence the character for life be- fore they could be eradicated (if ever they could ke eradicated at all); on the other hand, men would break away in- dignantly from a creed or a religion based upon doctrines which no sane man ever accepted, under the impres- sion that these doctrines, which owe their existence to nothing but the read- ers own infantine fancy, are the fun- damental tenets of the creed which they are expected to accept. We fancy that those who look around them will see both these results at work amongst us to-day.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Sixth Series, ? No July 1A Vol. CCII. Volume III. f 2610. .~, From Beginning, CONTENTS. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. I. THE QUEEN AND LORD PALMERSTON. By Reginald B. Brett II. THE DEAN OF KILLERINE. Part X. Translated by Mrs. E. W. Latimer, from the French of THE PROBLEM OF CONSTANTINOPLE. By Frederic Harrison THE WICKED CARDINAL, A SHEAF OF LETTERS MARLBOROUGH. By Andrew Lang, ONE OF THE CLOTH, . THE WAR TAX OF EUROPE. By W. J. Gordon MAN AND NATURE, FEUILLES DAIJTOMNE, Nineteenth Century, The Abb~ Prdvost, Fortnightly Review, Macmillans Magazine, Temple Bar, Contemporary Review, Macmillans Magazine, Leisure Hour, 67 74 87 101 109 117 122 125 ii 0 E TRY. 66 SWEET AFTER LABOR, SOFT AND 66 WHISPERING NIGHT, . , 66 .128 MISCELLANY, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVIIiG AGE wiU be punctually for- warded for a year,free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single copies of the LIVIEG AGE, 18 cents. .2Jifan and Nature, etc. MAN AND NATURE. I. THE mountains, and the forests, and the seas, Oldest of mourners with pathetic tone, Have each a natural music, all their own, Set in accord with human destinies, Sad, tender, manifold. What is more sweet Than woodland melodies at noon? More mild Than dimpled ocean, like a laughing child That lisps, and rolls a jewel to our feet, Breathlessly calm? And then, within an hour, Behold that self-same ocean on the shore Lashes; the forest quakes ; with deafening power The rocks are rent. Then, oh! amid that roar Awe-struck we sink, we fall upon our knees, Ye mountains, and ye forests, and ye seas! II. The - mountains, and the forests, and the seas Have each their musk, with our mortal lot In sympathy, to soothe, exalt, appease: And man, too, has his music; has a note Of worldwide sweetness ; tender reveries, Dirges of buried busses unforgot, Rejoicing p~eans, glorious symphonies; But all of them lack something; they have not The voice once heard in Eden ; and the ear, Pleased with rich sound, is as when some one sings In a great court before a king of kings; He closes ; and of rapture born, a cheer Shakes the high roof; but when the lord of all Speaks, there is awe and silence in the hall. Spectator. A. G. B. FEUILLES DAIJTOMNE. (After Victor Hugo.) LIFES a veil the real has; All the shadows of our scene Are but shows of things that pass On the other side the screen. Time his glass sits nodding by; Twixt its turn and turn a spawn Of universes buzz and (lie, Like the ephemeris of the dawn. Turn again the wasted glass Kingly crown and warriors crest Are not worth the blade of grass God fashions for the swalloWs nest. Kings must lay gold circiets down In Gods sepulchral ante-rooms, The wear of Heavens the thorny brown; He paves his temples with their tombs 0, our towered altitudes! 0, the lustres of our thrones What! old Time shall have his moods Like C~esars and Napoleons Have his towers and conquerors forth, Till he, weary of the toys, Put back Rameses in the earth And break his Ninevehs and Troys. Mystery of mysteries Some f~w feet beneath the soil The ancestral silences On the surface such a coil! F. THOMPSON. Illustrated London News. SWEET after labor, soft and whispering night Blows on dark fields and fragrant country here: Here there is sleep, to weary limbs delight; The world is far away, the stars are near. The world is far away; but there, I know, Night comes to few unanxious, happy eyes; And cities, with their restless streets aglow, Lamps upon lamps, outface the enkindled skies. London lies there ; an endless fiery maze, Thronged with her millions, sleepless, vast, alone; The stars are pale above her, where her gaze Lights the wide heavens and makes the night her own. There the hot wind blows over no dark fields Brief, hard-won rest despotic labors give; Sleep, to how many spent-out spirits, yields Lifes only sweetness, to forget they live LAURENCE BINYON. 66 The Queen and Lord Palmerston. From The Nineteenth Century. THE QUEEN AND LORD PALMERSTON. EXCELLENT speech of Palmers- tons! What a knack lie has of falling on his feet! I never will believe after this that there is any scrape out of which his cleverness and good fortune will not extricate him. And I rejoice in his luck most sincerely ; for though he now and then trips, he is an excel- lent minister, and I cannot bear the thought of his being a sacrifice to the spite of other powers. This note, written about 1849, appears in the jour- nal of Lord Macaulay, who may be said to have possessed a genius for common- place, and whose views about men and things represented the average of En- glish opinion to a degree unachieved by any contemporary writer. Lord Macaulay saw with the eyes of the majority of his countrymen, only rather more intently and clearly; and this passage contains the secret of Palmerstons hold upon them. First and foremost he was lucky, and there is, in the view of the average Briton, Cato notwithstanding, no more glorious attribute. Secondly, he was known to be an excellent minister, free from subtleties, and endowed with a plain understanding, after the manner of a well-to-do citizen. Finally, he was be- lieved to be viewed with jealousy and dislike by all foreigners and in constant danger from their intrigues, sufficient in itself to insure him the highest place in the regard of men who still, like their hero Nelson, had been taught in childhood to hate a Frenchman as they did the devil. He was, one of his lifelong opponents said of him after his death, English to the backbone ; and lie contrived to make Englishme a immeasurably of more account in their own eyes, and to some extent so in those of other na- tions. Palmnerston to his contempora- ries appeared physically a man of commanding height. Lord Lorne his biographer quotes a description of him, which lie evidently believes to be true, in which he is represented as tall and slim. In point of fact he was rather short; but a fact of this kind 67 appeared incredible of the minister who had succeeded in adding a cubit not only to his own moral stature, but to that of the most insignificant of his countrymen. When, after at least ten years of smouldering, the irritation of conscientious colleagues, political foes, and baffled doctrinaires culmi- nated in an attack upnn Palmerston in the House of Commons in reference to the treatment of an obscure Greek, the minister held the House spell-bound from the dusk of one (lay to the dawn of the next, and, in a speech of ex- traordinary force from a man who never aspired to rhetoric or even elo- quence, reached the zenith of his power and fame. lie had confounded his enemies. it has made us all l)loud of him, said Sir Robert Peel, addressing the House of Commons for the last time, and the eulogy found a ready echo in the hearts of Englishmen scattere(I all over the world. If he wished to create, as lie declared, a be- lief that a I3ritish subject, in whatever land lie may be, shall feel confident in the broad fact of his nationality ; that Gins Rornanus sum was to be the guar- antee of every Briton against injustice and wrong, he succeeded beyond his hopes ; aiid so lofty was the spirit he roused, that when for a moment the people believed their favorite nilnister. to h~ve been false to his own tradition, and to have yielded to the threats of French militaryism, they tore his Con- spiracy Bill to shreds, and hurled him unceremoniously from power. In spite, however, of this little accident, Lord Palmerston remained for a qual- ter of a century the most popular of Englishmen in his own country and the most hated abroad. To foreigners gen- erally, and the French in particular, he was as De Jarnac called him the incarnation of La perficle Albion. Yet the keystone of his foreign policy was a good understanding with Fraiice ,ahd it is to the credit of his skill as a for- eign minister that lie was able to maintain the French alliance without for a moment forfeiting the dignity or independence of England as a portion of the price lie paid for it. This 68 The Queen and Lord Palmerston. counted for something among the people, who never looked farther than causes of his popularity. His sym- to-morrow, and much preferred not to pathy, openly expressed, for popular think beyond this evening, but who at liberties, his dislike and contempt for the same time was determined to estab- petty tyranny or oppression, counted lish the privilege of an Englishman to for more ; while most of all, his cheer- the sidewalk all over the world, while ful courage in the midst of the difficul- men of other nations might step into ties of the Indian Mutiny, and the the gutter this minister represented disasters of the Crimean winter, his aspirations which had long ago sick- never-failing belief that all would be ened under rounded periods intended well, and his clear-headed appreciation to convince humanity that bread and of what was required, inspired the na- calico summed up their total require- tion with a confidence that so long as ments, and were more than sufficient Palmerston was there, clouds, however for rational happiness. This was the black they might appear, woul(l pres- popular conception of Palmerston when ently disperse. in 1855 lie became first minister of the A final cause, which contributed not crown. a little to the ministers success, lay in To the queen he had, for many the exaggerations and mouthing of the years, appeared in a somewhat differ- Manchester school of politicians, ent and less ideal light. There were who, having scored heavily in the fight points in his character which she could for Free Trade, had got to believe not fail to respect and admire, but themselves infallible, and their doc- there was much in his methods as well trines only a degree if at all less worthy as in his views which was galling at the of absolute credence than the Gospels. time both to her proper pride as sover- It had become the fashion with poli- eign and to her dignity as a member of ticians of that school to belittle En- the royal fraternity of Europe. Palm- gland, and to obtrude upon the world a erston had shared the universal admi- cheap cosmopolitanism with an air of ration excited by the young queen on superior virtue, extremely galling to her accession. He has left on record men who either in their o~vn hierson or his agreeable impressions of her first by the energy and often by the blood Council. He was also warmly in favor of their sons or brothers had helped to of her marriage with Prince Albert, expand the empire, and volunteered to Stockmar his opin- It was only natural that these men ion that of all possible alliances he and they formed the large majority chiefly approved the marriage with the should rally round the minister who prince. These sentiments were, how- appreciated their sacrifices and took ever, in Palmerston mere Platonics, pride in their successes. In politics the and restrained him not at all from law of reaction is well-nigh inexorable, thwarting or from disregarding alto- and just as the necessary niilitaryism gether the ideas of both the queen and of the first fifteen years of the century the prince if they happened to run produced the Manchester school, so counter to his own. that worthy body of doctrinaires were To the prince the character of Palm- responsible for the ultroneous rule of erston was unsympathetic, and to his Palmerston. speculative mind the positivist nilnister A minister who kept race-horses and was highly uncongenial. Some men, bad at his command a good store of it has been said, think by definition, very blunt vernacular, who could not others by type. Palmerston never be got to admit that he understood an thought otherwise than by type, and abstract thought, who always knew to the prince lie seemed a statesman of what he wanted and was determined a commonplace order, possessing un- to carry it on t regardless of the opin- doubtedly the powers of a first-rate ions of others, who conceived his own man, but holding the creed of a second- ideas to be superior to those of other iate man. His frivolity appeared un The Queen and Lord Palmerston. pardonable in the Germanic eyes of the prince, and his policy as frivolous and handtomouth as his morals. When I was a young man, Palmerston used to say, the Duke of Wellington made an appointment with me at half past seven in the morning; and I Was asked, Why, Palmerston, how will you contrive to keep that engage- mnent? Oh, I said, of course, the easiest thing in the world ; I shall keep it the last thing before I go to bed ~ These were not the habits, and badinage was not the tone, of the young court; so that a fine grain of prejudice hampered the relations be- tween the ebullient foreign secretary and his royal mistress. For fifteen years after her marriage, until as her first minister Palmerston kissed hands in 1855, the friction was constant, an(l at tinies paralyzing to good govern- ment. Opposition only confirmed him in his determination to persevere with a policy, or indulge a freak of tem- per. In this, again, lie was, as Lord Malmesbury observed, English to the l)ackbone, and in nothing was this char- acteristic more marked than in his re- solve to withstand the influence of the crown. If the quarrel for no other word adequately describes it between the queen andi Lord Palmerston originated in the conflicting disposition of her foreign and her permanent minister, it shaped itself upon the policy to be pursued in regard to France, and the personal relations existing at the time between the royal families of France and England. With nothing of the doctrinaire about hi in, Palmnerston avoided alliances, and formed his judg- ment upon questions of foreign policy as they arose. Vaguely lie may be said to have desired to keep well with France, but lie had given way, as Lord Stratford de Redeliffe remarked, to a strong feeling of resentment against Louis Philippe, and lie mistrusted and ultimately detested the whole house of l3ourbon. The prince, on the other hand, full of the great idea of German unity, looked upon France as an enemy to European progress, but was, with 69 the queen, on terms of intimacy with the king of the French. In 1840, when, by supporting the revolt of Me- hemet Au, France tried to obtain a qaasi control of Egypt, Palmnerston de- clared the mistress of India could not permit France to be mistress directly or indirectly of the road to her Indian dominions. This d~claration, since exalted from a platitude into a sliibbo- leth covering the whole Eastern ques- tion, might have obtained the assent of the queen ; but when it was followed by a negotiation with France and Spain relative to the marriages of the Spanish house, culminating in an apparent act of duplicity on the part of Louis Phi- lippe, goaded by an ill-considered de- spatchi of the foreign secretary, a state of irritation was engendered between the royal families very painful to the queen and laid by her at the door of Lord Palmerston. In her capacity as sovereign she was stung by the remark that she looked at things par la lunette of Palmerston, and although she cour- ageously and loyally supported her ministers unfortunate (lespateli in her correspondence with the queen of the French, she did not forgive her minister for having, as she believed, placed her in a painful predicament. Between Lord Palmerston and Mr. Gladstone there are not many charac- teristics in common, but they were alike in the youthful enthusiasm which in old age both statesmen retained. Mr. Motley, describing a party given by Lady Palmerston, uses terms which could now be applied with curious veri- similitude to Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone. In 1848 Lord Palmerston was sixty- four years old, but his enthusiasm for constitutional freedom, not in his own country, where that blessing had long obtained, but in foreign states, was such that in the view of the queen it induced him to forget that, as England was not prepared to employ force of arms for its achievement, despatches full of unpleasant truths unpleasantly put could only occasion sore and angry feelings towards this con ntry, without advancing in any degree the cause they were intended to serve. 70 The Queen and Lord Palmerston. His creed was the creed of Canning, of that year, when no monarch felt but his methods were often those of secure, Palmerstons airs of superi- Mrs. Grundy. Occasions were not ority and his constitutional icc- wanting at that time for the display of tures galled intensely, and at no his boyish desire to improve the occa- period in history can England have sion, and his lectures to foreign rulers been more cordially detested by neigh- gave umbrage in many quarters, and boring powers. still further widened the breach be- To the English middle classes, how- tween the minister and his sovereign, ever, with their ludicrous vanity and Undoubtedly the tone adopted by Pharisaical faith in their own institu- Lord Palinerston was often carelessly tions, the attitude of their representa- offensive. I do not object, said Sir tive in the councils of Europe was a Robert Peel, to his lordships giving keen source of delight. Palmerstons advice to the Spanish government, but lectures were read and approved with to his mode of giving it. It was im- avidity, and while he ministered to the possible that enthusiasm so exuberant weakness of his countrymen, he fos- should not occasionally meet with re- tered in them a wish to maintain their buff. On one occasion Spain success- existing constitution intact as an exam- fully retorted upon what Peel called the pie to other nations of a perfect form of assumption of superiority in the government. style of the foreign secretary ; while, If the queen had occasion to wince later on, Russia replied in language at his methods, she owes largely to described by Lord Stanley as bitter, Palmerston the ease with which the imperious, and offensive, but not more English monarchy weathered a storm bitter, more imperious, more offensive that proved so fatal to other royal than the provocation. To the queen houses. His methods were, without these checks to her minister appeared question, doubly painful to her; for not humiliations, and they were deeply felt only was the language he employed and strongly resented. Among her calculated to embroil her with foreign ministers, as well as among their oppo- potentates, with whom she was on nents, she had many sympathizers, and terms of friendship, but it frequently a moment came when Lord John Rus- happened that over the form of the sell, unable to submit any longer to the Palmerstonian philippics she was not haughty deportment of the foreign see- permitted to exercise her privilege of retary, resolved to retire from the gov- imposing a restraining hand. The os- eminent. I feel strongly, he wrote, tensible cause if it was not altogether that the queen ought not to be cx- the real one of the friction which posed to the enmity of Austria, France, existed for fifteen years between the and Russia on account of her minis- sovereign and her minister was the tem. Lord John, however, was mis- careless or studied neglect of the latter. takcii in this assumuption, for it was to submit his despatclmes for correction not to the enmity of those nations, but and remark before they were sent to of their rulers, that the queen was the embassies abroad. As early as exposed on account. of her foreign 1840 Lord John Russell had complained secretary; and in Lord John Russells to Lord Melbourne that he only me- confusion lies the justification of Palm- ceived despatches in a printed form erston. The queen could not be cx- some days after they are sent off, and pecte~1 to appreciate at the time, for it remin(led the prime minister that in was far from clear even to Palmerston the days of Loi~d Grey every impor- himself, the service he rendered to the tant note was carefully revised by and monarchy in that year of convulsion, generally submitted to the Cabinet. when thrones all over Europe were Other colleagues of the foreign sec- tottering. In 1848 the middle class on retary were no less hurt at his high- the Continent were in open revolt handed indifference to their opinion. against their rulers. Amid the storms Lord Howick, the present Lord Grey, The Queen and Lord Palmerston. partly on this ground refused to serve with him, and thus prevented the for- mation of a Liberal administration five years later. And eleven years after- wards, in 1851, on this very ground, Lord John Russell when prime minis- ter was driven to remove his insubor- dinate colleague from office altogether. The principle followed by Lord Grey in 1848, when the tension between Palmerston and the queen became very great, was at the instance of Lord Lansdowne admitted by Palmerston. For although Lord John Russell was prime minister, he found it necessary to appeal to Lord Lansdowne to remon- strate with his unruly foreign secre- tary. The queens disapprobation of everything Lord Palmerston does in- creases, wrote Lady John Russell in her diary at this time; and although Palmerston pretended to believe that the queen gave ear too readily to persons hostile to her government, it is plain that the prime minister and the sovereign were in perfect accord. In the summer of 1849 a very able State paper was drawn up by the l)rince in the name of the queen, expounding the constitutional rule that the control of foreign policy rests with the prime minister, and directing that all de- spatches submitted for her approval should pass through the hands of Lord John Russell. Whether this was or was not a constitutional rule, Palmers- ton, although he declared it would reduce his flint gun to a matchlock, found himself forced to yield, nn(l a~ree(l to alter the existino arrange- ments in accordance with the queens wishes. When the final crisis came, and when after his dismissal from office he had to defend his conduct in Parliament, the queens memorandum aa(l his acquiescence in the terms of it were used with damaging effect by Lord John Russell against him. Be- fore, however, the faIl of Palmerston, an event had occurred which raised him to the first place in the eyes of his countrymen. This was the attack on his policy in the House of Commons, and his great speech in his own de- fence. After the IDon Pacifico debate, Palmerston became the first of living statesmen in the eyes of the people, a position he never lost till the day of his death fifteen years afterwards. From that time, too, he became more atten- tive to the wishes of the queen, al- though a few months later the old Adam reasserted itself, when over the reception of Kossuth and over the presidential difficulties in France his attitude caused the long-smouldering flame to burst forth. His fall then became inevitable. The coup d ~tat in France at once approved by him with- out consultation with his colleagues, or the knowledge of the queen, was his coup de qrdce. Palmerston is out, wrote Charles Greville, actu- ally, really, and irretrievably out. Although the cause was but half guessed at the time, it was known in full to this acute observer and critic. He had watched for some years the widening breach between the sovereign and her minister. As to Palmerston being corrected or reformed, I dont believe a word of it, he had written a year before the crash came, and his prognostication was singularly accurate. He was keenly alive to the dislike of the court: The queens favorite aver- sions are : first an(l foremost Palmers- ton, and Disraeli next, although the commentator may truly lay stress on the candid and dispassionate spirit with which in later years these states- men were received by their sovereign. When, however, the tension was great- est, the queen, acting on the advice of Stockmar, took no active steps to over- turn the foreign secretary, but allowed the initiative to l)e taken by Lord John Russell ; so that although for one moment Lord Palmerston may have sl)okell of a cabal against him, his good sense speedily convinced him that he was mistaken, and within a few (lays of his fall lie could speak of the court without bitterness, and in strong terms could praise the sagacity of the queen. Palmerstons tit for tat, as he termed it, follo~ved very quickly upon his ejection from office, and when the government fell he could afford to 71 12 smile. His triumph over Lord John Russell was complete. Never again was he the subordinate of that states- man in office. The blunders of the Aberdeen government, of which he was the only popular member, left Lord Palmerston the one indispensable Englishman, and the upshot of his quarrel with the court and with the leader of the Whigs was to make him the queens prime minister. Although he was never foreign secretary after 1851, his interest in foreign affairs re- mained undiminished. The queen has related how when he was home secre- tary in 1853, she, interested in and alarmed about the strikes in the North, put a question to him: Pray, Lord Palmerston, have you any news? He replied, No, madam, I have heard nothino but it seems certain the Turks have crossed the Danube. Strikes, responsible as he was for order, were as nothing to him com- pared with the intricacies of the East- ern question, about which it was not necessary for him specially to concern himself. In 1855, although a futile attempt was made to form an adminis- tration under Lord Granville,in which both Palmerston and Russell were to serve, the universal desire of the na- tion, supplemented by Lord Johns want of tact, placed Lord Palmerston at the head of the government ; and except for a short interval three years later, when his supposed subservience to Napoleon the Third cost him his office, prime minister he remained until his death ten years afterwards. From the moment he became her first minister his position relative to the queen underwent a marked change. Lord Aberdeen, who was on friendly terms with the prince, said to Bishop Wilberforce, a few months after Palm- erstons accession to office, that the queen has not altered at all in her real feelings to him. She behaves perfectly well and truly to him. It has always been her great virtue, but she does not like him a bit better than she did, nor the prince either. If this was the case, there is no corroboration of it, and indeed all the evidence points to the gradual arriving at a perfectly good understanding with both the queen and the prince. The causes of differ- ence had indeed passed away. No doubt the prince still found much which was unsympathetic to him in Palmerstons character. Although he could admire, as every one did, the great physical vigoi of a prime minister who, when seventy years old, could row on the Thames before breakfast, or swim in the river like an Eton boy, or who, when nearly eighty, was able to ride from London to Harrow and back in one day, yet he shrank from what Lord iloughton called Palm- erstons ha-ha and laissez-faire. The prime ministers ethical views amused the maids of honor, and made them laugh, but they seemed drearily inade- quate to the grave-minded prince. When, however, the fatal December of 1861 crushed the queens life, Lord Palmnerston was the first to realize the irreparable loss which, as wife and sovereign, she had sustained, and to appreciate her meaning when she spoke of having to begin a new reign. For many years before the prince~ s death, he and Palmerston had worked well together. Their struggle had ended in 1855, when Palmerston be- came prime minister. While the prince had contended for a constitu- tional punctilio, Palmerston had fought for his own hand. It was not on prin- ciple that he objected to the controlby the prime minister and the crown over the foreign secretary; his objections were founded on the circumstance that he himself was the foreign secretary it was proposed to control. Of late years, owing to the accident of Lord Salisbury combining the office of for- eign secretary and prime minister, the desirability of having two heads in- stead of one to manage the foreign relations of the country has been erected into a principle. The after- thought sprang in the usual way from the spirit of opposition, and not from any rational or careful consideration of the question based on experience. Those, however, who denounced Lord The Queen and Lord Palmerston. The Queen and Lord Palmerston. Salisbury must recognize the force of the queens contention in her struggle with Palmerston, and her celebrated memorandum must to them appear the charter of Foreign Office subservience. In reality the temper of the foreign secretary is the key of the situation. Given a man full of restless activity and hasty enthusiasms, then the mere time involved in sending despatches in red boxes to the queen is so much gained for reflection. Given a minister of a calmer type , control or supervision is only a work of supererogation, and frequently a fatal loss of the psycho- logical moment. When the queen was engaged in endeavoring to check the youthful ardor of Lord Palmerston, she was little more than a girl in years, while he. was well beyond the farthest limit of middle age. Yet in many ways he was incomparably the younger of the two. To the queen supreme responsibility came early in life, and, as usual, it aged her; while to Palm- erston supreme responsibility came late, and found him still a boy in mind. He was fifty years in the House of Commons before he led that assembly and during that half-century, although constantly in office, he had not been a regular speaker or even a regular at- tendant in the House. I cant get that three-decker Palmerston to bear down, Mr. Canning used to say ; and Palmerston always hesitated to formu- late views upon any subject which was not his special care at the moment. He refused to set his mind to work on hypotheses. In fact, he was a typical man of the world, and, as it has been often said, a man of the world is not an imaginative animal. When Lord Houghton found himself next to Mr. Gladstone at dinner half a century ago, he found him excited about China and the cattle plague, and half-a-dozen other things; when he found himself next to Lord Palmerston he could get no farther than the inevitable ha-ha and laissez-faire. What was admirable, however, in Lord Palmerston, was his ever-present sense of the dignity of England. Tell M. Guizot from me, said Metternich, that one does not 73 withi impunity play little tricks with great countries. Lord Palmerston never stooped to little tricks himself, and would not tolerate them in others. This attitude, together with his firm- ness about the military forces of the crown, and his cheerful confidence in the fortune and stamina of his country- men in 1853 and 1857, ~were thoroughly appreciated by the queen; so that when the end came she could look back and mourn honestly at the breaking of another link with the past, and feel sincerely and deeply in her desolate and isolated condition how one by one those tried servants and advisers are taken from her. As befitted him, Lord Palmerston died in harness. Realistic and Hellenic in spirit as he was, like his l)rototype of old, who kept a bow which he strung daily to test his failing strength, the prime minister ~vithin a few weeks of his death was seen to come out of the house at Brocket, look lest he was observed, aiid then slowly and deliberately climb an iron railing as a test of his bodily vigor. He was over fourscore, and death took him quickly and kindly while still in full possessio~i of his fac- ulties and still in the plenitude of power. Four years before he died, the queen must have felt that her life had ended. Yet it is now a generation since Lord Palmerstons death, and the queen, to whose sagacity he bore wit- ness so long ago, still sagaciously rules the nation that he helped to make great. As the first portion of her reign may be said to have synchronized with the fall of Peel, so the second portion ended with the death of Palmnerston. Henceforth she was destined to be thrown with a new generation of public servants, men well known to her by name and fame, some of whom had already served her in positions of re- sponsibility, but none of whom had passed in close relation with her through the excitements of her queenship, and the joys an(l sorrows of her married life. In spite of differences and quar- rels, the queen had always extended to Lord Palmerston that straightforward support of the lack of which none of 74 her ministers have ever complained, ~n(l when lie died she could not help feeling that her youth had passed away with him, and that she was left a lonely woman face to face with the awful re- sponsibilities of her great office without one human being in the worl(l whom she could call an old friend. REGINALD B. BRETT. [copyright, 1894, by LITTELL & Co.] THE DEAN OF KILLERINE. BY THE ABBE PIIEVOST. 1765. TRANSLATED BY MRS. E. W. LATIMER. PART TENTH. THE first person I perceived on en- tering Fincers house was my Lord Tenermill, who received inc with every demonstration of joy. He told me that the squadron had encountered a storm in the Channel, which had damaged the ships so much that they had to put back to Dunkirk. He had at once come on to Paris, and without stopping at the residence of Count S, had come on to Fincers house, which lie had easily found after what I had told him in my last letter. He had already been informed of Fincers (leath and of the flight of Pat- ijek, and that it was necessary to be very careful to keep news of these events from reaching Sara. He was sorry for Fincer, lie said, but thought all that had taken place might turn to his own advantage. He had seen Rose, who was with Sara, and through her had obtained leave to pay his respects to her invalid, who had seemed pleased to welcome him. Already lie was assuming some authority in the house- hold, and the servants made no diffi- culty about obeying his comman(ls. There seemed nothing in all this to alarm me. I only felt a little ashamed of myself for changing so frequently my wishes and resolutions, for now I was heart and soul in Tenermills favor, und hoped he might succeed in obtain- ing Saras hand. At this moment Patricks valet came The Dean of Killerine. in with news that Mademoiselle de L had left the convent two hours before, taking rather an abrupt leave of the superior. But she had always maintained strict reserve with the sis- ters as to her own affairs, and it was not known what had become of her. This made upon me the most terril)le impression. I doubted not that she had gone to Patrick, and I regretted the time I had wasted in discourse with Tenermill. I hastened to the house they occu- pied in the same street as Sara Fincer. My fears proved true. Patrick and Mademoiselle de L had arrived there. They had called their servants together and announced their marriage. After which they had retired to their chamber. I followed them thither. I could not think with composure that with Pincer lying dead on the other side of the street, and Sara on a sick-bed, those two, who had caused such grief, were being happy in their new relations, oblivious of the sorrows they had caused, and, what seemed to my mind worse, forgetful of existing legal objec- tions to their marriage. The valet announced me, and I en- tered their room. Patrick received inc with effusive tenderness. Had I come to congratulate him at last upon his happiness ? I leave Heaven to judge of the purity of your intentions, I said se- verely ; tile time is passed when my reproaches might have done you good. I will not intrude upon you with my blame, only I must say this Is this a time for either of you to say that you are happy? Ali! why are you not in Germany instead of in this place, where your caresses are an insult to an unfor- tunate woman, whom you have driven to despair, and to Fincer, whose dead body is being prepared for burial ? Go away from here at once. And here- after we will see if the marriage cere- mony that united you at Saint Germain is legal. But go now. Your presence here, as man and wife, is an outrage to Sara and an insult to Heaven! Patrick, who had heard nothing of The Dean of Killerine. Fincers death, asked me the particu- lars, and then said that as soon as their carriage could be got ready they would leave the neighborhood. I went down- stairs, and in an empty loom wrote them a letter, while preparations were being made for their departure. In it I reiterated my entreaties to leave France, and appealed to their feelings of humanity. Then, as I left the house, I said to the servants that I knew nothing would be so objectionable to their master and mistress as any demonstrations of joy on the occasion of their marriage, and that they did not wish the news to be spread among the neighbors. I had said nothing to Patrick about my interview with the king, who ex- pected him the next day at Saint C-er- main, because I thought nothing would cure Sara, and make her willing to accept the addresses of another suitor. but his departure with his new wife to a foreign land. And I the more de- sired to see him far away from Paris when, on returning to Fincers house, the servants gave me letters that had arrived for their (lead master. One was from Dilnich, in answer to a letter from Fincer, full of fury against Pat- rick, and it sai(l that the writer was coming with all Spee(l to France to avenge the insults offered to his family by ours. He wrote from Calais, and expected to be in Paris almost as soon as his letter. Dilnicli ! Too well I knew his vio- lence, his unreasonableness, his angry moods ! What might not be feared for Patrick should they meet, especially when Dilnich heard of Fincers death, and the last outrage to Sara. I resolved to go back and tell my brother not to lose a inomeut, but to start at once, when, as I went out of the door, whom should I meet but Dil- nich, who seemed amaze(l to see me quietly coming out of Fincers house, as if at home there. He addressed me, however, with ordinary expressions of politeness, but then began to pour out his complaints against Patrick a perjured. graceless, dishonorable villain! Hed teach him better things before hed done with him! And if he were now in Fincers house I might go and tell him he had come over from Ireland as the avenger of a man too old to defend himself and his child. Alas ! alas ! I had worse things than he knew of to tell him. Itook him by the hand, and led hirfi into an empty room. As we went, I prayed silently to Heaven to give me help, and to teach inc what I ought to say. I began, not by Fincers death, nor Saras accident, nor Patricks mar- riage, but by tile suit of Tenermill. Surely he must know his lordship to be a far l)etter match for his niece than Patrick, and likely to make a far better husband to the woman he loved pas- sionately than a man so weak and capricious as Ills brother ! I praised Tenermill in every way. I said that his fortunes were now assured in France ; that he had won tile favor of King James, who Ilad taken him under his protection ; that wllile Patrick had conceived an aversion to his niece, Tenermill was deeply in love with her and then, 1)elieving I had softened him by this, I told Ilim of our other misfor- tunes. Tile sweat stood in beads upon my brow as I spoke, and Dilnich ~vas at first dumb with grief and anger. You will find Tenermill, I said, beside your niece, an(l my sister, the countess, is taking care of 11cr. Everything our family could do to repair the mischief done by Patrick has been done, as far as possible. We have lost food and sleep for many days and nights in Saras service. I call Heaven to wit- ness that your family has no more devoted friends than it may find in ours. With clasped hands and a feeling of physical exhaustion I waited for Dii- niclls answer. So I am to under- stand, he said, that your brother counts as nothing the ruin and misery he has brought upon father and daugh- ter, the disgrace he has inflicted on our family, and the injury he has (lone to the fortunes of our house, pro- vided only he may gratify Ilis ill-regu 75 76 lke fiean of Killerine. lated, capricious fancies ! Listen, he added; I blame no man for what may have been an accident, and I draw a just distinction between the conduct of Patrick and that of the rest of your family. But nothing will prevent my chastising the author of so many mis- fortunes inflicted on those belonging to me. If Lord Tenermill hopes to see me in his interest, or you expect to recover my friendship, it must be on one condition. You must give up Patrick to my vengeance. By doing that you will assure me of the sincerity of your professions.~~ He rose up, furious, after uttering these terrible words. Had I supposed he knew where he could look for Pat- rick I should have been in terror lest he should rush off in hot haste to attack him ; but knowing that lie must be unacquainted with Patricks residence, I derived some consolation froni the thought that he had turned all his wrath against one who before night would be on the road to Gerniany. I was thankful to think that his anger seemed in no way to have fallen upon Tenermill, for whose suit he seemed to feel approval. I suggested to him to go to his nieces chamber, warning himii that she was as yet unacquainted with her fathers death or my brothers departure. This produced another outburst of threats against Patrick. On entering the room we found Lord Tenermill and the countess sitting be- side the bed. They received Dilnich with expressions of regard and satis- faction, and Sara was delighted to see him. She knew that her father had summoned him to Paris, and was happy in the thought that, whereas he had come over to seek revenge, lie would find her reconciled to her husband. She told him that she only regretted Patrick was not there. Where is lie ? she said, turning to me. DII- nichi with difficulty kept silence. I re- plied that after passing three days and nights beside her bed he needed rest and then, willing to change the subject, I began to talk of my audience with the king at Saint Germain. I went so far as to inform them that his Majesty had promised to take charge of Pat- ricks fortunes, and that he had ordered tue to desire him to go out to Saint Germain the following (lay. When Dilnich, Tenermill and I had left the chamber, I congratulated the former on his reticence and self-controL He said nothing more on the subject of Patrick, but began to ask Tenermuill if he were really desirous to offer his hand to Sara, and appeared well satis- fied with the ardor with which my lerd replied. After this I came to the conclusion that, instead of writing to Patrick, I had better see him. It seemed to me important that he should take with him some certainty as to the muarriage of his brother, and be disposed by my exhortations to repair as soon as pos- sible the legal irregularities of his mar- riage at Saint Germain. It seemed to me, also, that I owed it to myself to obtain a promise to this effect, before I could give my open consent to his new nuptials. I found him making preparations for departure. I said nothing to him of the arrival of Dilnich, nor of his threats of vengeance, fearing lest some sense of honor might lead him to delay his journey that he might not seem to take ifighit from the revenge of his enemy. I had just left him, aiid was half-way down the staircase, when lie called me back. I do not see, he said ,why it is necessary that I should leave France. The count has an empty country place to which we can retire for a few weeks, till all difficulties are settled. You have not told me of your visit to Saint Germain, nor of what the king purposes to do for me. I heard it through my valet. I would renounce the hopes the king holds out to me if it were necessary to do so in order to secure the peace and happiness of our family, but it seems to me that every- thing is about to arrange itself satisfac- torily. Tenermill will marry Sara ; I will reappear in Paris after his mar- riage, and be able to enjoy all the advantages held out to tue by the kind- ness of the king. Come back, he said, taking me by the hand, and tell me all that passed at Saint Germain. I saw great advantages in this deci- sion. The castle of Count S was a safe and sure retreat. Dilnich would never find him there. It was near enough to Paris for me to watch over my brothers conduct, and aid him by my advice and exhortations, while he might still profit by the favors of the king. Nevertheless, being still in dread of Dilnich, I urged him to quit Paris with all possible speed, without telling him my reasons, and was glad to see that he seemed quite willing to be guided by my counsel. After that, remembering that the king had desired to see me again shortly, I determined to go out to Saint Germain, and to be present the next morning at his levee. In his Majestys ante-chamber, as I waited for my audience, Anglesey came up to me. I had been so occupied by family affairs since I arrived in Paris, that I had seen little of him, but lie and his sisters had kept up a close inti- macy with Patrick and Mademoiselle de L. I was therefore a little sur- prised when he made me his confidant, and took me aside to speak as fol- lows You know, he said, my relations with your brother, and the friendship that exists between us. He has told me of all that has taken place, and of his intended journey to Germany; but in telling me this he added a proof of his generous care for Sara Fincer, and of his sincere regard for myself, by speaking to me in the warmest terms of her beauty, her amiability, her accom- plishments, and her fortune. He told me that Lord Tenermill was anxious to marry her, but that she showed an invincible repugnance to receiving his addresses, and he urged me to pay my court to her, as soon as Tenermill should have embarked on foreign ser- vice. He has made me confident of success, and very desirous to secure the lady and her fortune. Your brother also told me that, as in Saras present condition I could not prosecute my 77 suit with herself, I had better seek the countenance and the approval of his Majesty, and I hope that, as you now know your brothers wishes, you will second me if the opportunity is given you in your audience with the king. I was amazed, I was confounded, as I listened to these things ; but I could not do otherwi~e than make a civil answer, yet I thought it right to tell him that Sara was not likely to approve his suit, and that he had chosen a confidant not in a position to be of service to him. I said Tener- mill is in Paris. He is at Saras house. He is deeply in love with her. There- fore take no further steps in the matter. Do not speak of it to the king But Anglesey answered me coldly I know Patricks wishes better than you do. And at that moment, seeing the door of the kings chamber opened, lie made a sign to the usher and slipped in before me. I saw at once the ad- vantage he had obtained, and blamed myself for not having been the first to present myself to his Majesty. Alas! I was so little familiar with the ways of courts and the habits of society that I did not know it was my privilege as the kings chaplain to enter his pres- ence whenever I wished to speak to him. Timidity, and a desire not to compromise my profession by unseemly self-assertion, had held me back, and Anglesey had passed in before me. He promised that, if the king would support his suit, he would attach him- self to his court permanently, and this consideration had great weight. The adhesion of an influential Irish gentle- man was considered valuable at Saint Germain. The king, therefore, calling up one of his gentlemen, sent him to Paris at once, to explain to Sara Pin- cer, or her guardians, his desire that she should accept the addresses of Anglesey, of whom he spoke in the most flattering way. Anglesey left the presence, passing me without a word, but with an air of triumph, and I entered the chamber of King James, who, before I had time to speak, said to me Had you come a few moments earlier you would have The Dean of Killerine. 78 The Dean of Killerine. seen how much I have it at heart to keep him out of the way of that rash set right your affairs with Fincers man ; but I have another plan. I will daughter, and he went on to tell me send for them both, and reconcile them what had passed between him and in my presence, after which, to avoid An~lesey. When he ended by congrat- any renewal of their quarrel, I will ulating himself on the occasion that send your brother on a mission to had been presented to him of forward- Spain. I have some secret negotia- ing our interests, I could not but reply, tions to be conducted in that country, Were it not for the respect I bear and if he manage& them satisfactorily, your Majesty, I should give what you as I feel sure he will, he will find that have been pleased to do another name. in furthering my interests he has fur- You have ruined the prospects of my thered his own.~~ brother, Lord Tenermill, by favoring I fell at the feet of this good king, the hopes of another suitor. and while thanking him for his gra- What I said seemed to cause the cious intentions with respect to Pat- king much surprise and perplexity. rick, I implored him to extend his He sat up in his bed, and asked me to interest to Tenermill. explain myself, saying he could not Alas ! while this interview was tak- un(lerstand what was going on. ing place Anglesey and the kings Then I told him all that had taken gentleman had reached the house of place the accident to Sara, the death Fincer, and had seen Dilnich, who was of Fiucer, and of the hopes of Tener- delighted to find a way to rid himself mill. Anglesey, I sai(l, knew of forever of Tenermill, and all our fain- the return of Lord Tenermill; I told ily. He gave Anglesey his promise to him of it not half an hour ago, but he favor his suit with Sara, and engaged availed himself of his agility and ad- to forbid Tenermill to enter the house dress to be the first to secure the ear of of his niece, or to pay his addresses to your Majesty. her. This resolution he communicated The king seemed touched by my ear- to Tenermill, whom I found in great nestness and sincerity. He sent for agitation at the house of Count 5. Anglesey, but he could not be found. He told me what had happened, and Then the king seat for the gentleman what I told him in return increased his whom he had charged with his mes- anxiety. But I had still great conti- sage, but was told that he had quitted dence, both in the kings power and Saint Germain with Anglesey. The his promises, so that I succeeded at king seemed much annoyed, and sent last in somewhat reassuring him. an express after them, commanding Meantime, another messenger from their return. Saint Germain reached Dilnich with The goodness of the king would have orders to present himself at once to consoled me had I not feared the ruin the king. Much flattered by such an of my brothers hopes. But the suc- attention, he set off without delay, and cess of Lord Tenermills suit seemed to learned from the kings lips his change me the only way open to us to concil- of views. He might have submitted in iate Dilnich, and I dreaded lest he silence to the kings authority, with would at once favor the addresses of respect to Sara, but his Majesty went another suitor, supported by the king. on to speak of Patrick, exhorting him This fear I expressed to his Majesty, to overlook the past, and to be friends and I made Patricks excuses for not with him again. Then Dilnich, roused having appeared as ordered at Saint to fury, recapitulated all the outrages Germnain, telling his Majesty also of his niece had received from Patrick, Dilnichs threatened vengeance. I so and not content with avowing openly moved the heart of that excellent and his intention to be revenged on him, he kindly prince that he said I can do went so far as to ask the king whether better than you can do for your brother. it was befitting f~r his Majesty to ask I approve the care you have taken to him to sanction the marriage of his The Dean of Killerine. niece with the brother of the man who had so outraged her. Any other king might have been made angry by such insolence, but James II., whose kindness of heart was supreme among his virtues, only answered by words founded on the ex- hortations in the Scriptures to forgive- ness and peace. By these he reduced Dilnich to silence for a time, but nothi- ing further. The king then, hoping lie had persuaded him to obey his orders, conversed with him with the great kindncss usual with that prince. Unhappily, as Dilnich left the kings apartment lie met Anglesey, who had just returimed. He drew him aside, and told him of the change in the opinion of the king; but he did not tell him what lie himself meant to (10. He re- newed his own promise, however, of furthering the suit of Anglesey, and recommended him not to see the king just then. Shortly after this they started together for Paris, notwith- standing that the king hind ordered Dil- nichi to remain at Saint Germain until Patrick arrived. His Majesty, having learned from me where to fiuid Patrick, had sent off a messenger to the chateau of Count S , and my brother was on the road to Saint Germain while Dil- nich and Anglesey were riding from Saint Germain to Paris. They met, not far from the city. Though Patrick was startled, they ex- changed the ordinary civilities of gen- tle men, Dilnichs fury being restrained by the presence of Anglesey. He con- tented himself with whispering to Patrick that he had come over from Ireland to meet him in mortal combat. This whisper was unheard by Anglesey, and my brother managed to answer it without exciting suspicion. He prom- ised to come back to Paris after leaving Saint Germain, and to send Dilnich word of his arrival. Thus they parted with ordinary words of politeness, and each party went on its way. The king, on finding Dilnich had de- parted, was exceedingly angry. The gentleman who had accompanied An- glesey told him how hurried was his departure, and also that he had induced Anglesey to go back to Paris with him. All this made the king more decided to befriend Patrick than ever. After talking a long time with him about the mission to Spain, he made him grand chamberlain at the court of Saint 0-er iiiain, to show publicly how much con- fidence lie placed in him. Tie spoke of Dilnich as a mnrderer,and desired him to avoid meeting him. Patrick merely bowed his head, fearing that any reply lie might make would lead to a direct prohibition of any encounter, and then the king, observing lie was anxious to depart, gave him one of his own sol- diers to be his bodyguard, with orders not to lose sight of him till he should reach the frontier of Spain. Notwithstanding this precaution on the part of his Majesty, my brother contrived to see Dilnieli, and arrange with him to meet hiini at a place beyond the Spanish frontier. Patrick knew by experience that it was dangerous to fight duels in France, and he was not willing to bring himself again into the clutches of French law. This proposal was not, however, agreeable to Dilnich, who hind already made arrangements to send his niece to Ireland, in a litter, escorted by Angiesey ; and lie wished to get the duel over as soon as possibhe~ He accepted, however, Patricks pro- posal, because it was necessary to be quick in their arrangements for fear of rousing the suspicions of the guard. Afterwards, however, he decided, in defiance of all the laws imposed on men of honor, to attack Patrick when and how lie could. He even imparted this design to the perfidious Anglesey, and then set out with him to follow and overtake Patrick on his road to the castle of his brother-in-law. They came up with Patrick and his guard at no great distance froni the castle, and set on them at once. An- glesey and the guard were on horse- back, my brother in a light chaise, from which Dilnich desired him to come out. They then engaged on foot. The fight was a long one, but in the end Dilnich received his due, being pierced with two wounds, one of which was mortal. When he fell Anglesey, who had been 80 The Dean of Killerine. merely fencing with the guard, put up into th~ courtyard, and reappeared with his sword. He then made some ex- the curtains closed. To my great sur- cuses to my brother, who received them prise the counts friend was escorting coldly, advising him at once to see to it. He ma(le me a sign and I joined his own safety. Then Patrick and his him. Ah, he said, who do you guard did the only thing they could suppose is in that litter? and where do properly do nuder the circumstances, you suppose it is going ? it is Sara they rode back to Saint Germain and Fincer. She knows all that has taken gave an account of what had happened place, and is about to throw herself on to the king. the kindness and protection of the Patrick first put the body of Dilnich countess and her husband. She refuses in the chaise, and taking his servants to return to Ireland with Anglesey. horse, ordered him to get up with the Sara had heard not only of the death coachman and drive back to Paris to of her father and the desertion of Pat- the house of Count 5 (where he rick, from her incensed and fiery uncle, supposed me to be at the time). The but he had told her that she must leave servant was to tell me what had hap- at once for Ireland nuder the protec- pened, and to beg me to attend to the tion of Anglesey, whom he had chosen burial of Dilnich as secretly as possible. for her husband. With the submission I was sitting with the count and of despair she was making her prepara- Tenermill when this terrible commis- tions for departure, so that when a sion was announced to me. The cur- visitor was announced as a messenger tains of the carriage had been prudently from Dilnich, she concluded at once closed by the servants of Patrick, so that he brought an order for her imme- that no one knew what it contained. diate departure. I know not whether I marvelled at the decrees of Provi- she would have passively submitted, deuce, which never seemed to leave me but as soon as she knew the messenger a breathing space between misfortunes. came from the Count and Countess However, I thought there was nothing 5 her joy was great; she sprang to be done but to tell Patricks people out of bed at once, and seeing that he to drive with the dead body to Les was cautious as to what he said to her, Saisons, where I would join them. begged him to speak openly, and tell Tenermill, on learning what had her if she could still trust to the friend- taken place, was for going at once to ship of members of our family. The Sara; but I preveuted him, preferring answer he gave her seemed to afford to go myself and ascertain whether she her great relief. I was on the point yet knew of her fathers death, before of heaving Paris, she said. I feared telling her of this new loss, which left I might be forced to espouse a man her in a foreign land without protec- whom I detest. The only way open to tion. me by which to escape the tyranny It seemed to me, however, that be- of my uncle will be to throw myself fore seeing Sara I had better learn on the protection of the Count and something of her state. I did not think Countess 5. Go and ask the count- Joe was the right person to conduct the ess if they will receive me. On hear- enquiry, and, having said so to the ing her speak thus he took it on himself count, he proposed to me to accept the to assure her of her welcome, and the services of the friend who had con- litter ordered for her conveyance to the ducted his own hove-affair with Rose. coast being at the door, she was on her This gentleman dressed himself again way, when I joined its escort, to seek ~s a dependent, and we walked together refuge with my sister, not having as to the neighborhood of Saras house, yet heard of the death of Dilnich. where he left me. I waited for some Sara was too weak to be long out of time, watching a litter that stood before her bed, but when she had a little re- the door. Its curtains were up, and I covered she sent for me. Alas! could see it was empty. It was taken she said, ~I am here a stranger in a family that should have been my own. I have to throw myself on your sisters geuerosity. Here she paused, but went on: I have lost my father, I have lost my husband, I am about to lose the good opinion of my uncle. I have lost everything. It only remains for me, dear dean, to ask your protec- tion for a little space, and then to die. Before I could speak she added : I ought to say to you, in view of the suit made to me by my Lord Tenermill, that I should hate any man ~vho dared to speak to me of love, in my present sit- uation. Nevertheless I feel great grat- itude to him. I know he is not rich, and, as my fortune can be now of no value to me, ask him to make use of it. I shall soon be able to bequeath it to him, for I cannot live much longer. The only condition I impose on him is that he will never ask me to be his wife. Jo f course, rejected on Tenermills part the offer of her fortune, but I could not but think that the preference she gave him over Anglesey was a sign in his favor. However, he had to de- part the next day for Dunkirk, to rejoin his regiment. Anglesey from Calais wrote press- ing letters to Sara, urging her to join him. These letters she desired me to open, and I did so. As he spoke to her freely of her uncles death, I thought it best to tell her what had happened, and to offer her at the same time the consolations of religion. She pressed my hand, and begged me to be to her father, uncle, and protector. I buried iDilnich decently at Les Saisons, and I was delighted to hear from my valet, whom I sent to the counts chateau to see Patrick, that all had gone well at Saint Germain. The king had approved my brothers act of self-defence, and had undertakeli to stop any inconvenient enquiries on the part of the French police. At the same time he sent Patrick orders to set out two days later for Spain. He thought it best not to take leave of us in person, but sent us his adieux in other ways. His absence was to be so LIVING AGE. VOL. III. 110 81 short that his wife was not to accom- pany him. We were thankful that he did not come to the counts house, knowing whom it contained, and on every ac- count I was glad he was about to leave Paris, both for his own sake, and for Saras. The count and Tenermill agreed with me. We sent back Joe to inform him of all that had taken place, and to tell him that Sara was now under our care, which was as much as t6 warn his wife that it would be impossible to receive her at the counts house during his ab- sence. And now I began to look for peace after so many storms. I had now only to watch over Sara Fincer, and to attend to my duties at Saint Germain, which were light. I determined to resign my Irish benefice in favor of my assistant{ who had at- tended most faithfully to its duties during my absence; but several per- sons represented to me that the for- tunes of the king of England were so uncertain, that I had better not give up a cure which would afford me a pro- vision for life in case of misfortune. It seemed to me, however, that I owed it both to my king and to my fio6k, to resign a duty which I could no longer fulfil in person. I was strongly tempted, indeed, to go back to Ireland, and put my preferment as Dean of Killerine myself into the hands of my successor. I foresaw that sooner or later the king would send me over to bring away the treasure, the where- abouts of which was known to me alone; but yet my duty to Sara seemed the nearer, and I decided to remain in France, and send the resignation of my benefice in writing to Ireland. I was living thus quietly, passing tart of my time at Saint Germain, and the rest in the society of the count and countess and Sara, when one day Joe told me that Patricks wife (who had now taken the title of her husband) was driving about Paris in a superb equipage, that, she had hired a hand- some house, and was apparently tired of livia alone in the country. The Dean of Killerine. The Dean of Killerine. Joe went on to say that her ladyship did not seem much concerned for her lords absence ; that she was to be seen in all public places of amusement; balls, card-parties, and receptions, she attended every day; she gave supper- parties at her house which lasted till daylight; and her beauty and vivacity made her attractive to men of pleasure wherever she went. I could see that Joe was prejudiced against her. Sara was his country- woman, lie took her part; but he could hardly have made up this story out of nothing, and I decided to sift it as soon as possible. I had never really known much of Patricks wife, while she was Mademoi- selle de L. She had never looked upon me as her friend, and had main- tained reserve with me. But knowing how strictly she had been brought up it seemed to me not unnatural that she should have great thirst for pleasure. I spoke of what I had heard to the count, and was concerned to observe that he seemed to consider the matter seriously. I entreated him to tell me all he thought I ought to know before I took any action on the subject. I will tell you frankly, he said, after a pause, that I saw much of her at Les Saisons, where I thought her a young person, with too little prudence and reserve. To be sure she gave few proofs of this, being restrained by my presence and that of my wife, but now that she has no one to watch over her, being cut off from intercourse with the family of her husband, her thirst for pleasure may lead her astray. I told the count that as he had been more intimate with her than I had been, I thought it might be well for him to see her, and to caution her as to her conduct while her husband was away. He replied that I was the proper person to do this, being the eld- est brother in our house, and an eccle- siastic. But, said he, be careful not to irritate her by harshness ; do not wound her vanity by letting her see that you suspect her of wrong- doing. The following day, therefore, I set out to make a visit to my sister-in-law, (I gave her that title, since it no longer belonged to Sara Fincer). She was surprised to see me. She had regarded the protection we had given her rival as an act of hostility to herself, and had decided on coming to Paris to have nothing to do with us. I found her, a& Joe had told me, handsomely established, beautifully dressed, and full of anlination. She was just going out apparently, accom- panied by a gentleman and I began to think my visit, for that day at least, was inopportune. But she begged me to take a chair, and asked me with an easy air what could have procured her the honor of my visit. I was embarrassed. She perceived it, and finding I had some- thing to say to her in secret, she took me by the hand, and led me into an- other room. Her manners were free and easy, such as I had never seen in her before. I was very much embar- rassed; I knew not how to bc~in. At last I got out of my difficulty by saying that I had something very important to say to her, and I would ask her to ap- point a time that she would find con- venient. She said she would do so willingly, but her manner was such that I could see she thought little of what I might be going to say. Indeed, at that moment, a servant brought her word that a lady and gentleman in a coach were waiting for her. She sprang up at once, and hurried away, without making me any apology. She ran down the stairs ,got into the coach, and was driven away. I was perfectly amazed at this be- havior, and asked the servants where their mistress had gone. TI~ey did not know; but they told me the name of the lady in the coach, who was her great friend. She was, they said, a lady of quality, and well known in the great world, where she had a great reputation. Her name was Madame dAvila. She and her ladyship drove out together every day. I could not learn the name of the gentleman who accompanied the ladies, but returned to the count with the in- 82 formation I had gathered. The mo- ment he heard the name of Madame dAvila he threw up his hands. Good Heaven! he cried, what do you say? Are you sure that you heard rightly? As I was sure my memory did not deceive me, I told him so, and then asked the cause of his being so con- ce rued. I will tell you, he said, for her country place is not far from my ch~- teau, and in my early years I was one of her lovers. She was born with every advantage of beauty, wit, for- tune, and high birth, but an excess of liberty led her early to fix her affec- tions on a handsome officer of Mousque- taires, who had no recommendation but good birth and a handsome person. Disappointed in her husband, she con- soled herself with lovers, and was al- ways surrounded by a crowd of men. An intimacy between such a woman, and an inexperienced, unprotected wife like her ladyship, seems to me, how- ever innocent, much to be dreaded. It may injure the reputation of your brothers wife before her introduction into court society, and I advise you to lose no time in making her a second visit, and in giving her warning. Ma- dame dAvilas career is so well known in Paris that you may venture, without fear, to speak of her as she deserves. To pay that second visit recom- mended by the count proved by no means easy. Considering me the par- tisan of Sara Fincer, one who had always embraced her cause, to say nothing of my share in Patricks mar- riage, my new sister-in-law detested and distrusted me. She had quitted me abruptly when I paid her my first visit, and then given orders to her ser- vants to close her doors to me. I was repeatedly refused admittance, and then spoke of the matter to the count. He advised me to write to my lady, which I did, saying as little as I could to the disadvantage of Madame dAvila, but suggesting that, as society had circulated reports to her disadvan- tage, she would do well to inform her- self of the character of her friend. 83 My motive, I told her, in taking the liberty of giving her this advice was not only zeal in her own behalf, founded on my regard for herself, but my sense of my position in my brothers absence, as guardian of the woman he so dearly loved; and I begged her to grant me an interview, in which I might give her a further explanation. I received no answer to this letter. I called at the house several times but was refused admittance. At last,by advice of the count, I decided to see Madame dAvila herself; not that I hoped to produce much impression upon such a woman, but I thought I might derive from her some insight into her relations with her new friend my visit would also make her sensible that the family of that friends husband kept watch over her conduct in his absence. I went early, for I hoped to find Madame dAvila alone. I was at once admitted, for my person was evidently known to her servants, who, no doubt, had heard my lady describe my unfor- tunate appearance, and make a scoff of my calamities. The moment I entered the xooin where Madame dAvila was sitting, she sprang from her chair and rushed into her boudoir, as if she dreaded the very sight of my deformities. But she left the door ajar, and looked through it, as if the full sight of me was too much for her nerves. She made up her mind apparently that I was less terrible than she ex- pected, and she burst into a loud laugh and came forward to meet me. Some of her people were in the room, and while she lavished on me the most absurd and exaggerated marks of con- sideration, she kept looking at them furtively from time to time, as if to say: Did you ever see anything so extraordinary? I had always thought that such must be the impression I was likely to make on all who saw me for the first time, so that instead of being disconcerted I did my best to smile as if I entered into Madame dAvilas joke, and, begging The Dean of Killerine. 84 The Dean of Killerine. her to grant me a few minutes conver- success to the count that evening. ile ~ation, I made a sign to her people that was suspicious, and thought it best to -we would like to be alone, impart his misgivings to me. I, on the This conduct had been a plan con- contrary, felt ashamed of not entirely trived between Madame dAvila and believing in my new penitent; but the ii~y lady. It had been resolved to send impression of what the count said re- ao answer to my letter, but if I called mained, and even charity, which I at my ladys house to receive me in summoned to my aid, did not efface it. such a way as to disconcert me by vul- I can now thank Heaven that it was so, gar ridicule. My apparent indiffeience for it prevented me from falling into to the indeijess of my reception had the niost horrible pit that iva~ ever dug its effect. Madame dAvila listened to for me. I would prefer to throw a veil me I thought at first with some atten- over this, were it not necessary to tell tion. But she was too practised a it asa part of my story. coquette to be long put out of counte- The next day Madame dAvila sent nance by what I said. She laughed me word that my lady would receive - when I was expecting her to blush, me in the afternoon. Both ladies, and as I was beginning to hope that when I called, were together. There my long harangue was producing its were two men present, one of whom effect, she was amusing herself at the was the person I had seen when I called oddity of my attempting her conver- first on my sister-in-law. Though they sion. Then she suddenly resolved to were well dressed, and seemed to me win me over by preten(liug that what I men of quality, they received me with said had produced a great impression a degree of deference not usually paid upon her. She looked at me as if she by one gentleman to another. One, my were trying to understand how it was I lady told me, was her music master, the had suddenly acquired such a strange other a teacher who was giving her influence over her. She bowed her lessons in English, which she wanted head. My friend, she said, no to speak easily on her husbands ac- one could have employed stronger count. Then she began to speak on words to make me feel that I have the subject of my letter. I thought wandered from the path of duty. Can at first, she said, that you meant it this be the moment Heaven has chosen for a joke, but now I find that you for my conversion? She paused, as have really ventured to suspect me of if pondering what was passing in her conduct that may injure my reputation. mind. And to begin with, she Therefore I wish to tell you that I left added, I pray you to repeat frankly the country because I believed it to be - all you have said to me to her lady- for my husbands interest and my own that I should make new acquaintances $he was planning how to continue to and renew old friendships. But I - see her friend with my connivance and ought to add that, if you expect me to consent; but I own I was entirely follow rigorously all your pious max- taken in, and believed in her sincerely. ims, you will find me not likely to ac- Rowever, I was not willing to put trust cept your guidance. You seem to have even in a work apparently so well made a great impression on Madame ~begun without asking from her two dAvila. If she wishes to take you for promises, not suspecting that I was her confessor and director, I must beg arming her against myself, and further- both her and you to understand that to ing her purposes. I asked her to give follow out your ideas of perfection me permission to repeat my visit, and would be beyond my power. to induce my lady to receive me too. The effect of this speech was to con- Madame dAvila did not grant me this vince me of the sincerity of both my last request without making some diffi- sister-in-law and her friend. I begged culties, but at last everything was them to forgive me if my zeal had made Ihappily arranged, and I reported my me indiscreet, and not being willing to The Dean of Killerine. say more before the two men present, I confined my remarks to offers of ser- vice and of friendship, which were readily accepted. I am quite willing to forget, said my sister-in-law, all the causes of complaint I may have had against you. You will be welcome here whenever you please to visit me, and if your zeal is limited to such exhortations as von have given Madame dAvila, I shall be happy to hear them ; but do not try to induce me to join you in any practices pertainin~ to religious mysticism. They freeze my blood. I was satisfied. I saw nothing to raise suspicion. And while my sister- in-law was only making use of me as a protection against the gossip of society, I thought I was acting as the guardian of our family honor. The count, too, seemed to take this view. He would have been glad to hear that her ladyship had broken en- tirely with Madame dAvila ; but, as I seemed to think so hopefully of that ladys conversion, he confessed that a woman of her abilities, brought to re- pentance, might do honor to her pro- fession if sincere. I had better here tell how Madame dAvila caine to be acquainted with my brothers wife. She had a country seat near the counts castle, and had made her acquaintance when she and her husband retired there after their mar- riage. There is no reason to doubt that she was very willing to try her powers of fascination upon Patrick, but his sudden departure for Spain put an end to her advances. Then she thought she might draw social and pecuniary advantages from the friend- ship of his wife, and as she discovered in her a thirst for fashionable amuse- ments, in which she had never taken part during the life of her father, she thought she had found the means of getting her into her power, and she easily persuaded her to hire a house in Paris, to appear in public places, and to enter on a round of fashionable gaiety. Madame dAvila went further. She wanted to accomplish the ruin of one for whom she pretended friendship, and deputed two men of her own traim to make love to her. Her ladyship was undoubtedly deeply attached to Patrick, but, coquettish as- she was by nature, she could not resist the attraction of having lovers in her train. The gentlemen introduced t~ me as her En~lish teacher and her music master escorted~ the ladies daily an(t nightly to concerts and public places. Meantime, I regret to say, I allowed myself to be entirely deceived. My hopes of Madame dAvilas conver- sion daily increased, and she did every- thing she could to foster them. T~ open my eyes something horrible was needed ; and this happened to inc be fore long. I was often at her house, or at that of my sister-in-law, and under pretence of seeing inc only when my counsels-. could be listened to without fear of interruption, they formed the habit of letting me know each day at what hour they were prepared to receive me. Alas ! in the ardor tha.t I felt for the- conversion of my penitent, it is pos- sible that too warm expressions of Christian interest and Christian feeN- ing may have been misinterpreted, anI may have made her suppose I was fall- ing into her snare. Perhaps when she began the game that she was playing she had not meant to go so far as- she did afterwards, but to capture am- ecclesiastic such as myself becaIne t~ her a matter of joke, and she was re-- solved to win a victory. She hoped t@ triumph over one who had sought her on purpose to triumph over her. She wished to humble a man who haI arrogantly believed he could instruct her; one who, not having been able t~ frighten her by threats or by reproaches,. had hoped to soften her heart by exhor- tations to virtue. My sister-in-law was- in the plot, but Madame dAvila grew so much interested in it that she re- solved to finish her work alone. I had often told her that if sh~ wished to prove the sincerity of her re~ pentance she ought to make to me ~ full confession. This confession she had always postponed, but at last sh~ told inc she was ready to make it, if I The Dean of Killerine. would consent to be at her house at half past ten at night. Without the smallest suspicion, I reached her door punctually at the ap- pointed time, and found her maid wait- ing to receive me. She urged me to step softly as I ascended to her mis- tresss apartment, but, guessing what I was to hear, I was not surprised that my visit was surrounded with a little mystery. My first impulse on seeing Madame dAvila was to reprove her for a want of decent propriety in her apparel, but I checked myself, thinking it was not wise to begin our interview with re- proaches. Why should I dwell upon this scene? She either believed, or pretended to believe, that I had been brought under the influence of her attractions ; that when I came there by appointment it was not to receive her confession, but to participate in her crimes. Our conversation lasted some time, every word I said being misinterpreted, every word she said increasing my be- wilderment. She held me by the sash I wore around my waist, she looked into my eyes ; at last she sprang up from her couch and threw her arms around me. No doubt strength from on high was given me in that moment of frightful peril. I disengaged her arms, and seated her in a chair. Madame, I said, if this proceeds from temporary insanity, or from an illusion sent you by your ghostly en- emy, or from feelings that have escaped from your own control, arm yourself with the principles I have endeavored to impress on you, believe that Heaven will send help at the moment of tempta- tion. I know now that I ought not to have come here by night to receive your confession. I have exposed you and myself to danger. With that I addressed to Heaven, half aloud, a short prayer for its protec- tion. Then she saw that she had failed to triumph, and I saw by her face and attitude that she was mortified and angry. I pity you, madame, I said, whatever may be the source of your corruption. But if you do not know what are the judgments of God against hardness of heart, I warn you they are terrible ! With that I turned from the poisoned atmosphere of her house, thanking God for strength given me to escape tempta- tion. Now that my eyes were opened as to Madame dAvila I began to consider the dangers to which her friendship could not but expose my sister-in-law. It cost me some pangs to make my confession of what had taken place to the count. I was humiliated to think how easily I had been deceived, and how little of my purposes had been ac- complished; but I told the count he had seen further than I, and that I hoped from what had passed to draw a lesson of humility. Then we spoke of my lady; and the count, with great kindness and consid- eration for me, told me that from the first he had thought the thing to be done was either to persuade or force my lady to break with Madame dAvila. I hesitated to interfere myself, he said, having so recently become one of your family, but how Here he paused, and then said, Excuse my frankness. I think you are not the person who should undertake the task. You could not assume the air of stern- ness and authority required to coerce your sister-in-law to part with Madame dAvila, which in so delicate a matter I have, as I feel, no right to intrude. There are two things that could be done, and only two, to arrest the evil. One it would not be proper for you to take, nor for me, nor, I think, for any one. It is to invoke the authority of the law or of the king, and place my lady in a convent till her husbands return; the other is to speak to her plainly and sternly, and clear her house of all such persons, male or female, as seem likely to lead her astray or give her evil counsel. Lord Tenermill is the proper person to do this And he is away, I interrupted. To wait till his return might render the evil beyond remedy. Patrick may 86 The Problem of Constantinople. be home first. In short, I persuaded the count that under the circumstances he was the virtual head of our family, and implored him to undertake the duty that, as such, devolved upon him. From The Fortnightly Review. THE PROBLEM OF CONSTANTINOPLE. BY FREDERIC HARRISON. THE city of the Seven Hills upon the Golden Horn is at once the paradox of medi~eval history, and the dilemma of European statesmen. In the historical field it presents a set of problems which no historian has adequately solved, the full difficulties of which have been duly grasped only in our own age. In the political world it pre- sents the great crux, over which former generations labored, fought ,and bled; which our own generation seems will- ing to give up as insoluble, to ignore, and to entrust to chance. There is danger that, in the minute research into local institutions that is now in vogue, the true historical im- portance of Byzantine story may be forgotten ; and danger also that, in the roar of battle round our democratic issues, the political importance of Con- stantinople as an eternal factor in the European balance of power may be quite lost to sight. Medheval and mod- ern annals offer to the student no sub- jects of meditation more fascinating and more mysterious than are the fif- teen centuries of New Rome. And the dilemma of what is to be the ultimate fate of Constautin~ple is as. urgent as ever, as perplexing as ever; nay, it is much more uroent more perplexing than ever. The ignorant prejudice of conventional historians about the rot- tenness of the Lower Empire ~ may be set against the pumblind common- place of conventional politicians about the Turkish question having been solved by the British occupation of Egypt. In this paper it is proposed to offer a few notes, first upon the his- torical paradox, and then on the polit- ical dilemma. I. SINCE the works on Byzantine his- tory, produced within the last thirty years by European scholars, it is no longer possible to repeat the stock phrases of the last century about the l)uerility and impotence of the Lower Empire. By far the mQst important contribution to this ~task by English students, is the Later Roman Em- pire~~ of Professor Bury, whose two solid octavos bring the history of the Roman Empire of the East down to the foundation of the Roman Empire of the West, in 800 A.D. When he has completed his work down to the capture of Constantinople by the Turks, or at least to its capture by the Crusaders of 1204 A.D., it will be evi- dent how much the history of the Later Empire has been distorted by jealousy, pedantry, and fanaticism. Even the genius of Gibbon could not wholly emancipate him from current preju- dices ; and he necessarily worked with- out the essential materials which the industry of the last hundred years has collected. ~Vhat has to be explained is the problem how a political fabric, built on such foundations of vice and chaos, maintained the longest succes- sion recorded in history ; how a state of such discordant elements overcame such a combination of attacks; what was it that made Constantinople, for some five or six centuries after the capture of Rome, the intellectual, artis- tic, and commercial metropolis of med- i~val Europe; by what resources did she during eight centuries resist the torrent of Asiatic and Musulman sol- (liery, before which the feudal chivalry of the West was so frequently baffled and crushed. The origin of these prejudices and of such falsification of history is plain enough. The judgment of western Europe on the Eastern Empire was mainly derived from, and colored by, that of Catholic Churchmen ; and dur- ing the eleven centuries which divide the first Constantine from the last, the Catholic Church has borne an irrecon- cilable jealousy towards the Orthodox Church. Their very official titles 87 The Problem of Gonstantinyple. 88 the first claimiiw universal obedience, -find an adequate name to describe the the second claiming absolute truth empire of which Constantinople was involved them in a war wherein there the capital for at least a thousand could be neither victory nor truce. years. Every one of the conventional The chiefs who claimed to rule as rep- names involves a confusion or misrep- resentatives of Cuarlemagne, and all resentation, great or small. Lower who depended upon them, or held title Empire __ Greek Empire By un(ler them (that is, the greater part of zantine Empire Eastern Empire western Europe), were bound to treat Later Empire Roman Em- the claims of the Eastern Empire as pire either suggest a wrong idea or prel)ost~rons insolence. The traders fail to express the true idea in full. In of the Mediterranean regarded the By- what sense was the empire at Constan- zantine wealth and commerce much as tinople Lower ? It certainly re- the navigators of the sixteenth century garded itself as infinitely higher ; an regarded the wealth and trade of the advance even upon the classical Roman Indies as the lawful prize of the Empire. Justinian with justice holds strongest. And lastly, the scholars, his rule to be above that of Aurelian the poets, the chroniclers of the West, and Diocletian ; and from his clay to from the age of the Crusades to the age the age oU the great Charles, there was of Gibbon, have disdained a literature nothing in Europe which could corn- in which, as they said, spiritless and pare for a moment with the Roman obsequious annalists recorded the do- Empire of the Bosphorus. The Em- ings of their masters in a bastard Greek. pire was not Greek, even in tongue, Western genius, Western Christianity, until the seventh century it was not Western heroism and civilization, much Greek in spirit until the twelfth cen- surpass the Eastern type ; but, with tury ; till then hardly any of its em such a combination of causes for hos- perors, soldiers, or chiefs had been tihity and contempt, the West could not Greek; and it was never quite Greek fail to be grossly unjust to the record by race. If we say Byzantine Em- of the East. pire, we are localizing a pOwer which The root of the injustice is the treat- was curiously composite in race, na- ing of a thousand years of continuous tionahity, character, and tradition; and history as one uniform piece, and at- the term Byzantine has a sense too tributing to the noblest periods and directly contrary to Roman, and also the greatest chiefs the infamies and has acquired a derogatory meaning. crimes which belong to the worst. Un- The great heroes of the empire are ut- fortunately, we are much more familiar terly unlike what men now understand with the periods of rottenness and de- by Byzantine; and there could dine than with the ages of heroism hardly be a more violent contrast than and glory; every one knows something that between the Alexius or Bryennius of the Theodoras, Zoes, and Irenes, of Sir Walter Scotts romance and the and, too often, very little of Herachius, Nicephorus Phocas or Basil II. of Leo, and Basil. The five centuries actual history. Eastern Empire is which intervene from Justinian to the erroneous and ambiguous; for it sug- Comnenian house a period as long as gests a break with Rome, and it applies that which separates Camillus from to the kingdoms of Persians, Saracens, Marcus Aurelius is the important or Ottomans, to the sultan of Roum, or part of the Roman Empire of the East ; the emperors of Nic~a and Trebizond. and the really grand epochs are in the Roman Empire is accurate in a seventh, eighth, and tenth centuries sense. But in the fourth and fifth whose heroes, Herachius, Leo III., and centuries there were often two co- Basil II., may hold their own with the ordinate governments; and after the greatest rulers of ancient or of modern coronation of 800 A. m, story. there were always two Roman Em- The most urgent problem of all is to pires, and sometimes more. The term, The Problem of Constantinople. Later Roman Empire, which Mr. Bury adopts, is far better ; but it might be applied to Yalentinian III., or to Romulus Augustulus ; and it fails to suggest the continuance of the empire for a thousand years. After the coro- nation of Charles, the term, Later Roman Empire, is inadequate; and yet that event marks no essential break in the empire at Constantinople. What we want is a term which will describe the continuity of the Roman Empire after its seat had been perma- nently removed to the Bosphorus, and yet distinguish it from the revived empire of Charles, the holy Roman Empire, and all other powers which claimed a title from Rome. The fea- tures to be connoted are the prolonga- tion and evolution of the vast political organism of Augustus and Trajan, its unbroken continuity, at any rate, down to the thirteenth century, and the dom- inant material fact that its permanent centre of government was transferred to the Bosphorus that it had become Christian, but not Catholic. We go wrong if we drop the title Roman ; we go wrong if we ignore the fact of the transfer of sovereignty to Constan- tinople ; we go wrong if we fail to mark how much this implied, both in the spiritual and the political sphere. Under the conditions, the proper title is The Roman Emupire at Constanti- nople. This is strictly accurate and fairly complete. It denotes the whole period of eleven centuries which sepa- rates the first Constantine from the last. It is impossible to suppose it applied either to Romulus Augustulus, Charlemagne, or Otto. And it defines the unbroken continuity of government from its permanent seat on the Bos- phorus. A similar equivalent would be the Empire of New Rome. The next problem is to group the epochs of this hnmense succession of eleven centuries ; to show their diver- sity in the midst of continuity ; to dis- tinguish the true periods of greatness and of growth, and the real eras of corruption and decay. Unfortunately this is what Gibbon has omitted to do, what he has even done not a little to make difficult. Of his eight octavo vol- umes five are devoted to the history of about five centuries, and three only are Aven to the remaining eight centuries. lie himself was struck with the appar- ent paradox, which lie seems to excuse (at the opening of his forty-eighth chapter) by his own and the readers fatigue in the melan~holy task of re- cording the annals of the Eastern Em- pire. The genius of the greatest of historians has been betrayed into no error more capital than that which led him to describe the annals of the em,- pire from Herachius to the last Con- stantine as a tedious and uniform tale of weakness and misery. Gibbon, it is plain, was partly misled by the dearth of writings, and partly over whielmed by the enormous scale of his ever-enlarging survey. But with all that we now have at hand, it is won- derful to think that lie was ever tempted to abandon the Greek slaves and their servile historians. If this is a description of the Iconoclasts and the Basils, Leo the Deacon and Nicetas, language must have a new meaning. In truth, a tedious tale of weakness would be as aptly applied to the lives of William the Conqueror and the Plantagenet kings as to the exploits and adventures of Leo III., Constantine V., the two Basils, Ni- cephorus Phocas, John Zimisces, Kalo- Joannes, and Manuel. Even in the matter of literary culture and pure Greek, we are apt to compare the Byzantine historians with classical or with our modern authors. Clearly we ought to compare them with their contemporaries in Europe. The iamn- bics in which George of Pisidia cele- brated the exploits of Herachius, or those in which the Deacon Theodosius sang the recovery of Crete by Niceph- orus Phocas, are not classical, but rather frigid as poetry; yet they are far less barbarous than any Latin poetry of the seventh and tenth centu- ries. The Greek of Leo the Deacon in the tenth century does not differ from Xenophons, from whom he is sepa- rated by more than thirteen centuries, so much as the English of Langland 89 90 like Problem of Constantinople. differs from that of Milton. The l)ro- Professor Bury sums up the function longation of the Greek language over of the later Roman Empire under the twenty-eight hundred years from Ho- five following heads, of which his mer to Tricoupi, its continual epochs of whole work is an illustration and corn- revival, purification, and ultimate re- mentary turn upon its own classical type, is one 1. It was the bulwark of Europe against of the most extraordinary facts in the the Asiatic danger evolution of human thought. And the 2. It kept alive Greek and Roman cul- persistence of the same written litera- ture at Constantinople for at least ~ ture is without parallel, at ~ maintained European commerce twenty centruies 4. It preserved the idea of the Roman least in Europe. Happily our most recent historians Empire 5. It embodied a principle of perma- are in the main agreed as to the essen- nence. tial epochs and the true heroes of By- zantine history. It is agreed that from To these may be added the follow- the age of Justinian to the Crusades ing the traditions of law, administration, (a) It was the direct source of civiliza- Greek literature, commerce, and artistic tioa to the whole of the Balkan manufactures were mainly preserved to peninsula, and to all Europe east Europe by the Roman Empire of the of the Yistula and the Carpa- Bosphorus. It is agreed that for all thians active ends the empire was extin- (b) It was the type of a State Church guished by the Fourth Crusade, and __ a spiritual power dependent on had long been in an exhausted condi- and co-operating with the sover- tion even at the opening of the First ciga ~ and not, like the Crusade. The Isaurian and Basilian Catholic Church, independent dynasties, that is the eighth, ninth, and often antagonistic. tenth, and part of the eleventh cen- turies, were el)ochs, on the whole, of The empire of New Rome did much valor, able government, prosperity, and more than preserve the idea of the civilization, if compared with the con- Roman Empire. It prolonged the Ro- dition of what used to be called the man Empire itself in a new, and even dark ages of Europe. These centuries, in some respects, a more developed with the reigns of Justinian and Hera- form. As Mr. Freeman well puts it, clius in the sixth and seventh centuries, the Eastern Empire is the surest wit- constitute an epoch which is worthy to ness to the unity of history, the most rank with the Roman Empire from complete answer to the conventional Julius to Theodosius on the one hand, opposition between ancient~ and and on the other with the Holy Roman modern ~ history. That mysterious Empire from Otto the Great to Freder- gulf that unexplained paralysis ick II. The Roman Empire of Charle- ~vhicli, we were told, occurred in the magne, the Holy Roman Empire of history of European civilization about Otto, both in substance and in ceremo- the fifth century, and was hardly re- nial, were much more truly imitations moved by the ninth or tenth, has no and rivals of the Roman Empire of the existence whatever if we trace the Bosphorus than they were revivals of internal condition of New Rome from the State of Augustus and Trajan; of the age of Theodosius to the age of whom all real memory was entirely lost Basil II. in the eighth century, whom as hen- We are so greatly influenced by liter- thens without the semblance of Church ary standards and classical art that we or Patriarch, it was impossible that hasten to condemn an age in which we Franks and Saxons should imitate or find these decay. It is quite true that approve, pure Latinity, elegant Greek, and Attic At the close of his second volume art were not to be found in New Rome, The Problem of Constantinople. and seemed to have perished with the coming of the iluns and the Goths. But this did not form the whole of civ- ilization or even the bulk of it. In many things the civilization of the Byzantine Empire was far higher than the civilization of the Augustan Em. pire. The court of Justinian or of Leo III., or of Irene, of Theophilus, of Basil I., or Constantine Porphyrogen- netus, would have been considered in the Middle Ages far more like civilized life than the courts of Nero, hadrian, or Diocletian. In many of the most essential features of civil adininistra- tion, the governments of Justinian, of the Iconoclast an(l Macedonian (lynas- ties, were really (in spite of barbarous punishments, tyranny, and extortion) a great improvement on the imperialism of the C~sars on the Tiber. Obviously the religious, moral, and domestic life bad as it was from our standard was better than that which is described by Juvenal and Tacitus, and was better than that of the greater part of Europe in the centuries be- tween the fifth and the tenth. And in matters of taste, it is plain that those only can speak of the servile debase- ment of Byzantine art who have never traced the influence upon Europe of the industries, manufactures, inven- ~ious, and arts which had their seat in Constantinople, who have not studied descriptions of the great palace beside the Hippodrome, of the Boucoleon and Blachern~, and who know nothing of S. Sophia, S. Irene, SS. Sergius and Bacchus, the Church Tes Choras, and all the remains of architectural and decorative skill that extend in un- broken series from the age of Justinian to the Crusades. The vast administra- tive, legal, and military organization of Augustus and Trajan no more perished in the sack of Rome than did the lan- guage, the culture, and the msthetic aptitude of the Greco-Roman world. Both took new forms ; they did not perish. After all that has been done by Fin- lay, Freeman, Bury, and Pears within the last generation, as well as by scholars in other countries, it is impos 91 sible to doubt that this is henceforth one of the cardinal truths of European history. Mr. Burys five propositions as to the functions of the later Roman Empire are perfectly true, and may be emphasized and extended rather than qualified or diminished. What we now especially need is to have it explained in detail how these results came about. We want the inner, economic, social, bureaucratic, industrial, and ecclesias- tical history of the empire not so much its court annals or its (lynastic revolutions. We have had the impe- rial and political history traced in suffi- cient fulness ; the administrative and organic life of the society is what we now need to grasp and explore. This is obviously a most complex and difficult task, only to be achieved by indirect means and the study of a variety of sources. The art, the industry, the trade, the manners, the statistics, the law, the theology, the political and civic institutions of the Roman Em- pire from the age of Heraclius to that of the Comneni is what we now need to explore. And it is a field in which English scholars, apart from Finlay, Bury, and some theologians have (lone little. Especially we need a History of Byzantine Christianity, written in the spirit of Milman from the point of view of an enlightened historian and not of an official Churchman. Almost everything that we have yet got on the subject of the Byzantine Church is in- sensibly colored by the Catholic or anti- Catholic bias. A history of Byzantine art, of Byzantine literature and lan- guage, of Byzantine manners, com- merce, law, and municipal organization as these existed between Justinian and Basil, the Slayer of Bulgarians a period of five centuries would enable us to answer the enigma of Constanti- nople. On the Continent, Krause, Heyd, Hopf, Gfr6rer, Salzenburg, Mordtmaun, Rambaud, Sabatier, Be Saulcy, Labarte, Schiumberger, Bayet, Drapeyron, Be Muralt, Riant, as well as many Greek, Russian, and Oriental scholars, have worked in these mines. But in England, since Finlay, we have The Problem of Constantinople. I iad little of importance except from Mr. Bury, who has yet not gone fur- ther than the eighth century. The most interesting and perhaps the most obscure period of all is the Basilian dynasty, from A.D. 8671057. And on this we sorely need accessible guid- ance. All that Gibbon has to tell us of these tvo hundred years is contained in about one hundred pages, and Finlay has compressed his narrative into rather more than twice that space. When we have completely explored these various subjects we maybe able to answer the problems (1) How did the Roman Empire maintain itself at Constantinople for eleven centuries ? (~2) Why was it able for eight centuries to resist not only the Western but the Eastern invasions, before which every other city and kingdom fell? (3) Why was Constantinople for five centuries the most populous, wealthy, and civil- ized city in Europe ? The answer in general is a somewhat complicated one of several terms. First, the Roman Empire removed itself to the strongest and most domi- nant spot in all Europe. Next, it evolved a wholly new organization centralized, legalized, and industrial. It founded the most wonderful bureau- cracy ever known. It developed a maritime ascendency, and a world-~vide commerce. It eliminated every vestige of provincial, national, and race preju- dice, and called every subject man from Sicily to the Euphrates a Roman and nothing else. And lastly, and perhaps mainly, it became the first and for ages the only, Christian empire, having a very powerful Church, which was its faithful and loyal instrument, on whose mysterious prestige it rested, and which it always treated as part of itself. 1. Nothing further need be said as to the unique source of strength, both for offence and for defence, which the genius of Constantine discovered on the Bosphorus. The removal of the seat of empire from the Tiber to the Bosphorus was the only mode in which the empire could have been preserved, whilst, at the same time, this made pos sible its political, rcligious, and moral transformation. The exact steps, de- tails, and ultimate tyl)e of this trans- formation are precisely the points on which we need light. We see the stupendous machine which this bureau- cracy and State Church became, but we know very little about its actual work- ing and its inner life. We judge its power by results only, and by the start- ling paradox that the machinery of a most disparate organism goes on work- ing undisturbed by fatuity, strife, and anarchy in the supreme centre. What~ ever the vices and follies which raged in the imperial palaces for generations together, disciplined and well-armed troops, powerful navies, military en- gines and stores, skilful generals, able governors, and expert diplomatists, rise up time after time in infinite succession to save the empire, hold it together, restore its losses, and increase its wealth, and this over the whole period of eight centuries from Theodosius to Isaac Angelus. 2. The material source of this strength in the empire was primarily its sea-power and its command for five centuries of the commerce of the ~vhole Mediterranean. When we study the campaigns of ilerachius and of Niceph- orus, when we follow in Leo the Dea- con the great expedition to recover Crete, we are struck ~vitIi the vast maritime resources, the engines and ships of scientific war which the em- pire possessed in the seventh and tenth centuries. Nothing in Europe at that date could produce any such sea-power. As Nicephorus Phocas very fairly told the angry envoy of Otto, he could lay in ashes any seal)Oard town of the Med- iterranean. When the cities of Italy succeeded to tIme commerce of Con- stantinople, they held it in shares and fought for it amongst themselves. But until the rise of Venice, Pisa, and Palermo, Constantinople ruled the seas from Sicily to Rhodes, and relatively to her contemporaries with a far more complete supremacy. 3. It was this maritime ascendency, this central position in the Bosphorus, and this vast Mediterranean commerce 92 The Problem of Constantinople. which was the foundation of the wealth of the empire a wealth which, rela- tively to its age, exceeded even the wealth and maritime ascendency of England, which for eight centuries hardly ever suffered a collapse, and was continually being renewed. We must discount the petulant sneers of the irritable Bishop Luitprand, when baffled by the fierce Nicephorus. The silk industry, the embroidery, the mo- sale, the enamel, the metal work, the ivory carving, the architecture, the military engineering, the artillery, the marine appliances, the ship-building art ; the trade in corn, spices, oil, and wine ; the manuscripts, the illuinina- tions of Byzantium, far surpassed any- thing else in Europe to be found in the epoch between the reign of Justinian and the rise of the Italian cities. Much of what we call medi~val art decoration and art fabrics had their real origin, both industrial and ~s- thetic, on the Bosphorus, or were car- ried on there as their metropolitan centre. Nowhere else in Europe under the successors of Clovis and Charlemagne eQuld such churches have been raised ~s those of the Holy Wisdom and Irene, such palaces as that beside the Hippodrome or the Boucoleon, such mighty fortifications as those which stretched from Blachern~ to the Pro- pontis. Nowhere could Europe in the ninth and tenth centuries produce such enormous wealth as that possessed by Theophilus, Basil I., or Constantine Porphyrogennetus, or equip such fleets and armies as those of Nicephorus, Zimisccs, and Basil II. We are accus- tomed to compare the art and the civil- ization of the Byzantine Empire with those of much later ages than its own, mainly because we have nothing else wherexyith to compare it of its own epoch. If we honestly set it against the contemporary state of Europe, from the era of Justinian to that of the Crusades, it will be seen to be not only supreme in the traditions of civiliza- tion, but almost to stand alone. In the eleventh century, without doubt, west- ~rn Europe was organized, and began 93 its triumphant career, with the Catho- lic Church and the feudal organism in full development ; and from that date the Byzantine Empire ceased to be pre-eminent. But its vast resources and the splendor and civilized arts of Constantinople still continued to amaze the Crusaders, even down to the thir- teenth century. The fact is that for the five centuries from Justinian to Isaac Comnenus, the attacks on the empire, from the Euro- pean side, at any rate, were the attacks of nomad, unorganized, and uncivil- ized races on a civilized and highly organized empire. And in spite of anarchy, corruption, and effeminacy at the Byzantine court, civilizatidn and wealth told in every contest. Greek fire, military science, enormous re- sources, and the prestige of empire always bore down wild valor and pred- atory enthusiasm. Just as Russia dominates the Turkoman tribes of cen- tral Asia, as Turkey holds back the valiant Arabs of her eastern frontier, as Egyptian natives with British offi- cers easily master the heroic Ghazis of the Soudan so the Roman Enipire on the Bosphiorus beat back Huns, Avars, Persians, Slaves, Bulgarians, Patzi- naks, and Russians. We need only to study the history of Russia and of Tur- key to learn how the organizing ability, the resources, and material arts of great empires outweigh folly, vice, and cor- ruption in the palace. 4. Of course a succession oTf victori- ous campaigns implies a succession of valiant armies ; and there is nothing on which we need more light than on the exact organization and national constit- uents of those Roman armies which crushed Chiosroes, Muaviah, Crumn, Samuel, aiid Hamdanids. They are called conventionally Greeks; but during the Heraclian, Isaurian, and Basilian dynasties there seem to have been no Greeks at all in the land forces. The armies were always com- posed of a strange collection of races, with different languages, arms, meth- ods of fighting, and types of civiliza- tion. They were often magnificent and courageous barbarians, conspicu 94 ous amongst whom were Scandinavians an(l English and with them some of the most warlike braves of Asia and of Europe. The empire made no attempt to destroy their national characteristics, to discourage their native language, religion, or habits. Each was told off to the service which suited it best, and was trained in the use of its proper weapons. They remained distinct from each other, and wholly distinct from the civil population. But as they could not unite, they seldom became so gre at a danger to the empire as the Prsetorian guard of the Roman army. The organization and management of such a heterogeneous body of merce- nary braves required extraordinary skill ; but it was just this skill which the rulers of Byzantium possessed. The bond of the whole was the tradi- tion of discipline and the conscious- ness of serving the Roman emperor. The modern history of Russia and still more the native armies of the British Empire, will enable us to un- derstand how the work of consolidation was effected. The queens dominions are at this hour defended by men of almost every race, color, language, religion, costume, and habits. And we may imagine the composite character of the Byzantine armies, if we reflect how distant wars are carried on in the name of Victoria by Hindoos, Musul- mans, Pathans, Ghoorkas, Afghans, Egyptians, Soudan ese, Zanzibaris, Ne- groes, Ndbians, Zulus, Kaffirs, using their native languages, retaining their national habits, and, to a great extent, their native costume. The Roman Emnire was maintained from its centre on the Bosphorus, somewhat as the British Empire is maintained from its centre on the Thames, by wealth, mar- itime ascendency, the traditions of empire, and organizing capacity - al- ways with the great difference that there was no purely Roman nucleus as there is a purely British nucleus, and also that the soldiery of the Roman Empire had no common armament, and was not officered by men of the dominant race, but by capable leaders indifferently picked from any race, ex The Problem of Constantinople. cept the Latin or the Greek. Domi- nant race there was none nation there was none. Roman meant subject of the emperor ; emperor meant the chief in the vermilion buskins, installed in the palace on the Bosphorus, and duly crowned by the Orthodox patriarch in the Church of the Holy Wisdom. ~. Here we reach the last, as I ven- ture to think, the main element of strength in the empire of New Rome its alliance with or, rather, its pos- session of the Orthodox Church. The Roman Empire at Constantinople was really, if not in style, a Holy Roman Empire. The patriarch was onc of its officials. The venerable Church of the Holy Wisdom was almost the private chapel of the emperor; the emperors palace may almost be described as the Vatican of Byzantium. The relations between the emperor and the patriarch were wholly different from the rela- tions between the emperor at Aachen and the pope. Instead of being sepa- rated by a thousand miles and many tribes and peoples, the emperor of the Bosphorus resided in the same group of buildings, worshipped, and was adored in the same metropolitan tem- plc, and sat in the same council-hall with his patriarch, who was practically one of his great officers of state. All students of the Carolingian or Holy Roman Empire, know how immensely Pippin, Charles, the Henries, and the Ottos were strengthened by the sup- port of the popes from Zacharias to Victor II. But the papacy was a very intermittent, uncertain, and exacting bulwark of the empire, and after the advent of Hildebrand, in the eleventh century, it was usually the open or se- cret enemy of the empire. The Cath- olic Church was always the co-equal, usually the jealous rival, often the ir- reconcilable foe of the emperor. It never was a State Church, and rarely, until the fourteenth century, was an official and obsequious minister of any emperor or king. But the Orthodox Church of Con- stantinople, from first to last, was a State Church, part of the State, servant of the State. There were, of course, The Problem of Constantinople. rebel patriarchs, ambitious, indepen- dent, factious, and deeply spiritual pa- triarchs. There were whole reigns and dynasties when emperor and patriarch represented opposite opinions. But all this was trifling compared with the independent and hostile attitude of the papacy to the temporal power. The Catholic Church represented a spiritual power independent of any sovereign, with a range of influence not conter- minous with that of any sovereign. That was its strength, its glory, its menace to the temporal power. The Orthodox Church represented a spirit- ual authority, the minister of the sov- ereign, directing the conscience of the subjects of the sovereign, and in theory of no others. The Orthodox Church was the ideal State Church, and for a thousand years it deeply affected the history of the Byzantine Empire for evil and for good. It more than real- ized Dantes dream in the De Mo- narchia, a dream which the essence of Catholicism and the traditions of the papacy made impossil)le in the West. It constituted a real and not a titular Holy Roman Empire in the East. Ruinous to religion, morality, and freedom as was this dependence of Church on the sovereign,it gave the sovereign an immense and permanent strength. We can see to-day what overwhelming force is given to the rulers of the two great empires of eastern Europe, who are both absolute heads of the religious organization of their respective dominions. Now the Orthodox Church of the Byzantine Empire was a more powerful spiritual authority than the Russian Church, if not quite so abject a servant of the Ro- man emperor as the Russian Church is of the czar. And it was no doubt much more completely under the con- trol of the emperor than the iin~ms and softas of Stamboul are under the control of the padishah. The Roman emperor, in spite of his vices, origin, or character, even in the midst of the Iconoclast struggle, was invested in the eyes of his orthodox subjects with that sacred halo which still surrounds czar and sultan, and which is the main source of their autocratic power. It was this sacred character, a character which the de facto emperor possessed from the hour of his coronation in St. Sophia until the day when he died, was deposed, or blinded, which held to- gether an empire of such strangely het- erogeneous elements, permeated with such forces of anarchy and confusion. Christians in the West contemn, and perhaps with justice, the servility, idol- atry, and formalism of the Greek priest- hood. They may be right when they tell us that the essence of Greek rit- ualism is only a debased kind of pagan- ism. But the Orthodox Church is still a great political force ; and in the By- zantine Empire it was a political -force perhaps greater than any other of which we have extant examples. If, then, we have to answer the his- torical problem how was it that the Roman Empire succeeded in prolonging its existence for a thousand years after its final transfer to the Bosphorus, in the face of tremendous and, it seemed, insurmountable difficulties ? the an- swer is, by a happy combination of three concurrent forces. The first was the prestige of the name and traditions of Rome. The second was the won~ derful language of Hellas, and the ver- satility and astuteness of the Greek genius. The third was the organiza- tion of an Orthodox Church, which, on the one hand, had a hold over the mass of the people hardly ever acquired even by the Church Catholic, and, on the other hand, was willing to become the faithful minister of an empire that it consecrated and venerated as its su- preme master on earth. In one sense the empire was not strictly Roman,. not Greek, not Holy. But by a marvel- lous combination of Roman tradition, Greek genius, and Orthodox sanctity it maintained itself erect for a thousand years. IT. WE will now turn to the modern po- litical problem presented by Constanti- nople a problem which is not in the least yet solved, which time has not removed, and which recent events have 95 The Problem of Constantinople. not made easier. Constantinople still remains, and ever must remain, one of the most important ports in the whole world. In the hands of a great mili- tary an(l naval power, it must always be one of the most dominant capital cities in the whole world. All that Cronstadt is ia the Baltic, or Gibraltar in the western, or Toulon in the north- ern, or Malta in the southern, Mediter- ranean all these together and more Constantinople might be made by a first-class power. Colonel F. V. Greene of the United States army, in his Russian Campaigns in TurKey, 157778, speaking of the first lines of Turkish defence, between the Black Sea at Lake IDerkos an(1 the Sea of Marmora, calls this position (nearly that of the wall of Anastasius in the fifth century) a place of vastly greater strength than Plevna. He adds: No other capital in the world possesses such a line of defence, and when completed, armed, and garrisoned in sufficient strength (about seventy-five thousand men), it may fairly be deemed impregnable, except to a nation pos- sessing a navy capable of controlling the Black Sea and Sea of Marinora, and a fleet of transports sufficient to land troops in rear of its flanks. (Pp. 427, 428.) That is to say, in the opin- ion of one of the first of living authori- ties, who followed the Russian staff in the last war, Constantinople is prac- tically impregnable in the hands of a first-class military and naval power. But Constantinople is not merely impregnable on tIre defensive side, in the hands of such a power, but if adequately manned and equipped, it is equally strong for offensive purposes and, with the Bosphorus and the Ilellespont duly fortified, it would com- mand the Black Sea, the Sea of Mar- mora, and the A~gean Sea. Much more than this: it would practically domi- nate Asia Minor; for, as old Busbecq says, Constantinople stands in Eu- rope, but it faces Asia. It faces Asia, and it dominates Asia Minor; and, if possessed by a first-class military and naval power of ambitious and aggres- sive spirit, the possession of Constanti nople involves the practical control of Asia Minor, of the entire Levant, and, but for Cyprus arid Malta, of North Africa and the whole Syrian coast. Nor is this all. In the hands of a first-class military and naval power, Constantinople must dominate the Balkan peninsula and the whole of Greece. With an impregnable capital, and the powerful navy which the wonderful marine opportunities of Con- stantinople render an inevitable posses- sion to any great power, the rival races and petty kingdoms of the peninsula would all alike become mere dependen- cies or provinces. Here, then, we reach the full limit of the possible issue. Turkey is now no longer a maritime power of any account. Her magnifi- cent soldiery forms no longer a menace to any European power, however small; and, if it suffices to hold the lines of Constantinople on the Balkan side (which is not absolutely certain), it is liable at any moment to be para- lyzed by an enemy on the flank who could command the Black Sea or the Sea of Marmora. Of course, the Bos- phorus has lost its ancient importance as a defence; for a northern invader commanding the Black Sea could easily descend on the heights above Pera, and with Pera in the hands of an enemy, Stamboul is now indefensible. That is to say, Constantinople is no longer impregnable, or even defen- sible, without a first-class fleet. There- fore neither Turkey, nor Bulgaria, nor Greece, nor any other small power, could have any but a precarious hold on it, in the absence of a very powerful fleet of some ally. From these conditions the following consequences result. Turkey can hold Constantinople as her capital with bso- lute security against any minor power. She could not hold it against Russia having a predominant fleet in the Black Sea, unless she received by alli- ance the support ofjr powerful navy. With the support ot a powerful fleet, and her own re-constituted army and restored financial and administrative condition, she might hold Constanti- nople indefinitely against all the re 96 The Problem of Constantinorie. sources of Russia. It is perfectly plain that no minor power, even if placed in Stamboul, could hold it except by suf- ferance ; certainly neither Bulgaria, nor Greece, nor Servia, perhaps hardly Austria, unless she enormously devel- oped her fleet, and transformed her entire empire. Turkey, as planted at present on the Bosphorus, is not a menace to any other power. The powers with which she is surrounded are intensely jealous of each other and by race, religion, traditions, and aspirations, incapable of permanent amalgamation. From the national and religious side the problem is most complex and men- acing. Even in Constantinople the Moslems are a minority of the popula- tion; and in the other European prov- inces even more decidedly so. But in most of the Asiatic provinces, Moslems are a majority, and in almost all they are enormously superior in effective strength to any other single commu- nity. To put aside Syrians, Arabs, Egyptians, Jews, and other non-Chris- tian populations, there are, within the more western parts of the Turkish Em- pire, Bulgarians, Greeks, Albanians, various Slavonian peoples, Armenians, and Levantine Catholics, not so very unequally balanced in effective force and national ambition; all intensely averse to submit to the control of any one amongst the rest, and unwilling to combine with each other. Each watches the other with jealousy, suspi- cion, antipathy, and insatiable desire to domineer. The habit of five centuries and the hope of ultimate triumph lead all of them to submit, with continual out- breaks and outcries, to the qualified rule of the Turk. But place any one of this motley throng of nationalities in the place of the sultan, and a general confusion would arise. The Greek would not accept the Bulgarian as his master, nor the Bulgarian the Greek the Albanians would submit to neither the Armenians would seize the first moment of striking in for themselves; and the Italian and Levantine Catho- lics would certainly assert their claims. LIVING AGE. VOL. III. 111 No one of all those rival nationalities, creeds, and populations could for a mo- ment maintain their ascendency. No one of them has the smallest title either from tradition, numbers, or proved ca- l)acity, to pretend to the sceptre of the Bosphorus and not one of them could hold it for a day against Russia, if she chose to take it. Of course Russia would choose to take it; and (the Moslem withdrawn altogether) nothing could prevent her from taking it. Such is the issue to which all anti-Moslem enthusiasts look forward with joy and hope. And, doubtless, there are very real grounds in the facts of Musulman society and - government, to make all right-minded men share in that joy and hope. But secular international problems are not to be settled off-hand by appeal to theological sympathies and historical enthusiasms. They are serious prac- tical difficulties to be faced with mun- dane good sense. And reasonable politicians are bound to consider all the ulterior consequences and immediate operation of so great a change in Euro- pean politics as the planting of Russia triumphantly on the Bosphorus. Assume that Russia has succeeded Turkey in possession of Constanti- nople, the Bosphorus, and the Hell~s- pont. What is the result? She would immediately make her southern capital impregnable, as Colonel Greene says, with a line of defence such as no other capital in the world possesses. She would make it stronger than Cron- stadt or Sebastopol, and place there one of the most powerful arsenals in the world. With a great navy in sole command of the Euxine, the Bospho- ins, the Marmora, and the Hellespont, with a vast expanse of inland waters within which she could be neither in- vested nor approached for nothing would be easier than to make the Ilellespont absolutely impassable Russia would possess a marine base such as nothing else in Europe pre- sents, such as nothing in European history records, except in the days of the Basilian dynasty and the Ottoman caliphs of the sixteenth century. 97 The Problem of Constantinople. 98 With such an unequalled naval base and Cyprus. With first-class naval she would certainly require and easily strongholds in these three islands, and secure a further marine arsenal in the with the British fleet and forces in the archipelago. It is of no consequence Mediterranean at least doubled in whether this was found on the Greek strength, the present position of En- or on the Asiatic side. There are a gland in these waters may be pro- score of suitable points. An island oi~ longed. Without it, that position a port situated somewhere in the would depend on the good-will of Rus- ~Egean Sea between Besika Bay and sia and France. Let us trust that we the Cyclades would be a necessary ad- may long retain that valuable support. junct and an easy acquisition. With But, given the enthronement of Russia Russia having the sole command of the on the Bosphorus, an alternative at seas that wash south-eastern Europe, once arises. The British flag must dominating the whole south-eastern either be hauled down in the Mediter- seaboard from a chain of arsenals ranean, to appear in it as a visitor, stretching from Sebastopol to the Greek like the flag of the United States and archipelago, the entire condition of of Germany, or the British flee~ts, the Mediterranean would be trans- forces, and arsenals in the Mediterra- formed let us say at once the nean must be doubled and trebled. A entire condition of Europe would be very strong party in England would transformed. prefer the former alternative. But it We all feel kindly towards the Chris- may be taken for granted that the tians of Roumelia, and we are anxious majority of Englishmen would choose to keep the Kurds from plundering the latter at any sacrifice. Armenian villages ; but the price that Has the British public fully realized we are asked to pay for these blessings the enormous change in the political is the instalment of Russia as para- conditions of the whole Levant and of mount mistress of the eastern Mediter- Europe involved in the installation of ranean. Many eminent statesmen and Russia on the Bosphorus? We are a strong force of Liberal opinion, men accustomed to treat the settlement of having quite as real a patriotism as the the Ottoman in Stamboul as a matter noisiest of their neighbors, saw with which is now of very minor impor- repugnance and dismay the fatuous tance. Why so? Because the Turk occupation of Cyprus and the damnosa is powerless for anything but preca- hereditas of Egypt. But, with Russia rious defence, under the preponderant installed in absolute predominance in menace of Russia on the north, whilsi the eastern Mediterranean, Cyprus he is hemmed in by ambitious and rest- would become a mere eml)arrassment less neighbors in his last ditch in the and weakness; and a simple under- Balkan peninsula. He cannot fortify standing between France and Russia the Bosphorus ~vithout Russian inter- might make the British occupation of ference; he cannot maintain his gov- Egypt impossible or precarious ; for eminent in Crete without a roar of Malta, a thousand miles off, would indignation from Greece. He is con- avail but little, and would itself be no stautly harried by Bulgarians, Servians, more than a fresh source of incum- Albanians, Montenegrins, and Epirots. brance. He lives forever on the defensive, he Once install Russia in absolute com- menaces no one ; and no one is afraid mand of these eastern seas, with a of him in Europe because he has chain of arsenals from the Crimea to nothing in Europe but a shrunken the A~gean, and, if the British flag is province, and practically no fleet. to float in pride in the Mediterranean We are accustomed, again, to treat at all, the British forces iii that sea the position of Russia in the Balkan must be doubled or trebled nay, peninsula as one of influence more or measures had better be taken to add less continuous, but as not practically the possession of Crete to that of Malta affecting the eastern Mediterranean like Problem of Constantinople. and its lands. Russia has not yet ef- fected any real footing on the peninsula. She finds it occupied by Roumania, Bulgaria, Servia, Austria, Turkey, and Greece. Over these Russia exercises an intermittent influence, but never controls them all at the same time and she often finds one or more of them in direct opposition. Accord- ingly, we do not regard the Muscovite as dominant in the Balkan peninsula, much less in the archipelago. But place Russia on the wonderful throne of the Bosphorus, with the inevitable a(ldition of Adrianople and the Maritza Valley, at the very least, in southern Roumelia, and the whole situation is transformed. The possession of Con- stantinople by Russia, with her enor- mous resources and grand navy, means the control by Russia of the Bos- phorus, the Marmora, the Hellespont, and, at least, of south-eastern Roume- ha. Could it stop there ? Would the ab- solute chief of an army of two millions and a half, with the third great navy of the world, fall into slumber in his new and resplendent capital, rebuild the Seraglio, or amuse himself in Yildiz Kiosk? He would immediately create the second great navy of the world, and for all Mediterranean purposes his navy would be at least the rival of the first. How long would Roumania and Bulgaria remain their own masters when they found themselves bet~veen his countless legions on the Pruth and his great fleet in the Golden Horn? What would Servia say to the change or Austria? Would the Albanians be content? And what would become of the Musulmans in Roumelia? The prospect opens at least five or six inter- national imbroglios with knotty prob- lems of race, religion, patriotism, and political sympathies and antipathies. Any one of these is enough to cause a European crisis and even an embit- tered war. In the long run, though it might be a struggle prolonged for a century, Russia would in some form or other command or control the entire penin- sula from the Danube to Cape Mata pan ; not, perhaps, counting it all strictly in Russian territory, but being dominant therein as is Victoria in the Indian peninsula. The geographical conditions of Constantinople are so extraordinary; they 6ffer such bound- less opportunities to a first-class mili- tary and naval powey; they lie so curiously ready to promote the ambi- tion of Russia, that the advent of the czar to the capital of the sultan would produce a change in Europe greater than any witnesse(l in the nineteenth century. The absolute monarch of a hundred millions, with an army of two and a half millions, possessing sole command of the Black Sea, Bosphorns, Marmora, and Hellespont, together with the incomparable naval basis which is afforded by this chain of four inland seas, would unquestionably be supreme master of the whole of east- ern Europe, which would then extend under one sceptre from the Arctic Ocean to the Greek archipelago. But this is only one half of the polit- ical prol)lemn, and perhaps the less diffi- cult half. There is the Asiatic side to the problem, as well as the European side. Place the czar in the Seraghio and what is to become of the padi- shah? Is he to retire to Scutari in his barge, and to restore the palace of Sehim, which we know as hospital and barracks ? Is he to withdraw to Brusa or Smyrna, or retire at once to Aleppo or Damascus? How long will the Russian be content to watch across the sea the minarets in Bithynia and the mountains of the Anatolia, to look upon Abydos from Sestos without a de- sire to pay a visit to his secular rival? Politicians talk with a light heart of hastening the departure of the Moslem from Europe. But what do they pro- pose for him when lie is withdrawn into Asia? With the czar at Kars, and under Ararat, at Constantinople and Galhipoli, commanding the whole north- ern coast of Asia Minor from Batum to Besika Bay, with the Armenians rag- ing on the east and the Greeks and Levantine Christians on the west the sultan will hardly rest more tranquilly in Brusa than he does to-day in Yildiz 99 like Problem of Constantinople. Kiosk. Are the millions of Musulmans in Asia Minor to be exterminated or driven across the Euphrates ? What is to be the end of this interminable Turkish problem, and is the twentieth century to install a new crusade? All these things are, no doubt, very distant and entirely uncertain. But they are possible enough, and would aive the statesmen of the future a series of insoluble problems. It would be needless to enlarge on the endless complications they involve. They may serve to convince us that there is no finality in this Turkish question. The expulsion of the Turk from Europe leaves the dilemma more acute than ever. The enthronement of the Rus- sian on the Bosphorus settles nothing, concludes nothing, and can satisfy no one. It offers, on the contrary, a new set of difficulties and contests, more ominous and bitter than those which have raged for a hundred years since Catherine II. An irresistible conclusion seems to follow from these conditions. In the first place, the Turkish problem is not in the least solved ; it is far more immi- nent and difficult than ever. In the last war Turkey had a strong fleet, and commanded the Bosphorus. She has now no fleet, and she lies at the mercy of a Russian fleet in the Black Sea. Nothing but treaties, the tradition of British policy, and an honest desire to avoid European war, hold back the czar from a new step forward in the great ambition of his race. If he gives the. word, his eagles may float over the Sernglio within a month ; and, amidst a roar from all Christian throats, the cross will again gleam from the dome of St. Sophia. If France is willing to further this conquest, it is a simple matter ; and France will sacrifice much to get England out of Egypt. But let Russia find herself, by a coup de main or by international intrigue, in posses- sion of Constantinople and the do- in the eastern Mediterranean, she must maintain the status quo in the Bos- phorus. The Turk no longer menaces any power at all; and he oppresses no race, at any rate, in Europe. Whilst he holds the keys of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, they are practi- cally in commission. This unequalled position is kept from the hands of any aggressive power. Let us study what resulted when, in the days of the By- zantine Empire of the Basilian dynasty, or in the heyday of the Ottoman con- quest of the sixteenth century, a great naval and military autocrat held abso- lute control over sea and land from the mouths of the Danube to Rhodes and Crete. That condition may again arfse at any moment that France and Russia agree to it. France, it may be, consid- ers that she has no direct interests in the Mediterranean, east of Tunis; and to get England out of Egypt and Cy- prus, and off the coast of Syria, she may be willing to let Russia come France to have the western, Russia the eastern Mediterranean. If they agree to this partition, and the four inland seas are handed over to Russia, then the British flag must be hauled down in the Mediterranean Sea. There are many men of ardent patri- otism, men keenly alive to the honor of our country, who have no wish to see England predominant in the Med- iterranean, or cruising there at all, ex- cept in pursuit of lawful commerce, as do the merchautmen of Italy, Austria, and the United States. But those who would rejoice to see England withdraw from the Mediterranean are not anx- ious to see her driven out, with all the risks of an European convulsion. To keep hold on Egypt and to maintain a small army locked up on the Nile is sheer madness, if the Marmora and its marine ports are any day open to be- come a vast Russian arsenal. And Russian arsenal they will assuredly be- come without two indispensable condi- minion of the eastern Mediterranean tions. The first is, that the Turk must passes into her hands. Great Britain be guaranteed in the Golden Horn by a could remain there only at the cost of British, or an allied, fleet. The second enormous sacrifices and efforts. is, that England and France must come If England desires to retain any hold to some modus vivencli on the burning 100 The Wicked Cardinal. 101 question of the Bosphorus. Whilst cheated, stole, nay, even worked, to we tvo continue snarling over Egypt, supply him with money. England is risking an immense national Paul de Gondi must be a terrible disaster. stumbling-block to a certain class of theorists. According to them, he onglit to have been a model of all Christian virtues. His father, Philippe de Gondi, From Macmillans Magazine. was one of the best of men, honest, THE WICKED CARDINAL. brave, and profoundly pious ; his AFTER six days reflection I deter- mother was a good and gentle lady, mined to do evil deliberately. Most whose whole life was devoted to deeds men, when they range themselves of charity; and his first tutor was a among the goats, make no formal noti- saint. Some of the old Gondis, it is fication of the fact; but Paul de Gondi true, had been by no means creditable had peculiar notions as to what was personages ; but then they had lived in right and seemly. Tie must also have Florence, where the climate is against had a keen dramatic instinct, or lie the cultivation of moral qualities. One would hardly have chosen that special of them, a certain Albert de Gondi, had - moment for devoting himself to the played an important part in arranging evil powers. Six days before, lie had the episode of St. Bartholomews eve. been appointed coadjutor, or arch- He was wont later to speak of that bishop-designate, of Paris, and had days proceedings as being of a very then retired from the world to fit him- unsatisfactory nature ; had Catherine self, as he said, by prayer and medita- de Medici but given him a free hand, tion for the duties of his office. It was lie used to say, lie would have extir- during this retreat that he arrived at pated heresy root and branch. His the determination to sternly uproot fervent zeal for the holy Church did any sentimental preference for right- not, however, prevent his entering at eous dealing he might hitherto have the favorable moment the service of entertained. His old companion, La the heretic king. Paul de Gondis Rochefoucauld, would have smiled at grandmother, too, was a notable woman the thought of the process being nec- in her day ; an angel for beauty, a fox essary ; but then La Rochefoucauld for cunning, and a devil for cruelty. It was of a cynical turn, and had little was perhaps from her that lie inherited faith in others, a~nd none at all in Paul that subtle fascination of manner which de Gondi. The Parisians were more no woman, and few men, could ever lenient in their judgment, perhaps resist. more just; and in their eyes the new Paul de Gondi, or De Retz, as lie was coadjutor was the very ideal of all that styled after his brother became heir to was brilliant, kindly, and true. They that dukedom, was born at Montmireh hailed his appointnient as a personal in Brie, on the 20th of September, compliment to themselves ; the clergy 1613. A few days later, a certain of the town went in solemmi procession young abb~, one Vincent de Paul, took to thank the queen regent for giv- up his residence in the castle as tutor lag them such a chief; and, what to the Count de Gondis sons. I care was much more significant, craftsmen, nothing for earthly learning, the traders, inarketwomen, nay, the very countess said to him, as she bade hiimn dregs of the populatiomi, flocked around welcome. All I wish is that von her palace with loud cries of gratitude should fit my sons to enter the king- for the favor shown to our good dom of Heaven. The future saint Gondi. The people kissed his stirrup no doubt did his best to obey the as he rode through the town, and in mothers injunction, but lie failed later years, when evil days had come lamentably ; skilful teacher though lie upon him, great la(Iies sold their jewels was, he could not manage the young De to bribe his gaolers, while men begged, Gondis. Perhaps they were endowed The Wicked Cardinal. with more than their fair share of natu- ral perversity; at any rate by the time Paul was twelve years old, their con- duct had become so outrageous that, in spite of the entreaties of the count and countess, the abbe went his way, shak- ing off the very dust from his feet, as a testimony against his pupils. This was a piece of singular ingratitude on his part, if he had only known it; for it was to his ceaseless struggles with these turbulent young ruffians that he owe(l in part, at least, his infinite pa- tience in dealing with human frailty, a quality which went far to win for him his place among the saints. Three years before the tutors de- parture, M. de Gondis second son had been killed in the hunting-field, an irreparable misfortune for his younger brother Paul, who thus became the cadet of his family. Among the Gondis the cadets always entered the Church. It was not, however, until he was four- teen that Paul began to realize all that this meant. At that time several rich ecclesiastical sinecures, which belonged to his family, were given to him ; and probably his father tried to make him understand the responsibility entailed by their possession. The result was open rebellion. The boy swore fiercely that no power in heaven or on earth should make him enter the Church. But paternal authority was a different thing in those days, and the Count de Gondi was as (letermined as his son. Paul soon learned that in an open con- test with his father he was at a hopeless disadvantage. He therefore changed his tactics ; since it was useless to re- fuse the priesthood, he resolved that the priesthood should be refused to him. For nine years of his life, from fourteen to twenty-three, he devoted all his energy and ingenuity to proving to the world in general, and to the Holy Roman Church in particular, his unfitness for the office. Society was not easily scandalized in those days, but it literally stood aghast at the life led by the young priest. There was no bound or limit to the wickedness into which he plunged. At an age when an English boy would have had no thought beyond his games, he was deep in every kind of intrigue, lie attempted to carry off the sister of his brothers wife, hoping that his marriage with her would be an insuperable bar to the vows of celibacy. He wore the colors of women of doubtful reputation, and for their sakes fought duels with all comers. He was implicated in dis- graceful incidents of every kind, and openly boasted of his evil doings ; all the care men usually employ to hide their vices, he employed to make his public. But it was all in vain ; as he pathetically observes, I could not get rid of my cassock. It is strange that his father, who was a conscientious man, should in spit& of his sons courses have persisted in forcing the most unpriestly soul per- haps in Christendom, as Panl styles himself, to become a priest. The count, however, seems to have been firmly convinced that it was the one means of saving him from eternal dam- nation. He himself retired into a mon- astery when his wife died. In the midst of this (lissipation Paul de Retz suddenly declared his intention of exercising his right of preaching before the court on Ascension Day. This announcement, which was re- garded as a huge joke, threw his friends into a perfect fever of anxiety. To their astonishment, however, the sermon was most successful, and even in its way a masterpiece of eloquence. The ladies of the court sobbed aloud as they listened to the oddly pathetic pleadings of this strange young abb6 of whom such marvellous stories were told. It was about this time that, as if to show his scorn for the powers that be, he threw down the glove to the oTeat cardinal. Richelieu seems at first to have been attracted by his brilliant young subordinate, although when he read his Fiesque he pronounced him a dangerous individual. Still he sent him friendly messages inviting him to the palace. But De Retz studi- ously ignored these advances; nay, he did more, he carried off the honors of the Sorbonne from Richeliens prot~g~ (a high crime in those days), and at 102 The Wicked Cardinal. last as a crowning act of defiance, be- gan openly to woo the lady whom the cardinal honored with his rcgard. Then his friends interfered, and smuggled him out of the country; and only just in time if the Bastille were to be avoided. In Italy he continued at first the life he had led in Paris. He narrowly es- caped assassination at Venice owing to an intrigue with the prettiest woman in the world ; and the first thing he did in Rome was to quarrel with the German ambassador. Up to this time he seems to have been merely a reck- less young libertine, whose one object in life was to escape from a profession he detested. While under the influence of the Vatican, however, he changed, developed would perhaps be a better word, and began to show signs of the boundless ambition which distinguished him later. News had come of the ill- ness of Richelieu, and, boy though he was (he was only twenty-three), his imagination was fired. Why should not he rule France as cardinal-minister, when this other cardinal was gone? We hear little for the time being of his leaving the Church ; nay, he even throws himself with ardor into the study of theology, and begins to consort with churchmen. After his return to France he added that of conspirator to his other parts, for, finding that Riche- lieu, instead of dying, was stronger than ever, De Retz was easily per- suaded to join the plot by which Louis de Bourbon hoped to rid the king of his autocratic minister. The special duty which fell to De Retzs share in this conspiracy was to win over the popu- lace, and he performed it triumphantly. Au aunt of his, the Marquise de Maignelal, who devoted her life to vis- iting the poor, was surprised one day by her nephew volunteering to accom- pany her on her rounds. During the months that followed the old lady and the young priest might have been seen in the poorest districts, making their way from door to door, distributing alms and kindly words. It was while on these expeditions that the future cardinal learned to understand the peo ple, the great mass whose very exist- ence, as he bitterly complains, ministers and courtiers chose to ignore. Ruth- less though he might be in his dealings with the great, with the humble he was infinitely pitiful; for he, perhaps more than any man of his century, realized the terrible suffering of the poor, real- ized, too, the terrible ~power that very suffering places in their hands. The poor have keen eyes, and it was a true instinct that made them choose IDe Retz as their hero. To others he might be false, to them he was true ; he might use them for his own ends, but he never misused them; they were always in his eyes human beings, nay, brothers. Meanwhile, the plots had come to - naught. The first, to assassinate Riche- lieu, failed through an accident; the second, to raise a rebellion, was ren- dered futile by the death of Louis de Bourbon. The failure of these plots had considerable influence in deciding De Retz to remain in the Church. He hated his profession as much as ever, but he was now twenty-six, too old, he thought, to change it. Then, two of his pretty friends had just played him false ; Enough to make any man for- swear the world, as he says. I be- came quite a reformed character, at least as far as appearances went, he continues. I did not pretend to be a saint, for I was not sure how long I could act up to the part, but I pro- fessed the greatest veneration for saints, and that in their eyes is a great proof of piety. I could not get along without my fun ; but at least he threw a veil of decency over his in- trigues. Debates were then all the fashion, and the Abb6 de Retz had the good luck to come off victorious from one with the famous Huguenot leader, Mestrizat, so that grave ecclesiastics began to smile upon him as one who, free-lance though he were, was doing good service to the cause ; and his old tutor, St. Vincent de Paul, was heard to remark, He has not enough reli- gion, but he is not very far from the kingdom of God. So long as Richelien lived IDe Retzs 103 The Wicked Cardinal. way to advancement was barred ; but, after the cardinals death in 1642, he rose high in the kings good graces. Louis the Thirteenth had long regarded him with secret favor, owing to the chivalrous generosity he had once shown to a young girl who had been betrayed into his hands by her rela- tives. IDe Retz was paying his court to her, but the moment lie discovered she would be an unwilling victim, he took her to the convent of which his aunt was abbess, and never saw her again. This incident, coming to the kings knowledge, had made a great impression upon him. De Retzs star was now in the ascendant ; his uncle, the Archbishop of Paris, was an old man, and stood sorely in need of a co- adjutor. The king had every wish to bestow the office upon his new favor- ite, but then his conversion had been so very recent ; for decencys sake the affair must not be hurried. Almost the last command Louis issued when he was dying was that the queen-regent should appoint De Retz coadjutor. This secured to him the primacy of France after his uncles death. The new coadjutors lot was no easy one. Archbishop Gondi was both vicious and stupid; he was too indo- lent to work himself, and too jealous to allow others to do his work for him. 1 found, writes IDe IRetz, the arch- bishopric of Paris from a worldly point of view degraded by my uncles vile- ness, and from a spiritual point suffer- ing grievously in consequence of his idleness and stupidity. . . . I foresaw endless obstacles to the reformation of the diocese, and I was not so blind as not to know that the greatest and most formidable obstacle of all lay in my own nature. He dearly loved ex- tremes ; and it was the knowledge that he could never attain the perfection of his ideal bishop, that drove him to do evil deliberately. Verily the children of the world are wiser than the children of light. No saint could have done his duty in the diocese more thoroughly than this perfect fiend, as Anne of Austria used to style the coadjutor. He set to work at once to redress grievances, and to force his uncle to consent to many pressing reforms. He preached the Gospel eloquently, if he did not follow his own precepts ; nay, to some extent lie did follow them, though in his own fashion. His charity was unbounded; his hospitality knew no stint ; the hum- blest cure was welcomed to his house as a brother ; the most lowly was treated there with kindly courtesy. But I stood too well with Paris to stand long xvell with the court, lie says with truth. From the first Ma- zarin regarded him with jealous eyes, and there was soon open warfare be- tween the two. The French nobles, De Retz among the rest, had fallen into the mistake of underrating Mazari ns ability. They had begun by treating him with con- temptuous toleration, as a hard-work- ing hireling, and they never realized that lie could be a danger to the State, until the queen-regent was already hopelessly in his power, whether through love or fear is to this day a mystery. Then, when it was too late, their rage and indignation blazed forth fiercely, and they resolved at any cost to drive the Italian from power. Mon- sieur, the late kings brother, took the lead among the nobles; De Retz ral- lied the people to the cause ; while all the great ladies of the day threw them- selves eagerly into the contest. Noth- ing was heard in Paris but one loud clamor for the dismissal of Mazarin. But the queen had already thrown in her lot for better or worse with her favorite ; she either could not, or would not, desert him. Then came the Fronde, gayest, mad- dest, most reckless, and most ruthless of civil wars ; a war distinguished for the treachery with which it was con- ducted, for the meanness of the objects it was to achieve, and for the strange mingling of cowardice and daring, ego- tism and devotion, baseness and chiv- alry in the characters of its leaders. Madame (he Longueville was its hero- me, Monsieur its nominal hero, Madame de S~vign~ its benevolent observer, La Rochefoucauld its candid friend; while 104 The Wicked Cardinal. Paul de Retz was at once its originator and director. There was no lack of pretext for the ~var, even without the true one, hatred of Mazarin. Injustice was rife on all sides ; the court was recklessly extrav- agant; the people were dying of starva- tion, yet the queen would give five hundred thousand crowns to strolling comedians. Mens minds were ex- cited, moreover, by the news of what measure the English had meted out to the favorite of their king; and such examples are contagious. The iinme- diate cause of the outbreak was the arrest by Mazarin of Pierre Broussel, a parliamentary leader who had op- posed an increase of taxation. This arrest was a mistake in tactics, of which De Retz was not slow to take advantage. Accompanied by the cur6s of the diocese, he went at once to the queen to demand the surrender of Broussel. I would sooner strangle him with my own two hands, replied Anne of Austria fiercely ; but she changed her mind when she saw that she was face to face with a revolution. Already the people were barricading the streets, and De Retz was by their side, in full canonicals, giving the epis- copal benediction to the work. The regents conduct proved the truth of the coadjutors favorite maxim, The weak never yield at the right time. She surrendered her prisoner, but not until it was too late ; the people had tasted the delights of anarchy, and were in no hurry to return to law and order; and, what was still more important, De Retz had discovered that anarchy was his true element. As he again and again confesses, he was a born conspirator; he absolutely revelled in party strife, and he soon developed a marvellous genius as a leader. Before long the princes, the nobles, the Parliament, the people, even the amazons of the party, were as mere puppets in his hands ; he held the strings, and could make them (lance at will. During the months that followed the queens flight he ruled Paris. Not all his subjects were willing the Duc dAumale and Monsieur le Prince, both sworn enemies of his, more than once attempted to rid themselves of him by murder ; Mazarins agents were plot- ting against him everywhere ; while Madame de Chevreuse, with many an other, was in turn his warm friend and bitter foe. Amidst all these dangers his old friends watermnen, tapsters, and the like did him good service. They guarded his house, escorted his carriage, and even when lie was in the Parliament, always remained within hail. The royal army marched against Paris, and Dc Retz raised at his own expense a regiment to oppose it ; the Corinthians he called his troops, and their first defeat, the first of Corin- thians. War now began in earnest. There were sieges and counter-sieges, blockades, battles, even treaties of alli- ance with foreign powers. If ever there were a man content with his handiwork, it was De Retz in those days. The emperor made much of him ; Spain flattered him ; the Stuarts intrigued with him ; even Cromwell sought his friendship. I know only one man in the world who despises me, Cromwell was once heard to say,. and he is Cardinal de Retz. The coadjutor, 1~wever, soon found to his cost that Lii party warfare it is harder to get along with ones friends than to fight against ones enemies. From the first it was apparent that the only bond that held the rebels together was hatred of Mazarin; and the moment Mazarin ceased to be feared, they were ready to turn and rend each other. Even Monsieur was no better than the rest. Again and again the coadjutors most skilfully laid plans were thwarted by the timid hesitation and childish jealousy of his nominal chief. Every Frondeur had his pet ambition, every Frondeuse her pet vanity, and these must all be gratified, no matter at what cost to the community. Little wonder that De Retz began soon to lend a ready ear to Anne of Austrias ad- vances. She was willing to pay a high price (a cardinals hat among other things) for his friendship, and he was too heartily weamied of the mean ego- 1o~ The Wicked Cardinal. tisin of his allies to feel much scruple about deserting them. Still, to his credit it must be said that he did his best to gain good terms for them. Anne of Austria had a talent for intrigue, which came into full play dur- ing her intercourse with De Retz. It was important both to her and to him that the world at large should know as little as possible of their negotiations she therefore received him at midnight in a lonely convent, and there she would pass hours closeted with him alone. At his entreaty she returned to the capital, without Mazarin of course, and soon it began to be whispered about that lie had supplanted the ab- sent cardinal. Madame de Chevreuse was at this time heart and soul in Dc Retzs service, and she undertook to make the queen believe that he had conceived for her Majesty a passionate attachment. She persuaded him to as- sume the part of a despairing lover, and the queen, far from being offended by his sighs and amorous glances, was only the more lavish of her smiles. De Retzs hopes rose high; already he saw himself ruler of France, dictator of Europe, supreme in the Church. He was an optimist by nature, and, as we know by later events, absurdly over- rated his chances. Still the ball of fortune certair~y lay for one moment at his feet; only for one, though ; the next, a womans jealous spite had hurled it miles beyond his reach. Mlle. de Chevreuse, who had more beauty than wit, was practically a fool. This is Dc Retzs judgment of the woman who had no small share in ruining his life. During the days of the siege, she had been his warmest friend (his devoted lover, said his ene- mies), but then she was a woman who changed her friends as she changed her gowns, and had a fancy for burning them both alike when tired of them. She was hugely delighted at first with Dc Retzs scheme for taking Mazarins place, but before long, either through jealousy or the desire of circumventing her mother, she resolved to thwart it. Her plan of operation was simple. She told a friend, who she knew would re peat it to the queen, that she had often heard iDe IRetz ridicule her Majesty as Une vraie Suissesse (a Flanders mare), and laugh at the idea of any man being in love with her. Mlle. de Chevreuse died a few weeks later of a mysteri- ous disease which the indiscreet called poison; but her object was achieved. Anne of Austria never forgave what she held to be a piece of flagrant treachery on Dc Retzs part. She did not quarrel with him openly ; she was too cunning a diplomatist for that; he was still received at court, but lie was subjected there to many petty slights, and was clearly allowed to see that Mazarin was again omnipotent. This was a bitter blow for the coadjutor. He had forfeited much of his popularity among his fellows by paying court to the regent, an(l what had he gained in exchange? Not even a cardinals hat! Chaos now reigned supreme in Paris. The princes were arrested, released, threatened with exile, and then became more powerful than ever. Finding himself helpless in the general confu- sion, De Retz washed his hands of all worldly affairs, and retired to the mon- astery of Kotre Dame. He could not stay there long. In Mazarins eyes a blow to a womans vanity was no unpardonable offence, and lie forced the queen to appeal to the coadjutor for help to free herself from the tyranny of the princes. Dc Retz was not deceived by the queens promises ; but lie saw that peace must be restored, and that could only be done by siding with her against the princes. He set to work at once as a general reconciler. He made speeches without end, wrote pamphlets without number, to show that of all the evils that can befall a nation anarchy is the worst, and that anarchy could only be avoided by all classes rallying around the throne. His voice had lost none of its old magic; and when the young king entered Paris, lie met with an enthusiastic welcome. The queen was profuse in her ex- pressions of gratitude. She even gave iDe Retz his nomination for the coveted cardinalate; but she gave it with the 106 The Wicked Cardinal. 107 firm intention of revoking it 1)efore it glad to be quit of his nephew, pre- could be acted upon. In that, how- sented a unanimous petition to the ever, she counted without her host. queen praying for his release ; the Pope Innocent was a warm friend of Parliament demanded that he should the coadjutor; he hastily suinnioned be put upon his trial, if he had done a consistory and gave him the hat, aught amiss; the people growled omi- although he knew that the queens nously when the regent appeared, and withdrawal of the nomination was al- greeted her with loud cries for their ready in the Vatican. Once a cardinal favorite. The citizens to a man were always a cardinal; the regent and her on his side, but they lacked a leader; minister might gnash their teeth as and his most powerful friends preferred they chose ; Paul de Gondi assumed relying upon diplomacy, rather than the purple as Cardinal de Retz. force, for his release. As soon as Mazarin was in Paris, he De Retz was not handsome; he tells and the queen resolved at any cost to us himself that his ugliness was the rid themselves of the presence of the jest of the court; but no man was new cardinal. At first they tried bribes, ever more loved by women, and their offering to pay his debts, and to appoint love stood him in good stead when he him with a high salary guardian of the was in prison. By a lavish use of kings interests in Italy, if he would money, smiles, and every forni of leave France for three years. De cajolery, some of them, with Madame Retzs only reply was a contemptuous de Pommereux at their head, estab- shrug of the shoulders. A bold stroke hished in the very teeth of Mazarin a was then resolved upon. He was sum- regular system by which he was in- moned to the palace, and was arrested formed of what was passing in the in the very ante-chamber of the queen outside world. It was by their assist- on the 19th of December, 1652. The ance that he was able to secure for news of his arrest spread consternation himself the archbishiopric. His uncle in the city; the 1)opulace clamored died somewhat suddenly one morning fiercely for his release, and there were at four oclock. At six oclock Maza- all the signs of a general insurrection. rins agents presented themselves to But cunning Mazarin effectually quelled take possession of the see ; but they the disturbance by causing it to be made were just one hour too late ; Paul de known that unless people were quiet Retz had already been enthroned by their favorite would be straighitway proxy as primate. His friends had ob shot. tained, by the aid of an upholsterer, De IRetz was taken to the strong his signature to the necessary docu- fortress of Vincennes, where he was ments. treated with great cruelty. In the The rage of the court knew no coldest weather he was not allowed to bounds. The election was perfectly have a fire; his food was coarse and valid, and no power on earth could scanty ; his life was frequently threat- annul it ; the only thing to be done ened ; and his gaolers, evidently acting was by bribes or threats to induce the under orders, subjected him to all sorts new archbishop to resign his see. of petty annoyances. He must have Mazarin was equally liberal with both. had a fund of philosophic gaiety in his At first De IRetz staunchly refused to nature, for even when things were at yield one iota of his rights ; but at the the worst, he could crack jokes, and end of a year the close confinement make fun of the most ferocious of his began to tell upon his strength, and, guardians. He found occupation in worn out mentally and physically, he studying the classics, and amusement signed his resignation. In return the in tending pet rabbits and pigeons. rigor of his imprisonment was at once Meanwhile, his friends were active, relaxed, and a promise was given to The clergy of Paris, in spite of the him in the kings name that, so soon prohibition of the archbishop, who was as the pope had accepted his resigna The Wicked Cardinal. tion, he shoul(1 be set at liberty and receive the revenues of seven abbacies. When De Retz signed this agreement, he was perfectly well aware that the pope would annul it. He was taken from Vincennes to Nantes, where he was treated with great consideration. But imprisonment to a man of his rest- less disposition was intolerable, and, once convinced that between the obsti- nacy of the court and of the Vatican he had no chance of release, he deter- mined to make his escape. By the aid of a cord be lowered himself from the top of the tower in broad daylight. It chanced that a man was drowning in the river at that moment, and, in the general excitement, the cardinals flight remained unnoticed. But, although out of the prison he was by no means out of danger, for the country-side was thronged with the kings troops, and De Retz was too well known to escape detection. But, as usual, popular sym- pat.hy was on his side, and more than once as he passed the cry was raised, Good luck, my lord! may God bless you! He had arranged to go direct to Paris and take refuge in the episcopal palace ; but, for this plan to succeed, lie must be there before the news of his escape, and this was soon made impossible. He was thrown from his horse and dislocated his shoulder, an accident that entailed a delay of some days, for the stupid surgeon who at- tended him declared the limb to be only bruised, and, treating it accord- ingly, threw his patient into a high fever. When he could be removed, his friends transported him to Belle lie, whence he escaped to San Sebas- tian in a fishing-boat. He managed to do a little business on his way, for lie took with him a cargo of sardines, and with the proceeds of the sale rewarded the men who had helped his escape. Nothing could be more flattering than the reception lie met with in Rome. Pope Innocent soon became really attached to him, and, what was of still more importance, he succeeded in winning the favor of both Signora Alympia and the Princess de Rossanne, the two ladies who shared the affec- tions of his Holiness. The Roman world was dazzled by the splendor of his household, and thought the repre- sentative of the French king a very unimportant ~)ersonage by the side of this magnificent fugitive. For the time lie was all-powerful at the Vati- can. The pope had even serious thoughts of adopting him as his heir, but died before lie could execute his intention. The conclave that followed the popes death afforded De Retz a splen- did field for exhibiting his l)eculiar talents. Some of the cardinals were old hands at dissimulation, but they were as children by his side. He adopted Cardinal Chigi as his candi- date, and, although the majority was decidedly against him, carried the elec- tion by unscrupulous manc~uvrin g. Signor Cardinal de iRetz, behold your handiwork, were the first words Pope Alexander uttered after his election. But gratitude was not a strong point in the new popes character, and, when the time came for him to choose be- tween the friendship of France and that of the man to whom he owed his tiara, lie not only withdrew his protec- tion from I)e IRctz, but even threat- ened to send him to St. Angelo. Cardinal de IRetz was as generous as he was extravagant, and by this time he was at the end of his resources. His friends were willing to help him in reason, but they could not and would not support his magnificence. They advised him that a quieter mode of life would be far wiser in his present cir- cumstances ; but lie would not be ad- vised. The friends of the unfortunate are hard to please, he complains some- what unjustly, for there were never more faithful friends than his. His servants, too, began to give hiini trouble. I had always lived with my servants as with my brothers, he de- dares; an ideal arrangement no doubt, if the brothers had been willing to take the rough with the smooth. All this time there was ceaseless warfare in Paris between his friends and the kings ; and the niore moderate 108 A Sheaf of Letters. 109 signified his willingness to resign the archbishopric. The terms were soon arranged. The cardinal received as a reward for his submission the rich ab- bacies of St. Denis and Chaume, and the accumulated revenue of the see of Paris from the death of Archbishop Gondi to the date of his own resigna- tion. The article in the treaty upon which De IRetz insisted most strongly was the one stipulating that the clergy who had been expelled from their office on his account should be reinstated. While the negotiations were in prog- ress, he established himself at Coin- mercy, and when they were completed he was invited to court. He went, but he did not stay there long; the atmosphere was too stifling for his taste. The divinity that hedges a king had grown apace since he was last at Fontaineblean, and Paul de Retz was too old a man to adapt him- self to the new fashion. He went back to Commercy an(1 set to work to pay his debts. He lived in a very quiet, unpretending fashion, doing little acts of friendly service to his neighbors, of whom he was at once the adviser, law- maker, and judge. As in our own day Count Tolstoi holds his rural parlia- ment, so Cardinal de Retz two hundred years ago used to gather round him in an evening the farmers and peasants on his land, and tell them what was passing in the far-off great world. He did not live to be a very old man ; his life had been too riotous for that. At the age of sixty-six, in 1679, he passed quietly away. Was it a friend or an enemy who wrote on his grave, He rests at last? of both parties had begun to feel that there must be peace at any cost. The l)rime difficulty was the question of the archbishopric. The court made it essential that De Retz should resign his see. He might then have his choice of the ecclesiastical prizes of the king- dom; but until then it must be war to the knife. To resign his see was the one thing De Retz would not do so long as Mazarin lived. The negotia- tions therefore soon caine to a dead- lock. When Rome became intolerable on account of his debts, Cardinal de Retz went north and wandered about from town to town in Germany, Holland, and Belgium. Twice he visited En- gland, where he met with a warm wel- come. Charles the Second and he had many points in common, and, if tradi- tion speak truly, the king would have been well pleased to keep the exiled prelate at his court. De Retz, how- ever, to whom popularity was as the breath of his nostrils, had no fancy for playing the part of a mere creature to the Merry Monarch. He coquetted with the Jansenistes and Molinistes at this time, and even professed to be touched by the beautiful simplicity of the Protestant faith. He was reduced sometimes to living in wayside inns and poor cottages; his caves he used to call t1~ei~,in memory of the dwell- ings of the persecuted saints of 01(1. His life was a hard one, no doubt, for he was constantly harried by Mazarins agents ; but it had its pleasures, and he was still the ladies cardinal. Wher- ever he ~vent great ladies made much of him, and, as his taste was catholic, when they were not at hand, he could console himself with pretty seam stresses and serving - maids. His friends did not approve of these pro- From Temple Bar. ceedings, and they were upon the point A SHEAF OF LETTERS. of making a strong effort to induce him A PACKET of old letters lies before to adopt a more regular course of life, me. The dates vary, but most of them when the death of Mazarin put an end were written half a century ago. Some to his wanderings, of the signatures affixed have been To have surrendered his rights to his already graven into the stonework of old enemy, would have been dishonor; history; some are being gradually ef- to surrender them to his king was a faced, or owe their precarious exist- graceful act of loyalty. He at once ence to the chivalry of posterity 110 A Sheaf of Letters. alone ; others hare been blazoned else- script papers mostly the more unim- where. portant correspondence of well-known Looking back across the years, the men which lies before me a collec- day to which they belong seems per- tion, as perhaps it might be termed, of haps more distant, more irretrievably uncharacteristics. lost, than a past yet further removed Take, for instance, a few notes from in point of time ; just as yesterday, Sir James Stephen, which have been under certain conditions, may appear l)reserved among the rest the Sir more remote than last year; and in James Stephen of a former generation the attempt to picture to ourselves the colonial administrator, statesmai~, near past, to reconstruct the society of and ecclesiastical biographer. Such a generation or two ago, there is always would be his description in the bio- something melancholy of which we are graphical dictionary; but here it is not conscious when it is a question of a another Sir James Stephen that meets remoter date. us, pious indeed, as becomes the author When it is a matter of a few years of his biographies, but light withal, and only, when we set ourselves to note tendera Sir James Stephen who is and to register the changes that four or brought home more than once as - a five decades have wrought, when we friend to every mother rejoicing over observe the alteration, probably cvi- the birth of her child. dent above all in the atmosphere, which It is an occasion upon which, if each has insensibly taken place, we are filled man were to speak his mind, condo- with an uneasy consciousness of loss lences might possibly be found to mm- a loss probably intangible, but not the gle freely with congratulations ; but in less real. And this is especially the the case of the present correspondent, case when we compare our own day, no doubt exists as to the cause for the hurry of life, the restless and self- legitimate rejoicing. The fears that conscious activity which is character- are apt to gather round the possession istic of it, with the deliberate pace, the of children are, in his opinion, mor- quiet and speculative temper of mind, bid and dastardly anticipations, while the dignity, and not least the reti- the description of a baby with whom cence, which belonged to an earlier he had been brought into close contact generation, and of which our own looking about her with an expres- sometimes seems to have been disin- sion like that of an inquisitive but not herited. Even to realize the atmo- surprised visitor of a new world, with sphere of that day, to appropriate it, if which she has other worlds to com- only for a moment, confers upon us a pare, is that of a true child lover. welcome sense of leisure and repose. Accordingly, there is no uncertain or Such a realization of the past is one of equivocal note in the felicitations he those achievements with which efort sends on the birth of a son. and industry have less to do than The fourth of July [he goes on the chance and accident; but the sight of date of the birth] is, I think, the date of letters such as these which lie before the American Independence. But dont us, the touch of the worn paper and on that account call the poor lad George frayed edges, sometimes the very triv- Washington. One would not have ones ial and ephemeral import of the letters child pass through life on a tempest, even themselves, all help towards it. though the applause of the world accom- It is the unimportant documents panied it. George Herbert would be bet- which often throw the freshest light ter. . . . But take the Herbert alone. It will serve as an augury of a country par- upon a character, just as it is the trivial traits of a mans conduct by which he sonage in which, somewhere about the year 1900, the youngster (then in his fortieth most frequently betrays himself. year) may be pleasantly travelling heaven- This is a reflection which is specially wards with a goodly company of rustics for suggested by the collection of noude- his fellow travellers, with a store of books A Sheaf of Letters. in his study, and of boys and girls in his nursery. All hail to the reverend Herbert and to his future congregation! So ran the gay and kindly forecast. But we, who look back, know that only a few months later, the little lad for whom it was made, having perhaps found this world unsatisfactory, had taken his way, somewhat in haste, to compare it with another. Possibly, were the letter no doubt written on this second occasion forthcoming, it would be found no less full of congrat- ulation, though of a different kind, than the first. There is generally enough and to spare in these old papers to suggest melancholy thoughts; even the laugh- ter has a trick of becoming tinged with sadness as it filters through the years, and, read in the light of after events, the congratulations are perhaps not the least mournful. We, looking back, see too much to be altogether glad; the near and the far for us come together in sight, and give its significance to the poets question, What so sad as the dayspring of joy ? The bridal wreath, to those who look back far enough, is always entwined with a shroud. Here is a congratulation which, com- ing across the Atlantic from the well- known American, Edward Everett, enumerates his correspondents causes for rejoicing, adding, You will soon be obliged to borrow the prayer of St. Bernard, and ask for some affliction. It is a prayer more often prescribed for another than kept for personal use. And a little further on, as if deprecat- ing any counter congratulations, Ever- ett observes a little grimly that in his own case he does not find it necessary to go to St. Bernard to help out my liturgy. Few, we imagine, do find it necessary. To recognize the uses of misfortune, when it comes, is another matter. I am sure, writes Henry Taylor, half in jest, yet not altogether, that I could not dispense with the discipline of weak health, and were I by some miracle to become suddenly robust and vigorous, my next appearance would be in the character of the strong, wicked man carried off to judgment a pic- ture of which strong, wicked man I recollect to have seen among the works of a mad artist, called Blake and it might serve for a picture of me in the last stage of convaleseence. Blake is dead his correspondent was under- going some cure or he might paint your picture, too, perhaps. Let us hope, however, that the doctor will leave you some remnant of disease. Turning over the pages, we come upon the portrait of a young girl, then scarcely emerged from childhood, who has since become well known to the reading public as the late Lady Duff Gordon, and in whose society, even at the age of fourteen, Henry Taylor could find interest and pleasure. She is rather handsome [he writes, de- scribing her to his mother] and very strik- ing, with a stern, determined expression of countenance which might qualify her to sit for the picture of Cassandra or Clytem- nestra. . . . She would seem to wish to invest herself with the character of a wild and gay childishness. But a different story is written upon her brow, and I collect from that that life is a serious thing to her and childishness a thing gone by. I have mounted her upon the outside of a horse, and she is the companion of all my rides. I regarded her at first as a subject for curi- ous consideration, and after a few rides with her I have begun to think that I could take some interest in her. She is pleasant when she is pleased, but I cannot help thinking that if any one were to incon- venience her, and there were to be at hand a dagger, a pair of scissors, or any other sharp-pointed instrument, she would be hasty and inconsiderate in her manner of showing her resentment or in other words, and mixing the language of law with that of philosophy in the description of the daughter of a philosophical jurist, I regard her as a potential homicide. And side by side with this descrip- tion we may place another portrait, not inconsistent with it, unconsciously traced by her own hand a year later, in a letter extending over many sheets and continued from day to day as time and opportunity permitted, and which,. 111 A Sheaf of Letters. addressed from Boulogne, to a girl friend a year or two older than herself, seems alone of the correspondence to have escaped destruction. A portrait, or rather a finished picture, with back- ground and accessories complete, all vivi(lly sketched the pilot and fisher population of the old sea-town ; Mr. Jones, the good-natured and handsome mate of the London steam-packet, to whom the precious letter, when fin- ished, is to be entrusted ; Fluret,the handsomest matelot and the best-bred and most gentlemanly man in Bon- logne, his wife, and the baby just born, who is to be christened on Sun- day, and to whom it has evidently been the disappointed ambition of the writer to act marraine they are all sketched in with clear and distinctive touches. Written on paper carefully ruled in pencil, and with occasional lapses in the spelling which serve to remind us that the writer has not left childhood far behind, it is a curious and signifi- cant production for a girl of fifteen, and one which shows, already fully developed, that accomplishment of let- ter-writing in which she afterwards excelled. Whatever might have been the case a year earlier, when, at St. Leonards, she was taking those lessons in riding from Henry Taylor, it is clear that she has now put away childish things. In the ten days, which is the period covered by the fragmentary let- ter, we find her passing from mood to mood, now grave, now gay, serious, and light-hearted by turns; on one page, giving her opinion and that a severe one of the characteristics of the Parisian stage ; a little further on, entering into a detailed and exhaustive analysis of her own religious convic- tions; then breaking out with impas- sioned fervor into assurances of her enthusiastic attachment to her corre- spondent and her sense of her own un- worthiness of the affection of the latter unworthiness, that is, in all respects but one: Look round the world and find one who will love you more and then cast of (sic) Lucy. I am with- out fear then. You will find Anthro- pophagi and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders b~fore you find that person. And then, with a laugh which we can almost hear, and quitting her heroics Oh candle, dear candle, she implores, let me bid good-night before you go out. (Can- dle) : Yes, but make haste. (I) : Very well. Good-night, deatest. And so, as the light flickers down, the slide of the magic lantern is with- drawn, and the bedroom where, on that September night of the year 1835, the writer, with her Cassandra face, half child, half woman, sits inditing her letter in full d~shabiUe, pieds nus, a cotton handkerchief tied round my head in the most coquette fashion, falls back once more into darkness, and the glimpse of the past is gone. The gravest of men may sometimes be caught fooling. As Dr. Donne (who, as Dean of St. Pauls, should be an authority on the subject) has told us, who are a little wise the best fools be. All along the years, from the 9th of March, 1849, a laugh reaches us, and the jester is Sir Arthur Helps, author of Friends in Council. Was it a day, one wonders, such as March sometimes brings, when a foretaste of spring defies the most sedate 4together to resist its influence when the east wind has intermitted and the sun is shining? At all events, it is clear that Sir Arthur is in good spirits. You know [he says] I have always ab- stained from notoriety, and therefore I have never let you know that I am, as the Americans would say, one of the most remarkable men in the country. Even you and your wife, who are amongst the most accomplished hosts I have ever met with, even you two might have been slightly fussy and over-gracious had you known you were entertaining an almost unique specimen of mankind. We should have had none of those pleasant cake and mar- malade, mutton-chops and cocoa, peram- bulatory tea-dinners which are so much to my taste. And here am I, like a foolish man, going to put on my state and never be comfortable any more. Be it known to you that I am the man who once read a review of a book. Yes: 112 A Sheaf of Letters. not an essay; not a diatribe of any kind ; a review in which the writer really wished to represent to the reader not himself or his own especial theories, but the book in question. This review was written by a young man of great promise who died early. We cannot but feel sorry that our only reviewer ran so short a career. Is it possible that lie died of too much virtue? One figure there is which, among these letters, reappears again and again upon the scene, now in one character, now in another, but throughout so dis- tinctive that even those who did not enjoy the privilege of his friendship might in this matter alone be enabled to form some conception of what James Spedding was to those who knew and loved him. Doubtless, when those who were his contemporaries, and who remember the man in his individual and most characteristic aspect, have taken their way behind the scenes, it will be as the biographer and the cham- pion of Bacon that he will be remem- bered by the world and catalogued in its history. He was not, indeed, care- ful to leave behind him any other mon- ument. But how insufficiently is he described by such a title I There is a quality distinct from any other a quality which has to be felt rather than reasoned about, and which for want of a better name we call charm. As in books, so in persons, it may exist in conjunction with merits of a more solid and substantial order, or without them. It is indefinable, escaping us like a ghost when we attempt in our clumsy, human fashion to resolve it into its elements and to account for it. But, subtle and intangible as it is, it is none the less unmistakable. We know where it is found in books and men we know perhaps better still where it is not found. And no one could read James Speddings letters or notes, just as no one could have known him personally, without recognizing this quality as one of his marked posses- sions. It communicates itself even to his handwriting, as delicate, if stronger than that of a woman, and harmoniz- ing well with the grace of language and LIVING AGE. VOL. III. 112 113 beauty of diction of which he is a mas- ter ; while when dealing with the cause of which, with a chivalry which recalls that of an earlier day, he had consti- tuted himself the champion, and the dead man whose fame he had made it his lifes work to vindicate, there is of ten apparent a restrained passion which is more effective than the vio- lence of other men. I hear, some one writes, drawing the illustration probably from Sped- dings own favorite recreation of arch- ery I hear that the passive and peaceful James Spedding is getting ready his bow and arrow. And none knew better how to take aim and to send the shaft home. But as champion and vindicator of Bacon he is well known. A more un- characteristic view of him, and one therefore more relevant to our present purpose, is afforded by some of these letters. Here, for instance, the grave biographer is found turning from his labors to consider the fitting termina~ tion to a comedy. He fears that in the manuscript which has been sent him for criticism, a mistake has been com- mitted, and that the happiness which prevails at the end of the play is some- thing of the sad and tragic order, that happiness with which we are most of us so well acquainted in books and out of them. You are in danger, lie writes, of dismissing your reader with the uncomfortable sensation that they are going to be good and grave for the rest of their lives, a conclu- sion which, eminently satisfactory as it might seem likely to be to the serious historian known to the world, does not evidently commend itself to the Sped- ding of these letters the Spedding who, quiet as was his humor, knew well what laughter was worth, and who would have endorsed the judgment im- plied in Spensers gentle criticisni In one thing only failing of the best, That he was not so happy as the rest. Here, too, is a letter which gives us a little shock of surprise. In this case it is a question of a shaft, not directed by himself against the detractors of his 114 hero, but of a dart which has found its way through the joints of his own liar- ness, and has there made its petty sting felt. The picture presented of the phi- losopher, disturbed for a moment by the misreprescutations which had gained currency in a London drawing-room ,is one which takes us by surprise, till we call to mind the character of the writer the humility which did not despise, and the sincerity which would not affect to disregard, the judgment passed upon him even by such critics as those of whom it was question. The vision [he says] of the Miss Berrys representing me to their circle as devoting my life to the task of picking holes in Macaulay and traducing him behind his back, still troubles me. And the voice of Jenny Lind herself, leading the quire of the angels, which is now fresh in my ears, cannot quite dispel it. The charge has plainly gone home. The accusation, indeed, as he further describes it, that he is spending his energies in a laborious endeavor to damage the reputation of a man who never injured hiin in deed, word, or thought, is one calculated to strike with especial force the generous oppo- nent whose object has been through- out that of defence and not of offence, who has endeavored to make the vin- dication of the dead to which his lifes labor has been consecrated to make use, once more, of his own words as modest as justice and as free as human frailty will permit fmom all tendency of passion or per- sonality, and to whose sensitive scru- ples with regard to his adversary, when that adversary was, later on, withdrawn from the field of contro- versy, a remonstrance from a friend, evidently designed to allay them, bears witness. We may be sure, however, that the sting was not allowed to rankle, and that the gentle philoso- pher lost no time in recovering from the passing annoyance awakened in him by the gossip of Miss Berrys drawing-room; and remembering that the petty malice or prejudice of a social circle is as ephemeral as that circle itself, and that the wound inflicted is oftenest the solitary monument of the dart, lie recognized the wisdoni of effecting its cure without delay. The world is wiser than the mcii of the world, writes Henry Taylor in another of these letters, dealing with nPsrepre- seutations of another sort, or at least it is led by those that are wisest at last. And doubtless there is usually a rough justice in its final prononimee- ments. It somctimes seems indeed~ looking back and comparing past judg- ments with present, that they are so certain to right themselves that a doubt might reasonably be suggested as to whether it is worth while to make our feeble and ineffectual attempts at has- tening the process. At any rate, we may take it for granted that the voices of the Miss Berrys and their friends were not long allowed to interfere with that of the leader of the quire of angels to whom in an artistic sense Speddings enthusiastic allegiance was vowed. I cannot approve of your conduct with respect to Jenny Lind [he writes to a friend who had missed an opportunity of hearing her] ; to be sure I cannot answer for your tastes, which are apt to recoil at things which do not offend mine. The experi- ment might have failed, but it was worth trying. Failing, it would only have spoiled an evening; succeeding, it would have enriched a life. Heaven has never been so opened in my time. I was reading the Winters Tale the other day, and was surprised to observe how like Perdita has grown to Jenny Lind since I last saw her. Among other and rasher judgments, Speddings own view of Macaulay, temperately as it had been formed un- derwent a change, and looking on to the year which witnessed the publica- tion of the great historians biography, we find that the last word pronounced over him by his old antagonist is one of peace. I find [he says] that everything may be handsomely explained by simple want of information; which enables me to recon- cile my new feeling towards the man with my old feeling towards the reviewer. An ignorant man is to me as a brother. And so, with the sense of reconcihia A Sheaf of Letters. A Sheaf of Letters. tion which, in spite of the last quota- tion. is more frequently the result of knowledge than of ignorance, whatever bitterness there might have been in Speddings estimate of his former op- ponent disappears. There is a French saying, Tout savoir, cest tout pardortner. The more we know of the objects of our most just resentments the less pos- sible do we find it to keep them alive. Henry Taylor, too, is eager to express the change which has taken place in his own sentiments after reading Sir George Trevelyans life. It has, he writes, entirely changed my concep- tions of Macaulay. . . . What business had nature to send him masking into the world with such a face and form as that ? As one observes the varying esti- mates formed by different persons as to the work to which James Spedding had deliberately dedicated the larger part of his life, it is curious and instructive to perceive in what light the task, which to one man seems worthy of the labor of a lifetime, appears to another. Did I ever tell you [Henry Taylor writes] what that learned judge [the late Baron Martin] said to me about Bacon? He said that Bacon must have been a very re- markable man for two such clever men as Basil Montagu and James Spedding to have given up so much of their time to him. These were precisely his words. I, for my own part, thought that Baron Mar- tin must be a very remarkable man. But the view of the lawyer was probably only an extreme instance a caricature of the opinions entertained at heart by most people of the objects and aims which fill the lives of others, and were we in a position to ascertain Speddings views with regard to those which appeared of paramount impor- tance to Baron Martin, it is possible that the balance would be made even. There are other letters from James Spedding which it is difficult to refrain from quoting, so graceful are they and so gay, besides being touched with the quiet humor which was distinctive of the writer. Here, for instance,is a description of an unpropitious voyage to America. 115 We have had a long passage [he writes], in the course of which, if you will believe a sailors doctrines about weather (which, by the way, you should on no account do), the winds have behaved as they never behaved before. We have heard of many invariable rules of the weather, but we have had nothing but exceptions. The only winds that have lasted have been those which never do last; and the winds which should have proved most fugitive have been those which backed round in the right way. But whatever they may have been in the habit of doing on former occasions, it is certain that they have not befriended us. The voyage was, however, not with- out its incidents and advantages. We have seen five ships, seven birds, fifteen grampuses, the fin of a shark, and a good deal of gulf-weed, and I have gained an impression of the barrenness of the sea much clearer and stronger than I could have had without going so far for it. A year or two later there has appar- ently been a question of obtaining a literary pension for Alfred Tennyson. I am glad [he writes] that Lord Aber- deen listened favorably to your suggestion with regard to Alfred Tennyson. And I hope it is only some moral twist or preju- dice of my own that made me shake my head when I came to the name of Sir Robert Peel, brought as it was into such close juxtaposition with the predominance of the imaginative faculty. Nothing can be more luminous than your statement of Tennysons claims, but the name of Sir Robert Peel comes upon it like an extin- guisher. I shall be glad to find that my prophetic soul is in a mistake on this point! With respect to the state of my health [with regard to which some anxiety has evidently been expressed] if will give me some idea of the quarter in which it is supposed to be deranged, I will endeavor to procure a certificate for her satisfaction. But at present if she were to send a doctor to me I could only ask him how he did. The allusion to Alfred Tennyson in the last letter, written under the date 1844, reminds one that at that time the popularity of the popular poet par ex- ceUence of the last half of the present century was still, though rising rapidly, an undetermined quantity. The time was indeed at hand when his claims would need no expositor, but it was not 116 yet come. It is interesting, turning over these papers, to read the com- ments upon the future laureate of a contemporary who occupied towards him the position alike of friend and critic. You should contrive to see him [says Henry Taylor later on, writing in the year 1857, to some one who had not yet done so] for there is nothing to be seen that is at all like him. He is a singular compound of greatness and littleness and when I say singular, I mean that there is a great deal that is peculiar in him besides that con- junction for that great poets should be so compounded is, I believe, not at all singular, being rather the rule than the exception. I recollect a woman who was a discerner of spirits, saying to me of a great poet whom she knew well,1 In the inside of that great man there is a little shabby man, and yet no one appreciated that great mans greatness more than she, or felt it to be a more real, vital, and essential part of him. In his case there was strength in the littleness as well as in the greatness. In Tennysons what is great is his sim- plicity, purity, and nakedness of mind; his poetry may perhaps owe something of its exquisiteness to disease for he has not the large intellectual range and scope which the other had to balance and rectify his impassioned imagination, and keep his mind filled with what was greater than himself. . . . His tender and passionate imagination and other great gifts may well make him interesting to any one. Another letter, yet later, shows the great poet at the height of his popu- larity He still withholds his poem of last year from publication. . . . Whether this is to be regretted I do not quite know. Hith- erto there is hardly any poet who has inter- mixed with his exquisite poetry so little that is indifferent, and one would wish that it should be so to the end. And in the case of a very popular poet. the indiscriminate admiration which waits upon everything he produces so long as the paroxysm lasts, tends to betray his own judgment ; and the press and the critics go with the stream and afford him no assistance in standing aside from it. The only instance in which, so far as I have happened to see, the crit- ical press turned against Tennyson, was Wordsworth. one in which, in my estimation, they were stupidly wrong the ode on the funeral of the Duke of Wellington, according to my judgment one of the greatest odes in the language. A note from Tennyson himself, pie- served among the papers, comes iu curious corroboration of the above. It is in acknowledgment of his friends expression of his admiration for the ode. Thanks, thanks, the poet writes. In the all but universal depre- ciation of my ode by the press, the prompt and hearty approval of it by a man as true as the duke himself is doubly grateful. A little further on we find a gloomy forecast quoted He [Tennyson] seems to think that infi- delity is gaining ground very rapidly. He says he told the queen his opinion that infidelity would lead to popery, and ob- served to her that it would be strange if another Bloody Mary should appear amongst her descendants at which the queen laughed. It is interesting to compare with the letter quoted on a former page, iu which James Spedding, with what has been described as his smouldering ardor, deals with the subject of the great contemporary singer, the follow- ing description of Madame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt, given by a woman some ten years later. All goes well [says the writer] with our acquaintance with her. She came to tea last night, and sang as gladly and freely as you could desire, and this room seems haunted by her voice even now. Baby heard it from her bed and asked to be taken down to it, but nurse did not agree. H was up, but burst out laughing when at her high notes her own boy ran off from the pianoforte with his fingers in his ears, and E cried the whole time. As for me, I felt as if the world and all its cares, little and big, had rolled back and given me breath and hope and youth again, and I could have followed her away and away anywhere ; and yet, was it her or not her, not her, but a voice? We remember a verbal descriptiou from the writer of tIlls letter of the A Sheaf of Letters. Marlborough. transformation which, in the exercise of her nrt, was worked upon the homely features of the great singer. At such moments, she said, she could have ex- claimed, How beautiful you are, you ugly woman! Before we close let us take a glimpse of Charles Greville, engaged, not with- out characteristic touchcs, in a meta- physical discussion. Another an(l more serious-minded official of the Council Office, failing to interpret to his satis- faction a passage in Philip van Aite- velde, has applied, through a common friend, to the author for an explanation. And both inquiry and explanation have apparently been sul)mitte(l to Charles Greville, whose comment we quote I return your correspondence with thanks [he writes] having referred to the passage in Van Artevelde and read your explana- tion obscurum per obscurias. As far as argument goes (if it can be so called) he seems to have quite the best of it, and in- stead of being a virgin (as he modestly calls himself) he might pass off for an old pros- titute in metaphysics. You state your meaning with a judiciously qualifying doubt whether you understand it yourself, which I should decidedly say you dont, though your antagonist politely and com- placently asserts that he does very clearly. You understand your own metaphysics no more than Goldsmith did his poetry, when somebody reading remote, unfriendly, melancholy, slow, said, Pray, sir, by slow do you mean tardy in motion? Yes, sir. No, sir, said Johnson, you mean no such thing, and then he proceeded to explain to him what he did mean, which is a piece of information I am going to give you. I know it is laid down by Arbuthnot and other philosophers, that a man is not the same man that he was after a lapse of time, and on this theme much magnificent nonsense might be most ingeniously written and talked. I suppose some of those who have long owed me large sums of money have embraced this theory, and maintain that they are not by any means the same individuals who lost it, and therefore that I have no claim on them and I trust that the Baring of the Treasury is undergoing a rapid process of change into another and a better-natured Baring, and that by the time he returns to town I shall find that he has skipped into 117 his new individuality youi punctum saliens. In the mean time, I am proud of possessing in my office so subtle a dis- putant, and above all one who has such orthodox opinions (as are implied) about hell and the devil, and I insist upon it that you do not unsettle his mind with regard to the abovenamed awful Personage and place. Yours, C. G. And sofor it is well to end with a laugh our quotations close. From The contemporary Review. MARLBOROUGH. BY ANDREW LANG. Of battles fierce and warriors big, He writes in phrases dull and slow, And waves his cauliflower wig, And shouts, St. George for Marlboro. So Thackeray sings of The Rev- erend Coxe, Arcl~(leacon of Wilts, and his life of John Churchill. The tanilt, which perhaps Dr. Coxe scarcely deserved, by no means applies to Lord Wolseleys John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. There are few bat- tles fierce in these two volumes, not many warriors big, St. George is not yet appealed to (except by Charles II. when he draw the nuptial curtains of William of Orange), and, above all, the phrases are not dull and slow. Lord Wolseley writes without flimsy artifice, indeed ; lie is not guilty of the worst kind of writing, that is writing too well ; his manner is sim- ple, lucid, natural, and vivacious. The book is already long, and Marlboroughs career of conquest has not yet begun. But if long, to ones own taste tile 1)00k is never for a moment dull. Tile best l)arts, no doubt, are the military parts, the fighting of the foreign loons in their am countrie ; Sedgemoor, and the Irish campaign. General Marbot remarks that he never could understand an account of a battle in a book, even when lIe had taken part in tile fight. Perhaps, like the brave Marbot, a civilian never quite sees a battle as the 1 The Life of the Duke of Marlborough, to the Accession of Queen Anne. By General Viscount Wolseley. London: R. Bentley. 118 historian means him to see it. flow- ever, all Lord Wolseleys records of fights are good reading, and the civilian at least fancies that he understands them. To criticise these pages, how- ever, would be a piece of fatuity in one who, as an inefficient private of volunteers, never could be taught his part in forming fours, a very difficult man~uvre. I willingly fall back on a topic about which we may all have our opinionnamely, the character and political conduct of Marlborough. The Caledonian who defended the excellence of Scottish grapes and their superiority to those of sunny Italy, said, I mann premeese that I like them soor. In the same way I maun premeese that my sentiments, my tastes, my predilections are not strongly Orange, nor Protestant, nor Hanove- nan. The errors of the house of Stuart I would be the last to palliate. James II. one says it with regret was really quite impossible as a king of England. Still, there is a kind of charm about the standard of King James, and of his descendants, which does not conspicuously hover around any flag of Hanovcr. Lord Wolseleys sentiments and pre- dilections arc on the other side. To be a sound Protestant is, in his opinion, a very high title to regard ; it covers (if it does not even cause) a multitude of sins. Yet he calls the Revolution of 1688 a vulgar drama; he is by no means uncritically enamoured of the Prince of Orange ; and there are mo- ments when he sees and denounces the mean an(l almost dial)olical treach- ery of the agents in the Reg~fugiarn, with satisfactory eloquence. Yet Lord Wolseley, at other moments, endeavors to clear Marlboroughs character, to make out that his behavior was up- right and fine, religious and patriotic. Churchill . . . deliberately chose the upright course (i. 388). John Churchill . . . seems to have been in- capable of taking a straight path in the conduct of public business (i. 197). It is with the statement here quoted in the second place, though oc- curring earlier in Lord Wolselevs Marlborough. book, that I agree. John Churchill, and all the Englishmen who played any considerable part in the events of the time, seem to have been incapable of taking a straight path in the conduct of public business. This is true as a rule of the English- men, except Aylesbury and a few others, but it is not true of Balcarres and Dundee. My difficulty, I confess, is to under- stand what Lord Wolseley really thinks about Marlboroughs behavior as ic- gards King James. Marlborough, as we saw (i. 388), deliberately chose the upright course. Yet, in pursuit of the upright course, he and his accomplices, as they rode to Salisbury, had deceit in their faces and treachery in their hearts. Consequently to Chuichill an(1 the others the journey (to Salis- bury) must have been trying (ii. 3334). Now a man who is pursuing an upright course does not find the adventure trying, or at least he does not find it trying because he has deceit in his face and treachery in his heart. I am not defending King James. His position was wholly untenable. As a Catholic king of a Protestant country, lie, like his great- grandmother, Queen Mary, was in a totally impossible situation. He might conceivably have been content to se- cure toleration for himself, and to let his subjects, of his own faith, be perse- cuted by the laws of England and Scot- land. This was a position which the Hanoverian line accepted. They pro- scribed and persecuted in Scotland the Episcopal Church which they protected in England. The Georges found in this nothing insuperably difficult or dis- tasteful. In the same way Mary Stu- art, a daughter of the Church, had to permit Archbishop Hamilton to be im- prisoned for performing the services of the Church. King James found this versatility impossible. As a Catholic he could not himself enjoy his religious privileges, and yet refuse these, and civil rights , to his Catholic sub- jects. Consequently, with a total dis- regard of law, and of the wishes of that acI~e(1 thing, the majority, he disloyally Marlborough. 11111) established general toleration, for Dis- to destroy, and to act towards him as if senters as for Catholics. This, I ad- they were still his faithful servants, mit, was treason to his country. For implies a depth of baseness and trench- James, as for Mary Stuart, only one ery which is all but diabolical (ii. honorable course was open: abdica- 82). Nobody can speak more frankly tion. He did not take that course. He and fairly than Lord Wolseley. But it defied the majority and the law of the has been shown that he speaks with land. To Lord Churchill, also, an two voices. As a man pf honor and a honorable course was open: resigna- soldier he condemns Churchill; as a tion of his offices. Again, he might biographer he talks of an upright have stood by his king, as Dundee (lid course. Dundee, a Protestant as sound and The explanation of these inconsisten- as exemplary as Churchill. Or, yet cies is perfectly clear. Lord Wolseley again, Churchill might have gone over has a natural and laudable feeling of openly to the Prince of Orange before loyalty towards a great Englishman, a his landing, as did many frank and great soldier, a man of infinite charm, therefore not dishonorable rebels. By a true lover like Sir Lancelot, and taking any one of these three courses an undeniably sound Protestant. He resignation, Dundees course, or open detests the mean malice of Swift and and instant abandonment of James of the hypocritical blackmailer, Pope. Churchill would have kept the bird Therefore he struggles against his no in his bosom. Deceit would not less natural abhorrence of Churchills have shewn itself in his face nor really undeniable and undenied treach- treachery in his heart. But with ery ; that of Iscariot is an obvious his- all submission to his biographer, torical parallel. Being a soldier, and Churchill did not keep the bird in his by no means a casuist, Lord Wolseley, bosom. at moments, allows his loyalty to his I do not lay stress on Lord Ayles- hero to gain a seeming superiority over burys story of a yet blacker premed- his instinctive faith in honor. It is itated treachery : the seizure of James only a seeming superiority, for ~ve very at Warminster, and his betrayal to Wil- easily discern the voice of the man from ham. But the honest privates of the the voice of the biographer. Marlbor- Blues and Royal Dragoons who de- ough betrayed James in the interests of dined to desert with Lord Corabury, Protestantismn. But there is something and galloped back to the king, behaved higher than Protestantism. His con- like honorable gentlemen. Churchill duct, so neatly time(l, made the nec- did not ; he accepted high command essary Revolution bloodless south of under James, and left him at the last Killiecrammkie, and Dunkeld, and the muoment. It was a piece of black per- Bass. But to do evil that good may fidy ; treachery was in his heart, says come is a doctrine commonly attrib- Lord Wolseley, and deceit in his face. uted by Protestants to the Jesuits. All were guilty of treachery and the Archdeacon Coxe writes : If we re- basest deceit (ii. 81), adds Lord view the conduct and declarations of Wolseley. He declares that Macaulay Lord Churchill we shall need no argu- draws a muanifestly unfair distinction ment to be convinced that a sense of between Churchill and the other con- patriotism and religion outweighed in spirators (bc. sit.). Then, if there is his mind the obligations of gratitude no distinction, if aU were guilty of and interest. The archdeacon is a treachery and the basest deceit, so more accomplished casuist than the was Churchill. We must be painfully general. He never qualifies his defence impressed with Churchills ingratitude of his l)atrons ancestor. Lord Wolse- and heartlessness. His conduct was ley qualifies it to the extreme extent imi the highest degree treacherous and of calling Marlboroughs behavior al- deceitful. . . . To hold daily converse most diabolical. Nobody is in any with the man whom they were seeking (langer of being misled by Lom~d Wolse Marlborough. 120 ley. It is easy to see what is his natu- Puzzles. Churchill painted himself ral and unbiassed judgment. blacker than he was. his Jacobite It is just as easy to see where his professions were dishonest, doubly sentiment of loyalty to his hero comes dishonest. He betrayed William to forward in another compartment, as it James, and tried to betray James, were, of his work. Thanks to unpar- even while he was betraying Wil- alleled treachery, James was walked ham. He secured from James the out of his kingdom, as Lord Ayles- pardon which he had so basely plotted bury says, almost without a blow being for (ii. 230). I make no doubt that, struck south of Tweed. Had Churchill had the king come. to his own again, instantly quitted his service when he would have betrayed the traitor, and he saw Jamess intentions, or had lie that Churchills head would have fol- gone over to holland, or had he joined lowed Gillespic Grumachs. Churchill Dundee, many a blow would have confessed his villainies to the best of been struck, and the end no man kings. Ilabernus conftterttem ream can guess. The results might have He was ready with joy to abandon been unhappy for England, because no wife, children, and country to regain promises given l)y James to heretics and preserve Jamess esteem. This were worth a brass bodle. But the says Lord Wolseley, was all lip- fortunate results of his treason do not work. Of course it was ; Churchill exculpate Churchill ; his loyalty to dyed and re-dyed and dipped again his Protestantism does not exculpate him ; honor in the seething vat of trebly pol- his personal reasons for hedging do luted treason. Stupid as James was, not exculpate him. He was less base he saw clearly through these proceed- than Sunderland, perhaps less base ings, which, therefore, had not even than the perfidious Prince of Orange. the merit of cleverness. But, like most of his side, and like too About all this the Duke of Welling- many of his opponents, he acted the ton said, It was no more than many part of a cool, deliberate traitor; in men did in France during Napoleons fact, his conduct was almost (or reign. Such, it seems, are the moral quite) diabolical. consequences of usurpation. As to If Lord Wolseley attempts, with mer- Marlboroughs behavior it may, fairly itorious lack of success, to defend enough, be said that they all did it. Marlboroughs first great treason, at all But those people who did it again and events about his second treason lie again can hardly be credited with very speaks with a candor not comnion in pure patriotism in their initial offence. biographers. After his admirable cam- Lord Wolseley very frankly admits paiga in Ireland, Churchill was not that, having once abandoned his king, rewarded to the full measure of his neither William nor the State ever deserts. lIe therefore, in January, replaced in Marlboroughs soul the 169091, entered into correspondence idol of loyalty. On this point, then, with James at St. Germain. his ob- there is no more to be said. Marlbor- ject was merely to hedge (ii. 227). oughi, after his first treason, was inca- He had overlaid his book on William, pable of loyalty to king or country. It and he hedged with great enthusiasm, is sad to think, and still more sad to He supplied secret information acces- write, this of one of our very greatest sible only to Williams privy council- Englishmen (ii. 303). However, Lord hors, and gave what purported to be Wolseley does write it ; lie vanquishes full details of Wilhiamns naval and mihi- the lues Boswelliana, which had exer- tary plans. Probably the information cised some dominion over him. As to was never so full as it purported to be. Brest, the casuist may seek to exten- This was, certainly, I think, the case nate Marlboroughi~ conduct, but it in the affair of Brest. Lord Wolseley cannot be forgotten that the great man makes this point; and Mr. Paget had for whom England built Blenheim made it before in his Paradoxes and Palace did intrigue with his countrys enemies. . . . In Marlboroughs trea- son there was no sincerity, for it had its origin in an ignoble and unworthy regard for personal safety. All this is terribly sad ; we desire our heroes to be as pure as Washing- ton, or Wellington, or Viscount Dun- dee. To the literary person, who is worthless in the world of action, Marl- boroughs conduct seems insufferable. But the literary person undergoes none of Marlboroughs temptations, while he has sins enough to make him chary of throwing stones. The best way is the shortest. Let us grant that Marlbor- ough, in spite of his protestations to James, would not have turned his back on his creed, or on his wife. And for the rest, his conduct can only be apolo- gized for; it cannot be defended. The weak point, as far as a mere literary reviewer can observe, the only weak point in Lord Wolseleys book is his vell~it~s of defence for Marlbor- oughs original treason. It can neither be excused by its success nor by its motives, whether personal, patriotic, or Protestant, still less by the great prevalence of treachery. There were examples enough both of open and early adhesion to William and of stain- less loyalty to an unfortunate and, alas ! unworthy prince. Better and more desirable is the tomb in the Kirk of Old Deer than all the luxury of Blenheim. As to Marlboroughs private life, we have to admire the graciousness of his manner, the excellence of his temper, his unfaltering, his lifelong, his touch- ing and beautiful devotion to that bold rampe, his lovely termagant of a wife. To the wounded and destitute he was ever a friend, and he proved the kindness of his nature by a compas- sionate sympathy for his prisoners. After the Revolution lie interceded for, protected, and befriended Lord Bal- carres, who in Scotland was Jamess chief authority in civil, as Dundee was in military, affairs. He was, indeed, no saint ; unlike Dundee, who hated to spend his time on wine and women, as a Covenanting historian remarks. But (Ii urchills early incon 121 sequences do not seem to have harmed ladies who had any character to lose or any virtue to corrupt. The famous an- ecdote of his taking money from the Dnchess of Cleveland did not damn him then as the prostitution of marry- ing old wonien for money damns young men now. Other times, other man- ners. What Porthos did and Aramis approved, Cannot be wrong, or, while DArtagnan was still captain of the Mousquetaires, cannot have seemed so infamous as like offences seem now. Lord Wohseley is rather severe on Thackerays view of Marl- borough. But is it Thackerays view? It is Colonel Henry Esinonds view, and Esmond was in the opposite camp lie was Webbes man. Marlborough was meanly avaricious, Lord Wolsehey admits with his usual frankness, and avarice, if a gentlemanly, is an unsym- pathetic vice. But lie could be gener- ous, aiid lie swindled no one. In a military way, lie was deeply religious, and prayed as fervently before a battle as Cromwell or Jeanne dArc. Prob- ably lie had none of the mystic inspi- rations with which both these great leaders of men believed themselves to be favored. On the whole, Lord Wolseheys sum- mary of Marlboroughs character leaves him much where Bohingbroke left him. He was so great a man I have en- tirely forgotten all his failings. They were almost as common as human na- ture; his genius and his charm were his own. I have tried to show what I consider to be the fault in Lord Wolseleys treat- ment of his topic ; a fault which niay produce irritation, but not ennui. In- deed, the book is notably readable ; and in his affectionate study of miun- ti~ his sketches of Marlboroughs early home, the landscape, the groan- ing chair, of his boyish studies of Vegetius, of his love affairs, and in all his wanderings the author carries us with him. The spirited description of the delight of battle, and of Churchills early distinction in the Miariborough. One of the Cloth. siege where the unhappy Monmouth played the man, reminds us of that great dee(l done by the Mousquetaires n in their hot youth. Every one can see, as he reads, the fight at Sedgemoor, which is so capitally described also by Mr. Conan Doyle in his Micah Clark. The mere civilian is enabled to appreciate that early example of Marlboroughs military genius given at the taking of Kinsale and all through his Irish campaign. As to Sedgemoor, a sentimentalist may remark that, if James was brutally cruel after the fight, his conduct was copied, with Chinese fidelity, by Cumberland and the English government after Culloden. If King James is unforgiven in the west of En- gland, so is King George north of the Highland line. Lord Wolseley is extremely hard on Charles II. and his coarse wit when he cried, St. George for England. The remark would to nobody have seemed coarse at the time. Again (i. 266), To please his brother, Charles had banished Monmouth. Monmouth was really banished, first, for his share in the Whig plot, next for his pertina- cious demand to have his confession returned to him, after Charles had par- doned him. Tell James to go to hell, said Charles, whom Lord Ayles- bury had never seen so much moved. In volume II. p. 401, there is one of these slips of the pen which beset all authors; and on one page the seven- teenth century is called both the seventeenth and the sixteenth century. One might wish that more had been said, if there was anything interesting to say, about Churchills experiences wlieii he was with the Duke of York in Scotland. But per- haps no more is known than Lord Wolseley gives us in the extracts from the letters to Churchills wife. For minuteness of local research, the book is very remarkable and valuable. With the one defect noted, which is cer- tainly cancelled by the explicitness displayed on neighboring pages, the historical treatment is quite free from partisanship. If Lord Wolseley does not love the Stuarts, he is entirely free from Macaulays engouement for the great, the heroic, but the perfidious and unamiable Prince of Orange. Even in a palace life may be lived well , by a Marcus Aurelius, but hardly, it seems, by even the most dis~ tinguished of later men. It is needless to say that the work has a healthy tone of patriotism, and that Lord Wolseley catches all opportunities of preaching the duty of self-sacrifice in the interest of national defence. En- gland has often been served by the Protestant wind, as when the Ar- mada came, and when Prince Charless force was driven shattered back into harbor. Protestant winds and patriotic winds are never again likely to be of so much service. The lesson falls on deaf ears, perhaps, but the lesson must be preached. These two volumes are, of course, only a prelude to the late years of Marlboroughs military glory. Perhaps, as life is short, we might have wished that Lord Wolseley had given less of his valuable time to the years of comparative obscurity and of prepara- tion. But he has set himself resolutely to a great task, and, however long the early volumes are, so far as their in- terest goes, one does not wish them shorter. Yet one does wish that Lord Wolseley had not called the Duke of Berwick a traitor. That saddle should go on the other horse. ANDREW LANG. From Macmillans Magazine. ONE OF THE CLOTH. Do you happen to know Cavesson of the Native Police, a big, burly man with a marvellous command of language and a voice strong enough to stop a steam-roller? If you do, and are inti- mate with him, you might restrain him from spreading scandalous reports about my character, and also refute his state- ments that I did my best to ruin his career by foolish practical joking. I promise you that I am entirely inno- cent, and you may show him this story as a proof. lie will most likely not believe you, and, very probably, bid 122 One of the Cloth. you mind your own business; but in your friends interests you will not mind that. I had met him several times before, but this was the first occasion in his official capacity. Was I to be blamed therefore if I failed to appreciate the might, majesty, and dominion of the law in the person of one with whom I had disrespectfully skylarked in days gone by? He was, in fact, a man of two lives, in the one as reckless and im- pulsive as in the other he was clear- headed and determined. So when one nightfall towards the end of summer he rode up to the station accompanied by a dozen or so of his black troopers, I forgot his second capacity and rushed out to offer him a demonstrative wel- come. In place of the bluff, hearty man I expected I found a morose in- spector of police, wrapped in an un- penetrable blanket of officialdom. After delivering some orders to his serge ant, he dismounted and preceded me into the house. I placed refresh- ment and myself at his disposal, and, while doing so ,gave utterance to some idiotic joke, which I couldnt help feel- ing at the time was out of place. He was in no humor for jesting, and said sternly Perhaps you are not aware that at this very moment you and your women-folk are in most imminent dan- ger, an(l that you might all have had your throats cut before I could possibly have reached you. I was serious in a moment. What the deuce do you mean? Simply this, that after being reviled by Parliament and the press for what they call my criminal delay, I have chased the Centipede half-way across this colony and now have him boxed up in the Punch Bowl Gully behind your house. By this time, but for the night, he and his gang would have been in my hands. For a moment I sat dazed. The news was so unexpected that I could hardly realize the extent of our late danger. Centipede, the desperado whose atrocities had for months past been the horror of the Colonies, was a public nightmare. And when I re 123 membered my women-folk and reflected that the Punch Bowl Gully was not five miles distant from the homestead, my feelings may be better imagined than described. What do you propose doing, Cavesson? I said at last. Speak lower; there is nothing to be gained by frightening the women. This is my plan. The gang, being un- aware that I am so close upon their heels, will lie by for a day to spell their horses. I shall billet myself on you to-night; and to-morrow, with my own men and as many of yours as will vol- unteer, I shall enter the gully and ex- terminate every mothers son who offers resistance. Do you think theyll show fight? If you knew that capture meant Jack Ketch and the lime-pit, would you? I looked round my comfortable home while he entered upon detailed partien- lais of certain episodes in the Centi- pedes career. Great Heaven! I said. What a risk Ive run, and how grateful I should be to you! Dont mention it, old man! You see, your risk is my gain, and if I can collar them it will be the tum:ning-point in my fortunes. By the way, can you spare a man to show my boys a pad- dock where they can put our horses? Itll be a daylight start in the morn- ing. We walked down to the hut to give the necessary instructions, and while strolling back I noticed a small dust- cloud breaking across the plain. Pres- ently it formed itself into a horseman galloping furiously towards us. From his actions in the saddle he was evi- dently no experienced rider. Pulling up in a smother of dust before the verandah, he tumbled headlong to the ground, and then for the first time I noticed his profession. Imagine, seated in a most undignified attitude, very limp and with a living fear of death in his face, a young cu- rate of the Church of England, possibly twenty-three years of age, and clad in full but extremely dusty canonicals, his straw-colored hair l)lastered on his forehead, one shoe missing, and his One of the Cloth. 124 hat, well jammed back on his head, ships and necessarily consortin gwith showing two bullet-holes in it. the lowest of a low community, you When he had recovered sufficiently will gather some idea of its nature. he rose and explained, in a most shame- He is generally underpaid, may some- faced manner, the reason of his being times be well spoken of, though much in such condition. His name, he said, more often abused; nevertheless, re- was Augustus Randell, and he had gardless of all, he works, fights, and only been three months out from home. struggles on with no l~resent thought He occupied the position of curate to of himself, laboring only for the reward the vicar of Mulga Flat, from whence, his belief promises him hereafter. that morning, he had started on a visit There are exceptions, of course, as to the surrounding stations. He was there always must be, but I am con- the bearer of a letter of introduction to vinced that the majority are such men myself, and was on his way to deliver as I describe. it when his trouble happened. Passing Before dinner Cavesson and myself the entrance to a gully in the ranges a were closeted together, busily arranging number of men had rushed out, bailed our plan of action for the morrow. him up, and taken everything he pos- While we were thus engaged, Randell sessed. Then, crowning indignity of went out among the men, and, on his all, they had forced him to dance a return, informed us that he intended saraband in his shirt. lie blushed holding a short service at nine oclock. painfully as he narrated the last cir- Out of respect for the cloth, if for no cumstance, and almost forgot to men- other reason, my entire household at- tion that, when they permitted him to tended, and his influence among the depart, a volley was fired and two bul- men must have been extraordinary, for lets pierced his hat. not one of them was absent. I have Never mind, padre, said Caves- reason to remember that service, an(l, son, hugely pleased, as we escorted the as long as Cavesson continues to abuse victim into the house ; they were me, I shall go on doing so. Even now mad when they let you get away to give I can see the little crowd of faces the alarm. But well have rare yen- turned towards the preacher, and can ~eance to-morrow. Well hew Agag in hear the soft tones of his voice just pieces, take my word for it! raised above the murmur of the wind But surely youll never be able to outside. His address was to the point, cope with such a band of desperate but, as I thought, unduly protracted. men. Theyre most determined, I as- When it was over we returned to the sure you. house, and, in view of our early start Theyll have to be if they want to on the morrow, were soon all in bed get away this time. Theyre between and asleep. the devil and the deep sea, parson, and Long before daylight we were about, must fight or go under. and, while eating our breakfast, I sent I took his Reverence to a room, and one of my men to run up the horses. when later he re-appeared, washed and The parson surprised us by announcing brushed up, he was by no means a his intention of returning to the town- bad-looking little fellow. The effects ship, and, so soon as the meal was of his awful fright still lingered in his over, secured his horse, which for eyes, and, though he tried hard not safety lie had left in the yard all night, to let us see it, lie was very averse to and rode away. being left alone even for a minute. We waited for the appearance of our The life of a bush-parson is strange nags till Cavesson began to grumble at and hard. And when you reflect that the delay. Half an hour went by, an he is constantly travelling from place hour, two hours ; by this time half the to place in the back blocks through the station was out looking for them, but roughest country, living like a black the animals were nowhere to be found. fellow, enduring superhuman hard- Then I decided that all available hands The War Tax of Europe. should be sent to run in some spare horses from a distant paddock. Before this was completed dusk was falling, an(1 the inspectors wrath was inde- scribable. He told me he was ruined, that he would be accused of conniving at the gangs escape, that it was all my fault, and so on, and so on. While we were at dinner the mail arrived, and brought, among other things, a large brown paper parcel to which was pinned a letter. It was written in a neat, clerical hand, and was to the following purport DEAR SIR, I cannot thank you enough for the hospitality which last evening you so kindly showed to my unworthy self. It will, I hope, live in my memory for many days to come. For reasons which will now be obvious I was compelled to assume, for the time, a profession that, as Inspector Cavesson will agree, is widely different from my own. It may interest you to know that, while your little community were attending my impromptu service my own men were removing your horses to the Waterfall Gully in the ranges, where I have no doubt you will find them if you have not done so al- ready. This was the only plan I could think of to prevent my being forced to burden the government with my society. And if, as you so ably put it last evening, all is fair in love and ~var, why not in bush-ranging? With kind remembrances to Mr. Inspector Cavesson, I will ask you to believe me V be, very gratefully yours, the CENTIPEiE. P.S. Might I beg you to forward the accompanying parcel to my obliging friend Mr. Randell, whom you will find tied to a leopard-tree on the eastern slope of the Punch Bowl Gully? From The Leisure Hour. THE WAR TAX OF EUROPE. THE war tax lies heavy on Europe, and loud is the outcry at its load. Val- uing out the myriads of francs and marks, forms and lire, roubles and gulden, lei and dinars, drachmai and kroner, milreis and pesetas, in which it keeps its accounts, it appears that the Continent, including European Russia, but excluding Turkey, spends 146,- 000,000 a year on what it is pleased to term purposes of defence. For this it keeps three millions o~ men con- stantly under arms, with the power of increasing their numbers to six times as many at the word mobilize. There are two sides to this question let us take the least obvious first. The countries that spend this 146,000,000 cQntain three hundred million inhab- itants. On a peace footing the war- riors represent just one per cent. of the population ; on a war footing they rep- resent just six per cent. In 1811, when we were in the thick of the struggle with the French iloste fighting the battle of Lissa, Scliomnberg capturing Madagascar, Wellington winning Albu- era, and so on we took a census. We were then spending forty-three millions a year on our defence, out of a gross expenditure of ninety and one-half mil- lions ; the population of Great Britain was 11,911,644; and there were 640,500 men employed in our navy and army, etc. Our war footing was thus five and. three-eighths per cent. of the l)opulation ; the present war footino of the Continent as a whole is only Live-eighths per cent. higher. There is a tendency with us to make more of the seen than the unseen. If a crowd of people pass along Piccadilly for an hour, the newspapers tell us that all London went to demonstrate in the Park. All London goes to the Jubilee, all London is on Epsom Downs on the Derby day, etc., etc. A little arithmetic would save us from such absurdities. For every man in the Continental armies at the present moment, there are ninetynine men, women, and children to form the crowd to look at him, and if the armies were on a war footing there would be ninety- four instead of ninety-nine. Let us take this in another way. In the county of London there are four hundred l)eople to every policeman on the Continent there are at present 125 126 just four times as many soldiers pro- portionately as we have police. The police arc, however, of a retiring (us- position ; the soldier, on the contrary, is painfully conspicuous, and has an unfortunate habit of making the most of himself. The illustration is there- fore not a happy one ; let us try an- other. A third-class railway coach has five compar